The Aquaintaine Progession

The Aquaintaine Progession

The Aquaintaine Progession

The Aquaintaine Progession

PART ONE

Geneva. City of sunlight and bright reflections. Of billowing white sails on the lake sturdy, irregular buildings above, their rippling images on the water below. Of myriad flowers surrounding blue-green pools of fountains duets of exploding colors. Of small quaint bridges arching over the glassy surfaces of man-made ponds to tiny man-made islands, sanctuaries for lovers and friend sand quiet negotiators. Reflections.

Geneva, the old and the new. City of high medieval walls and glistening tinted glass, of sacred cathedrals and less holy institutions. Of sidewalk cafes and lakeside concerts, of miniature piers and gaily painted boats that chug around the vastshoreline, the guides extolling the virtues and theestimated value of the lakefront estates that surelybelong to another time.

Geneva. City of purpose, dedicated to the necessity of dedication, frivolity tolerated only when intrinsic to the agenda or the deal. Laughter is measured, controlled glances conveying approval of sufficiency or admonishing excess. The canton by the lake knows its soul. Its beauty coexists with industry, the balance not only accepted but jealously guarded.

Geneva. City also of the unexpected, of predictability in conflict with sudden unwanted revelation, the violence of the mind struck by bolts of personal lightning.

Cracks of thunder follow; the skies grow darkand the rains come. A deluge, pounding the angry waters taken by surprise, distorting vision, crashing down on the giant spray, Geneva’s trademark on the lake, the jet d ear, that geyser designed by man todazzle man. When sudden revelations come, thegigantic fountain dies. All the fountains die andwithout the sunlight the flowers wither. The brightreflections are gone and the mind is frozen.

Geneva. City of inconstancy.

* * *

Joel Converse, attorney-at-law, walked out ofthe hotel Richemond into the blinding morning sunlight on the Jardin Brunswick. Squinting, heturned left, shifting his attache case to his righthand, conscious of the value of its contents butthinking primarily about the man he was to meetfor coffee and croissants at Le Chat Botte, asidewalk cafe across from the waterfront. “Re-meet”was more accurate, thought Converse, if the manhad not confused him with someone else.

A. Preston Halliday was Joel’s Americanadversary in the current negotiations, the finalisingof last-minute details for a Swiss-American mergerthat had brought both men to Ge neva. Althoughthe remaining work was minimal formalities,really, research having established that theagreements were in accord with the laws of bothcountries and acceptable to the International Courtin The Hague Halliday was an odd choice. He hadnot been part of the American legal team fielded bythe Swiss to keep tabs on Joel’s firm. That in itselfwould not have excluded him fresh observationwas frequently an asset but to elevate him to theposition of point, or chief spokesman, was, to saythe least, unorthodox. It was also unsettling.

Halliday’s reputation what little Converse knewof it was as a troubleshooter, a legal mechanicfrom San Francisco who could spot a loose wire, ripit out and short an engine. Negotiations coveringmonths and costing hundreds of thousands had beenaborted by his presence, that much Converserecalled about A. Preston Halliday. But that was allhe recalled. Yet Halliday said they knew each other.

“It’s Press Halliday,” the voice had announced over the hotel phone. “I’m pointing for Rosen in the Comm Tech-gem merger.”

“What happened?”Joel had asked, a mutedelectric razor in his left hand, his mind trying tolocate the name; it had come to him by the timeHalliday replied.

“The poor bastard had a stroke, so his partnerscalled me in.” The lawyer had paused. “You musthave been mean, counselor.”

“We rarely argued, counselor. Christ, I’m sorry,I like Aaron. How is he?”

“He’ll make it. They’ve got him in bed and on adozen versions of chicken soup. He told me to tellyou he’s going to check your finals for invisible ink.”

“Which means you "re going to check because Idon’t have any and neither did Aaron. This marriageis based on pure greed, and if you’ve studied thepapers you know that as well as I do.”

“The larceny of investment write-offs,” agreedHalliday, “combined with a large chunk of atechnological market. No invisible ink. But since I’mthe new boy on the block, I’ve got a couple ofquestions. Let’s have breakfast.”

“I was about to order room service.”

“It’s a nice morning, why not get some air? I’m at the President, so let’s split the distance. Do you know the Chat Botte?”

"American coffee and croissants. Quai du MontBlanc.- “You know it. How about twenty minutes?”

“Make it a half hour, okay?”

“Sure.” Halliday had paused again. “It’ll be goodto see you again, Joel.”

“Oh? Again?”

“You may not remember. A lot’s happened since those days . . . more to you than to me, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Well, there was Vietnam and you were aprisoner for a pretty long time.”

“That’s not what I meant, and it was years ago.How do we know each other? What case?”

“No case, no business. We were classmates.”

“Duke? It’s a large law school.”

“Further back. Maybe you’ll remember when wesee each other. If you don’t, I’ll remind you.”

“You must like games…. Half an hour. Chat Botte.”

As Converse walked toward the Quai du MontBlanc, the vibrant boulevard fronting the lake, hetried to fit Halliday’s name into a time frame, theyears to a school, a forgotten face to match anunremembered classmate. None came, and Hallidaywas not a common name, the short form “Press”even less so . . . unique, actually. If he had knownsomeone named Press Halliday, he could notimagine forgetting it. Yet the tone of voice hadimplied familiarity, even closeness.

It’ll be good to see you again, Joel. He had spokenthe words warmly, as he had the gratuitous referenceto Joel’s POW status. But then, those words werealways spoken softly to imply sympathy if not toexpress it overtly. Too, Converse understood whyunder the circumstances Halliday felt he had

to bring up the subject of Vietnam, even fleetingly.The uninitiated assumed that all men imprisoned inthe North Vietnamese camps for any length of timehad been mentally damaged, per se, that a part oftheir minds had been altered by the experience,their recollections muddled. To a degree, some ofthese assumptions were undeniable, but not with re-spect to memory. Memories were sharpened becausethey were searched compulsively, often mercilessly.The accumulated years, the layers of experience . .. faces with eyes and voices, bodies of all sizes andshapes; scenes flashing across the inner screen, thesights and sounds, images and smells touching andthe desire to touch . . . nothing of the past was tooinconsequential to peel away and explore. Fre-quently it was all they had, especially atnight always at night, with the cold, penetratingdampness stiffening the body and the infinitelycolder fear paralysing the mind memories wereeverything. They helped mute the sharp reports ofsmall-arms fire, which were gratuitously explained inthe mornings as necessary executions of the unco-operative and unrepentant. Or they blocked out thedistant screams in the dark, of even moreunfortunate prisoners forced to play games, tooobscene to describe, demanded by their captors insearch of amusement.

Like most men kept isolated for the greater partof their imprisonment, Converse had examined andreexamined every stage of his life, trying tounderstand . . . to like . . . the cohesive whole. Therewas much that he did not understand or like buthe could live with the product of those intensiveinvestigations. Die with it, if he had to; that was thepeace he had to reach for himself. Without it thefear was intolerable.

And because these self-examinations went onnight after night and required the discipline ofaccuracy, Converse found it easier than most men toremember whole segments of his life. Like aspinning disk attached to a computer that suddenlystops, his mind, given only basic information, couldisolate a place or a person or a name. Repetitionhad simplified and accelerated the process, and thatwas what bewildered him now. Unless Halliday wasreferring to a time so far back as to have been onlya brief, forgotten childhood acquaintance, no one ofthat name belonged to his past.

It’ll tee good to see you again, JoeL Were thewords a ruse, a lawyer’s trick?

Converse rounded the corner, the brass railing ofLe Chat Botte glistening, hurling back tiny explosionsof sunlight. The boulevard was alive with gleamingsmall cars and spotless buses; the pavements werewashed clean, the strollers in various stages ofhurried but orderly progress. Morning was a time forbenign energy in Geneva. Even the newspapersabove the tables in the sidewalk cafes were snappedwith precision, not crushed or mutilated into legiblepositio"And vehicles and pedestrians were not atwar; combat was supplanted by looks and nods, stopsand gestures of acknowledgment. As Joel walkedthrough the open brass gate of Le Chat Botte hewondered briefly if Geneva could export its morningsto New York. But then the City Council would votethe import down, he concluded the citizens of NewYork could not stand the civility.

A newspaper was snapped directly below him onhis left, and when it was lowered Converse saw aface he knew. It was a coordinated face, not unlikehis own, the features compatible and in place. Thehair was straight and dark, neatly parted andbrushed, the nose sharp, above well-defined lips. Theface belonged to his past, thought Joel, but the namehe remembered did not belong to the face.

The familiar-looking man raised his head; theireyes met and A. Preston Halliday rose, his shortcompact body obviously muscular under theexpensive suit.

“Joel, how are you?” said the now familiar voice,a hand outstretched above the table.

“Hello . . . Avery,” replied Converse, staring,awkwardly shifting his attache case to grip the hand.“It is Avery, isn’t it? Avery Fowler. Taft, earlysixties.. You never came back For the senior year,and no one knew why; we all talked about it. Youwere a wrestler.”

“Twice All New England,” said the attorney,laughing, gesturing at the chair across from his own.“Sit down and we’ll catch up. I guess it’s sort of asurprise for you. That’s why I wanted us to meetbefore the conference this morning. “ mean, it’d bea hell of a note for you to get up and scream”Impostort’ when I walked in, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m still not sure I won’t.” Converse sat down,attache case at his feet, studying his legal opponent.“What’s this Halliday routine? Why didn’t you saysomething on the phone?”

“Oh, come on, what was I going to say? "By the way,old

sport, you used to know me as Tinkerbell Jones.’You never would have showed up.”

“Is Fowler in jail somewhere?”

“He would have been if he hadn’t blown hishead off,” answered Halliday, not laughing.

“You’re full of surprises. Are you a clone?”

“No, the son.”

Converse paused. " Maybe I should apologize.”

“No need to, you couldn’t have known. It’s whyI never came back for the senior year . . . and,goddamn it, I wanted that trophy. I would havebeen the only mat jock to win it three years in arow.”

“I’m sorry. What happened . . . or is it privilegedinformation, counselor? I’ll accept that.”

“Not for you, counselor. Remember when youand I broke out to New Haven and picked up thosepigs at the bus station?”

"We said we were Yalies “

“And only got taken, never got laid.”

“Our eyebrows were working overtime.”

“Preppies,” said Halliday. “They wrote a bookabout us. Are we really that emasculated?”

“Reduced in stature, but we’ll come back. We’rethe last minority, so we’ll end up getting sympathy….What happened, Avery?”

A waiter approached; the moment was broken.Both men ordered American coffee and croissants,no deviation from the accepted norm. The waiterfolded two red napkins into cones and placed onein front of each.

“What happened?” said Halliday quietly,rhetorically, after the waiter left. “The beautiful sonof a bitch who was my father embezzled fourhundred thousand from the Chase Manhattan whilehe was a trust officer, and when he was caught,went bang. Who was to know a respected, if trans-planted, commuter from Greenwich, Connecticut,had two women in the city, one on the Upper EastSide, the other on Bank Street? He was beautiful.”

“He was busy. I still don’t understand the Halliday.”

After it happened the suicide was coveredup Mother raced back to San Francisco with avengeance. We were from California, you know . .. but then, why would you? With even morevengeance she married my stepfather, John

Halliday, and all traces of Fowler were assiduouslyremoved during the next few months.”

"Even to your first name?”

“No, I was always ”Press’ back in San Francisco.We Californians come up with catchy names. Tab,Troy, Crotch the 1950’s Beverly Hills syndrome. AtTaft, my student ID read “Avery Preston Fowler,’ soyou all just started calling me Avery or that awful”Ave.’ Being a transfer student, I never bothered tosay anything. When in Connecticut, follow the gospelaccording to Holden Caulfield.”

“That’s all well and good,” said Converse, “butwhat happens when you run into someone like me?It’s bound to happen.”

“You’d be surprised how rarely. After all it wasa long time ago, and the people I grew up with inCaiifornia understood. Kids out there have theirnames changed according to matrimonial whim, andI was in the East for only a couple of years, just longenough for the fourth and fifth forms at school. Ididn’t know anyone in Greenwich to speak of, and Iwas hardly part of the old Taft crowd.”

“You had friends there. We were friends.”

“I didn’t have many. Let’s face it, I was anoutsider and you weren’t particular. I kept a prettylow profile.”

“Not on the mats, you didn’t.”

Halliday laughed. “Not very many wrestlersbecome lawyers, something about mat burns on thebrain. Anyway, to answer your question, only maybefive or six times over the past ten years has anyonesaid to me, “Hey, aren’t you so-and-so and notwhatever you said your name was?’ when somebodydid, I told them the truth. ”My mother remarriedwhen I was sixteen.’ “

The coffee and croissants arrived. Joel broke hispastry in half. “And you thought I’d ask the questionat the wrong time, specifically when I saw you at theconference. Is that it?”

“Professional courtesy. I didn’t want you dwellingon it or me when you should be thinking aboutyour client. After all, we tried to lose our virginitytogether that night in New Haven.”

“Speak for yourself.” Joel smiled.

Halliday grinned. “We got pissed and bothadmitted it don’t you remember? Incidentally, weswore each other to secrecy while throwing up in thecan.”

“Just testing you, counselor.I remember. So youleft the gray-flannel crowd for orange shirts andgold medallionsP”

“All the way. Berkeley, then across the street toStanford.”

“Good school…. How come the international field?”

“I liked traveling and figured it was the best wayof paying for it. That’s how it started, really. Howabout you? I’d think you would have had all thetraveling you ever wanted.”

“I had delusions about the foreign service,diplomatic corps, legal section. That’s how itstarted.”

“After all that traveling you did?”

Converse levered his pale blue eyes at Halliday,conscious of the coldness in his look. It wasunavoidable, if misplaced as it usually was. “Yes,after all that traveling. There were too many liesand no one told us about them until it was too late.We were conned and it shouldn’t have happened.”

Halliday leaned forward, his elbows on the table,hands clasped, his gaze returning Joel’s. “I couldn’tfigure it,” he began softly. “When I read your namein the papers, then saw you paraded on television,I felt awful. I didn’t really know you that well, butI liked you.”

“It was a natural reaction. I’d have felt the sameway if it had been you.”

“I’m not sure you would. You see, I was one ofthe honchos of the protest movement.”

“You burned your draft card while flaunting the Yippie label,” said Converse gently, the ice gonefrom his eyes. “I wasn’t that brave.”

“Neither was I. It was an out-of-state library card.”

“I’m disappointed.”

“So was I in myself. But I was visible.” Hallidayleaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee.“How did you get so visible, Joel? I didn’t think youwere the type.”

“I wasn’t. I was squeezed.”

“I thought you said "conned.’”

“That came later.” Converse raised his cup andsipped his black coffee, uncomfortable with thedirection the conversation had taken. He did notlike discussing those years, and all too frequently hewas called upon to do so. They had made him outto be someone he was not. “I was a sophomore atAmherst and not much of a student…. Not much,hell, I was borderline-negative, and whateverdeferment I had was

about to go down the tube. But I’d been Hying sinceI was fourteen.”

“I didn’t know that,” interrupted Halliday.

"My father wasn’t beautiful and he didn’t havethe benefit of concubines, but he was an airlinepilot, later an executive for Pan Am. It was standardin the Converse household to By before you got yourdriver’s license.”

“Brothers and sisters?’

“A younger sister. She soloed before I did andshe’s never let me forget it.”

“I remember. She was interviewed on television.”

“Only twice,” Joel broke in, smiling. “She was onyour turf and didn’t give a damn who knew it. TheWhite House bunker put the word out to stay awayfrom her. "Don’t tarnish the cause, and check hermail while you’re at it.’”

“That’s why I remember her,” said Halliday. “Soa lousy student left college and the Navy gained ahot pilot.”

“Not very hot, none of us was. There wasn’t thatmuch to be hot against. Mostly we burned.”

“Still, you must have hated people like me backin the States. Not your sister, of course.”

"Her, too,” corrected Converse. “Hated, loathed,despised furious. But only when someone waskilled, or went crazy in the camps. Not for what youwere saying we all knew Saigon but because yousaid it without any real fear. You were safe, and youmade us feel like assholes. Dumb, frightenedassholes.”

“I can understand that.”

“So nice of you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“How did it sound, counselor?”

Halliday frowned. “Condescending, I guess.”

“No guess,” said Joel. “Right on.”

“You’re still angry.”

“Not at you, only the dredging. I hate the subjectand it keeps coming back up.”

“Blame the Pentagon PR. For a while you werea bona fide hero on the nightly news. What was it,three escapes? On the first two you got caught andput on the racks, but on the last one you made it allby yourself, didn’t you? You crawled through acouple of hundred miles of enemy jungle before youreached the lines.”

“It was barely a hundred and I was goddamnedlucky.

With the first two tries I was responsible for killingeight men. I’m not very proud of that. Can we get tothe Comm Tech-Bern business?”

“Give me a few minutes,” said Halliday, shovingthe croissant aside. “Please. I’m not trying to dredge.There’s a point in the back of my mind, if you’llgrant I’ve got a mind.”

“Preston Halliday has one, his rep confirms it.You’re a shark, if my colleagues are accurate. ButI knew someone named Avery, not Press.”

“Then it’s Fowler talking, you re morecomfortable with him.”

“What’s the point?”

“A couple of questions first. You see, I want tobe accurate because you ve got a reputation too.They say you’re one of the best on the internationalscene, but the people I’ve talked to can’t understandwhy Joel Converse stays with a relatively small ifentrenched firm when he’s good enough to getflashier. Or even go out on his own.”

“Are you hiring?”

“Not me, I don’t take partners. Courtesy of JohnHalliday attorney-at-law, San Francisco.”

Converse looked at the second half of thecroissant and decided against it. “What was thequestion, counselor?”

“Why are you where you’re at?”

“I’m paid well and literally run the department;no one sits on my shoulder. Also I don’t care totake chances. There’s a little matter of alimony,amiable but demanding.”

“Child support, too?”

“None, thank heavens.”

“What happened when you got out of the Navy?How did you feel?” Halliday again leaned forward,his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his hand theinquisitive student. Or something else.

“Who are the people you’ve talked to?” askedConverse.

“Privileged information, for the moment,counselor. Will you accept that?”

Joel smiled. “You are a shark…. Okay, the gospelaccording to Converse. I came back from thatdisruption of my life wanting it all. Angry, to besure, but wanting everything. The nonstudentbecame a scholar of sorts, and I’d be a liar if Ididn’t admit to a fair amount of preferentialtreatment. I went back to Amberst and racedthrough two and a half years in three semesters anda summer. Then Duke offered me an ac

celerated program and I went there, followed bysome specializations at Georgetown while Iinterned.”

“You interned in Washington?”

Converse nodded. “Yes.”

“For whom?”

“Clifford’s firm. "

Halliday whistled softly, sitting back. “That’sgolden territory, a passport to Blackstone’s heaven aswell as the multinationals.”

"I told you I had preferential treatment.”

“Was that when you thought about the foreignservice? While you were at Ceorgetown? InWashingtonP”

Again Joel nodded, squinting as a passing flash ofsunlight bounced off a grille somewhere on thelakefront boulevard. “Yes,” he replied quietly.

“You could have had it,” said Halliday.

"They wanted me for the wrong reasons, all thewrong reasons. When they realized I had a differentset of rules in mind, I couldn’t get a twenty-cent tourof the State Department. “

“What about the Clifford firm? You were a hellof an image, even for them.” The Californian raisedhis hands above the table, palms forward. I know, Iknow. The wrong reasons.”

“Wrong numbers,” insisted Converse. " Therewere forty-plus lawyers on the masthead and anothertwo hundred on the payroll. I’d have spent ten yearstrying to find the men’s room and another tengetting the key. That wasn’t what I was looking for.’

What were you looking for?”

“Pretty much what I’ve got. I told you, themoney’s good and I run the international division.The latter’s just as important to me.”

"You couldn t have known that when you joined,”objected Halliday.

But I did. At least I had a fair indication. WhenTalbot, Brooks and Simon as you put it, that smallbut entrenched firm I’m with came to me, wereached understanding. If after four or five years Iproved out, I’d take over for Brooks. He was theoverseas man and was getting tired of adjusting to allthose time zones.” Again Converse paused."Apparently I proved out.”

" And just as apparently somewhere along theline you got married.

Joel leaned back in the chair. "Is this necessary?”

“It’s not even pertinent, but I’m intenselyinterested.”

“Why?”

“It’s a natural reaction,” said Halliday, his eyesamused. “I think you’d feel the same way if youwere me and I were you, and I’d gone through whatyou went through.”

“Shark dead ahead,” mumbled Converse.

“You don’t have to respond, of course, counselor.”

“I know, but oddly enough I don’t mind. She’staken her share of abuse because of that what-l’ve-been-through business.” Joel broke thecroissant but made no effort to remove it from theplate. “Comfort, convenience, and a vague image ofstability,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her words,” continued Joel. “She said that I gotmarried so I’d have a place to go and someone tofix the meals-and do the laundry, and eliminate theirritating, time-consuming foolishness that goes withfinding someone to sleep with. Also by legitimisingher, I projected the. proper image…. "And, Christ,did I have to play the part’ also her words.”

“Were they true?”

“I told you, when I came back I wanted it all andshe was part of it. Yes, they were true. Cook, maid,laundress, bedmate, and an acceptable, attractiveappendage. She told me she could never figure outthe pecking order.”

“She sounds like quite a girl.”

“She was. She is.”

“Do I discern a note of possible reconciliation?”

“No way.” Converse shook his head, a partialsmile on his lips but only a trace of humor in hiseyes. “She was also conned and it shouldn t havehappened. Anyway, I like my current status, I reallydo. Some of us just weren’t meant for a hearth androast turkey, even if we sometimes wish we were.”

“It’s not a bad life.”

“Are you into it?” asked Joel quickly so as toshift the emphasis.

“Right up with orthodontists and SAT scores.Five kids and one wife. I wouldn t have it any otherway.”

“But you travel a lot, don’t your”

“We have great homecomings.” Halliday againleaned

forward, as if studying a witness. “”So you have noreal attachments now, no one to run back to.’

" Talbot, Brooks and Simon might find thatoffensive. Also my father. Since Mother died we havedinner once a week when he’s not flying all over theplace, courtesy of a couple of lifetime passes.”

“He still gets around a lot?”

“One week he’s in Copenhagen, the next in HongKong. He enjoys himself; he keeps moving. He’ssixty-eight and spoiled rotten.”

“I think I’d like him.”

Converse shrugged, again smiling. “You mightnot. He thinks all lawyers are piss ants, me included.He’s the last of the white-scarved flyboys.”

“I’m sure I’d like him…. But outside of youremployers and your father, there are no shall wesay priority entanglements in your life.”

“If you mean women, there are several and we’regood friends, and I think this conversation has goneabout as far as it should go.”

“I told you, I had a point,” said Halliday.

“Then why not get to it, counselor?Interrogatories are over. “

The Californian nodded. “All right, I will. Thepeople I spoke with wanted to know how free youwere to travel.”

“The answer is that I’m not. I’ve got a job and aresponsibility to the company I work for. Today’sWednesday, we’ll have the merger tied up by Friday,I’ll take the weekend off and be back onMonday when I’m expected.”

“Suppose arrangements could be made thatTalbot Brooks and Simon found acceptable?”

“That’s presumptuous.”

“And you found very difficult to reject.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Try me,” said Halliday. “Five hundred thousandfor accepting on a best-efforts basis, one million ifyou pull it off.”

“Now you’re insane.” A second flash of lightblinded Converse, this one remaining stationarylonger than the first. He raised his left hand to blockit from his eyes as he stared at the man he had onceknown as Avery Fowler. “Also, ethics notwithstandingbecause you haven’t a damn thing to win thismorning, your timing smells. I don’t like gettingoffers even

crazy offers from attorneys I’m about to meetacross a table.”

“Two separate entities, and you’re right, I don’thave a damn thing to win or lose. You and Aarondid it all, and I’m so ethical, I’m billing the Swissonly for my time minimum basis because noexpertise was called for. My recommendation thismorning will be to accept the package as it stands,not even a comma changed. Where’s the conflict?”

“Where’s the sanityP” asked Joel. "&To say nothing of those arrangements Talbot, Brooks and Simon will find acceptable. You’re talking roughlyabout two and a half top years of salary and bonusesfor nodding my head.”

“Nod it,” said Halliday. “We need you.”

” We? That’s a new wrinkle, isn’t it? I thought itwas they. They being the people you spoke with.Spell it out, Press.”

A. Preston Halliday locked his eyes with Joules.“I’m part of them, and something is happening thatshouldn’t be happening. We want you to put acompany out of business. It’s bad news and it’sdangerous. We’ll give you all the tools we can.”

“What company?”

“The name wouldn’t mean anything, it’s notregistered. Let’s call it a govermnent-in-exile.”

“A what2″

“A group of like-minded men who are in theprocess of building a portfolio of resources soextensive it’ll guarantee them influence where theyshouldn’t have it authority where they shouldn’thave it.”

“Where is that?”

“In places this poor inept world can’t afford.They can do it because no one expects them to.”

“You’re pretty cryptic.”

“I’m frightened. I know them.”

“But you have the tools to go after them,” saidConverse. “I presume that means they’re vulnerable.”

Haliday nodded. “We think they are. We havesome leads, but it’ll take digging, piecing thingstogether. There’s every reason to believe they’vebroken laws, engaged in activities and transactionsprohibited by their respective governments.”

Joel was silent for a moment, studying theCalifornian. “Governments?” he asked. “Plural?”

“Yes.” Halliday’s voice dropped. “They’re differentnationalities.”

“But one company?” said Converse. “Onecorporation?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“How about a simple yes?”

“It’s not that simple.’

“I’ll tell you what is,” interrupted Joel. “You’vegot leads so you go after the big bad wolves. I’mcurrently and satisfactorily employed.”

Halliday paused, then spoke. “No, you’re not,” hesaid softly.

Again there was silence, each man appraising theother. “What did you say?” asked Converse, his eyesblue ice.

“Your firm understands. You can have a leave ofabsence.”

“You presumptuous son of a bitch! Who gave youthe right even to approach “

“General George Marcus Delavane,” Hallidaybroke in. He delivered the name in a monotone.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had streaked downthrough the blinding sunlight burning Joel’s eyes,turning the ice into fire. Cracks of thunder followed,exploding in his head.

The pilots sat around the long rectangular table inthe wardroom, sipping coffee and staring down into thebrown liquid or up at the Bray no one caring to breakthe silence. An hour ago they had been sweeping overPak Song, firing theearth, interdictingtheadvancingNorth Vietnamese battalions, giving vitaltime to the regrouping ARVN and American troops whosoon would beunderbrutalsiege. They had completed thestrike and returned to the carrier all but one. Theyhad lost their commanding officer.. Lieutenant SeniorGrade Gordon Ramsey had been hit by a fluke rocketthat had winged out of its trajectory over the coastlineand zeroed in on Ramsey’s fuselage; the explosion hadfilled the jet streams, death at six hundred miles anhour in the air, life erased in the blinking of an eye. Asevere weather front had followed hard upon thesquadron; there would be no more strikes,perhapsforseveral days. There would be time to thinkand that was not a pleasant thought

“Lieutenant Converse. ” said a sailor by the openwardroom door.

"Yes?”

“The ca plain requests your presence in his quarters,sir. ” The invitation was so nicely phrased, mused Joel,as he got out of his chair, acknowledging the comberlooks of those around the table. The request wasexpected, but unwelcome. The promotion was an hotterhe would willingly forgo. It was not that he heldlongevity or seniority or even age over his fellow pilots;it was simply that he had been in the air longer thananyone else and with that time came the experiencenecessary for the leader of a squadron.

As he climbed the narrow steps up toward thebridge he saw the outlines of an immense army Cobrahelicopter in the distant sky stuttering its way towardthe carrier. In five minutes or so it would be hoveringover the threshold and lower itself to the pad; someonefrom land was paying the Navy a visit.

“It’s a terrible loss, Converse, “said the captain,standing over his charts table, shaking his head sadly.“And a letter I hate like hell to write. God knowsthey’re never easy, but this one’s more painful thanmost.”

“We all feel the same way, sir. “

“I’m sure you do. ” The pa plain nodded. "I’m alsosure you know why you’re here.”

“Not specifically, sir. “

“Ramsey said you were the best, and that meansyou’re taking over one of the Amok squadrons in theSouth China Sea. ” The telephone mng, interruptingthe carrier’s senioroffeer. He picked it up. “Yes9″

Whatfollowed was nothingJoel expected. Thecaptain at first frowned, then tensed the muscles of hisface, his eyes both alarmed and angry. “What?” heexclaimed, raising his voice. “Was there any advancenotice anything in the radio roomy” There was apause, after which the captain slammed down thephone, shouting, "Jesus Christ!” He looked at Converse.“It seems we have the dubious honor of an unan-nounced visitation by Command-Saigon, and I domean visitation!”

“I’M return below, sir, ” said Joel, starting to salute.

“Not just yet, Lieutenant, “shot back the captainquietly but f rally. “You are receiving your orders, andas they affect the air operations of this ship, you’ll hearthem through. At the least, we’ll let Mad Marcus knowhe’s interfering with Navy business.”

The next thirty seconds were taken up with the ritual of

command assignment, a senioro"ficer investing asubordinate with new responsibilities. Suddenly therewas a sharp two-ra p knock the captain’s door openedand the tall, broad-shouldered general of the ArmyGeorge Marcus Delavane intruded, dominating theroom with the sheer force of his presence.

“Captain?” said Delavane, saluting the ship’s com-manderfirst despite the Navy man’s lesser rank. Thesomewhat high-pitched voice was courteous, but notthe eyes; they were intensely hostile.

“General, ” replied the pa plain, saluting back alongwith Converse. “Is this an unannounced inspection byCommand-Saigon?”

“No, it’s an urgently demanded conference betweenyou and me between Command-Saigon and one of itslesser forces. “

“I see, ” said the four-striper, anger showing throughhis calm. “At the moment I’m delivering urgent ordersto this man “

“You saw fit to countermand mine!” Delavanebroke in vehemently.

“General, this has been a sad and trying day, ” saidthe captain. “We lost one of our finest pilots barely anhour ago “

“Running away?”Again Delavane interru pled, thetastelessness of his remark compounded by the nasalpitch of his voice. “Was his goddamned tail shot off?”

“For the record, I resent that!” said Converse,unable to control himself “I’m replacing that man andI resent what you just said General!”

“You? Who the hell are you?”

“Easy, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed. “

“I respectfully request to answer the general, sir!”shouted Joel, in his anger refusing to move.

“You what, prissy flyboy?”

“My name is “

“Forget it, I’m not interested!” Delavane whippedhis head back toward the ca plain. “What I want toknow is why you think you can disobey my orders theorders from Command-Saigon!I called a strikeforfifteen hundred hours! You "respectfully declined’ toimplement that order!”

“A weather front’s moved in and you should knowit as well as I do. “

“My meteorologists say it’s completely f gable!”

“I suspect if you asked for that finding during aBurma monsoon they’d deliver it”

“That’s gross insubordination!”

“This is my ship and military regulations are quiteclear as to who’s in command here.”

“Do you want to connect me to your radioroom?l’ll reach the Oval Of dice and we’ll see just howlong you’ve got this ship!”

“I’m sure you’ll want to speak privately probablyover a scrambler. I’ll have you escorted there.”

“Goddamn you, I’ve got four thousandtroops maybe twenty percent seasoned moving upinto Sector Five! We need a low-altitude combinedstrike from land and sea and weal have it if I have toget your ass out of here within the hour!And I can doit, Captain!. . . We’re over here to win, win, and win itall! We don “t need sugarcoated Nellies hedging theirgoddamned bets! Maybe you never heard it before, butall war is a risk! You don ”t win if you don "t risk, Caplain!”

“I’ve been there, General. Common sense cutslosses, and if you cut enough losses you can win thenext battle. “

“I’m going to win this one, with or without you,Blue Boy!”

“I respectfuUy advise you to temper your language,General. “

“You what?” Delavane’s face was contorted in fury,his eyes the eyes of a savage wild animal. “You adviseme? You advise Command-Saigon! Well, you dowhatever you like Blue Boy in yoursatin pants butthe incursion up into the Tho Valley is on.”

“The Tho,”interrupted Converse. “That’s the first legof the Pak Song route. We’ve hit it four times. I knowthe terrain. “

“You know it9″shouted Delawne.

“I do, but I take my orders from the commanderof this ship General. “

“You prissy shit-kicker, you take orders from thePresident of the United States!He’s your commander inchief7And I’ll get those orders!”

Delavane’s face was inches from Joel’s, themaniacal expression challenging every nerve ending inJoel ’s body: hatred matched by loathing Barelyrealising the words were

his, Converse spoke. “I, too, would advise the Generalto be careful of his language.”

“Why, shit-kicker? Has Blue Boy got this place wired?”

“Easy, Lieutenant! I said you were dismissed!”

“You want me to watch my language, big fellawithyour little silver bar? No, sonny boy, you watch it, andyou read it! If that squadron of yours isn "t in the air atfifteen hand red hours, I’ll label this carrier the biggestyellow streak in Southeast Asia! You got that,satin-pantsed Blue Boy, third class?”

Once moreloel replied, wondering as he spokewhere he found the audacity. “I don’t know where youcome from, sir, but I sincerely hope we meet underdifferent circumstances sometime. I think you he a pig“

“Insubordination!Also, I’d break your back.”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant!”

“No, Captain, you’re wrong!” shouted the general.“He may be the man to lead this strike, after all. Well,what’ll it be, Blue Boys? Airborne, or the President ofthe United States or the label?”

At 1520 hours Converse led the squadron off thecarrier deck. At 1538, as they headed at low altitudeinto the weather, the f rst two casualties occurred overthe coastline; the wing planes were shot down at six hundred miles an hour in the air. At 15461 his right engine exploded, his altitude made thedirect hit easy. At 1546:30, unable to stabilise, Converseejected into the downpour of the storm clouds, hisparachute instantly swept into the vortex of theconflicting winds. As he swung violently down towardthe earth, the straps digging into his flesh with eachwhipping buffet, one image kept repeating its presencewithin the darkness. The maniacal face of GeneralGeorge Marcus Delavane. He was about to begin anindeterminate stay in hell, courtesy of a madman. Andas he later learned, the losses were ink nitely greater onthe ground.

Delavane! The Butcher of Danang and Pleiku.Waster of thousands, throwing battalion afterbattalion into the jungles and the hills with neitheradequate training nor sufficient firepower. Wounded,frightened children had been marched into thecamps, bewildered, trying not to weep and, finallyunderstanding, weeping out of control. The storiesthey told were a thousand variations on the samesickening theme. Inexperi

enced,untried troops had been sent into battlewithin days after disembarkation; the weight ofsheer numbers was expected to vanquish the oftenunseen enemy. And when the numbers did notwork, more numbers were sent. For three yearscommand headquarters listened to a maniac.Delavane! The warlord of Saigon, fabricator of bodycounts, with no acknowledgment of blown-apartfaces and severed limbs, liar and extoller of deathwithout a cause! A man who had proved, finally, tobe too lethal even for the Pentagon zealots azealot who had outdistanced his own, in the endrevolting his own. He had been recalled andretired only to write diatribes read by fanatics whofed their own personal furies.

Men like that can’t be allowed anymore, don "t youunderstand? He was the enemy, Otis enemy! Thosehad been Converse’s own words, shouted in a feverof outrage before a panel of uniformed questionerswho had looked at each other avoiding him, notwanting to respond to those words. They hadthanked him perfunctorily, told him that the nationawed him and thousands like him a great debt, andwith regard to his final comments he should try tounderstand that there were often many sides to anissue, and that the complex execution of commandfrequently was not what it appeared to be. In anyevent, the President had called upon the nation tobind its wounds; what good was served by fuelingold controversies? And then the final kicker, thethreat.

“You yourself briefly assumed the terribleresponsibility of leadership, Lieutenant,” said apale-faced Navy lawyer, barely glancing at Joel, hiseyes scanning the pages of a file folder. “Before youmade your final and successful escape by yourself,from a pit in the ground away from the maincamp you led two previous attempts involving atotal of seventeen prisoners of war. Fortunately yousurvived, but eight men did not. I’m sure that you,as their leader, their tactician, never anticipated acasualty risk of nearly fifty percent. It’s been saidoften, but perhaps not often enough: command isawesome, Lieutenant.”

Translation: Don’t join the freaks, soldier. Yousurvived, but eight were killed. Were therecircumstances the military is not aware of, tactics thatprotected some more than others, one more thanothers: One man who managed to break out byhimself eluding guards that shot on sight prisoners onthe loose at night? Merely to raise the question bymOpening a specific file will produce a stigma thatwillfollow you

for the rest of your life. Back oft; soldier. We’ve got youby simply raising a question we all know should not beraised, but we’ll do it because we’ve taken enough }yak.We’ll cut it off wherever we can. Be ha ppy yousurvived and got out. Now, get out.

At that moment, Converse had been as close toconsciously throwing away his life as he would everhave thought possible. Physically assaulting thatpanel of sanctimonious hypocrites had not been outof the question, until he studied the face of eachman, his peripheral gaze taking in rows of tunicribbons, battle stars on most. Then a strange thinghad happened: disgust, revulsion andcompassion swept over him. These were panickedmen, a number having committed their lives to theircountry’s practice of war . . . only to have beenconned, as he had been conned. If to protect whatwas decent meant protecting the worst, who was tosay they were wrong? Where were the saints? Or thesinners? Could there be any of either when all werevictims?

Disgust, however, won out. Lieutenant JoelConverse, USNR, could not bring himself to give afinal salute to that council of his superiors. Insilence, he had turned, with no military bearingwhatsoever, and walked out of the room as if he hadpointedly spat on the Hoor.

A flash of light again from the boulevard, ablinding echo of the sun from the Quai du MontBlanc. He was in Geneva, not in a North Vietnamesecamp holding children who vomited while tellingtheir stories, or in San Diego being separated fromthe United States Navy. He was in Geneva, and theman sitting across the table knew everything he wasthinking and feeling.

“Why me?” whispered Joel.

“Because, as they say,” said Halliday, “you couldbe motivated. That’s the simple answer. A story wastold. The captain of your aircraft carrier refused toput his planes in the air for the strike that Delavanedemanded. Several storms had moved in; he calledit suicidal. But Delavane forced him to, threatenedto call the macho White House and have the captainstripped of his command. You led that strike. It’swhere you got it.”

“I’m alive,” said Converse Hatly. “Twelve hundredkids never saw the next day and maybe a thousandmore wished they never had.”

“And you were in the captain’s quarters whenMad Marcus Delavane made his threats and calledthe shots.”

“I was there,” agreed Converse, no comment inhis voice. Then he shook his head in bewilderment."Everything I told you about myself you’ve heardit before.”

“Read it before,” corrected the lawyer fromCalifornia. “Like you and I think we’re the best inthe business under fifty I don’t put a hell of a lotof stock in the written word. I have to hear a voice,or see a face.”

“I didn’t answer you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But you have to answer me now. You’re nothere for Comm Tech-Bern, are you?”

”Yes, that part’s true,” said Halliday. “Only theSwiss didn’t come to me, I went to them. I’ve beenwatching you, waiting for the moment. It had to bethe right one, perfectly natural, geographicallylogical.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Because I’m being watched…. Rosen did have astroke. I heard about it, contacted Bern, and madea plausible case for myself.”

“Your reputation was enough.”

“It helped, but I needed more. I said we kneweach other, that we went way back which Godknows was true and as much as I respected you, Iimplied that you were extremely astute with finals,and that I was familiar with your methods. I also putmy price high enough.”

“An irresistible combination for the Swiss,” saidConverse.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“But I don’t,” contradicted Joel. “I don’t approveof you at all, least of all your methods. You haven’ttold me anything, just made cryptic remarks aboutan unidentified group of people you say aredangerous, and brought up the name of a man youknew would provoke a response. Maybe you’re justa freak, after all, still pushing that safe Yippeelabel.”

“Calling someone a "freak’ is subjectivelyprejudicial in the extreme, counselor, and would bestricken from the record.”

“Still, the point’s been made with the jury,lawyer-man,” said Converse quietly but with anger.“And I’m making it now.”

“Don’t prejudge the safety,” continued Halliday in a

voice that was equally quiet. “I’m not safe, andoutside of a proclivity for cowardice, there’s a wifeand five children back in San Francisco I care deeplyabout.”

“So you come to me because I have nosuch what was it? priority entanglements?”

“I came to you because you’re invisible, you’renot involved, and because you’re the best, and I can’tdo ill legally can’t do it, and it’s got to be donelegally.”

" Why don’t you say what you mean?” demandedConverse. “Because if you don’t I’m getting up andwe’ll see each other later across a table.”

“I represented Delavane,” said Halliday quickly.“God help me I didn’t know what I was doing, andvery few people approved, but I made a point weused to make all the time. Unpopular causes andpeople also deserve representation.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“You don’t know the cause. I do. I found out.”

"What cause?”

Halliday leaned forward. “The generals,” he said,his voice barely audible. “They’re coming back.”

Joel looked closely at the Californian. “Fromwhere? I didn’t know they’d been away.”

“From the past,” said Halliday. “From years ago.”

Converse sat back in the chair, now amused.“Good Lord, I thought your kind were extinct. Areyou talking about the Pentagon menace, Press it is"Press,’ isn’t it? The San Francisco short-form, or wasit from Haight-Ashbury, or the Beverly Hillssomething or other? You’re a little behind the times;you already stormed the Presidio.”

“Please, don’t make jokes. I’m not joking.”

“Of course not. It’s Seven Days in May, or is itFive Days in August? It’s August now, so let’s call itThe Old-Time Guns of August. Nice ring, I think.”

“Stop ill There’s nothing remotely funny, and ifthere were, I’d find it before you did.”

“That’s a comment, I suppose,” said.Joel.

“You’re goddamned right it is, because I didn’t gothrough what you went through. I stayed out of it, Iwasn’t conned, and that means I can laugh at fanaticsbecause they never hurt me, and I still think it’s thebest ammunition against them. But not now. There’snothing to laugh at nowl”

“Permit me a small chuckle,” said Conversewithout smiling. “Even in my most paranoid momentsI never subscribed

to the conspiracy theory that has the militaryrunning Washington. It couldn’t happen.”

“It might be less apparent than in othercountries, but that’s all I’ll grant you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It would undoubtedly be much more obvious inIsrael, certainly in Johannesburg, quite possibly inFrance and Bonn, even the UK none of themtakes its pretences that seriously. But I supposeyou’ve got a point. Washington will drape theconshtubonal robes around itself until they becomethreadbare and fall away revealing a uniform,incidentally.”

Joel stared at the face in front of him. You’renot joking, are you? And you’re too bright to try tosnow me.”

“Or con you,” added Halliday. “Not after thatlabel I wore while watching you in pajamas halfwayacross the world. I couldn’t do it.”

“I think I believe you…. You menhoned severalcountries, specific countries. Some aren’t speaking,others barely; a few have bad blood and worsememories. On purpose?”

“Yes,” nodded the Californian. “It doesn’t makeany difference because the group I’m talking aboutthinks it has a cause that will ultimately unite themall. And run them all their way.”

“The generals?”

“And admirals, and brigadiers, and fieldmarshals old soldiers who pitched their tents in theright camp. So far right there’s been no label sincethe Reichstag.”

“Come on, Avery!” Converse shook his head inexasperabon. “A bunch of tired old warhorses “

“Recruiting and indoctrinating young, hard,capable new commanders,” interrupted Halliday.

” coughing their last bellows.” Joel stopped.“Have you proof of that?” he asked, each wordspoken slowly.

“Not enough . . . but with some digging . . .maybe enough.”

“Goddamn it, stop being elliptical.”

“Among the possible recruits, twenty or sonames at the State Department and the Pentagon,”said Halliday. “Men who clear export licenses andwho spend millions upon millions because they’reallowed to spend it, all of which, naturally, widensany circle of friends.”

“And influence,” stated Converse. “What aboutLondon, Paris, and Bonn Johannesburg and TelAviv?”

“Again names.”

“How firm?”

They were there, l saw them myself. It was anaccident. How many have taken an oath I don’tknow, but they were there, and their stripes fit thephilosophical pattern.”

" The Reichstag?”

More encompassing. A global Third Reich. Allthey need is a Hitler.”

Where does Delavane fit in?”

He may anoint one. He may designate the Fuhrer.”

That’s ridiculous. Who’d take him seriously?”

He was taken seriously before. You saw the results.”

That was then, not now. You’re not answeringthe question.”

- Men who thought he was right before, and don’tfool yourself, they’re out there by the thousands.What’s mind-blowing is that there are a few dozenwith enough seed money to finance his and theirdelusions which, of course, they don’t see asdelusions at all, only as the proper evolution ofcurrent history, all other ideologies having failedmiserably.”

Joel started to speak, then stopped, his thoughtssuddenly altered. "Why haven’t you gone to someonewho can stop them? Stop him.”

Who?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Any number ofpeople in the government elected andappointed and more than a dozen departments. Forstarters, there’s Justice.”

“I’d be laughed out of Washington,” said Halliday.“Beyond the fact that we have no proof as I told you,just names, suppositions don’t forget that Yippielabel I once wore. They’d pin it on me again and tellme to get lost.”

“But you represented Delavane.”

“Which only compounds the problem byintroducing the legal aspects. I shouldn’t have to tellyou that.”

“The lawyer-client relationship.” Converse nodded.“You’re in a morass before you can make a charge.Unless you’ve got hard evidence against your client,proof that he’s going to commit further crimes andthat you’re aiding the commission of those crimes bykeeping silent.”

" Which proof I don’t have,” interrupted theCalifornian.

“Then no one will touch you,” added Joel.“Especially ambitious lawyers at Justice; they don’twant their postgov

ernment avenues cut off. As you say, the Delavanesof this world have their constituencies.”

“Exactly,’ agreed Halliday. “And when I beganasking questions and tried to reach Delavane, hewouldn’t see me or talk to me. Instead, I got aletter telling me I was fired, that if he had knownwhat I was he never would have retained me."Smoking dope and screaming curses while braveyoung men answered their country’s call.’”

Converse whistled softly. “And you think youweren’t connedP You provide legal services for him,a structure he can use for all intents and purposeswithin the law, and if anything smells, you’re the lastperson who can blow the whistle. He drapes the oldsoldier’s flag around himself and calls you a vin-dictive freak.”

Halliday nodded. “There was a lot more in thatletter nothing that could damage me except wherehe was concerned, but it was brutal.”

“I’m certain of it.’ Converse took out a pack ofcigarettes; he held it forward as Halliday shook hishead. “How did you represent him?” asked Joel.

“I set up a corporation, a small consulting firmin Palo Alto specialising in imports and exports.What’s allowed, what isn’t, what the quotas are, andhow to legitimately reach the people in D.C. whowill listen to your case. Essentially it was a lobbyingeffort, trading in on a name, if anyone remembered.At the time, it struck me as kind of pathetic.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t registered,”remarked Converse, lighting a cigarette.

“It’s not the one we’re after. It’d be a waste oftime.”

“But it’s where you first got your information,isn’t it? Your leads?”

"4That was the accident, and it won’t happenagain. It’s so legitimate it’s legal Clorox.”

“Still it’s a front,” -insisted Joel. “It has to be ifeverything or anything you’ve said is true.”

“It’s true, and it is. But nothing’s written down.It’s an instrument for travel, an excuse for Delavaneand the men around him to go from one place toanother, carrying on legitimate business. But whilethey’re in a given area, they do their real thing.”

“The gathering of the generals and the fieldmarshals?” said Converse.

“We think it’s a spreading missionary operation.Very quiet and very intense.”

“What’s the name of Delavane’s firm?”

“Palo Alto International.”

Joel suddenly crushed out his cigarette. “Who’swe, Avery? Who’s putting up this kind of moneywhen amounts like that mean they’re people who canreach anyone they want to in Washington?”

“Are you interested?”

“Not in working for someone I don’t know orapprove of. No, I’m not.”

“Do you approve of the objectives as I’ve outlinedthem to you?”

“If what you’ve told me is true, and I can’t thinkof any reason why you’d lie about it, of course I do.You knew I would. That still doesn’t answer myquestion.”

“Suppose,” went on Halliday rapidly, “I were togive you a letter stating that the sum of five hundredthousand dollars to be allocated to you from a blindaccount on the island of Nfykonos was provided bya client of mine whose character and reputation areof the highest order. That his “

“Wait a minute, Press,” Converse broke in harshly.

“Please don’t interrupt me, Please!” Halliday’seyes were riveted on Joel, a manic intensity in hisstare. “There’s no other way, not now. I’ll put myname my professional life on the line. You’ve beenhired to do confidential work within yourspecialisation by a man known to me to be anoutstanding citizen who insists on anonymity. Iendorse both the man and the work he’s asked youto do, and swear not only to the legality of theobjectives but to the extraordinary benefits thatwould be derived by any success you might have.You’re covered, you’ve got five hundred thousanddollars, and I expect just as important to you,perhaps more so, you have the chance to stop amaniac maniacs from carrying out an unthinkableplan. At the least, they’d create widespread unrest,political crises everywhere, enormous suffering. Atthe worst, they might change the course of history tothe point where there wouldn’t be any history.”

Converse sat rigid in his chair, his gaze unbroken.“That’s quite a speech. Practice it long?”

“No, you son of a bitch! It wasn’t necessary topractice. Any more than you rehearsed that littleexplosion of yours twelve years ago in San Diego."Men like that can’t be allowed

anymore, don’t you understand? He was the enemy,our enemy?’ . . . Those were the words, weren’tthey?”

" You did your homework, counselor,” said Joel,his anger controlled. “Why does your client insist onbeing anonymous? Why doesn’t he take his money,make a political contribution, and talk to thedirector of the CIA, or the National SecurityCouncil, or the White House, any of which he coulddo easily? A half-million dollars isn’t choppedchicken liver even today.”

“Because he can’t be involved officially in anyway whatsoever.” Halliday frowned as he expelledhis breath. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s theway it is. He is an outstanding man and I went tohim because I was cornered. Frankly, I thought he’dpick up the phone and do what you just said. Callthe White House, if it came to it, but he wanted togo this route.”

“With me?”

“Sorry, he didn’t know you. He said a strangething to me. He told me to find someone to shootdown the bastards without giving them the dignity ofthe government’s concern, even its recognition. Atfirst I couldn’t understand, but then I did. It fit inwith my own theory that laughing at the Delavanesof this world renders them impotent morethoroughly than any other way.”

“It also eliminates the specter of martyrdom,”added Converse. “Why would this outstandingcitizen do what he’s doing? Why is it worth themoney to him?”

“If I told you, I’d be breaking the confidence.”

“I didn’t ask you his name. I want to know why.”

“By telling you,” said the Califomian, “you’dknow who he is. I can’t do that. Take my word forit, you’d approve of him.”

“Next question,” said Joel, a sharp edge to hisvoice. “Just what the hell did you say to Talbot,Brooks that they found so acceptable?”

“Resigned to finding it acceptable,” correctedHalliday. “I had help. Do you know Judge LucasAnstett?”

“Second Circuit Court,” said Converse, nodding.“He should have been tapped for the SupremeCourt years ago.”

“That seems to be the consensus. He’s also afriend of my client, and as I understand it, he metwith John Talbot and Nathan Simon Brooks wasout of town and without revealing my client’sname, told them there was a problem that mightwell erupt into a national crisis if immediate legalac

tion wasn’t taken. Several U.S. firms were involved,he explained, but the problem basically lay inEurope and required the talents of an experiencedinternational lawyer. If their junior partner, JoelConverse, was selected and he accepted, would theyconsent to a leave of absence so he could pursue thematter on a confidential basis? Naturally, the judgestrongly endorsed the project.”

“And naturally Talbot and Simon went along,”said Joel. "You don’t refuse Anstett. He’s toodamned reasonable, to say nothing of the power ofhis court.”

“I don’t think he’d use that lever.”

“It’s there.”

Halliday reached into his jacket pocket and tookout a long white business envelope. “Here’s theletter. It spells out everything I said. There’s also aseparate page defining the schedule in Mykonos.Once you make arrangements at the bank how youwant the money paid or where you want ittransferred you’ll be given the name of a man wholives on the island; he’s retired. Phone him; he’ll tellyou when and where to meet. He has all the toolswe can give you. The names, the connections as wethink they are, and the activities they’re most likelyengaged in that violate the laws of their respectivegovernments sending arms, equipment, andtechnological information where it shouldn’t be sent.Build just two or three cases that are tied toDelavanc -even circumstantially and it’ll be enough.We’ll turn it all into ridicule. It will be enough.”

“Where the hey do you get your nerve?” saidConverse angrily. “I haven’t agreed to anything! Youdon’t make decisions for me, and neither doesTalbot or Simon, nor the holy Judge Anstett, noryour goddamned client! What did you think youwere doing? Appraising me like a piece of horse-flesh, making arrangements about me behind myback! Who do you people think you are?”

“Concerned people who think we’ve found theright man for the right job at the right time,” saidHalliday, dropping the envelope in front of Joel.“Only there’s not that much time left. You’ve beenwhere they want to take us and you know what it’slike.” Suddenly the Californian got up. “Think aboutit. We’ll talk later. By the way, the Swiss know wewere meeting this morning. If anyone asks what wetalked about, tell them I agreed to the finaldisposition of the Class A stock. It’s in our favoreven though you may think otherwise. Thanks

for the coffee. I’ll be across the table in an hour. It’sgood to see you again, Joel.”

The Californian walked swiftly into the aisle andout through the brass gate of the Chat Botte intothe sunlight of the Quai du Mont Blanc.

The telephone console was built into the far endof a long dark conference table. Its muted hum wasin keeping with the dignified surroundings. TheSwiss arbitre, the legal representative of the cantonof Geneva, picked it up and spoke softly, noddinghis head twice, then replaced the phone in its cradle.He looked around the table; seven of the eightattorneys were in their chairs talking quietly withone another. The eighth, Joel Converse, stood infront of an enormous window flanked by drapes andoverlooking the Quai Gustave Ador. The giant jetd’eau erupted beyond, its pulsating spray cascadingto the left under the force of a north wind. The skywas growing dark; a summer storm was on its wayfrom the Alps.

“Messieurs, ” said the arbiter Conversations trailedoff as faces were turned to the Swiss. “That wasMonsieur Halliday. He has been detained, but urgesyou to proceed. His associate, Monsieur Rogeteau,has his recommendations, and it is understood thathe met with Monsieur Converse earlier this morningto resolve one of the last details. Is that not so,Monsieur Converse?”

Heads turned again, now in the oppositedirection toward the figure by the window. Therewas no response. Converse continued to stare downat the lake.

“Monsieur Converse?”

“I beg your pardon?” Joel turned, a frowncreasing his brow, his thoughts far away, nowherenear Geneva.

“It is so, monsieur?”

“What was the question?”

“You met earlier with Monsieur Halliday?”

Converse paused. “It is so,” he replied.

“And 9″

“And he agreed to the final disposition of theClass A stock.”

There was an audible expression of relief on thepart of the Americans and a silent acceptance fromthe Bern contingent, their eyes noncommittal.Neither reaction was lost on Joel, and underdifferent circumstances he might have tabled

the item for additional consideration. Halliday’sjudgment of Bern’s advantage notwithstanding, theacceptance was too easily achieved; he would havepostponed it anyway, at least for an hour’s worth ofanalysis. Somehow it did not matter. Goddamn him!thought Converse.

“Then let us proceed as Monsieur Hallidaysuggested,” said the arbitre, glancing at his watch.

An hour stretched into two, then three, the humof voices mingling in counterpoint as pages werepassed back and forth, points clarified, paragraphsinitiated. And still Halliday did not appear. Lampswere turned on as darkness filled the midday skyoutside the huge windows; there was talk of theapproaching storm.

Then, suddenly, screams came from beyond thethick oak door of the conference room, swelling involume until images of horror filled the minds of allwho heard the prolonged terrible sounds. Somearound the enormous table lunged under it, othersgot out of their chairs and stood in shock, and a fewrushed to the door, among them Converse. Thearbiter twisted the knob and yanked it back with suchforce that the door crashed into the wall. What theysaw was a sight none of them would ever forget. Joellashed out, gripping, pulling, pushing away those infront of him as he raced into the anteroom.

He saw Avery Fowler, his white shirt coveredwith blood, his chest a mass of tiny, bleeding holes.As the wounded man fell, his upturned collarseparated to reveal more blood on his throat. Theexpulsions of breath were too well known to Joel; hehad held the heads of children in the camps as theyhad wept in anger and the ultimate fear. He heldAvery Fowler’s head now, lowering him to the floor.

“My God, what ha Opened ?” cried Converse,cradling the dying man in his arms.

“They’re . . . back,” coughed the classmate fromlong ago. “The elevator. They trapped me in theelevator! . . . They said it was for Aquitaine, that wasthe name they used . . . Aquitaine. Oh, Christ! Meg. . . the kids!” Avery Fowler’s head twisted spasticallyinto his right shoulder, then the final expulsion of aircame from his bloodied throat.

Converse stood in the rain, his clothes drenched,staring at the unseen place on the water where onlyan hour ago the

fountain had shot up to the sky proclaiming this wasGeneva. The lake was angry, an infinity of whitecapshad replaced the graceful white sails. There were noreflections anywhere. But there was distant thunderfrom the north. From the Alps.

And Joel’s mind was frozen.

He walked past the long marble counter of thehotel Richemond’s front desk and headed for thewinding staircase on the left. It was habit; his suitewas on the second Hoor and the brass-grilledelevators with their wine-colored velvet interiorswere things of beauty, but not of swiftness. Too, heenjoyed passing the casement displays ofoutrageously priced brilliantly lit jewels that linedthe walls of the elegant staircase shimmeringdiamonds, blood-red rubies, webbed necklaces ofspun gold. Somehow they reminded him of change,of extraordinary change. For him. For a life he hadthought would end violently, thousands of milesaway in a dozen different yet always the samerat-infested cells, with muted gunfire and thescreams of children in the dark distance. Diamonds,rubies, and spun gold were symbols of theunattainable and unrealistic, but they were there,and he passed them, observed them, smiling at theirexistence . . . and they seemed to acknowledge him,large shining eyes of infinite depth staring back,telling him they were there, he was there. Change.

But he did not see them now, nor did theyacknowledge him. He saw nothing, felt nothing;every tentacle of his mind and body was numbed,suspended in airless space. A man he had known asa boy under one name had died in his arms yearslater under another, and the words he hadwhispered at the brutal moment of death were asincomprehensible as they were paralysing. Aquitaine.They said it was for Aquitaine…. Where was sanity,where was reason? What did the words mean andwhy had he been drawn into that elusive meaning?He had been drawn in, he knew, and there wasrea

son in that terrible manipulation. The magnet was aname, a man. George Marcus Delavane, warlord ofSaigon.

“Monsieur!” The suppressed shout came frombelow; he turned on the stairs and saw the formallyattired concierge rushing across the lobby and up thesteps. The man’s name was Henri, and they hadknown each other for nearly five years. Theirfriendship went beyond that of hotel executive andhotel guest; they had gambled together frequently atDivonne-les-bains, across the French border.

“Hello, Henri.”

“Mon Dieu, are you all right, Joel? Your office inNew York has been calling you repeatedly. I heardit on the radio, it is all over Geneval La drogue!Drugs, crime, guns . . . murder! It touches even usnow!”

“Is that what they say?”

“They say small packages of cocaine were foundunder his shirt, a respected avocat international asuspected connection “

“It’s a lie,” Converse broke in.

“It’s what they say, what can I tell you? Yourname was mentioned; it was reported that he died asyou reached him. . . . You were not implicated, ofcourse; you were merely there with the others. Iheard your name and I’ve been worried sickl Wherehave you beenk”

“Answering a lot of unanswerable questions downat police headquarters.” Questions that wereanswerable, but not by him, not to the authorities inGeneva. Avery Fowler Preston Halliday deservedbetter than that. A trust had been given, and beenaccepted in death.

“Christ, you’re drenched!” cried Henri, intenseconcern in his eyes. “You’ve been walking in the rain,haven’t you? There were no taxis?”

“I didn’t look, I wanted to walk.”

“Of course, the shock, I understand. I’ll send upsome brandy, some decent Armagnac. And dinner,perhaps I’ll release your table at theGentilshommes.”

“Thanks. Give me thirty minutes and have yourswitchboard get New York for me, will you? I neverseem to dial it right.”

“Joel?”

“What?”

“Can I help? Is there something you should tellme? We have won and lost together over too manygrand cry bottles

for you to go alone when you don’t have to. I knowGeneva, my friend.”

Converse looked into the wide brown eyes, atthe lined face, rigid in its concern. “Why do you saythat?”

“Because you so quickly denied the policereports of coeaine, what else? I watched you. Therewas more in what you said than what you said.”

Joel blinked, and for a moment shut his eyelidstight, the strain in the middle of his forehead acute.He took a deep breath and replied. “Do me a favor,Henri, and don’t speculate. Just get me an overseasline in a half-hour, okay?”

“Entendu, monsieur,” said the Frenchman. “Leconcderge du R*hemond is here only to serve herguests, special guests accorded special service, ofcourse…. I’m here if you need me, my friend.”

“I know that. If I turn a wrong card, I’ll let youknow.”

“If you have to turn any card in Switzerland, callme. The suits vary with the players.”

“I’ll remember that. Thirty minutes? A line?”

“Certainement, monsieur.”

The shower was as hot as his skin could tolerate,the steam filling his lungs, cutting short the breathin his throat. He then forced himself to endure anice-cold spray until his head shivered. He reasonedthat the shock of extremes might clear his mind, atleast reduce the numbness. He had to think; he hadto decide; he had to listen.

He came out of the bathroom, his whiteterrycloth robe blotting the residue of the shower,and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers on thefloor beside the bed. He removed his cigarettes andlighter from the bureau top, and walked into thesitting room. The concerned Henri had been true tohis word; on the coffee table a floor steward hadplaced a bottle of expensive Armagnac and twoglasses for appearance, not function. He sat downon the soft, pillowed couch, poured himself a drink,and lighted a cigarette. Outside, the heavy Augustrain pounded the casement windows, the tattooharsh and unrelenting. He looked at his watch; itwas a few minutes past six shortly past noon inNew York. Joel wondered if Henri had been able toget a clear transatlantic line. The lawyer in Conversewanted to hear the words spoken from New York,words that would either confirm or deny a deadman’s revelation. It had been twenty-five minutessince Henri had

stopped him on the staircase; he would wait anotherfive and call the switchboard.

The telephone rang, the blaring, vibratingEuropean bell unnerving him. He reached for thephone on the table next to the couch; his breath wasshort and his hand trembled.

byes? Hello?’

Chew York calling, monsieur,” said the hoteloperator. “It’s your office. Should I cancel the calllisted for six-fifteen?”

“Yes, please. And thank you.”

“Mr. Converse?” The intense, high-pitched voicebelonged to Lawrence Talbot’s secretary.

“Hello, Jane.”

“Good God, we’ve been trying to reach you sinceten o’clock! Are you all right? We heard the newsthen, around ten. It’s all so horrible!”

“I’m fine, Jane. Thanks for your concern.”

“Mr. Talbot’s beside himself. He can’t believe it!”

“Don’t believe what they’re saying about Halliday.It’s not true. May I speak with Larry, please?”

“If he knew you were on the phone talking to me,I’d be fired.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Who’d write his letters?”

The secretary paused briefly, her voice calmerwhen she spoke. “Oh, God, Joel, you’re the end.After what you’ve been through, you still findsomething funny to say.”

“It’s easier, Jane. Let me have Bubba, will you?”

“You are the limit!”

Lawrence Talbot, senior partner of Talbot,Brooks and Simon, was a perfectly competentattorney, but his rise in law was as much due to hishaving been one of the few all-American footballplayers from Yale as from any prowess in thecourtroom. He was also a very decent human beingmore of a coordinating coach than the driving forceof a conservative yet highly competitive law firm. Hewas also eminently fair and fair-minded; he kept hisword. He was one of the reasons Joel had joined thefirm; another was Nathan Simon, a giant both of aman and of an attorney. Converse had learned moreabout the law from Nate Simon than from any otherlawyer or professor he had ever met. He felt closestto Nathan, yet Simon was the most difficult to getclose to; one approached this uniquely private manwith equal parts of fondness and reserve.

Lawrence Talbot burst over the phone. " GoodLord, I’m appalled! What can I say? What can Ido?”

“To begin with, strike that horseshitaboutHalliday. He was no more a drug connection thanNate Simon.”

“You haven’t heard, then? They’ve backed offon that. The story now is violent robbery; heresisted and the packets were stuffed under his shirtafter they shot him. I think Jack Halliday must haveburned the wires from San Francisco, threatened tobeat the crap out of the whole Swiss government….He played for Stanford, you know.”

“You’re too much, Bubba.”

“I never thought I’d enjoy hearing that from you,young man. I do now.”

“Young man and not so young, Larry. Clearsomething up for me, will you?”

“Whatever I can.”

“Anstett. Lucas Anstett. "

“We talked. Nathan and I listened, and he wasmost persuasive. We understand.”

“Do you?”

“Not the particulars certainly; he wouldn’telaborate. But we think you’re the best in the field,and granting his request wasn’t difficult.. T., B. andS. has the best, and when a judge like Anstettconfirms it through such a conversation, we have tocongratulate ourselves, don’t we?”

“Are you doing it because of his bench?”

“Christ, no. He even told us he’d be harder onus in Appeals if we agreed. He’s one rough cookiewhen he wants something. He tells you you’d beworse off if you give it to him.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Well, Nathan said something about billy goatshaving certain identifiable markings that were notremoved without a great deal of squealing, so weshould go along. Nathan frequently obfuscatesissues, but goddamnit, Joel, he’s usually right.”

“If you can take three hours to hear afive-minute summation,” said Converse.

“He’s always thinking, young man.”

“Young and not so young. Everything’s relative.”

“Your wife called…. Sorry, your ex-wife.”

“Oh?”

“Your name came up on the radio or televisionor something, and she wanted to know whathappened.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That we were trying to reach you. We didn’tknow any more than she did. She sounded veryupset.”

Call her and tell her I’m fine, will you, please?Do you have the number?”

Jane does.”

“I’ll be leaving, then.”

“On full pay,” said Talbot from New York.

“That’s not necessary, Larry. I’m being given agreat deal of money, so save the bookkeeping. I’ll beback in three or four weeks.”

“I could do that, but I won’t,” said the seniorpartner. “I know when I’ve got the best and I intendto hold him. We’ll bank it for you.” Talbot paused,then spoke quietly, urgently. “Joel, I have to ask you.Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to dowith the Anstett business?”

Converse gripped the telephone with such forcehis wrist and fingers ached. “Nothing whatsoever,Larry,” he said. “There’s no connection.”

Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed islandof the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos.Since Barbarossa’s conquest it had been host tosuccessive brigands of the sea who sailed on theMeltemi winds Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finallyGreeks placed and displaced over the centuries, asmall landmass alternately honored and forgottenuntil the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft,symbols of a different age. Low-slungautomobiles Porsches, Maseratis, "Jaguars nowsped over the narrow roads past starch-whitewindmills and alabaster churches; a new type ofinhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-boundresidents who made their livings from the sea andthe shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with theiropen shirts and tight pants, their sunburned skinsserving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, hadfound a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, oncea major port to the proud Phoenicians, had becomethe Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.

Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out ofGeneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympicplane to the island. Although he had lost an hour inthe time zones, it was barely four o’clock in theafternoon when the airport taxi

crawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-whiteharbor and pulled up in front of the smooth whiteentrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, andthe crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses,and the sight of launches chopping over the gentlewaves toward the slips on the main pier, were proofthat the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor weremanaged by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a daz-zling snare for tourists; money would be left on thewhitewashed island; the tavernas and the shops wouldbe full from early sunrise to burning twilight. Theoozo would flow and Greek fishermen’s caps woulddisappear from the shelves and appear on the swayingheads of suburbanites from Crosse Point and ShortHills. And when night came and the last efharisto andparacalo had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors,other games would begin the courtiers andcourtesans the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgentchildren of the blue Aegean, would start to play.Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas werecounted and spent in amounts that would staggereven those who had opulent suites on the highestdecks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva wascon-, trary, Mykonos was accommodating in waysthe long-ago

Turks might have envied.

Joel had called the bank from the airport, notknowing its business hours, but knowing the name ofthe banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greetedhim cautiously over the phone, making it clear that heexpected not only a passport that would clear aspectrograph but the original letter from A. PrestonHalliday with his signature, said signature to besubjected to a scanner, matching the signature thebank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A.Preston Halliday.

“We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is mostunfortunate,” Laskaris had said.

“I’ll tell his wife and children how your griefoverwhelms me.”

Converse paid the taxi and climbed the shortwhite steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase andattache case, grateful that the door was opened by auniformed guard whose appearance brought to minda long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan whowhipped his harem’s women in a courtyard when theyfailed to arouse him.

Kostas Laskaris was not at all whatJoel hadexpected from the brief, disconcerting conversationover the phone. He was a balding, pleasant-faced manin his late fifties, with warm

dark eyes, and relatively fluent in English butcertainly not comfortable with the language. His firstwords upon rising from his desk and indicating achair in front of it for Converse contradicted Joel’sprevious impression.

“I apologizefor what might have appeared as acallous statement on my part regarding Mr. Halliday.However, it ureas most unfortunate, and I don’tknow how else to phrase it. And it is difficult, sir, togrieve for a man one never knew.”

“I was out of line. Forget it, please.”

“You are most kind, but I am afraid I cannotforget the arrangements mandated by Mr. Hallidayand his associate here on Mykonos. I must have yourpassport and the letter, if you please?”

“Who is he?” asked Joel, reaching into his jacketpocket for his passport billfold; it contained theletter. “The associate, I mean.”

“You are an attorney, sir, and surely you areaware that the information you desire cannot begiven to you until the barriers have been leaped, asit were. At least, I think that’s right.”

“It’ll do. I just thought I’d try.” He took out hispassport and the letter, handing them to the banker.

Laskaris picked up his telephone and pressed abutton. He spoke in Greek and apparently asked forsomeone. Within seconds the door opened and astunning bronzed, dark-haired woman entered andwalked gracefully over to the desk. She raised herdowncast eyes and glanced at Joel, who knew thebanker was watching him closely. A sign fromConverse, an other glance from him directed atLaskaris and introduc tions would be forthcoming,accommodation tacitly promised, and a conceivablysignificant piece of information would be entered ina banker’s file. Joel offered no such sign; he wantedno such entry. A man did not pick up half a milliondollars for nodding his head, and then look for abonus. It did not signify stability; it signifiedsomething else.

Inconsequential banter about flights, customs andthe general deterioration of travel covered the nextten minutes, at which time his passport and the letterwere returned not by the striking, dark-hairedwoman but by a young, balletic blond Adonis. Thepleasant-faced Laskaris was not missing a trick; hewas perfectly willing to supply one, whichever routehis wealthy visitor required.

Converse looked into the Greek’s warm eyes, then

smiled, the smile developing into quiet laughter.Laskaris smiled back and shrugged, dismissing thebeachboy.

"I am chief manager of this branch, sir,” he saidas the door closed, “but I do not set the policies forthe entire bank. This is, after all, Mykonos.”

“And a great deal of money passes throughhere,” added Joel. “Which one did you bet on?”

“Neither,” replied Laskaris, shaking his head.“Only on exactly what you did. You’d be a foolotherwise, and I do not think you are a fool. Inaddition to being chief manager on the waterfront,I am also an excellent judge of character.”

“Is that why you were chosen as the intermediary?”

“No, that is not the reason. I am a friend of Mr.Halliday’s associate here on the island. His name isBeale, incidentally. Dr. Edward Beale…. You see,everything is in order.”

“A doctor?” asked Converse, leaning forwardand accepting his passport and the letter. “He’s adoctor?”

“Not a medical man, however,” clarifiedLaskaris. “He’s a scholar, a retired professor ofhistory from the United States. He has an adequatepension and he moved here from Rhodes severalmonths ago. A most interesting man, mostknowledgeable. I handle his financial affairs inwhich he is not very knowledgeable, but stillinteresting.”" The banker smiled again, shrugging.

“I hope so,” said Joel. “We have a great deal todiscuss..’

“That is not my concern, sir. Shall we get to thedisposition of the funds? How and where would youcare to have them paid?”

“A great deal in cash. I bought one of thosesensorized money belts in Geneva the batteries areguaranteed for a year. If it’s ripped off me, a tinysiren goes off that splits your eardrums. I’d likeAmerican currency for myself and the resttransferred.”

“Those belts are effective, sir, but not if you areunconscious, or if there is no one around to hearthem. Might I suggest traveler’s checks?”

“You could and you’d probably be right, but Idon’t think so. I may not care to write out asignature.”

“As you wish. The denominations for yourself,please?” said Laskaris, pencil in hand, pad below.“And where would you like the remainder to besent?”

“Is it possible,” asked Converse slowly, “to haveaccounts set up not in my name but accessible tome?”

"&Of course, sir. Frankly, it is often standard inMykonos as well as in Crete, Rhodes, Athens,Istanbul, and also much of Europe. A description iswired, accompanied by words written out in yourhandwriting another name, or numbers. One manI knew used nursery rhymes. And then they arematched. One must use a sophisticated bank, ofcourse.”

"Of course. Name a few.”

“Where?”

“In London, Paris, Bonn maybe Tel Aviv,” saidJoel, trying to remember Halliday’s words.

“Bonn is not easy; they are so inflexible. A wrongapostrophe and they summon whomever theyconsider their authorities…. Tel Aviv is simple;money is as freewheeling and as serpentine as theKnesset. London and Paris are standard and, ofcourse, their greed is overwhelming. You will beheavily taxed for the transfers because they know youwill not make an issue over covert funds. Veryproper, very mercenary, and very much thievery.”

“You know your banks, don’t you?”

“I’ve had experience, sir. Now, as to thedisbursements?

“I want a hundred thousand for myself nothinglarger than five-hundred-dollar bills. The rest youcan split up and tell me how I can get it if I need it.”

“It is not a difficult assignment, sir. Shall we startwriting names, or numbers or nursery rhymes?”

“Numbers,” said Converse. “I’m a lawyer. Namesand nursery rhymes are in dimensions I don’t want tothink about right now.”

“As you wish,” said the Greek, reaching for a pad.

"And here is Dr. Beale’s telephone number. Whenwe have concluded our business, you may callhim or not, as you wish It is not my concern.”

Dr. Edward Beale, resident of Mykonos, spokeover the telephone in measured words and the slow,thoughtful cadence of a scholar. Nothing was rushed;everything was deliberate.

“There is a beach more rocks than beach, andnot frequented at night about seven kilometersfrom the waterfront. Walk to it. Take the west roadalong the coast until you see the lights of severalbuoys riding the waves. Come down to the water’sedge. I’ll find you.”

* * *

The night clouds sped by, propelled byhigh-altitude winds, letting the moonlight penetraterapidly, sporadically, illuminating the desolatestretch of beach that was the meeting ground. Farout on the water, the red lamps of four buoysbobbed up and down. Joel climbed over the rocksand into the soft sand, making his way to the water’sedge; he could both see and hear the small waveslapping forward and receding. He lit a cigarette,assuming the flame would announce his presence. Itdid; in moments a voice came out of the darknessbehind him, but the greeting was hardly what he ex-pected from an elderly, retired scholar.

“Stay where you are and don’t move” was thefirst command, spoken with quiet authority. “Put thecigarette in your mouth and inhale, then raise yourarms and hold them straight out in front of you….Good. Now smoke, I want to see the smoke.”

“Christ, I’m choking!” shouted Joel, coughing, asthe smoke, blown back by the ocean breeze, stunghis eyes. Then suddenly he felt the sharp, quickmovements of a hand stabbing about his clothes,reaching across his chest and up and down his legs.“What are you doing?” he cried, spitting the cigaretteout of his mouth involuntarily.

“You don’t have a weapon,” said the voice.

“Of course not!”

“I do. You may lower your arms and turn aroundnow.”

Converse spun, still coughing, and rubbed hiswatery eyes. “You crazy son of a bitch!”

“It’s a dreadful habit, those cigarettes. I’d givethem up if I were you. Outside of the terrible thingsthey do to your body, now you see how they can beused against you in other ways.”

Joel blinked and stared in front of him. Thepontificator was a slender, white-haired old man ofmedium height, standing very erect in what lookedlike a white canvas jacket and trousers. Hisface what could be seen of it in the intermittentmoonlight was deeply lined, and there was apartial smile on his lips. There was also a gun in hishand, held in a firm grip, levered at Converse’shead. “You’re Beale?” asked Joel. “Dr. EdwardBeale?”

“Yes. Are you calmed down now?”

“Considering the shock of your warm welcome, Iguess

“Good. I’ll put this away, then.” The scholar loweredthe

gun and knelt down on the sand next to a canvassatchel. He shoved the weapon inside and stood upagain. “I’m sorry, but I had to be certain.”

“Of what? Whether or not I was a commando?”

“Halliday’s dead. Could a substitute have beensent in your place? Someone to deal with an old manin Mykonos? If so, that person would most certainlyhave had a gun.”

“Why?”

“Because he would have had no idea that I wasan old man. I might have been a commando.”

“You know, it’s possible just possible that Icould have had a gun. Would you have blown mygoddamned head off?”

"A respected attorney coming to the island forthe first time, passing through Geneva’s airportsecurity? Where would you get it? Whom would youknow on Mykonos?”

"Arrangements could have been made,” protestedConverse with little conviction.

“I’ve had you followed since you arrived. Youwent directly to the bank, then to the Kouneni hotel,where you sat in the garden and had a drink beforegoing to your room. Outside of the taxi driver, myfriend Kostas, the desk clerk, and the waiters in thegarden, you spoke to no one. As long as you wereJoel Converse I was safe.”

“For a product of an ivory tower, you sound morelike a hit man from Detroit.”

“I wasn’t always in the academic world, but yes,I’ve been cautious. I think we must all be verycautious. With a George Marcus Delavane it’s theonly sound strategy.”

“Sound strategy?”

“Approach, if you like.” Beale reached betweenthe widely separated buttons of his jacket andwithdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Here are thenames,” he said, handing it to Joel. “There are fivekey figures in Delavane’s operation over here. Oneeach from France, West Germany, Israel, South Af-rica, and England. We’ve identified four the firstfour but we can’t find the Englishman.”

“How did you get these?”

“Originally from notes found among Delavane’spapers by Halliday when the general was his client.”

“That was the accident he mentioned, then? Hesaid it was an accident that wouldn’t happen again.”

“I don’t know what he told you, of course, but itcertainly was an accident. A faulty memory onDelavane’s part, an af

flictionI can personally assure you touches the aging.The general simply forgot he had a meeting withHalliday, and when Preston arrived, his secretary lethim into the office so he could prepare papers forDelavane, who was expected in a half hour or so.Preston saw a file folder on the general’s desk; heknew that folder, knew it contained material hecould cross-check. Without thinking twice, he satdown and began working. He found the names, andknowing Delavane’s recent itinerary in Europe andAfrica, everything suddenly began to fall intoplace very ominously. For anyone politically aware,those four names are frightening they dredge upfrightening memories.”

“Did Delavane ever learn that he’d found them?”

“In my judgment, he could never be certain.Halliday wrote them down and left before thegeneral returned. But then Geneva tells ussomething else, doesn’t it?”

“That Delavane did find out,” said Converse grimly.

“Or he wasn’t going to take any further chances,especially if there was a schedule, and we’reconvinced there is one. We’re in the countdownnow.”

“To what?”

“From the pattern of their operations what we’vepieced together a prolonged series of massive,orchestrated conflagrations designed to spingovernments out of control and destabilize them.”

“That’s a tall order. In what way?”

“Guesswork,” said the scholar, frowning.“Probably widespread, coordinated eruptions ofviolence led by terrorists everywhere terroristsfueled by Delavane and his people. When the chaosbecomes intolerable, it would be their excuse tomarch in with military units and assume thecontrols, initially with martial law.”

“It’s been done before,” said Joel. “Feed and arma presumed enemy, then send out provocateurs “

“With massive sums of money and material.”

“And when they rise up,” continued Converse,“pull out the rug, crush them, and take over. Thecitizens give thanks and call the heroes saviors, asthey start marching to their drums. But how couldthey do it?”

“That’s the all-consuming question. What are thetargets? Where are they, who are they? We have noidea. If we had an inkling, we might approach fromthat end, but we don’t,

and we can’t waste time hunting for unknowns. Wemust go after what we do know.”

“Again, time,” Joel broke in. “Why are you sosure we’re in a countdown?”

“Increased activity everywhere in many casesfrantic. Shipments originating in the States arefunneled out of warehouses in England, Ireland,France, and Germany to groups of insurgents in allthe troubled areas. There are rurnors out of Munich,the Mediterranean and the Arab states. The talk isin terms of final preparations, but no one seems toknow what exactly for except that all of them mustbe ready. It’s as though such groups asBaader-Meinhof, the Brigate Rosse, the PLO, andthe red legions of Paris and Madrid were all in arace with none knowing the course, only the momentwhen it begins.”

"When is that?”

“Our reports vary, but they’re all within the sametime span. Within three to five weeks.”

“Oh, my God.” Joel suddenly remembered.“Avery Halliday whispered something to me justbefore he died. Words that were spoken by the menwho shot him. Aquitaine . . . "They said it was forAquitaine.’ Those were the words he whispered.What do they mean, Beale?”

The old scholar was silent, his eyes alive in themoonlight. He slowly turned his head and stared outat the water. “It’s madness,” he whispered.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“No, of course not,” said Beale apologetically,turning back to Converse. “It’s simply the magnitudeof it all. It’s so incredible.”

“I’m not reading you.”

“Aquitaine Aquitania, as Julius Caesar calledit was the name given to a region in southwesternFrance that at one time in the first centuries afterChrist was said to have extended from the Atlantic,across the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean, and as farnorth as the mouth of the Loire west of Paris on thecoast “

“I’m vaguely aware of that,” Joel broke in, tooimpatient for an academic dissertation.

“If you are, you’re to be commended. Mostpeople are only aware of the later centuries say,from the eighth on when Charlemagne conqueredthe region, formed the kingdom of Aquitaine andbestowed it on his son Louis, and his

sons Pepin One and Two. Actually, these and thefollowing three hundred years are the mostpertinent. "

"To what?”

“The legend of Aquitaine, Mr. Converse. Likemany ambitious generals, Delavane sees himself asa student of history in the tradition of Caesar,Napoleon, Clausewitz . . . even Patton. I was rightlyor wrongly considered a scholar, but he remains astudent, and that’s as it should be. Scholars can’ttake liberties without substantive evidence or theyshouldn’t but students can and usually do.”

“What’s your point?”

“The legend of Aquitaine becomes convoluted,the what-if syndrome riding over the facts untiltheoretical assumptions are made that distort theevidence. You see, the story of Aquitaine is filledwith sudden, massive expansions and abruptcontractions. To simplify, an imaginative student ofhistory might say that had there not been political,marital and military miscalculations on the part ofCharlemagne and his son, the two Pepins, and laterLouis the Seventh of France and Henry the Secondof England, both of whom were married to theextraordinary Eleanor, the kingdom of Aquitainemight have encompassed most if not all of Europe.”Beale paused. “Do you begin to understand?” heasked.

“Yes,” said Joel. “Christ, yes. “

“That’s not all,” continued the scholar. “SinceAquitaine was once considered a legitimatepossession of England, it might in time haveenveloped all of her foreign colonies, including theoriginal thirteen across the Atlantic later theUnited States of America…. Of course,miscalculations or not, it could never have happenedbecause of a fundamental law of Westerncivilisation, valid since the-deposition of RomulusAugustulus and the collapse of the Roman empire.You cannot crush, then unite by force and ruledisparate peoples and their cultures not for anylength of time.”

“Someone’s trying to now,” said Converse.“George Marcus Delavane.”

“Yes. In his mind he’s constructed the Aquitainethat never was, never could be. And it’s profoundlyterrifying.”

“Why? You just said it couldn’t happen.”

“Not according to the old rules, not in anyperiod since the fall of Rome. But you mustremember, there’s never been a time in recordedhistory like this one. Never such weapons, suchanxiety. Delavane and his people know that, andthey

will play upon those weapons, those anxieties. Theyare playing upon them. “The old man pointed to thesheet of paper in Joel’s hand. ”You have matches.Strike one and look at the names.”

Converse unfolded the sheet, reached into hispocket and took out his lighter. He snapped it, andas the flame illuminated the paper he studied thenames. “Jesus!” he said, frowning. "They fit in withDelavane. It’s a gathering of warlords, if they’re themen I think they are.” Joel extinguished the flame.

“They are,” replied Beale, “starting with GeneralJacques-Louis Bertholdier in Paris, a remarkableman, quite extraordinary. A Resistance fighter in thewar, given the rank of major before he was twenty,but later an unreconstructed member of Salan’sOAS. He was behind an assassination attempt on DeCaulle in August of "62, seeing himself as the trueleader of the republic. He nearly made it. Hebelieved then as he believes now that the Algeriangenerals were the salvation of an enfeebled France.He has survived not only because he’s a legend, butbecause his voice isn’t alone only he’s morepersuasive than most. Especially with the elite crowdof promising commanders produced by Saint-Cyr.Quite simply, he’s a fascist, a fanatic hiding behinda screen of eminent respectability.”

“And the one named Abrahms,” said Converse.“He’s the Israeli strong man who struts around in asafari jacket and boots, isn’t he? The screecher whoholds rallies in front of the Knesset and in thestadiums, telling everyone there’ll be a bloodbath inJudea and Samaria if the children of Abraham aredenied. Even the Israelis can’t shut him up.”

“Many are afraid to; he’s become electrifying, likelightning, a symbol. Chaim Abrahms and hisfollowers make the Begin regime seem like reticent,self-effacing pacifists. He’s a sabre tolerated by theEuropeanJews because he’s a brilliant soldier, provenin two wars, and has enjoyed the respect if not theaffection of every Minister of Defense since theearly years of Golda Meir. They never know whenthey might need him in the field.”

“And this one,” said Joel, again using his lighter.“Van Headmer. South African, isn’t he? The"hangman in uniform’ or something like that.”

“Jan van Headmer, the ’slayer of Soweto,’ as theblacks call him. He executes "offenders’ withalarming frequency and

government tolerance. His family is old-lineAmkaner, all generals going back to the Boer War,and he sees no reason on earth to bring Pretoriainto the twentieth century. Incidentally, he’s a closefriend of Abrahms and makes frequent trips to TelAviv. He’s also one of the most erudite and charm-ing general officers ever to attend a diplomaticconference. His presence denies his image andreputation.”

" And Leifhelm,” said Converse, coming to thelast of the foreign names. “A mixed bag, if I’maccurate. Supposedly a great soldier who followedtoo many orders, but still respected. I’m weakest onhim.”

“Entirely understandable,” said Beale, nodding.“In some ways his is the oddest story the mostmonstrous, really, because the truth has beenconsistently covered up so as to use him and avoidembarrassment. Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm wasthe youngest general ever commissioned by AdolfHitler. He foresaw Germany’s collapse and made asudden about-face. From brutal killer and a fanaticsuper-Aryan to a contrite professional who abhorredthe Nazis’ crimes as they were ”revealed’ to him. Hefooled everyone and was absolved of all guilt; henever saw a Nuremberg courtroom. During the coldwar the Allies used his services extensively, grantinghim full security clearances, and later in the fiftieswhen the new German divisions were mounted forthe NATO forces, they made sure he was put incommand.”

“Weren’t there a couple of newspaper storiesabout him a few years ago? He had several run-inswith Helmut Schmidt, didn’t he?”

“Exactly,” agreed the scholar. “But those storieswere soft and carried only half the story. Leifhelmwas quoted as saying merely that the Germanpeople could not be expected to carry the burden ofpast guilt into future generations. It had to stop.Pride should once more be established in thenation’s heritage. There was some saber rattlingaimed at the Soviets, but nothing substantivelybeyond that.”

“What was the other half?” asked Converse.

“He wanted the Bundestag’s restrictions on thearmed forces lifted completely, and fought for theexpansion of the intelligence services, patternedafter the Abwohr, including rehabilitation sentencesfor political troublemakers. He also sought extensivedeletions in German textbooks throughout theschool systems. "Pride has to be restored,’ he keptsaying,

and everything he said was in the name of virulentanti-Communism.”

" The Third Reich’s first strategy in everythingwhen Hitler took over.”

"You’re quite right. Schmidt saw through him andknew there’d be chaos if he had his way and he wasinfluential. Bonn could not afford the specterofpainful memories. Schmidt forced Leifhelrn to resignand literally removed his voice from all governmentaffairs.”

“But he keeps speaking.”

“Not openly. However, he’s rich and retains hisfriends and contacts.”

“Among them Delavane and his people.”

“Foremost among them now.’

Joel once more snapped his lighter and scannedthe lower part of the page. There were two lists ofnames, the row on the left under the heading StateDepartment, the right under Pentagon. There wereperhaps twenty-five people in all. “Who are theAmericans?” He released the lever; the flame diedand he put the lighter back in his pocket. “Thenames don’t mean anything to me.”

“Some should, but it doesn’t matter,” said Bealeelliptically. “The point is that among those men aredisciples of George Delavane. They carry out hisorders. How many of them is difficult to say, but atleast several from each grouping. You see, these arethe men who make the decisions or conversely, donot oppose decisions without which Delavane andhis followers would be stopped in their tracks.”

“Spell that out.”

“Those on the left are key figures in the StateDepartment’s Office of Munitions Control. Theydetermine what gets cleared for export, who underthe blanket of "rational interest’ can receive weaponsand technology withheld from others. On the rightare the senior officers at the Pentagon on whoseword millions upon millions are spent for armamentprocurements. All are decision makers and anumber of those decisions have been questioned, afew openly, others quietly by diplomatic and militarycolleagues. We’ve learned that much “

“Questioned? Why?” interrupted Converse.

“There were rumors there always arerumors of large shipments improperly licensed forexport. Then there’s surplus militaryequipment excess supplies lost in transfers

from temporary warehouses and out-of-the-waystorage depots. Surplus equipment is easilyunaccounted for, it’s an embarrassment in thesedays of enormous budgets and cost overruns. Getrid of it and don’t be too particular. How fortunatein these instances and coincidental if a memberof this Aquitaine shows up, willing to buy and withall his papers in order. Whole depots andwarehouses are sent where they shouldn’t be sent.”

“A Libya connection?”

“There’s no doubt of it. A great many connections.”

“Halliday mentioned it and you said it a fewmoments ago. Laws broken arms, equipment,technological information sent to people whoshouldn’t have them. They break loose on cue andthere’s disruption, terrorism “

“Justifying military responses,” old Beale brokein. “That’s part of Delavane’s concept. Justifiableescalation of armed might, the commanders incharge, the civilians helpless, forced to listen tothem, obey them.”

“But you just said questions were raised.”

“And answered with such worn-out phrases as“national security’ and ”adversarial disinformation’ tostop or throw off the curious.”

“That’s obstruction. Can’t they be caught at it?.’

“By whom? With what?”

“Damn it, the questions themselves!” repliedConverse. “Those improper export licenses, themilitary transfers that got lost, merchandise thatcan’t be traced.”

“By people without the clearances to go aroundsecurity classifications, or lacking the expertise tounderstand the complexities of export licensing.”

“That’s nonsense,” insisted Joel. “You said someof those questions were asked by diplomaticpersonnel, military colleagues, men who certainlyhad the clearances and the expertise.”

“And who suddenly, magically, didn’t ask themany longer. Of course, many may have beenpersuaded that the questions were, indeed, beyondtheir legitimate purviews; others may have been toofrightened to penetrate for fear of involvement;others still, forced to back off frankly threatened.Regardless, behind it all there are those who do theconvincing, and they’re growing in numberseverywhere.”

“Christ, it’s a a network,” said Converse softly.

The scholar looked hard at Joel, the night light onthe

water reflecting across the old man’s pale, lined face.“Yes, Mr. Converse, a “network.’ That word waswhispered to me by a man who thought I was one ofthem. ”The network,’ he said. "The network will takecare of you.’ He meant Delavane and his people.”

“Why did they think you were a part of them?”

The old man paused. He looked briefly away atthe shimmering Aegean, then back at Converse.“Because that man thought it was logical. Thirtyyears ago I took off a uniform, trading it for theHarris tweeds and unkempt hair of a universityprofessor. Few of my colleagues could understand,for, you see, I was one of the elite, perhaps a later,American version of Erich Leifhelm a brigadiergeneral at thirty-eight, and the Joint Chiefs wereconceivably my next assignment. But where thecollapse of Berlin and the G6tterdammerung in thebunker had one effect on Leifhelm, the evacuationof Korea and the disembowelment of Panmunjomhad another effect on me. I saw only the waste, notthe cause I once saw only the futility where oncethere’d been sound reasons. I saw death, Mr.Converse, not heroic death against animalistic hordesor on a Spanish afternoon with the crowds shouting“Ore, ” but just plain death. Ugly death, shatteringdeath. And I knew I could no longer be a part ofthose strategies that called for it…. Had I beenqualified in belief, I might have become a priest.”

“But your colleagues who couldn’t understand,”said Joel, mesmerized by Beale’s words, words thatbrought back so much of his own past. “They thoughtit was something else?”

“Of course they did. I’d been praised inevaluation reports by the holy MacArthur himself. Ieven had a label: the Red Fox of Inchon my hairwas red then. My commands were marked bydecisive moves and countermoves, all reasonably wellthought out and swiftly executed. And then one day,south of Chunchon, I was given an order to takethree adjacent hills that comprised dead highground vantage points that served no strategicpurpose and I radioed back that it was useless realestate, that whatever casualties we sustained werenot worth it. I asked for clarification, a field officer’sway of saying "You’re crazy, why should I?’ The replycame in something less than fifteen minutes. Becauseit’s there, General.’ That was all. Because it’s there.’A symbolic point was to be made for someone’sbenefit or someone else’s macho news briefing inSeoul…. l took the hills, and I also

wasted the lives of over three hundred men andfor my efforts I was awarded another cluster of theDistinguished Service Cross.”

“Is that when you quit?”

“Oh, Lord no, I was too confused, but inside, myhead was boiling. The end came, and I watchedPanmunjom, and was finally sent home, all mannerof extraordinary expectations to be considered myjust rewards…. However, a minor advancement wasdenied me for a very good reason: I didn’t speak thelanguage in a sensitive European post. By then myhead had exploded; I used the rebuke and I tookmy cue. I resigned quietly and went my way.”

It was Joel’s turn to pause and study the oldman in the night light. “I’ve never heard of you,” hesaid finally. “Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

“You didn’t recognize the names on the twolower lists either, did you? “Who are theAmericans?’ you said. ”The names don’t meananything to me.’ Those were your words, Mr.Converse.”

“They weren’t young decoratedgenerals heroes in a war.”

“Oh, but several were,’) interrupted Beale swiftly,“in several wars. They had their fleeting moments inthe sun, and then they were forgotten, the momentsonly remembered by them, relived by them.Constantly.”

“That sounds like an apology for them.”

“Of course it is! You think I have no feelings forthem? For men like Chaim Abrahms, Bertholdier,even Leifhelm? We call upon these men when thebarricades are down, we extol them for acts beyondour abilities….”

“You were capable. You performed those acts.”

“You’re right and that’s why I understand them.When the barricades are rebuilt, we consign them tooblivion. Worse, we force them to watch ineptcivilians strip the gears of reason and, throughoblique vocabularies, plant the explosives that willblow those barricades apart again. Then whenthey’re down once more, we summon ourcommanders.”

“Jesus, whose side are you on?”

Beale closed his eyes tightly, reminding Joel ofthe way he used to shut his own when certainmemories came back to him. “Yours, you idiot,” saidthe scholar quietly. “Because I know what they cando when we ask them to do it. I meant what I saidbefore. There’s never been a time in history like

this one. Far better that inept, frightened civilians,still talking, still searching, than one of us forgiveme, one of them “

A gust of wind blew off the sea; the sand spiraledabout their feet. “That man,” said Converse, “the onewho told you the network would take care of you.Why did he say it?”

“He thought they could use me. He was one ofthe field commanders I knew in Korea, a kindredspirit then. He came to my island for what reasonI don’t know, perhaps a vacabon, perhaps to find me,who knows and found me on the waterfront. I wastaking my boat out of the Plati Harbor whensuddenly he appeared, tall, erect and very military inthe morning sun. "We have to talk,’ he said, with thatsame insistence we always used in the field. I askedhim aboard and we slowly made our way out of thebay. Several miles out of the Plati he presented hiscase, their case. Delavane’s case.,’

“What happened then?”

The scholar paused for precisely two seconds,then answered simply, “I killed him. With a scalingknife. Then I dropped his body over a cluster ofsharks beyond the shoals of the Stephanos.”

Stunned, Joel stared at the old man theiridescent light of the moon heightened the force ofthe macabre revelation. “Just like that?” he said in amonotone.

“It’s what I was trained to do, Mr. Converse. Iwas the Red Fox of Inchon. I never hesitated whenthe ground could be gained, or an adversarialadvantage eliminated.” -

“You killed him?”

“It was a necessary decision, not a wanton takingof life. He was a recruiter and my response was inmy eyes, in my silent outrage. He saw it, and Iunderstood. He could not permit me to live withwhat he’d told me. One of us had to die and I simplyreacted more swiftly than he did.”

“That’s pretty cold reasoning.”

“”You’re a lawyer, you deal every day withoptions. Where was the alternative?”

Joel shook his head, not in reply but inastonishment. “How did Halliday find you?”

“We found each other. We’ve never met, nevertalked, but we have a mutual friend.”

fin San Francisco?”

She’s frequently there.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s a subject we won’t discuss. I’m sorry.”

“Why not? Why the secrecy?”

“It’s the way he prefers it. Under thecircumstances, I believe it’s a logical request.”

“Logic? Find me logic in any of this! Hallidayreaches a man in San Francisco who just happens toknow you, a former general thousands of miles awayon a Greek island who just happens to have beenapproached by one of Delavane’s people. Now,that’s coincidence, but damned little logicl”

“Don’t dwell on it. Accept it.”

“Would you?”

“Under the circumstances, yes, I would. You see,there’s no alternative.”

“Sure there is. I could walk away five hundredthousand dollars richer, paid by an anonymousstranger who could only come after me by revealinghimself.”

“You could but you won’t. You were chosen verycarefully.”

“Because I could be motivated? That’s whatHalliday said.”

“Frankly, yes.”

“You’re off the wall, all of you!”

“One of us is dead. You were the last person hespoke with.”

Joel felt the rush of anger again, the sight of adying man’s eyes burned into his memory.“Aquitaine,” he said softly. “Delavane…. All right, Iwas chosen carefully. Where do I begin?”

“Where do you think you should begin? You’rethe attorney; everything must be done legally.”

“That’s just it. I’m an attorney, not the police,not a detective.”

“No police in any of the countries where thosefour men live could do what you can do, even ifthey agreed to try, which, frankly, I doubt. More tothe point, they would alert the Delavane network.”

“All right, I’ll try,” said Converse, folding thesheet with the list of names and putting it in hisinside jacket pocket. “I’ll start at the top. In Paris.With this Bertholdier.”

“Jacques-Louis Bertholdier,” added the old man,reaching down into his canvas bag and taking out athick manila envelope. “This is the last thing we cangive you. It’s everything we could learn about thosefour men; perhaps it can

help you. Their addresses, the cars they drive,business associates, cafes and restaurants theyfrequent, sexual preferences where they constitutevulnerability . . . anything that could give you anedge. Use it, use everything you can. Just bring usback briefs against men who have compromisedthemselves, broken laws above all, evidence thatshows they are not the solid, respectable citizenstheir life-styles would indicate. Embarrassment, Mr.Converse, embarrassment. It leads to ridicule, andPreston Halliday was profoundly right about that.Ridicule is the first step.”

Joel started to reply, to agree, then stopped, hiseyes riveted on Beale. "I never told you Hallidaysaid anything about ridicule.”

“Oh?” The scholar blinked several times in thedim light, momentarily unsure of himself, caught bysurprise. “But, naturally, we discussed “

“You never met, you never talked l” Converse brokein.

” through our mutual friend the strategies wemight employ,” said the old man, his eyes nowsteady. "The aspect of ridicule is a keystone. Ofcourse we discussed it.”

“You just hesitated.”

“You startled me with a meaningless statement.My reactions are not what they once were.”

“They were pretty good in a boat beyond theStephanos, " corrected Joel.

“An entirely different situation, Mr. Converse.Only one of us could leave that boat. Both of us willleave this beach tonight.”

“All right, I may be reaching. You would be, too,if you were me.” Converse withdrew a pack ofcigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one upnervously to his lips and took out his lighter. “A manI knew as a kid under one name approaches meyears later calling himself something else.” Joelsnapped his lighter and held the flame under thecigarette, inhaling. “ He tells a wild story that’s justcredible enough so I can’t dismiss it. The believableaspect is a maniac named Delavane. He says I canhelp stop him stop them and there’s a great dealof money for nodding my head provided by a manin San Francisco who won’t say who he is, expeditedby a former general on a fashionably remote islandin the Aegean. And for his efforts, this man I knewunder two names is murdered in daylight, shot adozen times in an elevator, dying in my armswhispering the name ”Aquitaine.’. And then this

other man, this ex-soldier, this doctor, this scholar,tells me another story that ends with a "recruiter’from Delavane killed with a scaling knife, his bodythrown overboard into a school of sharks beyondthe Stephanos whatever that is.”

“The Aghios Stephanos,” said the old man. “Alovely beach, far more popular than this one.”

“Goddamn it, I am reaching, Mr. Beale, orProfessor Beale, or General Beale! It’s too much toabsorb in two lousy daysl Suddenly I don’t havemuch confidence. I feel way beyond my depth let’sface it, overwhelmed and underqualified . . . anddamned frightened.”

“Then don’t overcomplicate things,” said Beale.“I used to say that to students of mine more oftenthan I can remember. I would suggest they not lookat the totality that faced them, but rather at eachthread of progression, following each until it metand entwined with another thread, and then an-other, and if a pattern did not become clear, it wasnot their failure but mine. One step at a time, Mr.Converse.”

“You’re one hell of a Mr. Chips. I would havedropped the course.”

“I’m not saying it well. I used to say it better.When you teach history, threads are terriblyimportant.”

“When you practice law, they’re everything.”

“Go after the threads, then, one at a time. I’mcertainly no lawyer, but can’t you approach this asan attorney whose client is under attack by forcesthat would violate his rights cripple his manner ofliving, deny his pursuit of peaceful existence inessence, destroy him?”

“Not likely,” repliedJoel. “I’ve got a client whowon’t talk to me, won’t see me, won’t even tell mewho he is.”

“That’s not the client I had in mind.”

“Who else? It’s his money.”

“He’s only a link to your real client. "

“Who’s that?”

“What’s left of the civilized world, perhaps.”

Joel studied the old scholar in the shimmeringlight. “Did you just say something about not lookingat totalities but at threads? You scare the hell outof me.”

Beale smiled. “I could accuse you of misplacedconcretion, but I won’t.”

“That’s an antiquated phrase. If you meanout-of-context say it, and I’ll deny it. You’resecurely in well-placed contradiction, Professor.”

“Good heavens, you were chosen carefully. Youwon’t even let an old man get away with an academicbromide.”

Converse smiled back. “You’re a likable fellow,General or Doctor. I d hate to have met you acrossa table if you’d taken up law.”

“That could truly be misplaced confidence,” saidEdward Beale, his smile gone. “You’re only about tobegin.”

“But now I know what to look for. One thread ata time until the threads meet and entwine, and thepattern’s there for everyone to see. I’ll concentrateon export licenses, and whoever’s shuffling thecontrols, then connect three or four names with eachother and trace them back to Delavane in Palo Alto.At which point we blow it apart legally. No martyrs,no causes, no military men of destiny crucified bytraitors, just plain bloated, ugly profiteers who’veprofessed to be super patriots, when all the whilethey were lining their unpatriotic pockets. Why elsewould they have done it? Is there another reason ?That’s ridicule, Dr. Beale. Because they can "tanswer. “

The old man shook his head, looking bewildered.“The professor becomes a student,” he saidhesitantly. “How can you do this?”

“The way I’ve done it dozens of times incorporate negotiaffons. Only, I’ll take it a stepfurther. In those sessions I’m like any other lawyer.I try to figure out what the fellow across the table isgoing to ask for and then why he wants it. Not justwhat my side wants, but what he wants. What’s goingthrough his mind? You see, Doctor, I’m trying tothink like him; I’m putting myself in his place, neverfor a second letting him forget that I’m doing justthat. It’s very unnerving, like making notes onmargins whenever your opponent says anything,whether he’s saying anything or not. But this time it’sgoing to be different. I’m not looking for opponents.I’m looking for allies. In a cause, their cause. I’ll startin Paris, then on to Bonn, or Tel Aviv, then probablyJohannesburg. Only, when I reach these men I won’ttry to think like them, I’m going to be one of them.”

“That’s a very bold strategy. I compliment you.”

"talking of options, it’s the only one open. Also,I’ve got a lot of money I can spread around, notlavishly but effectively, as befits my unnamed client.Very unnamed, very much in the background, butalways there.” Joel stopped, a thought striking him.“You know, Dr. Beale, I take it back. I don’t want

to know who my client is the one in SanFrancisco, I mean. I’m going to create my own, andIcnowing him might distort the portrait I’ve got inmind. Incidentally, tell him he’ll get a fullaccounting of my expenses: the rest will be returnedto him the same way I got it. Through your friendLaskaris at the bank here on Mykonos.”

“But you’ve accepted the money,” objectedBeale. “There’s no reason “

“I wanted to know if it was real. If he was real.He is, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’llneed a great deal of money because I’m going tohave to become someone I’m not and money is themost convincing way to do it. No, Doctor I don’twant your friend’s money, I want Delavane. I wantthe warlord of Saigon. But I’ll use his money, just asI’m using him the way I want him to be. To getinside that network.”

“If Paris is your first stop and Bertholdier isgoing to be your initial contact, there’s a specificmunitions transfer we think is directly related tohim. It might be worth a try. If we’re right, it’s amicrocosm of what they intend doing everywhere.”

“”Is it in here?” asked Converse, tapping themanila envelope containing the dossiers.

“No, it came to light only this morning earlythis morning. I don’t imagine you listened to thenews broadcasts.”

“I don’t speak any language but English. If Iheard a news program I wouldn’t know it. Whathappened?”

“All Northern Ireland is on fire, the worst riotsthe most savage killing in fifteen years. In Belfastand Ballyciare, Dromore and in the MourneMountains, outraged vigilantes on both sides areroaming the streets and the hills, firing indis-criminately, slaughtering in their anger everythingthat moves. It’s utter chaos. The Ulster governmentis in panic, the parliament tied down, emotionallydisrupted, everyone trying to find a solution. Thatsolution will be a massive infusion of troops andtheir commanders.”

“What’s it got to do with Bertholdier?”

“Listen to me carefully,” said the scholar, takinga step forward. “Eight days ago a munitionsshipment containing three hundred cases of clusterbombs and two thousand cartons of explosives wasair-freighted out of Beloit, Wisconsin. Itsdestination was Tel Aviv by way of Montreal, Paris,and Marseilles. It never arrived, and an Israeli traceemploying the Mossad showed that only thecargo’s paperwork reached

Marseilles, nothing else. The shipment disappearedin either Montreal or Paris, and we’re convinced itwas diverted to provisional extremists again onboth sides in Northern Ireland.”

“Why do you think so?”

The first casualties over three hundred men,women, and children were killed or severelywounded, ripped to shreds by cluster bombs. It’s nota pleasant way to die, but perhaps worse to behurt the bombs tear away whole sections of thebody. The reactions have been fierce and thehysteria’s spreading. Ulster’s out of control, thegovernment paralysed. All in the space of one day,one single day, Mr. Converse!”

" They’re proving to themselves they can do it,”said Joel quietly, the fear in his throat.

Precisely,’ agreed Beale. it’s a test case, amicrocosm of the full-scale horror they can bringabout.”

Converse frowned. “Outside of the fact thatBertholdier lives in Paris, what ties him to theshipment?”

“Once the plane crossed into France, the Frenchinsurers were a firm in which Bertholdier is adirector. Who would be less suspect than a companythat had to pay for the loss a company,incidentally, that has access to the merchandise itcovers? The loss was upward of four million francs,not so immense as to create headlines, but entirelysufficient to throw off suspicion. And one morelethal delivery is made mutilation, death, andchaos to follow.”

“What’s the name of the insurance company?”

“Compagnie Solidaire. It would be one of theoperative words, I’d think. Solidaire, and perhapsBeloit and Belfast.”

“Let’s hope I get to confront Bertholdier withthem. But if I do, I’ve got to say them at the righttime. I’ll catch the plane from Athens in themorning.”

“Take the urgent good wishes of an old man withyou, Mr. Converse. And urgent is the appropriateword. Three to five weeks, that’s all you’ve gotbefore everything blows apart. Whatever it is,wherever it is, it will be Northern Ireland tenthousand times more violent. It’s real and it’scoming.”

Valerie Charpentier woke up suddenly, her eyeswide, her face rigid, listening intently for sounds thatmight break the dark silence around her and theslap of the waves in the distance. Any second sheexpected to hear the shattering bell

of the alarm system that was wired into everywindow and door of the house.

It did not come, yet there had been othersounds, intrusions on her sleep, penetrating enoughto wake her. She pulled the covers back and got outof bed, walking slowly, apprehensively, to the glassdoors that opened onto her balcony whichoverlooked the rocky beach, the jetty, and theAtlantic Ocean beyond.

There it was again. The bobbing, dim lights wereunmistakably the same, washing over the boat thatwas moored exactly where it had been mooredbefore. It was the sloop that for two days hadcruised up and down the coastline, always in sight,with no apparent destination other than this particu-lar stretch of the Massachusetts shore. At twilighton the second evening it had dropped anchor nomore than a quarter of a mile out in the water infront of her house. It was back. After three days ithad returned.

Three nights ago she had called the police, whoin turn reached the Cape Ann Coast Guard patrols,who came back With an explanation that was nomore lucid than it was satisfactory. The sloop was aMaryland registry, the owner an officer in theUnited States Army, and there were no provocativeor suspicious movements that warranted any officialaction.

“I’d call it damned provocative and suspicious,”Val had said firmly. “When a strange boat sails upand down the same stretch of beach for two days ina row, then parks in front of my house withinshouting distance shouting distance beingswimming distance.”

“The water rights of the property you leaseddon’t extend beyond two hundred feet, ma’am” hadbeen the official reply. “There’s nothing we can do.”

At the first light of the next morning, however,Valerie knew that something had to be done. Shehad focused her binoculars on the boat, only to gaspand move back away from the glass doors. Two menhad been standing on the deck of the sloop, theirown binoculars far more powerful thanhers directed at the house, at the bedroomupstairs. At her.

A neighbor down the beachside cul-de-sac hadrecently installed an alarm system. She was adivorced woman too, but with a hostile ex-husbandand three children; she needed the alarm. Twophone calls and Val was speaking to the owner ofWatchguard Security. A temporary system had been

hooked up that day while a permanent installationwas being designed.

A bell not shatteringly loud but soft and gentle.It was the quiet clanging of a ship’s bell out on thedark water, its clapper swinging with the waves. Itwas the sound that had awakened her, and she feltrelieved yet strangely disturbed. Men out on thewater at night who intended harm did not announcetheir presence. On the other hand, those same menhad come back to her house, the boat being onlyseveral hundred yards offshore. They had returnedin the darkness, the moon blocked by a sky thickwith clouds, no moonlight to guide them. It was asif they wanted her to know they were there and theywere watching. They were waiting.

For what? What was happening to her? A weekago her phone had gone dead for seven hours, andwhen she had called the telephone company fromher friend’s house, supervisor in the servicedepartment told her he could find no malfunctions.The line was operative.

“Maybe for you, but not for me, and you’re notpaying the bills.”

She had returned home; the line was still dead.A second, far angrier phone call brought the sameresponse. No malfunctions. Then two hours later thedial tone was inexplicably there, the phone working.She had put the episode down to the rural telephonecomplex having less than the best equipment. Shedid not know what explanation there could be forthe sloop now eerily bobbing in the water in front ofher house.

Suddenly, in the boat’s dim light, she could see afigure crawl out of the cabin. For a moment or twoit was hidden in the shadows, then there was a briefflare of intense light. A match. A cigarette. A manwas standing motionless on the deck smoking acigarette. He was facing her house, as if studying it.Waiting.

Val shivered as she dragged a heavy chair infront of the balcony door but not too close, awayfrom the glass. She pulled the light blanket off thebed and sat down, wrapping it around her, staringout at the water, at the boat, at the man. She knewthat if that man or that boat made the slightest movetoward shore she would press the buttons she hadbeen instructed to press in the event of anemergency. When activated, the huge circular alarmbells both inside and outside would beear-piercing, erupting in concert, drowning

out the sound of the surf and the waves crashing onthe jetty. They could be heard thousands of feetaway the only sound on the beach, frightening,overwhelming. She wondered if she would causethem to be heard tonight this morning.

She would not panic. Joel had taught her not topanic, even when she thought a well-timed screamwas called for on the dark streets of Manhattan.Every now and then the inevitable had happened.They had been confronted by drug addicts or punksand Joel would remain calm icily calm movingthem both back against a wall and offering a cheap,spare wallet he kept in his hip pocket with a fewbills in it. God, he was icelMaybe that was why noone had ever actually assaulted them, not knowingwhat was behind that cold, brooding look.

“I should have screamed!” she once had cried.

“No,” he had said. “Then you would havefrightened him, panicked him. That’s when thosebastards can be lethal.”

Was the man on the boat lethal were the menon the boat deadly? Or were they simply novicesailors hugging the coastline, practicing tacks,anchoring near the shore for their ownprotection curious, perhaps concerned, that theproperty owners might object? An Army officer wasnot likely to be able to afford a captain for hissloop, and there were marinas only miles away northand south marinas without available berths butwith men who could handle repairs.

Was the man out on the boat smoking acigarette merely a landlocked young officer gettinghis sailing legs, comfortable with a familiar anchoraway from deep water? It was possible, ofcourse anything was possible_and summer nightsheld a special kind of loneliness that gave rise tostrange imaginings. One walked the beach alone andthought too much.

Joel would laugh at her and say it was all thosedemons racing around her artist’s head in search oflogic. And he would undoubtedly be right. The menout on the boat were probably more up-tight thanshe was. In a way they were trespassers who hadfound a haven in sight of hostile natives; one inquiryof the Coast Guard proved it. And that clearance,as it were, was another reason why they hadreturned to the place where, if not welcome, at leastthey were not harassed. If Joel were with her, sheknew exactly what he would do. He would go downto the beach and shout across the water to theirtemporary neighbors and ask them to come in for adrink.

DearJoel, foolish Joel, ice-coldJoeL There weretimes you were comforting when you werecomfortable. And amusing, so terribly amusing evenwhen you weren’t comfortable. In some ways I missyou, darling. But not enough, thank you.

And yet why did the feeling the instinct, per-haps persist? The small boat out on the water waslike a magnet, pulling her toward it, drawing her intoits field, taking her where she knew she did not wantto go.

Nonsense! Demons in search of logic! She wasbeing foolish foolish Joel, ice-coldJoel stop it, forCod’s sake! Be reasonable!

Then the shiver passed through her again. Novicesailors did not navigate around strange coastlines atnight.

The magnet held her until her eyes grew heavyand troubled sleep came.

She woke up again, startled by the intensesunlight streaming through the glass doors, itswarmth enveloping her. She looked out at the water.The boat was gone and she wondered for amoment whether it had really been there.

Yes, it had. But it was gone.

The 747 lifted off the runway at Athens’ HelikonAirport, soaring to the left in its rapid ascent. Belowin clear view, adjacent to the huge field, was the U.S.Naval Air Station, permitted by treaty althoughreduced in size and in the number of aircraft duringthe past several years. Nevertheless, far-reaching,jet-streamed American craft still roamed theMediterranean, lonian and Aegean seas, courtesy ofa resentful yet nervous government all too aware ofother eyes to the north. Staring out the window,Converse recognized the shapes of familiarequipment on the ground. There were two rows ofPhantom F-4T’s and A-6E’s on opposite sides of thedual strip updated versions of the F-4G’s andA-6A’s he had flown years ago.

It was so easy to slip back, thought Joel, as hewatched three Phantoms break away from theground formation; they

would head for the top of the runway, and anotherpatrol would be in the skies. Converse could feel hishands tense, in his mind he was manipulating thethick, perforated shaft, reaching for switches, hiseyes roaming the dials, looking for right and wrongsignals. Then the power would come, the surgingforce of pressurised tons beside him, behind him,himself encased in the center of a sleek, shiningbeast straining to break away and soar into itsnatural habitat. Final check all in order; cleared fortakeout: Release the power of the beast, let it free.RolU Faster, faster; the ground is a blur, the carrierdeck a mass of passing “ray, blue sea beyond, blue skyabove. Let it free! Let me free!

He wondered if he could still do it, if the lessonsand the training of boy and man skill held. After theNavy during the academic years in Massachusettsand North Caroiina, he had frequently gone to smallairfields and taken up single-engined aircraft just toget away from the pressures, to find a few minutesof blue freedom, but there were no challenges, notaming of all-powerful beasts. Later still, it had allstopped for a long, long time. There were noairfields to visit on weekends, no playing aroundwith trim company planes; he had given his promise.His wife had been terrified of his flying. Valeriecould not reconcile the hours he had flown civilianand in combat with her own evaluation of theaverages. And in one of the few gestures ofunderstanding in his marriage, he had given hisword not to climb into a cockpit. It had notbothered him until he knew they knew themarriage had gone sour at which point he hadbegun driving out to a field called Teterboro in NewJersey every chance he could find and flownwhatever was available, anytime, any hour. Still,even then especially then there had been nochallenges, no beasts other than himself.

The ground below disappeared as the 747stabilized and began the climb to its assignedaltitude. Converse turned away from the windowand settled back in his seat. The lights were abruptlyextinguished on the NO SMOKING sign, and Joeltook out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.Extracting one, he snapped his lighter, and thesmoke diffused instantly in the rush of air from thevents above. He looked at his watch it was 12:20.They were due at Orly Airport at 3:35, French time.Allowing for the zones, it was a three-hour flight,and during those three hours he would commit tomemory everything he could about GeneralJacques-Louis Bertholdier if

Beale and the dead Halliday were right, the arm ofAquitaine in Paris.

At Helikon he had done something he had neverdone before, something that had never occurred tohirn, an indulgence that was generally attributed toromantic fiction or movie stars or rock idols. Fearand caution had joined with an excess of money, andhe had paid for two adjoining seats in first class. Hewanted no one’s eyes straying to the pages he wouldbe reading. Old Beale had made it frighteninglyclear on the beach last night: if there was theremotest possibility that the materials he carriedmight fall into other hands

ny other hands he was to destroy them at allcosts. For they were in-depth dossiers on men whocould order multiple executions by placing a singlephone call.

He reached down for his attache case, theleather handle still dark from the sweat of his gripsince Mykonos early that morning. For the first timehe understood the value of a device he had learnedabout from films and novels. Had he been able tochain the handle of his attache case to his wrist, hewould have breathed far more comfortably.

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier, age fifty-nine, onlychild of Alphonse and Marie-Therese Bertholdier,was born at the military hospital in Dakar. Father acareer officer in the French Army, reputedly auto-cratic and a harsh disciplinarian. Little is knownabout the mother; it is perhaps significant thatBertholdier never speaks of her, as if dismissing herexistence. He retired from the Army four years agoat the age of fifty-five, and is now a director ofJuneau et Cie., a conservative firm on the Boursedes Valeurs, Paris’s stock exchange.

The early years appear to be typical of the life ofa commanding officer’s son, moving from post topost, accorded the privileges of the father’s rank andinfluence. He was used to servants and fawning mili-tary personnel. If there was a difference from otherofficers’ sons, it was in the boy himself. It is said thathe could execute the full-dress manual-of-arms bythe time he was five and at ten could recite by rotethe entire book of regulations.

In 1938 the Bertholdiers were back in Paris, thefather a member of the General Staff. This was acha

otictime, as the war with Germany was imminent.The elder Bertholdier was one of the fewcommanders aware that the Maginot could nothold; his outspokenness so infuriated his fellowofficers that he was transferred to the field,commanding the Fourth Army, stationed along thenortheastern border.

The war came and the father was killed in thefifth week of combat. Young Bertholdier was thensixteen years old and going to school in Paris.

The fall of France in June of 1940 could becalled the beginning of our subject’s adulthood.Joining the Resistance first as a courier, he foughtfor four years, rising in the underground’s ranksuntil he commanded the Calais-Paris sector. Hemade frequent undercover trips to England tocoordinate espionage and sabotage operations withthe Free French and British intelligence. InFebruary of 1944, De Gaulle conferred on him thetemporary rank of major. He was twenty years ofage.

Several days prior to the Allied occupation ofParis, Bertholdier was severely wounded in a streetskirmish between the Resistance fighters and the re-treating German troops. Hospitalizaffon relievedhim of further activity for the remainder of theEuropean war. Following the surrender he wasappointed to the national military academy atSaint-Cyr, a compensation deemed proper by DeGaulle for the young hero of the underground.Upon graduation he was elevated to the permanentrank of captain. He was twenty-four and givensuccessive commands in the Dra Hamada, FrenchMorocco; Algiers; then across the world to thegarrisons at Haiphong, and finally the Allied sectorsin Vienna and West Berlin. (Note this last post withrespect to the following informaffon on FieldMarshal Erich Leifhelm. It was where they first metand were friends, at first openly but subsequentlythey denied the relationship after both had resignedfrom military service.)

Putting Erich Leifhelm aside for the moment,Converse thought about the young legend thatwas Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. Though Joel wasas unmilitary as any civilian could be, in an oddway he could identify with the military

phenomenon described in these pages. Although nohero, he had been accorded a hero’s return from awar in which very few were so acclaimed, thesegenerally coming from the ranks of those who hadendured capture more than they had fought.Nevertheless, the attention the sheerattention that led to privileges was a dangerousindulgence. Although initially embarrassed, onecame to accept it all, and then to expect it all. Therecognition could be heady, the privileges soon takenfor granted. And when the attention began todwindle away, a certain anger came into play; onewanted it all back.

These were the feelings of someone with nohunger for authority success, yes; power, no. Butwhat of a man whose whole being was shaped by thefabric of authority and power, whose earliestmemories were of privilege and rank, and whosemeteoric rise came at an incredibly young age? Howdoes such a man react to recognition and theever-increasing spectrum of his own ascendancy?One did not lightly take away much from such aman; his anger could turn into fury. Yet Bertholdierhad walked away from it all at fifty-five, a reasonablyyoung age for one so prominent. It was notconsistent. Something was missing from the portraitof this latter-day Alexander. At least so far.

Timing played a major part in Bertholdier’s ex-panding reputation. After posts in the Dra Hamadaand pre-crisis Algiers, he was transferred to FrenchIndochina, where the situation was deterioratingrapidly for the colonial forces, then engaged in vio-lent guerrilla warfare. His exploits in the field wereinstantly the talk of Saigon and Paris. The troopsunder his command provided several rare but muchneeded victories, which although incapable of alter-ing the course of the war convinced the hard-linemilitarists that the inferior Asian forces could be de-feated by superior Gallic courage and strategy; theyneeded only the materials withheld by Paris. Thesurrender at Dienbienphu was bitter medicine forthose men who claimed that traitors in the Quaid’Orsay had brought about France s humiliation. Al-though Colonel Bertholdier emerged from the defeatas one of the few heroic figures, he was wise enoughor cautious enough to keep his own counsel and didnot, at least in appearance, join the “hawks.”

Many say that he was waiting a signal thatnever came. Again he was transferred, servingtours in Vienna and West Berlin.

Four years later, however, he broke themaid he had so carefully constructed. In hisown words, he was "infuriated and disillusioned”by De Gaulle’s accords with theindependence-seeking Algerians; he fled to theland of his birth, North Africa, and joinedGeneral Raoul Salan’s rebellious OAS, whichviolently opposed policies it termed betrayals.During this revolutionary interim of his life hewas implicated in an assassination attempt onDe Gaulle. With Salan’s capture in April of 1962, and the insurrechonists’ collapse, onceagain Bertholdier emerged from defeatstunningly intact. In what can only be describedas an extraordinary move and one that hasnever really been understood De Gaulle hadBertholdier released from prison and broughtto the Elysee. What was said between the twomen has never been revealed, but Bertholdierwas returned to his rank. De Gaulle’s onlycomment of record was given during a pressconference on May 4, 1962. In reply to aquestion regarding the reinstated rebel officer,he said (verbahm translahon): “A great sol-dier-patriot must be permitted and forgiven asingle misguided interlude. We have conferred.We are satisfied.” He said no more on thesubject.

For seven years Bertholdier was stationed atvarious influential posts, rising to the rank ofgeneral; more often than not he was the chiefmilitary charge d’affaires at major embassiesduring the period of France’s parhcipahon inthe Military Committee of NATO. He wasfrequently recalled to the Quai d’Orsay,accompanying De Gaulle to internationalconferences, always visible in newspaper photo-graphs, usually within several feet of the greatman himself. Oddly enough, although hiscontributions appear to have been considerable,after these conferences or summits he wasinvariably sent back to his previous stationwhile internal debates continued and decisionswere reached without him. It was as though hewas constantly being groomed but neversummoned for the critical post. Was thatultimate

summons the signal he had been waiting for sevenyears before at Dienbienphu? It is a question forwhich we have no answer here, but we believe it’svital to pursue it.

With De Gaulle’s dramatic resignation after therejection of his demands for constitutional reform in 1969, Bertholdier’s career went into an eclipse. Hisassignments were far from the canters of power andremained so until his resignation. Research intobank and credit-card references as well as passengermanifests shows that during the past eighteenmonths our subject made trips to the following:London, 3; New York, 2; San Francisco, 2; Bonn, 3;Johannesburg, 1; Tel Aviv, 1 (combined withJohannesburg). The pattern is clear. It is compatiblewith the rising geographical pressure points ofGeneral Delavane’s operation.

Converse rubbed his eyes and rang for a drink.While waiting for the Scotch he scanned the nextfew paragraphs, his memory of the man now jogged;the information was familiar history and not terriblyrelevant. Bertholdier’s name had been put forwardby several ultraconservative factions, hoping to pullhim out of the military into the political wars butnothing had come of the attempts. The ultimatesummons had passed him by; it never came.Currently, as a director of a large firm on the Parisstock exchange, he is basically a figurehead capableof impressing the wealthy and keeping thesocialistically inclined at bay by the sheer weight ofhis own legend.

He travels everywhere in a company limousine(read: staff car), and wherever he goes his arrival isexpected, the proper welcome arranged. The vehicleis a dark-blue American Lincoln Continental, Li-cense Plate 100-1. The restaurants he frequents are:Taillevent, the Ritz, Julien, and Lucas-Carton. Forlunches, however, he consistently goes to a privateclub called L’Etalon Blanc three to four times aweek. It is a very-off-the-track establishment whosemembership is restricted to the highest-ranking mili-tary, what’s left of the rich nobility, and wealthy

fawners who, if they can’t be either, put theirmoney on both so as to be in with the crowd.

Joel smiled; the editor of the report was notwithout humor. Still, something was missing. Hislawyer’s mind looked for the lapse that was notexplained. What was the signal Bertholdier had notbeen given at Dienbienphu? What had theimperious De Gaulle said to the rebellious officer,and what had the rebel said to the great man? Whywas he consistently accommodated but onlyaccommodated never summoned to power? AnAlexander had been primed, forgiven elevated, thendropped? There was a message buried in thesepages, but Joel could not find it.

Converse reached what the writer of the reportconsidered relevant only in that it completed theportrait, adding little, however, to previousinformation.

Bertholdier’s private life appears barely perti-nent to the activities that concern us. His marriagewas one of convenience in the purest La Rochefou-cauld sense: it was socially, professionally and finan-cially beneficial for both parties. Moreover, it ap-pears to have been solely a business arrangement.There have been no children, and although Mme.Bertholdier appears frequently at her husband’sside for state and social occasions, they have rarelybeen observed in close conversation. Also, as withhis mother, Bertholdier has never been known todiscuss his wife. There might be a psychologicalconnection here, but we find no evidence to supportit. Especially since Bertholdier is a notoriouswomaniser, supporting at times as many as threeseparate mistresses as well as numerous peripheralassignations. Among his peers there is a sobriquetthat has never found its way into print: La GrandMachin, and if the reader here needs a translation,we recommend drinks in Montparnasse.

On that compelling note the report was finished.It was a dossier that raised more questions than itanswered. In broad strokes it described the whetsand the bows but few of the whys; these wereburied, and only imaginative speculation couldunearth even the probabilities. But there were

enough concrete facts to operate on. Joel glanced athis watch; an hour had passed. He had two more toreread, think, and absorb as much as possible. Hehad already made up his mind about whom he wouldcontact in Paris.

Not only was Rene Mattilon an astute lawyerfrequently called upon by Talbot, Brooks and Simonwhen they needed representation in the Frenchcourts, but he was also a friend. Although he wasolder than Joel by a decade, their friendship wasrooted in a common experience, common in thesense of global geography, futility and waste. Thirtyyears ago Mattilon was a young attorney in histwenties conscripted by his government and sent toFrench Indochina as a legal officer. He witnessed theinevitable and could never understand why it cost somuch for his proud, intractable-nation to perceive it.Too, he could be scathing in his comments about thesubsequent American involvement.

“Mon Dieu! You thought you could do with armswhat we could not do with arms and brains?Deraisonnable!”

It had become standard that whenever Mattilonflew to New York or Joel to Paris they found timefor dinner and drinks. Also, the Frenchman wasamazingly tolerant of Converse’s linguisticlimitations; Joel simply could not learn anotherlanguage. Even Val’s patient tutoring had fallen ondeaf and dead ears and an unreceptive brain. Forfour years his ex-wife, whose father was French andwhose mother was German, tried to teach him thesimplest phrases but found him hopeless.

“How the hell can you call yourself aninternational lawyer when you can’t be understoodbeyond Sandy Hook?” she had asked.

“Hire interpreters trained by Swiss banks and putthem on a point system,” he had replied. “They won’tmiss a trick.”

Whenever he came to Paris, he stayed in a suiteof two rooms at the opulent George V Hotel, anindulgence permitted by Talbot, Brooks and Simon,he had assumed, more to impress clients than tosatisfy a balance sheet. The assumption was only halfright, as Nathan Simon had made clear.

“You have a fancy sitting room,” Nate had toldhim in his sepulchral voice. "Use it for conferencesand you can avoid those ridiculously expensiveFrench lunches and God forbid the dinners.”

“Suppose they want to eat?”

“You have another appointment. Wink and sayit’s personal; no one in Paris will argue.”

The impressive address could serve him now,mused Converse, as the taxi weaved maniacallythrough the midafternoon traffic on theChamps-Elysees toward the Avenue George V. Ifhe made any progress and he intended to makeprogress with men around Bertholdier orBertholdier himself, the expensive hotel would fitthe image of an unknown client who had sent hispersonal attorney on a very confidential search. Ofcourse, he had no reservation, an oversight to beblamed on a substituting secretary.

He was greeted warmly by the assistantmanager, albeit with surprise and finally apologies.No telexed request for reservations had come fromTalbot, Brooks and Simon in New York, butnaturally, accommodations would be found for anold friend. They were; the standard two-room suiteon the second floor, and before Joel could unpack,a steward brought a bottle of the Scotch whisky hepreferred, substituting it for the existing brand onthe dry bar. He had forgotten the accuracy of thecopious notes such hotels kept on repeating guests.Second floor, the right whisky, and no doubt duringthe evening he would be reminded that he usuallyrequested a wake-up call for seven o’clock in themorning. It would be the same.

But it was close to five o’clock in the afternoonnow. If he was going to reach Mattilon before thelawyer left his of lice for the day, he had to do soquickly. If Rene could have drinks with him, itwould be a start. Either Mattilon was his man or hewas not, and the thought of losing even an hour ofany kind of progress was disturbing. He reached forthe Paris directory on a shelf beneath the phone onthe bedside table, he looked up the firm’s numberand dialed.

“Good Christ, Joel!” exclaimed the Frenchman.“I read about that terrible business in Geneva! Itwas in the morning papers and I tried to callyou Le Richemond, of course but they said you’dchecked out. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I was just there, that’s all.”

“He was American. Did you know him?”

“Only across a table. By the way, that crap abouthis having something to do with narcotics was justthat. Crap. He was cornered, robbed, shot and setup for postmortem confusion.”

“And an overzealous official leaped at theobvious, trying to protect his city’s image. I know; itwas made clear…. It’s all so horrible. Crime, killing,terrorism; it spreads everywhere. Less so here inParis, thank God.”

“You don’t need muggers, the taxi drivers morethan fill the bill. Except nastier, maybe.”

“You are, as always, impossible, my friend! Whencan we get together?”

Converse paused. “I was hoping tonight. Afteryou left the office.”

“It’s very short notice, mon ami. I wish you hadcalled before.”

“I just got in ten minutes ago.”

“But you left Geneva “

“I had business in Athens,” interrupted Joel.

“Ah, yes, the money flees from the Greeks thesedays. Precipitously, I think. Just as it was here.”

“How about drinks, Rene. It’s important.”

It was blattilon’s turn to pause; it was obvious hehad caught the trace of urgency in Converse’sbrevity, in his voice. “Of course,” said theF’renchman. “You’re at the George Cinq, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Say, forty-fiveminutes.”

“Thanks very much. I’ll get a couple of chairs in thegal

. ..

ery.

“I’ll find you.”

That area of the immense marble-arched lobbyoutside the tinted glass doors of the George V bar isknown informally as the “gallery” by habitues, itsname derived from the fact that there is an artgallery narrowly enclosed within a corridor of clearglass on the left. However, just as reasonably, thename fits the luxurious room itself. The deeplycushioned cut-velvet chairs, settees, and polishedlow, dark tables that line the marble walls arebeneath works of art mammoth tapestries fromlong-forgotten chateaux and huge heroic canvases byartists, both old and new. And the smooth stone ofthe floor is covered with giant Oriental rugs, whileaffixed to the high ceiling are a series of intricatechandeliers, throwing soft light through filigrees oflacelike gold.

Quiet conversations take place between men andwomen of wealth and power at these upholsteredenclaves, in calcu

lated shadows under spotlit paintings and wovencloth from centuries ago. Frequently they areopening dialogues, testing questions that as often asnot are resolved in boardrooms peopled bychairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides oflawyers. The movers and the shakers feelcomfortable with the initial informality theuncommitted explorations of first meetings in thisvery formal room. The ceremonial environssomehow lend an air of ritualised disbelief; denialsare not hard to come by later. The gallery also livesup to the implications of its name: within thefraternity of those who have achieved success on theinternational scene, it is said that if any of itsmembers spend a certain length of time there,sooner or later he will run into almost everyone heknows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen,he should go somewhere else.

The room was filling up, and waiters movedaway from the raucous bar to take orders at thetables, knowing where the real money was. Conversefound two chairs at the far end, where the dim lightwas even more subdued. He looked at his watch andwas barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passedsince his call to Rene, a shower taking up the timeas it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of hisall-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettesand lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from analert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to theroom.

Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilonwalked energetically out of the harsh glare of thestreet lobby into the soft light of the gallery. Hestopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. Hestarted down the canter of the carpeted floor, hiseyes levered at Joel from a distance, a broad,genuine smile on his face. Rene Mattilon was in hismid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook,was that of a younger man. There was about himthat aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; hisconfidence was apparent because it was the essenceof his success, yet it was born of diligence, notmerely ego and performance. He was the secureactor comfortable in his role his graying hair andblunt, masculine features all part of a caiculatedeffect. Beyond that appearance, however, there wasalso something else, thought Joel, as he rose fromhis chair. Rene was a thoroughly decent man; it wasa disarming conclusion. God knew they both hadtheir flaws, but they were both decent men; perhapsthat was why they enjoyed each other’s company.

A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. TheFrenchman sat down across from Converse as Joelsignaled an attentive waiter. “Order in French, "Joelsaid. “I’d end up getting you a hot fudge sundae.”

“This man speaks better English than either of us.Campari and ice, please.”

“Merci, monsieur. ” The waiter left.

“Thanks again for coming over,” said Converse. “Imean it. "

“I’m sure you do…. You look well, Joel, tired butwell. That shocking business in Geneva must giveyou nightmares.”

“Not really. I told you, I was simply there.”

“Still, it might have been you. The newspaperssaid he died while you held his head.”

“I was the first one to reach him.”

“How horrible.”

“I’ve seen it happen before, Rene,” said Conversequietly, no comment in his voice.

“Yes, of course. You were better prepared thanmost, I imagine.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever prepared…. But it’sover. How about you? How are things?”

Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged,weather-beaten features into a sudden look ofexasperation. “France is madness, of course, but wesurvive. For months and months now, there are moreplans than are stored in an architect’s library, but theplanners keep colliding with each other ingovernment hallways. The courts are full, businessthrives.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The waiter returned withthe Campari; both men nodded to him, and thenMattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. “No, I really am,”Converse continued as the waiter walked away. “Youhear so many stories.”

“Is that why you’re in Paris?” The Frenchmanstudied Joel. “Because of the stories of our so-calledupheavals? They re not so earthshaking, you know,not so different from before. Not yet. Most privateindustry here was publicly financed through thegovernment. But, naturally, not managed bygovernment incompetents, and for that we pay. Isthat what’s bothering you, or more to the point, yourclients?”

Converse drank. “No, that’s not why I’m here. It’ssomething else.”

“You’re troubled, I can see that. Your customaryglibness

doesn’t fool me. I know you too well. So tell me,what’s so important? That was the word you usedon the telephone.”

“Yes, I guess it was. It may have been toostrong.” Joel drained his glass and reached for hiscigarettes.

“Not from your eyes, my friend. I see them andI don’t see them. They’re filled with clouds.”

“You’ve got it wrong. As you said, I’m tired. I’vebeen on planes all day, with some ungodly layovers.”He picked up his lighter, snapping it twice until theflame appeared.

“We haggle over foolishness. What is it?”

Converse lit a cigarette, consciously trying tosound casual as he spoke. “Do you know a privateclub called L’Etalon Blanc?”

“I know it, but I couldn’t get in the door,”replied the Frenchman, laughing. “I was a young,inconsequential lieutenant worse, attached to thejudge advocate essentially with our forces to lend anappearance of legality, but, mind you, only anappearance. Murder was a misdemeanor, and rapeto be congratulated. L’Etalon Blanc is a refuge forles grands militaires and those rich enough orfoolish enough to listen to their trumpets.”

“I want to meet someone who lunches therethree or four times a week.”

“You can’t call him?”

"He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I want tomeet him. It’s got to be spontaneous.”

“Really? For Talbot, Brooks and Simon? Thatsounds most unusual.”

“It is. We may be dealing with someone we don’twant to deal with.”

“Ahh, missionary work. Who is he?”

“Will you keep it confidential? I mean that, nota word to anyone?”

“Do I breathe? If the name is in conflict withsomething on our schedule, I will tell you and,frankly, be of no help to

you. “

“Fair enough. Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”

Mattilon arched his brows in mock astonishment,less in mockery than in astonishment. “The emperorhas all his clothes,” said the Frenchman, laughingquietly. “Regardless of who claims otherwise. Youstart at the top of the line, as they say in New York.No conflict, mon ami; he’s not in our league asyou also say.”

“Why not?”

“He moves with saints and warriors. Warriorswho would be saints, and saints who would bewarriors. Who has time for such facades?’

“You mean he’s not taken seriously?”

“Oh, no, he is. Very seriously, by those who havethe time and the inclination to move abstractmountains. He is a pillar Joel, grounded in heroicmarble and himself immovable. He is the De Gaullewho never followed the original, and some say it isa pity.”

“What do you say?”

Mattilon frowned, then cocked his head in aGallic shrug. “I’m not sure. God knows the countryneeded someone, and perhaps Bertholdier couldhave stepped in and steered a far better course thanthe one we embarked upon, but the times were notright. The Elysee had become an imperial court, andthe people were tired of royal edicts, imperialsermons. Well, we don’t have those any longer;they’ve been supplanted by the dull, grey banalitiesof the workers’ credo. Perhaps it is a pity, althoughhe could skill do it, I imagine. He began his climb upOlympus when he was very young.”

“Wasn’t he part of the OAS? Salan’s rebels inAlgeria? They were discredited, called a nationaldisgrace.”

“That is a judgment even the intellectuals mustreluctantly admit could be subject to revision. Theway all of North Africa and the Middle East hasgone, a French Algeria could be a trump cardtoday.” Mattilon paused and brought his hand to hischin, his frown returning. “Why on earth wouldTalbot, Brooks and Simon walk away fromBertholdier? He may be a monarchist at heart, butGod knows he’s honor personified. He’s regal,perhaps even pompous, but a very acceptable clientfor all of that.’

“We’ve heard things,” said Converse quietly,shrugging now himself, as if to lessen the credibilityof hearsay evidence.

“Mon Dieu, not his women?” exclaimed Mattilon,laughing. “Come now, when will you grow up?”

“Not women.”

“What then?”

"Let’s say some of his associates, his acquaintances.’,

“I hope you make the distinction, Joel. A manlike Bertholdier can choose his associates certainly,but not his acquaintances. He walks into a room andeveryone wants to be his friend most claim he is afriend.”

" That’s what we want to find out. I want tobring up some names, see whether they areassociates or unremembered acquaintances.”

“Bien. Now you’re making sense. I can help, Iwill help We shall have lunch at L’Etalon Blanctomorrow and the next day. It is the middle of theweek and Bertholdier will no doubt choose one orthe other to dine there. If not, there’s always theday after.”

“I thought you couldn’t in the door?”

“Not by myself, no. But I know someone whocan, and he will be most obliging, I can assure you.”

“Why?”

“He wishes to talk with me whenever andwherever he can. He’s a dreadful bore and,unfortunately, speaks very little English numbersmainly, and words like “In and out,’ or ”Over andout,’ and “Dodger-Roger’ or ”Roger-Dodger’ and“runway six’ or ”Lift off five’ and all manner ofincomprehensible phrases.”

“A pilot?”

“He flew the first Mirages, brilliantly, I mightadd, and never lets anyone forget it. I shall have tobe the interpreter between you, which at leasteliminates my having to initiate conversation. Doyou know anything about the Mirage?”

“A jet’s a jet,” said Joel. “Pull and sweep out,what else is there?”

“Yes, he’s used that one, too. Pull and sweepsomething. I thought he was cleaning a kitchen.”

“Why does he always want to talk with you? Igather he’s a member of the club.”

“Very much so. We’re representing him in afutile case against an aircraft manufacturer. He hadhis own private jet and lost his left foot in one ofyour crash landings “

" Not mine, pal.”

“The door was jammed. He couldn’tground"ject where he wished to, when the plane’sspeed was sufficiently reduced for him to avoid afinal collision.”

“He didn’t slap the right buttons.”

“He says he did.”

“There are at least two backups, including aninstant manual, even on your equipment.”

“We’ve been made aware of that. It’s not themoney, you understand; he’s enormously wealthy.It’s his pride. To lose

brings into question his current or if you will, lat-ter-day skills.”

“They’ll be a lot more in question undercross-examination. I assume you’ve told him that.”

“Very gently. It’s what we’re leading up to.”

“But in the meantime every conference is a heftyfee.”

“We’re also saving him from himself. If we did itswiftly or too crudely, he’d simply dismiss us and bedriven to someone far less principled. Who elsewould take such a case? The government owns theplant now, and God knows it won’t pay.”

“Good point. What’ll you tell him about me?About the club?”

Mattilon smiled. “That as a former pilot and anattorney you can bring an expertise to his suit thatmight be helpful. As to L’Etalon Blanc, I shallsuggest it, tell him you’d be impressed. I shalldescribe you as something of an Attila the Hun ofthe skies. How does that appeal to you?”

“With very little impact.”

“Can you carry it off?” asked the Frenchman. Thequestion was sincere. “It would be one way to meetBertholdier. My client and he are not simplyacquaintances, they are friends.”

“I’ll carry it off.”

“Your having been a prisoner of war will be mosthelpful. If you see Bertholdier enter, and express adesire to meet him, such requests are not lightlyrefused former POW’s.”

“I wouldn’t press that too hard,” said Converse.

“Why not?”

“A little digging could turn up a rock that doesn’tbelong in the soil.”

“Oh?” Mattilon’s brows arched again, neither inmockery nor in astonishment, simply surprise.“"Digging,’ as you use it, implies something morethan a spontaneous meeting with odd namesspontaneously thrown about.”

“Does it?” Joel revolved his glass, annoyed withhimself, knowing that any argument would onlyenlarge the lapse. “Sorry, it was an instinctivereaction. You know how I feel about that topic.”

“Yes, I do, and I forgot. How careless of me. Iapologise.”

“Actually, I’d just as soon not use my own name.Do you mind?”

“You’re the missionary, not I. What shall we callyou?” The Frenchman was now looking hard atConverse.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Mattilon squinted. “How about the name of youremployer, Simon? If you meet Bertholdier, it mightappeal to him. Lieuc de Saint-Simon was the purestchronicler of the monarchy…. Henry Simon. Theremust be ten thousand lawyers named Henry Simonin the States.”

“Simon it is.”

“You’ve told me everything, my friend?” askedRene, his eyes noncommittal. “Everything you careto.”

“Yes, I have,” said Joel, his own eyes ablue-white walk “Let’s have another drink.”

“I think not. It’s late and my current wife hasmalaise if her dinner is cold. She’s an excellentcook, incidentally.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“Yes, I am.” Mattilon finished his drink, placedthe glass on the table and spoke casually. “So wasValerie. I shall never forget that fantastic canard "I’orange she fixed for us three or four years ago inNew York. Do you ever hear from her?”

“Hear and see,” answered Converse. “I had lunchwith her in Boston last month. I gave her thealimony check and she picked up the tab. By theway, her paintings are beginning to sell.”

“I never doubted that they would.”

“She did.”

“Unnecessarily…. I always liked Val. If you seeher again, please give her my affectionate best.”

“I wit.

Mattilon rose from the upholstered chair, hiseyes no longer noncommittal. “Forgive me, Ithought so often you were such a matched pair, Ibelieve is the expression. The passions dwindle, ofcourse, but not the de suite, if you know what Imean.”

“I think I do, and speaking for both of us, Ithank you_for the misplaced concretion.”"

"ye ne comprends pas. “

“Forget it, it’s antiquated doesn’t meananything. I’ll give her your affectionate best.”

“Merci. I’ll phone you in the morning.”

L’Etalon Blanc was a pacifist’s nightmare. Theclub’s heavy dark wood walls were covered withphotographs and

prints, interspersed with framed citations andglistening medals red ribbons and gold and silverdisks cushioned on black velvet. The prints were avisual record of heroic carnage going back twocenturies, while the evolution in warfare was shownin photographs as the horses and caissons and sabersbecame motorcycles, tanks, planes and guns, but thescenes were not all that different because the themewas constant. Victorious men in uniform weredepicted in moments of glory, whatever sufferingthere might have been was strangely absent. Thesemen did not lose no missing limbs or shatteredfaces here; these were the privileged warriors. Joelfelt a profound fear as he studied the martial array.These were not ordinary men; they were hard andstrong and the word "capability’ was written acrosstheir faces. What had Beale said on Mykonos? Whathad been the judgment of the Red Fox of Inchon, aman who knew whereof he spoke?

. . . I know what they can do when we ask them todo it Yet how much more could they do if they askedit of themselves? wondered Joel. Without theimpediments of vacillating civilian authorities?

"Luboque has just arrived,” said Mattilon quietly,coming up behind Converse. “I heard his voice in thelobby. Remember, you don’t have to overdo it I’lltranslate what I think is appropriate, anyway butnod profoundly when he makes one of his angryremarks. Also laugh when he tells jokes; they’redreadful, but he likes it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

"I’II give you an incentive. Bertholdier has areservation for lunch. At his usual place, tableeleven, by the window.”

“Where are we?” asked Joel, seeing theFrenchman’s pressed lips expressing minor triumph.

“Table twelve. Now.”

“If I ever need a lawyer, I’ll call you.”

“We’re terribly expensive. Come now, as they sayin all those wonderful films of yours, "You’re on,Monsieur Simon.’ Play the role of Attila but don’toverplay it.”

“You know, Rene, for someone who speaksEnglish as well as you do, you gravitate to the tritestphrases.”

“The English language and American phraseshave very little in common, Joel, trite or otherwise.”

“Smart ass.”

“Need I say more? . . . Ahh, Monsieur Luboque,Serge, mon amil”

Mattilon’s third eye had spotted the entrance ofSerge Luboque; he turned around as the thumpingbecame louder on the floor. Luboque was a short,slender man; his physique made one think of thosejet pilots of the early period when compactness wasa requirement. He was also very close to being acaricature of himself. His short, waxed moustachewas affixed to a miniaturised face that was pinchedin an expression of vaguely hostile dismissal directedat both no one and everyone. Whatever he hadbeen before, Laboque was now a poseur who knewonly how to posture. With all that was brilliant andexciting buried in the past, he had only the memo-ries, the rest was anger.

“Et relief l "expert f udiefaire den Tom pannieraerJennes, -he said, looking at Converse andextending his hand.

" Serge is delighted to meet you and is sure youcan help us,” explained Mattilon.

"4I’II do what I can,” said Converse. “Andapologize for my not speaking French.”

The lawyer obviously did so, and Luboqueshrugged, speaking rapidly, incomprehensibly; theword anglais repeated several times.

“He, too, apologizes for not speaking English,”said Mattilon, glancing at Joel, mischievousness inhis look, as he added, “If he’s Iying, MonsieurSimon, we may both be placed against thesedecorated walls and shot.”

“No way,” said Converse, smiling. “Ourexecutioners might dent the medals and blow up thepictures. Everybody knows you’re lousy shots.”

“Qutest-ce que vous cites?”

“Monsieur Simon tient a was mmercier pour ledejeuner, ” said Mattilon, turning to his client. n enest. tresf error il estime que l’o,"icier fran,cais eat l’unties meilleurs du monde. “

“What did you say?”

“I explained,” said the lawyer, turning again,“that you were honored to be here, as you believethe French military especially the officer corps tobe the finest on earth.”

“Not only lousy shots but rotten pilots,” saidJoel, smiling and nodding.

“Est-il oral que was aver participe " nombKusesmissions en Asie d u Sud?” asked Lubeque, his eyesfixed on Joel.

“I beg your pardon?”

"He wants it confirmed that you are really anAttila of the skies, that you flew many missions.”

“Quite a few,” answered Joel.

“Beaucoup,” said Mattilon.

Luboque again spoke rapidly, even moreincomprehensibly, as he snapped his fingers for asteward.

“What now?”

“He’d rather tell you about his exploits in theinterests of the case, of course.”

“Of course,” said Converse, his smile now fixed.“Lousy shots, rotten pilots and insufferable egos.”

“Ah, but our food, our women, our incomparableunderstanding of life.”

“There’s a very explicit word in French one ofthe few I learned from my ex-wife but I don’t thinkI should use it.” Joel’s smile was now cemented tohis lips.

“That’s right, I forgot,” said Mattilon. “She and Iwould converse in notre belle lanque; it used toirritate you so Don’t use it. Remember yourincentive.”

“Qu’est-ce que was cites encore? Notre bellelanqueP” Luboque spoke as a steward stood by hisside.

“Notre ami, Monsieur Simon, suit an sours "I’ecole Berlitz et pourra ainsi s’entretenir directementaver vous. “

“Bien!”

“WhatP”

“I told him you would learn the Berlitz French soyou could dine with him whenever you flew intoParis. You’re to ring him up. Nod, smart ass.”

Converse nodded.

And so it went. Point, noncounterpoint, nonsequitur. Serge Luboque held forth during drinks inthe warriors” playroom, Mattilon translating andadvising Joel as to the expression to wear on his faceas well as suggesting an appropriate reply.

Fmally Luboque stridently described the crashthat had cost him his left foot and the obviousequipment failures for which he should becompensated. Converse looked properly pained andindignant, and offered to write a legal opinion forthe court based on his expertise as a pilot of jetaircraft. Mattilon translated; Luboque beamed andrattled off a barrage of gargled vowels that Joel tookfor thanks.

“He’s forever in your debt,” said Rene.

“Not if I write that opinion,” replied Converse.“He locked himself in the cockpit and threw awaythe key.”

"Write it,” countered Mattilon, smiling. “You’vejust paid for my time. We’ll use it as a wedge toopen the door of retreat. Also, he’ll never ask youto dinner when you’re in Paris.”

“When’s lunch? I’m running out of expressions.”

They marched in hesitant lockstep into thedining room, matching Luboque’s gait as hethumped along on the hard, ornate parquet floor.The ridiculous three-sided conversation continued aswine was proffered a bottle was sent back byLuboque and Converse’s eyes kept straying to thedining room’s entrance.

The moment came: Bertholdier arrived. Hestood in the open archway, his head turned slightlyto his left as another man in a light-browngabardine topcoat spoke without expression. Thegeneral nodded his head and the subordinate re-treated. Then the great man walked into the roomquietly but imperially. Heads turned and the manacknowledged the homage as a dauphin who willsoon be king accepts the attentions of the ministersof a failing monarch. The effect was extraordinary,for there were no kingdoms, no monarchies, nolands to be divided through conquest to the knightsof Crecy or anybody else, but this man of no royallineage was tacitly being recognized goddamn it,thought Joel as an emperor in his own right.

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier was of mediumheight, between five nine and five eleven, certainlyno more, but his bearing the sheer straight shaft ofhis posture, the breadth of his shoulders and thelength of his strong slender neck made him appearmuch taller, much more imposing than anothermight. He was among his own, and here, indeed, hewas above the others, elevated by their ownconsensus.

“Say something reverential,” said Mattilon, asBertholdier approached, heading for the table nextto theirs. “Glance up at him and look tastefullyawed. I’ll do the rest.”

Converse did as he was told, utteringBertholdier’s full name under his breath, but loudenough to be heard. He followed this quietexclamation by leaning toward Mattilon and saying,“He’s a man I’ve always wanted to meet.”

There followed a brief exchange in Frenchbetween Rene and his client, whereupon Luboquenodded, his expres

sion that of an arrogant man willing to dispense afavor to a new friend.

Bertholdier reached his chair, the maitre d’ andthe dining room captain hovering on either side. Thepavane took place less than four feet away.

“Mon general,” said Luboque, rising.

“Serge,” replied Bertholdier, stepping forward,hand extended a superior officer aware of a worthysubordinate’s disability. “Comment pa van”

“Bien, Jacques. Et was?”

“Les temps vent bier etranges, mon amt.”

The greetings were brief, and the direction of theconversabon was changed quickly by Luboque, whogestured at Converse as he continued speaking.InsUnchvely Joel got to his feet, posture straight, hiseyes level, unblinking, staring at Bertholdier, his lookas piercing as the general’s professional but withoutawe. He had been right in an unexpected way. Theshared Southeast Asian experience had validity forJacques-Louis Bertholdier. And why not? He, too,had his memories. Mathlon was introduced aknost asan afterthought, and the soldier gave a brief nod ashe crossed behind Rene to shake hands with Joel.

“A pleasure, Monsieur Simon,” said Bertholdier,his English precise, his grip firm, a comradeacknowledging another comrade, the man’simperious charm instantly apparent.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it thousands of Ames, sir,”said Joel, maintaining the steady, professional burnin his eyes, “but this is an occasion I never expected.If I may say so, General, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” rejoinedBertholdier. “You gentlemen of the air did all youcould, and I know something about thecircumstances. So many missions’ I think it was eas-ier on the ground!” The general laughed quietly.

“Gentlemen of the air” the man was unreal,thought Converse. But the connection was firm; itwas real, he felt it, he knew it. The combination ofwords and looks had brought it about. So simple: alawyer’s ruse, taming an adversary in this case anenemy. The enemy.

“I “onidn’t agree with that, General; it was alot”eaner in the air. But if there’d been more likeyou on the ground in Indochina, there never wouldhave been a Dienbienphu.”

“A flattering statement, but I’m not sure it couldstand the test of reality.”

“I’m sure,” said Joel quietly, clearly. “I’m convincedof

Luboque, who had been engaged inconversation by Mattilon, interrupted. “Mon general,voulez-vous vous joinder a nous?”

“Pardonnez-moi. ye suds occupy aver mesvisiteurs, ” answered Bertholdier, turning back toConverse. “I must decline Rene’s invitation, I’mexpecting guests. He tells me you are an attorney,a specialist in aircraft litigation.”

“It’s part of the broader field, yes. Air, ground,oceangoing craft we try to represent the spectrum.Actually, I’m fairly new at it not the expertise, Ihope but the represen

"I see, ’said the general, obviously bewildered.“Are you in Paris on business?”

This was it, thought Joel. Above all, he wouldhave to be subtle. The words but especially theeyes must convey the unspoken. “No, I’m just hereto catch my breath. I flew from San Francisco toNew York and on to Paris. Tomorrow I’ll be inBonn for a day or so, then off to Tel Aviv.”

“How tiring for you.” Bertholdier was nowreturning his stare.

“Not the worst, I’m afraid,” said Converse, ahalf-smile on his lips. “After Tel Aviv, there’s anight flight to Johannes

“Bonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg . . .” The soldierspoke softly. “A most unusual itinerary.”

“Productive, we think. At least, we hope so.”

“We?”

“My client, General. My new client.”

“Deraisonnable!” cried Mattilon, laughing atsomething Luboque had said, and, just as obviously,telling Joel he could no longer keep his impatientlitigant in conversation.

Bertholdier, however, did not take his eyes offConverse. "Where are you staying, my youngfighter-pilot friend?”

“Young and not so young, General.”

“Where?”

“The George Cinq. Suite two-three-five.”

“A fine establishment.”

“It’s habit. My previous firm always posted methere.”

“Posted? As in "garrisoned’?” asked Bertholdier,a half-smile now on his lips.

“An unconscious slip,” said Joel. “But then again,it says it, doesn’t it, sir?”

“It does, indeed…. Ah ha, my guests arrive!” Thesoldier extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure,Monsieur Simon.”

Swift au revoir’s accompanied nods and rapidhandshakes as Bertholdier returned to his table togreet his luncheon companions. Through Mathlon,Joel thanked Luboque for the introduction; thedisabled pilot gestured with both hands, palms up,and Converse had the distinct feeling that he hadbeen baptised. The insane three-sided dialogue thenresumed at high speed, and it was all Joel could doto maintain even minimum concentration.

Progress had been made; it was in Bertholdier’seyes, and he could feel those eyes straying over tohim even while the conversation at both tablesbecame animated. The general was diagonally toConverse’s left; with the slightest turning of eitherface, the line of sight between them was direct.Twice it happened. The first time, Joel felt theforceful gaze resting on him as if magnified sunlightwere burning into his flesh. He shifted his headbarely an inch; their eyes locked, the soldier’spenetrating, severe, questioning. The second timewas a half-hour later, when the eye contact wasinitiated by Converse himself. Luboque and Mattilonwere discussing legal strategy, and as if drawn by amagnet, Joel slowly turned to his left and watchedBertholdier, who was quietly, emphatically making apoint with one of his guests. Suddenly, as a voicereplied across the adjacent table, the generalsnapped his head in Converse’s direction, his eyes nolonger questioning, only cold and ice-like. Then justas abruptly, there was warmth in them; thecelebrated soldier nodded, a half-smile on his face.

Joel sat in the soft leather chair by the window inthe dimly lit sitting room; what light there was camefrom a fringed lamp on the desk. Alternately hestared at the telephone in front of the lamp andlooked out the window at the weaving night traffic ofParis and the lights on the wide boulevard below.Then he focused entirely on the phone as he sofrequently did when waiting for a call from a legaladversary he expected would capitulate, knowing thatman or woman would capitulate. It was simply aquestion of time.

What he expected now was communication, notcapitula

tion a connection, the connection. He had no ideawhat form it would take, but it would come. It hadto come.

It was nearly seven-thirty, four hours since hehad left L’Etalon Blanc after a final, firm handshakeexchanged with Jacques-Louis Bertholdier. The lookin the soldier’s eyes was unmistakable: If nothingelse, Converse reasoned, Bertholdier would have tosatisfy his sheer curiosity.

Joel had covered himself with the hotel’s frontdesk, distributing several well-placed 100-francnotes. The tactic was not at all unusual in thesedays of national and financial unrest had not beenfor years, actually, even without the unrest. Visitingbusinessmen frequently chose to use pseudonymsfor any number of reasons, ranging fromnegotiations best kept quiet to amorousengagements best left untraceable. In Converse’scase, the use of the name Simon made it appearlogical, if not eminently respectable. If Talbot,Brooks and Simon preferred that allcommunications be made in the surname of one ofthe senior partners, who could question thedecisions Joel, however, carried the ploy one stepfurther. After telephoning New York, he explained,he was told that his own name was not to be usedat all; no one knew he was in Paris and that was theway his firm wanted it. Obviously, the delayedinstructions accounted for the mix-up in the res-ervation, which was void at any rate. There was tobe no billing; he would pay in cash, and since thiswas Paris, no one raised the slightest objection.Cash was infinitely preferable, delayed payment anational anathema.

Whether anyone believed this nonsense or notwas irrelevant. The logic was sufficiently adequateand the franc notes persuasive; the originalregistration card was torn up and another placed inthe hotel file. H. Simon replaced J. Converse. Thepermanent address of the former was a figment ofJoel’s imagination, a numbered house on anumbered street in Chicago, Illinois, said house andsaid street most likely nonexistent. Anyone askingor calling for Mr. Converse which was highlyunlikely would be told no guest of that name wascurrently at the George V. Even Rene Mattilon wasnot a problem, for Joel had been specific. Since hehad no further business in Paris, he was taking thesix o’clock shuttle to London and staying withfriends for several days before flying back to NewYork. He had thanked Rene profusely, telling theFrenchman that his firm’s fears about Bertholdierhad been groundless. During their quietconversation he had brought

up three key names with the general, and each hadbeen greeted with a blank look from Bertholdier,who apologized for his faulty memory.

“He wasn’t Iying,” Joel had said.

“I can’t imagine why he would,” Mattilon had replied.

I can, Converse had thought to himself. They callitAquitaine.

A crack! There was a sudden sound, a harshmetallic snap, then another, and another thetumblers of a lock falling out of place, a knob beingturned. It came from beyond the open door to thebedroom. Joel bolted forward in his chair; then,looking at his watch, just as rapidly he let out hisbreath and relaxed. It was the hour when the floormaid turned down the bed; the tension of theexpected call and what it represented had frayed hisnerves. Again he leaned back, his gaze resting on thetelephone. When would it ring? Would it ring?

“Pardon, monsieur, ” said a feminine voice,accompanied by a light tapping on the opendoorframe. Joel could not see the speaker.

“Yes?” Converse turned away from the silentphone, expecting to see the maid.

What he saw made him gasp. It was the figure ofBertholdier, his posture erect, his angled head rigid,his eyes a strange admixture of cold appraisal,condescension, and if Joel was not mistaken atrace of fear. He walked through the door and stoodmotionless; when he spoke his voice was a ripplingsheet of ice.

“I was on my way to a dinner engagement on thefourth floor, Monsieur Simon. By chance, Iremembered you were in this very hotel. You didgive me the number of your suite. Do I intrude?”

“Of course not, General,” said Converse, on his feet.

“Did you expect met”

“Not this way.”

“But you did expect me?”

Joel paused. "Yes.”

“A signal sent and received?”

Again Joel paused. “Yes.”

You are either a provocatively subtle attorney ora strangely obsessed man. Which is it, MonsieurSimon?”

"If I provoked you into coming to see me and Iwas subtle about it, I’ll accept that gladly. As tobeing obsessed, the word implies an exaggerated orunwarranted concern. Whatever

concerns I have, I know damned well they’reneither exaggerated nor unwarranted. Noobsession, General. I’m too good a lawyer forthat.”

“A pilot cannot lie to himself. If he does soblindly, he crashes to his death.”

“I’ve been shot down. I’ve never crashedthrough pilot error.”

Bertholdier walked slowly to the brocadedcouch against the wall. “Bonn, Tel Aviv, andJohannesburg,” he said quietly as he sat down andcrossed his legs. “The signal?”

“The signal.”

“My company has interests in those areas.”

“So does my client,” said Converse.

“And what do you have, Monsieur Simon?”

Joel stared at the soldier. "A commitment,General.”

Bertholdier was silent, his body immobile, hiseyes searching “May I have a brandy?” he saidfinally. “My escort will remain in the corridoroutside this door.”

Converse walked to the dry bar against the wall,conscious of the soldier’s gaze, wondering whichtack the conversation would take. He was oddlycalm, as he frequently was before a mergerconference or a pretrial examination, knowing heknew things his adversaries were not awareof buried information that had surfaced throughlong hours of hard work. In the presentcircumstances there had been no work at all on hispart, but the results were the same. He knew agreat deal about the legend across the room namedJacques-Louis Bertholdier. In a word, Joel wasprepared, and over the years he had learned to trusthis on-the-feet instincts as he had once trustedthose that had guided him through the skies yearsago.

Also, as it was part of his job, he was familiarwith the legal intricacies of import-exportmanipulations. They were a maze of oftendisconnected authorisations, easily made incompre-hensible for the uninitiated, and during the next fewminutes

he intended to baffle this disciple of George MarcusDelavane warlord of Saigon until the soldier strace of fear became something far morepronounced.

Clearances for foreign shipments came in a widevariety of shapes and colors, from the basic exportlicense with specific bills of lading to those with theless specific generic limitations. Then there were themore coveted licenses required for a wide variety ofproducts subject to governmental reviews; these wereusually shunted back and forth between vacillatingdepartments until deadlines forced bureaucraticdecisions often based on whose influence was thestrongest or who among the bureaucrats were theweakest.

Finally, there was the most lethal authorisationof all, a document too frequently conceived incorruption and delivered in blood. It was called theEnd-User’s Certificate, an innocuously named permitthat was a license to ship the most abusivemerchandise in the nation’s arsenals into air and sealanes beyond the controls of those who should havethem.

In theory, this deadly equipment was intendedsolely for allied governments with shared objectives,thus the "use” at the discretion of the parties at thereceiving “end” calculated death legitimised by a’certificate” that obfuscated everyone’s intentions. Butonce the equipment was en route, diversion was thepractice. Shipments destined for the Bay of Haifa orAlexandria would find their way to the Gulf of Sidraand a madman in Libya, or an assassin namedCarlos training killer teams anywhere from Beirut tothe Sahara. Fictional corporations with nonexistentyet strangely influential officers operated throughobscure brokers and out of hastily constructed orout-of-the-way warehouses in the U.S. and abroad.Millions upon millions were to be made; death wasan unimportant consequence and there was a phrasefor it all. Boardroom terrorism. It fit, and it wouldbe Aquitaine’s method. There was no other.

These were the thoughts the methods of opera-tion that flashed through Converse’s mind as hepoured the drinks. He was ready; he turned andwalked across the room.

“What are you seeking, Monsieur Simon?” askedBertholdier, taking the brandy from Converse.

“Information, General.”

“About what?”

“World markets expanding markets that my client

might service. ” Joel crossed back to the chair by thewindow and sat down.

“And what sort of service does he render?”

“He’s a broker.”

“Of what?”

“A wide range of products.” Converse broughthis glass to his lips; he drank, then added, “I thinkI mentioned them in general terms at your club thisafternoon. Planes, vehicles oceangoing craft,munitions material. The spectrum.”

“Yes, you did. I’m afraid I did not understand.”

“My client has access k production andwarehouse sources beyond anyone I’ve ever knownor ever heard of.”

“Very impressive. Who is he?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Perhaps I know him.”

“You might, but not in the way I’ve describedhim. His profile is so low in this area, it’snonexistent.”

“And you won’t tell me who he is,” said Bertholdier

“It’s privileged information.”

“Yet, in your own words, you sought me out,sent a signal to which I responded, and now say youwant information concerning expanding markets forall manner of merchandise, including Bonn, TelAviv, and Johannesburg. But you won’t divulge thename of your client who will benefit if I have thisinformation which I probably do not. Surely, youcan’t be serious.”

“You have the information and, yes, I’m veryserious. But I’m afraid you’ve jumped to the wrongconclusion.”

“I have no fear of it at all. My English is fluentand I heard what you said. You came out ofnowhere, I know nothing about you, you speakelusively of this unnamed influential man “

“You asked me, General,” interrupted Joel firmlywithout raising his voice. “What I was seeking.”

“And you said information.”

“Yes, I did, but I didn’t say I was seeking it fromyou.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Under the circumstances for the reasons youjust mentioned you wouldn’t give it to me anyway,and I’m well aware of that.”

“Then what is the point of this shall I say, in-duced"onversation? I do not like my time trifledwith, monsieur. “

“That’s the last thing on earth we’d do I’d do.”

“Please be specific.”

“My client wants your trust. I want it. But weknow it can’t be given until you feel it’s justified. Ina few days a week at the outside I hope to provethat it is.”

“By trips to Bonn, Tel Aviv Johannesburg?’

“Frankly, yes.”

“Why?”

“You said it a few minutes ago. The signal.”

Bertholdier was suddenly wary. He shrugged toocasually; he was pulling back. “I said it because mycompany has considerable investments in those areas.I thought it was enhrely plausible you had aproposition, or propositions, to make relative tothose interests.”

“I intend to have. "

“Please be specific,” said the soldier, controllinghis irritation.

“You know I can’t,” replied Joel. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“When it’s clear to you all of you that my client,and by extension myself, have as strong motives forbeing a part of you as the most dedicated amongyou.”

“A part of my company? Juneau et Compagrue?”

“Forgive me, General, I won’t bother to answer that.”

Bertholdier glanced at the brandy in his hand,then back at Converse. “You say you flew from SanFrancisco.”

“I’m not based there,” Joel broke in.

“But you came from San Francisco. To Paris.Why uJere you there?”

“I’ll answer that if for no other reason than toshow you how thorough we are and how muchmore thorough others are. We traced Itraced overseas shipments back to export licensesoriginating in the northern California area. The li-censees were companies with no histories andwarehouses with no records chains of four wallserected for brief, temporary periods of convenience.It was a mass of confusion leading nowhere andeverywhere. Names on documents where no suchpeople existed, documents themselves that came outof bureaucratic labyrinths virtuallyun-traceable rubber stamps, of iicial seals, andsignatures of authorisation where no authority wasgranted. Unknowing middle-level personnel told toexpedite departmental clearances That’s what I

found in San Francisco. A morass of complex, highlyquestionable transactions that could not bearintense scrutiny.”

Bertholdier’s eyes were fixed, too controlled. “Iwould know nothing about such things, of course,”he said.

“Of course,” agreed Converse. “But the fact thatmy client does through me and the additional factthat neither he nor I have any desire whatsoever tocall attention to them must tell you something.”

“Frankly, not a thing.”

“Please, General. One of the first principles offree enterprise is to cripple your competition, stepin, and fill the void.”

The soldier drank, gripping the glass firmly. Helowered it and spoke. “Why did you come to me?”

“Because you were there.”

“What?”

“Your name was there among the morass, waydown deep, but there.”

Bertholdier shot forward. “Impossible! Preposterous!”

“Then why am I here? Why are you here?” Joelplaced his glass on the table by the chair, themovement that of a man not finished speaking. “Tryto understand me. Depending upon whichgovernment department a person’s dealing withcertain recommendations are bound to be helpful.You wouldn’t do a damn thing for someoneappealing to Housing and Urban Development, butover at the State Department’s Munitions Controlsor at Pentagon procurements, you’re golden.”

“I have never lent my name to any such appeals.”

“Others did. Men whose recommendationscarried a lot of weight, but who perhaps neededextra clout.”

“What do you mean? This "clout.’”

“A final push for an affirmativedecision without any apparent personalinvolvement. It’s called support for an actionthrough viable second and third parties. Forinstance, a memo might read: “We’ thedepartment, not a person ”don’t know much aboutthis, but if a man like General Bertholdier isfavorably disposed, and we are informed that he is,why should we argue?’”

“Never. It could not happen.”

“It did,” said Converse softly, knowing it was themoment to bring in reality to support hisabstractions. He would be able to tell instantly ifBeale was right, if this legend of France wasresponsible for the slaughter and chaos in the citiesand

towns of a violently upended Northern Ireland. “Youwere there, not often but enough for me to find you.Just as you were there in a different way when ashipment was air-freighted out of Beloit, Wisconsin,on its way to Tel Aviv. Of course it never got there.Somehow it was diverted to maniacs on both sides inBelfast. I wonder where it happened? Montreal?Paris? Marseilles? The Separatists in Quebec wouldcertainly follow your orders, as would men in Parisand Marseilles. It’s a shame a company namedSolidaire had to pay off the insurance claim. Oh, yes,you’re a director of the firm aren’t you? And it’s soconvenient that insurance carriers have access to themerchandise they cover.”

Bertholdier was frozen to the chair, the musclesof his face pulsating, his eyes wide, staring at Joel.His guilt was suppressed, but no less apparent forthat control. “I cannot be lieve what you areimplying. It’s shocking and incredible!”

“I repeat, why am I here?”

“Only you can answer that, monsieur,” saidBertholdier, abruptly getting to his feet, the brandyin his hand. Then slowly, with military precision, heleaned over and placed the glass on the coffee table;it was a gesture of finality the conference was over.“Quite obviously I made a foolish error,” he contin-ued, shoulders square again and head rigid, but nowwith a strained yet oddly convincing smile on his lips.“I am a soldier, not a businessman; it is a latedirection in my life. A soldier tries to seize aninitiative and I attempted to do just that; only, therewas there is no initiative. Forgive me, I misreadyour signal this afternoon.”

“You didn’t misread anything, General.”

“Am I contradicted by a stranger I might evensay a devious stranger who arranges a meetingunder false pretenses and proceeds to makeoutrageous statements regarding my honor and myconduct? I think not.” As Bertholdier strode acrossthe room toward the hallway door Joel rose from hischair. “Don’t bother, monsieur, I’ll let myself out.You’ve gone to enough trouble, for what purpose Ihaven’t the faintest idea.”

“I’m on my way to Bonn,” said Converse. “Tellyour friends I’m coming. Tell them to expect me.And please, General, tell them not to prejudge me.I mean that.”

“Your elliptical references are most annoyingLieutenant. It was "lieutenant,’ wasn’t it? Unless youalso deceived poor Luboque as well.”

“Whatever deception employed to meet you canonly be for his benefit. I’ve offered to write a legalopinion for his case. He may not like it, but it’ll savehim a lot of pain and money. And I have notdeceived you.”

“A matter of judgment, I think.” Bertholdierturned and reached for the outsized brass knob.

“Bonn, Germany,” pressed Joel.

“I heard you. I haven’t the vaguest notion whatyou “

“Leifhelm,” said Converse quietly. “Erich Leifhelm.”

The soldier’s head turned slowly; his eyes werebanked fires, the coals glowing, about to erupt atthe merest gust of wind. “A name known to me, butnot the man.”

“Tell him I’m coming.”

“Good night, monsieur,” said Bertholdier,opening the door, his face ashen.

Joel raced into the bedroom, grabbed hissuitcase and threw it on the luggage rack. He had toget out of Paris. Within hours, perhaps minutes,Bertholdier would have him watched, and if he wasfollowed to an airport, his passport would exposethe name Simon as a lie. He could not let thathappen, not yet.

It was strange, unsettling. He had never had anyreason to leave a hotel surreptitiously, and he wasnot sure he knew how to do it only that it had tobe done. The altering of the registration card hadbeen done instinctively, there were occasions whenlegal negotiations had to be kept quiet for every-one’s benefit. But this was different it wasabnormal. He had said to Beale on Mykonos that hewas going to become someone he was not. It was aneasy thing to say, not at all easy to do.

His suitcase packed, he checked the batterycharge on his electric razor and absently turned iton, moving it around his chin, as he walked to thebedside telephone. He shut the switch off as hedialed, unsure of what he would say to the nightconcierge but nevertheless instinctively orienting hismind to a business approach. After initial remarks,mutually flattering, the words came.

“There’s an extremely sensitive situation, and myfirm is anxious that I leave for London just as soonas possible and as discreetly as possible. Frankly,I would prefer not to be seen checking out.”

“Discretion, monsieur, is honored here, and haste isa

normal request. I shall come up and present your billmyself. Say, ten minutes?”

“I’ve only one piece of luggage. I’ll carry it, butI’ll need a cab. Not in front.”

“Not in front, of course. The freight elevator,monsieur. It connects below with our corridor fordeliveries. Arrangements will be made.”

“I ve made arrangementst” said Bertholdierharshly into the limousine’s mobile phone, the glasspartition between him and the chauffeur tightly shut.“One man remains in the gallery in sight of theelevators, another in the cellars where the hotelsupplies are brought in. If he attempts to leaveduring the night, it is the only other exit available tohim. I’ve used it myself on several occasions.”

“This . . . is all most difficult to absorb.” Thevoice on the line spoke with a clipped British accent,the speaker obviously astonished, his breathingaudible, a man suddenly afraid. “Are you sure?Could there be some other linkage?”

“Imbecile! I repeat. He knew about the munitionsshipment from Beloit! He knew the routing, even themethod of theft. He went so far as to identifySolidaire and my position as a board member! Hemade a direct reference to our business associate inBonnl Then to Tel Aviv . . .lohannesburgl Whatother linkage could there be?”

“Corporate entanglements, perhaps. One can’trule them out. Multinational subsidiaries, munitionsinvestments, our associate in West Germany also sitson several boards…. And the locations money poursinto them.”

“What in the name of God do you think I’mtalking about? I can say no more now, but what I’vetold you, my English flower, take it to be the worstl”

There was a brief silence from London. “Iunderstand,” said the voice of a subordinate rebuked.

“I hope you do. Get in touch with New York. Hisname is Simon, Henry Simon. He’s an attorney fromChicago. I have the address; it’s from the hotel’sregistration file.” Bertholdier squinted under theglare of the reading lamp, haltingly deciphering thenumbers and the numbered street written down byan assistant bell captain, well paid by one of thegeneral’s men to go into the office and obtaininformation on the occupant of suite two-three-five.“Do you have that?”

“Yes.” The voice was now sharp, a subordinate aboutto

redress a grievance. Was it wise to get it that way?A friend or a greedy employee might tell himsomeone was inquiring about him.’

“Really, my British daffodil? An innocuousbellboy checking the registry so as to post a lostgarment to a recent guest?”

Again the brief silence. " Yes, I see. You know,Jacques, we work for a great cause a businesscause, of course more important than either of us,as we did once years ago. I must constantly remindmyself of that, or I don’t think I could tolerate yourinsults.”

And what would be your recourse, I’Anglais?”

"To cut your arrogant Frog balls off in TrafalgarSquare and stuff them in a lion’s mouth. Therepository wouldn’t have to be large; an ancientcrack would do. I’ll ring you up in an hour or so.”There was a click and the line went dead.

The soldier lowered the mobile phone in hishand, and a smile slowly emerged on his lips. Theywere the best, all of theml They were the hope, theonly hope of a very sick world.

Then the smile faded, the blood again drainingfrom his face, arrogance turning into fear. What didthis Henry Simon want, really want? Who was theunknown man with access to extraordinarysources planes, vehicles, munitions? What in God’sname did they know?

The padded elevator descended slowly, itsinterior designed for moving furniture and luggage,its speed adjusted for room-service deliveries. Thenight concierge stood beside Joel, his face pleasantlyimpassive; in his right hand was the leather boursecontaining a copy of Converse’s bill and the francnotes covering it as well as a substantial gratuityfor the Frenchman’s courtesy.

A slight whirring sound preceded the stop; thepanel light shone behind the letters sou-so", andthe heavy doors parted. Beyond in the wide hallwaywas a platoon of whitejacketed waiters, maids,porters and a few maintenance personnelcommandeering tables racks of linens, luggage andassorted cleaning materials. Loud, rapid chatter,heightened by bursts of laughter and gutturalexpletives, accompanied the bustling activity. At thesight of the concierge there was a perceptiblelessening of volume and an increase of concentratedmove

meet, along with nods and fawning smiles directed atthe man who, with the flick of a pen, could eliminatetheir jobs.

“If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I llbe on my way,” said Joel, not wishing to call furtherattention to himself in the company of the concierge."I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“Merct. If you will follow that corridor, it will leadto the service exit,” replied the Frenchman, pointingto a hallway on the left, beyond the bank ofelevators. “The guard is at his desk and is aware ofyour departure. Outside in the alley, turn right andwalk to the street; your taxi is waiting for you.”

“I appreciate my firm appreciates yourcooperation. As I mentioned upstairs, there’s nothingreally that secretive, or unusual just sensitive.”

The hotel man’s impassive countenance did notchange, except for a slightly sharper focus in his eyes.“It is of no matter, monsieur, an explanation is notrequired. I did not request it, and if you’ll forgiveme, you should not feel an obligation to offer one.Au rewir, Monsieur Simon.”

“Yes, of course,” said Converse, maintaining hiscomposure though he felt like a schoolboyadmonished for speaking out of turn, for offering ananswer when he had not been called upon. “See younext time I’m in Paris.”

“We await the day, monsieur. Bonsotr.”

Joel turned quickly, making his way through theuniformed crowd toward the hallway, apologisingwhenever his suitcase made contact with a body. Hehad just been taught a lesson, one he should nothave had to learn. He knew it in a courtroom and inconference: Never explain what you don’t have to.Shut up. But this was not a court or a conference. Itwas, it suddenly dawned on him, an escape, and therealization was a little frightening, certainly verystrange. Or was it? Escape was in his vocabulary, inhis experience. He had tried it three times before inhis life years ago. And death had been everywhere.He put the thought out of his mind and walked downthe corridor toward the large metal door in thedistance.

He slowed down; something was wrong. Ahead,standing in front of the security desk talking to theguard was a man in a light-colored topcoat. Joel hadseen him before but he did not know where; then theman moved and Converse began to remember animage came back to him. Another man had movedthe same way taking several steps backward before

turning to disappear from an archway, and now hemoved the same way to cross the corridor to leanagainst the wall. Was it the same man? Yes! It wasthe one who had accompanied Bertholdier to thedining-room entrance of L’Etalon Blanc. Thesubordinate who had taken leave of a superior thenwas here now under orders from that same superior.

The man looked up, the flash of recognitioninstantly in his eyes. Stretching, he raised himself tohis full height and turned away, his hand slowlymoving toward the fold in his coat. Converse wasstunned. Was the man actually reaching for a gun ?With an armed guard barely ten feet away? It wasinsane! Joel stopped; he considered racing back intothe crowd by the elevators but knew it was pointless.If Bertholdier had posted a watchdog in thebasement, others would be upstairs, in the corridors,in the lobby. He could not turn and run; there wasno place to go, nowhere to hide. So he keptwalking, now faster, directly toward the man in thelight-brown topcoat, his mind confused, his throattight.

“There you arel”he cried out loud, not sure thewords were his. “The general told me where to findyour”

The man stood motionless, in shock, speechless.“Le general2″ he said, barely above a whisper. “He .. . tell you?”

The man’s English was not good, and that wasvery good. He could understand, but not well.Rapidly spoken words, persuasively delivered, mightget them both out the door. Joel turned to theguard while angling his attache case into hiscompanion’s back. “My name’s Simon. I believe theconcierge spoke to you about me.”

The juxtaposition of the name and the title wassufficient for the bewildered guard. He glanced athis papers, nodding. “One monsieur. Le concierge . ..”

“Come on!” Converse shoved the attache caseinto the man in the topcoat, propelling him towardthe door. “The general’s waiting for us outside. Let’sgal Hurry up!”

“Le general . ?” The man’s hands instinctivelyshot out at the crash bar of the exit door, in lessthan five seconds he and Joel were alone in thealley. “Que se passe-toil? Oil est le general?… Where?”

“Here! He said to wait here. You. You’re towait here! Ici!”

“Arre^tez!” The man was recovering. He stoodhis ground. Thrusting his left hand out, he pushedConverse back against the wall. With his right handhe reached into his overcoat.

“Don’t!” Joel dropped his attache case, grippinghis suitcase and pulling it up in front of him, aboutto rush forward. He stopped. The man did not pullout a gun; instead, what he had was a thinrectangular object bound in black leather, fromwhich a long metallic needle rose from the narrowflat top. An antenna . . . a radial

All thought was blurred for Converse, but heknew he had to act instantly only mobon counted.He could not permit the man to use that radio,alerting those with other radios elsewhere in thehotel. With a sudden surge of strength he rammedhis suitcase into the man’s knees, tearing the radioaway with his left hand, whipping his right arm outand over the man’s shoulder. He crooked his elbowaround the Frenchman’s neck as he spun on thepavement. Then without thinking, he yankedBertholdier’s soldier forward, so that both of themhurtled toward the wall, and crashed the man’s headinto the stone. Blood spread throughout theFrenchman’s skull, matUng his hair and streakingdown his face in deep-red rivulets. Joel could notthink, he could not allow himself to think. If he did,he would be sick and he knew it. Mobon, ma lion!

The man went limp. Converse angled theunconscious body by the shoulders, propelling itagainst the wall, shoving it away from the metal doorand letting it drop in the farther shadows. He leaneddown and picked up the radio; he snapped off theantenna and shoved the case into his pocket. Hestood up, confused, frightened, trying to orienthimself. Then, grabbing his attache case and suitcase,he raced breathlessly out of the alley, conscious ofthe blood that had somehow erupted over part of hisface. The taxi was at the curb, the driver smoking acigarette in the darkness, oblivious to the violencethat had taken place only thirty yards away.

“De Gaulle Airport!’ shouted Joel, opening thedoor and throwing his luggage inside. “Please, I’m ina hurry!” He lurched into the seat, gasping, his neckstretched above the cushioned rim, swallowing the airthat would not fill his lungs.

The rushing lights and shadows that bombardedthe interior of the cab served to keep his thoughtssuspended, allowing his racing pulse to decelerateand the air to reach him, slowly drying theperspiration at his temples and his neck. He leanedforward, wanUng a cigarette but afraid he wouldvomit from the smoke trapped in his throat. He shuthis eyes so tightly a thousand specks of white lightassaulted the dark

screen of his mind. He felt ill, and he knew it wasnot simply fear alone that had brought on thenausea. It was something else, something that was inand of itself as paralysing fear. He had committedan act of utter brutality, and it both shocked andappalled him. He had actually physically attacked aman, wanUng to cripple him, perhaps killhim which he may very well have done. No matterwhy, he may have killed another human being! Didthe presence of a hand-held radio justify a shatteredskull? Did it constitute self-defence? Goddamn it, hewas a man of words, of logic, not blood! Neverblood, that was in the past, so long ago and sopainful.

Those memories belonged to another ffme, to anuncivilized time, when men became what they werenot in order to survive. Converse never wanted to goback. Above all things, he had promised himself henever would, a promise he made when the terror andthe violence were all around him, at their shatteringworst. He remembered so vividly, with such pain, thefinal hours before his last escape and the quiet,generous man without whom he would have diedtwenty feet down in the earth, a shaft in the grounddesigned for troublemakers.

Colonel Sam Abbott, US. Air Force, would alwaysbe a part of his life no matter how many years mightseparate them. At the risk of torture and death, Samhad crawled out at night and had thrown a crudelyfashioned metal wedge down the “punishment hole’, itwas that primitive tool that allowedloel to build acrude ladderoutof earth and rock and finally tofreedom. Abbott and he had spent the last twenty-sevenmonths in the same cam p, both officers trying to holdtogether what sanity there was. But Sam understoodthe burning inside Joel; the Colonel had stayed behind,and during those final hours before breakout, Joel waswracked by the thoughts of what might happen to hisfriend

“Don’t worry about me, sailor. Just keep yourminimum wits about you and get rid of that wedge.

Take care, Sam.

You take care. This is the last shot you’ve got.

I know.

Joel moved over toward the door and rolleddown the window several inches more to increasethe rush of wind from the highway. Christ, heneeded Sam Abbott’s quiet objectivity now! Hislawyer’s mind told him to get hold of himself; hehad

to think and his thoughts had to stimulate whateverimaginahon he had. First things first. Think! Theradio he had to get rid of the radio. But not at theairport it might be found in the airport; it wasevidence, and worse, a means of tracing him. Herolled the window further down and threw it out, hiseyes on the rearview mirror above the windshield.The driver glanced up at him, saw the bloody facebut showed no alarm; Joel took repeated deepbreaths and then rolled the window back up. Think.He had to think! Bertholdier expected him to gofrom Paris to Bonn and when the general’s soldierwas found and he had undoubtedly been found bynow all flights to Bonn would be watched, whetherthe man was alive or dead.

He would buy a ticket for somewhere else,someplace where connections to Cologne-Bonn wereaccessible on a regular basis. As the stream of aircooled his face it occurred to him to remove thehandkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe awaythe moist blood that covered his right cheek andlower chin.

"Scandinavian Air Icings,” he said, raising hisvoice to the driver. “SAS. Do you . . . comprends?”

“Very clearly, monsieur,’ said the bereted manbehind the wheel in good English. " Do you have areservation for Stockholm, Oslo, or Copenhagen?They are different gates.”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”

“We have time, monsieur. At least fifteen minutes.”

The voice over the telephone from London wasfrigid, the words and the delivery an impersonalrebuke. “There is no attorney by that name inChicago, and certainly not at the address you gaveme. In fact, the address does not exist. Do you havesomething else to offer, or do we put this down asone of your more paranoid fantasies, mon general?”

“You are a fool, I’Anglais, with no morecomprehension than a frightened rabbit. I heard whatI heard!”

“From whom? A nonexistent man?”

“A nonexistent man who has put my aide in ahospital! A fractured skull with a great loss of bloodand severe brain damage. He may not live, and if hedoes, he will no doubt be a vegetable. Speak to menot of fantasies, daffodil The man is real.”

“Are you serious?”

“”Call the hospital! L’hopital Saint-Jerome. Letthe doctors tell you.”

“All right, all right, compose yourself. We mustthink.”

“I am perfectly composed,” said Bertholdier,getting up from the desk in his study and carryingthe phone to the window, the extension cord snakingacross the floor. He looked out; it had begun torain, the street lights diffused in the spattered glass.“He’s on his way to Bonn,” continued the general.“It was his next stop, he was very clear about it.”

“Intercept him. Call Bonn, reach Cologne, givethem his description. How many flights can there befrom Paris with a lone American on board? Takehim at the airport. "

Bertholdier sighed audibly into the phone, histone one of discouragement bordering on disgust. “Itwas never my intention to take him. It would serveno purpose and probably cut us off from what wehave to learn. I want him followed. I want to knowwhere he goes, whom he calls, whom he meets with;these are the things we must learn.”

“You said he made a direct reference to ourassociate. That he was going to reach him.”

“Not our people. H"s people.”

“I’ll say it again,” insisted the voice fromLondon. “Call Cologne, reach Bonn. Listen to me,Jacques, he can be found, and once he is, he can befollowed.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do as you My, but it may not be aseasy as you think. Three hours ago I would havethought otherwise, but that was before I knew whathe was capable of. Someone who can take anotherman and rush that man’s head into a stone wall atfull force is either an animal, a maniac, or a zealotwho will stop at nothing. In my judgment, he is thelast. He said he had a commitment and it was inhis eyes. And he’ll be clever; he’s already proven hecan be clever.”

“You say three hours?”

“Yes.”

“Then he may already be in Bonn.”

“I know.”

“Have you called our associate?”

“Yes, he’s not at home and the maid could notgive me another number. She doesn’t know wherehe is, or when he’s expected.”

“Probably in the morning.”

“No doubt…. Auende^^I There was anotherman at the dub this afternoon. With Luboque andthis Simon, whose

name is not Simon. He brought him to Luboque!Good-bye, I’Angla"s I’ll keep you informed.”

ReneMattilon opened his eyes. The streaks oflight on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, myriad tinyclots bursting, breaking up the linear patterns. Thenhe heard the sound of the rain on the windows andunderstood. The shafts of light from the streetlampshad been intercepted by the glass, distorting theimages he knew so well. It was the rain, he con-cluded; that was what had awakened him. That andperhaps the weight of his wife’s hand between hislegs. She stirred and he smiled, trying to make up hismind or find the energy to reach for her. She hadfilled a void for him he had thought would always bethere after his first wife died. He was grateful, andalong with his feeling of gratitude came excitement,two emotions satisfyingly compatible. He wasbecoming aroused; he rolled over on his side andpulled down the covers, revealing the swell of herbreasts encased in laced silk, the diffused light andthe pounding on the windows heightening thesensuality. He reached for her.

Suddenly, there was another sound besides therain, and though still wrapped in the mists of sleephe recognized it. Quickly he withdrew his hand andturned away from his wife. He had heard that noiseonly moments before; it was the sound that hadawakened him, an insistent tone that had broken thesteady rhythm of the downpour: the chimes of hisapartment doorbell.

Mattilon climbed out of bed as carefully as hecould, reaching for his bathrobe on a nearby chairand sliding his feet into his slippers. He walked outof the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him,and found the wall switch that turned on the lampsin the living room. He glanced at the ornate clock onthe fireplace mantel. it was nearly two-thirty in themorning. Who could possibly be calling on them atthis hour? He tied the sash around his robe andwalked to the door.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Surete, monsieur. Inspector Prudhomme. Mystate identification is zero-five-seven-two-zero.” Theman’s accent was Gascon, not Parisian. It was oftensaid that Gascons made the best police officials. “Ishall wait while you call my station, monsieur. Thetelephone number is “

“No need,” said Mattilon, alarmed, unlatching thedoor.

He knew the man was genuine not only from theinformation offered, but anyone from the Suretecalling on him at this hour would know he was anattorney. The Surete was legally circumspect.

There were two men, both in raincoats spottedby the downpour, their hats drenched; one wasolder than the other and shorter. Each held out anopen identification for Rene’s inspection. He wavedthe cards aside and gestured for the two men tocome in, adding, “It’s an odd time for visitors,gentlemen. You must have pressing business.”

“Very pressing, monsieur,” said the older man,entering first. He was the one who had spokenthrough the door, giving his name as Prudhomme,and was obviously the senior. “We apologize for theinconvenience, of course.” Both men removed theirhats.

“Of course. May I take your coats?”

“It won’t be necessary, monsieur. With yourcooperation we’ll only be a few minutes.”

“And I shall be most interested to know how Ican cooperate with the Surete at this time of night."

“A matter of identification, sir. Monsieur SergeAntoine Luboque is a client of yours, we areinformed. Is this so?”

“My God, has something happened to Serge? Iwas with him only this afternoon!”

“Monsieur Luboque appears to be in excellenthealth. We left his country house barely an hourago. And to the point, it is your meeting with himthis afternoon yesterday afternoon that concernsthe Surete.”

“In what way?”

“There was a third party at your table. Likeyourself, an attorney, introduced to MonsieurLuboquc-" man named Simon. Henry Simon, anAmerican.”

“And a pilot,” said Mattilon warily. “Withconsiderable expertise in aircraft litigation. I trustLuboque explained that; it was the reason he wasthere at my request. Monsieur Luboque is theplaintiff in just such a lawsuit. That, of course, is allI can say on the subject.”

“It is not the subject that interests the Surete.”

“What is, then?”

“There is no attorney by the name of HenrySimon in the city of Chicago, Illinois, in the UnitedStates.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

The name is false At least, it is not his. Theaddress he gave the hotel does not exist”

The address he gave the hotels, Rene,astonished. Joel did not have to give an address tothe George V it knew him well, knew the firm ofTalbot, Brooks and Simon very well, indeed

fin his own handwriting, monsieur,” added theyounger man sbfily

Has the hotel management confirmed this?”

eyes,” said Prudhomme The night concierge wasvery cooperative He told us he escorted MonsieurSimon down the freight elevator to the hotel cellars.”

The cellars?”

Monsieur Simon wished to leave the hotelwithout being seen. He paid his bill in his room”

A minute, please,” said Mathlon, perplexed, hishands protesting, as he turned and walked aimlesslyaround an armchair. He stopped, his hands on therim. " What precisely do you want from mew

Ewe want you to help us,” answered Prudhomme.We think you know who he is. You brought him toMonsieur Luboque.”

On a confidential matter entailing a legalopinion He agreed to listen and to evaluate on thecondition that his idenbty be protected. It’s notunusual when seeking expertise if one is involvedwith, shall we say, an individual as wealthy and astemperamental as Monsieur Luboque You’ve spokenwith him; need I say more?”

“”Not on that subject,” said the older man fromthe Surete permitting himself a smile. “He thinks allgovernment personnel work for Moscow. We weresurrounded by dogs in his foyer, all salivating, Imight add.”

"When you can understand why my Americancolleague prefers to remain unnamed. I know himwell, he’s a splendid man.”

Who is he? And do you know where we can findhim?”

Why do you want him?”

“We wish to question him about an incident thattook place at the hotel.”

“I’m sorry. As Luboque is a client, so byextension is Simon “

“That is not acceptable to us under thecircumstances, monsieur “

“I’m afraid it will have to be, at least for a fewhours. Tomorrow I shall try to reach him throughhis office in . . . in the United States, and I’m surehe’ll get in touch with you immediately.”

“We don’t think he will.”

“Why not?”

Prudhomme glanced at his starchly posturedassociate and shrugged. “He may have killed a man,”he said matter-of-factly.

Mattilon stared at the Surete officer in disbelief.He … what?’

It was a particularly vicious assault, monsieur.A man’s head was rammed into a wall; there areextensive cranial injuries and the prognosis is notgood. His condition as of midnight was critical, thechances of recovery less than half. He may be deadby now, which one doctor said could be a blessing.”

No . . . no! You are mistaken! You’re wrong!”The lawyer’s hands gripped the back of the chair.A terrible error has been made!”

No error. The identification was positive thatis, Monsieur Simon was identified as the last personseen with the man who was beaten. He forced theman out into an alley; there were sounds ofscuffling and minutes later that man was found, hisskull fractured, bleeding, near death.”

"Impossible! You don’t know him! What yousuggest is inconceivable. He couldn’t.”

“Are you telling us he is disabled, physicallyincapable of assault?”

“No,” said Mattilon, shaking his head. Thensuddenly he stopped all movement. “Yes,” hecontinued thoughtfully, his eyes pensive, nownodding, rushing ahead. “He’s incapable, yes, butnot physically. Mentally. In that sense he is disabled.He could not do what you say he did.”

“He’s mentally deranged?”

“My God, no! He’s one of the most lucid menI’ve ever met. You have to understand. He wentthrough a prolonged period of extreme physicalstress and mental anguish. He endured punishment,to both his body and his mind. There was nopermanent damage but there are indeliblememories. Like so many men who’ve been subjectedto such treatment, he avoids all forms of physicalconfrontation or abuse. It is repugnant to him. Hecan’t inflict punishment because too much wasinflicted on him.”

“You mean he would not defend himself, hisown? He would turn the other cheek if he, or hiswife, or his children were attacked?”

“Of course not, but that’s not what you described.You said "a particularly vicious assault, implyingsomething quite different. And if it wereotherwise if he were threatened or attacked anddefended himself he most certainly would not haveleft the scene. He’s too fine a lawyer.” Mattilonpaused. “Was that the case? Is that what you’resaying? Is the injured man known to you from thepolice files? Is he “

“A limousine chauffeur,” interrupted Prudhomme.“An unarmed man who was waiting for his assignedpassenger of the evening.”

“In the cellars?”

“Apparently it is a customary service and not anunfamiliar one. These firms are discreet. This onesent another driver to cover before inquiring as totheir employee’s condition. The client would notknow.”

“Very chic, I’m sure. What do they say happened?”

“According to a witness, a guard who’s been withthe hotel for eighteen years, this Simon approachedin a loud voice, speaking English the guard thinksangrily, although he does not understand thelanguage and forced the man outside.”

“The guard is wrong! It had to be someone else.”

“Simon identified himself. The concierge hadcleared his departure. The description fits; it was theone who called himself Simon.”

“But why? There has to be a reason!”

“We should like to hear it, monsieur.”

Rene shook his head in bewilderment; nothingmade sense. A man could register at any hotel underany name he wished, of course, but there werecharges, credit cards, people calling; a false nameserved no purpose. Especially at a hotel where onewas presumably known, and if one was known andchose to travel incogmto, that status would not beprotected if a front desk was questioned by theSurete. “I must ask you again, Inspector, have youchecked thoroughly with the hotel?”

“Not personally, monsieur,” replied Prudhomme,looking at his associate. “My time was taken upinterrogating those in the vicinity of the assault.”

“I checked with the concierge myself, monsieur,” said

the younger, taller man, speaking like aprogrammed robot. “ Naturally, the hotel is notanxious for the incident to receive attention, wascooperative. The night concierge is newly employedfrom the Hotel Meurice and wished to minimize theincident, but he himself showed me the registrationform. ”

I see.” And Matfflon did see, at least insofar asJoel’s identity was concerned. Hundreds of guests ata large hotel and a nervous concierge protecting hisnew employer’s image. The obvious source wasaccepted as truth, another truth no doubtforthcoming in the morning from more knowl-edgeable men. But that was all Reneunderstood nothing else. He needed a fewmoments to think, to try to understand.

“I’m curious,” he said, reaching for words. ”"Atworst, this is an assault with severe results, butnevertheless an assault. Why isn’t it a simple policematter? Why the Surete?”

“My first question, monsieur,” said theplainspoken Prudhomme. The reason given us wasthat the incident involved a foreigner, obviously awealthy foreigner. One does not know these dayswhere such things may lead. We have certaincontrols not available to the arrond”ssement police."

PI see.

Ado you?” asked the man from the Surete. MayI remind you that as an attorney you have anobligation to uphold the courts and the law? Youhave been offered our credentials and I havesuggested you call my station for any furtherverification you might wish. Please, monsieur, whois Henry Simon?”

PI have other obligations, as well, Inspector. Tomy word, to a client, to an old friendship “

You put these above the law?”

Only because I know you’re wrong”

.Then where is the harm? If we are wrong, weshall find this Simon undoubtedly at an airport andhe will tell us himself. But if we are not, we mayfind a very sick man who needs help. Before heharms others. I am no psychiatrist, monsieur, butyou have described a troubled man a oncetroubled man, in any event. "

Matfflon was uncomfortable with the bluntofficial’s logic . . . and also something else he couldnot define. Was it Joel? Was it the clouds in his oldfriend’s eyes, the unconscious verbal slip about ablemished rock in the dirt? Rene looked again atthe clock on the mantel; a thought occurred to him.It was only eight-forty-two in New York.

“Inspector, I’m going to ask you to wait herewhile I go into my study and make a phone call onmy private line. The line, incidentally, is notconnected to the telephone on the table.”

“That was unnecessary, monsieur.”

“Then I apologise.”

Mattilon walked rapidly to a door on theopposite side of the room, opened it and went inside.He crossed to his desk, where he sat down andopened a red-leather telephone index. He flipped thepages to the letter T. scanning the names until hereached Talbot, Lawrence. He had both the officeand the house number; the latter was necessarybecause the courts in Paris were in operation beforethe East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbotwas not there, he would try Nathan Simon, thenBrooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was nec-essary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone.

“I’ll be damned, how are you, Rene? You in NewYork?” “No, Paris.”

“Sounds like you’re down the block.”

“So do you. It’s always startling.”

“It’s also late where you are, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It’s very late, Larry. We may have a problem,that’s why I’m calling.”

“A problem? I didn’t even know we had anybusiness going. What is it?”

“Your missionary work.”

“Our what?”

“Bertholdier. His friends.”

“W7lo?”

“Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”

“Who is he? I’ve heard the name but I can’t placehim.” “You can’t . . . place him?”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been with Joel. I arranged the meeting.”

“Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?”

“You weren’t aware of it?”

“Last time I spoke with him was two days ago inGeneva after that awful business with Halliday. Hetold me he was all right, but he wasn’t. He wasshaken up.”

“Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not inParis on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, isthat what you’re saying?”

Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. “No,he’s not,” said the senior partner softly. “Did he sayhe was?”

“Perhaps I just assumed it.”

Again Talbot paused. “I don’t think you’d dothat. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me.”

“That’s part of the problem, Larry. I don’t knowwhere he is. He said he was taking the five o’clockplane for London, but he didn’t. He checked out ofthe George Cinq quite a bit later under very oddcircumstances.”

"What do you mean?”

His hotel registration was altered, changed toanother name a name I suggested, incidentally, ashe didn’t wish to use his own at lunch. Then heinsisted on leaving by way of some basementdelivery entrance.”

“That’s strange.”

“I’m afraid it’s the least of the oddities. They sayhe assaulted a man. He may have killed him.”

"lesus!”

“I don't believe it, of course,” said Mattilonquickly. ”He wouldn’t, he couldn’t ,

“I hope not.”

"Certainly you don’t think “

"I don’t know what to think,” interruptedTalbot. When he was in Ceneva and we talked, Iasked him if there was any connection betweenllalliday’s death and what he was doing. He saidthere wasn’t, but he was so remote, so distant; hisvoice sounded hollow.”

"What he’s doing . . . ? What is he doing?”

"I don’t know. I’m not even sure I can find out,but I’ll do my damnedest. I tell you, I’m worried.Something’s happened to him. His voice was like anecho chamber, do you know what I mean?’,

Byes, I do,” said Mattilon quietly. I heard him, I saw him. I’m worried too.”

"Find him, Rene. Do whatever you can. Give methe word and I’ll drop everything and By over. He’shurting somewhere, somehow.”

“I’ll do what I can.’,

Mattilon walked out of his study and faced thetwo men from the police.

His name is Converse, Joel Converse,” he began.

* * *

“His name is Converse, first nameJoel,” said theyounger, taller man from the Surete, speaking intothe mouthpiece of a pay phone on the BoulevardRaspail, as the rain pounded the booth. “He’semployed by a law firm in New York: Talbot, Brooksand Simon; the address is on Fifth Avenue. The as-sumed name, Simon, however, was apparently aconvenience, and not related to the firm.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Whatever this Converse is involved with hasnothing to do with his employers. Mattilon reachedone of the partners in New York and it was madeclear to him. Also both men are concerned, worried;they wish to be kept informed. If Converse is found,Mattilon insists on immediate access to him as theattorney of record. He may be holding back, but inmy judgment he’s genuinely bewildered. In shock,might be more accurate. He knows nothing ofconsequence. I could tell if he did.”

“Nevertheless, he is holding back. The nameSimon was used for my benefit so I would not learnthe identity of this Converse. Mattilon knows that; hewas there and they are friends and he brought himto Luboque.”

“Then he was manipulated, General. He did notmention

you.”

“He might if he’s questioned further. I cannot beinvolved in any way.”

“Of course not,” agreed the man from the SCretewith quiet emphasis.

“Your superior, what’s his name? The oneassigned to the incident.”

“Prudhomme. Inspector First Grade Prudhomme.”

“Is he frank with you?”

“Yes. He thinks I’m something of a mechanicalex-soldier whose instincts may outdistance hisintellect, but he sees that I’m willing. He talks tome.”

“You’ll be kept with him for a while. Should hedecide to go back and see Mattilon, let me knowimmediately. Paris may lose a respected attorney. Myname must not surface.”

“He would go back to Mattilon only if Conversewas found. And if word came to the Surete as to hiswhereabouts, I’d reach you instantly.”

“There could be another reason, Colonel. Onethat might provoke a persistent man intoreexamining his progress or lack of it in spite oforders to the contrary.”

" Orders to the contrary, sir?”

“They will be issued. This Converse is solely ourconcern now. All we needed was a name. We knowwhere he’s heading. We’ll find him.”

“I don’t understand, General.”

“News has come from the hospital. Ourchauffeur has taken a turn for the better.”

“Good news, indeed.”

“I wish it were. The sacrifice of a single soldieris abhorrent to any field commander, but thebroader tactics must be kept in view, they must beserved. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Our chauffeur must not recover. The largerstrategy Colonel.”

“If he dies, the efforts to find Converse will beintensified. And you’re right, Prudhomme willreexamine everything, including the lawyer,Mattilon.”

“Orders to the contrary will be issued. But watchhim.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now we need your expertise, Colonel. Thetalents you developed so proficiently while in theservice of the Legion before we brought you back toa more civilized life.”

“My gratitude isn’t shallow. Whatever I can do.”

“Can you get inside the Hospital of Saint Jeromewith as little notice as possible?”

“With no notice. There are fire escapes on allsides of the building and it’s a dark night, heavywith rain. Even the police stay in doorways. It’schild’s play.”

“But man’s work. It has to be done.”

“I don’t question such decisions.”

“A blockage in the windpipe, a convulsion in thethroat.”

“Pressure applied through cloth, sir. Graduallyand with no marks, a patient’s self-inducedtrauma…. But I would be derelict if I didn’t repeatwhat I said, General. There’ll be a search of Paris,then a large-scale manhunt. The killer will bepresumed to be a rich American, an inviting targetfor the Surete.”

“There’ll be no search, no manhunt. Not yet. Ifit is to be it will come later, and if it does, aconvicted corpse will be trapped in the net…. Gointo the field, my young friend. The chauffeur,Colonel; the broader strategy must be served.”

“He’s dead,” said the man in the telephonebooth, and hung up.

Erich Leifhelm . . . born March 15, 1912, in Mu-nich to Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm and his mistress,Marta Stoessel. Although the stigma of his illegiti-macy precluded a normal childhood in theupper-middle-class, morality-conscious Cermany ofthose years, it was the single most important factor inhis later preeminence in the National Socialistmovement. At birth he was denied the name of Leif-helm; until 1931 he was known as Erich Stoessel.

Joel sat at a table in the open cafe inCopenhagen’s Kastrup Airport, trying to concentrate.It was his second attempt within the past twentyminutes, the first he abandoned when he realised hewas absorbing nothing, seeing only black lettersforming an unending string of vaguely recog"uzablewords relating to a figure in the outer reaches of hismind. He could not focus on that man; there weretoo many interferences, real and imagined. Nor hadhe been able to read on the two-hour flight fromParis, having opted for economy class, hoping to meltin with the greater number of people in the largersection of the aircraft. The concept at least was valid;the seats were so narrow and the plane so fullyoccupied that elbows and forearms were virtuallyimmobile. The conditions prohibited his taking outthe report, both for reasons of space and for fear ofthe proximity to straying eyes.

Heinrich Leifhelm moved his-mistress and theirson to the town of Eichstatt, fifty odd miles north ofMunich, visiting them now and then, and providingan adequate but not overly comfortable standard ofliving. The doctor was apparently torn betweenmaintaining a successful practice with no socialblemishes_in Munich and a disinclination to aban

don the stigmatised and child. According to closeacquaintances of Erich Stoessel-Leifhelm, theseearly years had a profound effect on him. Althoughhe was too young to grasp the full impact of WorldWar I, he was later haunted by the memory of thesmall households subsistence level falling as theelder Leifhelm’s ability to contribute lessened withthe burden of wartime taxes. Too, his father’s visitsserved to heighten the fact that he could not be ac-knowledged as a son and was not entitled to theprivileges accorded two half brothers and a halfsister, strangers he was never to know and whosehome he could not enter. Through the absence ofproper lineage, certified by hypocritical documentsand more hypocritical church blessings, he felt hewas denied what was rightfully his, and so there wasinstilled in him a furious sense of resentment,competitiveness, and a deep-seated anger at existingsocial conditions. By his own admission, his firstconscious longings were to get as much as he couldfor himself both materially and in the form ofrecognition through the strength of his ownabilities, and, by doing so, strike out at the statusquo which had tried to emasculate him. By hismid-teens, Stoessel-Leifhelm was consumed withanger.

Converse stopped reading, suddenly aware ofthe woman across the half-deserted cafe; she wasseated alone at a table, looking at him. Their eyesmet and she turned away, placing her arm on thelow white railing that enclosed the restaurantstudying the thinning, late-night crowds in theterminal, as if waiting for someone. Startled, Joeltried-to analyze the look she had given him. Was itrecogrution? Did she know him? Know his face? Orwas it appraisal? A well-dressed whore cruising theairport in search of a mark, seeking out a lonelybusinessman far away from home? She turned herhead slowly and looked at him again, now obviouslyupset that his eyes were still on her. Then abruptly,in two swiftly defined motions, she glanced at herwatch, tugged at her wide-brimmed hat, and openedher purse. She took out a Krone note, placed it onthe table, got up, and walked rapidly toward the en-trance of the cafe. Beyond the open gate shewalked faster her strides longer, heading for thearch that led to the bag

gage-claim area. Converse watched her in the dullwhite neon light of the terminal, shaking his head,annoyed at his alarm. With his attache case andleather-bound report, the woman had probablythought he was some kind of airport official. Whowas the mark, then?

He was seeing too many shadows, he thought, ashe followed the graceful figure nearing the arch. Toomany shadows that held no surprises, no alarms.There had been a man on the plane from Parissitting several rows in front of him. Twice the manhad gotten up and gone to the toilet, and each timehe came back to his seat he had looked hard atJoel studied him, actually. Those looks had beenenough to prime his adrenaline. Had he been spottedat the De Gaulle Airport? Was the man an employeeof Jacques-Louis Bertholdier? . . . As a man in analley had been Don’t think about that! He hadflicked off an oval of dried blood on his shirt as hehad given himself the command.

“I can always tell a good ale Yank! Never missl”

That had been the antiquated salutation inCopenhagen as both Americans waited for theirluggage.

“Well, I missed once. Some son of a bitch on aplane in Geneva. Sat right next to me. A real guineain a three-piece suit, that’s what he west He spokeEnglish to the stewardess so I figured he was one ofthose rich Cuban spicks from Florida, you know whatI mean?”

An emissary in salesman’s clothes. One of thediplomats.

Geneva. It had started in Geneva.

Too many shadows. No surprises, no alarms. Thewoman went through the arch and Joel pulled hiseyes away, forcing his attention back to the report onErich Leifhelm. Then a slight, sudden movementcaught the corner of his eye; he looked back at thewoman. A man had stepped out of an unseen recess;his hand had touched her elbow. They exchangedwords briefly, swiftly, and parted as abruptly as theyhad met, the man continuing into the terminal as thewoman disappeared. Did the man glance over in hisdirection? Converse watched closely; had that manlooked at him? It was impossible to tell; his head wasturning in all directions, looking at or for something.Then, as if he had found it, the man hurried towarda bank of airline counters. He approached the JapanAir Lines desk, and taking out his wallet, he beganspeaking to an Oriental clerk.

No surprises, no alarms. A harried traveler hadasked di

rections; the interferences were more imaginedthan real. Yet even here his lawyer’s mentalityintervened. Interferences were real whether basedin reality or not. Oh, Christ! Leave it alonelConcentratel

At the age of seventeen, ErichStoessel-Leifhelm had completed his studies at theEichstatt II Gymnasium, excelling bothacademically and on the playing field, where he wasknown as an aggressive competitor. It was a time ofuniversal financial chaos, the American stockmarket crash of "29 further aggravating thedesperate economy of the Weimar Republic, andfew but the most well-connected students went onto universities. In a move he later described tofriends as one of youthful fury, Stoessel-Leifhelmtraveled to Munich to confront his father and de-mand assistance. What he found was a shock, butit turned out to be a profound opportunity,strangely arrived at. The doctor’s staid, placid lifewas in shambles. His marriage, from the beginningunpleasant and humiliating, had caused him todrink heavily with increasing frequency until theinevitable errors of judgment occurred. He wascensured by the medical community (with a highproportion of Jews therein), charged withincompetence and barred from the KarlstorHospital. His practice was in ruins, his wife hadordered him out of the house, an order expeditedby an old but still powerful father-in-law, also adoctor and member of the hospital’s board of direc-tors. When Stoessel-Leifhelm found his father, hewas living in a cheap apartment house in the poorersection of the city picking up pfennigs by dispensingprescriptions (drugs) and deutsche marks by per-forming abortions.

In what apparently (again according to friendsfrom the time) was a watershed of pent-upemotions, the elder LeifLelm embraced hisillegitimate son and told him the story of histortured life with a disagreeable wife and tyrannicalin-laws. It was the classic syndrome of an ambitiousman of minimal talents and maximum connections.But withal, the doctor claimed he had neverabandoned his beloved mistress and their son. Andduring this prolonged and

undoubtedly drunken confession, he revealed afact Stoessel-Leifhelm had never known. Hisfather’s wife was Jewish. It was all the teenagerhad to hear.

The disfranchised boy became the father to theruined man.

There was an announcement in Danish over theairport’s loudspeakers and Joel looked at his watch.It came again, now in German. He listened intentlyfor the words, he could barely distinguish them, butthey were there. “HamburgKoln-Bonn.” It was thefirst boarding call for the last flight of the night tothe capital of West Germany by way of Hamburg.The flying time was less than two hours, the layoverin Hamburg justified for those executives whowanted to be at their desks by the start of thebusiness day. Converse had checked his suitcasethrough to Bonn, making a mental note as he did soto replace the heavy black leather bag with acarry-on. He was no expert in such matters, butcommon sense told him that the delays required bywaiting for one’s luggage in the open for anyone tosee was no way to travel swiftly or to avoid eyesthat might be searching for him. He put Erich Leif-helm’s dossier in his attache case, closed it and spunthe brass combination disks. He then got up fromthe table, walked out of the cafe and across theterminal toward the Lufthansa gate.

Sweat matted his hairline; the tattoo inside hischest accelerated until it sounded like a hammeringfugue for kettledrums. He knew the man sitting nextto him, but from where or from what period in hislife he had no idea. The craggy, lined face, the deepridges that creased the suntanned flesh the intenseblue-grey eyes beneath the thick, wild brows andbrown hair streaked with white he knew him, butno name came, no clue to the man’s identity.

Joel kept waiting for some sign of recognitiondirected at him. None came, and involuntarily hefound himself looking at the man out of the comerof his eye. The man did not respond; instead hisattention was on a bound sheaf of typewritten pages,the type larger than the print nominally associatedwith legal briefs or even summonses. Perhaps,thought Converse, the man was half blind, wearingcontact lenses to conceal his infirmity. But was theresomething else? Not an infirmity, but a connectionbeing concealed. Had he seen this man in Paris ashe had seen another wearing a light-brown

topcoat in a hotel basement corridor? Had this manbeside him also been at L’Etalon Blanc? Had hebeen part of a stationary group of ex-soldiers in thewarriors’ playroom . . . in a corner perhaps, andinconspicuous because of the numbers? Or atBertholdier’s table, his back to Joel, presumablyunseen by the American he was now following? Washe following him at this moment? wonderedConverse, gripping his attache case. He turned hishead barely inches and studied his seatmate.

Suddenly the man looked up from the boundtypewritten pages and over at Joel. His eyes werenoncommittal, expressing neither curiosity norirritation.

“Sorry,” said Converse awkwardly.

“Sure, it’s okay . . . why not?” was the strange,laconic reply, the accent American, the dialectdistinctly TexasWestern. The man returned to hispages.

“Do we know each other?” asked Joel, unable toback off from the question.

Again the man looked up. “Don’t think so,” hesaid tersely, once more going back to his report, orwhatever it was.

Converse looked out the window, at the blacksky beyond, flashes of red light illuminating thesilver metal of the wing. Absently he tried tocalculate the digital degree heading of the aircraftbut his pilot’s mind would not function. He didknow the man, and the oddly phrased “Why not?”served only to disturb him further. Was it a signal,a warning? As his words to Jacques-LouisBertholdier had been a signal, a warning that thegeneral had better contact him, recognise him.

The voice of a Lufthansa stewardess interruptedhis thoughts. “Herr Dowling, it is a pleasure, indeed,to have you on board.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” said the man, his lined facecreasing into a gentle grin. “You find me a littlebourbon over ice and I’ll return the compliment.”

“Certainly, sir. I’m sure you’ve been told sooften you must be tired of hearing it, but yourtelevision show is enormously popular in Germany.”

“Thanks again, honey, but it’s not my show.There are a lot of pretty little fillies runnin’ aroundthat screen.”

An actor. A goddamned actor! thought Joel. Noalarms, no surprises. Just intrusions, far moreimagined than real.

“You’re too modest, Herr Dowling. They’re all soalike,

so disagreeable. But you are so kind, so manly . . . sounderstanding. "

“Understandin’? Tell you somethin’. I saw anepisode in Cologne last week while on this pictureand I didn’t understand a word I was sayin’.”

The stewardess laughed. “Bourbon over ice, isthat correct, sir?’

“That’s correct, darlin’.”

The woman started down the first-class aisletoward the galley as Converse continued to look atthe actor. Haltingly he spoke. “I am sorry. I shouldhave recognised you, of course.”

Dowling turned his suntanned head, his eyesroaming Joel’s face, then dropping to thehand-tooled leather attache case. He looked up withan amused smile. “I could probably embarrass you ifI asked you where you knew me from. You don’tlook like a Santa Fe groupie.”

“A Santa Fe . . . ? Oh, sure, that’s the name ofthe show.” And it was, reflected Converse. One ofthose phenomena on television that by the sheerforce of extraordinary ratings and network profitshad been featured on the covers of Time andNewsweek. He had never seen it

“And, naturally,” continued the actor, “you followthe tribal rites and wrongs the dramaticvicissitudes of the imperious Ratchet family, ownersof the biggest spread north of Santa Fe as well as thehistoric Chimaya Flats, which they stole from theimpoverished Indians.”

“The who? What?”

Dowling’s leathery face again laminated itself intoa grin. “Only Pa Ratchet, the Indians’ friend, doesn’tknow about the last part, although he’s being blamedby his red brothers. You see, Pa’s no-good sonsheard there was oil shale beneath the Chimayas anddid their thing. Incidentally, I trust you catch theverbal associations in the name Ratchet, you can takeyour choice. There’s just plain “rats,’ or Ratchet as in”wretched,’ or Ratchet as in the tool screwingeverything in front of it by merely pressing forward.”

There was something different about the actornow thoughtJoel, bewildered. Was it his words? No,not the words his voice. The Western inflections weregreatly diminished “I don’t know what you’re talkingabout, but you sound differ ens.”

“War, Ah’ll jes’ be hornswaggled i” said Dowling,laugh

ing. Then he returned to the unaccented tones hehad begun to display. “You’re looking at a renegadeteacher of English and college dramatics who saida dozen years ago to hell with old-age tenure, let’sgo after a very impractical dream. It led to a lot offunny and not very dignified jobs, but the spirit ofThespis moves in mysterious ways. An old studentof mine, in one of those indefinable jobs like“production-coordinator,’ spotted me in a crowdscene; it embarrassed the hell out of him.Nevertheless, he put my name in for several smallparts. A few panned out, and a couple of years lateran accident called Santa Fe came along. That’swhen my perfectly respectable name of Calvin waschanged to Caleb. ”Fits the image belter,’ said a pairof Gucci loafers who never got closer to a horsethan a box at Santa Anita…. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

"Crazy,” agreed Converse, as the stewardesswalked back up the aisle toward them.

“Crazy or not,” added Dowling under his breath,” this good old rancher isn t going to offend anyone.They want Pa Ratchet, they’ve got him.”

“Your bourbon, sir,” said the woman, handingthe actor a glass.

“Why, thank you, li’l darlin’! My oh my, you’repurber than any filly on the showI”

“You are too kind, sir.”

“May I have a Scotch, please,” said Joel.

“That’s better, son,” said Dowling, grinningagain as the stewardess left. “And now that youknow my crime, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“At least you’ve got something legitimate toread. This screenplay sure as hell isn’t.”

Although considered by most of Munich’s re

spectable citizens to be a collection of misfits andthugs, the National Socialist German Workers’Party,with its headquarters in Munich, was making itselffelt throughout Germany. The radical-populistmovement was taking hold by basing its inflamma-tory message on the evil un-German “them.” Itblamed the ills of the nation on a spectrum oftargetsranging from the Bolsheviks to the ingrate Jewishbankers; from the foreign plunderers who hadrapedan Aryan land to, finally, all things not “Aryan,”

namely and especially the Jews and theirill-gotten wealth.

Cosmopolitan Munich and itsJewishcommunity laughed at the absurdities; they werenot listening. The rest of Cermany was; it washearing what it wanted to hear. And ErichStoessel-Leifhelm heard it too. It was his passportto recognition and opportunity.

In a matter of weeks, the young man literallywhipped his father into shape. In later years hewould tell the story with heavy doses of cruelhumor. Over the dissolute physician’s hystericalobjections the son removed all alcohol andsmoking materials from the premises, neverletting his father out of his sight. A harshregimen of exercise and diet was enforced. Withthe zeal of a puritanical athletic trainerStoessel-Leifhelm started taking his father out tothe countryside for Gewaltmarschen forcedmarches gradually working up to all-day hikeson the exhausting trails of the Bavarianmountains, continually shouting at the older manto keep moving, to rest only at his son’scommands, to drink water only with permission.

So successful was the rehabilitation that thedoctor’s clothes began to hang on him like seedy,old-fashioned garments purchased for a muchfatter man. A new wardrobe was called for, butgood clothing in Munich in those days wasbeyond the means of all but the wealthy, andStoessel-Leifhelm had only the best in mind forhis father not out of filial devotion but, as weshall see, for a quite different purpose.

Money had to be found, which meant it hadto be stolen. He interrogated his father at lengthabout the house the doctor had been forced toleave, learning everything there was to learn.Several weeks later Stoessel-Leifhelm broke intothe house on the Luisenstrasse at three o’clockone morning, stripping it of everything of value,including silver, crystal, oil paintings, gold placesettings, and the entire contents of a wall safe.Sales to fences were not difficult in Munich of 1930, and when everything was disposed of fatherand son had the equivalent of nearly eight

thousand American dollars, virtually a fortunein those times.

The restoration continued; clothes weretailored in the Maximilianstrasse, the bestfootwear purchased at bootsmiths on theOdeonsplatz, and, finally, cosmetic changeswere effected. The doctor’s unkempt hair wastrimmed and heightened by coloring into amasculine Nordic blond, and his shabbyinch-long beard shaved off, leaving only a small,unbroken, well-trimmed moustache above hisupper lip. The transformation was complete;what remained was the introduction

Every night during the long weeks ofrehabilitation, Stoessel-Leifhelm had read aloudto his father whatever he could get his hands onfrom the National Socialists’ headquarters, andthere was no lack of material. There were thestandard inflammatory pamphlets, pages ofersatz biological theory purportedly proving thegenetic superiority of Aryan purity and,conversely, the racial decline resulting from in-discriminate breeding all the usual Nazi dia-tribes plus generous excerpts from Hitler’sMein Kampf. The son read incessantly until thedoctor could recite by rote the salient outragesof the National Socialists’ message. Throughoutit all, the seventeen-year-old kept telling hisfather that following the party’s program wasthe way to get back everything that had beenstolen from him, to avenge the years ofhumiliation and ridicule. As Germany itself hadbeen humiliated by the rest of the world, theNazi party would be the avenger, the restorer ofall things truly German. It was, indeed, the NewOrder for the Fatherland, and it was waiting formen of stature to recognize the fact.

The day came, a day when Stoessel-Leifhelmhad learned that two high-ranking party officialswould be in Munich. They were the crippledpropagandist Joseph Goebbels and thewould-be aristocrat Rudolf Hess. The sonaccompanied the father to the NationalSocialists’ headquarters where the well-tailored,imposing, obviously rich and Aryan Doktorrequested an audience with the two Nazileaders on an urgent and confidential matter. It was granted, and according to early party historical ar-chives, his first words to Hess and Goebbels werethe

following.

“Gentlemen, I am a physician of impeccable

credentials, formerly head surgeon at the

Karlstor Hos,pital and for years I enjoyed one of the mostsuccessful practices in Munich. That was in thepast. I wasdestroyed by Jews who stole everything from me. I

am back, I am well, and I am at your service.”

The Lufthansa plane began its descent intoHamburg and Joel, feeling the drag, dog-eared thepage of Leifhelm’s dossier and reached down for hisattache case. Beside him, the actor Caleb Dowlingstretched, script in hand, then jammed his screenplayinto an open flight bag at his feet.

“The only thing sillier than this movie,” he said,“is the amount of money they’re paying me to be init.”

“Are you filming tomorrow?” asked Converse.

".Today,” corrected Dowling, looking at his watch.“It’s an early shoot, too. Have to be on location byfive-thirty dawn over the Rhine, or somethingequally inspiring. Now if they’d just turn the damnthing into a travelogue, we’d all be better off. Nicescenery.”

“But you were in Copenhagen.”

“Yep.”

“You’re not going to get much sleep.”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

The actor looked atJoel, the crow’s-feet aroundhis generous eyes creasing deeper with his smile. “Mywife’s in Copenhagen and I had two days off. Thiswas the last plane I could get.”

“Oh? You’re married?” Converse immediatelyregretted the remark; he was not sure why, but itsounded foolish.

“Twenty-six years, young fella. How do you thinkI was able to go after that impractical dream? She’sa whiz of a secretary; when I was teaching, she’dalways be this or that dean’s gal Friday.”

“Any children?”

“Can’t have everything. Nope.”

“Why is she in Copenhagen? I mean, why isn’tshe staying with you on location?”

The grin faded from Dowling’s suntanned face; thelines

were less apparent, yet somehow deeper. “That’s anobvious question, isn’t it? That is, you being alawyer would pick it up quickly.”

“It’s none of my business, of course. Forget I askedit.”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t like to talk aboutit rarely do but friendly seatmates on airplanesare for telling things. You’ll never see them again,so why not slice off a bit and feel better.” The actortried haltingly to smile; he failed. “My wife’s namewas Oppenfeld. She’s Jewish. Her story’s not muchdifferent from a few million others, but for her it’s. . . well, it’s hers. She was separated from herparents and her three younger brothers inAuschwitz. She watched them being takenaway away from her while she screamed, notunderstanding. She was lucky; they put her in abarracks, a fourteen-year-old sewing uniforms untilshe showed other endowments that could lead toother work. A couple of days later, hearing therumors, she got hysterical and broke out racing allover the place trying to find her family. She ran intoa section of the camp they called the A/ofall, thegarbage, corpses hauled out of the gas chambers.And there they were, the bodies of her mother andher father and her three brothers, the sight and thestench so sickening it’s never left her. It never will.She won’t set foot in Germany and I wouldn’t askher to.”

No alarms, just surprises . . . and another IronCross for the Erich Leilhelms of the past, retroactivelypresented.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” murmured Converse. “Ididn’t mean to ,,

“You didn’t. I did…. You see, she knows itdoesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t make sense? Maybe you didn’t hearwhat you just described.”

“I heard, I know, but I didn’t finish. When shewas sixteen, she was loaded into a truck with fiveother girls, all on their way to that different type ofwork, when they did it. Those kids took their lastchance and beat the hell out of a Wehrmachtcorporal who was guarding them in the van. Thenwith his gun they got control of the truck from thedriver and escaped.” Dowling stopped, his eyes onJoel.

Converse, silent, returned the look, unsure of itsmeaning, but moved by what he had heard. “That’sa marvelous story ” he said quietly “It really is.”

"And,” continued the actor, “for the next two yearsthey

were hidden by a succession of German families, whosurely knew what they were doing and what wouldhappen to them if they got caught. There was apretty frantic search for those girls a lot of threatsmade, more because of what they could tell thananything else. Still, those Germans kept moving themaround, hiding them, until one by one they weretaken across the border into occupied France, wherethings were easier. They were smuggled across by theunderground, the German underground. “Dowlingpaused, then added. “As Pa Ratchet would say, ”Doyou get my drift, son?’ "

“I’d have to say it’s obvious.”

“There’s a lot of pain and a lot of hate in her andGod knows I understand it. But there should besome gratitude, too. Couple of times clothing wasfound, and some of those people those Germanpeople were tortured, a few shot for what they did.I don’t push it, but she could level off with a littlegratitude. It might give her a bit more perspective.”The actor snapped on his seat belt.

Joel pressed the locks on his attache case,wondering if he should reply. Valerie’s mother hadbeen part of the German underground. His ex-wifewould tell him amusing stories her mother had toldher about a stern, inhibited French intelligenceofficer forced to work with a high-spirited, opinion-ated German girl, a member of the Untergmud Howthe more they disagreed, and the more they railedagainst each other’s nationality, the more theynoticed each other. The Frenchman was Val’s father;she was proud of him, but in some ways prouder ofher mother. There had been pain in that woman,too. And hate. But there had been a reason, and itwas unequivocal. As there had been for one JoelConverse years later.

“I said it before and J mean it,” began Joelslowly, not sure he should say anything at all. “It’snone of my business, but I wouldn’t ever push it, ifI were you.”

“Is this a lawyer talkin’to ole Pa?” asked Dowlingin his television dialect, his smile false, his eyes faraway. “Do I pay a fee?”

“Sorry, I'll shut up.” Converse adjusted his seatbelt and pushed the buckle in place.

“No, I’m sorry. I laid it on you. Say it. Please.”

“All right. The horror came first, then the hate.In sidewinder language that’s called prima facie theobvious, the first sighting . . . the real, if you like.Without these, there’d

be no reason for the gratitude, no call for it. So, ina way, the gratitude is just as painful because itnever should have been necessary. “

The actor once again studied Joel’s face, as hehad done before their first exchange of words.“You’re a smart son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Professionally adequate. But I’ve been there . .. that is, I know people who’ve been where your wifehas been. It starts with the horror.”

Dowling looked up at the ceiling light, andwhen. he spoke his words floated in the air, hisharsh voice quietly strained. “If we go to the movies,I have to check them out; if we’re watchingtelevision together, I read the TV section . . .sometimes on the news with some of those tuckingnuts I tense up, wondering what she’s going to do.She can’t see a swastika’ or hear someone screamingin German, or watch soldiers marching in a goosestep; she can’t stand it. She runs and throws up andshakes all over . . . and I try to hold her . . . andsometimes she thinks I’m one of them and shescreams. After all these years . . . Chnst!”

“Have you tried professional help not mykind but the sort she might need?”

“Oh, hell, she recovers pretty quick,” said theactor defensively, as if slipping into a role, histeacher’s grammar displaced for effect. “Also, untila few years ago we didn’t have the money for thatkind of thing,” he added somberly in his naturalvoice.

“What about now? That can’t be a problem now.”

Dowling dropped his eyes to the flight bag at hisfeet. “If I’d found her sooner . . . maybe. But wewere both late bloomers; we got married in ourforges two oddballs looking for something. It’s toolate now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never should have made this goddamn picture.Never. “

“Why did you?”

“She said I should. To show people I could playsomething more than a driveling, south-fortydispenser of fifth-rate bromides. I told her it didn’tmatter…. I was in the war, in the Marine Corps. Isaw some crap in the South Pacific but nothing tocompare with what she went through, not a spit inthe proverbial bucket. Jesus! Can you imagine whatit must have been like?”

“Yes, I can.”

The actor looked up from the flight bag, ahalf-drawn smile on his lined, suntanned face. “You,good buddy? Not unless you were caught inKorea “

"I wasn't in Korea.”

".Then you’d be hard put to imagine it any more than I. You were too young and I was too lucky.”

“Well, there was . . .” Converse fell silent, it waspointless. It had happened so often he did notbother to think about it anymore. “Nam had beenerased from the national conversational psyche. Heknew that if he reminded a man like Dowling, adecent man, the air would be filled with apologies,but nothing was served by a jarring remembrance.Not as it pertained to Mrs. Dowling, bornOppenfeld. “There’s the ”no smoking’ sign,” said Joel.“We’ll be in Hamburg in a couple of minutes.”

“I’ve taken this flight a half-dozen times over thepast two months,” said Caleb Dowling, “and let metell you, Hamburg’s a bitch. Not German customs,that’s a snap, especially this late. Those rubberstamps fly and they push you through in ten minutestops. But then you wait. Twice, maybe three times,it was over an hour before the plane to Bonn evengot here. By the way, care to join me for a drink inthe lounge?” The actor suddenly switched to hisSouthern dialect. “Between you and me, they makeit mighty pleasant for al’ Pa Ratchet. They telexahead and Ah got me my own gaggle of cowpokes,all ridin’ hard to git me to the waterin’ hole.”

“Well . . . ?”Joel felt flattered. Not only did helike Dowling, but being the guest of a celebrity wasa pleasant high. He had not had many pleasantthings happen to him recently.

“I should also warn you,” added the celebrity,“that even at this hour the groupies crawl out of thewalls, and the airline PR people manage to roust outthe usual newspaper photographers, but none of ittakes too long.”

Converse was grateful for the warning. “I’ve gotsome phone calls to make,” he said casually, “but ifI finish them on time, I’d like very much to joinyou.”

“Phone calls? At this hour?”

“Back to the States. It’s not this hour back in . . .Chicago.”

“Make them from the lounge they keep it open forme.”

“It may sound crazy,” said Joel, reaching forwords, “but I think better alone. There are somecomplicated things I have to explain. After customsI’ll find a phone booth.”

“Nothing sounds crazy to me, son. I work in Holl

Bee-wood.” Suddenly, the actor’s amusedexuberance faded. “In the States,” he said softly, hiswords floating again, eyes distant again. “Youremember that crap in Skokie, Illinois? They did atelevision show on it…. l was in the study learninglines when I heard the screams and the sound of adoor crashing open. I ran out and saw my wiferacing down to the beach. I had to drag her out ofthe water. Sixty-seven years old, and she was a littlegirl again, back in that goddamn camp, seeing thelines of hollow-eyed prisoners, knowing which lineswere which . . . seeing her mother and father, herthree kid brothers. When you think about it, youcan understand why those people say over and over,"Never again.’ It can’t ever happen again. I wantedto sell that tucking house; I won’t leave her alone init.”

“Is she alone now?”

“Nope,” said Dowling, his smile returning. “That’sthe good part. After that night we faced it; we bothknew she couldn’t be. Got her a sister, that’s whatwe did. Bubbly little thing with more funny storiesabout Cuckooburg than ever got into print. Butshe’s tough as they come; she’s been bouncingaround the studios for forty years.”

“An actress?”

“Not so’s anyone could tell, but she’s a great facein the crowd. She’s a good lady, too, good for mywife.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Joel, as the aircraft’swheels made bouncing contact with the runway andthe jet engines screeched into reverse thrust. Theplane rolled forward, then started a left turn towardits dock.

Dowling turned to Converse. “If you finish yourcalls, ask someone for the VIP lounge. Tell themyou’re a friend of mine.”

“I’ll try to get there.”

“If you don’t,” added the actor in his Santa Fedialect “see y’awl back in the steel corral. We got usanother leg on this here cattle drive, pardner. Gladyou’re ridin’ shotgun.”

“On a cattle drive?”

“What the hell do I know? I hate horses.”

The plane came to a stop, and the forward dooropened in less than thirty seconds as a number ofexcited passengers rapidly jammed the aisle. It wasobvious from the whispers and the stares and thefew who stood up on their toes to get clearer viewsthat the reason for the swift exodus of this initialcrowd was the presence of Caleb Dowling. And theactor was

playing his part, dispensing Pa Ratchet benedictionswith warm smiles, broad infectious winks, anddeep-throated laughter, all with good-old-wranglerhumility. As Joel watched he felt a rush ofcompassion for this strange man, this actor, thisrisk-taker with a private hell he shared with thewoman he loved.

Never again. It can "t ever happen again. Words.

Converse looked down at the attache case heheld with both hands on his lap. inside was anotherstory, one that held a time bomb ready to detonate.

I am back, l am well, and l am at yourservice.Also words from another time but full of menacefor the present, for they were part of the story of aliving man’s silent return. A spoke in the wheel ofAquitaine.

The first rush of curious passengers filed throughthe exit door after the television star, and Joelslipped into the less harried line. He would gothrough customs as rapidly and as unobtrusively aspossible, then find a dark corner of the airport andwait in the deepest shadows until the loudspeakersannounced the plane for Cologne-Bonn.

Goebbels and Hess accepted Dr. Heinrich Leif-helm’s offer with enthusiasm. One can easily imaginethe propaganda expert visualising the image of thisblond Aryan physician of "impeccable credentials”spread across thousands of pamphlets confirming thespecious theories of Nazi genetics, as well as his alltoo willing condemnation of the inferior, avariciousJew; he was heaven-sent. Whereas for Rudolf Hess,who wanted more than his little boys to be acceptedby the Junkers and the monied class, the Herr Dok--tor was his answer; the physician was obviously atrue

aristocrat, and in time, quite possibly a lover.

The confluence of preparation, timing and ap-pearance turned out to be more than young Stoes-sel-Leifhelm could have imagined. Adolf Hitler re-turned from Berlin for one of his Marienplatz rallies,and the imposing Doktor, along with his intense,well-mannered son, was invited to dinner with theFuhrer. Hitler heard everything he wanted to hear,and Heinrich Leifhelm from that day until his deathin 1934 was Hitler’s personal physician.

There was nothing that the son could not have,

and in short order he had everything hewanted. In June of 1931 a ceremony was heldat the National Socialists’ headquarters, whereHeinrich Leifhelm’s marriage to “a Jewess wasproclaimed invalid because of a “concealmentof Jewish blood” on the part of an“opportunistic Hebrew family, " and all rights,claims and inheritances of the children of that“insidious union” were deemed void. A civilmarriage was performed between LeifLelm andMarta Stoessel, and the true inheritor, the onlychild who could claim the name of LeifLelm,was an eighteen-year-old called Erich.

Munich and thelewish community stilllaughed, but not as loudly, at the absurdannouncement the Nazis inserted in the legalcolumns of the newspapers. It was considerednonsense; the Leifhelm name was a discreditedname, and certainly no paternal inheritance wasinvolved; finally it was all outside the law. Whatthey were only beginning to understand wasthat the laws were changing in changingGermany. In two short years there would beonly one law: Nazi determination.

Erich LeifLelm had arrived and hisascendancy in the party was swift and assured.At eighteen he was Jungfuhrer of the HitlerYouth movement, photographs of his strong,athletic face and body challenging the childrenof the New Order to join the national crusade.During his tenancy as a symbol, he was sent tothe University of Munich, where he completedhis courses of study in three years with highacademic honors. By this time, Adolf Hitler hadbeen swept into power; he controlled theReichstag, which gave him dictatorial powers.The Thousand-Year Reich had begun andErich Leifhelm was sent to the OfficersTraining Center in Magdeburg.

In 1935, a year after his father’s death,Erich LeifLelm, now a youthful favorite ofHitler’s inner circle, was promoted to the rankof Oberstleutnant in the Gruppenkommando in Berlin under Rundstedt. He was deeplyinvolved in the vast military expansion that wastaking place in Germany, and as the war drewnearer he entered what we can term the thirdphase of his complicated life, one that ulti

mately brought him to the centers of Nazi powerand at the same time provided him with anextraordinary means of separating himself fromthe leadership of which he was an intrinsic andinfluential part. This is briefly covered in thefollowing final pages, a prelude to the fourthphase, which we know is his fanatic allegiance tothe theories of George Marcus Delavane.

But before we leave the young Erich Leifhelmof Eichstatt, Munich, and Magdeburg, two eventsshould be recorded here that provide insightsinto the man’s psychotic mentality. Mentionedabove was the robbery at the Luisenstrasse houseand the resulting profits of the theft. LeiLhelm tothis day does not deny the incident, takingpleasure in the tale because of the despicableimages he paints of his father’s first wife and her“overbearing” parents. What he does not speakof, nor has anyone spoken of it in his presence,is the original police report in Munich, which, asnear as can be determined, was destroyedsometime in August 1934, a date correspondingto Hindenburg’s death and Hitler’s rise toabsolute power as both president and chancellorof Germany with the title of der Fuhrer raised toofficial mandatory status.

All copies of the police report were removedfrom the files, but two elderly pensioners fromthe Munich department remember it clearly.They are both in their late seventies, have notseen each other in years, and were questionedseparately.

Robbery was the lesser crime that earlymorning on the Luisenstrasse; the more seriousone was never spoken of at the insistence of thefamily. The fifteen-year-old Leifhelm daughterwas raped and severely beaten, her face and bodybattered so violently that upon admission to theKarlstor Hospital she was given little chance ofrecovery. She did recover physically, butremained emotionally disturbed for the rest ofher short life. The man who committed theassault had to be familiar with the interior of thehouse, had to know there was a back staircasethat led to the girl’s room, which was separatedfrom the rooms of her two brothers and her

mother in the front. Erich Leifhelm hadquestioned his father in depth regarding theinside design of that house; he was there by hisown admission, and was aware of the fiercepride and strict moral code held by the“tyrannical in-laws.” There is no question; hiscompulsion was such that he had to inflict themost degrading insult he could imagine, and hedid so, knowing the influential family would andcould insist on official silence.

The second event took place during themonths of January or February 1939. Thespecifics are sketchy insofar as there are fewsurvivors of the time who knew the family well,and no official records, but from those whowere found and interviewed, certain factssurfaced. Heinrich Leifhelm’s legal wife, hischildren and her family tried without successfor several years to leave Germany. The officialparty line was that the old patriarch’s medicalskills, having been acquired in Germanuniversities were owed to the state. Too, therewere unresolved legal questions arising from thedissolved union between the late Dr. HeinrichLeifhelm and a member of the family questionsspecifically relating to commonly shared assetsand the rights of inheritance as they affected anoutstanding officer of the Wehrmacht.

Erich Leifhelm was taking no chances. Hisfather’s “former” wife and children werevirtually held prisoners, their movementsrestricted, the house on the Luisenstrasse waswatched, and for weeks following any renewedapplications for visas, they were all kept underfull “political surveillance” on the chance thatthey had plans of vanishing. This informationwas revealed by a retired banker who recalledthat orders came from the Finanzministerium inBerlin instructing the banks in Munich toimmediately report any significant withdrawalsby the former Frau Leifhelm and/or her family.

During what week or on what day ithappened we did not learn, but sometime inJanuary or February of 1936, Frau LeifLelm,her children and her father disappeared.

However, the Munich court records,impounded by the Allies on April 23, 1945, givea clear, if incom

plete, picture of what took place. Obviously drivenby his compulsion to validate his seizure of the estatein the eyes of the law, he had a brief filed on behalfof Oberstleutnant Erich Leifhelm listing the articlesof grievance suffered by his father, Dr. HeinrichLeifhelm, at the hands of a family cabal, said familyof criminals having fled the Reich under indictment.The charges, as expected, were outrageous lies: fromoutright theft of huge nonexistent bank accounts tocharacter assassination so as to destroy a great doc-tor’s practice. There was the legal certificate of the"official” divorce, and a copy of the elder Leifhelm’slast will and testament. There was only one trueunion and one true son, all rights, privileges and in-heritances passed on to him: Oberstleutnant ErichStoessel-LeiPhelm.

Because we possessed reasonably accurate dates,survivors were found. It was confirmed that FrauLeifhelm, her three children and her father perishedat Dachau, ten miles outside of Munich.

The Jewish Leifhelms were gone; the AryanLeifhelm was now the sole inheritor of considerablewealth and property that under existing conditionswould have been confiscated. Before the age of thir-ty, he had wiped his personal slate clean andavenged the wrongs he was convinced had beenvisited on his superior birth and talents. A killer hadmatured.

"You must have one hell of a case there,” saidCalebDowling, grinning and poking Joel with his elbow.“Your buttburned up in the ashtray a while ago. I reachedover to closethe goddamned lid, and all you did was raise yourhand likeI was out of order.”“I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s a complicated brief. Christ, Iwouldn’t raise my hand to you, you’re a celebrity.”Converselaughed because he knew it was expected.“Well, my second bit of news for you, good buddy,is thatcelebrity or no, the smoking lamp’s been on for acouple ofminutes now and you still got a reefer in yourfingers. Now,I grant you, you didn’t light it, but we’re getting alot of Nazilooks over here.”“Nazi . . . ?” Joel spoke the word involuntarily ashe

pressed the unlit cigarette into the receptacle; hewas not aware that he had been holding it.

“A figure of speech and a bad line, ’said theactor. “We’ll be in Cologne before you put all thatlegal stuff away. Come on, good buddy, he’s goingin for the approach.”

“No,” countered Joel without thinking. “He’smaking a pitchout until he gets the tower’sinstructions. It’s standard we’ve got at least threeminutes.”

“You sound like you know what the hell you’retalking about.”

“Vaguely,” said Converse, putting the Leifhelmdossier into his attache case. “I used to be a pilot.”

“No kidding? A real pilot?”

“Well, I got paid.”

“For an airline? I mean, one of these real airlines?”

“Larger than this one, I think.”

“Goddamn, I’m impressed. I wouldn’t havethought so. Lawyers and pilots somehow don’t seemcompatible.”

“It was a long time ago.” Joel closed his case andsnapped the locks.

The plane rolled down the runway, the landinghaving been so unobtrusive that a smattering ofapplause erupted from the rear of the aircraft.Dowling spoke as he unfastened his seat belt. “Iused to hear some of that after a particularly goodclass.”

“Now you hear a lot more,” said Converse.

“For a hell of a lot less. By the way, where areyou staying, counselor?”

Joel was not prepared for the question."Actually, I’m not sure,” he replied, again reachingfor words, for an answer. “This trip was alast-minute decision.”

“You may need help. Bonn’s crowded. Tell youwhat, I’m at the Konigshof and I suspect I’ve got alittle influence. Let’s see what we can do.”

“Thanks very much, but that won’t be necessary.”Converse thought rapidly. The last thing he wantedwas the attention focused on anyone in the actor’scompany. “My firm’s sending someone to meet meand he’ll have the accommodations. As a matter offact, I’m supposed to be one of the last people offthe plane, so he doesn’t have to try to find me inthe crowd.”

“Well, if you’ve got any time and you want a coupleof

laughs with some actor types, call me at the hoteland leave a number.”

“I probably will. I enjoyed riding shotgun. "

"On a cattle drive, pardner?”

Joel waited. The last stragglers were leaving theplane, nodding at the flanking stewardesses, someyawning, others in awkward combat with shoulderbags, camera equipment and suit-carriers. The finalpassenger exited through the aircraft’s concave doorand Converse got up, gripping the handle of hisattache case and sliding into the aisle. Instinctivelywithout having a conscious reason to do so, heglanced to his right, into the rear section of theplane.

What he saw and what saw him made himfreeze. His breath exploded silently in his chest.Seated in the last row of the long fuselage was awoman. The pale skin under the wide brim of thehat, and the frightened, astonished eyes that abruptlylooked away all formed an image he vividly re-membered. She was the woman in the cafe at theKastrup Airport in Copenhagen! When he last sawher she was walking rapidly into the baggage-claimarea, away from the row of airlines’ counters. Shehad been stopped by a man in a hurry words hadbeen exchanged and now Joel knew they hadconcerned him.

The woman had doubled back, unnoticed in thelast-minute rush for boarding. He felt it, he knew it.She had followed him from Denmark!

Converse rushed up the aisle and through themetal door into the carpeted tunnel. Fifty feet downthe passageway the narrow walls opened into awaiting area, the plastic seats and the roped-offstanchions designating the gate. There was no one;the place was empty, the other gates shut down, thelights off. Beyond, suspended from the ceiling weresigns in German, French and English directingpassengers to the main terminal and the downstairsbaggage claim. There was no time for his luggage; hehad to run, to get away from the

airport as fast as possible, get away without beingseen. Then the obvious struck him, and he felt sick.He had been seen; they knew he was on the Hightfrom Hamburg whoever they were. The instant hewalked into the terminal he would be spotted, andthere was nothing he could do about it. They hadfound him in Copenhagen; the woman had foundhim and she had been ordered on board to makecertain he did not stay in Hamburg, or switch planesto another destination.

Howe How did they do it?

There was no time to think about it; he wouldthink about it later if there was a later. He passedthe arches of the closed-down metal detectors andthe black conveyor belts where hand luggage wasX-rayed. Ahead, no more than seventy-five feetwere the doors to the terminal. What was he goingto do, what should he do?

NUR FUR HIER BESCHAFTIGTE

MANNER

Joel stopped at a door. The sign on it wasemphatic, the German forbidding. Yet he had seenthose words before. Where? What was it? . . .Zurich! He had been in a department store inZurich when a stomach attack had descended to hisbowels. He had pleaded with a sympathetic clerkwho had taken him to a nearby employees’ men’sroom. In one of those odd moments of gratitudeand relief, he had focused on the strange words asthey had drawn nearer. Nur fur trier Beschaftigte.Manner.

No further memory was required. He pushed thedoor open and went inside, not sure what he woulddo other than collect his thoughts. A man in greenoveralls was at the far end of the line of sinksagainst the wall; he was combing his hair whileinspecting a blemish on his face in the mirror. Con-verse walked to the row of urinals beyond the sinks,his demeanor that of an airlines executive. Theaffectation was accepted; the man mumbledsomething courteously and left The door swung shutand he was alone.

Joel stepped back from the urinal and studiedthe tiled enclosure, hearing for the first time thesound of several voices . . . outside, somewhereoutside, beyond . . . the windows. Three-quarters upfrom the floor and recessed in the far wall werethree frosted-glass windows, the painted whiteframes melting into the whiteness of the room. Hewas con

fused. In these security-conscious days of airlinetravel with the constant emphasis on guardingagainst smuggled arms and narcotics, a room insidea gate area that had a means of getting outsidebefore entering customs did not make sense. Thenthe obvious fact occurred to him. It could be his wayout! The flight from Hamburg was a domestic flight,this part of the Cologne-Bonn airport a domesticterminal; there were no customs! Of course therewere exterior windows in an enclosure like this.What difference did it make? Passengers still had topass through the electronic arches and, conversely,authorities wanting to pick up a passenger flyingdomestically would simply wait by a specific gate.

But no one waited for him. He had been thelast the second to last passenger off the late nightflight. The roped-off gate had been deserted; anyonesitting in one of the plastic chairs or standing beyondthe counter would be obvious. Therefore, those whowere keeping him in their sights did not want to beseen themselves. Whoever they were, they werewaiting, watching for him from some remote spotinside the terminal. They could wait.

He approached the far-right window and loweredhis attache case to the floor. When he stood erect,the sill was only inches above his head. He reachedfor the two white handles and pushed; the windowslid easily up several inches. He poked his fingersthrough the space; there was no screen. Once thewindow was raised to its full height, there would beenough room for him to crawl outside.

There was a clattering behind him, rapid slaps ofmetal against wood. He spun around as the dooropened, revealing a hunched-over old man in a whitemaintenance uniform carrying a mop and a pail.Slowly, with deliberation, the old man took out apocket watch, squinted at it, said something in Ger-man, and waited for an answer. Not only was Joelaware that he was expected to speak, but he assumedthat he had been told the employees’ men’s roomwas being closed until moming. He had to think; hecould not leave; the only way out of the airport wasthrough the terminal. If there was another he did notknow where, and it was no time to be runningaround a section of an airport shut down for theremainder of the night. Patrolling guards mightcompound his problems.

His eyes dropped, centering on the metal pail,and in desperation he knew what he had to do, butnot whether he could do it. With a sudden grimaceof pain, he moaned and grabbed

his chest, falling to his knees. His face contorted, hesank to the floor.

“Doctor, doctor . . . doctor!” he shouted overand over again.

The old man dropped the mop and the pail; aguttural stream of panicked phrases accompaniedseveral cautious steps forward. Converse rolled tohis right against the wall he gasped for breath as hewatched the German with wide, blank eyes.

“Doctor. . . !” he whispered.

The old man trembled and backed away towardthe door; he turned, opened it and ran out, his frailvoice raised for help.

There would be only seconds! The gate was nomore than two hundred feet to the left, the entranceto the terminal perhaps a hundred to the right. Joelgot up quickly, raced to the pail, turned it upsidedown, and brought it back to the window. Heplaced it on the floor and stepped up with one foot,his palms making contact with the base of thewindow; he shoved. The glass rose about four inchesand stopped, the frame lodged against the sash. Hepushed again with all the strength he could managein his awkward positron. The window would notbudge; breathing hard he studied it, his intense gazezeroing in on two small steel objects he wished toGod were not in place, but they were. Twoprotective braces were screwed into the opposingsashes, preventing the window from being openedmore than six inches. Cologne-Bonn might not bean international airport with a panoply of sophis-bcated security devices, but it was not without itsown safeguards.

There were distant shouts from beyond thedoor; the old man had reached someone. The sweatrolled down Converse’s face as he stepped off thepail and reached for his attache case on the floor.Action and decision were simultaneous, only instinctunconsciously governing both. Joel picked up theleather case, stepped forward and crashed itrepeatedly into the window, shattering the glass andfinally breaking away the lower wooden frame. Hestepped back up on the pail and looked out.Beyond below was a cement path bordered by aguardrail, floodlights in the distance, no one insight. He threw the attache case out the window,and pulled himself up, his left knee kickingfragments of glass and what was left of the frame tothe concrete below. Awkwardly, he hunched hiswhole body, pressing his head into his shoulderblades, and

plunged through the opening. As he fell to theground he heard the shouts from inside: they grew involume, all in counterpoint, a mixture ofbewilderment and anger. He ran.

Minutes later, at a sudden curve in the cementpath, he saw the floodlit entrance of the terminaland the line of taxis waiting for the passengers ofFlight 817 from Hamburg to pick up their luggagebefore the drivers collected their inHated nightprices to Bonn and Cologne. There were entranceand exit roads leading to the platform, broken bypedestrian crosswalks, and beyond these an immenseparking lot with several lighted booths still operatingfor those driving their own cars. Converse slippedover the guardrail and ran across an intersectinglawn until he reached the first road, racing into theshadows at the first blinding glare of a floodlight. Hehad to reach a taxi, a taxi with a driver who spokeEnglish; he could not remain on foot…. He had beencaptured on foot once, years ago. On a jungle trail,where if he had only been able to commandeer ajeep an enemy jeep he might have . . . Stop it!This is not "Nam, it’s a goddamn airport with amillion tons of concrete poured between flowers,grass and asphalt! He kept moving in and out of theshadows, until he had made a completesemicircle one-eight zero. He was in darkness, thelast of the taxis in the line ahead of him. He ap-proached the first, which was the last.

“English? Do you speak English?”

“"nglisch? Nein. “

The second cabdriver was equally negative, butthe third was not. “As you Americans say, only theasshole would drive a taxi here wizzout the Englishreasonable. Is so?”

“It’s reasonable, " said Joel, opening the door.

“Rein! You cannot do thatl”

“Do what?”

“Come in the taxi.”

“Why not?”

“The line. Allviss is the line.”

Converse reached into his jacket pocket andwithdrew a folded layer of deutsche marks. “I’mgenerous. Can you understand thatP”

“Is also urgent sickness. Get in, main Herr.”

The cab pulled out of the line and sped towardthe exit road. “Bonn or Koln?” asked the driver.

“Bonn,” replied Converse, “but not yet. I want youto

drive into the other lane and stop across the way infront of that parking lot.”

“”Was… 9″

“The other lane. I want to watch the entranceback there. I think there was someone on theHamburg plane I know.”

“Many have come out. Only those with luggage “

“She’s still inside,” insisted Joel. “Please, just do as Isay.”

" She? . . . Ach, ein Fraulein. Ist ja Ihr Geld, mainHerr. “

The driver swung the cab into a cutoff that ledto the incoming road and the parking lot. Hestopped in the shadows beyond the second booth;the terminal doors were on the left, no more thana hundred yards away. Converse watched as wearypassengers, carrying assorted suitcases, golf bags,and the ever-present camera equipment, began tofile out of the terminal’s entrance, most raising theirhands for taxis, a few walking across the pedestrianlanes toward the parking lot.

Twelve minutes passed and still there was nosign of the woman from Copenhagen. She could nothave been carrying luggage, so the delay wasdeliberate, or instructed. The driver of the cab hadassumed the role of nonobserver; he had turned offthe lights and, with a bowed head, appeared to bedozing. Silence…. Across the parallel roads, thetravelers from Hamburg had dwindled. Severalyoung men, undoubtedly students, two in cut-offjeans, their companions drinking from cans of beer,were laughing as they counted the deutsche marksbetween them. A yawning businessman in athree-piece suit struggled with a bulging suitcaseand an enormous cardboard box wrapped in a floralprint, while an elderly couple argued, their disputeemphasized by two shaking heads of grey hair. Fiveothers, men and women, were by the curb at the farend of the platform apparently waiting for pre-arranged transportation. But where . . .

Suddenly she was there, but she was not alone.Instead, she was flanked by two men, a thirddirectly behind her. All four walked slowly, casually,out of the automatic glass doors, moving to the left,their pace quickening until they reached thedimmest area of the canopied entrance. Then thethree men angled themselves in front of the woman,as if mounting a wall of protection, their headsturning, talking to her over their shoulders whilestudying the crowd. Their conversation becameanimated but controlled, anger joining confusion,

tempers held in check. The man on the right brokeaway and crossed to the corner of the building, thenwalked beyond into the shadows. He pulled anobject out of an inside pocket and Joel instantlyknew what it was; the man raised it to his lips. Hewas talking by radio to someone in or around theairport.

Barely seconds passed when the beams ofpowerful headlights burst through the glass overConverse’s right shoulder, filling the back of the taxi.He pressed himself into the seat his head turned,neck arched, his face at the edge of the rear window.Beyond, by the exit booth of the parking lot, adark-red limousine had stopped, the driver’s armextended a bill clutched in his hand. The attendanttook the money turning to make change, when thelarge car lurched forward leaving the man in thebooth bewildered. It careened around the taxi andheaded for the curve in the road that led to theairport terminal’s entrance. The timing was tooprecise; radio contact had been made and Joel spoketo the driver.

“I told you I was generous,” he said, startled bythe words he was forming in his head. “I can be verygenerous if you’ll do as I ask you to.”

“I awn an honest man,” replied the German,uncertainty in his voice, his eyes looking at Joel inthe rearview mirror.

“So am I,” said Converse. “But I’m also honestlycurious and there’s nothing wrong with that. You seethe dark-red car over there, the one that’s stoppingat the corner of the building?”

"pa. “

“Do you think you could follow it without beingseen? You’d have to stay pretty Or behind, but keepit in sight. Could you do it?”

“Is not a reasonable request. How generous isthe A merikaner?”

“Two hundred deutsche marks over the fare.”

“You are generous, and I am a superior driver.”

The German did not underestimate his talentsbehind the wheel. Skillfully he weaved the cabunobtrusively through a cutoff, swinging abruptly leftinto the parallel exit road and bypassing the entranceto the terminal.

“What are you doing?” asked Joel, confused. “Iwant you to follow “

“Is only way out,” interrupted the driver, glancingback at the airport platform while maintainingmoderate speed. “I

shall let him pass me. I am just one moreinsignificant taxi on the autobahn.”

Converse sank back into the corner of the seat,his head away from the windows. “That’s reasonablygood thinking,” he said.

“Superior, mein Herr.’, Again the driver lookedbriefly back out the window, then concentrated onthe road and the rearview mirror. Moments later hegradually accelerated his speed; it was notnoticeable; there was no breaking away, insteadmerely a faster pace. He eased to the left, passing aMercedes coupe, staying in the lane to overtake aVolkswagen, then returning to the right.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” muttered Joel.

No reply was necessary as the dark-red vehiclestreaked by on the left.

“Directly ahead the road separates,” said thedriver. “One way to Koln, the other to Bonn. Yousay you are going to Bonn, but what if your friendgoes to KolnP”

“Stay with him.”

The limousine entered the road for Bonn andConverse lighted a cigarette, his thoughts on thereality of having been found, which meant his namewas known from the passenger manifest. So be it; hewould have preferred otherwise, but once the initialcontact had been made with Bertholdier it was nota vital point. He could operate as himself; his pastmight even be an asset. Also, there was a positiveside to the immediate situation; he had learnedsomething several things. Those followinghim who now had lost him were no part of theauthorities; they were not connected with either theGerman or the French police, or the coordinatingInterpol. If they were, they would have taken him atthe gate or on the plane itself, and that told himsomething else. Joel Converse was not wanted forassault or God forbid murder back in Paris. Andthis assumption could only lead to a thirdprobability: the violent, bloody struggle in the alleywas being covered up. Jacques-Louis Bertholdierwas taking no chances that because of his severelywounded aide his own name might surface in anyconnection whatsoever with a wealthy guest of thehotel who had made such alarming insinuations tothe revered general. The protection of Aquitainewas paramount.

There was a fourth possibility, so realisticallyarrived at it could be considered fact. The men inthe dark-red limou

sine who had met the Hamburg plane were also partof Aquitaine, underlings of Erich Leifhelm, thespoke of Aquitaine in West Germany. Sometimeduring the last five hours, Bertholdier had learnedthe identity of the ersatz Henry Simon probablythrough the management of the George V andcontacted Leifhelm. Then, alarmed that no passengermanifest listed an American named Converse flyingfrom Paris to Bonn, they had checked the otherairlines and found he had gone to Copenhagen. Thealarms must have been strident. Why Copenhagen?He said he was going to Bonn. Why did this strangeman with his extraordinary information go toCopenhagen? Who are his contacts, whom will hemeet? Find him. Find them! Another phone call hadbeen made, a description given, and a woman hadstared at him in a cafe in the Kastrup Airport. It wasall so throughthe-looking-glass.

He had flown to Denmark for one reason, butanother purpose had been served. They had foundhim, but in the finding they had revealed their ownpanic. An agitated reception committee, the use ofa radio at night to reach an unseen vehicle only afew hundred feet away, a racing limousine: thesewere the ingredients of anxiety. The enemy wasoff-balance and the lawyer in Converse was satisfied.At this moment that enemy was a quarter of a miledown the road speeding into Bonn, unaware that ataxi behind them, skillfully maneuvered by a driverslipping around the intermittent traffic, was keepingthem in sight.

Joel crushed out his cigarette as the driverslowed down to let a pickup truck pass. He could seethe large dark-red car ahead on the long curve. TheGerman was no amateur, he knew the moves tomake, and Converse understood. Whoever was inthat limousine might well be an influential owner,and even two hundred deutsche marks were notworth the probable enmity of a powerful man.

Probabilities . . . everything was probabilities. Hehad built his legal reputation on the study ofprobabilities, and it was a simpler process than mostof his colleagues believed. The approach, that is, wassimple, not the work; that was never easy. Itdemanded the dual discipline of concentrating on theminute and prodding the imagination to expand untilthe minutiae were arranged and rearranged intodozens of different equations. This exhaustive what-ifprocess was the keystone of legal thinking; it was assimple as that. It was also

a verbal trap, Joel reflected, as he thought backseveral years, smiling an uncomfortable smile alonein the darkness. In one of her moments of pique,Val had told him that if he would spend one iota ofthe time on the two of them that he spent on his“goddamned probabilities,” he would “probably”come to realize that the “probability” of theirsurviving together was ”very probably nil.”

She had never lacked for being succinct norsacrificed her humor in the pursuit of candor. Herstriking looks aside, Valerie Charpentier Conversewas a very funny lady. Unable not to, he had smiledat her explosion that night years ago, then they bothhad laughed quietly until she turned away and leftthe room, too much sadness in the truth she hadspoken.

Large picturesque buildings gradually replacedthe quiet countryside, reminding Converse of hugeVictorian houses with filigreed borders andoverhanging eaves and grilled balconies beneathlarge rectangular windows stark geometric shapes.These in turn gave way to a contradictory stretch ofattractive but perfectly ordinary residential homes,the sort that could be found in any traditionalwealthy suburb on the outskirts of a majorAmerican city. Scarsdale, Chevy Chase GrossePointe or Evanston. Then came the center of Bonnwhere narrow, gaslit streets ran into wider avenueswith modern lighting, quaint squares only blocksaway from banks of contemporary stores andboutiques. It was an architecturalanachronism Old World ambience coexisting withup-tothe-minute structures, but with no sense of acity, no sense of electricity or grandeur. Instead itappeared to be a large town, growing rapidly larger,the town fathers uncertain of its direction. Thebirthplace of Beethoven and the gateway to theRhine Valley was the most unlikely capitalimaginable of a major government. It was anythingbut the seat of a hard-nosed Bundestag and a seriesof astute, sophisticated prime ministers who facedthe Russian bear across the borders.

“Mein Herrl” cried the driver. “They take theroad to Bad Godesberg. Das Diplomatenviertel.”

“What does that mean?”

“Embassies. They have Polizeistreifen! Patrols.We could be, how do you say, known ?”

“Spotted,” explained Joel. “Never mind. Do whatyou’ve been doing, you’re great. Stop, if you haveto; park, if you have

to. Then keep going. You now have three hundreddeutsche marks over the fare. I want to know wherethey stop.”

It came six minutes later, and Converse wasstunned. Whatever he had thought, wherever hisimagination had led him, he was not prepared forthe driver’s words.

"That is the American embassy, mein Herr. “

Joel tried to focus his thoughts. “Take me to theHotel Konigshof,” he said, remembering, notknowing what else to say.

“Yes, I believe Herr Dowling left a note to thateffect,” said the desk clerk, reaching below thecounter.

“He did?” Converse was astonished. He had usedthe actor’s name in the outside hope of somepossible preferential treatment. He expected nothingelse, if indeed that.

“Here it is.” The clerk extracted two smalltelephone memos from the thin stack in his hand.“You are John Converse, an American attomey.”

“Close enough. That’s me.”

“Herr Dowling said you might have difficultyfinding am propriate accommodations here in Bonn.Should you come to the Konigshof tonight, herequested that we be as helpful as possible. It ispossible, Herr Converse. Herr Dowling is a verypopular man.”

“He deserves to be,” said Joel.

“I see he also left a message for you.”

The clerk turned and retrieved a sealed envelopefrom one of the mailboxes behind him. He handedit to Converse, who opened it.

Hi, pardner.

If you don’t pick this up, I’ll get it back in the

morning. Forgive me, but you sounded like toomanyof my less fortunate colleagues who say no whentheywant to say yes. Now collectively in their case, it’ssome kind of warped pride because they think I’msuggesting a handout it’s either that or they don’twant to meet someone who may be where I’mgoing.By the looks of you, I’d have to rule out theformerand stick with the latter. There’s someone youdon’twant to meet here in Bonn, and you don’t have to.The room’s taken care of and in my name changethat if you like but don’t argue about the bill. Iowe

you a fee, counselor, and I always pay my debts. At

least during the last four years I have.

Incidentally, you’d make a lousy actor. Your

pauses aren’t at all convincing.

Pa Ratchet

Joel put the note back in the envelope, resistingthe temptation to go to a house phone and callDowling. The man would have little enough sleepbefore going to work; thanks could wait untilmorning. Or evening.

“Mr. Dowling’s arrangements are generous andcompletely satisfactory,” he said to the clerk behindthe counter. “He’s right. If my clients knew I’d cometo Bonn a day early I’d have no chance to enjoyyour beautiful city.”

“Your privacy will be respected, sir. HerrDowling is a most thoughtful man, as well asgenerous, of course. Your luggage is outside with ataxi, perhaps?”

“No, that’s why I’m so late. It was put on thewrong plane out of Hamburg and will be here in themorning. At least that’s what I was told at theairport.”

“Ach, so inconvenient, but all too familiar. Isthere anything you might require?”

“No, thanks,” replied Converse, raising hisattache case slightly. “The bare necessities travelwith me…. Well, there is one thing. Would it bepossible to order a drink?”

“Of course.”

Joel sat up in bed, the dossier at his side, thedrink in his hand. He needed a few minutes to thinkbefore going back into the world of Field MarshalErich Leifhelm. With the help of the switchboard,he had called the all-night number for Lufthansaand had been assured that his suitcase would beheld for him at the airport. He gave no explanationother than the fact that he had been traveling fortwo days and nights and simply did not care to waitfor his luggage. The attendant could read into hiswords whatever she liked; he did not care. His mindwas on other things.

The American embassy! What appalled him wasthe stark reality of old Beale’s words…. Behind it allare those who do the convincing, and they’re growingin numbers everywhere…. We’re in the countdown …three to five Uzbeks that’s all you’ve got…. It’s real andit’s coming. Joel was not prepared for the reality. Hecould accept Delavane and

Bertholdier, certainly I,eifhelm, but the shock ofknowing that ordinary embassy personnel Americanpersonnel were on the receiving end of ordersfrom Delavane’s network was paralysing. How farhad Aquitaine progressed? How widespread were itsfollowers, its influence? Was tonight the frighteninganswer to both questions? He would think about itall in the morning. First, he had to be prepared forthe man he had come to find in Bonn. As hereached for the dossier he remembered the suddendeep panic in Avery Fowler’s eyes PrestonHalliday’s eyes. How long had he known? Howmuch had he known?

It is pointless to recount Erich Leifhelm’s ex-ploits in the early to middle years of the war otherthan to say his reputation grew, and what is mostimportant he was one of the very few superior offi-cers to come up through Nazi party ranks acceptedby the old-line professional generals. Not only didthey accept him but they sought him out for theircommands. Men like Rundstedt and VonFalkenhausen, Rommel and von Treskow; at onetime or another each asked Berlin for LeifLelm’sservices. He was unquestionably a brilliant strategistand a daring of dicer, but there was something else.These generals were aristocrats, part of the rulingclass of prewar Germany, and by and large loathedthe National Socialists, considering them thugs,exhibitionists and amateurs. It is not difficult toimagine LeifLelm, sitting among these men,modestly expounding on what was clearly noted inhis military record. He was the son of the lateprominent Munich surgeon Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm,who had left him considerable wealth and property.We need no conjecture, however, to understand howmuch further he went to ingratiate himself, for thefollowing is extracted from an interview withGeneral Rolf Winter, Standortkommandant of theWehrbereichskommando in the Saar sectors:

We would sit around having coffee after dinner,the talk quite depressing. We knew the war was lost.The insane orders from Berlin most we agreedwould never be carried out guaranteed wholesale

slaughter of troops and civilians. It wasmadness, national suicide. And always, thisyoung Leifhelm would say things like “Perhapsthe fools will listen to me. They think I’m oneof them, they’ve thought so from the early daysin Munich.” . . . And we would wonder. Couldhe bring some sanity to the collapsing front? Hewas a fine officer, highly regarded, and the sonof a well-known doctor, as he constantly re-minded us. After all, young men’s heads wereturned in those early days the cavernoussoul-stirring roars of Sieg hell, the fanaticcrowds; the banners and drums and marchingbeside ten thousand torches at night. It was allso melodramatic, so Wagnerian. But Leifhelmwas different; he wasn’t one of the gangsters;patriotic, of course, but not a hoodlum…. So wesent dispatches with him to our closestcomrades in Berlin, dispatches that would haveresulted in our executions had they fallen intothe wrong hands. We were told he tried veryhard, but he could not put sanity in the mindsof men who lived in daily fear of death fromrumor and gossip. But he maintained his ownsanity and loyalty which were constant. Wewere informed by one of his adjutants nothim, mind you that he was confronted by anS.S. colonel who had followed him in the streetand demanded the contents of his briefcase. Herefused, and when threatened with immediatearrest, he shot the man so as not to betray us.He was one of us. It was a noble risk and onlya night bombing raid saved his own life.

It is clear what LeifLelm was doing andequally clear that the dispatches were nevershown to anyone, nor was there an S.S. colonelshot in the streets during a bombing raid.According to Winter, those dispatches from theSaar were so explosive in content

that someone would have remembered them; noone does. Once again, LeifLelm had seen anopportunity. The war was lost, and the Naziswere about to become the ultimatetwentieth-century villains. But not the eliteGerman general corps there was a distinction.He wiped another slate clean and joined the“Prussians.” He was so successful that he wasrumored to have been part of the plot toassassinate

Adolf Hitler at Wolfsschanze, and called upon to bea member of Donitz’s surrender team.

During the cold war, Allied Central Commandasked him to join other key elements of the Wehr-macht officer corps in the Bundesgrenzschutz. Hebecame a privileged military consultant with full se-curity clearance. A mature killer had survived, andhistory, with the Kremlin’s help, took care of therest.

In May "49 the Federal Republic was established,and the following September the Allied occupationformally came to an end. As the cold war escalatedand West Germany began its remarkable recovery,the NATO forces demanded material and personnelsupport from their former enemies. The new Germandivisions were formed under the command ofex-Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm.

No one had dredged up the questionable deci-sions of the Munich courts from nearly two decadespast; there were no other survivors and his serviceswere desired by the victors. During the postwar re-construction when countless settlements and laby-rinthine legal resolutions were being soughtthroughout Germany, he was quietly awarded all as-sets and property previously decreed, including someof the most valuable real estate in Munich. So endsthe third phase of Erich Leifhelm’s story. The fourthphase which concerns us most is the one we knowleast about. The only certainty is that he has becomeas deeply entrenched in General Delavane’soperation as any other man on the primary list.

There was a rapping on the door. Joel lungedoff the bed, the Leifhelm dossier cascading to theQoor. He looked at his watch in fear andconfusion. It was nearly four o’clock. Who wantedhim at this hour? Had they found him? Oh, Christ]The dossier! The briefcase! “Joe . . . ?Joe, you up?”The voice was both a whisper and a shout anactor’s sotto voce. “It’s me, Cal Dowling.” Converseran to the door and opened it, his breath comingin gasps. Dowling was fully dressed, holding upboth his hands for silence as he glanced up anddown the corridor. Satisfied, he walked rapidly inside, pushing Joel backand closing the door.

“I’m sorry, Cal,” said Converse. “I was asleep. Iguess the sound startled me.”

“You always sleep in your trousers with thelights on?” asked the actor quietly. “Keep your voicedown. I checked the hallways, but you can never beclear about what you didn’t see.”

“Clear about what?”

“One of the first things we reamed on Kwajaleinin "44. A patrol doesn’t mean shit unless you’ve gotsomething to report. All it means is that they werebetter than you were.”

“I was going to call you, to thank you “

“Cut it, good buddy,” Dowling broke in, hisexpression serious. “I’m hming this down to the lastcouple of minutes, which is about all we’ve got.There’s a limo downstairs waiting to take me out tothe cameras over an hour away. I didn’t want tocome out of my room before in case anyone washanging around, and I didn’t want to call youbecause a switchboard can be watched orbribed ask anyone in Cuckooburg. I don’t worryabout the desk; they’re not too fond of our crowdover here.” The actor sighed. “When I got to myroom, all I wanted was sleep, and all I got was avisitor. I’m down the hall and I was hoping toChrist if you came here he wouldn’t see

you.”

“A visitor?”

“From the embassy. The US. embassy. Tell me,Joe “

“Joel,” interrupted Converse. “Not that it matters.”

“Sorry, I’ve an obstruction in my left ear andthat doesn’t matter, either. He spent damn neartwenty-five minutes with me asking questions aboutyou. He said we were seen talking together on theplane. Now, you tell me, counselor, are you okay, orare my instincts all bucked up?”

Joel returned Dowling’s steady gaze. “Yourinstincts are perfectly fine,” he said withoutemphasis. “Did the man from the embassy sayotherwise?”

“Not exactly. As a matter of fact, he didn’t saya hell of a lot. Just that they wanted to talk to you,wanted to know why you’d come to Bonn, whereyou were.”

“But they knew I was on the plane?”

“Yep, said you’d flown out of Paris.”

“Then they knew I was on that plane.”

“That’s what I just said what he said.”

“Then why didn’t they meet me at the gate andask me themselves?”

Dowling’sface creased further, his eyes narrowingwithin the wrinkles of bronzed flesh. “Yeah, whydidn’t they?” he asked himself.

“Did he say?”

“No, but then, Paris didn’t come up until he wasabout to leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like he figured I was holding back some-thing which I certainly was but he couldn’t besure. I’m pretty good at what I do, Joe Joel.”

“You also took a risk,” said Converse,remembering that he was talking to a risk-taker.

“No, I covered myself. I specifically asked if therewere charges against you or anything like that. Hesaid there weren’t. “

“Still, he was “

“Besides, I didn’t like him. He was one of thosepushy oflficial types. He kept repeating things, andwhen he couldn’t come up with anything, he said,"We know he flew out of Paris,’ as if he waschallenging me. I said I didn’t.”

“There’s not much time, but can you tell me whatelse he asked you?”

“I told you, he wanted to know everything wetalked about. I said I didn’t have a tape recorder inmy head, but it was mainly small talk, the kind ofchatter I get all the hme from people I meet onplanes. About the show, the business. But he didn’twant to settle for that; he kept pushing, which gaveme the opportunity to get a little pissed off myself.”

“How so?”

“I said, yes, we did talk about something else butit was very personal, and none of his damn business.He got pretty upset at that, and that let me get evenangrier. We exchanged a few barbs but his weren’tvery sharp; he was too uptight. Then he asked mefor about the tenth time if you’d said anything aboutBonn, especially where you were staying. So I toldhim for the tenth time the truth at least what yousaid. That you were a lawyer and here to see clientsand I didn’t know where the hell you were. I meanI didn’t actually know you were here.”

“That’s fine.”

“Is it? Instincts are okay for first reactions,counselor, but

then, you have to wonder. An aggravating IvyLeague government man, waving an embassy IDand acting obnoxious may be very annoying in themiddle of the night, but he is from the Departmentof State. What the hell’s this all about?’

Joel turned and walked to the foot of the bed;he looked down at the LeifLelm dossier on thefloor. He turned again and spoke clearly, hearingthe exhaustion in his voice. “Something I wouldn’tfor the life of me involve you in. But for the record,those instincts of yours were right on, pardner.”

“I’ll be honest,” said the actor, his clear eyesamused peering out from behind the creases. “Ithought as much. I said to that bastard if Iremembered anything else, I’d phone Walterwhat’s-his-name except I called him Walt and lethim know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s the ambassador here in Bonn. Can youimagine with all the troubles they’ve got over here,that diplomatic yo-yo had a luncheon for me, alousy television actor? WeD the suggestion that Imight call the ambassador made our preppie moreupset than anything else; he didn’t expect it. Hesaid three times, as I recall that the ambassadorwasn’t to be bothered with this problem. It wasn’tthat important and he had enough on his mind, andactually he wasn’t even aware of it. And catch this,Mr. Lawyer. He said you were an in-house, StateDepartment “query,’ as if a simpleminded actorcouldn’t possibly understand bureaucratic jingoism.I think that’s when I said ”BuDshit.’”

" Thank you,” said Converse, not knowing whatelse to say, but knowing what he wanted to find out.

“That’s also when I figured my instincts weren’tso bad.” Dowling looked at his watch, then hard atConverse, his eyes now penetrating. “I was a gyrene,but I’m no fiag-waver, good buddy. However, I likethe flag. I wouldn’t live under any other.”

“Neither would I.”

“Then you make it plain. Are you working for it?”

“Yes, the only way I know how, and that’s ad I canted

you.”

“Are you looking into something here in Bonn?Is that why you didn’t want to be seen with me?Why you stayed away from me in Hamburg andeven getting off the plane here?

“Yes.”

“And that son of a bitch didn’t want me to callthe ambassador.”

" No, he didn’t. He doesn’t. He can’t afford it.And, please, I ask you not to.”

“Are you Oh, Christ! Are you one of thoseundercover people I read about? I walk into a guyon a plane who can’t be seen when he gets to anairport.”

“It’s not that melodramatic. I m a lawyer andsimply following up on some alleged irregularities.Please accept that And I appreciate what you did forme. I’m kind of new at this

“You’re cool, good buddy. Man, are you cool.”Dowling turned and walked to the door. He stoppedand looked back at Converse. “Maybe I’m crazy,” hesaid. “At my age it’s allowed, but there’s a streak inyou, young fella. Part go-ahead partstay-where-you-are. I saw it when I talked about mywife. Are you married?”

“I was.”

“Who isn’t? Was married, that is. Sorry.”

“I’m not. We’re not.”

“Who is? Sorry, again. My instincts were right.You’re okay.” Dowling reached for the knob.

“Cal?”

“Yes?”

“I have to know. It’s terribly important. Who wasthe man from the embassy? He must have identifiedhimself.”

“He did, " said the actor. “He pushed an ID infront of my face when I opened the door, but Ididn’t have my glasses on. But when he was leavingI made it clear I wanted to know who the hell hewas.”

“Who was he?”

“He said his name was Fowler. Avery Fowler.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“What did you say?” Converse reeled under theimpact

of the name. He physically had to steady himself,grabbing the nearest solid object, a bedpost, to keepfrom buckling.

“What’s the matter, Joe? What’s wrong with you?”

“That name! Is this some kind of joke a badjoke a bad line! Were you put on that plane? DidI walk into you? Are you part of it, Mr. .4ctor?You’re damned good at what you do!

“You’re either juiced or sick. What are youtalking about?”

" This room, your note! Everything! That name!Is this whole goddamned night a setup?’

“It’s morning, young man, and if you don’t likethis room you can stay wherever you like as far asI’m concerned.”

“Wherever . . . 4″ Joel tried to evade theblinding flashes of light from the Quai du MontBlanc and clear the searing blockage in his throat.“No . . . I came here,” he said hoarsely. “There’s noway you could have known I’d do that. In Copen-hagen, on the plane . . . I got the last ticket in firstclass, the seat next to me had been sold, an aisleseat.”

“That’s where I always sit. On the aisle.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Now you’re rambling.” Dowling glanced at theempty glass on the bedside table, then over at thebureau top where there was a silver tray and abottle of Scotch whisky provided by anaccommodating desk clerk. “How much sauce haveyou had?”

Converse shook his head. “I’m not drunk…. I’msorry. Christ, I’m sorry) You had nothing to do withit. They’re using you trying to use you to find me!You saved my . . . my job . . . and I went after you.Forgive me.”

“And you don’t look like someone who’s thatworried about a job,’ said the actor, his scowl moreone of concern than anger.

“It’s not the employment, it’s . . . pulling it off.Joel silently took a deep breath to control himself,postponing the moment when he would have toconfront the awesome implicabons of what he hadjust heard. Avery Fowler! “I want to succeed in whatI’m doing; I want to win,” he added limply, hopingto conceal the slip he saw Dowling had spotted. “Alllawyers want to win.”

“Sure. ”

“I am sorry, Cal.”

“Forget it,” said the actor, his voice casual, his looknot

casual at all. “Where I’m at these days screeching’san hourly occurrence only, they don’t say anything.I think you just did.”

“No, I overreacted, that’s all. I told you I wasnew at this. Not the law, just this . . . not talkingdirectly, I guess says it.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. Please believe that.”

“All right, if you want me to.” Dowling againlooked at his watch. “I’ve got to go, but there’ssomething else that might be helpful in savingthat” the actor paused convincingly “job of yours."

“What is it?” asked Converse tightly, trying not toleap at the question.

“As this Fowler was leaving I had a couple ofthoughts. One was that I’d been pretty hard on afellow who was simply doing his job, and the otherwas just plain selfish. I hadn’t cooperated, and thatcould come back and snap me in the ass. Of courseif you never showed up here, I’d get my note backand it wouldn’t matter. But if you did, and you worea black hat, my tail could be in a bucket of boilinglead.”

“That should have been your first concern,” saidJoel truthfully.

“Maybe it was, I don’t know. At any rate, I toldhim that in the course of our conversation I askedyou for drinks, to come out on location if youwanted to. He seemed puzzled at the last part, buthe understood the first. I asked whether I should callhim at the embassy if you took me up on eitherinvitation, and he said no, I shouldn’t do that.”

“What9″

“In short words, he made it very plain that mycalling him would only louse up this "in-house query.’He told me to wait for his call. He’d phone mearound noon.”

“But you’re filming. You’re on location.”

“That’s the beauty part, but the hell with it.There are mobile telephone hookups; the studiosinsist on them these days. It’s another kind ofscreeching called budgetary controls. We get ourcalls.”

“You’re losing me.”

“Then find me. When he calls me, I’ll call you.Should I tell him you reached me?”

Surprised, Converse stared at the aging actor, therisk-taker. “You’re way ahead of me, aren’t you?”

“You’re pretty obvious. So was he, when I put ittogeth

er which I just did. This Fowler wants to reachyou, but he wants to do it solo, away from thosepeople you don’t want to meet. You see, when hewas at the door and we had our last words, I wasbothered by something. He couldn’t sustain therole any more than you did on the plane but Icouldn’t be certain. He kind of fell apart on his exit,and that you never do even if you’ve got to hold ina sudden attack of diarrhea. . . . What do I tell him,Joe?”

“set his telephone number, I guess.’,

“Done. You get some sleep. You look like acoked-up starlet who’s just been told she’s going toplay Medea.”

“I’ll try.”

Dowling reached into his pocket and took out ascrap of paper. “Here,” he said approachingConverse and handing it to him. “I wasn’t sure I wasgoing to give this to you, but I damn well want youto have it now. It’s the mobile number where youcan reach me. Call me after you’ve talked to thisFowler. I’m going to be a nervous wreck until I hearfrom

you.”

“I give you my word…. Cal, what did you meanwhen you mentioned "the beauty part’ andforgetting about it?”

The actor’s head shifted back in perfectprecision, at just the right angle for anyone in theaudience. “The son of a bitch asked me what I didfor a living…. As they say in the Polo Lounge, Ciao,baby.”

Converse sat on the edge of the bed, his headpounding, his body tense. Avery Fowler! Jesus!Avery Preston Fowler Halliday! Press Fowler . . .Press Halliday! The names bombarded him, piercinghis temples and bouncing off the walls of his mind,screaming echoes everywhere. He could not controlthe assault; he began to sway back and forth, hisarms supporting him, a strange rhythm emerging,the beat accompanying the name names of theman who had died in his arms in Geneva. A man hehad known as a boy, the adult a stranger who hadmanipulated him into the world of George MarcusDelavane and a spreading disease called Aquitaine.

This Fowler wants to reach you, but he wants todo it solo, awayfrom those people you don "t want tomeet…. The judgment of a risk-taker.

Converse stopped rocking, his eyes on theLeifhelm dossier on the floor. He had assumed theworst because it was beyond his comprehension, butthere was an alternative, an out

side possibility, perhaps under the circumstanceseven a probability. The geometries were there; hecould not trace them but they were there! The nameAvery Fowler meant nothing to anyone but him atleast not in Bonn, not as it pertained to a murder inGeneva. Was Dowling right? Joel had asked theactor to get the man’s telephone number, but with-out conviction. The image of a dark-red limousinedriving through the embassy’s gates would not leavehim. That was the connection that had enveloped theshock of Avery Fowler’s name. The man using it wasfrom the embassy, and at least part of the embassywas part of Aquitaine, therefore the impostor waspart of the trap. That was the logic; it was simplearithmetic . . . but it was not geometry. Supposethere was a break in the line, an insertion fromanother plane that voided the arithmeticprogression? If there was, it was in the form of anexplanation he could not possibly perceive unless itwas given to him.

The shock was receding; he was finding hisequilibrium again. As he had done so many times incourtrooms and boardrooms, he began to accept thetotally unexpected, knowing he could do trothingabout it until something else happened, somethingover which he had no control. The most difficultpart of the process was forcing himself to functionuntil it did happen, whatever it was. Conjecture wasfutile; all the probabilibes were beyond hisunderstanding.

He reached down for the LeifLelm dossier.

Erich Leifhelm’s years with the Bundesgren-zschutz were unique and require a word about theorganizahon itself. In the aftermath of all wars, asubjugated national police force is required in anoccupied country for reasons ranging from thesimple language problem to the occupying power’sneed to understand local customs and traditions.There must be a buffer between the occupationtroops and a vanquished people so as to maintainorder. There is also a side issue rarely elaboratedupon or analyzed in the history books, but no lessimportant for that lack. Defeated armies can skillpossess talent, and unless that talent is utilized thehumiliation of defeat can ferment, at minimumdistilling itself into hostilities that arecounterproduchve to a stabilised political climate, or,at maximum, turning into internal subver

sionthat can lead to violence and bloodshed atthe expense of the victors and whatever newgovernment that is being formed. To put itbluntly, the Allied General Staff recognized thatit had on its hands another brilliant andpopular military man who would not suffer theanonymity of early retirement or a corporateboardroom. The Bundesgrenzschutz literally,federal border police like all policeorganisations, was and is a paramilitary force,and as such the logical repository for men likeErich Leifhelm They were the leaders; better touse them than be abused by them. And asalways among leaders, there are those few whosurge forward, leading the pack. During theseyears foremost among those few was ErichLeifhelm.

His early work with the Grenzschutz wasthat of a military consultant during the massiveGerman demobilisation, then afterward thechief liaison between the police garrisons andthe Allied occupation forces. Followingdemobilisation, his duties were mainlyconcentrated in the trouble spots of Vienna andBerlin where he was in constant touch with thecommanders of the American, British andFrench sectors. His zealous anti-Soviet feelingswere rapidly made known by Leifhelmthroughout the command centers and dulynoted by the senior officers.. More and more hewas taken into their confidence until as it hadhappened before with the Prussians he wasliterally considered one of them.

It was in Berlin where Leifhelm first camein contact with General Jacques-LouisBertholdier. A strong friendship developed, butit was not an association either one cared toparade because of the age-old animositiesbetween the German and French militaries. Wewere able to trace only three former officersfrom Bertholdier’s command post whoremembered or would speak of seeing thetwo men frequently at dinner together inout-of-the-way restaurants and cafes, deep inconversation, obviously comfortable with eachother. Yet during those occasions whenLeifhelm was summoned to Frenchheadquarters in Berlin, the formalities wereicily proper, with names rarely used and

certainly never first names, only ranks and titles. Inrecent years, as noted above, both men have deniedknowing each other personally, albeit admitting theirpaths may have crossed.

Where previously acknowledgment of theirfriendship was discouraged because of traditionalprejudices, the current reasons are far more under-standable. Both are spearheads in the Delavaneorganization. The names on the primary list are therewith good reason. They are influential men who siton the boards of multinational corporations that dealin products and technology ranging from the buildingof dams to the construction of nuclear plants; inbetween are a hundred likely subsidiaries throughoutEurope and Africa which could easily expedite salesof armaments. As detailed in the following pages, itcan be assumed that Leifhelm and Bertholdiercommunicate through a woman named Ilse Fishbeinin Bonn. Fishbein is her married name, the marriageitself questionable in terms of motive insofar as itwas dissolved years ago when Yakov Fishbein, asurvivor of the camps, emigrated to Israel. FrauFishbein, born in 1942, is the youngest illegiti: matedaughter of Hermann Goring.

Converse put down the dossier and reached fora memo pad next to the telephone on the bedsidetable. He then unclipped from his shirt pocket thegold Carher ball-point pen Val had given him yearsago and wrote down the name Ilse Fishbein. Hestudied both the pen and the name. The Cartierstatus symbol was a remembrance of better days no,not really better, but at least more complete. Valerie,at his insistence, had finally quit the New Yorkadvertising agency, with its insane hours, and gonefree-lance. On her last day of formal work, she hadwalked across town to Cartier and spent a con-siderable portion of her last paycheck for his gift.When he asked her what he had done outside of hismeteoric rise in Talbot, Brooks and Simon to deservea gift of such impractical opulence, she had replied:“For making me do what I should have done a longtime ago. On the other hand, if free-lancing doesn’tpay off, I’ll steal it back and pawn it…. What the hell,you’ll probably lose it.”

Free-lancing had paid off very well, indeed, andhe had never lost the pen.

Ilse Fishbein gave rise to another kind ofthought. As much as he would like to confront her,it was out of the question. Whatever ErichLeifLelm knew had been provided by Bertholdier inParis and relayed by Frau Fishbein here in Bonn.And the communication obviously contained adetailed description as well as a warning; theAmerican was dangerous. Ilse Fishbein, as a trustedconfidante in Aquitaine, could undoubtedly leadhim to others in Germany who were part ofDelavane’s network, but to approach her was to askfor his own . . . whatever it was they intended forhim at the moment, and he was not ready for that.Sbil, it was a name, a piece of information, a facthe was not expected to have, and experience hadtaught him to keep such details up front and revealthem, spring them quietly when the moment wasright. Or use them himself when no one waslooking. He was a lawyer, and the ways of adversarylaw were labyrinthine; whatever was withheld wasno-man’s-land. On either side, to the more patient,the spoils.

Yet the temptation was so damned inviting. Thebloodline of Hermann Goring involved with thecontemplated resurrection of the generals! InGermany. Ilse Fishbein could be an immediatemeans of unlocking a floodgate of unwantedmemories. He held in his hand a spiked club; themoment would come when he would swing it.

Leifhelm’s commanding duties in the field withthe West German NATO divisions lasted seventeenyears, whereupon he was elevated to SHAPE head-quarters, near Brussels, as military spokesman forBonn’s interests.

Again his tenure was marked by extremeanti-Soviet postures, frequently at odds with his owngovernment’s pragmatic approach to coexistencewith the Kremlin, and throughout his final monthsat SHAPE he was more often appreciated by theAnglo-American right-wing factions than by the po-litical leadership in Bonn.

It was only when the chancellor of the FederalRepublic concluded that American foreign policy inthe early eighties had been taken out of the handsof professionals and usurped by bellicose ideologues

that he ordered Leifhelm home and created aninnocuous post for the soldier to keep him atbay.

Leiftelm, however, had never been a gulliblefool, nor was he one now in his new, improvisedstatus. He understood why the politicians hadcreated it it showed recognition of his ownsubtle strengths. People everywhere were lookingto the past, to men who spoke clearly, withcandor, and did not obfuscate the problemsfacing their countries and the world, especiallythe Western world.

So he began to speak. At first to veterans’groups and splinter organisations where militarypasts and long-established partisan politicsguaranteed him a favorable reception. Spurred bythe enthusiastic responses he evoked, Leifhelmbegan to expand, seeking larger audiences, hispositions becoming more strident, his statementsmore provocative.

One man listened and was furious. Thechancellor learned that Leifhelm had carried hisquasi-politicking into the Bundestag itself,implying a constituency far beyond what he reallyhad, but by the sheer force of his personalityswaying members who should not have beenswayed. Leifhelm’s message came back to thechancellor: an enlarged army in far greaternumbers than the NATO commitments; anintelligence service patterned after the onceextraordinary Abwohr; a general revamping oftextbooks, deleting injurious and slanderousmaterials; rehabilitation camps for politicaltroublemakers and subversives pretending to be“liberal thinkers.” It was all there.

The chancellor had had enough. Hesummoned Leifhelm to his of lice, where hedemanded his resignation in the presence ofthree witnesses. Further he ordered Leifhelm toremove himself from all aspects of Germanpolitics, to accept no further speakingengagements, and to lend neither his name norhis presence to any cause whatsoever. He was toretire totally from public life. We have reachedone of those witnesses whose name is notpertinent to this report. The following is hisrecollection:

The chancellor was furious. He said toLeifhekn:

"Herr General, you have two choices, and, ifyou’ll forgive me, a final solution. Number one,you may do as I say. Or you can be stripped ofyour rank and all pensions and financialaccruals afforded therein, as well as the incomefrom some rather valuable real estate inMunich, which in the opinion of any enlight-ened court would be taken from you instantly.That is your second choice.”

I tell you, the field marshal was apoplectic!He demanded his rights, as he called them, andthe chancellor shouted, “You’ve had your rights,and they were wrong! They’re skill wrongI”Then Leifhelm asked what the final solutionwas, and I swear to you, as crazy as it sounds,the chancellor opened a drawer of his desk,took out a pistol, and aimed it at Leifhelm. “I, myself, will kill you right now,” he said. “Youwill not, I repeat, not take us back.”

I thought for a moment that the old soldierwas going to rush forward and accept the bullet,but he didn’t. He stood there staring at thechancellor, such hatred in his eyes, matched bythe statesman’s cold appraisal. Then Leifhelmdid a stupid thing. He shot his armforward not at the chancellor, but away fromhim and cried “Heil Hitler.” Then he turned inmilitary fashion and walked out the door.

We were all silent for a moment or two,until the chancellor broke the silence. “I shouldhave killed him,” he said. “I may regret it. Wemay all regret it.”

Five days after this confrontation,Jacques-Louis Bertholdier made the first of histwo trips to Bonn following his retirement. Onhis initial visit he stayed at the SchlossparkHotel, and as hotel records are kept for aperiod of three years, we were able to obtaincopies of his billing charges. There were numer-ous calls to various firms doing business withJuneau et Cie, too numerous to examineindividually, but one number kept beingrepeated, the name having no apparent businessconnections with Bertholdier or his company. Itwas use Fishbein. However, upon checkingErich Leifhelm’s telephone bills for the dates inquestion, it was found that he, too, had placedcalls to use Fishbein, identical in number with

those placed by Rertholdier. Inquiries and brief sur-veillance further established that Frau Fishbein andLeifhelm have known each other for a number ofyears. The conclusion is apparent: She is the conduitbetween Paris and Bonn in Delavane’s apparatus.

Converse lit a cigarette. There was the nameagain, the temptation again. Ilse Fishbein could bethe shortcut. Threatened with exposure, thisdaughter of Hermann Goring could reveal a greatdeal. She could confirm that she was not only theliaison between Leifhelm and Bertholdier butconceivably much more, for the two ex-generals hadto transmit information to each other. The names ofcompanies, of buried subsidiaries, and of firms doingbusiness related to Delavane in Palo Alto mightsurface, names he could pursue legally, looking forthe illegalities that had to be there. If there only wasa way to make his presence felt but not seen.

An intermediary. He had used intermediaries inthe past, often enough to know the value of theprocedure. It was relatively simple. He wouldapproach a third party to make contact with anadversary carrying information that could be of valueto him insofar as it might be deemed damaging tohis interests, and if the facts presented were strongenough, an equitable solution was usuallyforthcoming. The ethics was questionable, butcontrary to accepted belief, ethics was in threedimensions, if not four. The end did not justify themeans, but justifiable means that brought about afair and necessary conclusion were not to bedismissed.

And nothing could be fairer or more necessarythan the dismantling of Aquitaine. Old Beale wasright that night on the moonlit beach on Mykonos.His client was not an unknown man in San Franciscobut instead a large part of this so-called civilisedworld. Aquitaine had to be stopped, aborted.

An intermediary? It was another question hewould put off until the morning. He picked up thedossier, his eyes heavy.

Leifhelm has few intimate friends that appearto be constant, probably because of his awarenessthat he is under watch by the government. He sitson the boards of several prominent corporations,

which have stated frankly that his name justifies hisstipend….

Joel’s head fell forward. He snapped it back,widened his eyes, and scanned the final pagesrapidly, absorbing only the general impressions; hisconcentration was waning. There was mention ofseveral restaurants, the names meaningless; a mar-riage during the war that ended when Leifhelm swife disappeared in November of’43, presumedkilled in a Berlin bombing raid; no subsequent wifeor wives. His private life was extraordinarily private,if not austere; the exception here was his proclivityfor small dinner parties, the guest lists alwaysvaried, again names, again meaningless. The addressof his residence on the outskirts of BadGodesberg…. Suddenly Converse’s neck stiffened,his eyes fully alert.

The house is in the remote countryside, on theRhine River and far from any shopping areas orsuburban concentration. The grounds are fencedand guarded by attack dogs who bark viciously atall approaching vehicles except Leithelm’sdark-red Mercedes limousine.

A dark-red Mercedes! It was Leifhelm himselfwho had been at the airport! Leifhelm who haddriven directly to the embassy! How could ithappens How?

It was too much to absorb, too far beyond hisunderstanding. The darkness was closing in, Joel’sbrain telling him it could no longer accept furtherinput; it simply could not function. The dossier fellto his side; he closed his eyes and slept.

He was plunging headlong down through acavernous hole in the earth, jagged black rocks onall sides, infinite darkness below. The walls ofirregular stone kept screaming in frenzy, screechingat him like descending layers of misshapen gargoyleswith sharp beaks and raised claws lunging at hisflesh. The hysterical clamor was unbearable. Wherehad the silence gone? Why was he falling into blacknothingness?

He flashed his eyes open; his forehead wasdrenched with sweat, his breath coming in gasps.The telephone by his head was ringing, the erraticbell jarringly dissonant. He tried to shake the sleepand the fear from his semiconsciousness; he reachedfor the blaring instrument, glancing at his watch as

he did so. It was twelve-fifteen, a quarter past noon,the sun streaking through the hotel window. Blinding.

“Yes? Hello . . . ?”

“Joe? Joel 2″

"Yes.” it’s Cal Dowling. Our boy called.”

What? Who?”

"This Fowler. Avery Fowler.”

“Oh, Jesus!” It was coming back, it was all comingback. He was seated at a table in the Chat Botte onthe Quai du Mont Blanc, flashes of sunlight bouncingoff the grillwork on the lakeside boulevard. No . . .he was not in Geneva. He was in a hotel room inBonn, and only hours ago he had been plunged intomadness by that name. “Yes,” he choked, catching hisbreath. "Did you get a telephone number?”

“He said there wasn’t time for games, andbesides, he doesn’t have one. You’re to meet him atthe east wall of the Alter Zoll as fast as you can getthere. Just walk around; he’ll find you.”

"That’s not good enoughI” cried Converse. “Notafter Paris! Not after the airport last night! I’m notstupidI”

“I didn’t get the impression he thought you were,”replied the actor. " He told me to tell you something,he thought it might convince you.”

What is it?”

“I hope I get this right, I don’t even like saying it.. . He said to tell you a judge named Anstett waskilled last nught in New York. He thinks you’re beingcut loose.”

The Alter Zoll, the ancient tower that had oncebeen part of Bonn’s southern fortress on theRhine razed to the ground three centuriesago was now a tollhouse standing on a green lawndotted with antique cannons, relics of a might thathad slipped away through the squabblings ofemperors and kings priests and princes. A windingmosaic wall of red and grey stone overlooked themassive river below where boats of vari

ous descriptions plowed furrows in the open water,caressing the shorelines on both sides, diligent andsomber in their appointed rounds; no Lake Genevahere, far less the blue-green waters of themischievous Como. Yet in the distance was a sightenvied by people the world over: the Siebengebirge,the seven mountains of Westerwald, magnificent intheir intrusions on the skyline.

Joel stood by the low wall, trying to focus on theview hoping it would calm him, but the exercise wasfutile. The beauty before him was lost, it would notdistract him from his thoughts; nothing could….Lucas Anstett, Second Circuit Court of Appeals,judge extraordinary and intermediary between oneJoel Converse and his employers and an unknownman in San Francisco. Outside of that unknownman and a retired scholar on the island ofMykonos, the only other person who knew what hewas doing and why. How in the space of eighteenhours or less could he have been found ? Foundand killed!

“Converse?”

Joel turned, whipping his head over his shoulder,his body rigid. Standing twenty feet away on the faredge of a graveled path was a sandy-haired manseveral years younger than Converse, in his early tomid thirties; his was a boyish face that would growold slowly and remain young long after its time. Hewas also shorter than Joel, but not bymuch perhaps five ten or eleven and dressed inlight-grey trousers and a cord jacket, his white shirtopen at the neck.

“Who are you?” asked Converse hoarsely.

A couple strolled between them on the path asthe younger man jerked his head to his left,gesturing for Joel to follow him onto the lawnbeyond. Converse did so, joining him by the hugeiron wheel of a bronze cannon.

“All right, who are you?” repeated Joel.

“My sister’s name is Meagen,” said thesandy-haired man. “And so neither one of us makesa mistake, you tell me who I am.”

“How the hey . . . ?” Converse stopped, thewords coming back to him, words whispered by adying man in Geneva. Oh, Christ! Meg, the kids . . .” "Meg, the kids,’ ” he said out loud. “Fowler calledhis wife Meg.”

“Short for Meagen, and she was Halliday’swife only, you knew him as Fowler.”

“You’re Avery’s brother-in-law.”

“Press’s brother-in-law,” corrected the man,extending his hand. “Connal Fitzpatrick,” he added.

“Then we’re on the same side.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ve got a lot of questions to ask you, Connal.”

“No more than I’ve got for you, Converse.”

“Are we going to start off belligerently?” askedJoel, noting the harsh use of his own last name andreleasing fitzpatrick s hand.

The younger man blinked, then reddened,embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m one angrybrother on both sides and I haven’t had muchsleep. I’m still on San Diego time.”

“San Diego? Not San Francisco?”

“Navy. I’m a lawyer stationed at the naval basethere.”

“Whew,” whistled Converse softly. “It’s a smallworld.”

“I know all about the geography,” agreedFitzpatrick. "And also you, Lieutenant. How do youthink Press got his information? Of course, I wasn’tin San Diego then, but I had friends. “

“Nothing’s sacred, then.”

“You’re wrong; everything is. I had to pull somevery thick strings to get that stuff. It was about fivemonths ago when Press came to me and we madeour . . . I guess you’d call it the contract betweenus.”

“Clarification, please.”

The naval officer placed a hand on the barrel ofthe cannon. “Press Halliday wasn’t just mybrother-in-law, he came to be my best friend, closerthan any blood brother, I think.”

“And you with the militaristic hordes?” askedJoel, only half joking, a point of information on theline

Fitzpatrick smiled awkwardly, boyishly. “;That’spart of it, actually. He stood by me when I wanted togo for it. The services need lawyers too, but the lawschools don’t tell you much about that. It’s notwhere they’re going to get any endowments from.Me, I happen to like the Navy, and I like thelif”and the challenges, I guess you’d call them.”

“Who objected?”

“Who didn’t? In both our families thepirates who go back to skimming the earthquakevictims have always been attorneys. The twocurrent old men knew Press and I got along and sawthe writing they wrote on their own wall. Here’s thissharp Wasp and this good Catholic boy, now, if theyring in a Jew and a light-skinned black and maybeeven

a not-too-offensive gay, they’ve got half the legalmarket in San Francisco in their back pockets.”

“What about the Chinese and the Italians?”

“Certain country clubs still have remnants of theold school ties in their lockers. Why soil the fabric?Deals are made on the fairways, the accent on“ways,’ not ”fair.’”

“And you didn’t want anything to do with that,counselor?”

“Neither did Press, that’s why he wentinternational. Old Jack Halliday pissed bright redwhen Press began corraling all those foreign clients;then purple when he added a lot of U.S. sharks whowanted to operate overseas. But old Jack couldn’tcomplain; his wild-eyed stepson was addingconsiderably to the bottom line.”

“And you went happily into uniform,” saidConverse, watching Fitzpatrick’s eyes, impressed bythe candor he saw in them.

“Back into uniform, and very happy withPress’s blessings, legal and otherwise.”

“You were fond of him, weren’t you?”

Connal lifted his hand off the cannon. “I lovedhim, Converse. Just as I love my sister. That’s whyI’m here. That’s the contract.”

“Incidentally,” said Joel kindly, “speaking of yoursister even if I were somebody else I could easilyhave found out her name was Meagan.”

“I’m sure you could have; it was in the papers.”

“Then it wasn’t much of a test.”

“Press never called her Meagen in his life,except for that one phrase in the weddingceremony. It was always "Meg.’ I would have askedyou about that somehow, and if you were lying I’dhave known it. I’m very good on direct.”

“I believe you. What’s the contract between youand . . . Press?”

“Let’s walk,” said Fitzpatrick, and as theystrolled toward the wall with the winding riverbelow and the seven mountains of Westerwald inthe distance, Connal began. “Press came to me andsaid he was into something pretty heavy and hecouldn’t let it go. He’d come across informationthat tied a number of well-known men or oncewell-known men together in an organization thatcould do a lot of harm to a lot of people in a lot ofcountries. He was going to stop

it, stop them, but he had to go outside the usualcourtroom ballparks to do it do it legally.

“I asked the normal questions: Was he involved,culpable that sort of thing, and he said no, not in anyindictable sense, but he couldn’t be sure whether ornot he was entirely safe. Naturally, I said he wascrazy; he should take his information to theauthorities and let them handle it.”

“Which is exactly what I told him,” interruptedConverse.

Fitzpatrick stopped walking and turned to Joel.“He said it was more complicated than that.”

“He was right.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“He’s dead. Believe it.”

“That’s no answer!”

“You didn’t ask a question,” said Converse. “Let’swalk. Go on. Your contract.”

Bewilderment on his face, the naval officerbegan. “It was very simple,” he continued. “He toldme he would keep me up to date whenever hetraveled, letting me know if he was seeing anyonerelated to his major concern that’s what we calledit, his "major concern.’ Also anything else that couldbe helpful if . . . if . . . goddamn it, ifl”

“If what?”

Fitzpatrick stopped again, his voice harsh. “Ifanything happened to him!”

Converse let the emotion of the moment pass.“And he told you he was going to Geneva to see me.The man who knew Avery Preston Fowler Hallidayas Avery Fowler roughly twenty-odd years ago inschool.”

“Yes. We’d been over that before when I got himthe security material on you. He said the time wasright, the circumstances right. By the way, he thoughtyou were the best.” Connal permitted himself a briefuncomfortable smile. “Almost as good as he was.”

“I wasn’t,” said Joel, a half-smile returned. “I’mstill trying to figure out his position on some Class Bstock in the merger.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What about Lucas Anstett? I want tohear about that.”

“It’s in two parts. Press said they’d workedthrough the judge to spring you if you’d agree totake on the “

“They? Who’s they?”

“I don’t know. He never told me.”

“Goddamn it! Sorry, go ahead.”

“That Anstett had talked to your firm’s seniorpartners and they said okay if you said okay. That’spart one. Part two is a personal idiosyncrasy; I’m anews freak, and like most of my ilk, I’m tuned intothe hourly AFR.”

“Clarification. “

“Armed Forces Radio. Oddly enough, it’sprobably got the best news coverage on the air; itpools all the networks. I have one of those smalltransistorised jobs with a couple of shortwave bandsI pack when I’m traveling.”

“I used to do that,” said Converse. “For the BBC,mainly because I don’t speak French or anythingelse for that matter.

“They’ve got good coverage, but they shift bandstoo much. Anyway, I had AFR on early thismorning and heard the story, such as it was.”

“What was it?”

“Short on details. His apartment on Central ParkSouth was broken into around two in the morning,New York time. There were signs of a struggle andhe was shot in the head “

“Not quite. According to a housekeeper, nothingwas taken, so robbery was ruled out. That’s it.”

“Jesus. I’ll call Larry Talbot. He may have moreinformation. There wasn’t anything else?”

“Only a quick sketch of a brilliant jurist. Thepoint is nothing was taken.”

“I understand that,” broke in Joel. “”I'll talk to Talbot.” They started walking again, south along thewall. “Last night,” continued Converse, “”why didyou tell Dowling you were an embassy man? Youmust have been at the airport.”

"I’d been at that airport for seven hours goingfrom counter to counter asking for passengerinformation, trying to find out what plane you wereon.”

“”You knew I was on my way to Bonn?”

.Beale thought you were.”

“Beale?” asked Joel, startled. ”4Mykonos’?”

"Press gave me his name and the number butsaid I wasn’t to use either unless the worsthappened.” Fitzpatrick paused. “The worsthappened,” he added.

"What did Beale tell you?”

"what you went to Paris, and as he understood it,you were going to Bonn next.”

“What elseP”

"Nothing. He said he accepted my credentials, ashe called them, because I had his name and knewhow to reach him; only Press could have given methat information. But anything else I’d have to learnfrom you, if you felt there was something to tell me.IIe was pretty damned cold.”

“He had no choice.”

“Although he did say that in case I couldn’t findyou, he wanted to see me on Mykonos before Ibegan raising my voice . . . "for everything Mr.Halliday stood for.’ That’s the way he put it. I wasgoing to give you two more days to get here, if Icould hold up.”

“Then what? Mykonos?”

“I’m not sure. I figured I’d call Beale again, buthe’d have to tell me a lot more than he did toconvince me.”

“And if he didn’t? Or couldn’t?”

“Then I’d have flown straight to Washington andgone to whomever the top floor of the NavyDepartment suggested. If you think for onegoddamned minute I’m going to let this thing passfor what it isn t, you’re wrong and so is Beale.”

“If you’d have made that clear to him, he wouldhave come up with something. You’d have gone toMykonos.” Converse reached into his shirt pocket forhis cigarettes; he offered one to Fitzpatrick, whoshook his head. “Avery didn’t smoke either,” saidJoel aimlessly as he snapped his lighter. “Sorry . . .Press.” He inhaled.

“It’s okay; that name’s how I got you to see me.”

“Let’s go back to that a minute. There’s a slightinconsistency in your testimony, counselor. Let’sclear it up just so neither one of us makes amistake.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re crowding inon, but go ahead.”

“You quid you were going to give me two moredays to get here, is that right?”

“Yes, if I could make arrangements, get some sleepand

"How did you know I didn’t get here two daysbefore you

Fitzpatrick glanced at Joel. “I’ve been a legalofficer in the Navy for the past eight years, both asdefense counsel and as Judge advocate in anynumber of situations not always

courts-marhal. They’ve taken me to most of thecountries where Washington has reciprocal legalagreements.”

"That’s a mouthful, but I’m not in the Navy.”

“You were, but I wasn’t going to use it if I didn’thave to, and I didn’t. I flew into Dusseldorf, showedmy naval papers to the Inspektor of immigration, andasked for his cooperation. There are seveninternational airports in West Germany. It tookroughly five minutes with the computers to find outthat you hadn’t entered any of them during theipastthree days, which was all I was concerned about.”

“But then you had to get to Cologne-Bonn.”

“I was there in forty minutes and called himback. No Converse had been admitted, and unlessyou were crossing the border incognito which Isuspect I know more about than you do you had tofly in sooner or later.”

“You’re tenacious.”

“I’ve given you my reasons.”

“What about Dowling and that embassy routineat the hotel.”

“Lufthansa had you listed on the passengermanifest from Hamburg you’ll never know howrelieved I was. I hung around the counter in casethere was a delay or anything like that when thesethree embassy guys showed up flashing their ID’s,the head man speaking rotten German.”

“You could tell?”

“I speak German and French, Italian, andSpanish. I have to deal with different nationalities.”

“I’ll let that pass.”

“I suppose that’s why I’m a lieutenantcommander at thirty-four. They move me around alot.”

Pass again. What caught you about the embassypeo

“Your name, naturally. They wantedconfirmation that you were on flightEight-seventeen. The clerk sort of glanced at me andI shook my head; he cooperated without a break inhis conversation. You see, I’d given him a fewdeutsche marks but that wasn’t it. These peopledon’t really dig the of ficial U.S. over here.”

"I heard that last night. From Dowling. How did hecome

“Dowling himself, but later. When the planearrived I stood at the rear of the baggage claim; theembassy boys were by the entrance to the gatesabout fifty feet away. We all

waited until there was only one piece of luggage onthe conveyor belt. It was yours, but you nevershowed up. Finally a woman came out and theembassy contingent surrounded her, everyoneexcited, upset I heard your name mentioned, butthat’s all I heard because by that time I had decidedto go back and speak to the clerk.

“To see if l d really been on the plane?’ askedConverse. “Or whether I turned out to be a no-show.

“Yes,” agreed Fitzpatrick. “He was cute; he mademe feel like I was suborning a juror. I paid him, andhe told me this Caleb Dowling whom I think I wasexpected to know had stopped at the desk beforegoing out to the platform.’

“Where he left instructions,” said Joel,interrupting quietly.

“How did you know?”

“I picked up a set at the hotel.”

“That was it, the hotel. Dowling told him he’dmet this lawyer on the plane, a fellow Americannamed Converse who’d sat with him sinceCopenhagen. He was worried that his new friendmight not have accommodations in Bonn, and if heasked Lufthansa for suggestions, the clerk shouldsend him to the Konigshof Hotel.’

“So you totaled up the figures and decided tobecome one of the embassy people who’d lost me,”said Converse, smiling. “To confront Dowling. Whoamong us hasn’t taken advantage of a hostilewitness?”

“Exactly. I showed him my naval ID and told himI was an attache. Frankly, he wasn’t verycooperative.”

“And you weren’t very convincing, according tohis theatrical critique. Neither was I. Strangelyenough, that’s why he got us together.” Joel stopped,crushed out his cigarette against the wall and threwit over the stone. “All right, Commander, you’vepassed muster or roster or whatever the hell you callit. Where do we stand? You speak the language andyou’ve got government connections I don t have.You could help.”

The naval of ficer stood motionless; he lookedhard at Joel, his eyes blinking in the glare of thesunlight, but not from any lack of concentration. “Ill do whatever I can,” he began slowly, “as long as itmakes sense to me. But you and I have to un-derstand each other, Converse. I’m not backing awayfrom the two days. That’s all you’ve got"’ve got if Icome on board.”

“Who made the deadline?”

“I did. I do now.”

“It can’t work that way.”

“Who says?”

“I did. I do now.” Converse started walkingalong the wall.

"You’re in Bonn,” said Fitzpatrick, catching up,neither impatience nor supplication in his gait or inhis voice, only control. “You’ve been to Paris andyou came to Bonn. That means you have names,areas of evidence, both concrete or hearsay. I wantit all.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Commander.”

“I made a promise.”

“To whom?”

“My sister! You think she doesn’t know? It wastearing Press apart! For a whole goddamned yearhe’d get up in the middle of the night and wanderaround the house, talking to himself but shuttingher out. He was obsessed and she couldn’t crackthe shell. You’d have to know them to appreciatethis, but they were good, I mean good together. Iknow it’s not very fashionable these days to havetwo people with a passer of kids who really likeeach other, who can’t wait to be with each otherwhen they’re apart, but that’s the way they were.”

“Are you married?” asked Joel without breakinghis stride.

“No,” answered the Navy man, obviouslyconfused by the question. “I expect to be. Perhaps.I told you, I move around a lot.”

“So did Press . . . Avery.”

“What’s your point, counselor?”

“Respect what he was doing. He knew thedangers and he understood what he could lose. Hislife.”

“That’s why I want the facts! His body was flownback yesterday. The funeral’s tomorrow and I’m notthere because I gave Meagen a promise! I’mcoming back too, but with everything I need to blowthis whole tucking thing apartl”

“You’ll only implode it, sending it way downdeep if you’re not stopped before that.”

“That’s your judgment.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

“I don’t buy it!”

“Don’t. Go back and talk about rumors, about akilling

in Geneva that nobody win admit was anything buta robbery or a murder in New York that remainsand probably will remain something it wasn’t. If youmention a man on Mykonos believe me, he’lldisappear. Where are you, Commander? Are youjust a freak, after all, a philosophical blood brotherof Press Halliday who stormed the Presidio andburned his draft card in the good old days ofmuscatel and grass?”

" That’s a crock of shit!”

“It’s on the record, Commander. By the way, asa judge advocate, how many officers did youprosecute?”

“What?”

“And as defense counsel, how many cases did youlose?”

“I’ve had my share of wins and losses, mostlywins, frankly.’

“Mostly? Frankly? You know there are certainpeople who can take fifteen numbers, insert whatthey call variables and make the statistics sayanything they want them to say.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? How is itconnected to Press’s death, his murder?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, Commander Fitzpatrick.Beneath that brass could be a very successfulinfiltrator, perhaps even an agent provocateur in auniform you shouldn’t be

wearing.”

“What the hell are you talking about? . . . Forgetit, I don’t want to know. I don’t have to listen to you,but you have to listen to me! You’ve got two days,Converse. Am I on board or not?”

Joel stopped and studied the intense young facebeside him young and not so young, there werehints of creases around the angry eyes. “You’re noteven in the same fleet,” said Converse wearily. “OldBeale was right. It’s my decision and l choose to tellyou nothing. I don’t want you on board sailor.You’re a hotheaded piss ant and you bore me.”

oel turned and walked away.

“All right, curl That’s a print! Nice work, Cal, Ialmost believed that drivel.” The director, RogerBlynn, checked the clipboard thrust in front of himby a script girl and issued instructions to the cameracrew’s interpreter before heading over to theproduction table.

Caleb Cowling remained seated on the large rockon the slope of the hill above the Rhine; he pattedthe head of an odoriferous goat, which had justdefecated on the toe of his

boot. “I’d like to kick the rest of the shit out of you,li’l partner, " he said quietly, “but it wouldn’t fit mywell-developed image.”

The actor got up and stretched, aware that theonlookers beyond the roped-off set were staring athim, chattering away like tourists in a zoo. In a fewminutes he would walk over no, not walk, ambleover and pull the rope off the carriage of an arclight so he could mingle with the fans. He nevertired of it, probably because it came so late in hislife and was, after all, symbolic of what he and hiswife currently could afford. Also every now andthen there was a bonus: the appearance of one ofhis former students, who usually approached himcautiously, obviously wondering if the good-naturedrapport he had established in the classroom hadsurvived the onslaught of national recognition orbeen drowned in the hdal wave of so-calledstardom. Cal was good at remembering faces, andnot too bad with at least one of a person’s twonames, so when these occasions arose, he invariablywould eye his former charge and ask him if he hadcompleted yesterday’s assignment. Or would walkup to him or her and pedagogically inquiresomething like “Of the chronicles Shakespeare drewfrom for his histories, which had the greatest impacton his language, Daniel, Holinshed, or Froissart?”If the answer came back naming the last, he wouldslap his thigh and exclaim words akin to “Hot damn,li’l wrangler, you busted a tough bronc there!”Laughter would follow, and frequently drinks andreminiscences later.

It was a good life these days, almost perfect. Ifonly some sunlight would reach into the painfullydark corners of his wife’s mind. If it could, she’d behere on a hillside in Bonn chatting in her quietlyvivacious way with the people beyond therope mostly women, mostly those around herage telling them that her husband was really quitelike their own. He never picked up his socks andwas a disaster in the kitchen; people liked to hearthat even if they didn’t believe it. But the sunlightdid not reach those far, dark corners. Instead, hisFrieda remained in Copenhagen, walking along thebeaches of Sjaelland Island, having tea in thebotanical gardens, and waiting for a call from herhusband saying that he had a few days off andwould come out of hated Germany. Dowling lookedaround at the efficient, enthusiastic crew and thecurious spectators; laughter punctuated theirconversations, a certain respect as well. These werenot hateful people,

" Cal?” the voice belonged to Blynn, the film’sdirector who was walking rapidly across the slope ofthe hill. “There’s someone here to see you.”

"I hope more than one, Roger. Otherwise themen who go under the dubious title of ouremployers are grossly overpaying me.”

"Not for this pile of kitsch.” The director’s smiledisappeared, as he approached the actor. Are youin any trouble, Cal?

"Constantly, but not so it’s noticeable.”

"I’m serious. There’s a man here from theGerman po.lt,ce the Bonn police He says he has totalk to yo I i

"What about?” Dowling felt a rush of pain in hisstomach it was the fear he lived with.

"He wouldn’t tell me. Just that it was anemergency and he had to see you alone.”

"Oh, Chrzst!” whispered the actor. Freddie! .. . where is he?”

"Over in your trailer.”

“In my “

Rest easy,” said Blynn. "That stunt jock Moose Rosenberg’s with him. If he moved an ashtray, Ithink that gorilla would throw him through the wall.”

Thanks, Roger.”

“He meant it when he said ”alone’!”

Dowling did not hear this; he had started runningacross the hill toward the small camper he used forbrief periods of relaxation. He prayed to no one inparticular for the best, preparing himself for theworst.

It was neither, simply another complication in anenigma. Fneda Dowling was not the subject; insteadit was Joel Converse, an American attorney-at-law.The stunt man climbed out of the trailer, leavingCaleb and the police officer alone. The man was incivilian clothes, his English fluent, his mannervaguely officious yet courteous.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Herr Dowling,” saidthe German in response to Caleb’s initial, intenseinquiry about his wife. “We know nothing of FrauDowling. Is she ill, perhaps?”

She’s had a few spells lately, that’s all. She’s inCopenhagen.”

“Yes, so we understand. You fly therefrequently, don’t you?”

"Whenever I can.,’

She does not care to join you here in Bonn?”

Tier was Oppenfeld, and the last time she was inGermany she wasn’t considered much of a humanbeing. Her memories are, let’s say, memorable inthe extreme. They come back with a lot of acid.”

"Yes,” said the police officer, his eyes as steadyas Caleb’s. “We will live with that for generations.”

“I hope so,” said the actor.

“I wasn’t alive, Herr Dowling. I’m very happyshe survived, I mean that.”

Dowling was not sure why but he lowered hisvoice, the words nearly inaudible, if not involuntary.“Germans helped her.”

“I would hope so,” said the German quietly. “Mybusiness, however, concerns a man who sat next toyou last night on the planes from Copenhagen toHamburg and from Hamburg to Bonn. His name isJoel Converse, an American attorney.”

“What about him? By the way, may I see youridentification?”

“Certainly.” The police officer reached into hispocket removed his plastic ID case, and handed itto the actor, who had his glasses firmly in place. “Itrust everything is in order,” added the man.

“What’s this Sonder Dezernat?” asked Dowling,squinting at the small print on the card.

“It is best translated as ’special’ "branch’ ordepartment.’ We are a unit of the Bundespolizei,the federal police. It is our job to look into mattersthe government feels are more sensitive than thenormal jurisdictional complaints.”

What doesn’t say a damn thing, and you knowit,” said the actor. We can use lines like that inmovies and get away with it because we write in allthose reactions, but you’re not Helmut Dantine orMartin Kosleck and I’m not Elissa Landi. Spell itout.”

every well, I shall spell it out. Interpol. A mandied in a Paris hospital as a result of head injuriesinflicted by the American, Joel Converse. Hiscondition was diagnosed as improving, butunfortunately it was only temporary; he was founddead this morning. The death is attributed to anunpro

yoked attack by Herr Converse. We know he flewinto Koln-Bonn, and according to the airlinestewardesses, you sat with him for three and a halfhours. We want to know where he is. Perhaps youcan help us.”

Dowling removed his glasses, lowering his chinand swallowing as he did so. And you think I know?”

We have no idea, but you talked with him. Andwe hope you do know that there are severe penaltiesfor withholding information about a fugitive,especially one sought for a killing.”

The actor fingered the stems of his glasses, hisinstincts in conflict, erupting. He walked over to thecot against the wall and sat down, looking up at thepolice officer.. “Why don’t I trust you?” he asked.

"Because you think of your wife and will trust noGerman,” replied the German. I am a man of lawand peace Herr Dowling. Order is something thepeople decide for themselves, myself among them.The report we have received states clearly that thisConverse may be a very disturbed man.”

“He didn’t sound disturbed to me. In fact, Ithought he had a damned good head on hisshoulders. He said a lot of very perceptive things.”

“That you wanted to hear?”

“Not all of them.”

“But a good percentage, leading up to all of them.”

“What does that mean?”

“A madman is convincing; he plays on all sides,eventually weighing everything in his favor. It’s theessence of his madness, his psychosis, his ownconvictions.”

Dowling dropped the glasses on the cot, exhalingaudibly feeling the pain of fear again in his stomach.PA madman?” he said without conviction. “I don’tbelieve that.”

“Then let us have a chance to disprove it. Do youknow where he is?”

The actor squinted at the German. “Give me acard or a number where I can reach you. He may getin touch with me.”

“Who was responsible?” The man in the red silkrobe behind the large desk sat in semidarkness, abrass lamp serving to throw a harsh circle of light onthe surface in front of him. The glow was sufficientto reveal the outlines of a huge map

cantered on the wall behind the man and the desk.It was a strange map, not of the global world but offragments of the world. The shapes of nations wereclearly defined yet oddly shadowed, eerily colored,as if an attempt had been made to create a singlelandmass out of disparate geographical areas. Theyincluded all of Europe, most of the Mediterraneanand selected portions of Africa. And as if the wideexpanse of the Atlantic Ocean were merely a paleblue connector, Canada and the United States ofAmerica were part of this arcane entity.

The man stared straight ahead. His lined,squarejawed face, with its aquiline nose and thin,stretched lips, seemed molded from parchment; hisclose-cropped salt-and-pepper hair was singularlyappropriate for a man with such a rigidly framedtorso. He spoke again; his voice was rather high,with no resonance but with a secure sense ofcommand. One could easily imagine this voiceraised in volume even to fever pitch like atomcat screeching across a frozen lake. It was notraised now, however; it was the essence of quieturgency. " Who was responsible?” he repeated. “Areyou still on the line, London?”

“Yes,” replied the caller from Great Britain.“Yes, of course. I’m trying to think, trying to befair.”

“I admire that, but decisions have to be made. Inall likelihood the responsibility will be shared, wesimply have to know the sequence.” The manpaused; when he continued, his voice suddenly tookon an intensity that was a complete departure fromhis previous tone. It was the shrill call of the catacross the ice-bound lake. “How was Interpolinvolved?”

Startled, the Englishman answered quickly, hisphrases clipped, the words rushing headlong overone another. “Bertholdier’s aide was found dead atfour in the morning Paris fame. Apparently he wasto receive hospital medication at that hour. Thenurse called the Surete “

“The Surete?” shouted the man behind the deskin front of the fragmented map. “Why the Surete’?Why not Bertholdier? It was his employee, not theSurete’s!”

“That was the lapse,” said the Britisher. “No onerealised instructions to that effect had been left atthe hospital desk apparently by an inspectornamed Prudhomme, who was awakened and told ofthe man’s death.”

“And he was the one who called in Interpol?”

“”Yes, but too late to intercept Converse atGerman immigration. “

" For which we can be profoundly grateful,” saidthe man, lowering his voice.

"Normally, of course, the hospital would havewaited and reached Bertholdier in the morning,telling him what happened. As you say, the patientwas an employee, not a member of the family. Afterthat, undoubtedly the arrondissement police wouldhave been informed and finally the Surete. By thenour people would have been in place and fullycapable of preventing Interpol’s involvement. We canstill stop them but it will take several days. Personneltransfers, new evidence, amendments to the case file;we need time.”

Then don’t waste any.”

" It was those damned instructions.”

“Which no one had the brains to look for,” saidthe man in front of the shadowed map. “ThisPrudhomme’s instincts were aroused. Too many richpeople, too much influence, the circumstances toobizarre. He smells something.”

“We’ll get him off the case, just a few days,” saidthe Englishman. “Converse is in Bonn, we know that.We’re closing in "t

“So possibly are Interpol and the German police.I don’t have to tell you how tragic that would be.”

“We have certain controls through the Americanembalm sy. The fugitive is American.”

“Thefugitive has information!” insisted the manbehind the desk, his fist clenched in the circle oflight. “How much and supplied by whom we don’tknow and we must know.”

“Nothing was learned in New York? The judge?”

“Only what Bertholdier suspected and what Iknew the moment I heard his name. After forty yearsAnstett came back, still hounding me, still wantingmy neck. The man was a bull, but only a go-between;he hated me as much as I hated him, and up to theend he shielded those behind him. Well he’s goneand his holy righteousness with him. The point isConverse is not what he pretends to be. Now, f ndhim!”

“As I say, we’re closing in. We have moresources, more informers than Interpol. He s anAmerican fugitive in Bonn who, we understand,doesn’t speak the language. There are only so manyplaces he can hide. We’ll find him; we ll break himand learn where he comes from. After which, we’llterminate immediately, of course.”

“No!” The sleek male cat again shrieked acrossthe frozen lake. “We play his game! We welcomehim, embrace him. In Paris he talked about Bonn,Tel Aviv, Johannesburg; therefore you’llaccommodate him. Bring him to LeifLelm evenbetter, have Leifhelm go to him. Fly in Abrahmsfrom Israel, Van Headmer from Africa, and, yes,Bertholdier from Paris. He obviously knows whothey are anyway. He claims ultimately to want acouncil meeting, to be a part of us. So we’ll hold aconference and listen to his lies. He’ll tell us morewith his lies than he can with the truth.”

"I really don’t understand.”

“Converse is a point, but only a point. He’sexploring, studying the forward terrain, trying tounderstand the tactical forces ahead of him. If hewere anything else, he’d deal directly throughlegitimate authorities and legitimate methods.There’d be no reason for him to use a false name orgive false information or to run away, forciblyovercoming a man he thinks is trying to stop him.He’s an infantry point who has certain informationbut doesn’t know where he’s going. Well, a pointcan be sucked into a trap, the advancing companyambushed. Oh, yes, we must give him hisconference!”

“I submit that’s extraordinarily dangerous. Hehas to know who recruited him, who gave him thenames, his sources. We can break him physically orchemically and get that information.”

“He probably doesn’t have it,” explained the manpatiently. “Infantry points are not privileged to knowcommand decisions; frankly, if they were, they mightturn back. We have to know more about thisConverse, and by six o’clock tonight I’ll have everyreport, every resume, every word ever written abouthim. There’s something here we can’t see.”

“We already know he’s resourceful,” said theBritisher. “From what we can piece together inParis, he’s considered an outstanding attorney. If hesees through us or gets away from us, it could becatastrophic. He will have met with our people,spoken with them.”

“Then once you find him don’t let him out ofyour sight. By tomorrow I’ll have otherinstruetions"r you.”

“Oh?”

“Those records that are being gathered from allover the country. For a man to do what Converse isdoing, he had to be manipulated very carefully, verythoroughly, a driving intensity instilled in him. It’sthe manipulators we have to find.

They’re not even who we think they are. I’ll be intouch tomorrow.”

George Marcus Delavane replaced the telephonein its cradle and slowly, awkwardly twisted his upperbody around in the chair. He gazed at the strange,fragmented map as the first light of dawn fired theeastern sky, its orange glow filling the windows.Then, with effort, his hands gripping the arms of thesteel chair, he pivoted himself around again, his eyeson the stark pool of light on the desk. He moved hishands to his waist and carefully, trembling,unbuttoned his dark-red velvet jacket, forcing hisgaze downward, ordering himself to observe theterrible truth once more. He stared past thefive-inch-wide leather strap that diagonally held himin place, now commanding his eyes to focus, toaccept with loathing what had been done to him.

There was nothing to see but the edge of thethick steel seat and, below it, the polished wood ofthe floor. The long, sturdy legs that had carried histrained, muscular body through battles in the snowand the mud, through triumphant parades in thesunlight, through ceremonies of honor and defiance,had been stolen from him. The doctors had told himthat his diseased legs were instruments of death thatwould kill the rest of him. He clenched his fists andpressed them slowly down on the desk, his throatfilled with a silent scream.

“Goddamn you, Converse, who do you think youareP” cried Connal Fitzpatrick, his voice low, furious,as he caught up with Joel, who was walking rapidlybetween the tall trees near the Alter Zoll.

“Someone who knew Avery Fowler as a boy andwatched a man named Press Halliday die a couple ofhundred years later in Geneva,’ replied Converse,quickening his pace heading toward the gates of thenational landmark where there were taxis.

“Don’t puff that crap on mel I knew Press far betterand

far longer than you ever did. For Christ’s sake, hewas married to my sister! We were close friends forfifteen years!”

“You sound like a kid playing one-upmanship. Getlost.”

Fitzpatrick rushed forward, pivoting in front ofJoel blocking him. “It’s true! Please, I can help, Iwant to help! I know the language: you don’t! I haveconnections here; you don’t.”

“You also have your own idea about a deadline,which I don’t. Get out of my way, sailor. "

“Come on,” pleaded the naval officer. I didn’t geteverything I wanted. Don’t crowd me out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fitzpatrick shifted his weight awkwardly. “You’vecome on strong before yourself, haven’t you,counselor?”

“Not if I didn’t know the circumstances.”

“Sometimes it’s a way of finding them out.”

“Not with me, it isn’t.”

“Then my error was in not knowing you; thecircumstances were beyond that scope. Withsomeone else it might have worked.”

“Now you’re talking tactics, but you meant it when yousaid "two days.’”

“You’re damned right I did,” agreed Connal,nodding. “Because I want whatever it is exposed, Iwant whoever it is to pay! I’m mad, Converse, I’mmad as hell. I don’t want this thing to linger and dieaway. The longer nothing is done the less peoplecare; you know that as well as I do and probablybetter. Have you ever tried to reopen an old case? Ihave with a few courts-martial where I thought thingshad been screwed up. Well, I learned something: thesystem doesn’t like it! You know why?”

“Yes I do,” said Joel. “There are too many newcases in the dockets, too many rewards in going afterthe current ones.”

“Bingo, counselor. Press deserves better than that.Meagen deserves better.”

“Yes, he does they do. But there’s acomplication that Press Halliday understood betterthan either of us. Put simply and cruelly his lifewasn’t terribly important compared with what he wasgoing after.”

“That’s pretty damned cruel,” said the officer..

“It’s very damned accurate,” said Converse. “Yourbrother-in-law would have wrestled you to the mat,burns and all,

for walking into this and trying to call the shots.Back off Commander. Go back to the funeral.”

“No. I want to come on board. I withdraw thedeadline.”

"4How considerate of you.”

“You call the shots,” said Fitzpatrick, noddingagain, exhaling in defeat. “I’ll do what you tell me todo.”

“Why?” asked Joel, their eyes locked.

The Navy lawyer did not flinch; he spoke simply.“Because Press trusted you. He said you were thebest.”

“Except for him,” Converse added, permitting hisexpression to relax slightly, with a hint of a smile.“All right, I believe you, but there are ground rules.You either accept them or, as you put it, on boardyou’re not.”

“Let’s hear them. I ll wince inside so you can’t seeit.”

“Yes,” agreed Joel, “you’ll wince. To begin with,I’ll tell you only what I think you have to know in agiven situation. Whatever you develop will be onyour own; that way it’s freewheeling, no way can youtip the evidence we’ve compiled.”

“That’s rough.”

“That’s the way it is. I’ll give you a name nowand then when I think it will open a door, but it willalways be a name you heard second or third hand.You’re inventive; figure out your own unidentifiablesources so as to protect yourself.”

“I’ve done that on quite a few waterfronts “

wohu heave? How good are you at playactin’g?”

“Never mind, I think you just answered that. Youdidn’t go down to those waterfronts in your dresswhites as a lieutenant commander.”

“Hell, no.”

“You’ll do.”

“You’ve got to tell me something.”

“I’ll give you an overview, a lot of abstractionsand a few facts. As we progress ii weprogress you’ll learn more. If you think you’ve putit together, tell me. That’s essential. We can’t riskblowing everything while you operate under wrongassumptions.”

“Who’s "we’?”

“I wish to hell I knew.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything now?” askedfitzpatrick.

“Because Meagen Halliday lost a husband. Idon’t want to see her lose a brother.”

“I’ll accept that.”

“By the way, how long have you got? I meanyou’re on active duty.”

“My initial leave is thirty days, with extensions aswarranted. Christ, an only sister with five kids andher husband is killed. I could probably write myown ticket.”

“We’ll stick to the thirty days, Commander. It’smore than we’re allowed. We may not have eventwo weeks.”

“Start talking, Converse.”

“Let’s walk,” said Joel, heading back to the AlterZoll wall and the view of the Rhine below.

The “overview” delivered by Converse describeda current situation in which like-minded individualsin various countries were coming together and usingtheir considerable influence to get around the lawsand ship armaments and technology to hostilegovernments and organisations.

“For what purpose?” asked Fitzpatrick.

“I could say ”profits,’ but you’d see through it.”

“As the only motive, yes,” said the Navy lawyerpensively. “Influential people as I understand theword "influential’ as related to existing laws wouldoperate singly or at best in small groups within theirown countries. That is, if profits were the primaryobjective. They wouldn’t coordinate outside; it isn’tnecessary. It’s a sellers’ market; they’d only waterdown the profits.”

“Bingo, counselor.”

“So?” Fitzpatrick looked at Joel, as they strolledtoward a break in the stone wall where a bronzedcannon was in place.

“Destabilization,” said Converse. “Massdestabilisation. A series of flash points in highlyvolatile areas that will call into question the abilityof democratic governments to cope with theviolence.”

“I’ve got to ask you again, for what purpose?”

“You’re quick,” said Joel, “so I’ll let you answerthat. What happens when an existing politicalstructure is crippled by disorder, when it can nolonger function, when things are out of control?”

The two men stopped by the cannon, the navalofficer’s eyes following the line of the huge,threatening barrel. “It’s

restructured or replaced,” he said, turning to look atConverse.

“Bingo again,” said Converse softly. “That’s theoverview.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Fitzpatrick creased hiseyes in the sunlight, as well as in thought. “Let merecap. Am I allowed?”

“You’re allowed.”

” "Influential individuals’ connotes people inpretty good standing in very high places. Assumingwe’re not talking about an out-and-out criminalelement which the lack of a pure profit motivewould seem to eliminate we’re talking aboutreasonably respectable citizens. Is there anotherdefinition I’m not aware of?”

"If there is, I’m not aware of it, either.”

“Then why would they want to destabilise thepolitical structures that guarantee them theirinfluence? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Ever hear of the phrase "Everything’s relative’?”

“To a fare-thee-well. So what?”

“So think.”

“About what?”

“Influence.” Joel took out his cigarettes, shookone to his lips and lighted it. The younger manstared at the Seven Mountains of the Westerwald inthe distance.

“They want more,” said Fitzgerald slowly, turningback to Converse.

“They want it all,” said Joel. “And the only waythey can get it is to prove that their solutions are theonly solutions, all others having proved worthlessagainst the eruption of chaos suddenly everywhere.”

Connal’s expression was fixed, immobile, as heabsorbed Converse’s words. “Holy Mary. . . ” hebegan, his voice a whisper, yet still a cry. “Aninternational plebiscite the peoples’ will for thealmighty state. Fascism. It’s multinationalfasasm. “

“I’m sick of saying “Bingo,’ so I’ll say ”Right on,’counselor. You’ve just said it better than any of us.”

“Us? Which is "use,’ but you don’t know who youarel” added Fitzpatrick, both bewildered and angry.

“Live with it,” said Joel. “As I have.”

“Why?”

“Avery Fowler. Remember him?”

“Oh, jesust”

“And an old man on the island of Mykonos.That’s all we have. But what they said is true. It’sreal. I’ve seen it, and that’s all I need to know. InGeneva, Avery said there was very little time left.Beale refined it; he called it a countdown.Whatever’s going to happen will happen before yourleave is up two weeks and four days is the earliestreport. That’s what I meant before.”

“Oh my God,” whispered Fitzpatrick. “What elsecan you tell me will you tell me?”

“Very little.”

“The embassy,” Connal interrupted. “It’s been acouple of years, but I was there. I worked with themilitary attache. I don’t need any introductions. Wecan get help there.”

“We can also get killed there.”

“What?”

“It’s not clean. Those three men you saw at theairport the ones from the embassy “

“What about them?”

“They’re on the other side.”

“I don’t believe your”

“Why do you think they were at the airport?”

“To meet you, talk to you. There could be adozen different reasons. Whether you know it ornot, you’re considered a hotshot lawyer on theinternational scene. Foreign service personnelfrequently want to touch base with guys like you.”

“I’ve had this conversation before,” saidConverse, irritated.

“What does that mean?”

“If they wanted to see me, why didn’t they go tothe gate?”

“Because they thought you’d come into theterminal like everybody else.”

“And when I didn’t according to you theywere upset, angry. That’s what you said.”

“They were.”

“All the more reason to meet me at the gate.”

Fitzpatrick frowned. “Still, that’s kind of flimsy “

“The woman. Do you remember the woman?”

“Of course.”

“She spotted me in Copenhagen. She followedme. Also there’s something else. Later, on theplatform, all four were picked up by a car belongingto a man we know we know is part of everythingI’ve described to you. They drove to

the embassy, and you’ll have to take my word forthat. I saw them.”

Connal fixed his gaze on Joel, accepting what hehad heard. “ Oh, Jesus, ” he said. ”Okay, no embassy.What about Brussels, SHAPE? There’s a Navyintelligence unit; I ve dealt with those peoplebefore.”

Not yet. Maybe not at all.”

"I thought you wanted to use the uniform, myconnections.”

"Maybe I will. It’s nice to know they’re there.”

"Well, what do you want me to do? I’ve got todo something. “

Are you really fluent in German?”

“Hochdeutsch, Schwa’bisch, Bayerisch, and severaldialects in between. I told you, I can handle fivelanguages “

You’ve made it obnoxiously clear,” interruptedConverse. "4There’s a woman named Fishbein herein Bonn. That’s the first name I’m going to give you.She’s involved we’re not sure how, but she’ssuspected of being a conduit a relayer ofinformation. I want you to meet her, talk with herestablish a relationship. We’ll have to think ofsomething that’ll be convincing in order for you todo it. She’s in her forties, and she’s the youngestdaughter of Hermann Goring. She married asurvivor of the holocaust for obvious reasons; he’slong gone. Any ideas?”

“”Sure,” said Fitzpatrick without hesitating.“”Inheritance. There are a couple of thousand lastwills and testaments every year that the deceasedwant processed through the military. They’re fromcrazies who leave everything they’ve got to the othersurvivors. The true Aryan Germanic stock and allthat horseshit. We bounce them back to the civilcourts, which don’t know what to do with them, sothey end up in limbo and eventually in the TreasuryDepartment’s coffers.”

“No kidding?”

“girls, owed drei. Believe me, those people mean it.”

“Can you use the device?”

“How about a million-plus legacy from a smallMidwest brewer of lager beer?”

“You’ll do,” said Joel. “You’re on board.”

Converse did not mention Aquitaine or GeorgeMarcus Delavane or Jacques-Louis Bertholdier orErich Leifhelm, or twenty-odd names at the StateDepartment and the Pentagon. Nor did he describethe network as it appeared in the dossiers, or asdescribed by Dr. Edward Beale on Mykonos.

.=OBERTLUDLUM

He gave Connal Fitzpatrick the barest bones of the bodyof information. Joel’s reasoning was far less benign thanhe had stated: if the Navy lawyer was taken andinterrogated no matter how brutally there was littleof substance he could reveal.

“You’re not really telling me a hell of a lot,” saidFitzpatrick.

“I’ve told you enough to get your head blown off,and that’s not a phrase normally in my lexicon.”

“Nor mine.”

“Then consider me a nice fellow,” said Converse, asthe two men headed for the entrance gate of the AlterZoll.

“On the other hand,” continued Halliday’s broth-er-in-law, “you’ve been through a lot more than I everhave I read that stuff about you in the securityfiles files, not file they were cross-correlated with thefiles of a lot of other prisoners. You were somethingelse. According to most of the men in those camps, youheld them together until they put you into solitary.”

“They were wrong, sailor. I was shaking and scaredto death and would have fucked a Peking duck to savemy skin.”

“That’s not what the files say. They say “

“I’m really not interested, Commander,” said Joel asthey passed through the ornate gate, “but I’ve got animmediate problem you can help solve.”

“What is it?”

“I gave my word I’d call Dowling on some mobilephone line. I wouldn’t know how to ask for it.”

“There’s a booth over there,” said Connal, pointingto a white plastic bubble that protruded from a concretepylon on the pavement abutting the drive. “Do you havethe number?”

“It’s here somewhere,” replied Converse, rummagingthrough various pockets. “Here it is,” he said as heseparated the scrap of paper from several credit-cardcharges.

”Vermittlung, bitts.” The naval officer soundedauthentic as he spoke crisply into the telephone. “Sieben,drei, pier zwei, zwei. Bitte, Fraulein. ” Fitzpatrick theninserted a series of coins into the metal box and turnedto Joel. “Here you are. They’re ringing.”

Stay there. Ask for him say it’s his lawyer calling the

“Guten Tag, Fraulein. Ist Herr Oh, no, I speakEnglish. Do you spealc English? No, I’m not callingfrom California, but it’s an emergency…. Dowling, Ihave to reach “

“Caleb, ” said Joel quickly.

"Caleb Dowling.” The Navy man covered themouthpiece. “What kind of name is that?”

“Something to do with Gucci shoes.”

“What? . . . la yes, thanks.” Fitzpatrick handedthe phone to Converse. “They’re getting him.”

“foe?”

“Yes, Cal. I said I’d call you after I met withFowler. Everything’s okay.”

"No, it’s not, Mr. Lawyer,” said the actor quietly.“You and I had better have a very serious talk, andI don’t mind telling you a hunk of beef namedRosenberg will be just a few feet away.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A man died in Paris. Does that clear things up foryou?”

“Oh, God ” Converse felt the blood draining fromhis head and a hollowness in his throat. For amoment he thought he was going to be sick. “Theycame to you?” he whispered.

“A man from the German police a little over anhour ago, and this time I didn’t have any doubtsabout my visitor. He was the real item.”

“I don’t know what to say,” stammered Joel.

“Did you do it?”

“I. . . I guess I did.” Converse stared at thetelephone dial, seeing the bloodied face of the manin the alleyway, feeling the blood on his own fingers

“You guess? That’s not something you guess about.”

“Then yes…. The answer is yes. I did it.”

“Did you have a reason?”

“I thought I did.”

“I want to hear it, but not now. I’ll tell you whereto meet me.”

“Nor” exclaimed Joel, confused but emphatic. “Ican’t involve you. You can’t be involved!”

“This fellow gave me a card and wants me to callhim if you got in touch with me. He was very specificabout withholding information, how it’s consideredaiding a fugitive.”

“He was right, absolutely rightl For God’s sake,tell him everything, Call The truth. You got me aroom for the night because you thought I might nothave a reservation and we had a pleasant few hourson the plane. You put it in your name because youdidn’t want me to pay. Don’t hide anything! Not eventhis call.”

“Why didn’t I tell him before?”

“That’s all right, you’re telling him now. It wasa shock and I’m a fellow American and you’re in aforeign country. You wanted time to think, toreflect. My phone call shook you into behavingrationally. Tell him you confronted me with theaccusation and I didn’t deny it. Be honest with him,Cal.”

“How honest? Should I include my session withFowler?”

“That’s all right, too, but it’s not necessary. Letme back up and clarify. Fowler’s a false name andhe’s not relevant to Paris, I give you my word.Bringing him in is only volunteering an unnecessarycomplication.”

“Should I tell him you’re at the Alter Zoll?”

“It’s where I’m calling you from. I just admitted it.”

“You won’t be able to go back to the Konigshof.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Joel, speaking rapidly,wanting to get off the phone and start thinking. “Myluggage is at the airport and I can’t go back thereeither.”

“You had a briefcase.”

“I’ve taken care of that. It’s where I can get it.”

The actor paused, then spoke slowly. “So youradvice to me is to level with the police, to tell themthe truth.”

“Without volunteering extraneous and unrelatedmaterial. Yes, that’s my advice, Cal. It’s the way youcan stay clean and you are clean.”

“It sounds like fine advice, Joe Joel, and Icertainly wish I could take it, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

“What? Why?”

“Because bad men like thieves and killers don’tgive advice like that. It’s not in any script I everread.”

“That’s nonsense! For Christ’s sake, do as I tellyou!”

“Sorry, pardner, it’s not good dramaturgy. Soyou do as I tell you. There’s a big stone building atthe university beautiful place, a restored palaceactually with a layout of gardens you don’t seevery often. They’re on the south side with bencheshere and there on the main path. It’s a nice placeon a summer’s night, kind of out of the way and nottoo crowded. Be there at ten o’clock.”

“Cal, I won’t involve you in thist”

“I’m already involved. I’ve withheld informationand I’ve aided a fugitive.” Dowling paused again.“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said.

“No. “

There was a click and the line went dead.

Converse hung up the phone and braced himselfon the sides of the plastic booth, trying to clear hishead. He had killed a man, not in a war anyone knewabout, and not in the heat of survival in a SoutheastAsian jungle, but in a Paris alleyway because he hadto make an instant decision based on probabilities.Rightly or wrongly the act had been done and hecould not dwell on it. The German police werelooking for him, which meant that Interpol hadentered the picture, transmitting the information fromParis somehow supplied by Jacques-Louis Bertholdier,who remained out of sight, beyond the scope of thehunt. Joel recalled his own words spoken onlyminutes ago. If Press Halliday’s life was not terriblyimportant compared with what he was going after,neither was the life of a minion who worked forBertholdier, Delavane’s disciple, Aquitaine’s arm inFrance. There were no options, thought Converse. Hehad to go on; he had to stay free.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fitzpatrick, standinganxiously near him. “You look like you got kicked bya mule.”

“I got kicked,” agreed Converse.

“What happened to Dowling? Is he in trouble?”

“He mall be!” exploded Joel. “Because he’s amisguided idiot who thinks he’s in some kind ofgoddamned moviel”

“That wasn’t your opinion a little while ago.”

“We met; it came out all right. This can’t, not forhim.” Converse pushed himself away from the boothand looked at the Navy lawyer, his mind now tryingdesperately to concentrate on the immediate. “I maytell you and I may not,” he said, glancing around foran available taxi. “Come on, we’re going to put yourawesome linguistic abilities to work. We need shelter,expensive but not showy, especially not a place wherethe well-heeled tourists go who don’t speak German.If there’s one thing they’ll spread about me, it’s thatI can’t talk my way through the five boroughs of NewYork. I want

a rich hotel that doesn’t need foreigners, doesn’tcater to them. Do you know the kind of place Imean?”

Fitzpatrick nodded. “Exclusive, clubby,Germanbusiness-oriented. Every large city has hotels likethat, and they’re always twenty times my per diemfor breakfast.”

“That’s okay, I ve got money here in Bonn. Imight as well try to get it out.”

“You’re full of surprises,” said Cormal. “I meanreal surprises.”

“Do you think you can handle it? Find a hotel likethat?”

“I can explain what I want to a cabdriver; he’llprobably know. Bonn’s small, nothing like NewYork or London or Paris…. There’s a taxi lettingpeople out.” The two men hurried to the curb,where the cab was discharging a quartet ofpassengers balancing camera equipment andoutsized Louis Vuitton handbags.

“How will you do it?” asked Converse as theynodded to the tourists, two couples in the midst ofan argument, male versus female, Nikon versusVuitton.

“A combination of what we both said,” answeredFitzpatrick. “A quiet, nice hotel away from theAusl“nderl”r"n. “

“What?”

“The clamor of tourists and worse. I’ll tell himwe’re calling on some very important Germanbusinessmen bankers, say and we’d like a placethey’d be most comfortable in for confidentialmeetings. He’ll get the drift.”

“He’ll see we don’t have any luggage,” objected Joel.

“He’ll see the money in my hand first,” said thenaval olficer, holding the door for Converse.

Lieutenant Commander Connal Fitzpatrick,USN, member of the military bar and limitedthereby, impressed Joel Converse, vauntedinternational attorney, to the point where the latterfelt foolish. Effortlessly the Navy lawyer got them ina two-bedroom suite at an inn on the banks of theRhine called Das Rektorat. It was one of thoseconverted prewar estates where most of the guestsseemed to have at least a nodding acquaintance withseveral others and the clerks rarely looked anyonein the eye, as if tacitly confirming their subser-vience or the fact that they would certainly notacknowledge having seen Herr So-and-So shouldsomeone ask them.

Fitzpatrick had begun his campaign with the taxidriver by leaning forward in the seat and speakingrapidly and quiet

ly.Their exchanges seemed to grow more confidentialas the cab sped toward the heart of the city; then itabruptly veered away, crossing the railroad tracksthat intersected the capital, and entered a smoothroad paralleling the river north. Joel had started tospeak, to ask what was happening, but the Navylawyer had held up his hand, telling Converse to bequiet.

Once they had stopped at the entrance of an inn,reached by an interminably long, manicured drive,Fitzpatrick got out.

“Stay here,” he said toJoel. “I’ll see if I can get usa couple of rooms. And don’t say anything.”

Twelve minutes later Connal returned, hisdemeanor stern, his eyes, however, lively. “Come on,Chairman of the Board, we’re going straight up.” Hepaid the driver handsomely and once again held thedoor for Converse now a touch more deferentially,thought Joel.

The lobby of Das Rektorat was unmistakablyGerman, with oddly delicate Victorian overtones;thick heavy wood and sturdy leather chairs werebeside and below filigrees of brass ornamentationforming arches over doorways, elegant borders forlarge mirrors, and valances above thick bay windowswhere none were required. One’s first impression wasof a quiet, expensive spa from decades ago, itssolemnity lightened by flashes of reflecting metal andglass. It was a strange mixture of the old and the veryold. It smelled of money.

Fitzpatrick led Converse to a paneled elevatorrecessed in the paneled corridor; no bellboy ormanservant was in attendance. It was a smallenclosure, room for no more than four people, thewalls of tinted, marbled glass, which vibrated as theelevator ascended two stories.

“I think you’ll approve of the accommodations,”said Connal. “I checked them out; that’s why it tookme so long.”

“We’re back in the nineteenth century, you know,”countered Joel. “I trust they have telephones and notjust the Hessian express.”

“All the most modern communications, I madesure of that, too.” The elevator door opened. “Thisway,” said Fitzpatrick, gesturing to the right. “Thesuite’s at the end of the hall.”

“The suited”

“You said you had money in Bonn.”

Two bedrooms flanked a tastefully furnishedsitting room, with French doors that opened onto asmall balcony overlook

ingthe Rhine. The rooms were sunlit and airy, thedecor of the walls again an odd mixture: areproduction of an Impressionist floral arrangementwas beside dramatic prints of past champion horsesfrom the leading German tracks and breeding farms.

“All right, wonder boy,” said Converse, lookingout the open French doors, then turning back toConnal Fitzpatrick, who stood in the middle of theroom, the key skill in his hand. “How did you do it?”

“It wasn’t hard,” replied the Navy lawyer, smiling.“You’d be surprised what a set of military paperswill do for a person in this country. The older guyssort of stiffen up and look like boxer puppiessmelling a pot roast, and there aren’t that manypeople here much under sixty.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything unless you’reenlisting us.”

“It does when I combine it with the fact that I’man aide assigned by the U.S. Navy to accompany animportant American financier over here to holdconfidential meetings with his German counterparts.While in Bonn, naturally, incognito is the bestmeans for my eccentric financier to travel. Every-thing’s in my name.”

“What about reservations?”

“I told the manager that you’d rejected the hotelreserved for us as having too many people youmight know. I also hinted that those countrymen ofhis you’re going to meet might be most appreciativeof his cooperation. He agreed that I might have apoint there.”

“How did we hear about this place?” asked Joel,skill suspicious.

“Simple. I remembered it from severalconversations I had at the Internahonal EconomicConference in Dusseldorf last year.”

“You were there?”

“I didn’t know there was one,” said Fitzpatrick,heading for the door on the left. “I’ll take thisbedroom, okay? It’s not as large as the other oneand that’s the way it should be, since I’m anaide which Jesus, Mary, and Joseph all know is thetruth.”

“Wait a minute,” Converse broke in, steppingforward. “What about our luggage? Since we don’thave any, didn’t that strike your friend downstairs asa little odd for such important characters?”

“Not at all,” said Connal, turning. “It’s skill in thecity at

that unnamed hotel you rejected so emphaticallyafter twenty minutes. But only I can pick it up.”

“Why?”

Fitzpatrick brought his index finger to his lips.“You also have a compulsion for secrecy. Remember,you’re eccentric.”

“The manager bought all that swill?”

“He calls me Kommandant.”

“You’re quite a bullshitter, sailor.”

“I remind you, sir, that in the land of Erin gobrash it’s called good healthy blarney. And althoughyou lack certain qualifications, Press said you were amaster of it in negohations.” Connal’s expressionbecame serious. “He meant it in the best way,counselor, and that’s not bullshit.”

As the Navy lawyer began walking to thebedroom, Joel felt an odd sense of recognition butcould not define it. What was it about the youngerman that struck a chord in him? Fitzpatrick had thatboldness that came with the untried, that lack of fearin small things that caution would later teach himoften led to larger things. He tested waters bravely;he had never come close to drowning.

Suddenly Converse understood the recognition.What he saw in Connal Fitzpatrick washimself before things had happened. Before he hadlearned the meaning of fear, raw fear. And finally ofloneliness.

It was agreed that Connal would return to theCologne-Bonn airport, not for Joel’s luggage but forhis own, which was stored in a locker in thebaggage-claim area. He would then go into Bonnproper, buy an expensive suitcase and fill it with ahalf-dozen shirts, underwear, socks and bestoff-the-rack clothing he could find in Joel’ssizes namely, three pairs of trousers, a jacket or twoand a raincoat. It was further agreed that casualclothes were the most appropriate an eccentricfinancier was permitted such lapses of sartorial taste,and also such attire more successfully concealed theirnon-custom-made origins. Finally, the last stop hewould make before returning to Das Rektorat was ata second locker in the railroad station whereConverse had left his attache case. Once the casewas in the Navy lawyer’s possession and the taxiwaiting outside had picked up its passenger, therewere to be no further stops. The cab was to drivedirectly to the countryside inn.

“I wanted to ask you something,” said Fitzpatrick justbe

fore leaving. “Back at the Alter Zoll you saidsomething about how "they’ would spread the wordthat you couldn’t talk your way through the fiveboroughs of New York. I gathered that referred tothe fact that you don’t speak German.”

“That’s right. Or any other language, adequateEnglish excepted. I tried but it never took. I wasmarried to a girl who spoke fluent French andGerman, and even she gave up. I don’t have the ear,I guess.”

“Who did "they’ refer to?” asked Connal, barelylistening to Converse’s explanation. “The embassymen?”

Joel hesitated. “A little wider, I’m afraid,” hesaid, choosing his words carefully. “You’ll have toknow but not now, not yet. Later.”

“Why later? Why not now?”

“Because it wouldn’t do you a damned bit ofgood, and it might raise questions you wouldn’t wantraised under, shall we say, adverse circumstances.”

“That’s elliptical.”

“fit certainly is. ”

“Is that it? Is that all you’ll say?”

“No. There’s one other thing. I want my briefcase.”

Fitzpatrick had assured him that the switchboardof Das Rektorat was capable of handling telephonecalls in English as well as at least six otherlanguages, including Arabic and he should have noqualms about placing a call to Lawrence Talbot inNew York.

“Christ, where are you, Joel?” Talbot shoutedinto the phone.

“Amsterdam,” replied Converse, not wanting tosay Bonn and having had the presence of mind tomake the call station-to-station. “I want to knowwhat happened to Judge Anstett, Larry. Can you tellme anything?”

“I want to know what’s happened to you! Renecalled last night….”

“Mattilon?”

“You told him you were flying to London.”

“I changed my mind.”

“What the hell ha opened ? The police were withhim; he had no choice. He had to tell them who youwere.” Talbot suddenly paused, then spoke in acalmer voice, a false voice. “Are you all right, Joel?Is there something you want to tell me, somethingbothering you?”

“Something bothering me?”

" Listen to me, Joel. We all know what you wentthrough, and we admire you, respect you. You’re thefinest we’ve got in the international division “

“I’m the only one you’ve got,” Converse broke in,trying to think, trying to buy time as well asinformation. “What did Rene say? Why did he callyou?”

"You sound like your old self, fella.”

“I am my old self, Larry. What did Rene call youabout? Why were the police with him?” Joel couldfeel the slippage; he was entering another sphere andhe knew it, accepted it. The lies would follow, guilejoining deceit, because time and freedom ofmovement were paramount. He had to stay free;there was so much to do, so little time.

“He called me back after the police left to fill mein incidentally, they were from the Surete. As heunderstood it, the driver of a limousine was assaultedoutside the George Cinq’s service entrance “

“The driver of a limousine?” interruptedConverse involuntarily. “They said he was achauffeur?”

“From one of those high-priced services that ferryaround people who make odd stops at odd hours.Very posh and very confidential. Apparently thefellow was pretty well smashed up and they say youdid it. No one knows why, but you were identifiedand they say the man may not live.”

“Larry, this is preposterousI” objected Joel, hisprotestation accompanied by feigned outrage. “Yes,I was there in the area but it had nothing to dowith me! Two hotheads got into a fight, and since Icouldn’t stop them, I wasn’t going to get my headhanded to me. I got out of there, and before I founda taxi I yelled at the doorman to call for help. Thelast thing I saw he was blowing his whistle andrunning toward the alley.”

“You weren’t even involved, then,” said Talbot.The statement was a lawyer’s positive fact.

“Of course not! Why would I be?”

“That’s what we couldn’t understand. It didn’tmake sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense. I’ll call Rene and fly backto Paris, if I have to.”

“Yes, do that,” agreed Talbot haltingly. “I shouldtell you I may have aggravated the situation.”

“You? How?”

“I told Mattilon that perhaps you were . . . well,not yourself. When I spoke with you in Geneva, yousounded awful, Joel. Just plain awful.”

"Good God, how did you think I’d feel? A manI was negotiating with dies in front of me bleedingfrom a dozen bullet wounds. How would you feel?”

“I understand,” said the lawyer in New York,“but then Rene thought he saw something inyou heard something that disturbed him, too.”

“Oh, come on, will you people get off it!”Converse’s thoughts raced; every word he spoke hadto be credible, his now diminished “outrage” rootedin believability. “”Mathlon saw me after I’d beenflying in and out of airports for damn near fourteenhours. Christ, I was exhausted!”

“Joel?” Talbot began, obviously not quite readyto get off it. “Why did you tell Rene you were inParis for the firm?”

Converse paused, not for lack of a response butfor effect. He was ready for the question; he hadbeen ready when he first approached Mattilon. “Awhite lie, Larry, and no harm to anyone. I wantedsome information, and it seemed the best way to getit.”

“About this Bertholdier? He’s the general, isn’t he?”

“He turned out to be the wrong source. I toldRene as much, and he couldn’t agree with memore.” Joel lightened his tone of voice. “Also itwould have appeared strange if I’d said I was inParis for somebody else, wouldn’t it? I don’t thinkit would have done the firm any good. Rumors andspeculahon run rampant down our corridors; youtold me that once.”

“Yes, and it’s true. You did the right thing….Damn it Joel, why the hell did you leave the hotelthe way you did? From the basement, or whereverit was.”

It was the moment for expressing with totalconviction a small inconsequential untruth that ifnot carried off would lead to the larger, far moredangerous lie. Connal Fitzpatrick could do it well,reflected Converse. The Navy lawyer had notlearned to fear the small things; he did not knowthey were spoors that could lead one back to a ratcage in the Mekong River.

“Bubba, my friend and sole support,” said Joel,as cavalierly as he could muster. “I owe you manythings, but not the intimacies of my private life.”

“The what of your what?”

“I am approaching middle age at least it’s not far

off and I have no matrimonial encumbrances orguilt about fidelity.”

“You were avoiding a woman?”

“Fortunately for the firm, not a man.”

“Jee-sus! I m so well into middle age I don’tthink about those things. Sorry, young fella.”

“Young and not so young, Larry.”

“We were all off base then. You’d better callRene right away and get this thing cleared up. I can’ttell you how relieved I am.”

“You can tell me about Anstett. That’s why I calledyou.”

“Of course.” Talbot lowered his voice. “A terriblething, a tragedy. What did the papers over theresay?”

Converse was caught; he had not anticipated thequesbon. “Very little,” he replied, trying to rememberwhat Fitzpatrick had told him. “Just that he was shotand apparently nothing was taken from hisapartment.”

“That’s right. Naturally, the first thing Nathanand I thought of was you, and whatever the hellyou’re involved with, but that wasn’t the case. It wasa Mafia vendetta, pure and simple. You know howrough Anstett was on appeals from those people;he’d throw them out as fast as he’d call their at-torneys a disgrace to the profession.”

“It was a confirmed Mafia killing?”

“It will be, and that’s straight from O’Neil downat the commissioner’s office. They know their man,he’s an execuboner for the Delvecchio family andlast month Anstett threw the key away onDelvecchio’s oldest son. He’s in for twelve years withno appeals left; the Supreme Court won’t touchhim.”

“They know the man?”

“It’s only a matter of picking him up.”

“How come it’s so clear-cut?” asked Joe, confused.

“The usual way,” said Talbot. “An informer whoneeds a favor. And since everything’s happened sofast and so quietly, it’s assumed that the ballistics willprove out.”

“So fast? So quietly?”

“The infommer reached the police first thing thismoming. A special unit was dispatched and only theyknow the man’s identity. They figure the gun willskill be in his possession. He’ll be picked up anytimenow; he lives in Syosset.”

Something was wrong, thought Converse. Therewas an inconsistency, but he could not spot the flaw.Then it came

to him. “Larry, if everything’s so quiet, how do youknow about it?”

“I was afraid you’d ask that,” said Talbotuneasily. “I might as well tell you; it’ll probably be inthe newspaper follow-ups anyway. O’Neil’s keepingme posted; call it courtesy, and also because I’mnervous.”

“Why?”

“Except for the man who killed him, I was thelast person to see Anstett alive.”

“Your”

“Yes. After Rene’s second call I decided tophone the judge, after conferring with Nathan, ofcourse. When I finally reached Anstett, I said I hadto see him. He wasn’t happy about it but I wasadamant. I explained that it concerned you. All Iknew was that you were in terrible trouble andsomething had to be done. I went over to hisapartment on Central Park South and we talked. Itold him what had happened and how frightened Iwas for you, frankly letting hi[n know that I heldhim responsible. He didn’t say much, but I think hewas frightened, too. He said he’d get in touch withme in the morning. I left, and according to thecoroner’s report, he was killed approximately threehours later.”

Joel’s breath was short, his head splitting. Hisconcentration was absolute. “Let me get this straight,Larry. You went over to Anstett’s apartment afterRene’s call his second call. After he told the Suretewho I was.”

“That’s right.”

“How long was it?”

“How long was what?”

“Before you left for Anstett’s. After you spokewith Mattilon.”

“Well, let me see. Naturally, I wanted to talk toNathan first, but he was out to dinner, so I waited.Incidentally, he concurred and offered to join me “

“How long, Larry?”

“An hour and a half, two hours at the outside.”

Two hours plus three hours totaled five hours.More than enough time for the killer puppets to be putin place. Converse did not know how it had beendone, only that it had been done. Things hadsuddenly erupted in Paris, and in New York anagitated Lawrence Talbot had been followed to anapartment on Central Park South, where someone,somewhere, recognized a name and a man and thepart he had

played against Aquitaine. Were it otherwise, Talbotwould be the corpse, not Lucas Anstett. All the restwas a smoke screen behind which the disciples ofGeorge Marcus Delavane manipulated the puppets.

“"and the courts owed so much to him, thecountry owed so much.” Talbot was speaking, butJoelcould no longer listen.

“I have to go, Larry,” he said, hanging up.

The killing was obscene. That it was carried outso quickly, so efficiently and with such precisedeception was as frightening as anything Conversecould imagine.

Joseph Joey the Nice) Albanese drove hisPontiac down the quiet, tree-lined street in Syosset,Long Island, waving to a couple in a front yard. Thehusband was trimming a hedge under his wife’sguidance. They stopped what they were doing, smiledand waved back. Very nice. His neighbors liked him,thought Joey. They considered him a sweet guy andvery generous, what with letting the kids use his pooland serving their parents only the best booze whenthey dropped over and the biggest steaks moneycould buy when he had weekend barbecues whichhe did often, rotating the neighbors so no one shouldfeel left out.

He was a sweet guy, mused Joey. He was alwayspleasant and never raised his voice in anger toanyone, offering only a glad hand, a nice word anda happy smile to everybody, no matter how lousy hereally felt. That was it, goddamn it! thought Joey.Irra fuckin’ gardless of how upset he was, henever let it show! Joey the Nice was what they calledhim and they were right. Sometimes he figured hehad to be some kind of saint may Jesus Christforgive him for having such thoughts. He had justwaved to neighbors, but in truth he felt like smashinghis fist through the windshield and shoving the glassdown their throats.

It wasn’t them, it was last night that did it! Acrazy night, a crazy hit, everything crazy! And thatRumba they brought in from the West Coast, theone they called Major, he was the nuttiest fruitcakeof them all! And a sadist to boot, the way he beatthe shit out of that old man and the crazy questionshe asked, and shouting all the time. Tutti pazzi!

One minute he’s playing cards in the Bronx, andthe next the phone is ringing. Get down toManhattan fast! A bad heat is needed attualmente!So he goes and what does he find? It’s

that iron-balled judge, the one who closed the steeldoors on Delvecchio’s boy! What craziness! They’lltrace it back to the old man for sure. He’ll knowsuch a"izione from the cops and the courts he’ll belucky to own a small whorehouse in Paler mo if heever got back.

Then maybe just maybe thought Joey at thetime, there was a turning muscle in the organisation.Old Delvecchio was losing his grip; just maybe it wasbeing called for, this ap?izione that surely wouldfollow. And possibly just possibly Joey himselfwas being tested. Maybe he was too nice, too soave,to put the bad heat on someone like the old judgewho gave them all such a hard time. Well, he wasn’t.No sirree, the nice stopped with the handle of agun. It was his job, his profession. The Lord Jesusdecided who should live and who should die, onlyHe spoke through mortal men on earth who toldpeople like Joey whom to hit. There was no moraldilemma for Joey the Nice. It was important,however, that the orders always come from a manwith respect; that was necessary.

They did last night; the order came from a manwith great respect. Although Joey did not know himpersonally, he had heard for years about thepowerful padrone in Washington, D.C. The namewas whispered, never spoken out loud.

Joey touched the brakes of his car, slowing downso as to swing into his driveway. His wife, Angie,would be pissed off at him, maybe shout a littlebecause he didn’t come home last night. One moreirritation on top of all the craziness, but what thehell was he going to say? Sorry, Angie, but I wasgainfully employed throwing six bullets into an oldguy who definitely discriminated against Italians. So,you see, Angie, I had to stay across the the bridge inJersey where one of the paesans I played cards withand who’ll swear I was there all night happens to bethe chief of police.

But, of course, he would never go into suchdetails with his wife. That was his own law. Nomatter how aggravated he was he never brought thejob home. More husbands should be like him andthere would be happier households in Syosset.

Shit/ One of the bucking kids had left a bicyclein front of the attached garage; he wouldn’t be ableto open the automatic door and drive inside. He’dhave to get out. Shill One more aggravation. Hecouldn’t even park by the Millers’ curb next door;some creep’s car was there but it wasn’t the Millers’Buick. Double shill

Joey brought the Pontiac to a stop halfway intothe sloping driveway and got out. He went up to thebike and leaned down. The rotten kid didn’t evenuse the kickstand and Joey hated bending over, whatwith his heavy gut and all.

“”Joseph Albanese!”

Joey the Nice spun around, crouching, reachingunder his jacket. That tone of voice was used by onlyone type of slimel He pulled out his .38 and dovetoward the grille of his car.

The explosions reverberated throughout theneighborhood. Birds fluttered out of trees and therewere screams along the block in the bright afternoonsunlight. Joseph Albanese was sprawled against thegrille of the Pontiac, rivulets of blood slowly rollingdown the shiny chrome. Joey the Nice had beencaught in the fire, and gripped in his hand was thegun he had used so effectively the night before.Ballistics would prove out. The killer of LucasAnstett was dead. The judge had been the victim ofa gangland assassination, and as far as the world wasconcerned, it had nothing to do with events takingplace six thousand miles away in Bonn, Germany.

Converse stood on the small balcony, his handson the railing, looking down at the majestic riverbeyond the forest of trees that formed the banks ofthe Rhine. It was past seven o’clock; the sun wasgoing below the mountains in the west, its orangerays shooting up, creating blocks of shadows over theearth moving shadows that floated across thewaters in the descending distance. The vibrant colorswere hypnotic, the breezes cooling, but nothingcould stop the pounding echo in his chest. Where wasFitzpatrick? Where was his attache cased The dossiersHe tried to stop thinking, to stop his imaginationfrom catapulting into frightening possibilities….

There was a sudden harsh echo, not from hischest but from inside the room. He turned quickly asthe door opened and Connal Fitzpatrick stood there,removing his key from the lock. He stepped aside,letting a uniformed porter enter with two suitcases,instructing the man to leave them on the floor whilehe reached into his pocket for a tip. The porter leftand the Navy lawyer stared at Joel. There was noattache case in his hand.

“Where is it?” said Converse, afraid to breathe,afraid to move.

“I didn’t pick it up.’

“Why note” cried Joel, rushing forward.

“I couldn’t be sure . . . maybe it was just afeeling, I don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was at the airport for seven hours yesterday,going from counter to counter asking about you,”said Connal softly. “This afternoon I passed theLufthansa desk and the same clerk was there. WhenI said hello, he didn’t seem to want to acknowledgeme; he looked nervous, and I couldn’t understand.I came back out of the baggage claim with mysuitcase and watched him. I remembered how hehad glanced at me last night, and as I passed him Iswore his eyes kept shooting to the center of theterminal, but there were so many people so muchconfusion, I couldn’t be certain.”

“You think you were picked up? Followed ?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. When I wasshopping in Bonn, I went from store to store andevery now and then I’d turn around, or shift myhead, to see if I could spot anyone. A couple oftimes I thought I saw the same people twice, butthen again, it was always crowded, and again Icouldn’t be sure. But I kept thinking about thatLufthansa clerk; something was wrong.”

“What about when you were in the taxi? Did you “

“Naturally. I kept looking out the rear window.Even dun ing the drive out here. Several cars madethe same turns we did, but I told the driver to slowdown and they passed us.”

“Did you watch where they went after they passedyou?”

“What was the point?”

“There is one,” said Joel, recalling a clever driverwho followed a deep-red Mercedes limousine.

“All I knew was that you’re pretty uptight aboutthat attache case. I don’t know what’s in it and Ifigure you don’t want anyone else to know, either.”

“Bingo, counselor.”

There was a knocking at the door, and althoughit was soft, it had the effect of a staccato burst ofthunder. Both men stood motionless, their eyesriveted on the door.

“Ask who it is,” whispered Converse.

“Wer ist da, bitted” said Fitzpatrick, loud enoughto be heard. There was a brief reply in German andConnal breathed again. “It’s okay. It’s a message forme from the manager. He probably wants to sell usa conference room.” The Navy lawyer went to thedoor and opened it.

However, it was not the manager, or a bellboy, ora porter bringing a message from the manager.Instead, standing there, was a slender, elderly man ina dark suit with erect posture and very broadshoulders. He glanced first at Fitzpatrick, thenlooked beyond at Converse.

“Excuse me, please, Commander,” he saidcourteously walking through the door, andapproached Joel, his hand outstretched. “HerrConverse, may I introduce myself? The name isLeifhelm. Erich Leifhelm.”

Joel took the Cerman’s hand, too stunned to doanything else. “field Marshal . . . ?” he uttered,instantly regretting it he could at least have had thepresence of mind to say “General.” The pages ofLeifhelm’s dossier flashed across Converse’s mind ashe looked at the man his straight hair still moreblond than white, his pale-blue eyes glacial, his pink-ish skin lined, waxen, as if preserved for decades tocome.

“An old title and one, thankfully, I have notheard in many years. But you flatter me. You weresufficiently interested to learn something of my past.”

“Not very much.”

“I suspect enough.” Leifhelm turned toFitzpatrick. “I apologize for my little ruse,Commander. I felt it was best.”

Fitzpatrick shrugged, bewildered. “You knoweach other, apparently.”

“Of one another,” corrected the German. “Mr.Converse came to Bonn to meet with me, but Iimagine he’s told you

“No, I haven’t told him that,” said Joel.

Leifhelm turned back, studying Converse’s eyes.“I see Perhaps we should talk privately.”

“I think so. ” Joel looked over at Fitzpatrick.“Commander, I’ve taken up too much of your time.Why not go downstairs to dinner and I’ll join you ina while?”

“Whatever you say, sir,” said Connal, an officerassuming

the status of an aide. He nodded and left, closingthe door firmly behind him.

“A lovely room,” said Leifhelm, taking severalsteps toward the open French doors. “And withsuch a lovely view.”

“How did you find me?” asked Converse.

“Him,” replied the former field marshal, lookinget Joel. “in according to the front desk. Who is he?”

“How?” repeated Converse.

“He spent hours last night at the airportinquiring about you; many remembered him. Hewas obviously a friend.”

“And you knew he’d checked his luggage? Thathe’d be back for it?”

“Frankly, no. We thought he might come foryours. We knew you wouldn’t. Now, please, who ishe?”

Joel understood it was vital that he maintain alevel of arrogance, as he had done with Bertholdierin Paris. It was the only route he could take withsuch men; to be accepted by them, they had to seesomething of themselves in him. “He’s notimportant and he knows nothing. He’s a legalofficer in the Navy who’s worked in Bonn beforeand is over here now I gather, on personal business.A prospective fiancee, I think he mentioned. I sawhim the other week; we chatted, and I told him Iwas flying in today or tomorrow and he said he’dmake it a point to meet me. He’s obsequious, andpersistent I’m sure he has delusions of a civilianpractice. Natural ly under the circumstances Iused him. As you did.”

“Naturally.” Leifhelm smiled; he was polished.“You gave him no arrival time?”

“Paris changed any possibility of that, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, Paris. We must discuss Paris.”

“I spoke to a friend who deals with the Surete.The man died.”

“Such men do. Frequently.”

“They said he was a driver, a chauffeur. He wasn’t.”

“Would it have been wiser to say he was atrusted associate of General Jacques-LouisBertholdier?”

“Obviously not. They say I killed him.”

“You did. We gather it was an uncontrollablemiscalculation, no doubt brought on by the manhimself.”

“Interpol’s after me.”

“We, too, have friends; the situation will changeYou have nothing to fear as long as we havenothing to fear.;’The German paused, glancingaround the room. “May I sit down?”

"Please. Shall I ring for a drink?”

“I drink only light wine and very sparingly. Unlessyou wish . . . it’s not necessary.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Converse as Leifhelm satin a chair nearest the balcony doors. Joel would sitwhen he felt the moment was right, not before.

“You took extraordinary measures at the airportto avoid us,” continued Hitler’s youngest fieldmarshal.

“I was followed from Copenhagen.”

“Very observant of you. You understand no harmwas intended.”

“I didn’t understand anything. I just didn’t like it.I didn’t know what effect Paris would have on myarrival in Bonn, what it meant to you.”

“What Paris meant?” asked Leifhelm rhetorically.“Paris meant that a man, an attorney using a falsename, said some very alarming things to a mostdistinguished and brilliant statesman. This attorney,who called himself Simon, said he was flying to Bonnto see me. On his way and I’m sure withprovocation he kills a man, which tells ussomething, he’s guise ruthless and very capable. Butthat is all we know, we would like to know more.Where he goes, whom he meets. In our position,would you have done otherwise?”

It was the moment to sit down. “I would havedone it better.”

“Perhaps if we’d known how resourceful youwere, we might have been less obvious. Incidentally,what happened in Paris? What did that man do toprovoke you?”

“He tried to stop me from leaving.”

“Those were not his orders.”

“Then he grossly misunderstood them. I’ve a fewbruises on my chest and neck to prove it. I’m not inthe habit of physically defending myself, and Icertainly had no intention of killing him. In fact, Ididn’t know I had. It was an accident purely inself-defence.”

“Obviously. Who would want such complications?”

“Exactly,” agreed Converse bluntly. ”As soon asI can rearrange my last hours in Paris so as toeliminate any mention of my seeing GeneralBertholdier, I’ll return and explain what happened tothe police.”

“As the adage goes, that may be easier said thandone. You were seen talking together at L’EtalonBlanc. Undoubtedly, the general was recognised laterwhen he came to the

hotel; he’s a celebrated man. No, I think you’d bewiser to let us handle it. We can, you know.”

Joel looked hard at the German, his eyes coldyet questioning. “I admit there are risks doing it myway. I don’t like them and neither would my client.On the other hand, I can’t go around being hatedby the police.”

“The hunt will be called off. It will be necessaryfor you to remain out of sight for a few days, but bythen new instructions will be issued from Paris.Your name will disappear from the Interpol lists,you’ll no longer be sought.”

“I’ll want assurances, guarantees.”

“What better could you have than my word? Itell you nothing when I tell you that we could havefar more to lose than you.”

Converse controlled his astonishment. Leifhelmhad just told him a great deal, whether he knew itor not. The German had as much as admitted hewas part of a covert organisation that could not takeany chance of exposure. It was the first concreteevidence Joel had heard. Somehow it was too easy.Or were these elders of Aquitaine simply frightenedold men?

“I’ll concede that,” said Converse, crossing hislegs. “Well, General, you found me before I foundyou, but then, as we agreed, my movements arerestricted. Where do we go from here?”

“Precisely where you wanted to go, Mr.Converse. When you were in Paris, you spoke ofBonn, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg. You knew whom toreach in Paris and whom to look for in Bonn. Thatimpresses us greatly; we must assume you knowmore.”

“I’ve spent months in detailed research onbehalf of my client, of course.”

“But who are you? Where do you come from?”

Joel felt a sharp, sickening ache in his chest. Hehad felt it many times before it was his physicalresponse to imminent danger and very real fear. “Iam who I want people to think I am, GeneralLeifhelm. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I see,” said the German, watching him closely.“A sworn companion of the prevailing winds, butwith the power beneath to carry you to your owndestination.”

“That’s a little heavy, but I guess it says it. As towhere I come from, I’m sure you know that bynow.”

Five hours. More than enough time to put thepuppets in place. A killing in New York; it had to bedealt with.

“Only bits and pieces, Mr. Converse. And even ifwe knew more, how could we be certain it’s true?What people think you are you may not be.”

“Are you, General?”

“Ausqezeichnet!” said Leifhelm, slapping his kneeand laughing. It was a genuine laugh, the man’swaxen face creasing with humor. “You are a finelawyer, main Herr. You answer as they say inEnglish a pointed question with another questionthat is both an answer and an indictment”

“Under the circumstances, it’s merely the truth.Nothing more. “

"also modest. Very commendable, very attractive.”

Joel uncrossed his legs, then crossed them againimpatiently. “I don’t like compliments, General. Idon’t trust them under the circumstances. Youwere saying before about where I wanted to go,about Bonn, Tel Aviv, and Johannesburg. What didyou mean?”

" Only that we have complied with your wishes,”said Leifhelm, spreading his hands in front of him.“Rather than your making such tedious trips, wehave asked our representatives in Tel Aviv andJohannesburg, as well as Bertholdier, of course, tofly to Bonn for a conference. With you, Mr. Con-verse. “

He had done it! thought Joel. They were fright-ened panicked was perhaps the better description.Despite the pounding and the pain in his chest, hespoke slowly, quietly. “I appreciate yourconsideration, but in all frankness, my client isn’tready for a summit. He wanted to understand theparts before he looked further at the whole. Thespokes support the wheel, sir. I was to report howstrong they were how strong they appeared to me.”

“Oh, yes, your client. Who is he, Mr. Converse?”

“I’m sure General Bertholdier told you I’m not atliberty to say.”

“You were in San Francisco, California “

“Where a great deal of my research was done,”interrupted Joel. “It’s not where my client lives.Although I readily admit there’s a man in SanFrancisco Palo Alto, to be exact whom I’d likevery much to be my client.”

“Yes, yes, I see.” LeifLelm put the ends of hisfingers together as he continued, “Am I tounderstand that you reject the conference here inBonn?”

Converse had taken a thousand such questions inopening

gambits with attorneys seeking accommodationsbetween corporate adversaries. Both parties wantedthe same thing; it was simply a question offlattening out the responsibility so that no one partywould be the petitioner.

“Well, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” Joelbegan. “And as long as it’s understood that I havethe option of speaking to each man individuallyshould I wish to do so, I can’t see any harm.”Converse permitted himself a strained smile, as hehad done a thousand times. “In the interests of myclient of course.”

“Of course,” said the German. “Tomorrow say,four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll send a car for you.I assure you I set an excellent table.”

“A table?”

“Dinner, naturally. After we have our talk.”Leifhelm rose from the chair. "I wouldn’t think ofyour coming to Bonn and forgoing the experience.I’m known for my dinner parties, Mr. Converse.And if it concerns you, make whatever securityarrangements you like. A platoon of personalguards, if you wish. You’ll be perfectly safe. MeinHaus ist dein Haus. “

“I don’t speak German.”

“Actually, it’s an old Spanish saying. Mi casa, sucasa. "My house is your house.’ Your comfort andwell-being are my most urgent concerns.”

“Mine, too,” said Joel, rising. “I wouldn’t think ofhaving anyone accompany me, or follow me. It’d becounterproductive. Of course, I’ll inform my clientas to my whereabouts telling him approximatelywhen he can expect my subsequent call. He’ll beanxious to hear from me.”

“I should think so.” Leifhelm and Conversewalked to the door; the German turned and oncemore offered his hand. “Until tomorrow, then. Andmay I again suggest while you’re here that you becareful, at least for several days.”

“I understand.”

The puppets in New York. The killing that had totee deals with the first of two obstacles, two sharp,sickening aches … his chat.

“By the way,” said Joel, releasing the fieldmarshal’s hand. “There was a news item on the BBCthis morning that interested me EO much that Iphoned an associate. A man was killed in NewYork, a judge. They say it was a revenge killing,

a contract put out by organised. Did you happen tohear anything about it?”

“Id” asked Leithelm, his blond-white eyebrowsraised, his warlike lips parted. “It seems people arekilled by the dozens every day in New York, judgesincluded, I presume. Why should I know anythingabout it? The answer, obviously, is no.”

“I just wondered. Thank you.”

“But . . . but you. You must have a . . .”

“Yes, General?”

“Why does this judge interest you? Why did youthink I would know him?”

Converse smiled, but without a trace of humor.“I won’t be telling you anything when I tell you hewas our mutual adversary enemy, if you like.”

“Our? You really must explain yourselfl”

“As you and as I said, I am what I wantpeople to think I am. This man knew the truth. I’mon leave of absence from my firm, workingconfidentially for a personal client. He tried to stopme, tried to get the senior partner to cancel my leaveand call me back.”

“By giving him reasons?”

“No, just veiled threats of corruption andimpropriety. He wouldn’t go any further; he’s on thebench and couldn’t back it up; his own conductwould be suspect. My employer is completelyignorant angry as hell and confused but I’vecalmed him down. It’s a closed issue; the less it’sexplored, the better for us all.” Joel opened the doorfor Leifhelm. “Till tomorrow ” He paused for abrief moment, loathing the man standing in front ofhim but showing only respect in his eyes. “FieldMarshal,” he added.

“Gate Nacht,” said Erich Leifhelm, nodding hishead sharply once in military acknowledgment.

Converse persuaded the switchboard operator tosend someone into the dining room for theAmerican, Commander Fitzpatrick. The task offinding the naval officer was not easy, for he was notin the dining room or the bar but outside on theSpanrsche Terrasse having a drink with friends,watching the Rhine at twilight.

“What goddamned friends?” demanded Joel overthe phone.

"just a couple I met out there. He’s a niceguy an executive type, pretty much into hisseventies, I think.”

“And she?” asked Converse, his lawyer’s antennastruck by a signal.

“Maybe thirty, forty years younger,” repliedConnal with less elaboration.

“Get up here, sailor!”

Fitzpatrick leaned forward on the couch, hiselbows on his knees, his expression a mixture ofconcern and astonishment as he looked over at Joel,who was smoking a cigarette in front of the openbalcony doors. “Let me run this again,” he saidwarily. “You want me to stop someone from gettingyour service record?”

“Not all of it, just part of it.”

“Who the hell do you think I am?”

“You did it for Avery for Press. You can do itfor me. You have tol”

“That’s backwards. I opened those files for him,I didn’t keep them closed.”

"Either way it’s control. You’ve got access; you’vegot a

“I’m here, not there. I can’t scissor somethingout you don’t like ten thousand miles away. Bereasonable!”

“Somebody can, somebody has tol It’s only ashort segment, and it’s got to be at the end. Thefinal interview.”

“An interview?” said Connal, startled, getting tohis feet. “In a service record? You mean some kindof operational report? Because if you do, itwouldn’t be “

“Not a report,” interrupted Converse, shaking hishead. “The discharge my discharge interview. Thatstuff Press Halliday quoted to me.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Fitzpatrick heldup his hands. “Are you referring to the remarksmade at your discharge hearing?”

“Yes, that’s it. The hearing!”

“Well, relax. They’re not part of your servicerecord, or anyone else’s.”

“Halliday had them Avery had theml I just toldyou, he quoted my words verbatim!” Joel walked toa table where there was an ashtray; he crushed outhis cigarette. “If they’re not part of the record, howdid he get them? How did you get them for him?”

“That’s different,” said Connal, obviouslyremembering as he spoke. “You were a POW, and alot of those hearings were put under a debriefingclassification, and I do mean classified. Even after allthese years, many of those sessions are still touchy.A lot of things were talked about that no one to thisday wants made public for everyone’s good, not justthe military’s.”

“But you got them! I heard my own words, goddamnill”

“Yes, I got them,” admitted the Navy lawyerwithout enthusiasm. “I got the transcript, and I’d bebusted to seaman third class if anyone knew about it.You see, I believed Press. He swore to me he neededit, needed everything. He couldn’t make anymistakes.”

“How did you do it? You weren’t even in SanDiego at the time, that’s what you saidl”

“By calling the vaults and using my legal-releasenumber to have a photostat made. I said it was aFour Zero emergency and I’d take responsibility. Thenext morning when the authorization came in bypouch for countersignature, I had the chief legalofficer at the base sign it with a lot of other things Itsimply got buried in the paper work.”

“But how did you know about it in the first place?”

“Selected POW records have flags on theirdischarge sheets.”

“Clarification, please?”

“Just what I said, flags. Small blue seals thatdenote additional information stilt held under tightsecurity. No flags, everything’s clean; but if there isone, that means there’s something else. I told Press,and he said he had to have whatever it was, so Iwent after it.”

“Then anyone else could, too.”

“No, not anyone. You need an officer with alegal-release number, and there aren’t that many ofus. Also there’s a minimum forty-eight-hour delay sothe material can be vetted. That’s almost always inthe area of weapons and technology data that stillmight be classified.”

“Forty“i’<h”” Converse swallowed as he triedto count the hours since Paris, since the first momenthis name had surfaced. “There’s still times” he said,his voice taut, his words clipped. “If you can do itthere’s still time. And if you can, I’ll tell youeverything I know because you’ll deserve it. No onewill deserve it more.”

“Spell it out.”

Joel turned aimlessly, shaking his head. “That’sfunny. I said the same thing to Avery. I said "Spellit out, Avery.’ . . . Sorry, his name was Press.”Converse turned back to the Navy lawyer, a militarylawyer with a mystifying military privilege called alegal-release number. “Listen to me and hear meclearly. A few minutes ago something happened thatI wasn’t sure would or could happen somethingyour brother-in-law was killed to prevent. Tomorrowat four o’clock in the afternoon I’m going to walkinto the midst of that group of men who’vecometogether to promote a kind of violence that’ll stunthis world, toppling governments, allowing thesesame men to step in and fill the voids. They’ll runthings their way, shape the laws their way. One bigSupreme Court, each chair owned by a fanatic withspecific convictions as to who and what has valueand who and what doesn’t, and those who don’t cango to hell, no appeals on the agenda…. I’m going tomeet them Pace-to-face! I’m going to talk withthem, hear their words! I admit I’m the mostamateurish fox you’ve ever heard of in a chickencoop only, in this case it’s a vultures’ nest, and Imean the type that swoops down and tears the fleshoff your back with one pass. But I’ve got somethinggoing for me: I’m one hell of a good lawyer, and I’lllearn things they won’t know I’ve learned. Maybeenough to piece together a couple of cases that willblow it all apart blow them apart. I told you beforethat I rejected your deadline. I still reject it, butnow it doesn’t seem so out of the question.Certainly not two days, but perhaps not ten! Yousee, I thought I was going to have to fly to Tel Aviv,then Johannesburg. Prime everyone, frighten them.Now I don’t have to! We’ve already done it! They’recoming to me because they’re the ones who arefrightened now! They don’t know what to think, andthat means they’ve panicked.” Converse paused,sweat forming on his hairline; then he added, “Idon’t have to tell you what a good lawyer can dowith panicked hostile witnesses. The materials hecan collect for evidence.”

“Your plea’s accepted, counselor,” saidFitzpatrick, not without awe. “You’re convincing.Now, tell me why my intercession can help? Whatdoes it accomplish?”

“I want those men to think I’m one of them! Ican live with everything they can put together aboutme I’m not proud of it all; I’ve made mycompromises but I can’t live with that transcript ofmy discharge! Don’t you see? It’s whatAvery Press understood! I understand now. Heknew me

nearly twenty-five years ago, and when I think backwe were actually pretty damned good friends. Andno matter what happened to us individually, he wasbanking on the fact that I hadn’t really changed thatmuch, not in the deeper things. By the time we reachthe voting age we’re pretty well set, all of us. Thereal changes come later, much later, dictated by suchthings as acceptance or rejection and the state of ourwallets the prices we pay for our convictions, or tosupport our talents, defending success or explainingfailure. That transcript confirmed what Hallidaybelieved, at least enough to make him want to meetme, talk with me, and finally to recruit me. Only, hedid it finally by dying as I held his head. Icouldn’t walk away after that.”

Connal Fitzpatrick was silent as he walked out onthe balcony. He leaned over and gripped the railingas Converse watched him. Then he stood up, raisedboth his hands, and pulled back the sleeve of his leftwrist. “It’s twelve-fifteen in San Diego. No one inlegal goes to lunch before one o’clock; theCoronado’s bar doesn’t begin to jump until then.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can try,” said the naval officer, crossing throughthe French doors toward the telephone. “No, damnit, if you’ve got your times straight, I can do betterthan try, I can issue an order. That’s what rank’s allabout.”

The first five minutes were excruciating for Joel.There were delays on all overseas calls, but somehowthe hi-, trim, or quadri-lingual Fitzpatrick, speakingurgently, unctuously, in German, managed to getthrough, the word dringend repeated frequently.

“Lieutenant Senior Grade Remington, David.Legal Division, SAND PAC. This is an emergency,sailor, Commander Fitzpatrick calling. Break in ifthe lines are occupied.” Connal covered themouthpiece and turned to Converse. “If you’ll openmy suitcase, there’s a bottle of bourbon in themiddle.”

“I’ll open your suitcase, Commander.”

“Remington?… Hello, David, it’s Connal…. Yes,thanks very much, I’ll tell Meagen…. No, I’m not inSan Francisco, don’t call me there. But something’scome up I want you to handle, something on mycalendar that I didn’t get to. For openers, it’s a FourZero emergency. I’ll fill you in when I get back, butuntil I do you have to take care of it. Got a pencil?. . . There’s a POW service record under the nameof Converse, Joel, Lieutenant, one and a half stripes,Air Arm,

pilot carrier-based, Vietnam duty. He wasdischarged in the sixhes’ Fitzpatrick looked downat Converse, who held up his right hand and threefingers of his left “nineteen sixty-eight, to beexact.”Joel stepped forward, his spread right handstill raised, his left now showing only the indexfinger. “June of "68,” added the Navy lawyer,nodding. “Point of separation our old hometown,San Diego. Have you got all that? Read it back tome, please, David.”

Connal nodded sporadically, as he listened.“C-O-NV-E-R-S-E, that’s right…. June, "68, AirArm, pilot, Vietnam POW section, San Diegoseparation, that’s it, you’ve got it. Now here’s thewicket, David. This Converse’s SR is flag status; theflag pertains to his discharge hearing, no weaponsor high tech involved…. Listen carefully, David. It’smy understanding that there may be a requestpending accompanied by a legal-release code for thedischarge transcript. Under no circumstances is thattranscript to be released. The flag stays fixed andcan’t be removed by anyone without my authoriza-tion. And if the release has been processed it’ll stillbe within the forty-eight-hour vet-delay. Kill it.Understood?”

Again Fitzpatrick listened, but instead ofnodding, he shook his head. “No, not under anycircumstances. I don’t care if the secretaries ofState, Defense, and the Navy all sign a joint petitionon White House stationery, the answer is no. Ifanyone questions the decision, tell him I’mexercising my authority as Chief Legal Oflficer ofSAND PAC. There’s some goddamned article in the’shoals’ that says a station CLO can impoundmaterials on the basis of conceivably privileged in-formation relative to the security of the sector, etcetera, et cetera. I don’t recall the timeelement seventy-two hours or five days orsomething like that but find that statute. You mayneed it.’

Connal listened further, his brows creasing, hiseyes straying to Joel. He spoke slowly as Conversefelt the sickening ache again in his chest. “Wherecan you reach me . . . ?” said the naval officer,perplexed. Then suddenly he was no longerbewildered. “I take back what I said before, callMeagen in San Francisco. If I’m not with her andthe kids, she’ll know where to reach me…. Thanksagain, David. Sweep your decks and get right onthis, okay? Thanks . . . I’ll tell Meg. " Fitzpatrickhung up the phone and exhaled audibly. “There,” hesaid, slouched in relief, pushing his hand throughhis loose light-brown hair. “I’ll phone Meagen andgive her this num

her, tell her to say I’ve gone up to the Sonoma hills,if Reming ton calls Press had some property there.”

“Give her the telephone number,” said Joel, “butdon’t tell her anything else.”

“Don’t worry, she’s got enough on her mind. "The naval officer looked at Converse, frowning. “Ifyour hourly count is right, you’ve got your bme now.”

“My count’s all right. Is Lieutenant Remington?I mean that only in the sense that he wouldn’t letanyone override your order, would he?’

“Don’t mistake my officiousness where he’sconcerned,” replied Connal. “David isn’t easilypushed around. The reason I chose him and not oneof the four other senior lawyers in the department isthat he’s got a reputation for being a sUckler prick.He’ll find that statute and nail it to the forehead ofany four-striper who tries to countermand that order.I like Remington; he’s very useful. He scares the hellout of people.”

“We all have case partners like that. It’s calledthe good guy-bad guy routine.”

“David fits. He’s got an eye that keeps strayingto the right.” Fitzpatrick suddenly stood erect, hisbearing military. “I thought you were going to get thebourbon, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir, CommanderI” shot back Joel, headingfor fitzpatrick’s suitcase.

“And if I remember correctly, after you pour usa drink you’re going to tell me a story I want verymuch to hear.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Converse, lifting the suitcaseoff the floor and putting it on the couch. “And if Imay suggest, sir,” conUnuedJoel, “a room-servicedinner might be in order. I’m sure the Commanderneeds nourishment after his trying day at the wheel.”

“Good thinking, Lieutenant. I’ll phone down tothe Em pfang. “

“Before calling your bookie, may I also suggestthat you first call your sister?”

“Oh, Christ, I forgot!”

Chaim Abrahms walked down the dark street inTel Aviv his stocky frame draped in his usual safarijacket, boots beneath his khaki trousers, and a beretcovering his nearly bald head. The beret was the onlyconcession he made to the night’s purpose; normallyhe enjoyed being recognised, accepUng the adulationwith well-rehearsed humility. In day

light, his head uncovered and held erect, andwearing his familiar jacket, he would acknowledgethe homage with a nod, his eyes boring in on hisfollowers.

“First a Jew!” was the phrase with which he wasalways greeted, whether in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem,in sections of Paris and most of New York.

The phrase had been born years ago when as ayoung terrorist for the Irgun he had beencondemned to death in absentia by the British forthe slaughter of a Palestinian village with the Arabcorpses put on display for Nakama! He had thenissued a cry heard around the world: “I am first aJew a son of Abraham! All else follows, and riversof blood will follow if the children of Abraham aredenied!”

The British, in 1948, not caring to createanother martyr commuted his sentence and gavehim a large moshav. Yet the acreage of thesettlement could not confine the militant sabre.Three wars had broken his agricultural shackles aswell as unleashing his ferocity and his brilliance inthe field. It was a brilliance developed and refinedthrough the early years of racing with a fugitive,fragmented army, for which the tactics of surprise,shock, hit and melt away were constant, when beingoutmanned and outgunned were the accepted oddsbut only victory was the acceptable outcome. Helater applied the strategies and the philosophy ofthose years to the ever-expanding war machine thatbecame the Army, Navy and Air Force of a mightyIsrael. Mars was in the heavens of Chaim Abrahm’svision and, the prophets aside, the god of war washis strength, his reason for being. From Ramat Avivto Har Hazeytim, from Rehovot to Masada of theNegev Nakama! was the cry. Retribution to theenemies of Abraham’s children!

If only the Poles and the Czechs, the Hungariansand the Romanies, as well as the haughty Germansand the impossible Russians, had not immigrated tohis country by such tens of thousands. They arrivedand the complications came with them. Factionagainst faction, culture against culture, each grouptrying to prove it was more entitled to the name Jewthan the others. It was all nonsense! They werethere because they had to be; they had succumbedto Abraham’s enemies permitted yes,permitted the slaughter of millions rather thanrising as millions and slaughtering in return. Well,they found out what their civilised ways could bringthem, and how much their Talmudic convolutionscould earn them. So

they came to the Holy Land their Holy Land, sothey procla"med. Well, it wasn’t theirs. Where werethey when it was being clawed out of rock and ariddesert by strong hands with primitive tools Biblicaltools? Where were they when the hated Arab andthe despised English first felt the wrath of the tribalJew? They were in the capitals of Europe, in theirbanks and their fancy drawing rooms, making moneyand drinking expensive brandy out of crystal goblets.No, they came here because they had to; they cameto the Holy Land of the sabre.

They brought with them money and dandy waysand elegant words and confusing arguments andinfluence and the guilt of the world. But it was thesabre who taught them how to fight. And it was asabre who would bring all Israel into the orbit of amighty new alliance.

Abrahms reached the intersection of Ibn Gabiroland Arlosoroff streets; the streetlamps were haloed,their light hazy. It was just as well; he should not beseen. He had another block to go, to an address onJabotinsky, an unprepossessing apartment housewhere there was an undistinguished flat leased by aman who appeared to be no more than an unim-portant bureaucrat. What few realised, however, wasthat this man, this specialist who operatedsophisticated computer equipment withcommunications throughout most of the world, wasintrinsic to the global operations of the Mossad, Is-rael’s intelligence service, which many considered thefinest on earth. He, too, was a sabre. He was one ofthem.

Abrahms spoke his name quietly into themouthpiece above the mail slot in the outer lobby;he heard the click in the lock of the heavy door andwalked inside. He began the climb up the threeflights of steps that would take him to the flat.

“”Some wine, Chaim?”

“Whisky,” was the curt reply.

“Always the same question and always the sameanswer,” said the specialist. “I say “Some wine,Chaim?’ and you say one word. ”whisky,’ you say.You would drink whisky at the Seder, if you couldget away with it.”

“I can and I do.” Abrahms sat in a crackedleather chair looking around the plain, disheveledroom with books everywhere, wondering, as healways did, why a man with such influence lived thisway. It was rumored that the Mossad officer did notlike company, and larger, more attractive quarters

might invite it. “I gathered from your grunts andcoughs over the telephone that you have what Ineed.”

“Yes, I have it,” said the specialist, bringing aglass of very good Scotch to his guest. “I have it, butI don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Why not?” asked Abrahms, drinking, his eyesalert over the rim of the glass and fixed on his hostas the latter sat down opposite him.

“Basically because it’s confusing, and what’sconfusing in this business is to be approacheddelicately. You are not a delicate man, ChaimAbrahms, forgive the indelicacy of my saying it. Youtell me this Converse is your enemy, a would-beinfiltrator, and I tell you I find nothing to supportthe conclusion. Before anything else, there must bea deep personal motive for a nonprofessional toengage in this kind of deception this kind ofbehavior, if you will. There has to be a drivingcompulsion to strike out at an image of a cause heloathes. Well, there is a motive, and there is anenemy for which he must have great hatred, butneither is compatible with what you suggest. Theinformation, incidentally, is completely reliable. Itcomes from the Quang Dinh “

“What in hell is that?” interrupted the general.

“A specialised branch of NorthVietnamese now, of course,Vietnamese intelligence.”

“You have sources there?”

“We fed them for years nothing terribly vital,but sufficient to gain a few ears, and voices. Therewere things we had to know, weapons we had tounderstand; they could be turned against us.”

“This Converse was in North Vietnam?”

“For several years as a prisoner of war; there’san extensive file on him. At first, his captorsthought he could be used for propaganda, radiobroadcasts, television imploring his brutalgovernment to withdraw and stop the bombing, allthe usual garbage. He spoke well, presented a goodpicture, and was obviously very American. Initiallythey televised him as a murderer from the skies,saved from the angry mobs by humane troops, thenlater while eating and exercising; you see, they wereprogramming him for a violently sudden reversal.They thought he was a soft, privileged young manwho could be broken rather easily to do theirbidding in exchange for more comfortabletreatment after having experienced a period ofharsh deprivation. What they learned, however, was

quite different. Under that soft shell the inner liningwas made of hard metal, and the odd thing was thatas the months went by it grew harder, until theyrealized they had created created was their word ahellhound of sorts, somehow forged in steel.”

“Hellhound? Was that their word, too?”

“No, they called him an ugly troublemaker, which,considering the source, is not without irony. Thepoint is, they recognized the fact that they hadcreated him. The harsher the treatment, the morevolatile he became, the more resilient.”

“Why not?” said Abrahms sharply. “He was angry.Prod a desert snake and watch him strike.”

“I can assure you, Chaim, it is not the normalhuman response under such conditions. A man cango mad and strike in crazed fury, or he can becomereclusive to the point of catatonia, or fall apartweeping, willing to compromise anything andeverything for the smallest kindness. He did none ofthese things. His was a calculated and inventiveseries of responses drawing on his own innerresources to survive. He led two escapes the firstlasting three days and the second five before thegroups were recaptured. As the leader, he was placedin a cage in the Mekong River, but he devised a wayto kill the water rats by grabbing them from beneaththe surface like a shark. He was then thrown intosolitary confinement, a pit in the ground twelve feetdeep with barbed wire anchored across the top. Itwas from there, during a heavy rainstorm at night,that he clawed his way up, bent the wire back.andescaped alone. He made his way south through thejungles and in the river streams for over a hundredmiles until he reached the American lines. It was noeasy feat. They created a savagely obsessed man whowon his own personal war.”

“Why didn’t they simply kill him before that?”

“I wondered myself,” said the specialist, “so Iphoned my source in Hanoi, the one who providedthe information. He said a strange thing, somethingquite profound in its way. He said he wasn’t there, ofcourse, but he thought it was probably respect.”

“For an ugly troublemaker?”

“Captivity in war does odd things, Chaim, to boththe captured and the captors. There are so manyfactors at work in a vicious game. Aggression,resistance, bravery, fear, and not theleast curiosity, especially when the players

come from such diverse cultures as the Occidentand the Orient. An abnormal bond is often formed,as much from the weariness of the testing game asfrom anything else, perhaps. It doesn’t lessen thenational animosities, but a subtle recognition sets inthat tells these men, these players, that they are notreally in the game by their own choosing. In-depthanalyses further show us that it is the captors, notthe captured, who first perceive this commonality.The latter are obsessed with freedom and survival,while the former begin to question their absoluteauthority over the lives and conditions of othermen. They start to wonder what it would be like tobe in the other player’s shoes. It’s all part of whatthe psychiatrists call the Stockholm syndrome.”

“What in the name of God are you trying to say?You sound like one of those bores in the Knessetreading a position paper. A little of this, a little ofthat and a lot of windI”

“You are definitely not delicate, Chaim. I’mtrying to explain to you that while this Conversenurtured his hatreds and his obsessions, his captorswearied of the game, and as our source in Hanoisuggests, they grudgingly spared his life out ofrespect, before he made his final and successfulescape.”

To Abrahm’s bewilderment the specialist hadapparently finished. “And?” said the sabre.

“Well, there it is. There is the motive and theenemy, but they are also your motive and yourenemy arrived at from different routes, of course.Ultimately, you wish to smash insurgence whereverit erupts, curb the spread of Third Worldrevolutions, especially Islamic, because you knowthey’re being fostered by the Marxists readSoviets and are a direct threat to Israel. One wayor another it’s the global threat that’s brought youall together, and in my judgment rightfully so. Thereis a time and a place for a military-industrial com-plex, and it is now. It must run the governments ofthe free world before that world is buried by itsenemies.”

Chaim Abrahms squinted and tried not to shout.“And?”

“Can’t you see? This Converse is one of you.Everything supports it. He has the motive and anenemy he’s seen in the harshest light. He is a highlyregarded attorney who makes a great deal of moneywith a very conservative firm, and his clients areamong the wealthiest corporations and conglomer-ates. Everything he’s been and everything he standsfor can only benefit from your efforts. Theconfusion lies in his unorthodox methods, and Ican’t explain them except to say that

perhaps they are not unorthodox in the specialisedwork he does. Markets can plummet on rumors;concealment and diversion are surely respected.Regardless, he doesn’t want to destroy you, he wantsto join you.”

The sabre put his glass down on the floor andstruggled out of the chair. With his chin tucked intohis breastbone and his hands clasped behind hisback, Abrahms paced back and forth in silence. Hestopped and looked down at the specialist.

“Suppose, just suppose,” he said, " the almightyMossad has made a mistake, that there’s somethingyou didn’t find.”

“I would find that hard to accept.”

“But it’s a possibility!”

“In light of the information we’ve gathered, Idoubt it. Why?”

“Because I have a sense of smell, that’s why!”

The man from the Mossad kept his eyes onAbrahms, as if studying the soldier’s face orthinking from a different viewpoint. “There is onlyone other possibility, Chaim. If this Converse is notwho and what I’ve described, which would becontrary to all the data we’ve compiled, then he is anagent of his government.”

“That’s what I smell,” said the sabre softly.

It was the specialist’s turn to be silent. Hebreathed deeply, then responded. “I respect yournostrils, old friend. Not always your conduct butcertainly your sense of smell. What do the othersthink?”

“Only that he’s Iying, that he’s covering for othershe may or may not know, who are using him as ascout an "infantry point’ was the term used by PaloAlto.”

The Mossad officer continued to stare at thesabre, but his eyes were no longer focused; he wasseeing abstract, twisted patterns, convolutions fewmen would comprehend. They came from a lifetimeof analysing seen and unseen, legitimate and racialenemies, parrying dagger thrusts with counterthrustsin the blackest darkness. “It’s possible,” he whis-pered, as if replying to an unspoken question heardonly by himself. “Almost inconceivable, but possible.”

“What is? That Washington is behind him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“As an outrageous alternative I do not subscribeto, but the only one left that has the slightestplausibility. Simply put, he has too muchinformation.”

“And?”

“Not Washington in the usual sense, not thegovernment in the broader sense, but within abranch of the government a section that has heardwhispers about an organisation cannot be sure.They believe that if there is such an organization,they must invade it to expose it. So they choose aman with the right history, the right memories, eventhe right profession to do the job. He might evenbelieve everything he says.”

The sabre was transfixed but impatient. “Thathas too many complications for me,” he said bluntly.

"Try it my way first. Try to accept him; he maybe genuine. He’ll have to give you somethingconcrete; you can force that. Then again he may notbecause he cannot.”

“Andy”

“And if he can’t, you’ll know you’re right. Thenput as much distance between him and his sponsorsas is humanly and brutally possible. He mustbecome a pariah, a man hunted for crimes so insanehis madness is unquestioned.”

“Why not just kill him?”

“By all means, but not before he’s been labeledso mad that no one will step forward to claim him.It will buy you the time you need. The final phaseof Aquitaine is when? Three, four weeks away?”

“That’s when it begins, yes.”

The specialist got up from the chair and stoodpensively in front of the soldier. “I repeat, first tryto accept him, see if what I said before is true. Butif that sense of smell of yours is provoked further,if there’s the slightest possibility he has beenwillingly or unwillingly, wittingly or unwittingly,made a provocateur by men in Washington, thenbuild your case against him and throw him to thewolves. Create that pariah as the North Vietnamesecreated a hellhound. Then kill him quickly, beforeanyone else reaches him.”

“A sabre of the Mossad speaks?”

“As clearly as I can.”

The young Army captain and the older civiliancame out of the Pentagon from adjacent glass doorsand glanced briefly at each other with norecognition. They walked separately down the shortbank of steps and turned left on the cement paththat led to the enormous parking lot; the Armyofficer was perhaps ten feet ahead of the civilian.Upon reaching the

huge asphalt area, each veered in a differentdirection toward his car. If these two men had beenthe subjects of photographic surveillance during thepast fifty seconds, there was no indicationwhatsoever that they knew each other.

The green Buick coupe turned right in themiddle of the block, going through the open chasmthat was the entrance to the hotel’s undergroundparking lot. At the bottom of the ramp the drivershowed his room key to the attendant, who raisedthe yellow barrier and waved him along. There wasan empty space in the third column of stationaryautomobiles. The Buick eased into it and the Armycaptain got out.

He circled through the revolving door and walkedto a bank of elevators in the hotel’s lower lobby. Thepanels of the second elevator opened, revealing twocouples who had not intended to reach theunderground level; they laughed as one of the menrepeatedly pressed the lobby button. The officer, inturn, touched the button for the fourteenth floor.Sixty seconds later he walked out into the corridortoward the exit staircase. He was heading for theeleventh floor.

The blue Toyota station wagon came down theramp, the driver’s hand extended, a room key heldout, the number visible. Inside the parking area thedriver found an empty space and carefully steeredthe small station wagon into it.

The civilian stepped out and looked at his watch.Satisfied, he started toward the revolving door andthe elevators. The second elevator was empty, andthe civilian was tempted to press the button for theeleventh floor; he was tired and did not relish thethought of the additional walk. However there wouldbe other occupants on the way up, so he held to therules and placed his index finger over the buttonbeside the number 9.

Standing in front of the hotel-room door thecivilian raised his hand, rapped once, waited severalbeats, then rapped twice more. Seconds later thedoor was opened by the Army captain. Beyond himwas a third man, also in uniform, the color and theinsignia denoting a lieutenant, junior grade, in theNavy. He stood by a desk with a telephone on it.

“Glad you got here on time,” said the Armyofficer. “The traffic was rotten. Our call should becoming through in a few minutes.”

The civilian entered, nodding to the Navy manas he spoke. "What did you find out aboutFitzpatrick?” he asked.

“He’s where he shouldn’t be,” replied the lieutenant.

“Can you bring him back?”

“I’m working on it, but I don’t know where tobegin. I’m a very low man on a very big totempole.”

“Aren’t we all?” said the captain.

“Who’d have thought Halliday would have goneto him?” asked the naval officer, frustration in hisvoice. “Or if he was going to bring him in, whydidn’t he go to him first? Or tell him about us?”

“I can answer the last two questions,” said theArmy man. “He was protecting him from aPentagon backlash. If we go down, hisbrother-in-law stays clean.”

“And I can answer the first question,” said thecivilian. “ Halliday went to Fitzpatrick because inthe final analysis, he d”dn t trust us. Genevaproved he was right.”

“Hoop” asked the captain defensively, butwithout apology. “We couldn’t have prevented it.”

“No, we couldn’t,” agreed the civilian. “But wecouldn’t do anything about it afterwards, either.That was part of the trust, and there was no way wecould live up to it. We couldn’t

The telephone rang. The lieutenant picked it upand listened. “It’s Mykonos, " he said.

The Aquaintaine Progession

PART TWO

Connal Fitzpatrick sat opposite Joel at theroom-service table drinking the last of his coffee. Thedinner was finished the story completed, and all thequestions the Navy lawyer could raise had beenanswered by Converse because he had given hisword; he needed a complete ally.

“Except for a few identities and some dossiermaterial,” said Connal, “I don’t know an awful lotmore than I did before. Maybe I will when I seethose Pentagon names. You say you don’t know whosupplied them?”

“No. Like Topsy, they’re just there. Beale said anumber of them are probably mistakes, but othersaren’t; they have to be linked to Delavane.”

“They had to be supplied by someone too. Therehad to be reasons why they were listed.”

“Beale called them "decision makerst in militaryprocurements.”

“Then I have to see them. I’ve dealt with thosepeople.”

“Yes. Not very often, but enough to know my wayaround.”

“Why you?”

“Basically translating legal nuances from languageto language where Navy tech was involved. I think Imentioned that I speak “

“You did,” Joel broke in.

“Goddamn itl” cried Fitzpatrick, crushing hisnapkin in a fist.

“What’s the matter?”

“Press knew I had dealings with those committees,with the technology and armaments boys! He evenasked me about them. Who I saw, who I liked whoI trusted. Jesus! Why didn’t he come to me? Of allthe people he knew, I was the logical onel I’m downthe pike and his closest friend.”

“That’s why he didn’t come to you,” said Converse.

“Stupid bastard!” Connal raised his eyes. “AndI hope you hear that, Press. You might still bearound to see Connal Two win the Bay Regatta.”

“I think you really believe he might hear you.”

Fitzpatrick looked across the table at Joel. “Yes,I do. You see, I believe, counselor. I know all thereasons why I shouldn’t Press enumerated them toa fare-thee-well when we were in our cups but Ibelieve. I answered him once with a quote from oneof his laid-back Protestant forebears.”

“What was that?” asked Joel, smiling kindly.

“"There’s more faith in honest doubt than is heldby all the archangels in the mind of God.’”

“It’s very nice. I’ve never heard it before.”

“Maybe I didn’t get it right…. Joel, I’ve got tosee those namest”

“And I have to get my attache case, but I can’t gomyself.”

“Then I’m elected,” said the Navy man. “Do youthink Leifhelm’s right? You think he can really calloff Interpol?”

“I’m of two thoughts about it. For my immediatemaneuverability I hope he can. But if he does, it’llscare the hell out of me.”

“I’m on your side about that,” agreed Connal,getting out of the chair. “I’ll call the desk and get ataxi. Give me the key to the locker.”

Converse reached into his pocket and pulled outthe small, rounded key. “Leifhelm’s seen you. Hecould have you followed; he did before.”

“I’ll be ten times more careful. If I see the samepair of headlights twice, I’ll go to a Bierkeller. Iknow a few here.”

Joel looked at his watch. “It’s twenty minutes toten. Do you think you could swing around to theuniversity first?”

“Dowling?”

“He said he had someone he wanted me tomeet. Just walk by him or them and sayeverything’s under control, nothing else. I owe himthat much.”

“Suppose he tries to stop me?”

“Then pull out your ID and say it’s high priority,or ultrasecret, or whatever bullshit security phrasesthat come to that very inventive mind of yours.”

“Do I sense a touch of legal envy?”

“No, just recognition. I know where you’recoming from. I,ve been there.”

* * *

Fitzpatrick walked slowly along the wide path onthe south facade of the immense university building,once the great palace of the all-powerful archbishopsof Cologne. The unimpeded moonlight swelled overthe area, reflecting off the myriad rows of cathedralwindows and lending a luminous dimension to thelight stone walls of the majestic structure. Beyondthe path the winding gardens of August possessed aneerie elegance circles of sleeping flowers, theirbeauty heightened by the moonlight. Connal was sostruck by the tranquil loveliness of the nocturnalsetting that he nearly forgot why he was there.

The reason was brought sharply back into focuswhen he saw a slender figure slouched alone on abench. The man’s legs were extended and crossed atthe ankles, his head covered by a soft cloth hat, butnot sufficiently to hide the flowing gray-blond hairthat protruded slightly over his temples and the backof his neck. So this Caleb Dowling was an actor,thought the Navy lawyer, amused by the fact thatDowling had feigned shock when he realized Connaldid not recognize him. But then, neither hadConverse; they were obviously a minority in a worldof television addicts. A college professor who hadfulfilled the fantasies of youth, a risk-taker, accordingto Joel, who had won a battle against astronomicalodds, was a nice thing to think about; the only sadnote was the haunted life of his wife, whom he loveddearly. Also, a marine who had fought in the bloodymess that was Kwajalein was a man to be reckonedwith.

Fitzpatrick walked over to the bench and satdown several feet away from Dowling. The actorglanced at him, then did a perfectly natural doubletake, his head snapping. “You9″

“I’m sorry about last night,” said Connal. “Igather I wasn’t very convincing.”

“You lacked a certain finish, young fella. Wherethe hell is Converse?”

“Sorry again. He couldn’t make it, but not toworry. Everything’s A-okay and under control.”

“Whose okay and whose control?” countered theactor, annoyed. “I told Joel to come here, not acub-scout interlocutor.”

“I resent that. I’m a lieutenant commander in theUnited States Navy and the chief legal officer at amajor naval base. Mr. Converse accepted anassignment from us which has an

element of personal risk for him and the highestpriority of classification for us. Back off, Mr.Dowling. We appreciate and I speak for Converseas well as myself your interest and your generosity,but it’s time for you to recede. For your ownbenefit, incidentally.”

“What about Interpol? He killed a man.”

“Who tried to kill him, ” added Fitzpatrickquickly, a lawyer rejoining a negative statement bya witness on the stand. “That will be clarifiedinternally and the charges dropped.”

“You’re pretty smooth, Commander,” saidDowling, sitting up. “Better than you were lastnight this morning, actually.”

“I was upset. I’d lost him and I had to find him.I had to deliver vital information.”

The actor now crossed his legs at the knees andleaned back, his arm slung casually over the slattedrim of the bench. “So this thing Converse and youare involved with is a real hush-hush operation?”

“It’s highly classified, yes.”

“And you and he being lawyers, it’s gotsomething to do with legal irregularities over herethat somehow reach into the military, is that right?”

“In the broadest sense, again yes. I’m afraid Ican’t be any more specific. Converse mentioned thatthere was someone you wanted him to meet.”

“Yes, there is. I said a couple of harsh thingsabout him, but I take them back; he was doing histhing. He didn’t know who the hell I was any morethan you did. He’s one smart man, tough but fair.”

“I hope you understand that under thecircumstances Converse can’t comply with yourrequest.”

“You’ll do,” said Dowling calmly, removing hisarm from the back of the bench.

Connal was suddenly alarmed. There wasmovement behind him in the shadowed moonlight;he whipped his head around, peering over hisshoulder. Out of the protective darkness of thebuilding from within the pitch-black cover of adoorway the figure of a man began walking acrossthe dark green lawn. An arm thrown casually overthe rim of the bench, then just as casually removed.Both movements had been signals” Identityconfirmed; move in.

“What the hell have you done?” asked the Navylawyer harshly.

“Bringing you two bucks to your senses,” repliedDowling. ".If my celebrated instincts are valid, I didthe right thing. If they’re wrong, I still did the rightthing.,’

“W7lat?”

The man crossing the lawn entered the spill ofclear moonlight. He was heavyset and wore a darksuit and tie; his scowling, late-middle-aged face andstraight grey hair gave him the air of a prosperousbusinessman. It was clear that at the moment he wasintensely angry.

Dowling spoke as he got up from the bench.“Commander, may I introduce the Honorable WalterPeregrine, United States ambassador to the FederalRepublic of Cermany.”

Lieutenant David Remington wiped hissteel-rimmed glasses with a silicone-treated tissue,then threw the tissue into a wastebasket and got upfrom his desk. Returning the glasses to his face, hewalked to a mirror secured to the back of his officedoor and checked his appearance. He smoothed hishair, shoved the knot of his tie in place, and lookeddown at the failing crease of his trousers. All thingsconsidered it was 1730 hours and he had beenharassed at his desk since 0800 in the morning,including that crazy Four Zero emergency fromFitzpatrick he looked quite presentable. Andanyway, Rear Admiral Hickman was not a sticklerfor spit and polish where the desk corps wasconcerned. He knew damn well that most of thelegal execs would bolt in a minute for much higherpaying jobs in the civilian sector if the dress andother disposable codes were taken too seriously.Well, David Remington wouldn’t. Where the hellelse could a man travel all over the world, housing awife and three kids in some of the nicest quartersimaginable, with all the medical and dental bills paidfor, and not have the terrible pressures of rising inprivate or corporate practice. His father had been anattorney for one of the biggest insurance companiesin Hartford Connecticut, and his father had hadulcers at forty-three, a nervous breakdown atforty-eight, his first stroke at fifty-one, and a final,massive coronary at fifty-six; everyone had said hewas so terrific at his job he might even be in line forthe presidency. But then, people always said thingslike that when a man died in the line of corporateduty which men did too goddamned frequently.

None of that for David Remington, no sir! Hewas simply going to be one of the best lawyers in theU.S. Navy, serve

his thirty years, get out at fifty-five with a generouspension, and become a well-paid legal-militaryconsultant at fifty-six. At the precise age when hisfather died, he would start living very nicely, indeed.It was simply a matter of building a reputation as aman who knew more about naval and maritimelaw and who stuck to it than any other lawyer inthe Navy. If he stepped on toes in his performance,so be it; it could only enhance that reputation. Hedidn’t give a damn about being popular; he caredonly about being right. And he never made adecision until he was certain of its correct legalposition. Consultants like that were prizedcommodities in civilian practice.

Remington wondered why Admiral Hickmanwanted to see him, especially at this hour whenmost of the desk corps had gone for the day. Therewas a court-martial pending that could become asensitive issue. A black officer, an Annapolisgraduate, had been caught selling cocaine off adestroyer berthed in the Philippines; that wasprobably it. Remington had pre-prepared the casefor the judge advocate, who frankly did not care toprosecute; the amount was not that large, andothers were certainly selling far more, and theywere probably white. That was not the point,Remington had insisted. If there were others, theyhad not been caught, if there was evidence, it hadnot been found. The law was color-blind.

He would say the same thing to Hickman. The“stickler prick,” a derisive nickname Remingtonknew was used behind his back, would stand firm.Well, at fifty-six the age at which his father hadbeen killed by company policy a stickler prickwould have all the comforts of an exclusive countryclub without paying the corporate price. LieutenantRemington opened the door, walked out into thegrey hallway, and started for the elevator that wouldtake him to the office of the highest ranking man atthe San Diego naval base.

“Sit down, Remington,” said Rear Admiral BrianHickman, shaking the lieutenant’s hand andindicating a chair in front of the large desk. “I don’tknow about you, but this has been what I used tocall at your age one fucked-up day. Sometimes Iwish Congress wouldn’t appropriate so damn muchmoney down here. Everyone gets on such a highyou’d think they’d smoked everything in Tijuana.They forget they’re supposed to have architectsbefore they start bribing the contractors.”

“Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir,” saidRemington sithng down with proper deference asHickman stood several feet to his left. The merereference to Tijuana and drugs confirmed hissuspicions; the admiral was about to launch into theeverybody-does-it routine, which would lead to “Whyshould the Navy stir up a racial controversy withsomething that took place in the Philippines?” Well,he was prepared. The law naval law wascolor-blind.

“I m going to have a well-deserved drink,Lieutenant,” said Hickman, heading for a copper drybar against the wall. “Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you, sir. "

“Hey, look, Remington, I appreciate your stayinglate for this conference, I guess you’d call it, but Idon’t expect any version of corporate militarybehavior. Frankly, I’d feel foolish drinking by myself,and what we’ve got to talk about isn’t so almightyimportant. I just want to ask you a couple of ques-trons.

“Corporate behavior, sir? I’ll have some whitewine, if you have it, sir.”

“I always have it,” said the admiral withresignation. “It’s usually for personnel who are aboutto get divorced.”

“I’m happily married, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m on my third wife shouldhave stuck with the first.”

The drinks poured, the seating arrangements inorder Hickman spoke from behind the desk, his tieloosened, his voice casual. But what he said evokedanything but casualness in David Remington.

“Who the hell is Joel Converse?” asked the admiral.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

The admiral sighed, the sound indicating that hewould begin again. “At twelve hundred hourstwenty-one minutes today, you placed a CLOnegative on ail inquiries regarding a flag on oneLieutenant Joel Converse’s service record. He was apilot in the Vietnam action.”

“I know what he was, sir,” said Remington.

“And at fifteen hundred hours, two minutes,”continued Hickman, looking at a note on his desk. “Iget a teletype from the Fifth Naval Districtrequesting that the flag be removed in their favorand the material released immediately. The basis fortheir request was as it always is national security.”The admiral paused to sip his drink; he appeared tobe in no

hurry, simply weary. “I ordered my adjutant to callyou and ask why you did it.”

“And I answered him completely, sir,”Remington broke in. “It was at the instructions ofthe chief legal officer SAND PAC, and I cited thespecific regulation that states clearly that the CLOof a naval base can withhold files on the basis thathis own inquiries can be compromised by theentrance of a third party. It’s standard in civil law,sir. The Federal Bureau of Investigation rarely givesa local or metropolitan police force the informationit’s collected in an investigation for the simplereason that the investigation could be compromisedby leaks or corrupt practices.”

“And our chief legal officer, LieutenantCommander Fitzpatrick, is currently carrying out aninvestigation of an officer who left the serviceeighteen years ago?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Remington, his eyesnoncommittal. “I only know those were his orders.They’re in force for seventy-two hours. After that,you, of course, can sign the order of release. Andthe President, naturally, can do so anytime in anational emergency.”

“I thought it was forty-eight hours,” said Hickman.

“No, sir. The forty-eight hours is standard withthe release of every flag regardless of who asks forit except, of course the President. It’s called thevet delay. Naval intelligence cross-checks with theCIA, the NSA, and G-Two to make sure there’s nomaterial being released that’s still considered classi-fied. That procedure has nothing to do with theprerogatives of a chief legal officer.”.”

“You know your law, don’t you?”

“I believe as well as any attorney in the UnitedStates Navy, sir.”

“I seed’ The admiral leaned back in hisupholstered swivel chair and placed his legs on thecorner of the desk. “Commander Fitzpatrick s offthe base, isn’t he? Emergency leave, if I recall.”

“Yes, sir. He’s in San Francisco with his sisterand her children. Her husband was killed in arobbery in Geneva, the funeral’s tomorrow morning,I believe.”

“Yes, I read about it. Goddamned lousy…. Butyou know where to reach him.”

“I have the telephone number, yes, sir. Do youwant me to call him, Admiral? Apprise him of theFifth Naval request.”

^’No, no,” said Hickman, shaking his head. “Not ata time

like this. They can dry their mops at least untiltomorrow afternoon. I’ve got to assume they alsoknow the regulations if security’s so damnedjeopardised, know where the Pentagon is and thelatest rumor out of Arlington is that they found outwhere the White House is.” The Admiral stopped,frowned, and looked over at the lieutenant. "Sumpose you didn’t

..But I do sirn,,ow where to reach Fitzpatrick?,

“Yes, but suppose you didn’t? And a legitimaterequest was received below presidentialinvolvement, but still pretty damned urgent youcould release that flag, couldn’t you?

“Theoretically, as next in authority, yes I could.As long as I accepted the legal responsibility for myjudgment.”

“The what?”

“That I believed the request was sufficientlyurgent to override the chief legal odficer’s priororder, which granted him seventy-two hours forwhatever action he deemed necessary. He wasadamant, sir. Frankly, short of presidential inter-venhon, I’m legally bound to uphold the CLO’sprivilege.”

" I’d say morally) too,” agreed Hickman.

“Morality has nothing to do with it, sir. It’s aclear legal position. Now, shall I make that call,Admiral?”

"No, the hell with it.” Hickman removed his feetfrom the desk. “I was just curious and, frankly, you’veconvinced me. Fitz wouldn’t have given you the orderunless he had a reason. The Fifth D can wait threedays, unless those boys want to run up telephonebills to Washington.”

“May I ask, sir, who specifically made the request?”

The admiral looked pointedly at Remington. “I’lltell you in three days. You see, I’ve got a man’sprivilege to uphold too. You’ll know then anyway,because in Fitz’s absence you’ll have to countersignthe transfer.” Hickman finished his drink and thelieutenant understood. The conference was over.

Remington got up and returned the half-filledwineglass by thlle ciop?,p,er bar; he stood atattention and spoke “Will that

“Yes, that’s it,” said the admiral, his gaze strayingto the window and the ocean beyond.

The lieutenant saluted sharply as Hickmanbrought a casual hand to his forehead. The lawyerthen did an about-face and started for the door.

“Remington?”

“Yes, sir?” replied the lieutenant, turning.

“Who the hell is this Converse?”

“I don’t know, sir. But Commander Fitzpatricksaid the status of the flag was a Four Zeroemergency.”

"Jesus . “

Hickman picked up his phone and touched acombination of buttons on the console. Momentslater he was speaking to a fellow ranking officer inthe Fifth Naval District.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait three days, Scanlon.”

“Why is that?” asked the admiral named Scanlon.

“The CLO negative holds on the Converse flagas far as SAND PAC is concerned. If you want togo the D.C. route be my guest. We’ll cooperate.”

“I told you, Brian, my people don’t want to gothrough Washington. You’ve had these thingshappen before. D.C. makes waves, and we don’twant waves.”

“Well then, why don’t you tell me why you wantthe Converse flag? Who is he?”

“I’d tell you if I could, you know that. Frankly,I’m not all that clear on it myself, and what I doknow I’ve sworn to keep secure.”

“Then go to Washington, I’m standing behind myChief Legal, who, incidentally, isn’t even here.”

“He isn’t? But you talked to him.”

“No, to his next in line, a lieutenant namedRemington. He took the direct order from theCLO. Believe me, Remington won’t budget. I gavehim the chance and he covered himself withlegalities. Around here he’s known as a sticklerprick.”

“Did he say why the negative was put out?”

“He didn’t have any idea. Why don’t you callhim yourself? He’s probably still downstairs andmaybe you can “

“You didn’t use my name, did you?” interruptedScanlon apparently agitated.

“No, you asked me not to, but he’ll know it inthree days. He’ll have to sign the release and I’llhave to tell him who requested it.” Hickman paused,then without warning exploded. “What the hell isthis all about, Admiral? Some pilot who wasdischarged over eighteen years ago is suddenly oneverybody’s most-wanted list. I get a departmentalpriority teletype from the big Fifth D and you followit up with a personal call, playing the old Annapolismemory game, but you won’t tell

me anything. Then I find out my own CLO withoutmy knowing about it has put a negative on thisConverse flag and labeled it a Four Zero emergencystatus! Now, I know he’s got personal problems andI won’t bother him until tomorrow and Irealizeyou’ve given your word to stay secure, butgoddamn it, somebody had better start telling mesomething!”

There was no response from the other end of theline. But there was the sound of breathing; and itwas tremulous.

“Scanlon!”

" What did you just say?” said the voice of theadmiral thirty-six hundred miles away.

“I’m going to find out anyway “

“No, the status. The status of the flag.” Scanloncould barely be heard.

“Four-Zero emergency, that’s what I said!”

The interruption was abrupt) there was only anechoing click. Admiral Scanlon had hung up thephone.

Walter Peregrine, United States ambassador tothe Federal Republic of Germany, confrontedFitzpatrick. “What’s your name, Commander?”

“Fowler, sir,” answered the Navy lawyer, glancingbriefly but hard at Dowling. “Lieutenant CommanderAvery Fowler, United States Navy.” Again Connallooked at the actor, who stared at him through themoonlight.

“I understand there’s some question about that,”said Peregrine, his glare as hostile as Dowling’s.“May I see your identification, please?”

“I’m not carrying identification, sir. It’s the natureof my assignment not to do so, sir.” Fitzpatrick’swords were rapid, precise, his posture squared anderect.

“I want verification of your name, your rank, andyour branch of service! Now!”

“The name I’ve given you is the name I wasinstructed to give should anyone beyond the scope ofthe assignment inquire.”

“Whose instructions?” barked the diplomat.

“My superior officers, sir.”

“Am I to infer that Fowler is not your correctname?”

“With respect, Mr. Ambassador. My name isFowler, my rank is lieutenant commander, mybranch of the service is the United States Navy.”

“Where the hell do you think you are? Behind thelines,

captured by the enemy? "Name, rank, and serialnumber that’s all I’m required to say under therules of the Geneva Convention’!”

“It’s all I’m permitted to say, sir.”

“We’ll damn well find out about that,Commander if you are a commander. Also aboutthis Converse, who appears to be a very oddliar one minute the soul of propriety, the next avery strange man on the run.”

“Please try to understand, Mr. Ambassador, ourassignment is classified. In no way does it involvediplomacy, nor will it impair your efforts as the chiefAmerican representative of our government. But itis classified. I will report this conversation to mysuperiors and you will undoubtedly hear from them.Now, if you gentlemen will forgive me, I’ll be on myway.”

“I don’t think so, Commander or whoever youare. But if you are who you say, nothing’scompromised. I’m not a damn fool. Nothing will besaid to anyone on the embassy staff. Mr. Dowlinginsisted on that and I accepted the condition. Youand I will be locked in a communications room witha phone on a scrambler and you’re going to place acall to Washington. I didn’t take this job at a loss ofthree-quarters of a million a year to find shoe clerksrunning an investigation of my own company withoutmy knowing about it. If I want an outside audit, I’lldamn well order it myself.”

“I wish I could comply, sir; it sounds like areasonable request. But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“I’m afraid you will!”

“Sorry.”

“Do as he says, Commander,” interjectedDowling. “As he told you, nothing’s been said toanyone, and nothing will be. But Converse needsprotection; he’s a wanted man in a foreign countryand he doesn’t even speak the language. TakeAmbassador Peregrine’s offer. He’ll keep his word.”

“With respect, sirs, the answer is negative.”Connal turned away and started up the wide path.

“Major!” shouted the ambassador, his voicefurious. “Stop him! Stop that man!”

Fitzpatrick looked behind him; for reasons hecould not explain to himself he saw what he neverexpected to see, and the instant he did, he knew heshould have expected it. From out of the distantshadows of the immense, majestic building a manrushed forward, a man who was obviously a military

aide to the ambassador a member of the embassystaff! Connal froze, Joel’s words coming back to him.Those men you saw at the airport, the ones from theembassy . . . they’re on the other side.

Under almost any other circumstances,Fitzpatrick would have remained where he was andweathered it out. He hadn’t actually done anythingwrong; there was nothing illegal, no laws broken ofwhich he was cognizant, and no one could force himto discuss personal matters where no law had beenviolated. Then he realized how wrong he was! Thegenerals of George Marcus Delavane would forcehim, could force him! He spun around and ran.

Suddenly gunfire erupted. Two earsplitting shotsabove him! He dove to the ground and rolled intothe shadows of the bushes as a man’s voice roaredover the stillness of the night and the sleepinggardens.

“You goddamned son of a bitch! What do youthink you’re doing!”

There were further shouts, a further barrage ofobscenities, and the sounds of struggle filled thequiet enclave of the university.

“You don’t kid a man! Besides, you bastard, therecould be other people! Don’t say a word, Mr.Ambassador!”

Connal scrambled across the graveled path andspread apart the bordering foliage. In the clearmoonlight of the distant bench, the actor CalebDowling the former marine from Kwajalein stoodover the body of the major who had run out of theshadow, his boot on the supine man’s throat, hishand grasping the man’s extended arm to wrench theweapon free.

“You are one dumb son of a bitch, Major! Or,goddamn you, maybe you’re something else!”

Fitzpatrick got to his knees, then to his feet, and,crouching, raced into the receding darkness of thewide path toward the exit.

“I didn’t have any choice!” said Connal. He haddropped the attache case on the couch and wassitting in an adjacent chair, leaning forward, stillshaking.

“Calm down; try to relax.” Converse walked tothe elegant antique hunt table against the wallwhere there was a large silver tray with whisky, iceand glasses. Joel had learned to make use of roomservice in English. " You need a drink,” he said,pouring Fitzpatrick’s bourbon.

Do I ever! I’ve never been shot at. You have.Christ, is that what it’s like?”

“That’s what it’s like. You can’t believe it. It’sunreal, just mind-blowing sounds that can’t reallyhave anything to do with you, until until. you seethe evidence for yourself. It’s real, it’s meant foryou, and you’re sick. There’s no swelling music, nobrass horns, just vomit.” Converse brought the navalofficer his drink.

“You’re omitting something,” said Connal, takingthe glass and looking up at Joel.

“No, I’m not. Let’s think about tonight. If youheard Dowling right, the ambassador won’t sayanything around the embassy “

“I remember,” interrupted Fitzpatrick, takingseveral swallows of the bourbon, his eyes still onConverse. “It was in one of the other flags. Duringyour second escape a man got killed; it wassundown. You reached him when it happened, andthe flag said you went crazy for a couple of minutes.Somehow, according to this guy a sergeant, Ithink you circled around in the jungle, caught theNorth Vietnamese, killed him with his own knifeand got his repeating rifle. Then you blew awaythree other Viets in the area.”

Joel held his place in front of the Navy lawyer.He answered the younger man, his voice quiet, hislook angry. “I hate descriptions like that,” he saidflatly. " It raises all the im

ages I loathe…. Let me tell you the way it was likeit was, counselor. A kid, no more than nineteen, hadto relieve himself, and although we stuck together hehad the dignity to go ten or fifteen feet away to takecare of his private functions, using leaves becausesqueezable toilet paper wasn’t available. Themaniac I won’t use the word ’soldier’ who killedhim waited for the precise moment, then fired off aburst that cut that kid’s face apart. When I reachedhim, half of that face in my hands, I heard thecackle, the obscene laughter of an obscene man whopersonified for me everything I found de-spicable whether North Vietnamese or American.If you want to know the truth, whatever I did I didagainst both because both were guilty, all of usturned into animals, myself included. Those otherthree men, those enemies, those uniformed robots,probably with wives and children back in villagessomewhere up north, had no idea I got behind them.I shot them in the back, counselor. What wouldJohnny Ringo say about that? Or John Wayne?”

Connal was silent as Joel walked over to the hunttable to pour himself a whisky. The Navy lawyerdrank, then spoke. “A few hours ago you said youknew where I was coming from because you’d beenthere. Well, I haven’t been where you were, but I’mbeginning to see where you’re coming from. Youreally hate everything that Aquitaine stands for, don’tyou? Especially those running it.”

Converse turned. “With everything that’s in me,”he said. “That’s why we’ve got to talk about tonight.”

“I told you, I had no choice. You said theembassy people I saw at the airport were withDelavane. I couldn’t take the chance.”

“I know. Now we’re both running, hunted by ourown people and protected by the men we want totrap. We’ve got to think, Commander.”

The telephone rang twice abrasively. Fitzpatrickleaped from the chair, his initial reaction one ofshock. Joel watched him, calming him with his look.“Sorry,” said Connal. “I’m still edgy. I’ll get it; I’ll beall right.” The Navy lawyer crossed to the phone andpicked it up. ":7a?” He listened for several seconds,covered the mouthpiece and looked at Converse. “It’sthe overseas operator. San Francisco. It’s Meagen.”

“Which means Remington,” saidJoel, his throatsuddenly dry, his pulse accelerating.

“Meagen? Yes, I’m here. What is it?” Fitzpatrickstared

straight ahead as his sister talked; he noddedfrequently, the muscles of his jaw working as heconcentrated. “Oh, Chr"st! . . . No, it’s all right. Imean it, everything s okay. Do you have thenumber?” Connal looked down at the smalltelephone table; there was a message pad but nopencil. He glanced over at Joel, who had alreadystarted for the desk and a hotel pen. Fitzpatrickheld out his hand, took the pen and wrote out aseries of numbers. Converse stood aside, consciousthat he was barely breathing, his fingers gripping theglass. “Thanks, Meagen. I know it’s a hell of a timefor you; you don’t need this but if you have to callagain, make it station-to-station, okay? . . . I will,Meg, I give you my word. Good-bye.” The Navylawyer hung up, his hand for a moment remainingon the telephone.

“Remington called, didn’t he?” said Joel.

“Yes.”

"What happened ?”

“Someone tried to get the flag on your servicerecord released,” said Fitzpatrick, turning, looking atConverse. “It’s okay. Remington stopped it.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll have to reach David. Meagendoesn’t have any idea what a flag is, much less whoyou are. The message was only that "a release wassought for the flag,’ but he stopped it.”

“Then everything’s all right.”

“That’s what I said, but it’s not.”

“Clarification, goddamn it!”

“There’s a time limit on how long my orderstands. It’s only a day or two after the vettingprocess “

“Which is forty-eight hours,” interrupted Joel.

“Yes, I’m sure of that; it’s after that. You see,you thought this would happen, but frankly I didn’t.Whoever’s asking for that flag isn’t small potatoes.You could walk out of that meeting and a few hourslater your new associates could have that stuff intheir hands. Converse the Delavane-hater. Is he nowthe Delavane-hunter?”

“Call Remington.”Joel went to the French doors,opened them, and walked out on the small balcony.Drifting wisps of clouds filtered the moonlight, andfar to the east there were Hashes of heat lightningreminding Converse of the silent artillery fire he andthe other escaping prisoners would see in the hills,knowing it was sanctuary but unreachable. He could

hear Fitzpatrick inside; from the sound of his voicehe was getting a line through to San Diego. Joelreached into a pocket for his cigarettes; he lightedone. Whether it was the bright glow of the flamethat illuminated the movement he did not know, buthe looked in the direction of that movement. Twobalconies away, about thirty feet to his right, a manstood watching him. The figure was a silhouette inthe dim light; he nodded and went back inside. Wasthe man simply another guest who had coincidentallygone outside for a breath of air? Or had Aquitaineposted a guard? Converse could hear the Navylawyer talking conversationally; he turned andwalked back into the room.

Connal was seated in the chair on the other sideof the table. He held the phone to his ear with hisleft hand; his right held the pen above the messagepad. He made a note, then said quickly, “Wait aminute. You say Hickman told you to let it ride buthe wouldn’t tell you who specifically made the re-quest? . . . I see. All right, David, thanks very much.Are you going out tonight? . . . So if I need you Ican reach you at this number…. Yes, I know, it’sthese damn phones up in Sonoma. One heavy rain inthe hills and you’re lucky to get a line, forget a clearone. Thanks again, David. Good-bye.” Fitzpatrickhung up the phone and looked strangely, almostguiltily, at Joel. Instead of speaking, he shook hishead, breathing out and frowning.

"What is it? What’s the matter?”

“You’d better get everything you can at thatmeeting tomorrow. Or is it today?”

“It’s past midnight. It’s today. Why?”

“Because twenty-four hours later that flag will bereleased to a section in the Fifth NavalDistrict that’s Norfolk, and it’s powerful. They’llknow everything you don’t want them to know aboutyou. The time limit is seventy-two hours.”

“Get an extension!”

Connal stood up, helplessness in his expression.“On what basis?”

“What else? National security.”

“I’d have to spell out the reasons, you know that.”

“I don’t know that. Extensions are granted for allsorts of contingencies. You need more time toprepare. A source or a witness has beenpostponed illness or an injury. Or per

sonal matters goddamn it, your brother-in-law’sfuneral, your sister’s grief–they’ve delayed yourprogress!”

“Forget it, Joel. If I tried that, they’d tie you inwith Press and good-bye Charlie. They killed him,remember?”

“No,” said Converse firmly. “It’s the other wayaround. It separates us further.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve thought about this, tried to put myself inAvery’s shoes. He knew his every move was beingwatched, his telephone probably tapped. He said thegeography, the Comm Tech-Bern merger, thebreakfast, Geneva itself, everything had to belogical; it couldn’t be any other way. At the end ofthat breakfast he said if I agreed we’d talk later.”

“So?”

“He knew we’d be seen together it wasunavoidable and I think he was going to give methe words to say if someone in Aquitaine asked meabout him. He was going to turn everything aroundand give me the push I needed to reach these men.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Avery was going to stamp me with the label Ihad to wear to get inside Delavane’s network. We’llnever know, but I have an idea he was going to tellme to say that he, A. Preston Halliday, suspectedme of being one of them, that he had insertedhimself in the Comm Tech-Bern merger to threatenme with exposure, to stop me.”

“Wait a minute.” Connal shook his head. “Pressdidn’t know what you were going to do or how youwere going to do it.”

“There was only one way to do it, he knew that!He also knew I’d reach the same conclusion once Iunderstood the particulars. The only way to stopDelavane and his field marshals is to infiltrateAquitaine. Why do you think all that money was putup front? I don’t need it and he knew he couldn’tbuy me. But he knew it could be used would haveto be used to get inside and start talking, startgathering evidence…. Call Remington again. Tellhim to prepare an extension.”

“It’s not Remington, it’s the commander ofSAND PAC an admiral named Hickman. David saidI could expect a call from him tomorrow. I’ll haveto figure that one out and phone Meagen back.Hickman’s uptight; he wants to know who you areand why all the interest.”

"How well do you know this Hickman?”

" Fairly well. I was with him in New London andGalveston. He requested me as his CLO in SanDiego; that’s what gave me the stripe.”

Converse studied Fitzpatrick’s face, then withoutsaying anything he turned and walked to the openbalcony doors. Connal did not interrupt; heunderstood. He had seen too many attorneys, himselfincluded, struck by a thought they had to define forthemselves, an idea upon which a case might hinge.Joel turned around slowly, haltingly, the dim,abstract shadows of a possibility coming into focus.

“Do it,” he began. “Do what I think yourbrother-in-law might have done. Finish what hemight have said but never got a chance to say it.Assume he and I had that meeting after the mergerconference. Give me the springboard I need.”

“As you would say, clarification, please, counselor.”

“Present Hickman with a scenario as it mighthave been written by A. Preston Halliday. Tell himthat flag’s got to remain in place because you havereason to believe I was connected with yourbrother-in-law’s murder. Explain that before Hallidayflew to Geneva he came to see you as he did andtold you he was meeting me, an opposing attorney hesuspected of being involved with corrupt exportlicensing, a legal front for some boardroomprofiteers. Say he said he was going to confront me.Preston Halliday had a history of causes.”

“Not for the past ten or twelve years, he didn’t,”corrected Fitzpatrick. “He joined the establishmentwith a vengeance and with a healthy respect for thedollar.”

“It’s the history that counts. He knew that; it wasone of the reasons he came to me. Say you’reconvinced he did confront me, and since millions aremade out of that business you think I methodicallyhad him removed, covering myself by being therewhen he died. I have a certain reputation for beingmethodical.”

Connal lowered his head and ran his handthrough his hair, then walked in thought toward thehunt table. He stopped, raised his gaze to one of theracehorse prints and turned back to Converse. “Doyou know what you’re asking me to do?”

“Yes. Give me the springboard that’ll catapult meright in the middle of those would-be GenghisKhans. To do it you’ll have to go further withHickman. Because you’re so person

ally involved and so goddamned angry which againis the truth tell him to explain your position towhoever wants the flag released. It’s a nonmilitarymatter, so you’re taking what you know to thecivilian authorities.”

“I understand all that,” said Fitzpatrick.“Everything I say is the truth, as I saw it when I flewover here to find you. Except that I reverse thetargets. Instead of being the one who can help me,you’re now the one I want nailed.”

“Right on, counselor. And I’m met by awelcoming committee at Leifhelm’s estate.”

“Then I guess you don’t see.”

“What?”

“You’re asking me to go on record implicatingyou in first-degree murder. I’ll be branding you asa killer. Once I say it, I can’t take the words back.”

“I know that. Do it.”

George Marcus Delavane twisted his torso in hischair behind the desk in front of the strangelycolored fragmented map on the wall. It was not acontrolled movement; it was an action in search ofcontrol. Delavane did not care for obstrucbons andone was being explained to him now by an admiralin the Fifth Naval District.

“The status of the Hag is Four Zero,” saidScanlon. “To get it released we’d have to go throughPentagon procedures, and I don’t have to tell youwhat that means. Two senior officers, one fromnaval intelligence, plus a supporting signature fromthe National Security Agency; all would have toappear on the request sheet, the level of the inquirystated, thus escalating the request to a sectordemand. Now, General, we can do all this, but werun the risk “

“I know the risk,” interrupted Delavane. “Thesignatures are the risk, the identities a risk. Why theFour Zero? Who placed it and why?”

“The chief legal officer of SAND PAC. Ichecked him out. He’s a lieutenant commandernamed Fitzpatrick, and there’s nothing in his recordto give us any indication as to why he did it.”

“I’ll tell you why,” said the warlord of Saigon.“He’s hiding something. He’s protecting thisConverse.”

“Why would a chief legal officer in the Navyprotect a civilian under these circumstances?There’s no connection.

Furthermore, why would he exercise a Four Zerocondition? It only calls attention to his action.”

“It also clamps a lid down on that flag.” Delavanepaused, then continued before the admiral couldinterrupt. “This Fitzpatrick,” he said. “You’ve checkedthe master list?”

“He’s not one of us.”

“Has he ever been considered? Or approached?”

" I haven’t had time to find out.” There was thesound of a buzzer, not part of the line over whichthe two men spoke. Scanlon could be heard punchinga button, his voice clear, officious. “Yes?” Silencefollowed, and seconds later the admiral returned toPalo Alto. “It’s Hickman again.”

“Maybe he has something for us. Call me back.”

“Hickman wouldn’t give us anything if he had theslightest idea we existed,” said Scanlon. In a fewweeks, he’ll be one of the first to go. If it were up tome he’d be shot.”

“”Call me back,” said George Marcus Delavane,looking at the map of the new Aquitaine on the wall.

Chaim Abrahms sat at the kitchen table in hissmall stone Mediterranean villa in Tzahala, a suburbof Tel Aviv favored by the retired military and thosewith sufficient income or influence to live there. Thewindows were open and the breezes from the gardenstirred the oppressive summer’s night air. There wasair conditioning in two other rooms and ceiling fansin three more, but Chaim liked the kitchen. In theold days he and his men would sit in primitivekitchens and plan raids; in the Negev, ammunitionwas often passed about while desert chicken boiledon a wood stove. The kitchen was the soul of thehouse. It gave warmth and sustenance to the body,clearing the mind for tactics as long as the womenleft after performing their chores and did notinterrupt the men with their incessant trivialities. Hiswife was asleep upstairs; so be it. He had little to sayto her anymore, or she to him; she could not helphim now. And if she could, she would not. They hadlost a son in Lebanon, her son she said, a teacher, ascholar, not a soldier, not a killer by choice. Toomany sons were lost on both sides, she said. Oldmen, she said, old men infected the young with theirhatreds and used Biblical legends to justify death inthe pursuit of questionable real estate. Death, shecried. Death before talk that might avert it! She hadforgotten the early days; too many forgot too quickly.Chaim Abrahms did not forget, nor would he ever.

And his sense of smell was as acute as ever. Thislawyer, this Converse, this talk! It was all too clever,it had the stench of cold, analytical minds, not theheat of believers. The Mossad specialist was thebest, but even the Mossad made mistakes. Thespecialist looked for a motive, as if one coulddissect the human brain and say this action causedthat reaction, this punishment that commitment tovengeance. Too damned clever! A believer wasfueled by the heat of his convictions. They were hisonly motive, and they did not call for clevermanipulations.

Chaim knew he was a plainspoken man, a directman, but it was not because he was unintelligent orlacked subtle perceptions; his prowess on thebattlefield proved otherwise. He was direct becausehe knew what he wanted, and it was a waste of timeto pretend and be clever. In all the years he hadlived with his convictions he had never met a fellowbeliever who allowed himself to waste time.

This Converse knew enough to reach Bertholdierin Paris. He showed how much more he knew whenhe mentioned Leifhelm in Bonn and specificallynamed the cities of Tel Aviv and Johannesburg.What more did he have to prove? Why should heprove it if his belief was there? Why did he notplead his case with his first connection and notwaste time? . . . No, this lawyer, this Converse, wasfrom somewhere else. The Mossad specialist saidthe motive was there for affiliation. He was wrong.The red-hot heat of the believer was not there. Onlycleverness, only talk.

And the specialist had not dismissed Chaim ssense of smell. As well he should not, as the twosabres had fought together for years, as often as notagainst the Europeans and their connivingways those immigrants who held up the OldTestament as if they had written it, calling the trueinhabitants of Israel uneducated ruffians or clowns.The Mossad specialist respected his sabre brother,it was in his look, that respect. No one could dismissthe instincts of Chaim Abrahms son of Abraham,archangel of darkness to the enemies of Abraham’schildren. Thank God his wife was asleep.

It was time to call Palo Alto.

My general, my friend.”

Shalom, Chaim,” said the warlord of Saigon. Areyou on your way to Bonn?”

I’m leaving in the morning we’re leaving. VanHeadmer is in the air now. He’ll arrive at BenGurion at

eight-thirty, and together we’ll take the ten o’clockflight to Frankfurt, where Leifhelm’s pilot will meetus with the Cessna.”

“Good. You can talk. "

“We must talk now,” said the Israeli. “What morehave you learned about this Converse?”

“He becomes more of an enigma, Chaim.”

“I smell a fraud.”

“So do I, but perhaps not the fraud I thought.You know what my assessment was. I thought he wasno more than an infantry point, someone being usedby more knowledgeable men Lucas Anstett amongthem to learn far more than they knew or heardrumors about. I don’t discount a degree of minorleaks; they’re to be anticipated and managed, scoffedat as paranoia.”

“Get to the point, Marcus,” said the impatientAbrahms who always called Delavane by his middlename. He considered it a Hebrew name, in spite ofthe fact that Delavane’s father had insisted on it forhis first son in honor of the Roman Caesar thephilosopher Marcus Aurelius, a proselytiser of

moderation.

" Three things happened today,” continued theformer general in Palo Alto. “The first infuriated mebecause I could not understand it, and franklydisturbed me because it portended a far greaterpenetration than I thought possible from a sector Ithought impossible.”

“What was it?” the Israeli broke in.

“A firm prohibition was placed on getting part ofConverse’s service record.”

“Yes!” cried Abrahms, in his voice the sound ofTriumph.

“What?”

“Go on, Marcus! I’ll tell you when you’refinished. What was the second calamity?”

“Not a calamity, Chaim. An explanation soblatantly offered it can’t be turned aside. Leifhelmcalled me and said Converse himself brought upAnstett’s death, claiming to be relieved, but sayinglittle else except that Anstett was his enemy thatwas the word he used.”

“So instructed!” Abrahm’s voice reverberatedaround the kitchen. “What was the third gift, mygeneral?”

“The most bewildering as well asenlightening and, Chaim, do not shout into thephone. You are not at one of your stadium rallies orprovoking the Knesset.”

"I am in the field, Marcus. Right now! Pleasecontinue my friend.”

“The man who clamped the lid down onConverse’s military record is a naval officer who wasthe brother-in-law of Preston Halliday.”

“Geneva! Yes!”

“Stop that!”

“My apologies, my dear friend. It’s just all soperfect!”

“Whatever you have in mind,” said Delavane"may be negated by the man’s reason. This navalofficer, this brother-in-law, believes Converseengineered Halliday’s murder.”

"Of course! Perfect!”

“You will keep your voice down!” The cry of thecat on a frozen lake was heard.

“Again my deepest and most sincere apologies,my general. Was that all this naval officer said?”

".No, he made it clear to the commander of hisbase in San Diego that Halliday had come to himand told him he was meeting a man in Geneva hebelieved was involved with illegal exports to illegaldestinations. An attorney for profiteers inarmaments. He intended to confront this man, thisinternational lawyer named Converse, and threatento expose him. What do we have?”

“A fraud !”

“But on whose side, sabre? The volume of yourvoice doesn’t convince me.”

“Be convinced! I’m right. This Converse is thedesert scorpions”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t you see? The Mossad seesI”

“The Mossad?”

“Yesl I talked with our specialist and he senseswhat I smell he admits the possibility! I grant you,my general, my honored warrior, that he hasinformation that led him to think this Conversemight be genuine, that he wanted truly to be withus, but when I said I smelled bad meat, he grantedone other, exceptional possibility. Converse may ormay not be programmed, but he could be an agentfor his government!”

“A provocateur?”

“Who knows, Marcus? But the pattern is soperfect. First, a prohibition is placed on his militaryrecord it will tell us something, we know that.Then he responds in the negative about the death ofan enemy not his, but ours, and claims

he was his enemy too so simple, so instructable.Finally, it is insinuated that this Converse was thekiller in Geneva so orderly, so precisely to hisadvantage. We are dealing with very analytical mindsthat watch every move in the chess game, and matchevery pawn with a king.”

“Yet everything you say can be reversed. He couldbe ” “He can’t be!” cried Abrahms.

“Why, Chaim? Tell me why?”

“There is no heat, noire in him! It is not the wayof a believer! We are not clever, we are adamant!”

George Marcus Delavane said nothing for severalmoments, and the Israeli knew better than to speak.He waited until the quiet cold voice came back onthe line. “Have your meeting tomorrow, General.Listen to him and be courteous; play the game heplays. But he must not leave that house until I givethe order. He may never leave it.”

“Shalom, my friend.”

“Shalom, Chaim.”

Valerie approached the glass doors of her stu-dio identical with the doors of her balconyupstairs and looked out at the calm, sun-washedwaters of Cape Ann. She thought briefly of the boatthat had dropped anchor so frighteningly in front ofher house several nights ago. It had not been back;whatever had happened was past, leaving questionsbut no answers. If she closed her eyes she could stillsee the figure of a man crawling up out of the cabinlight, and the glow of the cigarette, and she stillwondered what that man was doing, what he wasthinking. Then she remembered the sight of the twomen in the early light, framed by the dark rims of herbinoculars staring back at her with far more pow-erful lenses. Were they novices finding a safe harbor?Amateurs navigating the dark waters of a coastline atnight? Questions, no answers.

Whatever, it was past. A brief, disturbing interludethat

gave rise to black imaginings demons in search oflogic, as Joel would say.

She tossed her long, dark hair aside andreturned to her easel, picking up a brush andputting the final dabs of burnt umber beneath theshadowed sand dunes of wild grass. She steppedback, studied her work, and swore to herself for thefifth time that the oil painting was finished. It wasanother seascape; she never tired of them, andfortunately she was beginning to get a fair share ofthe market. Of course there were those painters inthe Boston-Boothbay axis who claimed she hadvirtually cornered the market, but that was rubbish.Indeed her prices had risen satisfactorily as a resultof the critical approval accorded her two showingsat the Copley Galleries, but the truth was that shecould hardly afford to live where she lived and theway she lived without at least a part of Joel’s checkevery month.

Then again, not too many artists had a house onthe beach with an attached twenty-by-thirty-footstudio enclosed by full-length glass doors and witha ceiling that was literally one entire skylight. Therest of the house, the original house, on thenorthern border of Cape Ann was morerambling-quaint than functional. The initialarchitecture was early-coastconfusion, with lots ofheavy bleached wood and curliques, a balustradedsecond-story balcony, and outsized bay windows inthe front room that were charming to look at andlook out but leaked fiercely when the winter windscame off the ocean. No amount of putty or sashingcompound seemed to work; nature was extracting aprice for observing her beauty.

Still, it was Val’s dream house, the one she hadpromised herself years ago she would someday beable to afford. She had come back from the Ecoledes Beaux Arts in Paris prepared to assault NewYork’s art world via the Greenwich Vil-lage-Woodstock route only to have stark reality alterher plans. The family circumstances had always beensufficiently healthy for her to live comfortably, albeitnot lavishly, throughout three years in college andtwo more in Paris. Her father was a passably goodif excessively enthusiastic amateur painter whoalways complained that he had not taken the risksand gone totally into the fine arts rather thanarchitecture. As a result, he supported his only childboth morally and financially, in a very real senseliving through her progress and devoted to herdetermination. And her mother slightly mad,always loving, always supportive in anything andevery

thing would take terrible photographs of Val’scrudest work and send the pictures back to her sisterand cousins in Cermany, writing outrageous lies thatspoke of museums and galleries and insanecommissions.

“The crazy Berlinerin,” her father would sayfondly in his heavy Gallic accent. “You should haveseen her during the war. She frightened us all todeath! We half expected she would return toheadquarters some night with a drunken Goebbelsor a doped-up Goring in tow, then tell us if wewanted Hitler to give her the word!”

Her father had been the Free French liaisonbetween the Allies and the German underground inBerlin. A rather stiff Parisian autocrat whohappened to speak German had been assigned to thecell in the Charlottenburg, which coordinated all theactivities of Berlin’s underground. He frequently saidthat he had more trouble with the wild Fraulein withthe impetuous ideas than he had avoiding the Nazis.Nevertheless they married each other two monthsafter the armistice. In Berlin. Where neither hisfamily would talk to hers, nor hers to his. “We hadtwo small orchestras,” her mother would say. “Oneplayed pure, beautiful Viennese Schnitzel, the othersome white cream sauce with deer droppings.”

Whether family animosities had anything to dowith it neither ever said, but the Parisian and theBerlinerin immigrated to St. Louis, Missouri, in theUnited States of America, where the Berlinerin haddistant relations.

The stark reality. Nine years ago, after she hadsettled in New York from Paris, a frightened, tearfulfather had flown in to see her and had told Val aterrible truth. His beloved crazy Berlinerin had beenill for years; it was cancer and it was about to killher. In desperation, he had spent nearly all themoney he had, including unpaid second and thirdmortgages on the rambling house in Bellefontaine, tostem the disease. Among the profiteers were clinicsin Mexico; there was nothing else he could say. Hecould only weep, and his losses had nothing to dowith his tears. And she could only hold her fatherand ask him why he had not told her before.

“It was not your battle, ma cherie. It was ours.Since Berlin, it was always we two. We fought thentogether; we fight now as always as one.”

Her mother died six days later, and six monthsafter that her father lit a Gauloise on thescreened-in porch and mercifully fell asleep, not towake up. Valerie could not cry. It was

a shock but not a tragedy. Wherever he was hewanted to be there.

So Valerie Charpentier looked for a job, apaying job that did not rely on the sales of anunknown artist. What astonished her was not thatemployment was so easy to find, but that it had verylittle to do with the thick portfolio of sketches andline drawings she presented. The second advertisingagency she applied to seemed more interested inthe fact that she spoke both German and Frenchfluently. It was the bme of corporate takeovers, ofmultinational alliances where profits could be madeon both sides of the Atlantic by the same singleentities. Valerie Charpentier, artist-in-residenceinside, became a company hack on the outside.Someone who could draw and sketch rapidly andmake presentations and speak the languages andshe hated it. Still, it was a remarkable living for awoman who had anticipated a period of yearsbefore her name on a canvas would meansomething.

Then a man came into her life who madewhatever affairs she had had totally forgettable. Anice man, a decent man even an excitingman who had his own problems but did not talkabout them, would not talk about them, and thatshould have given her a clue. Joel, her Joel, effusiveone moment, withdrawn the next, but always withthat shield, that facade of quick humor which wasoften as biting as it was amusing. For a while theyhad been good for each other. Both were ambitiousfor entirely different reasons she for the in-dependence that came with recognition, he for thewasted years he could never reclaim and eachacted as a buffer when the other faceddisappointment or delay. But it all began to fallapart. The reasons were painfully clear to her butnot to him. He became mesmerised by his ownprogress by his own determination, to the exclusionof everything else, starting with her. He never raisedhis voice or made demands, but the words were iceand the demands were increasingly there. If therewas a specific point when she recognised thedownhill slide, it was a Friday night in November.The agency had wanted her to fly to West Berlin; aTelefunken account required some fast personalservice and she was elected to calm the churningwaters. She had been packing when Joel came homefrom work. He had walked into the bedroom oftheir apartment and asked her what she was doing,where she was going. When she told him, he hadsaid, " You can’t. We’re expected at Brooks’ housein Larchmont tomorrow night. Tal

hot and Simon’ll be there too. I m sure they’ll talkinternational. You’ve got to be there.”

She had looked at him, at the quiet desperationin his eyes. She did not go to Germany. It was theturning point; the downhill race had begun, andwithin a brief few months she knew it was quickeningto its finish. She quit the agency, giving up authorityfor the dog days of free-lancing, hoping the extratime she had to devote to him might help. It did not;he seemed to resent any overt act of sacrifice, nomatter how hard she tried to conceal it. His periodsof withdrawal multiplied, and in a way she felt sorryfor him. His furies were driving him and it wasobvious that he disliked what was happening; hedisliked what he was but could not help himself. Hewas on his way to a burnout and she could not helphim, either.

If there had been another woman, she could havefought, staking out her claim and fiercely insisting onthe right to compete, but there was no one else, onlyhimself and his compulsions. Finally, she realized shecould not penetrate his shield; he had nothing leftfor anyone else emotionally. That was what she hadhurled at him: "Emotional burn-out!” He had agreedin that quiet, kind voice and the next day he wasgone.

So she took him. Four years, she demanded, theexact amount of time he had taken from her. Thosefour years of heady generosity were about to come toan end, Val reflected, as she cleaned her brushes andscraped the palette. In January they were over, thelast check, as always, posted by the fifteenth. Fiveweeks ago, during lunch at the Ritz in Boston, Joelhad offered to continue the payments. He claimed hewas used to them and was making more in salary andbonuses than he could spend soberly. The money wasno hardship, and besides it gave him a certain statureamong his peers and was a marvelous ploy to avoidprolonged entanglements. She had declined,borrowing words from her father or more likely hermother, saying that things were far better than theywere. He had smiled that half-sad yet still infectioussmile and said, “If they turn out otherwise, I m here.”

Coddamn himl

Poor Joel. Sad Joel. He was a good man caughtin the vortex of his own conflicts. And Val had goneas far as she could go to go further was to deny herown identity. She would not do that; she had notdone it.

She placed her brushes in the tray and walkedto the glass doors that looked over the dunes andthe ocean. He was out there, far away, stillsomewhere in Europe. Valerie wondered if hehad given a thought to the day. It was theanniversary of their marriage.

To summarize,Chaim Abrahms was molded in thestress and chaos of fighting for daily survival. Theywere years of never-ending violent skirmishes, ofoutthinking and outliving enemies bent on killingnot only whole sabre settlements but the desertJews’aspirations for a homeland as well as political free-dom and religious expression. It is not difficult tounderstand where Abrahms came from and why heis what he is, but it is frightening to think aboutwhere he is going. He is a fanatic with no sense ofbalance or compromise where other peoples withidentical aspirations are concerned. If a man has adifferent stripe, whether of the same species or not,he is the enemy. Armed force takes precedenceover negotiations in all matters, and even those inIsrael who plead for more moderate stands basedon totally secure borders are branded as traitors.Abrahms is an imperialist who sees anever-expanding Israel as the ruling kingdom of theentire Middle East. An appropriate ending to thisreport is a comment he made after the well-knownstatement issued by the Prime Minister during theLebanon invasion: “We covet not one inch ofLebanon.” Abrahms’ reply in the field to histroops the majority by no means sympathetic wasthe following.

“Certainly not an inch! The whole damnedcountry! Then Gaza, the Golan, and the West Bank!And why not Jordan, then Syria and Iraq! We havethe means and we have the willi We are the mightychildren of Abraham!”

He is Delavane’s key in the volatile Middle East.

It was nearly noon, the overhead sun beatingdown on the small balcony beyond the Frenchdoors. The late-breakfast remnants had beencleared away by room service; only a silver potremained on the hunt table. They had beenreading for hours since the first coffee wasbrought to

the suite at six-thirty. Converse put down the dossier,and reached for his cigarettes on the table by thearmchair. It is not cliff cult to understand whereAbrahms came from . . . but it is frightening to thinkabout where he is going. Joel looked over at ConnalFitzpatrick, who was seated on the couch, leaningforward over the coffee table and reading a singlepage while making notes on the telephone messagepad; the Bertholdier and LeifLelm dossiers were intwo neat piles on his left. The Navy lawyer had saidpractically the same words to him, thought Converse,lighting a cigarette. I’m beginning to see where you’recoming from…. The inherent question put to Joel’slegal mind was simple: Where was he himself going?He hoped to hell he knew. Was he an inept gladiatormarching into a Roman arena facing far stronger,better-armed and superior talent? Or were thedemons from his own past turning him into his ownsacrifice, leading him into the arena’s hot sand whereangry, half-starved cats waited, ready to pounce andtear him apart? So many questions, so manyvariables he was incapable of addressing. He onlyknew he could not turn back.

Fitzpatrick looked up. “What’s the matter?” heasked, obviously aware that Converse was staring inhis direction. “You worried about the admiral?”

“Who?”

“Hickman, San Diego.”

“Among other things. In the clear light of day,you’re sure he bought the extension?”

“No guarantees, but I told you he said he’ll callme if any emergency heat came down. I’m damnsure he won’t do anything before consulting me. Ifhe tries to reach me, Meagen knows what to do andI’ll lean harder. If need be, I’ll claim point ofpersonal privilege and demand a meeting with thoseunnamed people in the Fifth District, maybe go sofar as to imply they could be part of Geneva. That’dbe a full circle. We could end up with astandoff the release of that flag only with afull-scale investigation of the circumstances. Ironyand standoff.”

“You won’t have a standoff if he’s with them.He’ll override you.”

“If he was with them, he wouldn’t have toldRemington he was going to call me. He wouldn’thave said anything; he’d have waited the extra dayand let it go. I know him. He wasn’t just nonplussed,he was mad. He stands by his people and he

doesn’t like outside pressures, especially Navypressures. We’re on hold, and as long as it’s hold,the flag’s in place. I told you, he’s a lot angrier withNorfolk than with me. They won’t even give him areason; they claim they can’t.”

Converse nodded. " AII right,” he said. “Call it acase of nerves on my part. I just finished theAbrahms dossier. That maniac could blow up thewhole Middle East all by himself and drag the restof us in with him…. What did you think of Leifhelmand Bertholdier?”

“As far as the information goes, they’reeverything you said and then some. They’re morethan just influential ex-generals with fistfuls ofmoney, they’re powerful rallying symbols for what alot of people think are justifiable extremes. That’s asfar as the information goes but the operative wordfor me is the information itself. Where did it comefrom?”

“That’s a step back. It’s there.”

“It sure is, but how? You say Beale gave it toyou, that Press used the phrase “we’ ”the ones we’reafter,’ “the tools we can give you,’ ”the connectionsas we think they are.’ “

“And we went over this,” insisted Joel. “The manin San Francisco, the one he went to who providedthe five hundred thousand and told him to buildcases against these people legally, and togetherthey’d turn them into plain and simple profiteers.It’s the ultimate ridicule for superpatriots. It’s soundreasoning, counselor, and that’s the we.”

“Press and this unknown man in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“And they could pick up a phone and hiresomeone to put together these?” Fitzpatrick gesturedat the two dossiers on his left.

“Why not? This is in the age of the computer.Nobody today lives on an unmapped island or in anundiscovered cave.”

“These,” said Connal, “are not computerprintouts. They’re well-researched, detailed, in-depthdossiers that take in the importance of politicalnuances and personal idiosyncrasies.”

“You have a way with words, sailor. Yes, theyare. A man who can forward half a million dollarsto the right bank on an Aegean island can hire justabout anyone he likes.”

“He can’t hire these.”

“What does that mean?”

“Let me take a real step back,” said the Navy lawyer,get

tiny to his feet and reaching down for the single pagehe had been reading. “I won’t reiterate the details ofmy relationship with Press because right now it hurtsa little to think about it.” Fitzpatrick paused, seeingthe look in Converse’s eyes that rejected this kind ofsentimentality in their discussion. “Don’t mistakeme,” he continued. “It’s not his death, not the funer-al; it s the other way around. It’s not the PressHalliday I knew. You see, I don’t think he told usthe truth, either you or me.”

“Then you know something I don’t know,” saidConverse quietly.

“I know there’s no man in San Francisco thateven vaguely fits the description of the image hegave you. I’ve lived there all my life, includingBerkeley and Stanford, just like Press. I kneweveryone he knew, especially the wealthiest and themore exotic ones; we never held back on those witheach other. I was legal worlds away, and he alwaysfilled me in if new ones came along. It was part ofthe fun for him.”

“”That’s tenuous, counselor. I’m sure he keptcertain associations to himself.”

" Not those kinds,” said Connal. “It wouldn’t belike him. Not with me.”

“Well, I “

" Now let me step forward,” interruptedFitzpatrick. “These dossiers I haven’t seen thembefore, but I’ve seen hundreds like them, maybe acouple of thousand on their way to becomingfull-fledged versions of them.”

Joel sat up. “Please explain that, Commander.”

“You just hit it, Lieutenant. The rank says it.”

“Says what?”

“Those dossiers are the reworked, finishedproducts of intelligence probes utilizing heavy shotsof military data. They’ve been bounced around thecommunity, each branch contributing its input fromstraight biographical data to past surveillances topsychiatric evaluation and put together by teams ofspecialists. Those were taken from way down in thegovernment vaults and rewritten with currentadditions and conclusions, then shaped to appear asthe work of an outside nongovernment authority. Butthey’re not. They’ve got Classified, Top Secret, andEyes Only written all over them.”

Converse leaned forward. “That could be asubjective judgment based on limited familiarity. I’veseen some very detailed, very in-depth reports puttogether by high-priced firms specialising in that sortof thing.”

“Describing precise military incidents during thetime of war? Pinpointing bombing raids andspecifying regiments and battalions and the currentstrategies employed? Detailing through interviewsthe internal conflicts of ranking enemy officers andthe tactical reasons for shifting military personnelinto civilian positions after the cessation ofhostilities? No firm would have access to thosematerials.”

“They could be researched,” said Joel, suddenlynot convinced himself.

“Well, these couldn’t,” Connal broke in, holdingup the page of typewritten names, his thumb on thelower two columns listing the “decision makers’ fromthe Pentagon and the State Department. “Maybefive or six three from each side at maximum butnot the rest. These are people above the ones I’vedealt with, men who do their jobs under a variety oftitles so they can’t be reached bribed, blackmailedor threatened. When you said you had names, Iassumed I’d recognize most of them, or at least halfof them. I don’t. I only know the departmentalexecs, upper-echelon personnel who have to go evenhigher, who obviously report to these people. Presscouldn’t have gotten these names himself or throughothers on the outside. He wouldn’t know where tolook and they wouldn’t know where to look Iwouldn’t know.’

Converse rose. “Are you sure you know whatyou’re talking about?”

“Yes. Someone probably more than one- deepin the Washington cellars provided these names justas he or they provided the material for thosedossiers.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

Connal stood still and nodded. “It’s not easy forme to say,” he began grimly. “Press lied to us. Helied to you by what he said, and to me by what hedidn’t say. You’re tied to a string and it goes rightback to Washington. And I wasn’t to know anythingabout it.’

“The puppet’s in place…. ” Joel spoke so softlyhe could barely be heard as he walked aimlesslyacross the room toward the bright sunlightstreaming through the balcony doors.

“What?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

“Nothing, just a phrase that kept runningthrough my head when I heard about Anstett.”Converse turned. “But if there’s a string, why havethey hidden it? Why did Avery hide it? For whatpurpose?”

The Navy lawyer remained motionless, his facewithout expression. “ I don’t think I have to answerthat. You answered it yourself yesterday afternoonwhen we were talking about me and don’t kidyourself, Lieutenant, I knew exactly what you weresaying. ”I’ll give you a name now and then that mayopen a door . . . but that’s all. Those were yourwords. Freely translated, you were telling yourselfthat the sailor you took on board might stumble onto something, but in case he was taken by the wrongpeople, they couldn’t beat out of him what he didn’tknow.”

Joel accepted the rebuke, not merely because itwas justified, but because it made clear a largertruth, one he had not understood on Mykonos. Bealehad told him that among those raising questions inWashington were military men who for one reasonor another had not pursued their inquiries; they hadkept silent. They had kept silent where they might beoverheard, perhaps, but they had not totally kepttheir silence. They had talked in quiet voices untilanother quiet voice from San Francisco a man whoknew whom to reach courtesy of a brother-in-law inSan Diego made contact. They had talked together,and out of their secret conversations had come aplan. They needed an infiltrator, a man with theexpertise who had a loathing they could fuel and,once fired, send out into the labyrinth.

The realisation was a shock, but oddly enough,Joel could not fault the strategy. He did not evenfault the silence that remained after PrestonHalliday’s murder; loud accusing voices would haverendered that death meaningless. Instead, they hadstayed quiet, knowing that their puppet had the toolsto make his way through the maze of illegalities anddo the job they could not do themselves. Heunderstood that, too. But there was one thingConverse could not accept, and that was his ownexpendability as the puppet. He had tolerated beingleft unprotected under the conditions outlined byAvery Fowler-Preston Halliday, not under these. Ifhe was on a string, he wanted the puppeteers toknow he knew it. He also wanted the name ofsomeone in Bonn he could call, someone who was apart of them. The old rules did not apply any longer,a new dimension had been added.

In four hours he would be driven through theiron gates of Erich Leifhelm’s estate; he wantedsomeone on the outside, a man Fitzpatrick couldreach if he did not come out by midnight. Thedemons were pressing hard, thought Joel. Still, he

could not turn back. He was so close to trapping thewarlord of Saigon, so close to making up for somuch that had warped his life in ways no one wouldever understand…. No, not no one,’ he reflected.One person did, and she had said she could nothelp him any longer. Nor had it been fair anylonger to seek her help.

“What’s your decision?” said Connal.

“Decision?” asked Joel, startled.

“You don’t have to go this afternoon. Throw itall back! This belongs Stateside with the FBI inconjunction with the Central Intelligence Agencyoverseas. I’m appalled they didn’t take that route.”

Converse breathed the start of a reply, thenstopped. It had to be clear, not only to Fitzpatrickbut to himself. He thought he understood. He hadseen the look of profound panic in Avery Fowler’seyes Preston Halliday’s eyes and he had heard thecry in his voice. The lies were his strategy, but thelook and the cry were his innermost feelings.

“Has it occurred to you, Commander, that theycan’t take that route? That, perhaps, we’re nottalking about men who can pick up a phone asyou said before and put those wheels in motion?Or if they tried, they’d have their heads cut off,perhaps literally, with an official and a bullet in theback of their skulls? Let me add that I don’t thinkthey’re afraid for themselves any more than Ibelieve they chose the best man for the job, but I dothink they came to a persuasive conclusion. Theycouldn’t work from the inside because they didn’tknow whom they could trust.”

“Christ, you’re a cold son of a bitch.”

“Ice, Commander. We’re dealing with a paranoidfantasy called Aquitaine, and it’s controlled byproven, committed, highly intelligent andresourceful men, who if they achieve what they’veset out to do will appear as the voices of strengthand reason in a world gone mad. They’ll controlthat world our world because all other optionswill pale beside their stability. Stability, counselor, asopposed to chaos. What would you choose if youwere an everyday nine-to-fiver with a wife and kids,and you could never be sure when you went homeat night whether or not your house had been brokeninto, your wife raped, your kids strangled? You’dopt for tanks in the street.”

“With justification,” said the Navy lawyer, thetwo words spiraling quietly off into the air of thesunlit room.

“Believe that, sailor. They’re banking on it, andthat’s just what they’re planning to do on aninternational scale. It’s only a few days or a fewweeks away whatever it is, wherever it is. If I canjust get an inkling . . .” Converse turned and startedfor the door of his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” asked Connal.

"Beale’s telephone number on Mykonos; it’s inmy briefcase. He’s my only contact and I want to talkto him. I want him to know the puppet has just beengranted some unexpected free will.”

Three minutes later Joel stood at the table, thephone to his ear as the Greek operator in Athensrouted his call to the island of Mykonos. Fitzpatricksat on the couch, Chaim Abrahms’ dossier in front ofhim on the coffee table, his eyes on Converse.

“Are you getting through all right?” asked theNavy lawyer.

“It’s ringing now.” The erratic, stabbing signalskept repeating four, five, six times. On the sevenththe telephone in the Aegean was picked up.

“Herete?”

“Dr. Beale, please. Dr. Edward Beale.”

“Tee tha thelete?”

“Beale. The owner of the house. Get him for meplease!” Joel turned to Fitzpatrick. “Do you speakGreekP”

“No, but I’ve been thinking about taking it up.”

“You do that.” Converse listened again to themale voice in Mykonos. Greek phrases were spokenrapidly, none comprehensible. “Thank youtGood-bye.” Joel tapped the telephone bar severaltimes, hoping the overseas line was still open and theEnglish-speaking Greek operator was still there.“Operator? Is this the operator in Athens? . . .Good! I want to call another number on Mykonos,the same billing in Bonn.” Converse reached downon the table for the instructions Preston Halliday hadgiven him in Geneva. “It’s the Bank of Rhodes. Thenumber is . . .”

Moments later the waterfront banker, KostasLaskaris, was on the line. “Herete.”

“Mr. Laskaris, this is Joel Converse. Do youremember me?”

“Of course…. Mr. Converse?” The bankersounded distant, somehow strange, as if wary orbewildered.

“I’ve been trying to call Dr. Beale at the number you

gave me, but all I get is a man who can’t speakEnglish. I wondered if you could tell me whereBeale is.”

A quiet expulsion of breath could be heard overthe phone. “I wondered,” said Laskaris quietly. “Theman you reached was a police officer, Mr. Converse.I had him placed there myself. A scholar has manyvaluable things.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Shortly after sunrise this morning Dr. Bealetook his boat out of the harbor, accompanied byanother man. Several fishermen saw them. Twohours ago Dr. Beale’s boat was found crashed onthe rocks beyond the Stephanos. There was no oneon board.”

I killed him. With a scaling knife dropping hisbody over a cluster of sharks beyond the shoals of theStephanos.

Joel hung up the phone. Halliday, Anstett,Beale, all of them gone all his contacts dead. Hewas a puppet on the loose, his strings gone haywire,leading only to shadows.

Erich Leifhelm’s warlike skin paled further ashis eyes narrowed and his starched white lipsparted. Then blood rushed to his head as he satforward at the desk in his library and spoke into thetelephone. “What was that name again, London?”

“Admiral Hickman. He’s the “

“No,” interrupted the German sharply. “Theother one! The officer who has refused to releasethe information.”

“Fitzpatrick, an Irish name. He’s the rankinglegal officer at the naval base in San Diego.”

“A Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Unglaublich! Diese Stum per!”

“Warum?” asked the Englishman. “In what sense?”

“He may be what you say he is in San Diego,Englander, but he is not in San Diego! He’s here inBonn!”

“Are you mad? No, of course, you’re not. Areyou certain ?”

“He’s with Converse! I spoke to him myself. Thetwo are registered in his name at Das Rektorat! Heis how we found Converse!”

"There was no attempt to conceal the name?”

“On the contrary, he used his papers to gainentrance!”

“How bloody third-rate,” said London,bewildered. “Or how downright sure of himself,”added the Britisher, his tone changing. “A signal? Noone dares touch him?”

“Unsinn!It’s not so.”

“Why not?”

“He spoke to Peregrine, the ambassador. Ourman was there. Peregrine wanted to take him,wanted him brought forcibly to the embassy. Therewere complications; he got away.”

“Our man wasn’t very good, then.”

“An obstruction. Some Schauspieler an actor.Peregrine will not discuss the incident. He saysnothing.”

“Which means no one will touch his naval officerfrom California,” concluded London. “There’s a verygood reason.

“What is it?”

“He’s the brother-in-law of Preston Halliday.”

“Geneva! Mein Gott, they are into us!”

“Someone is, but not anyone with a great deal ofinformation. I agreed with Palo Alto, who alsoagrees with our specialist in the Mossad withAbrahms, as well.”

“The Jew? What does the Jew say? What does hesay?”

“He claims this Converse is an agent flying blindout of Washington.”

“What more do you need ?”

“He is not to leave your house. Instructions willfollow.”

Stunned, Undersecretary of State BrewsterTolland hung up the phone, sank back in his chair,then shot forward and pressed the appropriatebuttons on his console.

“Chesapeake,” said the female voice. “Code, please?”

“Six thousand,” said Tolland. “May I speak withConsular Operations, Station Eight, please?”

“Station Eight requires “

“Plantagenet,” interrupted the Undersecretary.

“Right away, sir.”

“What is it, Six thousand?”

"Cut the horseshit, Harry, this is Brew. Whathave you got running in Bonn we don’t knowabout?”

“Off the top of my head, nothing.”

“How far off the top is that?”

“No, it’s straight. You’re current on everythingwe’re doing. There was an FRG review yesterdaymorning, and I’d remember if there was anythingthat excluded you.”

“You might remember, but if I’m excluded I’m out.”

“That’s right, and I’d tell you as much if only tokeep you out, you know that. What’s yourproblem?”

“I just got off the scrambler with a very angryambassador, who may just call a very old friend atSixteen Hundred.”

“Peregrine? What’s his problem?”

“If it’s not you, then someone’s playing Cons Op.It’s supposedly a covert investigation of theembassy his embassy somehow connected withthe Navy Department.”

“The Navy? That’s crazy I mean dumb crazylBonn’s a port?”

“Actually, I suppose it is.”

“I never heard of the Bismarek or the Graf Speesteaming around the Rhine. No way, Brew. Wedon’t have anything like that and we wouldn’t have.Do you have any names?”

“Yes, one,” replied Tolland, looking down at apad with hastily scribbled notes on it. “An attorneynamed Joel Converse. Who is he, Harry?”

“For Christ’s sake, I never heard of him. What’sthe naval angle?”

“Someone who claims to be the chief legalofficer of a major Navy base with the rank oflieutenant commander.”

“Claims to be?”

“Well, before that he passed himself off as amilitary attache working at the embassy.”

“Somewhere the inmates broke out of a home.”

“This isn’t funny, Harry. Peregrine s no fool. Hemay be a vanity appointment, but he’s damned goodand he’s damned smart. He says these people aren’tonly real but may know something he doesn’t.”

“What does he base that on?”

“First, the opinion of a man who’s met thisConverse “

“Who?” interrupted Harry of Station Eight

“He won’t say, just that he trusts him, trusts hisjudgment. This person with no name says Converseis a highly qualified, very troubled man, not a blackhat.”

“A what?”

“That was the term Peregrine used. Obviouslysomeone who’s okay. "

“What else?”

“What Peregrine calls isolated odd behavior inhis personnel ranks. He wouldn’t elaborate; he sayshe’ll discuss it with the Secretary or Sixteen Hundredif I can’t satisfy him. He wants answers fast, and wedon’t want to rock the boat over there.”

“I’ll try to help,” said Harry. “Maybe it’ssomething from Langley or Arlington the bastards!I can run a check on the Navy’s chief legals in anhour, and I’m sure the ABA can tell us whoConverse is if he is. At least narrow him down ifthere’s more than one.”

“Get back to me. I haven’t got much time and wedon’t want the White House raising its voice.”

“The last thing ever,” agreed the director ofConsular Operations, the State Department’s branchof foreign clandestine activities.

“Try that on for legal size!” shouted RearAdmiral Hickman, standing by the window, angrilyaddressing a rigid pale-faced David Remington. ”Andtell me with as few goddamned details as possiblehow it fits!”

“I find it impossible to believe, sir. I spoke withhim yesterday at noon and then again lastevening. He was in Sonoma!”

“So did I, Lieutenant. And whenever there wasa scratching or an echo, what were the words? Allthat rain in the hills screwed up the telephone lines!”

“Those were the words, sir.”

“He passed through Dusseldorf immigration twodays ago! He’s now in Bonn, Germany, with a manhe swore to me had something to do with hisbrother-in-law’s death. The same man he’s protectingby putting a clamp on that flag. This Converse!”

“I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Well, the State Department does and so do I.They’re pushing through that vet-delay or whateverthe hell you called it in your legalese.”

“It’s vetted material, sir. It simply means “

“I don’t want to hear, Lieutenant,” said Hickman,head

ingback to his desk, adding under his breath. “Doyou know how much you bastards cost me for thetwo divorces?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Never mind. I want that flag released. I broughtFitz on board here. I gave him his striper and theson of a bitch lied to me. He not only lied, he did itten thousand miles away lying about where he waswhen he knew he shouldn’t be there without myauthorizationt He knew itl . . . Do you have anyobjections, Lieutenant? Something you can put intoa sentence or two that won’t require my bringing inthree other legals to translate?”

Lieutenant Remington, one of the finest lawyersin the United States Navy, knew when to put theengines in reverse. Legal ethics had been violatedby misinformation, the course was clear. Aggressiveretreat with full boilers or nuclear power, hesupposed, although he did not really know. “I’llpersonally accelerate the vet-delay, Admiral. As theofficer responsible for the secondary CLO statute,I’ll make it clear that the direct order is now subjectto immediate cancellation. No such order can orshould originate under questionable circumstances.Legally “

“That will be all, Lieutenant,” said the Admiral,cutting off his subordinate and sitting down.

“Yes, sir.”

“No, that isn’t allI” continued Hickman, abruptlyleaning forward. “How’s that transcript released,and how soon can you expect it?”

“With State’s input it’ll only be a matter ofhours, sir, noon or shortly afterwards, I’d guess. Aclassified teletype will be sent to those requestingthe Hag. However, since SAND PAC has onlyplaced a restriction and not a request “

“Request it, Lieutenant. Bring it up to me theminute it gets here and don’t leave the base until itdoes.”

“Aye, aye, sirI”

The deep-red Mercedes limousine weaved downthe curving road inside the massive gates of ErichLeifhelm’s estate. The late-afternoon orange sunfiltered diagonally through the tall trees, which notonly bordered the road but were everywhere beyondon both sides. The drive might have been restfulhad it not been for a sight that made the wholescene grotesque: racing alongside the car were atleast a half-dozen giant Dobermans, not one ofthem making a

sound. There was something unearthly about theirrunning furiously in silence, black eyes flashing up atthe windows, their jaws wide with rapid, erratic teethbared, but no sound emerging from their throats.Somehow Converse knew that if he stepped out ofthe car without the proper commands being issued,the powerful dogs would tear him to pieces.

The limousine pulled into a long circular drivethat fronted wide brown marble steps leading to anarched doorway, the heavy panels covered with darkbas-relief a remnant of some ancient pillagedcathedral. Standing on the lower step was a man witha silver whistle raised to his lips. Again there was nosound a human could hear, but suddenly the animalsabandoned the car and ran to him, flanking him,facing forward on their haunches, jaws slack, bodiespulsating.

“Please wait, sir,” said the chauffeur as heclimbed out and ran around to Joel’s door. “If youwill step out, please, and take two paces away fromthe car. Only two paces, sir.” The chauffeur now heldin his hand a black object with a rounded metal tubeextending from the front of the instrument, notunlike a miniaturised electric charcoal starter.

“What’s that?” asked Converse.

“Protection, sir. For you, sir. The dogs, sir. Theyare trained to sense heavy metal.”

Joel stood there as the German moved theelectronic detector over his clothes, including hisshoes, his inner thighs and the back of his waist. “Doyou people really think I’d come out here with agun?”

“I do not think, sir. I do as I am told.”

"How original,” mumbled Converse as hewatched the man on the marble step raise the silverwhistle again to his lips. As one, the phalanx ofDobermans suddenly leaped forward. In panic, Joelgrabbed the chauffeur, spinning the German in frontof him. There was no resistance; the man simplyturned his head and grinned as the dogs veered tothe right and raced around the circular drive into theapproach road cut out of the forest.

“Don’t apologize, mein Herr, ” said the chauffeur.“It happens often.”

“I wasn’t going to apologise,” said Converse flatlyas he released the man. “I was going to break yourneck.” The German moved away, and Joel remainedmotionless, stunned by

his own words. He had not spoken words like thatin over eighteen years.

“This way, sir.” said the man on the steps, hisaccent oddly yet distinctly British.

Inside, the great hall was lined with medievalbanners hanging down from an interior balcony.The hal] led into an immense sitting room, themotif again medieval, made comfortable by softleather chairs and couches, gaily fringed lamps andsilver services everywhere on thin polished tables.The room was also made ugly by the profusion ofprotruding animals’heads on the upper walls; largecats, elephants and boar looked down in defiantanger. It was a field marshal’s lair.

It was not, however, the furnishings thatabsorbed Converse’s attention but the sight of thefour men who stood beside four separate chairsfacing him.

He knew Bertholdier and LeifLelm; they stoodbeside each other on the right. It was the two onthe left he stared at. The medium-sized, stocky manwith the fringe of close-cropped hair on a baldinghead and wearing a rumpled safari jacket, theever-present boots below his khaki trousers, couldbe no one but Chaim Abrahms. His pouched, angryface with its slits of glaring eyes was the face of anavenger. The very tall man with the gaunt, aquilinefeatures and the straight grey hair was General Janvan Headmer, the Slayer of Soweto. Joel had readthe Van Headmer dossier quickly; fortunately it wasthe briefest, the final summary saying it all.

In essence, Van Headmer is a Cape Townaristocrat, an Afrikaner who has never reallyaccepted the British, to say nothing of the tribalblacks. His convictions are rooted in a reality thatfor him is unshakable. His forebears carved out asavage land under savage conditions and at a greatloss of life brutally taken by savages. His thinking isunalterably that of the late-nineteenth andearly-twentieth centuries. He will not accept thesociological and political in

"roads made by the more educated Bantus becausehe will never consider them anything more thanbush primitives. When he orders austeredeprivations and mass executions, he thinks he isdealing only with subhuman animals. It is thisthinking that led him to be jailed along with PrimeMinister Verwoerd and the racist Vorster duringWorld War II. He con

curred wholeheartedly with the Nazi concept of su

perior races. His close association with ChaimAbrahms is the single difference between him andthe Nazis, and not a contradiction for him. Thesabres carved a land out of a primitive Palestine;their history parallels his country’s, and both mentake pride in their strength and respectiveaccomplishments. Van Headmer, incidentally, is oneof the most charming men one could meet. On thesurface he is cultured, extremely courteous andalways willing to listen. Underneath, he is anunfeeling killer, and he is Delavane’s key figure inSouth Africa with its vast resources.

“Mein Haus ist dein Haus,” said LeifLelm, walkingtoward Joel, his hand outstretched.

Converse stepped forward to accept theGerman’s hand. Their hands clasped. “That was anodd greeting outside for such a warm sentiment,”said Joel, abruptly releasing Leifhelm’s hand andturning to Bertholdier. “Good to see you again,General. My apologies for the unfortunate incidentin Paris the other night. I don’t mean to speak lightlyof a man’s life, but in those few split seconds I didn’tthink he had much regard for mine.”

Joel’s boldness had the desired effect.Bertholdier stared at him, momentarily unsure ofwhat to say. And Converse was aware that the otherthree men were watching him intently withoutquestion struck by his audacity, in both manners andwords.

“To be sure, monsieur,” said the Frenchman,pointlessly but with composure. "As you know, theman disregarded his orders.”

“Really? I was told he misunderstood them.”

“It is the samel” The sharp, heavily accentedvoice came from behind.

Joel turned around. "Is it?” he asked coldly.

“In the field, yes,” said Chaim Abrahms. “Eitherone is an error, and errors are paid for with lives.The man paid with his.”

“May I introduce Ceneral Abrahms?” Leifhelmbroke in touching Converse’s elbow and leading himto the Israeli.

“General Abrahms, it’s a privilege,” said Joel withconvincing sincerity as they shook hands. “Likeeveryone here,

I’ve admired you tremendously, although perhapsyour rhetoric has been excessive at times.”

The Israeli’s face reddened as soft laughter filledthe large room. Suddenly Van Headmer steppedforward, and Converse’s eyes were drawn to thestrong face, the brows frowning, muscles taut.

“You are addressing one of my closestassociates, sir,” he said; the rebuke wasunmistakable. Then a thin smile creased his gaunt,chiseled face. “And I could not have said it bettermyself. A pleasure to know you, young man.” TheAfrikaner’s hand was stretched toward Joel, whoaccepted it amid the subdued laughter.

“I am insulted!” cried Abrahms, his thickeyebrows raised, his head bobbing in mock despair.“By talkers I’m insulted! Frankly, Mr. Converse, theyagree with you because none of them has had awoman in a quarter of a century. They may tell youotherwise others may tell you otherwise butbelieve me they hire whores to play cards with themor read stories into their old grey ears just to fooltheir friends!” The laughter grew louder, and theIsraeli, now playing to an audience, went on,leaning forward and pretending to speak sotto voceto Joel. "But you see, I hire the whores to tell methe truth while I shtup them! They tell me thesefancy talkers nod off by nine o’clock, whining forwarm milk. With the Ovaltine, if it’s possible!”

“My dear sabre,” said Leifhelm, talking throughhis laughter, “you read your own romantic fictiontoo assiduously. "

“You see what I mean, Converse?” askedAbrahms shrugging, palms extended. “You hearthat? "Assiduously. Now you know why the Germanslost the war. They forever spoke so dramatically ofthe Blitzkrieg and the AngrifJ:e, but actually theywere talking assiduously about what to do next!”

“They should have given you a commission,Chaim,” said Bertholdier, enjoying himself. “Youcould have changed your name, called Rommel andVon Runstedt Jews and taken over both fronts.”

“The High Command could have done worse,”agreed the Israeli.

“I wonder, though,” continued the Frenchman,“if you would have stopped there? Hitler was a fineorator, as you are

a fine orator. Perhaps you would have claimed thathe, too, was a Jew and moved into the chancellery.”

“Oh, I have it on good authority that he was aJew. But from a very bad family. Even we have them;of course, they’re all from Europe.”

The laughter grew again and then rapidly beganto subside. Joel took the cue. “Sometimes I speaktoo frankly, General,” he said. "I should learn better,but, believe me, no insult was intended. I havenothing but admiration for your stated positions,your policies.”

“And that’s precisely what we shall discuss,” saidErich Leifhelm, drawing everyone’s attention.“Positions, policies, overall philosophy, if you will.We will stay as far away from specifics as we can,although a few will undoubtedly intrude. However,it is our approach to the larger abstractions thatcount. Come, Mr. Converse, have a chair. Let usbegin our conference, the first of many, I trust.”

Rear Admiral Hickman slowly put down thetranscript on his desk, and looked aimlessly past hispropped-up feet out the window at the ocean undera grey sky. He crossed his. arms, lowered his headand frowned. He was as bewildered now as he hadbeen when he first read the transcript, as convincednow as he was then that Remington’s con-clusions conclusion, really was off the mark. Butthen the legal officer was too young to have any realknowledge of the events as they had actuallyhappened; no one who had not been there couldreally understand. Too many others did; it was thereason for the flag, but it made no sense to applythat reasoning to this Converse eighteen years later.It was exhuming a corpse that had died from a fever,whether the shell of a man lived on or not. It had tobe something else.

Hickman looked at his watch, unfolded his armsand removed his feet from the edge of the table. Itwas three-ten in Norfolk; he reached for thetelephone.

“Hello, Brian,” said Rear Admiral Scanlon of theFifth Naval District. “I want you to know how muchwe appreciate SAND PAC’s help in this thing.”

“SAND PAC’s?” asked Hickman, bemused thatno credit was given to the State Department.

“All right, Admiral, your help. I owe you one, oldHicky.”

“Start paying by dropping that name.”

“Hey, come on, don’t you remember the hockeygames?

You’d come racing up the ice and the whole cadetcorps would shout: "Here comes Hicky! Here comesHicky!’ “

“May I unblock my ears now?”

“I’m just trying to thank you, pal.”

“That s just it, I m not sure for what? Have youread the transcript?”

“Naturally.”

"What the hell s there?”

Well,” answered Scanlon tentatively. PI read itpretty quickly. It’s been an awful day and, frankly,I just passed it on. What do you think is there?Between you and me, I’d like to know, because Ibarely had time to skim through it.”

What do I think is there? Absolutely nothing.Oh, sure, we kept Hags on stuff like that back thenbecause the White House passed the order to put alid on officially recorded criticism and we all wentalong. Also we were pretty sick and tired of itourselves. But there’s nothing in that transcript thathasn’t been heard before, or that has any value foranyone but military historians a hundred years fromnow as a very small footnote.”

Swell,” said Scanlon, even more tentatively, " thisConverse had some pretty harsh things to say aboutCommand-Saigon.”

About Mad Marcus? Christ, I said worse duringthe Force-Tonkin conferences and my CO did meten times better. We ferried in those kids up anddown the coast when all they were ready for was aday at the beach with hot dogs and Ferris wheels….I don’t get it. You and my legal zero in on the samething, and I think it’s old hat and discredited. MadMarcus is a relic.”

Your who?”

My legal exec. I told you about him, Remington.”

Oh, yes. The stickler prick.”

.He picked up on the Saigon thing too. "That’sit,’ he said. It’s in those remarks. It’s Delavane.’ Hewasn’t around to know Delavane was fair game forevery antiwar group in the country. Hell, we gavehim the name Mad Marcus. No, it’s not Delavane,it’s something else. Perhaps it’s in those escapes,specifically Converse’s last escape. Maybe there’ssome MIA input we don’t know about.”

"Well,” repeated the admiral in Norfolk for thethird time, but now far less tentatively. You mayhave something there, but it doesn’t concern us.Look, I’ll be honest with you.

I didn’t want to say anything because I didn t wantyou to think you went to a lot of trouble for nothing,but the word I get is that the whole thing is abust-negative.”

“Oh?” said Hickman, suddenly listening verycarefully. “How so?”

"lt’s the wrong man. Apparently anoverenthusiastic JG was doing some digging in thesame time period, the same general circumstances.He saw the flag and drew six wrong conclusions. Ihope he enjoys taking five A.M. muster.”

“And that’s it?” asked SAND PAC’s admiral,controlling his astonishment.

“That’s the feedback we get here. Whatever yourCLO had in mind hasn’t anything to do with ourpeople.”

Hickman could not believe what he was hearing.Of course Scanlon had not mentioned the StateDepartment’s efforts. He knew nothing about them!He was quickly putting as much distance betweenhimself and the Converse flag as he could, Iyingbecause he had not been told. State was workingquietly probably through Cons Op and Scanlonhad no reason to think “old Hicky” knew a damnthing about Bonn or Converse or ConnalFitzpatrick’s whereabouts. Or about a man namedPreston Halliday who had been murdered in Geneva.What was happening? He would not find out fromScanlon. Nor did he care to.

“To hell with it, then. My CLO will be back inthree or four days and maybe I’ll learn something.”

“Whatever it is, it’s back in your sandbox,Aclmiral. My people had the wrong man.”

“Your people couldn’t navigate a row boat in theD.C. Reflecting Pool.”

“Can’t blame you for that, Hicky.”

Hickman hung up the phone and resumed hisstandard position when in thought, gazing beyond hispropped-up shoes at the ocean. The sun was trying tobreak through the overcast without much success.

He had never liked Scanlon for reasons too pettyto examine. Except one; he knew Scanlon was a liar.What he had not known was that he was such astupid liar.

Lieutenant David Remington was flattered by thecall. The well-known four-striper had invited him tolunch not only invited him but had apologized forthe lateness of the invitation and told him that it wasperfectly understandable

if it was inconvenient. Further, the captain wantedhim to know that the call was of a personal nature,having nothing to do with naval business. Thehigh-ranking officer, a resident of La Jolla, was inport for only a few days and needed legal advice.He had been told that Lieutenant Remington wasjust about the best lawyer in the United StatesNavy. Would the lieutenant accept?

Of course Remington had made it perfectlyclear that whatever advice he might offer would beoffered on the basis of amicus-amicae; noremuneration could possibly be considered, as thatwould be a violation of Statute . . .

"May I buy you lunch, Lieutenant, or do we haveto split the check?” the four-striper hadasked somewhat impatiently, thought Remington.

The restaurant was high in the hills above LaJolla, an out-of-the-way roadside inn that apparentlycatered to diners of the area and those from SanDiego and University City who did not care to beseen together in the usual places. Remington hadnot been too pleased; he would have preferredbeing seen at the Coronado with the captain thantraveling ten miles north so as no! to be seen in thehills of La Jolla. Nevertheless, the four-striper hadbeen politely adamant) it was where he wanted tomeet. David had checked him out. The muchdecorated captain not only was in line forpromotion but was considered a potential candidatefor the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Remington would haveridden a bicycle on the exposed Alaskan pipeline tokeep the appointment.

Which was exactly what he thought he wasdoing, as he spun the steering wheel right, then left,then right and right again as he made his way upthe steep narrow roads. It was important to keep inmind, he thought, as he whipped the car to the left,that personal advice was nevertheless professionaladvice, and without payment of any sort whatsoever,it constituted a debt that would one day beacknowledged. And if a man was elevated to theJoint Chiefs . . . Remington could not help it: in aglow of self-importance he had let drop to a fellowlegal officer the one who had coined the name“stickler prick” that he was lunching with a highlyregarded four-striper in La Jolla and might be latereturning to the office. Then to drive his pointhome, he had asked his associate for directions.

Oh, my Godl What was it? Oh, my God "

At the apex of the hairpin curve was an enormousblack

rig, thirty feet in length, and out of control. Itweaved right and left on the narrow incline, its speedgathering with every foot, measured in racing yards,a black behemoth swerving, crashing down oneverything in front of it, a wild beast gone mad!

Remington whipped his head to his right as hespun the wheel to avoid impact. There were only thintrunks of young trees and saplings in late-summerbloom; below was a floral abyss. These were the lastimages he saw as the car careened on its side andbegan the plunge.

Far above on another hill a man kneeled,binoculars raised to his face as the explosion belowconfirmed the kill. His expression was one of neitherjoy nor sadness, merely acceptance. A mission hadbeen accomplished. After all, it was war.

And Lieutenant David Remington, whose life wasso ordered and orderly, who knew exactly where hewas going and how in this world, who knew above allthat he would never be trapped by the forces thathad killed his father in the name of corporate policy,was put to death by the policy of a company he hadnever heard of. An enterprise called Aquitaine. Hehad seen the name Delavane.

Their view is that it’s the pro per evolution ofcurrent history, all other ideologies having failed…. Thewords spoken by Preston Halliday in Geneva keptrepeating themselves in Converse’s inner ear as helistened to the four voices of Aquitaine. Thefrightening thing was that they believed what theysaid without equivocation, morally and intellectually,their convictions rooted in observations going backdecades, their arguments persuasive as theyilluminated past global mistakes of judgment thatresulted in horrible suffering and unnecessary loss oflife.

The simple objective of their comingtogether allies and former enemies alike was tobring benevolent order to a world in chaos, to permitthe industrial states to flourish for the good of allpeople, spreading the strengths and benefits ofmultinational trade to the impoverished,uncommitted Third World and, by so doing, secureits commitment. Only in this way, in this comingtogether, could Communism be stopped stoppedand reversed until it collapsed under the sheer forceof superior armed might and financial resources.

To bring all this about required a shift in values andprior

ities.Industrial decisions everywhere must becoordinated to bring about the total strength of thefree states. Government treasuries, multinationalcorporations and giant conglomerates must look toa stratum of interlocking committees, agree to bedirected by these committees, to accept their deci-sions which would in effect be their respectivegovernments’ decisions each keeping the othersapprised of its current agenda. What was thisultimate stratum of negotiators? Who would be themembers of these committees that would in effectspeak for the free nations and set their policiesP

Throughout history only one class of peopleremained constant in its excellence, who whencalled upon in Ames of crisis performed far beyondhuman expectations even in defeat. The reasons forthis segment’s unique contributions in war andeven in peace, though to a lesser degree were his-torically clear: these men were selfless.. Theybelonged to a class trained to serve without thoughtof reward except for the recognition of excellence.Wealth was irrelevant because their needs werefurnished and perquisites granted only through theoutstanding performance of duty.

In the new order this class of people would notbe subject to the corruptions of the marketplace. Inreality it was unusually well equipped to deal withsuch corruptions, for it could not be touched bythem. The mere presence of any illegally gainedwealth within its ranks would instantly be recognisedand condemned, resulting in courts-martial. Thisclass of society, this novel branch of the humanrace, was not only incorrupUble at the highestlevels, it would be the ultimate savior of mankind aswe know it today.

It was the military. The world over, evenencompassing one’s enemies. Together even asenemies they best understood the catastrophicresults of weakness.

To be sure, certain minor liberties wouldperforce have to be withheld from the body politic,but these were small sacrifices for survival. Whocould argue?

None of the four spokesmen for Aquitaineraised his voice. They were the quiet prophets ofreason, each with his own history, his own identityallies and enemies together in a world gone mad.

Converse responded in the affirmative toeverything that was said this was not difficult todo and asked abstract quesbons of philosophy, ashe was expected to do. Even the court

jester, Chaim Abrahms, became deeply serious andanswered Converses questions quietly

At one point Abrahms said, “You think we Jewsare the only ones in the Diaspora, my friend? Youare wrong. The whole human race is dispersedeverywhere, all of us locking rams’ horns and notknowing where to go. Certain rabbis claim we Jewsshall not see salvation until the Messianic era, thetime of divine redemption when a god will appear toshow us the way to our own promised land. He wasfar too late arriving we could not wait for Him anylonger. We created Israel. Do you see the lesson?We we here are now the divine intervention onearth. And I even I, a man of accomplishment andego will give up my life in silence so we maysucceed. “

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier: “You mustunderstand, Mr. Converse, that Voltaire said it bestin his Discours sur l’homme. Essentially he wrote thatman attained his highest freedom only when heunderstood the parameters of his behavior. We willestablish those parameters. Is anything more logical?

Erich Leilhelm: “Goethe said it perhaps betterwhen he insisted that the romance of politics wasbest used to numb and quell the fears of theuninformed. In his definitive Aus meinem Leben hestates clearly that all governing classes must beimbued above all with discipline. Where is it moreprevalent?”

Jan van Headmer: “My own country, sir, is theliving embodiment of the lesson. We took the beastout of the savage and formed a vast, productivenation. The beast returns and my nation is inturmoil.”

And so it went for several hours. Quietdissertations delivered thoughtfully, reflectively,passions apparent only in the deep sincerity of theirconvictions. Twice Joel was pressed to reveal thename of his client and twice he demurred, stating thelegal position of confidentiality which could changein a matter of days, perhaps less.

“I’d have to offer my client something concrete.An approach, a strategy that would warrant hisimmediate involvement, his commitment, if you will.”

“Why is that necessary at this juncture?” askedBertholdier. “You’ve heard our reasoning. Certainlyan approach can be discerned.”

“All right, scratch approach. A strategy, then. Notthe why but the how.”

“You ask for a plan?” said Abrahms. “On what

basis?”

“Because you’ll be asking for an investmentsurpassing anything in your experience.”

“That’s an extraordinary statement,” interjectedVan Headmer.

“He has extraordinary resources,” replied Converse.

“Very well,” said LeifLelm, glancing at each ofhis associates before he continued. Joel understood;permission was being sought based on priordiscussions. It was granted “What would you say tothe compromising of certain powerful individuals inspecific governments?”

“Blackmail?” asked Joel. “Extortion? It wouldn’twork There are too many checks and balances. Aman’s threatened the threat’s discovered and he’sout anyway. Then the purification rites set in, andwhere there was once weakness, suddenly there’s agreat deal of strength.”

“That’s an extremely narrow interpretation,” saidBertholdier.

“You do not take into consideration the timeelement!)’ cried Abrahms defiantly, for the firsttime raising his voice. “Accumulation, Converse!Rapid acceleration!”

Suddenly Joel was aware that the three othermen were looking at the Israeli, but not simplywatching him. In each pair of eyes was a warning.Abrahms shrugged. “It’s merely

“Well taken,” said Converse, without emphasis.

“I’m not even sure it applies,” added the Israeli,compounding his error.

“Well, I’m sure it’s time for dinner,” saidLeilhelm, removing his hand from the side of hischair. “I’ve boasted so much about my table to ourguest that I admit to a shortness ofbreath concern, of course. I trust the chef hasupheld my honor.” As if answering a signal whichJoel knew was the case the British manservantappeared beneath an archway at the far end of theroom. “I am clairvoyant!” Leifhelm rose. “Come,come, my friends. Saddle of lamb a citron, a dishcreated by the gods for themselves and stolen by theirrepressible thief who rules my kitchen.”

The dinner was indeed superb, each dish theresult of an isolated effort to achieve perfection inboth taste and presentation. Converse was nogourmet, his culinary education having been forcedon him in expensive restaurants where his mind wasonly mildly distracted by the food, but he instinc

tively knew when a dish was the best in its class.There was nothing second-rate about Leifhelm’stable, including the table itself, an enormous solidmass of mahogany supported by two huge butdelicately carved tripods resting on the intricateparquet floor. The deep-red velour walls in thehigh-ceilinged room were hung with oils of huntingscenes. The low candelabra in front of thesilver-mirrored place mats did not obstruct a guest sview of the person opposite, a feat Joel wished couldbe mastered by most of the hostesses in New York,London and Ceneva.

The talk veered away from the serious topicsexplored in the sitting room. It was as if a recess hadbeen called, a diversion to ease the burdens ofstatesmanship. If that was the aim, it was eminentlysuccessful, and it was the Afrikaner, Van Headmer,who led the way. In his soft-spoken, charming way(the dossier had been accurate the “unfeeling killer”was charming) he described a safari he had takenChaim Abrahms on in the veldt

“Do you realize, gentlemen that I bought thispoor Hebrew his first jacket at Safarics’ inJohannesburg and there’s never been a day when Ihaven’t regretted it. It’s become our great general’strademark! Of course, you know why he wears it. Itabsorbs perspiration and requires very little washingsimply large applications of bay rum. This is adifferent jacket, isn’t it, great general?”

“Bleach, bleach, I tell my wife!” replied the sabre,grimacing. “It takes out the smell of the godless slavetraders!”

“Talking of slaves, let me tell you,” said theAfrikaner warming to his story with a glass of wine,changed with each new course.

The story of Chaim Abrahms’ first and only safariwas worthy of good vaudeville. Apparently the Israelihad been stalking a male lion for hours with his gunbearer, a Bantu he constantly abused, not realizingthe black understood and spoke English as well ashe. Abrahms had zeroed in each of his four riflesprior to the hunt, but whenever he had the lion inhis sights, he missed. This supposedly superbmarksman, this celebrated general with the rifle-eyeof a hawk, could not hit eight feet of flesh a hundredyards away. At the end of the day an exhaustedChaim Abrahms, using broken English and amultiplicity of hand gestures, bribed the gun bearernot to tell the rest of the safari of his misses. Thehunter and the Bantu returned to camp, the hunterlamenting the nonexis

fence of cats and the stupidity of gun bearers. Thenative went to Van Headmer’s tent, and as theAfrikaner told it in perfectly-mimicked AnglicizedBantu, said the following: "I liked the lion morethan the Jew, sir. I altered his sights, sir, but appar-ently I will be forgiven my indiscretion, sir. Amongother enticements, he has offered to have mebar-mitzvahed.”

The diners collapsed in laughter Abrahms, tohis credit, loudest of all. Obviously, he had heardthe story before and relished the telling. It occurredto Joel that only the most secure could listen tosuch telling tales about themselves and respond withgenuine laughter. The Israeli was a rock in thefirmament of his convictions and could easilytolerate a laugh on himself. That, too, wasfrightening.

The British servant intruded, walking silently onthe hard wood floor and spoke into ErichLeifhelm’s ear.

“Forgive me, please,” said the German, rising totake the call. “A nervous broker in Munich whoconsistently picks up rumors from Riyadh. A sheikgoes to the toilet and he hears thunder from theeast.”

The ebullient conversation went on without abreak in the flow, the three men of Aquitainebehaving like old comrades sincerely trying to makea stranger feel welcome. This, too, was frightening.Where were the fanatics who wanted to destroygovernments, ruthlessly grabbir g control and shack-ling whole societies, channeling the body politic intotheir vision of the military state? These were men ofintellect. They spoke of Voltaire and Goethe, andhad compassion for suffering and pain andunnecessary loss of life. They had humor and couldeven laugh at themselves while speaking calmly ofsacrificing their own lives for the betterment of aworld gone mad. ButJoel understood their truenature. These were interlopers assuming the mantelsof statesmen. What had Leifhelm said, quotingGoethe? “The romance of politics was best used tonumb and quell the fears of the uninformed.”

Frightening.

LeifLelm returned, followed by the Britishservant carrying two open bottles of wine. If the callfrom Munich had brought unfavorable news, theGerman gave no indication of it. His spirits were asbefore, his waxen smile at the ready and hisenthusiasm for the next course unbridled. “Andnow, my friends, the lamb d citron medallions ofambrosia and, hyperbole aside, actually rather good.Also, in honor of our guest we have a bonus thisevening. My astute English friend and

companion was in Siegburg the other day and ranacross several bottles of Beerenauslese, "What could be a more fitting tribute?”

The men of Aquitaine glanced at one another,then Bertholdier spoke. "Certainly a find, Erich. It’sone of the more acceptable German varieties.”

“ The ”82 Klausberg Riesling in Johannesburgpromises to be among the finest in years, " said VanHeadmer.

“I doubt it will rival the Richon-le-Zion Carmel,” added the Israeli.

“You are all impossible!”

A behatted chef rolled in a silver service cart,uncovered the saddle of lamb and, underappreciative looks, proceeded to carve and serve.The Englishman presented the various side dishes toeach diner, then poured the wine.

Erich Leifhelm raised his glass, the flickeringlight of the candles reflecting off the carved crystaland the edges of the silver-mirrored place mats. Toour guest and his unknown client, both of whom wetrust will soon be in our fold.”

Converse nodded his head and drank.

He took the glass from his lips, and was suddenlyaware that the four men of Aquitaine were staring athim, their own glasses still on the table. None haddrunk the wine.

LeifLelm spoke again, his voice nasal, cold, afury held in check by an intellect in control. "4General Delavane was the enemy, our enemy! Menlike that can’t be allowed anymore, can’t youunderstand!’ Those were the words, were they not,Mr. Converse?”

WhatP”Joel heard his voice but was not sure itwas his. The flames of the candles suddenly erupted,fire filled his eyes and the burning in his throatbecame an unbearable pain. He grabbed his neck ashe struggled out of the chair, hurling it back, heheard the crash, but only as a succession of echoes.He was falling. The pain surged into his stomach; itwas intolerable; he clutched his groin, franticallytrying to suppress the pain. Then he felt the chill ofa hard surface and somehow knew he was writhingwildly on the floor while being held in check bypowerful arms.

"The gun. Step back. Hold him.” The voice, too,was a series of echoes, though sharply enunciated ina searing British accent. “Now. Fire!”

The telephone rang, jolting Connal Fitzpatrickout of a deep sleep. He had fallen back on thecouch, the Van Headmer dossier in his hand, bothfeet still planted on the floor. Shaking his head andrapidly blinking and widening his eyes, he tried toorient himself. Where was he? What time it? Thephone rang again, now a prolonged, shatteringsound. He lurched off the couch, his breathingerratic, his exhaustion too complete to shake offina few seconds. He had not really slept sinceCalifornia; his body and mind could barely function.He grabbed the phone, nearly dropping it as hemomentarily lost his balance.

“Yes… hello!”

“Commander Fitzpatrick, if you please,” said amale voice in a clipped British accent.

“This Is he.”

“Philip Dunstone here, Commander. I’m callingfor Mr Converse. He wanted me to tell you that theconference is goings - well, far better than hethought possible.”

“Dunstone. Major Philip Dunstone. I’m senioraide to General Berkeley-Greene.”

“Berkeley-Greene?”

“Yes, Commander. Mr. Converse said to tell youthat along with the others he’s decided to acceptGeneral Leifhelm’s hospitality for the night. He’llbe in touch with you first thing in the morning.”

"Let me talk to him. Now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’ve all goneout on the motor launch for a spin downriver.Frankly, they’re a secretive lot, aren’t they?Actually, I’m not permitted to attend theirdiscussions any more than you are.”

“I’m not settling for this, Major!”

“Really, Commander, I’m simply relaying amessage.

. . . Oh yes, Mr. Converse did mention that if youwere concerned I should also tell you that if theadmiral called, you were to thank him and give himhis regards.”

Fitzpatrick stared at the wall. Converse wouldnot bring up the Hickman business unless he wassending a message. The request made no sense toanyone but the two of them. Everything was all right.Also there could be several reasons why Joel did notcare to talk directly on the phone. Among them,thought Connal resentfully, was probably the factthat he didn’t trust his “aide” to say the proper wordsin the event their conversation was being overheard.

"AII right, Major . . . what was the name again?Dunstone?”

"That’s right, Philip Dunstone. Senior aide toGeneral Berkeley-Greene. “

“Leave word for Mr. Converse that I’ll expect tohear from him by eight o’clock.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh, old boy? It’s nearly twoA.M. now. The breakfast buffet usually starts aboutnine-thirty out here.”

“Nine o’clock, then,” said Fitzpatrick firmly.

“I’ll tell him myself, Commander. Oh, one finalthing. Mr. Converse asked me to apologize for hisnot having reached you by midnight. They’ve reallybeen at it hammer and tongs in there.”

That was it, thought Connal. Everything wasunder control. Joel certainly would not have madethat remark otherwise. “Thanks, Major, and by theway, I’m sorry I was rude. I was asleep and tried toget it together too fast.”

“Lucky chap. You can head back to the pillowswhile I stand watch. Next time you can take myplace.”

“If the food’s good, you’re on.”

“It’s not, really. A lot of pansy cooking, to tellyou the truth. Good night, Commander.”

“Good night, Major.”

Relieved, Fitzpatrick hung up the phone. Helooked over at the couch, thinking briefly of goingback to the dossiers but decided against it. He felthollow all over, hollow legs, hollow chest, a hollowache in his head. He needed sleep badly.

He gathered up the papers and took them intoConverse’s room. He placed them in the attachecase, locked it and turned the combination tumblers.Carrying the case, he went back into the sittingroom, checked the door, turned off the lights andheaded for his own bedroom. He threw the case

on the bed and removed his shoes, then his trousers,but that was as far as he got. He collapsed on thepillows, somehow managing to wrap part of thebedspread around him. The darkness was welcome.

“That was hardly necessary,” said Erich Leifhelmto the Englishman, as the latter replaced the phone.“"Pansy cooking’ is not the way I would describe mytable.”

“He undoubtedly would,” said the man who hadcalled himself Philip Dunstone. “Let’s check thepatient.”

The two walked out of the library and down thehall to a bedroom. Inside were the three other menof Aquitaine along with a fourth, his black bag andthe exposed hypodermic needles denoting aphysician. On the bed was Joel Converse, his eyeswide and grasslike, saliva oozing from the sides ofhis mouth, his head moving back and forth as if ina trance, unintelligible sounds emerging from hislips.

The doctor glanced up and spoke. “There’snothing more he can give us because there is more,”said the physician. “The chemicals don’t lie. Quitesimply, he’s a blind sent out by men in Washington,but he has no idea who they are. He didn’t evenknow they existed until this naval officer convincedhim they had to exist. His only referrals wereAnstett and Beale.”

“Both dead,” interrupted Van Headmer. “Anstettis public, and I can vouch for Beale. My employeeon Santorini flew into Mykonos and confirmed thekill. There can be no trace incidentally. The Greekis back on the chalk cliffs selling laces and inflatedwhisky in his taverna.”

“Prepare him for his odyssey,” said ChaimAbrahms, looking down at Converse. “As ourspecialist in the Mossad put it so clearly, distance isnow the necessary requirement. A vast separationbetween this American and those who would sendhim out.”

Fitzpatrick stirred as the bright morning sunlightfrom the windows pierced the darkness andexpanding shades of white forced his eyelids open.He stretched, his shoulder digging into a hardcorner of the attache case, the rest of himconstricted by the bedspread, which was tangledabout his legs. He kicked it off and Hung his armson both sides of the bed, breathing deeply, feelingthe relaxed swelling of his chest. He swung his lefthand above his head, twisted his wrist

and looked at his watch. It was nine-twenty; he hadslept for seven and a half hours, but theuninterrupted sleep seemed much longer. He got outof bed and took several steps; his balance was steady,his mind clearing. He looked at his watch again,remembering. The major named Dunstone had saidbreakfast at Leifhelm’s estate was served fromnine-thirty on and if the conference had moved to aboat on the river at 2:00 A.M. Converse probablywould not call before ten o’clock.

Connal walked into the bathroom; there was aphone on the wall by the toilet if he was wrongabout the call. A shave followed by a hot and coldshower and he would be fully himself again.

Eighteen minutes later Fitzpatrick walked backinto the bedroom, a towel around his waist, his skinstill smarting from the harsh sprays of water. Hecrossed to his open suitcase on a luggage rack andtook out his miniaturised radio, placed it on thebureau and, deciding against the Armed Forcesband, dialed in what was left of a German newscast.There were the usual threats of strikes in theindustrial south, as well as charges andcountercharges hurled around the Bundestag, butnothing earthshaking. He selected comfortableclothes lightweight slacks, a blue oxford shirt andhis cord jacket. He got dressed and walked out intothe sitting room toward the phone, he would callroom service for a small breakfast and a great dealof coffee.

He stopped. Something was wrong. What was it?The pillows on the couch were still rumpled, a glasshalf filled with stale whisky still on the coffee table,as were pencils and a blank telephone message pad.The balcony doors were closed, the curtains drawn,and across the room the silver ice bucket remainedin the canter of the silver tray on the antique hunttable. Everything was as he had last seen it, yet therewas something…. The door! The door to Converse’sbedroom was shut. Had he closed it? No, he had not!

He walked rapidly over and opened the door. Hestudied the room, conscious of the fact that he hadstopped breathing. It was immaculate cleaned andsmoothed to a fare-thee-well. The suitcase was gone;the few articles Converse had left on the bureauwere no longer there. Connal rushed to the closetand yanked it open. It was empty. He went into thebathroom; it was spotless, new soap in the re-ceptacles, the glasses wrapped in clinging paperready for incoming guests. He walked out of thebathroom stunned.

There was not the slightest sign that anyone excepta maid had been in that bedroom for days.

He ran out to the sitting room and thetelephone. Seconds later the manager was on theline; it was the same man Connal had spoken withyesterday. “Yes, indeed, your businessman was evenmore eccentric than you described, Commander. Hechecked out at three-thirty this morning, paying allthe bills, incidentally.”

“He was here?”

Of course.”

You saw him?”

Not personally. I don’t come on duty until eighto’clock. He spoke with the night manager andsettled your account before going up to pack.”

“How could your man know it was him? Henever saw him before!”

Really, Commander, he identified himself asyour associate and paid the bill. He also had hiskey; he left it at the desk.”

Fitzpatrick paused, astonished, then spokeharshly. The room was cleaned! Was that alsodone at three-thirty this morning? "

No, main Herr, at seven o’clock. By the firsthousekeeping shift.”

But not the outer room?”

The commotion might have disturbed you.Frankly Commander, that suite must be preparedfor an early-afternoon arrival. I’m sure the staff feltit would not bother you if they got a head start onthe task. Obviously, it

Early afternoons I’m here!”

And welcome to stay until twelve noon, the billhas been paid. Your friend has departed and thesuite has been reserved.”

And I don’t suppose you have another room.”

"I’m afraid there’s nothing available, Commander.”

Connal slammed down the phone. Really,Commander . . . Those same words had been spokenby another over the same telephone at two o’clockin the morning. There were three directories in awicker rack by the table, he pulled out the one forBonn and found the number

“Guten Morgen. Hier bei General Leifhelm. “

“Herrn Major Dunstone, bitts. “

THE AQUITAINE

PROGRESSION 297“Wer2″

“Dunstone,"’ he said, then continued in German,“He’s a guest. Philip Dunstone. He’s the senior aideto to a General Berkeley-Greene. They’re English.”

“English? There are no Englishmen here, sir.There’s no one here that is to say, there are noguests.”

“He was there last night! They both were. I spokewith Major Dunstone.”

“The general had a small dinner party for a fewfriends but no English people, sir.”

“Look, I’m trying to reach a man named Converse.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Converse. He was here, sir.”

“Was?”

“I believe he left.”

“Where’s Leifhelm?” shouted Connal.

There was a pause before the German repliedcoldly “Who should I say is calling GeneralLeifhelm?”

“Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatricki”

“I believe he’s in the dining room. If you’ll stayon the telephone.” The line was put on hold; thesuspended silence was unnerving.

finally there was a click and Leifhelm’s voicereverberated over the phone. “Good morning,Commander. Bonn has provided a lovely day, no?The Seven Mountains are as clear as in a picturepostcard. I believe you can see them “

“Where’s Converse?” interrupted the Navy lawyer.

“I would assume at Das Rektorat.”

“He was supposed to be staying at your place.”

“No such arrangements were made. They wereneither requested nor offered. He left rather late,but he did leave Commander. My car drove himback.”

“That’s not what I was toldl A Major Dunstonecalled me around two this morning “

“I believe Mr. Converse left shortly before then….Who did you say called?”

“Dunstone. A Major Philip Dunstone. He’sEnglish. He said he was the senior aide to GeneralBerkeley-Greene.”

“I don’t know this Major Dunstone, there was nosuch person here. However, I’m familiar with justabout every general officer in the British Army andI’ve never heard of anyone named Berkeley-Greene.”

“Stow it, Leifhelml”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I spoke to Dunstone! He he said the rightwords. He said Converse was staying at yourplace with the others!”

“I think you should have spoken directly withHerr Converse, because there was no MajorDunstone or General Berkeley-Greene at my homelast night. Perhaps you should check with theBritish embassy; certainly they d know if thesepeople were in Bonn. Perhaps you heard the wordsincorrectly; perhaps they met later at a cafe.”

“I couldn’t speak to him! Dunstone said youwere out on the river in a boat.” Fitzpatrick’s breathwas now coming in short gasps.

“Now, that’s ridiculous, Commander. It’s true Ikeep a small launch for guests, but it’s a well-knownfact that I am not partial to the water.” The generalpaused, adding with a short laugh. “The great fieldmarshal gets seasick in a llatboat six feet fromshore.”

“You re Iying!”

“I resent that, sir. Especially about the water. Inever feared the Russian front, only the Black Sea.And if we had invaded England, I assure you Iwould have crossed the Channel in a plane.” TheCerman was toying with him; he was enjoyinghimself.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Connalshouted again. “They said Converse checked out ofhere at three-thirty this morning! I say he nevercame back!”

“And I say this conversation is pointless. If youare truly alarmed, call me back when you can becivil. I have friends in the Staatspolizei.” Again aclick; the German had hung up.

As Fitzpatrick replaced the phone anotherthought suddenly struck him. Frightened, he walkedquickly into the bedroom, his eyes instantly zeroingin on the attache case. It was partly under thepillow; oh Cod, he had been in such a sound sleep!He yanked the case out and examined it. Breathingagain, he saw that it was the same case, thecombination locks secure; no amount of pressure onthe small brass buttons would release the plates. Helifted the case and shook it; the weight and thesounds were proof that the papers were inside andintact, proof also that Converse had not returned tothe inn and checked out. All other considerationsaside and regardless of whatever emergencies thatmight have arisen, he would never have left withoutthe dossiers and the list of names.

Connal carried the case back into the sitting roomtrying

to collect his thoughts, putting them in alphabeticalsequence so as to impose some kind of order. A: Hehad to assume that the flag on Joel’s service recordhad been lifted or the damaging informationunearthed in some other way and that Converse wasnow being held by LeifLelm and the contingent fromAquitaine that had flown in from Paris, Tel Aviv andJohannesburg. B:They would not kill him until theyhad used every means possible to find out what heknew which was far less than they imagined andcould take several days. C: The LeifLelm estate,according to his dossier, was a fortress; thus thechances of going in and bringing Converse out werenil. D: Fitzpatrick knew he could not appeal to theAmerican embassy. To begin with, Walter Peregrinewould place him under territory arrest and thosedoing the arresting might put a bullet in his head.One had tried. E: He could not risk seeking helpfrom Hickman in San Diego, which under differentcircumstances might be a logical course of action.Everything in the admiral’s makeup ruled out anyconnection with Aquitaine; he was a fiercelyindependent officer whose conversations were lacedwith barbed remarks about the Pentagon’s policiesand mentality. But if that flag had been officially re-leased whether with his consent or over his objec-tions Hickman would have no choice but to callhim back to the base for a full inquiry. Any contactat all could result in the immediate cancellation ofhis leave, but if there was no contact and no way toreach him, the order, obviously, could not be given.

Connal sat down on the couch, the attache caseat his feet, and picked up a pencil; he wrote out twowords on the telephone message pad: Call Meagen.He would tell his sister to say that after Press’sfuneral he had left for parts unknown withoutexplanation. It was consistent with what he had saidto the admiral, that he was taking his information to“the authoribes” investigating Preston Halliday’sdeath.

F: He could go to the Bonn police and tell themthe truth. He had every reason to believe that anAmerican colleague was being held against his willinside the gates of General Erich Leifhelm’s estate.Then, of course, the inevitable question would arise:Why didn’t the Lieutenant Commander contact theAmerican embassy? The unspoken would be justbelow the surface: General Leifhelm was aprominent figure, and such a serious charge shouldhave diplomatic support. The embassy again. Strikeout. Then again, if Leifhelm said

he had “friends” in the Staatspolizei, he probablyowned key men in the Bonn Police. If he wasalarmed, Converse could be moved. Or killed. G:. .. was insane, thought the Navy lawyer as a legalphrase crept slowly into his consciousness, suddenlytaking on a blurred viability. Trade-o": It was adaily occurrence in pretrial examinations, bothcivilian and military. We’ll drop this if you accept thatWe’ll stay out of this area if you stay out of that one.Standard practice. Trade-off. Was it possible? Couldit even be considered? It was crazy and it wasdesperate, but then nothing was sane, nothing heldmuch hope. Since force was out of the question,could an exchange be made? LeifLelm forConverse. A general for a lieutenant.

Connal did not dare analyze; there were toomany negatives. He had to act on instinct becausethere was nothing else left, nowhere he could turnthat did not lead to a blank wall or a bullet. He gotup from the couch, went to the table with thetelephone and and reached for the directory on thefloor. What he had in mind was insane, but he couldnot think about that. He found the name. Fishbein,rise. The illegitimate daughter of Hermann Goring.

The rendezvous was set: a back table at theHansa-Keller cafe on the Kaiserplatz, thereservation in the name of Parnell. Fitzpatrick hadhad the presence of mind in California to pack aconservative civilian suit; he wore it now as theAmerican attorney, Mr. Parnell, who was fluent inGerman and sent by his firm in Milwaukee,Wisconsin, to make contact with one use Fishbein inBonn, West Germany. He also had the presence ofmind in Bonn, West Germany, to have managed asingle room at the Schlosspark on theVenusbergweg and placed Converse’s attache casewhere it would be safe for a considerable length oftime, a trail left for Converse should everythingblow apart. A trail he would recognize if Joel wasalive and able to hunt.

Connal arrived ten minutes early, not merely tosecure the table but to familiarise himself with thesurroundings and silently practice his approach. Hehad done the same thing many times before,walking into military courtrooms before a trial,testing the chairs, the height of the tables, the scanof vision of the tribunal on the dais. It all helped.

He knew it was she when the woman arrived andspoke to the mau^tre d’ at his lectern. She was talland heavy, not

obese but fleshy in a statuesque way, conscious ofher mature sensuality but smart enough not toparade it. She was dressed in a light-grey summersuit, the jacket buttoned above her generous breasts,a wide white collar demurely angled over the fabric.Her face, too, was full but not soft, the high cheek-bones lending an appearance of character that mightnot otherwise have been there, her hair was darkand shoulder-length, with slight streaks of prematuregray. She was escorted to the table by the diningroom’s captain. Fitzpatrick rose as she approached.

“Guten Tag, Frau Fishhein, ” he said, extendinghis hand. “Bitte, setzen Sie sich. “

" It’s not necessary for you to speak German,Herr Parnell,” said the woman, releasing his handand sliding into the chair under the guidance of thecaptain, who bowed and left. “I make my living as atranslator.”

“Whatever you feel most comfortable with,” saidConnal.

“I think under the circumstances I should preferEnglish, and spoken softly, if you please. Now, whatis this incredible thing you alluded to over thetelephone, Mr. Parnell?”

“Quite simply an inheritance, Mrs. Fishbein,”replied Fitzpatrick, his expression sincere, his eyessteady. “If a few technical questions can be settled,and I’m sure they can be, as a rightful legatee youwill receive a substantial sum of money.”

“From someone in America I never knew?”

“He knew your father.”

“I did not,” said use fishbein quickly, her eyesdarting about at the adjacent tables. “Who is thisman?”

“He was a member of your father’s staff duringthe war,” answered Connal, lowering his voice stillfurther. “With your father’s help certain contacts inHolland he got out of Germany before theNuremberg trials with a great deal of money. Hecame to the United States by way of London, hisfunds intact, and started a business in the Midwest.It became enormously successful. He died recently,leaving sealed instructions with my firm, hisattorneys.”

“But why me?”

“A debt. Without your father’s influence andassistance our client would probably have witheredfor years in jail instead of flourishing as he did inAmerica. As far as anyone was concerned, he was aDutch immigrant from the Netherlands whose familybusiness was destroyed in the war and who

sought his future in America. That future includedconsiderable real estate holdings and a verysuccessful meat-packing plant all in the process ofbeing sold. Your inheritance is in excess of twomillion American dollars. Would you care for anaperitif, Mrs. Fishbein?”

The woman could not at first reply. Her eyeshad grown wide, her full jaw slackened, her starewas trancelike.”I believe I will, Herr Parnell,” shesaid in a monotone, finding her voice. “A largewhisky, if you please.”

Fitzpatrick signaled the waiter, ordered drinksand tried several times to make idle conversation,commenting on the beautiful weather and askingwhat sites he should see while in Bonn. It was nouse. Ilse Fishbein was as close to being in acatatonic state as Connal could imagine. She hadgripped his wrist, clutching it in silence withextremely strong fingers, her lips parted, her eyestwo blank glass orbs. The drinks came, the waiterleft, and still she would not let go of him. Instead,she drank somewhat awkwardly, lifting the glasswith her left hand.

“”What are these questions to be settled? Askanything, demand anything. Do you have a place tostay? Things are so crowded in Bonn.”

“You’re very kind; yes, I do. Try to understand,Mrs. Fishbein, this is an extremely sensitive matterfor my firm. As you can well imagine, it’s not thesort of legal work American attorneys are too happywith, and, frankly, had our client not made certainprovisos connecting the successful completion ofthis aspect of his last will and testament to the fullexecution of other aspects, we might have “

".The questions! What are the questions?”

Fitzpatrick paused before answering, thethoughtful lawyer permitting the interruption butstill intent on making his point. "everything will behandled confidentially, the probate court operatingin camera “

“”With photographs?”

"fin private, Mrs. Fishbein. For the good of thecommunity, in exchange for specific state and localtaxes that might not be paid in the event ofconfiscation. You see, the higher courts mightdecide the entire estate is open to question.”

“Yes, the questions! What are they?”

“Really quite simple. I’ve prepared certainstatements, which you will sign and to which I canswear to your signature. They establish yourbloodline. Then there is a short deposition required substantiating the claim. We needonly one, but it must be given by a formerhigh-ranking member of the Cerman forces,preferably a man whose name is recognizable, whomthe recent history books or war accounts establish asa working colleague of your natural father. Of course,it would be advantageous to have someone known tothe American military in the event the judge decidesto call the Pentagon and ask Who is this fellow?’ "

“I know the maul” whispered use Fishbein. “Hewas a field marshal, a brilliant General!”

“Who is he?” asked the Navy lawyer, theninstantly shrugging, dispensing with the question ofidentity as irrelevant. “Never mind. Just tell me whyyou think he’s the right man, this field marshal.”

“He is greatly respected, although not everyoneagrees with him. He was one of the grossmachtigenyoung commanders, once decorated by my fatherhimself for his brilliancel”

“But would anyone in the American militaryestablishment know him?”

“Mein Gott! He worked for the Allies in Berlinand Vienna after the war!”

“Yes?”

“And at SHAPE Headquarters in Brussels!”

Yes, thought Connal, we’re talking aloout the sameman “Fine,” said Fitzpatrick casually but seriously.“Don’t bother giving me his name. It doesn’t matter,and I probably wouldn’t know it anyway. Can youreach him quickly?”

“In minutes! He’s here in Bonn.”

“Splendid. I should catch the plane back toMilwaukee by tomorrow noon.”

“You will come to his house and he will dictatewhat you need to his secretary.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that. The deposition must becountersigned by a notary. I understand you have thesame rules over here — and why not, you inventedthem and the Schlosspark Hotel has both typing andnotary services. Say this evening, or perhaps early inthe morning? I should be more than happy to send ataxi for your friend. I don’t want this to cost him apfennig. Any expenses he incurs my firm will behappy to repay.”

use Fishbein giggled a slightly hysterical giggle.“You do not know my friend, main Herr.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along. Now, how about lunch?”

".Ihave to go to the toilet,” said the Germanwoman, her eyes glass orbs again. As she rose,Connal rising with her, she whispered, “Mein Gott!Zwei Millionen Dollar!”

“He does not even care to know your namer”cried Ilse Fishbein into the phone. “He’s from aplace called Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and is offeringme two million dollarsAmerican!”

“He did not ask who I was?”

“He said it didn’t matter! He probably wouldn’tknow you, in any event. Can you imagine? Heoffered to send a taxi for you! He said you shouldnot spend a penny!”

“It’s true Goring was excessively generous duringthe last weeks,” mused Leimelm. “Of course, he wasmore often drugged than not, and those whosupplied him with narcotics which were difficult toobtain, were rewarded with the whereabouts ofpriceless art treasures. The one who later smuggledhim the poisoned suppositories still lives like aRoman emperor in Luxembourg.”

“So you see, it’s true! Goring did these things!”

“Rarely knowing what he was doing, however,”agreed the general reluctantly. “This is really mostunusual and very inconvenient, Ilse. Did this manshow you any documents, any proof of hisassignment?”

“Naturally!” lied Fishbein, close to panic, pickingremembered words out of the air. “There was aformal page of legal statements and a . . .deposition all to be handled by the courtsconfidentially! In private! You see, there is a ques-tion of taxes, which would not be paid if the estatewas confiscated “

“I’ve heard it all before, Ilse,” Leifhelm broke inwearily. “There are no statutes for so-called warcriminals and expatriated funds. So the hypocriteschoke on their hypocritical rules the instant theycost money, and abandon them.”

“You are always so perceptive, my general, andI have always been so loyal. I’ve never refused youa single request whether it was professional innature or far more intimate. Please. Two millionAmerican! It will take but ten or fifteen minutes!”

“You’ve been like a good niece, I can’t deny it,Ilse. And there is no way anyone could know aboutyou in other matters…. Very well, this evening then.I’m dining at the Stei

genberger at nine o’clock. I’ll stop at the Schlossparkat eight-fifteen or thereabouts. You can buy me agift with your shall we say ill-conceived newriches.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.’

“My driver will accompany me.”

“Ach, bring twenty men!”

"He’s worth twenty-five,” Leifhelm said.

Fitzpatrick sat in the chair in the smallconference room on the second floor of the hoteland examined the gun, the manual of instructions onhis lap. He tried to match what the clerk had toldhim to the diagrams and instructions, and wassatisfied that he knew enough. There were basicsimilarities to the standard Navy issue Colt .45, theonly handgun he was familiar with, and the technicalinformation was extraneous to his needs. Theweapon he had purchased was a Heckler & KochPGS auto pistol, about six inches long its calibernine millimeters, and with a nine-shell magazine clip.The instructions emphasized such points as“polygonal rifling” and “sliding roller lock functions’;he let the manual slip to the floor, and practicedremoving the clip and slapping it back into place. Hecould load the weapon, aim it and fire it; those wereall that was necessary and he trusted the last wouldnot be necessary.

He glanced at his watch) it was almost eighto’clock. He shoved the automatic into his belt,reached down for the instructions and stood up,looking around the room, mentally checking off themovements and the locations he had designated forhimself. As he had expected, the Fishbein womanhad told him Leifhelm would be accompanied bysomeone, a “driver” in this case, and it could beassumed the man had other functions. If so, hewould have no chance to perform them.

The room one of twenty-odd conference roomsin the hotel that he had reserved under the nameof a fictitious company was not large, but there werestructural arrangements that could be put toadvantage. The usual rectangular table was in thecenter, three chairs on each side and two at theends, one with a telephone. There were additionalchairs against the walls for stenographers andobservers all this was normal. However, in the centerof the left wall was a doorway that led to a verysmall room apparently used for private con-versations. Inside was another telephone, whichwhen off the

hook caused a button on the first telephone on theconference table to light up; confidentiality had itslimits in Bonn. The hallway door opened onto asmall foyer, thus prohibiting those entering fromscanning the room while standing in the corridor.

Connalfolded the Heckler & Koch instructions,put them in his jacket pocket, and walked over tothe table to survey his set pieces. He had gone to anoflfice-supply store and purchased the appropriateitems. On the far end of the table by thetelephone which was placed perpendicular to theedge, the buttons in clear view were several filefolders next to an open briefcase (from a distanceits dark plastic looked like expensive leather).Scattered about were papers, pencils and a yellowlegal pad, the top pages looped over. The settingwas familiar to anyone who had ever had anappointment with an attorney, said learned counselhaving put his astute observations down on paperprior to the conference.

Fitzpatrick retraced his steps to the chair, movedit forward several feet, and crossed to the door ofthe small side room. He had turned on thelights two table lamps flanking a short couch) hewent to the one above the telephone and turned itoff. He then walked back to the open door andstood between it and the wall, peering through thenarrow vertical space broken up by upper and lowerhinges. He had a clear view of the foyer’s entrance;three people would pass into the conference roomand he would come out.

There was a knock on the hallway door therapid, impatient tapping of an heiress unable tocontrol herself. He had told the Fishbein woman thelocation of the room, but nothing else. No name ornumber, and in her anxiety she had not asked abouteither. Fitzpatrick went to the telephone table in thesmall room, lifted the phone out of its cradle andplaced it on its side. He returned to his positionbehind the door, angling himself so as to lookthrough the crack, his body in the shadows. He tookthe pistol from his belt, held it in front of him andshouted in a friendly voice, loud enough to be heardoutside in the hotel corridor. “Bitte, kommen Sieherein! Die Tare ist offer. Ich telefoniere gerade!”

The sound of the door as it opened precededIlse Fishbein as she walked rapidly into the room,her eyes directed at the conference table. She wasfollowed by Erich LeifLelm, who glanced about andthen turned slightly, nodding his head. A third manin the uniform of a chauffeur came into view, his

hand in the pocket of his black jacket. Connal thenheard the second sound he needed to hear. Thehallway door was slammed shut.

He yanked back the small door and quicklystepped around it, the gun extended, aimed directlyat the chauffeur.

“You!” he cried in German. “Take your hand outof your pocket! Slowly!” The woman gasped, thenopened her mouth to scream. Fitzpatrick interruptedharshly. “Be quiet! As your friend will tell you, Ihaven’t anything to lose. I can kill the three of youand be out of the country in an hour, leaving thepolice to look for a Mr. Parnell who doesn’t exist.”

The chauffeur, the muscles of his jaw rippling,removed his hand from his pocket, his fingers rigid.Leifhelm stared in anger and fear at Connal’s gun,his face no longer ashen but flushed. “You dare?”

“I dare, Field Marshal,” said Fitzpatrick. “Just asyou dared forty years ago to rape a young kid andmake damned sure that she and her whole familynever walked out of the camps. You bet your ass Idare, and if I were you, I wouldn’t give me theslightest cause to be any angrier than I am.’ Connalspoke to the woman. “You. Inside that briefcase onthe table are eight strands of rope. Start with thedriver. Bind his hands and feet; I’ll tell you how.Now! Quickly!”

Four minutes later the chauffeur and Leifhelmsat in two conference chairs, their ankles and wristsbound, the driver’s weapon removed from his pocket.Connal checked the ropes the knots having been tiedunder his instructions. Everything was secure; themore one writhed, the tighter the knots wouldbecome. He ordered the panicked Fishbein womaninto a third chair; he lashed her hands to the armsand her feet to the legs.

Rising, Connal picked up the automatic from thetable and approached Leifhelm, who was sitting inthe chair next to the lighted telephone. “Now,” hesaid, the gun pointed at the German’s head. “Assoon as I hang up the phone in the other room we regoing to make a call from here.” He walked quicklyinto the small side room, hung up the telephone, andreturned. He sat down next to the bound Leifhelmand took a scrap of paper out of the open briefcase.On it was written the phone number of the general’sestate on the Rhine beyond Bad Godesberg.

“What do you think you’ll accomplish? " askedLeifhelm.

“Trade-off,” replied Fitzpatrick, the barrel of thegun pressed against the German’s temple. “You forConverse.”

“Mein Gott!” whispered Ilse Fishbein as thechauffeur writhed, his hands straining against theropes, which were now biting into his wrists.

“You believe anyone will listen to you, much lesscarry out your orders?”

“They will if they want to see you alive again.You know I’m right, General. This gun isn’t soloud I made sure of that. I can turn on the radioand kill you and be on a plane out of Germanybefore you’re found. This room is reserved for thenight with instructions that we’re not to be disturbedfor any reason whatsoever.” Connal shifted theweapon to his left hand, picked up the telephone,and dialed the number written on the scrap ofpaper.

“Guten Tag. Hier bet General LeifAelm.”

“Put someone in authority on this phone,” saidthe Navy lawyer in perfect German. " I have a gunless than a foot away from General Leifhelm’s headand I’ll kill him right now unless you do as I say.’

There were muffled shouts over the line as ahand was held against the mouthpiece. In seconds acrisp British accent was speaking slowly, deliberatelyin English.

“Who is this and what do you want?”

“Well, what do you know? This sounds likeMajor Philip Dunstone that was the name, wasn’tit? You don’t sound half so friendly as you did lastnight.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Commander. You’ll regretit.”

“And don’t you do anything stupid, or Leifhelmwill regret it sooner that is, until he can’t regretanything any longer. You’ve got one hour to getConverse to the airport and inside the Lufthansasecurity gate. He has a reservation on the teno’clock flight to Washington, D.C., by way of Frank-furt. I’ve made arrangements. I’ll be calling anumber in a room where he’ll be taken and I’llexpect to talk with him. After I do, I’ll leave hereand call you on another phone, telling you whereyour employer is. Just get Converse to that securitygate. One hour, Major!” Fitzpatrick shoved thephone in front of Leifhelm’s face, and pressed thebarrel of the gun into the German’s temple.

“Do as he says,” said the General, choking on thewords.

The minutes went by slowly, stretching into aquarter of an hour, then thirty, the silence finallybroken by Leifhelm.

“So you found her,” he said, gesturing his head at useFishbein, who trembled as tears streaked down herfull cheeks.

“Just as we found out about Munich forty yearsago, and a hell of a lot of other things. You’re all onyour way to that great big war room in the sky, FieldMarshal, so don’t worry about whether I’ll go backon my word to your English butler. I wouldn’t missseeing you bastards paraded for everyone to see whatyou really are. People like you give the military ev-erywhere a goddamned rotten name.”

There was a slight commotion from the hallwaybeyond the door. Connal looked up, raising the gunand holding it directly at Leifhelm’s head.

“Was ist?” said the Cerman, shrugging.

“Seine Bewegung!”

From the hotel corridor came the strains of amelody sung by several male voices more off keythan on. Another conference in one of the otherrooms had broken up, obviously as much from theexcessive intake of alcohol as from the completion ofa business agenda. Raucous laughter pierced arefrain as harmony was unsuccessfully attempted.Fitzpatrick relaxed, lowering the automatic; no oneon the outside knew the name or number of theroom.

“You say men like me give yourprofession which is my profession as well aseriously bad name,” said Leifhelm. “Has it occurredto you, Commander, that we might elevate thatprofession to one of indispensable greatness in aworld that needs us badly?”

“Needs us?” asked Connal. “We need the worldfirst and not your kind of world. You tried it onceand blew it, don’t you remember?”

“That was one nation led by a madman trying toimpose his imprimatur over the globe. This is manynations with one class of self-abnegatingprofessionals coming together for the good of all.”

“Whose definition? Yours? You’re a funny fellow,General. Somehow I question your benevolenttendencies.”

“Indiscretions of a deprived youth whose nameand rightful opportunities were stolen from himshould not be held against the man a half-centurylater.”

“Deprived or depraved? I think you made up forlost time pretty quickly and as brutally as you could.I don’t like your remedies.”

“You have no vision.”

“Thanks be to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it’s notyours. ” The singing out in the corridor fadedbriefly, then swelled again, more discordant andlouder than before. “Maybe that’s some of your oldDachau playboys having a beer bust.”

Leifhelm shrugged.

Suddenly the door burst open, crashing into thewall as three men raced in, spits filling the air assilenced guns fired hands jerking back and forth, thesurface of the table chewed up, splinters of woodflying everywhere. Fitzpatrick felt the repeated stabsof intense pain in his arm as the automatic wasblown out of his grip. He looked down and saw theblood drenching the fabric of his right sleeve.Though in shock he glanced about him. IlseFishbein was dead, her bleeding skull shattered bya fusillade of bullets; the chauffeur was smilingobscenely. The door was closed as if nothing hadhappened.

“Stumper,” Leifhelm said as one of the invaderscut the ropes around his wrists. “I used that termonly yesterday, Commander, but I did not knowhow right I was. Did you think a single telephonecall could not be traced to a single room? It was alltoo coincidentally symmetrical. Converse is ours andsuddenly this poor whore comes into immenseriches American riches. I grant you it was entirelypossible such bequests are made frequently bysausage-soaked idiots who don’t realize the harmthey do, but the timing was too perfect,too amateurish.”

“You’re one son of a bitch.” Connal shut hiseyes, trying to force the pain out of his mind,unable to move his fingers

“Why, Commander,” said the general, gettingout of the chair, “do I sense the bravado of fear?Do you think I’m going to have you killed?”

“You sense it. I won’t give you any more than that.”

“You’re quite wrong. Considering the nature ofyour military leave, you can be of minor but uniqueservice to us. One more statistic to disrupt apattern. You’ll be our guest, Commander, but notin Germany proper. You are gomg on a trip.”

Converse slowly opened his eyes, a dead, ironweight on his lids and nausea in his throat blurreddarkness everywhere and a terrible stinging at hisside, on his arm, flesh separated from flesh, stretchedand inflamed. Blindly he tried to touch the offendingspot, then gasping, pulled back in pain. Somewherelight was creeping around the dark space above him,picking its way through moving obstructions, peeringinto the shadows. Objects slowly came into focus themetal rim of the cot next to his face, two woodenchairs opposite each other at a small table in thedistance, a door also in the distance, but farther awayand shut . . . then another door, this one open, awhite sink with a pair of dull-metal faucets on the leftin a far-away cubicle. The light? It was still moving,now dancing, flickering. Where was it?

He found it: high in the wall on either side of theclosed door were two rectangular windows, the shortcurtains billowing in the breeze. The windows wereopen, but oddly not open, not clear, the spacesinterrupted. Joel raised his head, supporting himselfon his forearm and squinted, trying to see moreclearly. He focused on the interruptions behind theswelling curtains thin black metal shafts verticallyconnecting the window frames. They were bars. Hewas in a cell.

He fell back on the cot, swallowing repeatedly tolessen the burning in his throat, and moved his arm incircles trying to lessen the pain of the . . . wound?Yes, a wound, a gunshot! The realization jarred hismemory; a dinner party had turned into abattleground filled with hysteria. Blinding lights andsudden jolts of pain had been accompanied by stridentvoices bombarding him, incessant echoes pounding inhis ears as he tried desperately to repel the piercingassaults. Then there had been moments of calm, thedrone of a single voice in the mists. Converse closedhis eyes, pressing his lids tightly together with all hisstrength as another realization struck him

and disturbed him deeply. That voice in the swirlingmists was his voice; he had been drugged, and heknew he had given up secrets.

He had been drugged before, a number of timesin the North Vietnamese camps, and as always therewas the sickening feeling of numbed outrage. Hismind had been stripped and violated, his voice madeto perform obscenities against the last vestiges of hiswill.

And, again as always, there was the empty holein his stomach, a vacuum that ran deep andproduced only weakness. He felt starved andprobably was. The chemicals usually inducedvomiting as the intestines rejected the unnaturalsubstance. It was strange, he reflected, opening hiseyes and following the moving shafts of light, butthose memories from years ago evoked the sameself-protective instincts that had helped himthen so many years ago. He could not waste en-ergy; he had to conserve what strength he had.Regain new strength. Otherwise there was nothingbut the numbed outrage and neither his mind norhis body could do anything about it.

There was a sound across the room! Thenanother and another after that! The grating soundof sliding metal told him that a bolt was beingreleased; the sharp sound of a key followed by thetwisting of a knob meant that the door in the fardistant wall was about to be opened. It was, and ablinding burst of sunlight filled the cell. Converseshielded his eyes peering between his fingers. Theblurred, frazzled silhouette of a man stood in thedoorframe carrying a flat object. The figure walkedin and Joel, blinking, saw it was the chauffeur whohad electronically searched him in the driveway.

The uniformed driver crossed to the.table anddeftly lowered the flat object; it was a tray, itscontents covered by a cloth. It was only then thatConverse’s attention was drawn back to the sunlitdoorway. Outside, milling about in anxious contemptwas the pack of Dobermans, their shining black eyescontinually shifting toward the door, their lips curledteeth bared in unending quiet snarls.

“GutenMorgen, main Herr,” said Leifhelm’schauffeur, then shifting to English, "Anotherbeautiful day on the northern Rhine, no?’

“It’s bright out there, if that’s what you mean,”replied Joel, his hand still cupping his eyes. “Isuppose I should be grateful to be able to noticeafter last night.”

“Last night?” The German paused, then addedquietly, “It was two nights ago, Amerikaner. You’vebeen here for the past thirty-three hours.”

“Thirty?” Converse pushed himself up and swunghis legs over the side of the cot. Instantly he wasovercome by dizziness too much strength had beendrained. Oh Christ! Don’t waste movement. They’ll beback. The bastards! “You bastards,” he said out loudbut without any real emotion. Then for the first timehe realized he was shirtless, and noticed the bandageon his left arm between his elbow and his shoulder.It covered the gunshot wound. “Did somebody missmy head?” he asked.

“I’m told you inflicted the injury yourself. Youtried to kill General Leifhelm but shot yourself whenthe others were taking your gun away.”

“I tried to kill? With my nonexistent gun? Theone you made sure I didn’t have?”

“You were too clever for me, mein Herr.”

“What happens now?”

“Now? Now you eat. I have instructions from thedoctor. You begin with the Hafergrlitze how do yousay? the porridge.”

“Hot mush or cereal,” said Joel. “With skimmedor powdered milk. Then some kind of soft-boiledeggs taken with pills. And if it all goes down, a littleground meat, and if that stays down, a few spoonfulsof crushed turnips or potatoes or squash. Whatever’savailable.”

“How do you know this?” asked the uniformedman, genuinely surprised.

“It’s a basic diet,” said Converse cynically.“Variations with the territory and the supplies. I oncehad some comparatively good meals…. You’replanning to put me under again.”

The German shrugged. “I do what I’m told. Ibring you food. Here, let me help you.”

Joel looked up as the chauffeur approached thecot. “Under other circumstances I’d spit in yourgoddamned face. But if I did I wouldn’t have thatslight, slight possibility of spitting in it some othertime. You may help me. Be careful of my arm.”

“You are a very strange man, main Herr.”

“And you’re all perfectly normal citizens catchingthe early train to Larchmont so you can put downten martinis before going to the PTA meeting.”

“Was ist? I know of no such meeting. "

"They’re keeping it secret; they don’t want youto know. If I were you, I’d get out of town beforethey make you president.”

“Mich? President?”

“Just help me to the chair, like a good aleAryan boy, will you?’

“Hah, you are being amusing, ja?”

“Probably not,” said Converse, easing into thewooden chair. "it’s a terrible habit I wish I couldbreak.” He looked up at the bewildered German.“You see, I keep trying,” he said in utterseriousness.

Three more days passed, his only visitor thechauffeur accompanied by the sullen, high-strungpack of Dobermans. His well-searched suitcase wasgiven to him, scissors and a nail file removed fromthe traveling kit his electric razor intact. It wastheir way of telling him that his presence had beenremoved from Bonn, leaving him to painfullyspeculate about the life or death of ConnalFitzpatrick. Yet there was an inconsistency and, assuch, the basis for hope. No allusions were made tohis attache case, either with visual evidence thepage of a dossier, perhaps or through his briefexchanges with Leifhelm’s driver. The generals ofAquitaine were men of immense egos; if they hadthose materials in their possession, they would havelet him know it.

As to his conversations with the chauffeur, theywere lirnited to questions on his part anddisciplined pleasantries on the German’s part, noanswers at all at least, none that made any sense:

“How long is this going to go on? When am Igoing to see someone other than you?”

“There is no one here, sir, except the staff.General Leifhelm is away in Essen, I believe. Ourinstructions are to feed you well and restore yourhealth.”

Incommunicado. He was in solitary.

But the food was not like that given toprisoners anywhere else. Roasts of beef and lamb,chops, poultry and fresh fish; vegetables thatunquestionably had come directly from a nearbygarden. And wine which at first Joel was reluctantto drink, but when he did, even he knew it wassuperior.

On the second day, as much to keep fromthinking as from anything else, he had begun toperform mild exer

cises as he had done so many years ago. By thethird day he had actually worked up a sweat duringa running-in-place session, a healthy sweat, tellinghim the drugs had left his body. The wound on hisarm was still there, but he thought about it less andless. Curiously, it was not serious.

On the fourth day questions and reflections wereno longer good enough. Confinement and themaddening frustration of having no answers forcedhim to turn elsewhere, to the practical, to the mostnecessary consideration facing him. Escape.Regardless of the outcome the attempt had to bemade. Whatever plans Delavane and his disciples inAquitaine had for him, they obviously includedparading a drugless man more than likely a deadman with no narcotics in his system. Otherwise theywould have killed him at once, disposing of his bodyin any number of untraceable ways. He had done itbefore. Could he do it again?

He was not rotting in a rat-infested cell and therewas no terrible gunfire in the distant darkness, but itwas far more important that he succeed now than itever was eighteen years ago. And there was anextraordinary irony: eighteen years ago he hadwanted to break out and tell whoever would listen tohim about a madman in Saigon who sent countlesschildren to their deaths or worse, who left thosechildren to suffer broken minds and hollow feelingsfor the rest of their lives. Now he had to tell theworld about that same madman.

He had to get out. He had to tell the world what heknew.

Converse stood on the wooden chair, the shortcurtain pulled back, and peered between the blackmetal bars outside. His cabin, or cottage, orjailhouse, whatever it was, seemed to have beenlowered from above onto a clearing in the forest.There was a wall of tall trees and thick foliage as faras he could see in either direction, a dirt pathangling to the right beneath the window. Theclearing itself extended no more than twenty feet infront of the structure before the dense greenerybegan; he presumed it was the same on all sideshowit was from the other window to the left of the doorexcept that there was no path below, only a short,coarse stubble of brown grass. The two frontwindows were the only views he had. The rest of thisisolated jailhouse consisted of unbroken walls and asmall ceiling vent in the bathroom but no otheropenings.

All he could be certain of, since the chauffeur andthe

dogs and the warm meals were proof he was stillwithin the grounds of Leifhelm’s estate, was that theriver could not be far away. He could not see it, butit was there and it gave him hope more than hope,a sense of morbid exhilaration rooted in hismemory. Once before the waters of a river had beenhis friend, his guide, ultimately the lifeline that hadtaken him through the worst of his journey. Atributary of the Huong Khe south of Duc Tho hadrushed him silently at night under bridges and pastpatrols and the encampments of three battalions.The waters of the Rhine, like the currents of theHuong Khe years ago, would be his way out.

The multiple sounds of animal feet pounding theearth preceded the streaking dark coats of theDobermans as they raced belong the window,instantly stopping and crowding angrily in front ofthe door. The chauffeur was on his way with abreakfast no prisoner in isolation should expect.Joel climbed off the chair and quickly carried itback to the table, setting it in place and going to hiscot. He sat down, kicked off his shoes, and lay backon the pillow, his legs stretched out over therumpled blanket.

The bolt was slid back, the key inserted and theheavy knob turned; the door opened. As he didevery time he entered, the German pushed thecenter of the door with his right hand as hesupported the tray with his left. However thismorning he was gripping a bulging object in hisright hand, the blinding sunlight obscuring it forConverse. The man walked in and, more awkwardlythan usual, placed the tray on the table.

"I have a pleasant surprise for you, main Herr.I spoke with General Leifhelm on the telephone lastnight and he asked about you. I told him you wererecovering splendidly and that I had changed thebandage on your unfortunate injury. Then itoccurred to him that you had nothing to read andhe was very upset. So an hour ago I drove intoBonn and purchased three days of the InternationalHerald Tribune. ” The driver placed the rolled-upnewspapers next to the tray on the table.

But it was not the issues of the Herald Tribunethat Joel stared at. It was the German s neck andthe upper outside pocket of his uniform jacket. Forlooped around that neck and angled over to thatpocket was a thin silver chain, with the protrudingtop of a tubular silver whistle clearly visible againstthe dark fabric. Converse shifted his eyes to thedoor;

the Dobermans were sitting on their haunches, eachbreathing noisily and salivating, but, to all intents andpurposes, immobile. Converse remembered hisarrival at the general s monumental lair and thestrange Englishman who had controlled the dogs witha silver whistle.

"Tell Leifhelm I appreciate the reading material,but I’d be even more grateful if I could get out ofthis place for a few minutes. “

":la, with a plane ticket to the beaches in thesouth of France, rein?”

“For Christ’s sake, just to take a walk and stretchmy legs What’s the matter? Can’t you and thatdrooling band of mas tiffs handle one unarmed mangetting a little air? . . . No you’re probably toofrightened to try.” Joel paused, then added in aninsulting mock-Cerman accent. ”’I do vot I am tort.

The driver’s smile faded. “The other evening yousaid you would not apologise but instead break myneck. That was a joke. Do you understand? A jokeI find so amusing I can laugh at it.”

“Hey, come on,’ said Converse, changing his toneas he swung his legs off the cot and sat up. “You’reten years younger than I am and twenty timesstronger. I felt insulted and reacted stupidly, but ifyou think I’d raise a hand against you you’re out ofyour mind. I m sorry. You’ve been decent to me andI was stupid again.”

“la, you were stupid,” said the German withoutrancor “But also you were right. I do as I am told.And why not? It is a privilege to take orders fromGeneral Leifhelm. He has Been gut to me.”

“Have you been with him long?”

“Since Brussels. I was a sergeant in the FederalRepublic’s border patrols. He heard about myproblem and took an interest in my case. I wastransferred to the Brabant garrison and made hischauffeur.”

“What was your problem? I’m a lawyer, you know.”

Dhde charge was that I strangled a man With my “

"ha. He was trying to put a knife in mystomach and lower. He said I took advantage of hisdaughter. I took no advantage; it was not necessary.She was a whore it was in the clothes she wore, theway she walked es ist klar! The father was a pig!”

Joel looked at the man, at the cloudedmalevolence in his eyes. “I can understand GeneralLeifhelm’s sympathies,” he said.

“Now you know why I do as I am told.”

“Clearly.”

He is calling for his messages at noon. I shallask him about your walking. You understand thatone word from me and the Dobermans will rip yourbody from its bones.”

“Nice puppies,” said Converse, addressing thepack of dogs outside.

Noon came and the privilege was granted. Thewalk was to take place after lunch when the driverreturned to remove the tray. He returned, and afterseveral severe warnings Joel ventured outside, theDobermans crowding around him black nostrilsflared, white teeth glistening, bluish-red tonguesflattened out in anticipation. Converse lookedaround; for the first time he saw that the smallhouse was made of thick, solid stone. The uniquesquad began its constitutional up the path, Joelgrowing bolder as the dogs lost a degree of interestin him under the harsh admonitions of the Germans commands. They began racing ahead and regroup-ing in circles, snapping at one another but alwayswhipping their heads back or across at their masterand his prisoner. Converse walked faster.

“I used to jog a lot back home,” he lied.

“Was ist? "Jog’?”

“Run. It’s good for the circulation.”

“You run now, main Herr, you will have nocirculation. The Dobermans will see to it.”

“I’ve heard of people getting coronaries fromjogging too,” said Joel, slowing down, but notreducing the speed with which his eyes darted in alldirections. The sun was directly overhead; it was nohelp in determining direction.

The dirt path was like a marked single line in anintricate network of hidden trails. It was borderedby thick foliage, more often than not roofed bylow-hanging branches, then breaking open into shortstretches of wild grass that might or might not leadto other paths. They reached a fork, the leg to theright curving sharply into a tunnel of greenery. Thedogs instinctively raced into it but were stopped bythe chauffeur, who shouted commands in German.The Dobermans spun around, bouncing off eachother, and returned to the fork, then raced into thewider path on the left. It was an in

cline and they started up a steep hill, the treesshorter and less full, the bramble bush wilder,coarser, lower to the ground. Wind, thoughtConverse. A valley wind; a wind whipping up from atrough, a long narrow slice in the earth, the kind ofwind a pilot of a small plane avoided at the first signof weather. A river.

It was there. To his left; they were traveling east.The Rhine was below, perhaps a mile beyond thelower line of tall trees. He had seen enough. Hebegan breathing audibly. The exhilaration inside himwas intense; he could have walked for miles. He wasback on the banks of the Huong Khe, the darkwatery lifeline that would take him away from theMekong cages and the cells and the chemicals. Hehad done it before he was going to do it again!

“Okay, Field Marshal,” he said to Leifhelm’sdriver, looking at the silver whistle in the German’spocket. “I’m not in as good shape as I thought I was.This is a mountain! Don’t you have any flat pasturesor grazing fields?”

“I do as I am told, mein Herr, ” replied the man,grinning. “Those are nearer the main house. This iswhere you must walk.”

“This is where I say thank you and no thank you.Take me back to my little grass shack and I’ll playyou a simple

“I do not understand.”

“I’m bushed and I haven’t finished thenewspapers. Seriously, I want to thank you. I reallyneeded the air.”

“Sehr gut You are a pleasant fellow.”

“You have no idea, good ale Aryan boy.”

“Ach, so amusing. Die Juden sind in Israel, rein?Better than in Cermany.”

Nate Simon would love you. He’d take your casefor nothing just to blow it No, he wouldn’t. He’dprobably give you the best defense you ever had.”

Converse stood on the wooden chair under thewindow to the left of the door. All he had to hearand see was the sound and the sight of the dogs;after that he had twenty or thirty seconds. Thefaucets in the bathroom were turned on, the dooropen; there was sufficient time to run across theroom, flush the toilet, close the door and return tothe chair. But he would not be standing on it.Instead, it would be gripped in his hands, laterally.The sun was descending rapidly; in an

hour it would be dark. Darkness had been his friendbefore as the waters of a river had been his friend.They had to be his friends again. They had to be!

The sounds came first racing paws and nasalexplosions then the sight of gleaming dark coats ofanimal fur rushing in circles in front of thejailhouse. Joel ran to the bathroom, concentratingon the seconds as he waited for the sliding of thebolt. It came; he flushed the toilet, then closed thebathroom door and raced back to the chair. Heraised it and stood in place, his legs and feet lockedto the floor. The door was opened severalinches only seconds now then the German’s righthand pushed it back.

“Herr Converse? Wo sind . . . Bach, die Toilette. “

The chauffeur walked in with the tray, and Joelswung the chair with all his strength into theGerman’s head. The driver arched back off his feet,tray and dishes crashing to the floor. He wasstunned, nothing more. Converse kicked the doorshut and brought the heavy chair repeatedly downon the chauffeur’s skull until the man went limp,blood and saliva pouring down his eyes and face.

The phalanx of dogs had lurched as one at thesuddenly closed door and began to bark maniacallywhile clawing at the wood.

Joel grabbed the silver chain, slipped it over theunconscious German’s head and pulled the silverwhistle out of the pocket. There were four tinyholes on the tube; each meant something. He pulledthe remaining chair to the window at the right ofthe door, climbed up and put the whistle to his lips.He covered the first hole and blew into themouthpiece. There was no sound, but it had aneffect.

The Dobermans went mad! They began to attackthe door in suicidal assaults. He removed his finger,placed it over the second hole and blew.

The dogs were confused; they circled aroundeach other snapping, yelping, snarling, but still theywould not take their concentration off the door. Hetried the third tiny hole and blew into the whistlewith all the breath he had.

Suddenly, the dogs stopped all movement, theirtapered close-cropped ears upright, shifting theywere waiting for a second signal. He blew again,again with all the breath that was in him. It was thesound they were waiting for, and again, as one, thepack raced to the right beneath the window,

pounding to some other place where they weremeant to be by command.

Converse leaped down from the chair and kneltby the unconscious German. He went rapidlythrough the driver’s pockets, taking his billfold andall the money he had, as well as his wristwatch andhis gun. For an instant Joel looked at the weapon,loathing the memories it evoked. He shoved it underhis belt and went to the door.

Outside, he pulled the heavy door shut, heardthe click of the lock and slid the bolt in place. Heran up the dirt path estimating the distance to thefork where the right leg was verboten and the left ledto the steep hill and the sight of the Rhine below. Itwas actually no more than two hundred yards away,but the winding curves and the thick borderingfoliage made it seem longer. If he rememberedaccurately and on the walk back he was like a pilotwithout instruments relying on sightings there wasa flat stretch of about eighty feet below the fork.

He reached it, the same flat area, the samediverging paths up ahead. He ran faster.

Voices! Angry, questioning? Not far away andcoming nearer! He dove into the brush to his right,rolling over the needle-like bushes until he couldbarely see through the foliage. Two men walkedrapidly into his limited view, talking loudly, as ifarguing but somehow not with each other.

“Was haben die Hunde?”

“Die sollten bat Heinrich sein!”

Joel had no idea what they were saying; he onlyknew as they passed him that they were heading forthe isolated cabin. He also knew that they would potspend much time trying to raise anyone inside beforethey took more direct methods. And once they did,all the alarms in LeifLelm’s fortress would beactivated. Time was measured for him in minutesand he had a great deal of ground to cover. He creptcautiously out of the brush on his hands and feet.The Germans were out of sight, beyond a roundingcurve. He got up and raced for the fork and thesteep hill to the left.

The three guards at the immense iron gate thatwas the entrance to Leifhelm’s estate werebewildered. The pack of Dobermans were circlingaround impatiently in the out grass, obviouslyconfused.

“Why are they here?” asked one man.

“It makes no sense!” replied a second.

“Heinrich has let them loose, but why?” said the third.

“Nobody tells us anything,” muttered the first guard,shrugging. “If we don’t hear something in the next fewminutes, we should call.”

“I don’t like this!” shouted the second guard. “I’mcalling right now!”

The first guard walked into the gatehouse and pickedup the telephone.

Converse ran up the steep hill, his breath short, hislips dry, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. There itwas! The river! He started running down, gatheringspeed, the wind whipping his face, stinging him. It wasexhilarahng. He was back! He was racing through thesudden, open clearings of another jungle, no fellowprisoners to worry about, only the outrage within himselfto prod him, to make him break through the barriersand somehow, somewhere, strike back at those who hadstripped him naked and raped an innocenceand goddamn it turned him into an animal! Areasonably pleasant human being had been turned intoa half-man with more hatreds than a person should livewith. He would get back at them all, all enemies, allanimals!

He reached the bottom of the open slope of gnarledgrass

and bush, the trees and intertwining underbrushonce more

a wall to be penetrated. But he had his bearings; nomatterhow dense the woods, he simply had to keep the lastrays ofthe sun on his left, heading due north, and he wouldreachthe river.

Rapid explosions made him spin around. Fivegunshots followed one upon the other in the distance. Itwas easy to imagine the target: a circle of wood aroundthe cylinder of a lock in the door of an isolated cabin inthe forest. His jailhouse was being assaulted, entrancegained. The minutes were growing shorter.

And then two distinctly different sounds pierced thetwilight, interwoven in dissonance. The first was a seriesof short, staccato bursts of a high-pitched siren. Thesecond, between and under the repeated blasts, was thehysterical yelping of running dogs. The alarms had beenset off; scraps of discarded clothing and slept-on sheetswould be pressed onto inflamed nostrils and theDobermans would come after him, no quarter

considered no cornered prey only animal teethripping human flesh a satisfactory reward.

Converse plunged into the wall of green and ranas fast as he could, dodging, crouching, lurchingfrom one side to the other, his arms outstretched, hishands working furiously against the strong, suppleimpediment of the woods. His face and body wererepeatedly whipped by slashing branches andobstinate limbs, his feet continually tripped by fallendebris and exposed roots. He stumbled more timesthan he could count, each time bringing an instant ofsilence that emphasized the sound of the dogssomewhere between the fork and the hill and thelower forest. They were no farther away, perhapsnearer. They were nearer, they had entered thewoods. All around him were the echoes of theirhysteria, punctuated by howling yelps of frustrationas one or another or several were caught in thetangled ground cover, straining and roaring to befree to join the pursuit.

The water! He could see the water through thetrees. Sweat was now rolling down his face, the saltblinding his eyes and stinging the scrapes on his neckand chin. His hands were bleeding from the sharpnettles and the coarse bark everywhere.

He fell, his foot plunging into a hole burrowed bysome riverbank animal, his ankle twisted and in pain.

He got up, pulling at his leg, freeing his foot,and, limping badly, tried to resume running. TheDobermans were gaining, the yelping and the harshbarking louder and more furious; they had picked uphis direct scent, the trail of undried sweat maddeningthem, preparing them for the kill.

The riverbank! It was filled with soft mud andfloating debris, a webbing of nature’s garbage caughtin a cavity, whirling slowly, waiting for a strongcurrent to pull it all away. Joel grabbed the handleof the chauffeur’s gun, not to pull it out but tosecure it as he limped down the bank to look for thequickest way into the water.

He heard nothing until the instant when amassive roar came out of the shadows and the hugebody of an animal flew through the air over theriverbank directly at him. The monstrous face of thedog was contorted with fury, the eyes on fire, theenormous jaw widest all teeth and a gaping, shiningblack mouth. Converse fell to his knees as theDoberman whipped past his right shoulder, rippinghis shirt with its upper eye teeth and flipping over onits back in the mud. The

momentary defeat was more than the animal couldstand. It writhed furiously, rolling over, snarling,then rising on its hind legs, lunged up from the mudfor Joel’s groin.

The gun was in his hand. Converse fired,blowing off the top of the attack dog’s head; bloodand tissue sprayed the shadows, and the slack,shining jaws fell into his crotch.

The rest of the pack was now racing toward thebank, accompanied by ear-shattering crescendos ofanimal cries. Joel threw himself into the water andswam as rapidly as he could away from theshoreline; the weapon was an impediment but heknew he could not let it go.

Years ago centuries ago he had desperatelyneeded a weapon, knowing it could be the differencebetween survival and death, and forgive days nonecould be had. But on that fifth day he had found oneon the banks of the Huong Khe. He had }boated halfunderwater past a squad on patrol, and found thepoint ten minutes later downriver too far from thescout’s unit to be logical a man perha ps thinkingangry thoughts that made him walk faster, or boredwith his job and wanting a few moments to be byhimself and out of it all. Whichever, it made nodifference to that soldier. Converse had killed him witha rock from the river and had taken his gun. He hadfired that gun twice, twice saving his life before hereached an advance unit south of Phu Loc.

As he pushed against the shoreline currents ofthe Rhine, Joel suddenly remembered. This was thefifth day of his imprisonment in Leifhelm’scompound no jungle cell, to be sure, but no less aprison camp. He had done it! And on the fifth daya weapon was his! There were omens wherever onewished to find them; he did not believe in omens,but for the moment he accepted the possibility.

He was in the shadows of the river now, thesurrounding mountains blocking the dying sun. Hepaddled in place and turned. Back on shore, at thecavity in the bank that had been his plank to thewater, the dogs were circling in confused anger,snarling, yelping, as several ventured down to snifftheir slain leader, each urinating as it didso territory and status were being established. Thebeams of powerful flashlights suddenly brokethrough the trees. Converse swam farther out; hehad survived searchlights in the Mekong. He had nofear of them now; he had been there here and heknew when he had won.

He let the outer currents carry him east along theriver.

Somewhere there would be other lights, lights thatwould lead him to shelter and a telephone. He had toget everything in place and build his brief quickly, buthe could do it. Yet the attorney in him told him thata man with a bandaged gunshot wound in soakedclothing and speaking a foreign language in thestreets was no match for the disciples of GeorgeMarcus Delavane; they would find him. So it wouldhave to be done another way with whatever artificeshe could muster. He had to get to a telephone. Hehad to place an overseas call. He could do it; hewould do it! The Huong Khe faded; the Rhine wasnow his lifeline.

Swimming breaststroke, the gun still gripped inhis hand, his arm smarting in the water, he saw thelights of a village in the distance.

Valerie frowned as she listened on the phone inher studio, the spiraling cord outstretched as shereached over and placed a brush in the track of hereasel. Her eyes scanned the sunlit dunes outside theglass doors, but her mind was on the words she washearing, words that implied things without sayingthem. "Larry, what’s wrong with you?” she interrupted,unable to hold herself in check any longer. “Joel’s notjust an employee or a junior partner, he’s your friend! You sound like you’re trying to build a case againsthim. What’s that term you all use? . . .Circumstantial, that’s it. He was here, he was there;someone said this and somebody else said that.”

“I’m trying to understand, Val,” protested Talbot,who had called from his office in New York. “You’vegot to try to understand too. There’s a great deal Ican’t tell you because I’ve been instructed by peoplewhose offices I have to respect to say very little orpreferably nothing at all. I’m bending thoseinstructions because Joel is my friend and I want tohelp.”

“All right, let’s go back,” said Valerie. “Whatexactly were you leading up to?”

“I know it’s none of my damned business and Iwouldn’t ask it if I didn’t think I had to ”

“I'll accept that,” agreed Val. “Now, what is it?”

“Well, I know you and Joel had your problems,”continued the senior partner of Talbot, Brooks andSimon, as though he were referring to aninconsequential spat between children. “But thereare problems and there are problems.”

“Larry,” interrupted Val again. “There wereproblems. We’re divorced. That means the problemswere serious.’

“Was physical abuse one of them?” asked Talbotquickly in a low voice, the words obviouslyrepugnant to him.

Valerie was stunned; it was a question shewould never have expected. “What?”

You know what I mean. In fits of anger did hestrike you? Cause you bodily harm?”

"You’re not in a courtroom, and the answer isno, of course not. I might have welcomed it atleast the anger.’

I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,’ said Valerie, recovering from herastonishment. "I don’t know what prompted you toask, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Joelhad far more effective ways to deflate my ego thanhitting me. Among them, dear Larry was hisdedication to the career of one Joel Converse inTalbot, Brooks and Simon.”

“I’m aware of that, my dear, and I’m sorry.Those complaints are perennial in the divorcecourts and I’m not sure there’s anything we can doabout them not in this day and age, perhaps notever. But that’s different. I’m talking about his blackmoods we knew he had them.”

“Do you know any rational person who doesn’t?”asked the former Mrs. Converse. “This isn’t reallythe best of all possible worlds, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. But then Joel lived through aperiod of time in a far worse world than most of uswill ever know or could imagine. I can’t believe heemerged from it without a scar or two “

Valerie paused, touched by the older man’sunadorned directness; it had its basis in concern.“You’re sweet Larry and I suspect you’re right infact, I know it. So I think you should tell me morethan you have. The term physical abuse is what youlawyers call a leading something-or-other. It s notfair because it could also be misleading. Come on,Larry, be fair. He’s not my husband anymore, butwe didn t break apart

because he chased girls or bashed my head in. I maynot want to be married to him but I respect him.He’s got his problems and l ve got mine, and nowyou’re implying his are a lot bigger. What’shappened?”

Talbot was silent for a moment, then blurted outthe words, again quickly, quietly; once more theywere obviously repugnant to him. " They say heassaulted a man in Paris without provocation. Theman died.”

“No, that’s impossible! He didn’t, he couldn’t!”

“That’s what he told me, but he lied. He told mehe was in Amsterdam, but he wasn’t. He said he wasgoing back to Paris to clear things up, but he didn’tgo. He was in Cermany he’s still somewhere inGermany. He hasn’t left the country and Interpolhas a warrant for him; they’re searching everywhere.Word reached him to turn himself in to theAmerican embassy but he refused. He’sdisappeared.”

“Oh, my God, you’re all so wrong!” explodedValerie. “You don’t know him! If what you sayhappened, he was at-tacked first physicallyattacked and had no choice but to hit back!”

“Not according to an impartial witness who didn’tknow either man.”

“Then he’s not impartial, he’s Iying! Listen to me.I lived with that man for four years and, except fora few trips, all of them in New York City. I’ve seenhim accosted by drunks and street garbage punkshe could have pushed through the pavements, andperhaps some of them he should have but I neversaw him so much as take a step forward. He’d simplyraise the palms of his hands and walk away. A fewtimes some damn fools would call him names andhe’d just stand there and look at them. And let metell you, Larry, that look was enough to make youfeel cold all over. But that’s all he’d do, neveranything more.”

“Val, I want to believe you. I want to believe itwas self-defence, but he ran away, he’s disappeared.The embassy can help him, protect him, but he won’tcome in.”

“Then he’s frightened. That can happen, but itwas always for only a few minutes, usually at nightwhen he’d wake up. He’d bolt up, his eyes shut sotight his whole face was a mass of wrinkles. It neverlasted long, and he said it was perfectly natural andnot to worry about it he didn’t, he said. And Idon’t think he really did; he wanted all that in thepast, none of it was ever mentioned.”

“Perhaps it should have been,” said Talbot softly.

Valerie replied with equal softness, “douche.Larry. Don’t think I haven’t thought about thatthese last couple of years. But whatever’s happenedhe’s acting this way only because he’s afraid youknow it’s quite possible he’s been hurt. Or, oh myCrJd “

“All the hospitals and registered doctors havebeen checked,” Talbot broke in.

"Well, damn it, there’s got to be a reason! Thisisn’t like him and you know it!”

“That’s just it, Val. Nothing he’s done is like theman I know. "

The ex-Mrs. Converse stiffened. “To use one ofJoel’s favorite expressions,” she said apprehensively,“clarification please?”

”Why not?” answered Talbot, the question wasdirected as much at himself as her. “Perhaps you canshed some light; nobody else can.”

“What about this man in Paris, the one who died?”

“There’s not much to tell; apparently he was achauffeur for one of those limousine services.According to the witness a basement guard in thehotel, Joel approached him, yelled something at himand pushed him out the door. There were sounds ofa scuffle and a few minutes later the man was foundseverely beaten in an alley.”

"It’s ridiculous! What did Joel say?”

“That he walked out the door, saw two menfighting and ran to tell the doorman on the way tohis taxi.”

“That’s what he’d have done,” said Val firmly.

“The doorman at the George Cinq says it didn’thappen. The police say follicles of hair found on thebeaten man matched those in Joel’s shower.”

“Utterly unbelievable!”

“Let’s say there was provocation we don’t knowabout,” Talhot went on rapidly. “It doesn’t explainwhat happened later, but before I tell.you, I want toask you another question. You’ll understand.”

“I don’t understand a single thing! What is its”

“During those periods of depression, his darkmoods, did Joel ever fantasise? I mean, did heindulge in what psychiatrists call role-playing?”

“You mean did he assume other personalities,other kinds of behavior?”

Exactly.”

"Absolutely not.”

" Oh.”

“Oh, what? Let’s have it, Larry.”

“Talking about what’s believable and what isn t,you’re in for a jolt, my dear. According to thosepeople who don’t want me to say very much andyou’ll have to take my word they know Joel flewinto Germany claiming he was involved in anundercover investigation of the embassy in Bonn.”

“Perhaps he wasl He was on a leave of absencefrom T. B. and S., wasn’t he?”

“On an unrelated matter in the private sector,that much we know. There is noinvestigation undercover or otherwise of theembassy in Bonn. Frankly, the people who reachedme were from the State Department.”

“Oh, my God . . . ” Valerie fell silent, but beforethe lawyer could speak, she whispered, “Geneva. Thathorrible business in Genevat”

“If there’s a connection and both Nathan and Iconsidered it first it’s so buried it can’t befollowed.”

“It’s there. It’s where it all started.”

“Assuming your husband’s rational.”

“He’s not my husband and he is rational!”

“The scars, Val. There had to be scars. Youagreed with me.”

"Not the kind you’re talking about. Not killing,and Iying and running away That’s not Joel! Thatisn’t wasn’t my husband!”

“The mind is a highly complex and delicateinstrument. The stresses of the past can leap forwardfrom years ago “

“Get off it, Larry!” shouted Valerie. “Save it fora jury, but don’t pin that nonsense on Converse!”

“You’re upset.”

“You’re damned right I am! Because you’relooking for explanations that don’t fit the man! Theyfit what you’ve been told. By those people you sayyou have to respect.”

“Only in the sense that they’reknowledgeable they have access to information wedon’t have. Then there’s the overriding fact that theyhadn’t the faintest idea who Joel Converse was untilthe American Bar Association gave them the addressand telephone number of Talbot, Brooks and Simon.

“And you believed them? With everything you know

about Washington you simply accepted their word?How many fumes did Joel come back from a trip toWashington and say the same thing to me? “Larrysays they’re Iying. They don’t know what to do, sothey’re Iying.’ ”

"Valerie,” said the attorney sternly. “This isn’t acase of bureaucratic clearance, and after all theseyears I think I can tell the difference betweensomeone playing games and a man who’s genuinelyangry angry and frightened, I should add. The manwho reached me was an Undersecretary of State,Brewster Tolland I had a call-backconfirmation and he wasn’t putting on an act. Hewas appalled, furious, and, as I say, a very worriedman.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, of course. Not only because it wasthe right thing to do, but it wouldn’t help Joel to doanything else. If he’s ill he needs help, notcomplicity.”

“And you deal with Washington every week.”

“Several times a week, and of course it was aconsideration.”

“I’m sorry, Larry, that was unfair.”

“But realistic, and I meant what I said. Itwouldn’t help Joel to lie for him. You see, I reallybelieve something’s happened. He’s not himself.”

“Wait a minute,” cried Valerie, the obviousstriking her. “Maybe it’s not Joel!”

“It’s him,” said Talbot simply.

“Why? Just because people you don’t know inWashington say it is?”

“No, Val,” replied the lawyer. “Because I spokewith Rene in Paris before Washington entered thepicture.”

“”Maffilon?",

“Joel went to Paris to ask for Rene’s help. Helied to him just as he lied to me, but it was morethan the lies Mattilon and I agreed on that. It wassomething he saw in Joel’s eyes something I heardin his voice. An unhinging, a form of desperation;Rene saw it and I heard it. He tried to conceal itfrom both of us but he couldn’t. When I last spoketo him, he hung up before we’d finished talking, inthe middle of the sentence, his voice echoing like azombie’s.”

Valerie stared at the harsh, dancing reflectionsof sunlight off the waters of Cape Ann. “Reneagreed with you?’ she asked, barely above a whisper.

“Everything I’ve just told you we said to each other.”

" Larry, I’m frightened.’

ChaimAbrahms walked into the room, his heavyboots pounding the floor. “So he did it!’ shouted theIsraeli. ”The Mossad was right, he s a hellhound!”

Erich Leifhelm sat behind his desk, the onlyother person in the book-lined study. “Patrols,alarms, dogs!’ cried the German, slamming his frailhand on the red blotter. “How did he do it?”

“I repeat a hellhound that’s what our specialistcalled him. The longer he’s restricted, the angrier hegets. It goes back a long time. So our provocateurstarts his odyssey before we planned. Have you been’in touch with the others?”

“I’ve called London,” said Leifhelm, breathingdeeply. “He’ll reach Paris, and Bertholdier will havethe units flown up from Marseilles, one to Brussels,the other here to Bonn. We can’t waste an hour.”

“You’re looking for him now, of course.

“Naturlich! Every inch of the shoreline for milesin both directions. Every back road and path thatleads up from the river and into the city.’

“He can elude you, he’s proven it.

“Where can he go, sabre? To his own embassy?There he’s a dead man. To the Bonn police or theStaatspolizei? He ll be put in an armored van andbrought back here. He goes nowhere.”

“I heard that when he left Paris, and I heard itagain when he flew into Bonn. Errors were made inboth places both costing a great many hours. I tellyou I’m more concerned now than at any moment inthree wars and a lifetime of skirmishes.”

“Be reasonable, Chaim, and try to be calm. Hehas no clothes but what he wears in the river andthe mud, he possesses no identification, no passport,no money. He doesn’t speak the language “

“He has money!” yelled Abrahms, suddenlyremembering. “When he was under the needle, hespoke of a large sum of money promised in Genevaand delivered on Mykonos.”

“And where is it?” asked Leifhelm. “In this desk,that’s where it is. Nearly seventy thousand Americandollars. He hasn’t got a deutsche mark in his pocket,or a watch or a piece of jewelry. A man in filthy,soaked clothing, with no idenhfication, no money, nocoherent use of the language, and telling

an outlandish tale of imprisonment involving derCeneral LeifLelm, would undoubtedly be put in jailas a vagrant or a psychopath or both. In which case,we shall be informed instantly and our people willbring him to us. And bear in mind, sabre, by teno’clock tomorrow morning it won’t make anydifference. That was your contribution, the Mossad’singenuity. We simply had the resources to make itcome to pass as is said in the Old Testament.”

Abrahms stood in front of the enormous desk,arms akimbo above the pockets of his safari jacket." So the Jew and the {elect marshal set it all inmotion. Ironical, isn’t it, Nazi?”

“Not as much as you think,Jude. Impurity, aswith beauty, is in the eye of the frightened beholder.You are not my enemy; you never were. If more ofus in the old days had your commitment, youraudacity, we never would have lost the war.”

“I know that,’ said the sabre. ”I watched andlistened when you reached the English Ch-annel.You lost it then. You were weak.”

“It was not us! It was the frightened Debutanten inBer

“Then keep them away when we create a trulynew orde,, Cerman. We can’t afford weakness.”

“You do try me, Chaim.”

“I mean to.”

The chauffeur felt the bandages on his face, theswelling around his eyes and his lips painful to thetouch. He was in his own room, where the doctorhad turned on the television probably as an insult,as he could barely see it.

He was disgraced. The prisoner had escaped inspite of his own formidable talents and thesupposedly impassable pack of Dobermans. TheAmerican had used the silver whistle, that much theother guards had told him, and the fact that it hadbeen removed from his neck was a furtherembarrassment.

He would not add to his disgrace. With blurredvision he had gone through his pockets which noone in the panic of the chase had thought todo and found that his billfold, his expensive Swisswatch, and all his money had been taken. He wouldsay nothing about them. He was embarrassedenough, and any such revelations might be cause fordismissal or conceivably his death.

Joel headed for the shoreline as fast as he could,submerging his head underwater whenever the beamof the searchlight swept toward him. The boat was alarge motor launch, its bass-toned engines signifyingpower, its sudden turns and circles evidence of rapidmaneuverability. It hugged the overgrown banks,then would sweep out toward the open water at theslightest sign of an object in the river.

Converse felt the soft mud below; he half swam,half trudged toward the darkest spot on the shore,the chauffeur’s gun securely in his belt. The boatapproached, its penetrating beam studying everyfoot, every moving branch or limb or cluster of riverweeds. Joel took a deep breath and slowly lows eredhimself under the water, his face angled up towardthe surface, his eyes open, his vision a muddy darkblur. The searchlight grew brighter and seemed tohover above him for an eternity; he inched his wayto the left and the beam moved away. He rose to thesurface, his lungs bursting, but suddenly realized hecould make no sound, he could not fill his chest withgasps of air. For directly above him, less than fivefeet away loomed the broad stern of the motorlaunch, bobbing in the water as if idling. The darkfigure of a man was peering through very largebinoculars at the riverbank.

Converse was bewildered; it was too dark now tosee anything even with magnification. Then heremembered, and the memory accounted for the sizeof the binoculars. The man was focusing throughinfrared lenses; they had been used by patrols inSoutheast Asia and were often the difference, he hadbeen told, between search-and-destroy andsearch-andbe-destroyed. They revealed objects in thedarkness, soldiers in the darkness.

The boat moved forward, but the idle increasedonly slightly, entering the slowest of trawling speeds.Again Joel was confused. What had broughtLeifhelm’s searching party to this particular spot onthe riverfront? There were several other boatsbehind and out in the distance, their searchlightssweeping the water, but they kept moving, circling.Why did the huge motor launch concentrate on thisstretch of the shore? Could they have spotted himthrough infrared binoculars? If they had, they wereproceeding very strangely; the North Vietnamese hadbeen far swifter more aggressive, more effective.

Silently, Converse lowered himself beneath thesurface and breaststroked out beyond the boat.Seconds later he

raised his head above the water, his vision clear,and he began to understand the odd maneuveringsof LeifLelm’s patrol. Beyond the darkest part of theriverbank into which he had lurched forconcealment were the lights he had seen eight ornine minutes ago, before the launch and itssearchlight monopolized all his attention. He hadthought they were the lights of a small village, buthe was in the wrong part of the world. Instead theywere the inside lights of four or five small houses,a river colony with a common dock, summer homesperhaps of those fortunate enough to ownwaterfront property.

If there were houses and a dock, there had to bea drive an open passage up to the road or roadsleading into Bonn and the surrounding towns.Leifhelm’s men were combing every inch of theriverbank, cautiously, quietly, the searchlights angleddown so as not to alarm the inhabitants or forewarnthe fugitive if he had reached the cluster of cottagesand was on his way up to the unseen road or roads.A ship’s radio would be activated, its frequencyaligned to those in cars roaming above, ready tospring the trap. In some ways it was the Huong Kheagain for Joel, the obstacles far less primitive but noless lethal. And then as now there was a bme towait, to wait in the black silence and let the huntersmake their moves.

They made them quickly. The launch slid intothe dock, the powerful twin screws quietly churningin reverse, as a man jumped off the bow with aheavy line and looped it around a piling. Threeothers followed, instantly racing off the short pierup onto the sloping lawn, one heading diagonally tothe right, the other two toward the first house.What they were doing was obvious: one man wouldposition himself in the bordering woods of thedownhill entrance drive while his colleagues checkedthe houses, looking for signs of entry.

Converse’s arms and legs began to feel likeweights, each an anvil he could barely support,much less keep moving, but there was no choice.The beam of the searchlight kept moving up anddown the base of the riverbank, its spill illuminatingeverything in its vicinity. A head surfacing at thewrong moment would be blown out of the water.Huong Khe. Tread water in the reeds. Do it! Don "tdie!

He knew the waiting was no longer than thirtyminutes, but it seemed more like thirty hours orthirty days suspended in a floabng torture rack. Hisarms and legs were now in

agony; sharp pains shot through his bodyeverywhere; muscles formed cramps that hedispersed by holding his breath and Hoating in afetal position, his thumbs pressing relentlessly intothe cores of the knotted muscles. Twice whilegasping for air he swallowed water, coughing it outbelow the surface, his nostrils drowning, and twicefound the air again. There were moments when itcrossed his inner consciousness that it would be sosimple just to drift away. Huang Khe. Don’t do it!Don "t die!

Finally through waterlogged eyes he saw the menreturning. One, two . . . three? . . . They ran down tothe dock, to the man with the rope. No! The manwith the rope had rushed forward! His eyes wereplaying tricks! Only two men had run onto the dock,the first man joining them, asking questions. The lineman returned to the piling and released the rope;the other two jumped on board. The first man onceagain joined his companions, now on the bow of thelaunch leaving another on shore, a lone observersomewhere unseen between the riverbank and theroad above. Huong Khe. An infantry scout separatedfrom his patrol.

The motor launch swung away from the dock andsped within a few feet past Joel, who was buffetedunderwater by its wake. Once more the boat veeredtoward the shoreline and slowed down, its searchlightpeering into the dense foliage of the bank, headingwest, back toward LeifLelm’s estate. Converse heldhis head above the surface, his mouth wide open,swallowing all the air he could as he made his wayslowly very slowly into the mud. He pulledhimself up through the wet reeds and branches untilhe felt dry ground. Huong Khe. He pulled theunderbrush over him as best he could, finallycovering his upturned face. He would rest until hefelt the blood flowing steadily if painfully through hislimbs, until the muscles of his neck lost theirtension it was always the neck; the neck was thewarning signal and then he would consider the manon the dark hill above him.

He dozed, until a slapping wave below woke him.He pushed the branches and the leaves away fromhis face and looked at the chauffeur’s watch on hiswrist, squinting at the weak radium dial. He hadslept for nearly an hour fitfully, to be sure, theslightest sounds forcing his eyelids briefly open, buthe had rested. He rolled his neck back and forth,then moved his arms and legs. Everything still hurt,but the excruciating pain was gone. And now hefaced a man on a hill above

him. He tried to examine his thoughts. He wasfrightened, of course, but his anger would controlthat terrible fear, it had done so before, it would doso now. The objective was all that mattered somekind of sanctuary, a place where he could think andput things together and somehow make the mostimportant telephone call in his life. To Larry Talbotand Nathan Simon in New York. Unless he coulddo these things he was dead as Connal Fitzpatrickwas undoubtedly dead. esus! What had they done tohim? A man with the purity of vengeance purelysought caught in a diseased web called Aquitainel Itwas an unfair world…. But he could not think aboutit; he had to concentrate on a man on the hill.

He crept on his hands and knees. Stretch bystretch he crawled through the woods bordering thedirt road that wound up the hill from the lawn andthe riverbank. Whenever a twig crunched or a rockwas displaced he stopped, waiting for the moment todissolve back into the sounds of the forest. He kepttelling himself he had the advantage; he was theunexpected. It helped counteract the fear of thedarkness and the knowledge that a physicalconfrontation was before him. Like the patrol scoutyears ago in the Huang Khe, that man above himnow had things he needed. The combat could not beavoided, so it was best not to think about it but tosimply force himself into a mind-set empty of anyfeeling, and do it. But do it well, his mind had tounderstand that, too. There could be no hesitation,no intrusions of conscience and no sound of a gun,only the use of the steel.

He saw him, oddly enough, silhouetted in thedistant glare of a single streetlamp far above on aroad. The man was leaning against the trunk of atree and facing down, his sweep of vision taking ineverything below. As Joel crept up the slope thespace between his hands and knees became inches,the stops more frequent, silence more vital. Hemade his way in an arc above the tree and the manand then started down like a large cat descending onits prey. He was the predator he had once been longago, everything blocked out but the requirement ofthe lifeline.

He was within six feet; he could hear the man’sbreathing. There was a snap beneath him. A branchThe scout turned his eyes alive in the glare of light.Converse lunged, the barrel of the gun gripped inhis hand. He crashed the steel handle into theGerman’s temple and then into his throat. The manfell backward, dazed but not unconscious; he startedto

screarn..loel sprang for his enemy’s neck and halfchoked him before bringing the steel handle downwith all his strength on the C;erman’s forehead,instantly there was an eruption of blood and crushedtissue.

Silence. No movement. Anotile’; SC’C'lltseparated from his patrol had been taken out. Andas be hac] years ago, Converse permitted himself nofeeling. it was done, and he had to go on.

The man’s dry clothes, including the dark leatherjacket, fit reasonably well. Like most small ormedium-sized commanders, LeiFhelm surroundedhimself with tall men, as much to protect himself asto proclaim his superiority over his largercompatriots.

There was also another gull; Joel struggled with the clip, removed it, and threw it along with the weapon into the woods. The bonus came with the German's billfold; it contained a sizable sum of money as well as a frayed, much stamped passport. Apparently, this trusted employee of Leifhelm traveled widely for aquitaine probably knowing nothing and being very expendable, but always available at the moment of decision. The mall shoes did not fit; they were too small. So Converseused his drenched clothing to wipe his OWI1, and the German’s dry socks helped to absorb some of the moisture of the leather inside. He covered the manwith branches and walked up the hit’ to the road.

He stayed out of sight between the trees as fivecars passed by, all sedans, all possibly belonging toErich Leifhelm. Then he saw a bright-yellowVolkswagen come into view, weaving slightly. Hestepped out and held up his hands, the gesture of aman in trouble.

The small car stopped a blond girl in thepassenger seat, the driver no more than eighteen ortwenty, another young man in back, also blond, wholooked as though he might be the girl’s brother.

“Was ist los, Opa?” asked the driver.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak German. Can you speakany English?”

“I speak some English,” said the boy in back,slurring his words. “Better than these two! All theywant to do is get to our place and make love. See! Ido speak English?”

“You certainly do, and very well, indeed. Wouldyou explain to them, please? Frankly, I’ve had a fightwith my wife

at a party down there you know, at thosecottages and I want to get back to Bonn. I'll pay you, of course.”

“Ein Streit mit seiner Frau! Er will nach Bonn. Erwind uns hezahlen.”

“Warum night? Sie hat mich halite sowieso schonzu viol gekostet,” said the driver.

“Nichtfuer was du kriegst, du Drecksack!” criedthe girl laughing.

“Get in, main Herr! We are your chauffeurs.Just pray he stays on the road, ja! What hotel areyou staying ate”

“Actually, I’d rather not go back there. I’mreally very angry. I’d like to teach her a lesson bystaying away tonight. Do you think you could findme a room? I’ll pay you even more, of course.Frankly, I’ve been drinking a bit myself.”

“Ein betrunkener Tourist! Er will ein Hotel.Fahren wir ihn ins Rosencafe?”

“sort sind mehr Nutten als der alte knocker schafft. “

We are your guides, Amerikaner, ” said theyoung man beside Converse. “We are students fromthe university who will not only find you a room,but with excellent prospects of getting back at yourwife with some pleasure! There’s also a cafe. You’llbuy us a lager or six, ja?’

“All you want. But Ed also like to make atelephone call. To the United States it’s business.Will I be able to?”

“Most everyone in Bonn speaks English. If theydon’t at this Rosbencafe, I, myself, will take care ofit Six lager th h

“Twelve, if you like.”

“Da wird es im Pissoir sine t"berschwemmunggeben!”

He knew the rate of exchange, and once insidethe raucous cafe actually a run-down bar favoredby the university crowd he counted the money hehad taken from the two Germans. It was roughlyfive hundred dollars, over three from the man onthe hill. The seedy clerk at the registration deskexplained in convoluted English that, indeed, theswitchboard could place a call to America, but itmight take several minutes. Joel left fifty dollars indeutsche marks for his youthful Good Samaritans,excused himself and headed for his room such asit was. An hour later the call came through

“Larry?”

“Joel?”

“Thank God you’re there!” cried Converse in relief.

“You ll never know how I kept hoping you weren’tout of town. Getting a call through from here is abitch!’

“ I m here, said Talbot, his voice suddenly calmand in control. ”Where are you. Joel?” he askedquietly.

“Some poor excuse for a hotel in Boml. I justgot here. I didn t get the name. ”

You re in a hotel in Bonn but you don t knowwhich one?

"it doesn’t matter, Larry! Get Simon on the lineI want to talk to you both. Quickly.’

"Nathan s in court He should be back here byfour o clock our time. That’s about an hour fromnow.

“Coddamn it!”

“Take it easy, Joel. Don’t upset yourself.”

“Don’t upset. . . ? For Christ s sake, I ve beenlocked up in a stone cabin with bars in the windowsfor five days! I broke out a couple of hours ago, andran like hell through the woods with a pack of dogsand lunatics carrying guns chasing me. I spent anhour in the water damn near drowning before Icohuldd reach land without getting my head shot offand the

“ You had to what, Joel?” asked Talbot, astrange passivity in his voice ”What did you have todo?’

"Goddamn it, Larry, I may have killed a man toget out of there!’

"You had to kill someone, Joel? Why did youthink you had to do that?”

“He was waiting for me! They were searching forme! On the land, in the woods along theriverbanks he was a scout separated from hispatrol. Scouts, patrols! I had to get out, get away!And you tell me not to be upset!”

" Calm down, Joel, try to get hold of yourself….You escaped before, didn’t you? A long time ago “

"What s that got to do with anything? Conversebroke in.

“You had to kill people then, didn t you? Thosememories must always be with you

Larry, that s bullshit! Listen to me and takedown everything I say the names I give you, thefacts get it all down.

“Perhaps I should bring Janet on the line. Hershorthand

"No! Only you, no one else! They can trace people,any

one who knows anything. It’s not that complicated.Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

Joel sat down on the narrow bed and took adeep breath. “The best way to put it as it was putto me, but you don’t have to write this down, justunderstand is that they’ve come back.”

“Who?”

“The generals field marshals, admirals,colonels allies and enemies, all field and fleetcommanders and above. They’ve come togetherfrom everywhere to change things, changegovernments and laws and foreign policies, every-thing to be based on military priorities anddecisions. It’s crazy, but they could do it. We’d liveout their fantasies because they’d be in control,believing they’re right and selfless anddedicated as they’ve always believed.’

“Who are these people, Joel?”

“Yes, write this down. The organisation is calledAquitaine. It’s based on a historical theory that theregion in France once known as Aquitaine mighthave become all of Europe and by extension ascolonies the North American continent as well.”

“Whose theory?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s just a theory. Theorganizahon was conceived by General GeorgeDelavane he was known as Mad Marcus inVietnam and I saw only a fraction of the damagethat son of a bitch did! He’s pulled in militarypersonnel from all over the place, all commanders,and they’re fanning out recruiting their own kind,fanatics who believe as they do, that theirs is theonly way. For the past year or so they’ve beenshipping illegal weapons and armaments to terroristgroups, encouraging destabilisation wherever theycan, the ultimate purpose being that they’ll becalled in to restore order, and when they do, they’lltake over…. Five days ago I met with Delavane’skey men from France and Germany Israel andSouth Africa and, I think, possibly England.”

“You met with these people, Joel? Did theyinvite you to a meeting?”

“They thought I was one of them, that I believedin everything they stood for. You see, Larry, theydidn’t know how much I hated them. They hadn’tbeen where I’d been, hadn’t seen what I saw asyou said, years ago.”

“When you had to escape,” added Talbotsympathetical

ly. “When you had to kill people times you’ll neverforget. They must have been terrible for you.”

“Yes, they were. Goddamn it, yes! Sorry, let’s stayon course. I’m so bred still frightened, too, I think.”

“Relax, Joel.”

“Sure. Where was I?” Converse rubbed his eyes.“Oh, yes, I remember. They got information on me,information from my service record, my status as aPOW, which wasn’t actually part of the record, butthey got it and they found out what and who I was.They heard the words that told them how much Ihated them, hated what Delavane had done whatthey all had done. They drugged me, got whateverthey could and threw me into a Godforsaken stonehouse set in the middle of the woods above theRhine. While under the chemicals I must have toldthem everything I knew “

“Chemicals?” asked Talbot, obviously neverhaving heard the term.

Amytols, Pentothals, scopolamine. I’ve been theroute, Larry. I’ve been there and back.”

"You have? Where?”

In the camps. It’s immaterial.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

“It is! The point is they found out what I know.That means they’ll move up their schedule.”

“Schedule?”

“We’re in the countdown. Now! Two weeks, threeweeks, four at the outside! No one knows how orwhere or what the targets are, but there’ll beeruptions of violence and terrorism all over theplace, giving them the excuse to move in and takeover. “Accumulation,’ ”rapid acceleration,’ those werethe words they used! Right now in NorthernIreland everything’s blown apart, nothing butchaos whole armored divisions are moving in. Theydid it, Larry! It’s a test, a trial run for them! I’mgoing to give you the names.” Converse did so bothsurprised and annoyed that Talbot did not react toany of the men of Aquitaine. “Have you got them?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Those are the salient facts and the names I canvouch for. There’s a lot more people in the StateDepartment and the Pentagon, but the lists are inmy briefcase and it’s been stolen, or hiddensomewhere. I’ll get some rest and start writing outeverything I know, then call you in the morning. Ihave to get out of here. I’m going to need help.”

“I agree, so may I talk now?” said the lawyer inNew York in that odd flat voice. “First, where areyou, Joel? Look on the phone or read the print onan ashtray or check the desk; there must bestationery.”

“There’s no desk and the ashtrays are chippedglass. . . . Wait a minute, I picked up some matchesfrom the bar when I bought cigarettes.” Conversereached into the pocket of the leather jacket andpulled out the book of matches. “Here it is.Riesendrinks. "

Look below that. My German is limited, but Ithink it means big drinks’ or something.’

“Oh? Then it must be this. "Rosencafe.’”

“That sounds more like it. Spell it for me, Joel.”

Converse did, an undefined feeling disturbinghim. “Have you got it?” he asked. “Here’s atelephone number.” Joel read off the numbersprinted on the cover.

“Good, that’s splendid,” said Talbot. “But beforeyou get off the line and I know you need restbadly I have a couple of questions.”

“I would hope to hell you do!”

“When we spoke after that man was hurt inParis, after that fight you saw in the alley, you toldme you were in Amsterdam. You said you weregoing to Hy back to Paris and see Rene, straighteneverything out. Why didn’t you, Joel?”

“For Cod’s sake, Larry, I just told you what I’vebeen through! It took every minute I had to setthings up. I was going after these people thisgoddamned Aquitaine and it could only be doneone way. I had to work myself in, I couldn’t wastetime!”

“That man died. Did you have anything to do withhis

“Christ, yes, I killed him! He tried to stop me,they all tried to stop me! They found me inCopenhagen and had me followed. They werewaiting for me at the airport here. It was a trap!”

“To stop you from reaching these men, thesegenerals and field marshals?”

“Yes!”

“Yet you just told me these same men invitedyou to meet with them.”

“I’ll spell it all out for you in the morning,” saidConverse wearily, the tension of the lasthours days culminating in exhaustion and awracking headache. “By then I’ll have ev

erything down on paper, but you may have to comeover here to get it and me. The main thing is we’rein touch. You’ve got the names, the overview, andyou know where I am. Talk with Nathan, think abouteverything I’ve said and the three of us will figureout what to do. We have contacts in Washington, butwe’ll have to be careful. We don’t know who’s withwhom. But there’s a plus here. Some of the materialI have I had could only have come from peopledown there. One view is that I was set in motion bythem, that men I don’t know are watching everymove I make because I’m doing what they can’t do.”

“By yourself,” said Talbot, agreeing. “WithoutWashington’s help. Without their help.”

“That’s right. They can’t show themselves; theyhave to stay in the background until I bring outsomething concrete. That was the plan. When youand Nathan talk, if you have questions call me. I’mjust going to lie down for an hour or so anyway.”

“I’ve got another question now, if you don’t mind.You know Interpol has an international warrant foryou.”

“I do.”

“And the American embassy is looking for you.”

“I know that, too.”

“I was told that word reached you to come intothe embassy.”

“You were told?”

“Why haven’t you done it, Joel?”

“Jesus, I can’t! Don’t you think I would if I could? The place is crawling with Delavane’s people. Well,that’s an exaggeration, but I know of three. I sawthem.”

“It’s my understanding that AmbassadorPeregrine himself got word to you, guaranteeing youprotection, confidentiality. Wasn’t that enough?”

“Your understanding . . .” The answer is no!Peregrine hasn’t any idea what he’s got inside thatplace. Or maybe he does. I saw Leifhelm’s car gothrough those gates like he had a lifetime pass. Atthree o’clock in the morning. Leifhelm’s a Nazi,Larry, he’s never been anything else! So what doesthat make Peregrine?”

“Come on, Joel. You’re maligning a man byimplication who doesn’t deserve it. Walter Peregrinewas one of the heroes of Bastogne. His command atthe Battle of the Bulge is

a legend of the war. And he was a reserve officer,not part of the regular Army. I doubt that Nazis arehis favorite guests. "

“His command? Another commander? Thenmaybe he knows exactly what he s got in thatembassy!”

“That’s not fair. His outspoken criticisms of thePentagon are a documented part of his postwarcareer. He’s called them megalomaniacs with toodamn much money feeding their egos at thetaxpayers’ expense. No, you’re not being fair, Joel.I think you should listen to him. Call him on thephone, talk to him.”

“ Not being fairy” said Converse softly, theundefined feel”ng coming Into focus, now awarning. Wait a minute! You’re the one who’s notbeing fair. I was told’. . . it’s my understanding?’What oracle have you been in touch with? Who’simparting these pearls of wisdom about me? Onwhat basis and where from?”

“All right, Joel, all right, calm down. Yes, I havetalked to people people who want to help you. Aman is dead in Paris, and now you say there’sanother in Bonn. You talk of scouts and patrols andthose horrible chemicals, and how you ran throughthe woods and had to hide in the river. Don t youunderstand, son? Nobody’s blaming you or evenholding you responsible. Something happened;you’re living it all over again.”

“My God!” broke in Converse, stunned. "Youdon’t believe a word I’ve said!”

You believe it, and that s all that matters. I sawmy share in North Africa and Italy, but nothing tocompare with what you went through later. Youhave a deep, understandable hatred for war and allthings military. You wouldn’t be human if youdidn’t, not with the suffering you experienced andthe terrible things you endured.”

"Larry, everything I’ve told you is true!”

Fine, splendid. Then reach Peregrine go to theembassy and tell them. They’ll listen to you. He’lllisten.”

Are you denser than I think?,’ shouted Joel. I just told you, I can t! I’d never get to see Peregrine!I’d get my head blown away!’

"I spoke to your wife sorry, your ex-wife. Shesaid you’d have these moments at night….”

“”You spoke to Val? You brought her into this!Christ, are you out of your mind ? Don’t you knowthey trace everyone

down ? It was right under your nose, counselor!LucasAnstett Stay away from her! Stay away orI’ll I’ll “

“You’ll what, son?” asked Talbot quietly. “Kiln’ me,too?”

“Oh, Jesus”

"Do as I say, Joel. Call Peregrine. Everything wilt beall

Suddenly Converse heard an odd sound over theline, odd in context but one he had heard hundredsof times before. It was a short buzz, barely significantbut there was significance to it. It was LawrenceTalbot’s courteous signal to his secretary to comeinto his office and pick up a revised letter or acorrected brief or a dictation tape. Joel knew what itwas now. The address of a seedy hotel in Bonn.

“All right, Larry,” he said, feigning an exhaustionthat was all too real. “I’m so damned tired. Let me liedown for a while and maybe I will call the embassy.Maybe I should get in touch with Peregrine.Everything’s so confused.”

“That’s the way, son. Everything’s going to be finenow. Just splendid.”

“Good-bye, Larry.”

“Good-bye for now, Joel. See you in a couple ofdays.”

Converse slammed down the phone and lookedaround the dimly lit room. What was he checkingfor? He had come with nothing and he would leavewith nothing but what was on his back what he hadstolen. And he had to leave quickly. He had to run.In minutes men would be speeding in cars from theembassy, and at least one of those men would havea gun and a bullet meant for him!

What in hell was happening to him? The truthwas a fantasy bolstered by lies, and the lies were hisonly means of survival. Insanity!

He ran past the elevator to the staircase,descending the steps two and three at a time, hishand on the iron railing as he lurched around thelandings, and reached the lobby door four storiesbelow. He swung it open, suddenly gripping the

edge and slowing his pace so as not to call attentionto himself. He need not have been concerned. Thesmall band of people milling about in front of thebenches against the wall and wandering around thewarm tile floor were the neighborhoodelderly,looking for nightly companionship, and a few drunkswalking in and out of the neon-lit door to the noisycafe. Oh Christ! His mind was in a frenzy. He couldwalk around in the night, hiding in alleys, but a loneman in unfamiliar streets was too easily spotted byunofficial hunters or by the official police. He hadto get inside somewhere, somehow. Out of sight.

The cafe! His Samaritans! He pulled up thecollar of the leather jacket and forced the belt ofthe trousers lower, inching down the gap around hisankles. He then approached the door casually,feigning a slight stagger as he pushed it open. Hewas greeted by Roating levels of smoke not all ofit tobacco, by any means and adjusted his stingingeyes to the erratically flashing lights as he tried toblock out the offending noise, a combination ofguttural roars and disco music blaring fromhigh-tech speakers. His Good Samaritans weregone: he looked for the young blond girl as his focalpoint, but she was not there. The table they hadoccupied was taken by another foursome no, notfour different people, only three, who had joinedthe English-speaking student who had sat besidehim in the car. The three were young men whoseemed also to be students. Joel approached them,and passing an empty chair in his path, he grippedthe back and unobtrusively pulled it behind him tothe table. He sat down and smiled at theblond-haired student.

“I didn’t know- if I’d left enough money forthose twelve beers I promised,” he said pleasantly

“Ach! I was just talking about you, HerrAmerJkaner! These are my friends like me, alldreadful students!” The three newcomers wereintroduced rapidly, the names lost in the music andthe smoke. Everyone nodded; the American waswelcome.

“Our other two friends left?”

“I told you,” shouted the blond youngsterthrough the noise. “They wished to drive to ourhouse and make love That’s all they do! Ourparents went to Bayreuth for the music festival, sothey shall make their own music on her bed and Ishall come home late!”

“Nice arrangement,” said Converse, trying to thinkof

how to broach the subject that had to be broachedquickly. He had very little time.

“Very good, sir!” said a dark-haired young man onhis right. “Hans would have missed that; his Englishis understandably inferior. I was an exchange studentin the state of Massachusetts for two years.”Arrangement’ is also a musical term. You combinedthe two! Very good, sir!’

“I keep trying,” saidJoel aimlessly, looking at thestudent. “You really speak English?” he askedsincerely.

“Very well. My scholarship depends upon it. Myfriends here are good people, make no mistake, butthey are rich and come here for amusement. As aboy, I lived two streets away from this place. Butthey protect the lads here, and why not? Let themhave fun; nobody is hurt and money is spread.”

“You’re sober,” said Converse, the statementbordering on a question.

The young man laughed as he nodded. “Tonight,yes. Tomorrow afternoon I have a difficult exam andneed a clear head. The summer-session examinationsare the worst. The professors would rather be onholiday.”

“I was going to talk to him,” said Joel, nodding atthe blond student, who was arguing with his twocompanions, his hands waving in the smoke, his voicestrident. “But that doesn’t make sense. You do.”

“In what sense, sir, if you will forgive theredundancy of the expression?”

“"Redundancy’? What’s your major?”

“Preliminary law, sir.”

“I don’t need that.”

“It is a difficulty, sir?”

“Not for me. Listen, I haven’t much time and Ihave a problem. I have to get out of here. I need tofind another place to stay just until tomorrowmorning. I assure you I’ve done nothing wrong,nothing illegal in case my clothes or my appearancegives another impression. It’s strictly a personalmatter. Can you help me?”

The dark-haired young German hesitated, as ifreluctant to answer, but nevertheless did so, leaningforward to be heard. “Since you bring up the subject,I’m sure you can understand that it would not beseemly for a student of the law to help a man underquestionable circumstances.”

“That’s exactly why I brought it up,” saidConverse rapidly, speaking into the student’s ear.“I’m an attorney and under

these clothes a reasonably respectable one. I simplytook on the wrong American client over here andcan’t wait to get a plane out tomorrow morning.”

The young man listened, studied Joel’s face andnodded. "Then these are not lodgings you wouldnormally seek?”

"To be avoided wherever possible. I just thoughtit would be a good idea to be inconspicuous for thenight.”

“There are very few places such as this in Bonn, sir.”

“To Bonn’s credit, counselor.” Glancing aboutthe cafe and its predominant clientele, Conversehad another thought. “It’s summer!” he said urgentlyto the student through the bedlam. “Are there anyyouth hostels around here?”

“Those in the vicinity of Bonn or Cologne arefilled, sir mostly with Americans and the Dutch. Theothers which might have spaces are quite far northtoward Hanover. However, there is anothersolution, I think.”

“What?”

“Summer, sir. The rooming houses usually filledby those attending the university have many spacesduring the summer months. In the house where Istay there are two empty rooms on the third floor.”

“I thought you lived around here.”

“That was long ago. My parents are retired andlive with my sister in Mannheim.”

“I’m in a great hurry. May we go? I’ll pay youwhat I can tonight and more tomorrow morning.”

“I thought you said you were taking the plane inthe morning.”

“I have two stops to make first. You can comewith me; you can show me where they are.”

The young man and Joel excused themselves,knowing they would not be missed. The studentstarted toward the lobby door, but Conversegrabbed his elbow, gesturing at the street entrance.

“Your luggage, sir!” shouted the Cermanthrough the din and the flashing lights.

“You can lend me a razor in the morning!”Converse yelled back, pulling the young manthrough the mingling bodies toward the door.Several tables before the entrance was an emptychair, on the seat a soft, rumpled cloth cap. He bentdown and picked it up, holding it in front of him ashe reached the door and walked outside to thepavement, the student be

hind him. “Which way?” he asked, pulling the capover his head.

“This way, sir,” replied the young Cerman,pointing beneath the shabby canopy of the adjacenthotel entrance.

“Let’s go, " said Joel, stepping forward.

They stopped that is, Converse stopped first,gripping the student s shoulder and turning him intothe building. A black sedan had come speeding downthe street, swerving into the open space in front ofthe canopy. Two men got out of the back doors andrushed toward the entrance, the second man runningaround the trunk to catch up with the first. Joelangled his head as the young German stared at him.He recognized both men; both were Americans. Theyhad been at the Cologne-Bonn airport eight nightsago, hoping to trap him then as they were coming totrap him now. The black car moved forward out ofthe glare of the lights into the shadows. It pulled intothe curb and waited, a hearse prepared to receive itscargo.

“Was ist los?” asked the German youth, unable toconceal his fear.

“Nothing, really.” Converse removed his hand andgave the student two friendly claps on the shoulder.“Just let this be a lesson to you, counselor. Knowwho your client is before you get greedy and accepttoo large a retainer.”

"ha, ” said the young German, attempting a smilebut not succeeding, his eyes on the black sedan.

They walked rapidly past the parked automobilewith the driver inside, the glow of a cigarette seen inthe darkness of the front seat. Joel pulled down thecloth cap and again angled his head, now away fromone of his countrymen.

The truth was a fantasy bolstered by lies…. Survivalwas in running and concealment Insanity!

The early morning was mercifully uneventfulexcept for his raging thoughts. The student, whosename was Johann, had secured him a room at theboardinghouse, the proprietess delighted with ahundred deutsche marks for the rental. It more thanmade up for the gauze, tape, and antiseptic she gavehim to rebandage his wound. Converse had sleptsoundly, if intermittently, awakened by fearstransposed into macabre dreams. By seven o’clocksleep was impossible.

There was an urgent piece of business that had tobe taken care of; he understood the risk, but themoney was necessary,nowmore than ever. On Mykonos, theknowledgeable if serpentine Laskaris had forwarded $100,000 to banks in Paris, London, Bonn and NewYork, using the accepted practice of written-outnumbers as a signature to withdraw the funds.Laskaris further had suggested that Joel should notattempt to carry with him or try to memorize foursets of lengthy and entirely different digits. Insteadthe banker would wire the American Express traveloffices in the four cities to hold for a period ofthree months a message for who, Mr. Converse?Itshould be a name meaningful to you but not to others.It will be your code, no other idenfff cation neces-sary as with certain telephone banking facilities inyour own country…. Make it Charpentier. I, Charpenffer.

Joel understood that he might have revealed thedevice while under narcotics. Also, he might nothave; his mind was not on money. He had a greatdeal in his possession, and the chemicals tended toelicit only feverish priorities.. He had learned that inthe camps a lifetime ago, twice astonished that hehad not mentioned far-off tactics down the roads ofescape. There was also a backup, ethicsnotwithstanding. The young German, Johann, wouldbe his intermediary. The risks could not be avoided,only minimized; he had also learned that a lifetimeago. If the boy was taken, his conscience would bestricken, but then, what could be the worst thatwould happen to him? There was no point inthinking about it.

“Go inside and ask if there’s a message for J.Charpentier,” said Joel to the student. They were inthe backseat of a taxi across the street from theAmerican Express office. “If the answer is yes, saythe following words. "It must be a wire fromMykonos,’” he added, recalling Laskaris’ precise in-structions.

“That is necessary, sir?” asked the dark-hairedJohann, frowning.

“Yes, it is. Without mentioning Mykonos and thefact that the message is a cable, they won’t give it toyou. Also it identifies you. You won’t have to signanything.”

“This is all very strange, sir.”

“If you’re going to be a lawyer, get used to oddforms of communication. There’s nothing illegal,simply a means of protecting your client’s and yourfirm’s confidentiality.”

“I have much to learn, it seems.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” continuedJoelquiet

Iy,his eyes level withJohann’s. “On the contrary,you’re doing something very right, and I’ll pay youvery well for doing it.”

“Sehr gut, ” said the young man.

Converse waited in the taxi, his eyes scanning thestreet concentrating on stationary automobiles andthose pedestrians walking too slowly or not at all, oranyone whose glances even seemingly strayed to theAmerican Express office.. Johann went inside andJoel swallowed repeatedly, a tightness in his throat;the waiting was awful, made worse by the knowledgethat he was using the student in a high-risk situationThen he thought briefly of Avery Fowler-Hallidayand Connal Fitzpatrick; they had lost. The youngGerman had an infinitely far greater chance of livingfor many years.

The minutes went by as the sweat crawledthrough Converse’s hair and down his neck; time wassuspended in fear Finally, Johann came outside,blinking in the sunlight, inno cence personified. Hecrossed the street and climbed into the taxi.

“What did they say to your” asked Joel, trying tosound casual, his eyes still roaming the street.

“Only if I had been waiting long for the message.I replied that I expected it was a cablegram fromMykonos. I didn’t know what else to say.”

“You did fine.” Joel tore open the envelope andunfolded the wire. There was an unbroken series ofwritten-out numbers, well over twenty, he judged ata glance. Again he remembered Laskaris’instructions: Pick every third number beginning withthe third and ending with the third from the last. Thinkmerely in terms of three. It’s quite simple these thingsusually are and in any event, no one else can sign foryou. It’s merely a precaution.

“Is everything all right?” asked Johann.

“So far we’re ahead one step and you’re one stepnearer a bonus, counselor.”

“I’m also nearer my examination.”

“What time do you take it?”

“Three-thirty this afternoon.”

“Good omen. Think in terms of three.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Let’s find a pay telephone. You’ve onlygot one more thing to do, and tonight you can buyyour friends the biggest dinner in Bonn.”

* * *

The taxi waited at the corner while Converseand the young German stood outside the booth,Johann having written down the bank’s numberfrom the telephone book. The student was reluctantto go any further; the exotic chores asked of himnow were more than he cared to accept.

"AII you have to do is tell the truth!” insistedJoel. “Only the truth. You met an Americanattorney who doesn’t speak German and he’s askedyou to make a call for him. This attorney has towithdraw funds for a client from a confidential ac-counts-transfer and wants to know whom he shouldsee. That’s all. No one will ask your name, or mine,either, for that matter.”

" And when I do this there will be somethingelse, main Herr? Nein, I think not. You callyourself “

“I can’t make a mistake! I can’t misunderstanda word. And there is nothing else. Just waitwherever you like around the bank or near thebank. When I come out I’ll give you two thousanddeutsche marks, and as far as I’m concerned far asanyone’s concerned we never met.”

“So much for so little, sir. You can understand myfears.”

“They’re nothing compared to mine,” saidConverse quietly yet urgently. “Please, do this. Ineed your help.”

As he had done the night before through thenoise and the smoke and the flashing lights of theraucous bar, the young German looked hard at Joel,as if trying to see something he could not be surewas there. Finally, he nodded once withoutenthusiasm. “Sehr gut, ” he said, stepping into thebooth with several coins in his hand.

Converse watched through the glass as thestudent dialed and obviously had brief conversationswith two or three different people before reachingthe correct party. The one-sided dialogue asobserved by Joel seemed interminable far too longand too complicated for the simple request of aname in the transferred-accounts department. Atone point, as he wrote something down on the scrapof paper with the bank’s number on it, Johannappeared to object and Converse had to restrainhimself from opening the door and terminabng thecall. The German youth hung up and came out, hisexpression confused and angry.

“What happened? Was there a problem?”

“Only with the hour and institutional policy, sir.”

“What does that mean?”

“Such accounts are serviced only after twelve noon.I

made it clear that you had to be at the airport bythen, but Herr Direktor said the bank’s policy wouldstand.” Johann handed Converse the slip of paper."You’re to see a man named Lachmann on thesecond floor.”

“I’ll catch a later plane.” Joel looked at thechauffeur’s watch on his wrist. It was ten-thirty-five;an hour and a half to go.

“I was hoping to be at the university library longbefore noon.”

“You can still be there,” said Converse sincerely.“We can stop, get a stamped envelope, and you canwrite out your name and address. I’ll mail the moneyto you.”

Johann glanced at the pavement, his hesitation alltoo obvious. “I think, perhaps . . . the examination isnot so difficult for me. It’s one of my better subjects.”

“Of course,” agreed Joel. “There’s no reason onearth why you should trust me.”

“You mistake me, sir. I believe you would mailthe money to me. It’s just that I’m not sure it’s sucha good idea for me to receive the envelope.”

Converse smiled; he understood. “Fingerprints?”he asked kindly. “Accepted rules of evidence?”

“It’s also one of my better subjects.”

“Okay, you’re stuck with me for another couple ofhours. I’ve got about seven hundred deutsche marksleft until I reach the bank. Do you know someclothing store away from the main shopping districtwhere I can buy a pair of trousers and a jacket?”

“Yes, sir. And if I may suggest, if you are goingto withdraw enough funds to give me two thousanddeutsche marks perhaps a clean shirt and a tie mightbe in order.”

“Always check your client’s appearance. You maygo far, counselor.”

The ritual at the Bank aus der Bonner Sparkassewas a study in awkward but adamant efficiency. Joelwas ushered into Herr Lachmann’s office on thesecond floor where nei, ther a handshake nor smalltalk was offered. Only the business at hand wasaddressed.

“Origin of transfer, please?” asked the blunt,corpulent executive.

“Bank of Rhodes, Mykonos branch, waterfront office.The

name of the dispatcher,’ I guess you’d call him, isLaskaris. I don’t recall his first name.”

“Even his last is unnecessary,’ said the German,as though he did not care to hear it. The transactionitself seemed somehow to offend him.

“Sorry, I just wanted to be helpful. As youknow, I’m in a great hurry. I have a plane to catch.’

"Everything will be done according to theregulations, sir.”

"Naturally.”

The banker shoved a sheet of paper across thedesk. “You will write out your numerical signaturefive times, one below the other, as I read you theregulations which constitute the policy of the Bankaus der Bonner Sparkasse as they pertain to thelaws of the Federal Republic of Germany. You willthen be required to sign again in your numericalsignature an affidavit that you thoroughlyunderstood and accept these prohibitions.

“I thought you said "regulations.’”

“One and the same, sir.”

Converse took the cablegram out of the insidepocket of his newly purchased sport jacket andplaced it beside the blank page of stationery. Hehad underlined the correct numbers and beganwriting.

“"You the numerically undersigned, traceablefrom the origin of transfer,’” droned the obeseLachmann, leaning back in his chair and readingfrom a single page, ” ’swear to the fact thatwhatever funds withdrawn from the Bank aus derBonner Sparkasse from this confidential accounthave been subject to all taxes, individual andcorporate, from whatever sources of revenue. Thatthey are not being processed through differingcurrencies to avoid said taxes, or for the purpose ofmaking unlawful payments to individuals,companies, or corporations trafficking in illegaland

“Forget it, Joel broke in. “I know it; I’ll sign it.

“" egregious activities outside the laws of theFederal Republic of Germany or the laws of thenation of which the undersigned is a legal residentwith full citizenship.’

“Ever tried half-full or resident alien status?said Converse, starting the last line of numbers. “Iknow a law student who could punch holes in thataffidavit.

“There is more, but you say you ll sign?”

“Im sure there s more and of course I’ll sign.” Joel

pushed the page with the handwritten numbers backto the banker. “There. Just get me the money. Onehundred thousand American, minus your fee. Split ittwo thirds and a third. U.S. and Cenman, no billsover six hundred deutsche marks and five hundredAmerican.”

“That is quite a bit of paper, sir.”

“I’ll handle it. Please, as quickly as possible.”

"Is that amount the entire account? I would notknow of course, until the scanners verify your’signature.’ “

“It’s the entire account.”

“It could take several hours, natu’rlich.”

“What9″

“The regulations, the policy. ” The fat manextended his arms in supplication.

“I don’t have several hours!”

“What can I do?” What can you do? A thousandAmerican for you.” One hour, sir.”

“Five thousand?”

“Five minutes, my good friend.”

Converse walked out of the elevator. Theabrasive newly acquired money belt was far lesscomfortable than the one he had purchased inGeneva, but it would have been pointless to refuse it.It was a courtesy of the bank, Lachmann had said asthe German pocketed nearly twelve thousanddeutsche marks for himself. The "five minutes’ hadbeen a persuasive exaggeration, thought Joel as heglanced at the clock on the wall; it was nearlytwelve-forty-five. The ritual had taken over half anhour, from his “indoctrination” to the verification ofhis “signature” by electronic scanners capable ofdetecting the slightest “fundamental” variation in thewriting charactenstics. Apparently no one daredmake any mistakes in the German banks wherequestionable practices were concerned. Theregulations were followed right to the borders ofillegality, with everyone covered by following ordersthat placed the burden of innocence solely on therecipients.

Converse started for the bronze-bordered doorsof the entrance when he saw the student,Johann,sitting on a marble bench, looking out of place butnot uncomfortable. The young man was readingsome sort of pamphlet put out by the bank. Or moreprecisely, he was pretending to read it; his eyes, dart-ing above the page, were watching the crowdscrisscrossing

the marble floor. Converse nodded es Johann sawhim; the student got up from the bench and waiteduntil Joel reached the entrance before he began tofollow.

Something had happened. Outside on thepavement people were rushing in both directions,but mainly to the right; voices were raised, questionsshouted, replies blurred with anger and angryignorance.

"What the hell is it?” asked Converse.

“I don’t know,” replied Johann, next to him.“Something ugly, I think. People are running to thekiosk on the corner. The newspapers.”

“Let’s get one,” said Joel, touching the youngman’s arm, as they started toward the growingcrowd on the block.

“Attentat! Mord!Amerikanische Botschafter ermordet!”

The newsstand operators were shouting, handingout papers as they grabbed coins and bills with littleor no attempt to give change. There was a sense ofswelling panic that came with sudden unexplainedevents that presaged greater disasters. All aroundthem people were snapping papers, their eyesriveted on the headlines and the stories beneath.

“Mein Gott!” cried Johann, glancing at a foldednewspaper on his left. “The American ambassadorhas been assassinated!”

“Christ! Get one of those!” Converse threw anumber of coins into the kiosk as the youngGerman grabbed a paper from the extended hand ofa newsstand operator. “Let’s get out of here!” yelledJoel, gripping the student’s arm.

But Johann did not move. He stood there in themiddle of the shouting crowd, staring at thenewspaper, his eyes wide, his lips trembling.Converse shoved two men away with his shouldersas he pulled the young man forward, now both ofthem surrounded by anxious, protesting Germansobsessed with getting to the newsstand.

“You!” Johann’s scream was muted by someintolerable fear.

Joel ripped the newspaper from the student’shands. In the upper canter of the front page werephotographs of two men. On the left was themurdered Walter Peregrine, American ambassadorto the Federal Republic. On the right was the faceof an American Rechtsanwalt one of the few wordsin German Converse knew; it meant attomey. Thephotograph was of himself.

“No!” roared Joel, crushing the paper in his leftfist, his right hand gripping Johann’s shoulder.“Whatever it says, it’s a lie! I’m not any part of this!Don’t you see what they’re trying to do? Come onwith me!”

“Rein!” the young German, looking franticallyaround, realising his voice was lost in the envelopingbedlam.

“I said yes!” Converse shoved the newspaper insidehis jacket, and throwing his right arm aroundJohann’s neck, pulled him alongside. “You can thinkand do what you like, but first you come with me!You’re going to read me every goddamned word!”

“Da ist er! Der Affentater!” shrieked the youngGerman, reaching out, clutching the trousers of aman in the crowd who cursed and swung his armdown on the offending hand.

Joel wrenched the student’s neck to his left, andshouted into his ear, his words stunning himself asmuch as they did the young man. “You want it thisway, you can have it! I’ve got a gun in my pocket andif I have to use it I will! Two decent men have beenkilled already now three why should you be theexception? Because you’re young? That’s no reason!When you come right down to it, who the hell are wedying for?”

Converse yanked the youth back and forth,dragging him out of the crowd. Once on the clearpavement he released his armlock, replacing it with astrong grip on the back of Johann’s neck. Hepropelled the student forward, his eyes roving thestreet, trying to find a secluded area where they couldtalk where Johann could talk, after reading a stringof lies put out by the men of Aquitaine. Thenewspaper slipped down beneath his jacket; hereached in and grabbed it by the edge, pulling thepaper out intact. He could not just keep walking,pushing his captive down the pavement; several peo-ple had glanced at them, fuel for the curious. Oh,Christ! The

photograph hisJace! Anyone might recognize him,and he was calling attention to himself by keepingthe boy in tow.

Up ahead, on the right, there was a bakery or acoffee shop or a combination of both with tablesunder umbrellas on the sidewalk; several wereempty at the far end. He would have preferred adeserted alley or a cobblestoned side street toonarrow for vehicles, but he could not keep doingwhat he was doing walking so rapidly with aprisoner in his grip.

“Over there! That table in the rear. You sitfacing out. And remember, I wasn’t joking about thegun, my hand will be in my pocket. ”

“Please, let me go! You’ve done enough to me!My friends know we left together last night; mylandlady knows I got you a room! The police willquestion me!”

“Get in there,” said Converse, shoving Johannbetween the chairs to the table at the rear of thepavement. Both sat down; the young German wasno longer trembling, but his eyes were darting in alldirections. “Don’t even think about it,” continuedJoel. “And when a waiter comes over, speak inEnglish. Only English!”

“There are no waiters. Customers go inside andbring out their own sweet rolls and coffee.”

“We’ll do without you can get something later.I owe you money and I pay my debts.”

. . . I always pay my debts. At least during the lastfour years I have. Words from a note left by arisk-taker. An actor named Caleb Dowling.

“I want no money from you,” saidJohann, hisEnglish guttural with fear.

" You think it’s tainted, makes you a true accessory,is that

“You are the lawyer, I am merely a student.”

“Let me set you straight. It’s not tainted becauseI didn’t do whatever they said I did, and there’s nosuch thing as an accessory to innocence.”

“You are the lawyer, sir.”

Converse pushed the newspaper in front of theyoung German and with his right hand reached intohis pocket where he had put ten thousand deutschemarks in ascending denominations for his immediateuse. He counted out seven thousand and reachedover, placing it in front of Johann. “Put that awaybefore I shove it down your throat.”

“I will not take your money!”

“You’ll take it and tell them I gave it to you, ifyou want to. They’ll have to give it back.”

"What do you mean?”

"The truth, counselor. You’ll find out one daythat it’s the best shield you’ve got. Now, read mewhat the paper saysI”

““The ambassador was killed sometime lastnight,’” began the student haltingly as he awkwardlyput the deutsche marks in his pocket. “. . . Theapproximate time of death is difficult to establishuntil further examinations,’” he continued, translatingthe words in the article in fits and starts, trying tofind the appropriate meanings. ” ”. . . The fatalwound was . . . “Scha’del’ cranial, a head wound ”thebody in the water for many hours, washed up on theriverbank in the Plittersdorf and found early thismorning…. The military charge d’affaires was quotedas saying that the last person known to have beenwith the ambassador was an American by the nameof Joel Converse. When that name appeared, therewere . . .’ ” The young German squinted, shaking hishead nervously. “How do you say it?”

“I don’t know,” said Joel coldly, his voice flat.“What am I trying to say?”

““. . . very excited’ frantic ”communicationsbetween the governments of Switzerland, France andthe Federal Republic, all in coordination with theInternational Criminal Police, otherwise known asInterpol, and the . . . pieces of the tragic . . . Ratsel. . . puzzle fell into place,’ became clear, it means."Unknown to Ambassador Peregrine, the AmericanConverse has been the object of an Interpol . . .Suche. . . search as a result of killings in Geneva andParis as well as several attempted murders not yetclarified.’ ” Johann looked up at Converse. There wasa throbbing in his throat.

“Go on,” ordered Joel. “You don’t know howenlightening this is. Go on″

“"According to the ambassador’s office, aconfidential meeting was arranged at the request ofthis man Converse, who claimed to have informationinjurious to American interests and which hassubsequently proven to be false. The two men wereto meet at the entrance of the Adenauer Bridgebetween seven-thirty and eight o’clock last evening.The charge d’affaires who accompanied AmbassadorPeregrine confirmed that the two men met atseven-fifty-one P.M. and started across the bridge onthe pedestrian walkway. It was the last time anyonefrom the embassy saw the ambassador

alive.’ ” Johann swallowed, his hands trembling. Hetook several deep breaths and went on, his eyesrushing forward across the print, beads ofperspiration breaking out on his hairline. Below aremore complete . . . eingehendere . . . details as theyare known, but a statement issued by Interpoldescribed the suspect, Joel as an apparently normalman who is in reality a … wandernde….’” The youngGerman lowered his voice to a whisper. “"a walkingexplosive with severe mental disturbances. He isjudged by several behavioral experts in the UnitedStates to be psychopathically ill as a result of nearlyfour years as a prisoner of war during the Vietnamconflict….’”

As Johann stammered on, frightened by his ownvoice, the telling words and damning phrases camewith staccato regularity, backed up by hastilycontacted departmental “sources” and unnamed,faceless "authorities.” The portrait was that of amentally deranged man who had been thrown backin time, his derangement triggered by some violentevent that left him with his intelligence intact butwithout moral or physical control. In addition,Interpolts search for him was spoken of in cloudedterms, implying a secret manhunt that had been inprogress for a number of days, if not weeks.

” ". . . His homicidal tendencies are channeled,’” continued the now near-panicked student as thearticle quoted another “authoritative” source. ” . . .He has a pathological hatred for present or formerhigh-ranking military personnel, especially thosewho had gained prominent public stature. . . .Ambassador Peregrine was a celebrated battalioncommander in World War Two’s Bastognecampaign, during which many American lives werelost…. Authorities in Washington have speculatedthat the disturbed man, who after several harrowingattempts finally escaped from a maximum-securitycamp in North Vietnam years ago, traveling over ahundred miles through enemy. . . Dschungel . . .jungle to reach his lines, is reliving his ownexperiences…. His jusfffication forsurvival according to a military psychiatrist is thekilling of superior officers, past or present, whogave orders in combat, or, in the extreme, evencivilians who in his imaginings bore someresponsibility for the suffering he and othersendured. Yet he is outwardly a normal man, as somany like him…. Guards have been placed inWashington, London, Brussels, and here in Bonn….As an international law

yer,whois presumed to have access to numerouscriminal elements who deal in illegal passports . . .’”

It was a brilliantly executed trap, the crucial liessupported by truths, half-truths, distortions andcomplete falsehoods. Even the precise timing of theevening was considered. The charge d’affaires at theembassy stated unequivocally that he had seen Joelat the Adenauer Bridge “at 7:51 P.M.,”approximately twenty-five minutes after he hadbroken out of the stone jailhouse on Leifhelm’sestate, and less than ten minutes after he hadplunged into the Rhine. Every fragment of the hourwas accounted for. That he was "officially” placed atthe bridge by 7:51″ denied his story of capture andescape any credibility.

The incident in Geneva the death of A. PrestonHalliday was introduced as a possible explanationfor the violent act that had hurled him back in time,triggering Joel’s maniacal behavior. “. . . It has beenlearned that the attorney who was shot to death hadbeen a well-known leader in the American protestmovement in the sixties….” The veiled conclusionwas that Converse might have hired the killers. Eventhe death of the man in Paris was given a verydifferent and far more important dimension oddlyenough, based in reality. “. . . Initially the victim’strue identity was withheld in hopes of aiding themanhunt, as suspicions were aroused as a result ofan interview the Surete had with a French lawyerwho has known the suspect for a number of years.The attorney who had lunched with the suspect thatday indicated that his American friend was in’serious troubles and needed ”medical attention.’ . ..” The dead man in Paris, of course, was an out-standing colonel in the French Army, and an aidesuccessively to several “prominent generals.”

Finally, as if to convince any remainingunbelievers in this public trial by “authoritative”journalism, references were made not only to hisconduct but to the remarks he made upon hisseparation from service over a decade and a halfago. These were released by the United StatesDepartment of the Navy, Fifth Naval District, whichincluded its own recommendation at the time thatone Lieutenant Converse be placed under voluntarypsychiatric observation; it was refused. His conducthad been insulting in the extreme to the panel ofofficers who wished only to help him, and hisremarks were nothing short of violent threats againstnumerous

high-ranking military personnel, whom, as a carrierpilot, he could have known nothing about.

It all completed the portrait as painted by theartists of Aquitaine. Johann finished the article, thenewspaper now clutched in his hands, his eyes wideand frightened. “That s all there is . . . sir.”

“I d hate to think there’s any more,” said Joel.“Do you believe it?”

“I have no thoughts. I’m too frightened to think.”

“That s an honest answer. Uppermost in yourmind is the fact that I might kill you, so you can’tface what you think. That’s what you’re really saying.You’re afraid that by a look or a wrong word Icould take offence and pull a trigger.”

“Please, sir, I am not adequate!”

“Neither was I.”

“Let me go. “

”Johann. My hands are on the table. They’vebeen on the table since we sat down.”

“What . . . ?” The young Cerman blinked andlooked at Converse’s forearms, both of which werein front of him, his hands clasped on the whitemetal surface. “You have no gun?”

“Oh, yes, I have a gun. I took it from a man whowould have killed me if he’d had the chance.” Joelreached into his pocket as Johann stiffened.“Cigarettes,” said Converse, taking out a pack and abook of matches. “It’s a terrible habit. Don’t start ifyou don’t smoke.”

“It’s very expensive.”

“Among other things. ” Joel struck a match,lighting a cigarette, his eyes remaining on thestudent. “We’ve talked off and on since last night.Except for a few moments back there in the crowdwhen you could have had me Iynched, do I look orsound like the man described in that newspaperstory?”

“I am no more a doctor than a lawyer.”

“Two points for the opposition. The burden ofsanity’s on me. Besides, it said I appeared perfectlynormal.”

“It said you suffered a great deal.”

“Several hundred years ago, but no more thanthousands of others and far, far less than somefifty-eight thousand who never came back. I don’tthink an insane man is capable of making a rationalremark like that under these circumstances do you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“”I’m trying to tell you that everything you just readto

me is an example of a man being tried by negativejournalism. Truths mixed with half-truths, distortions,and implausible judgments were slanted to supportthe lies that are meant to convict me. There’s not acourt in any civilised country that would admit thatkind of testimony or permit a jury to hear t.

“Men have been killed,” said Johann, again hiswords whispered. “The ambassador was killed.”

“Not by me. I wasn’t anywhere near theAdenauer Bridge at eight o’clock last night. I don’teven know where it is.”

“Where were you?’

“Not where anyone saw me, if that’s what youmean. And those who know I couldn’t have been atthe bridge would be the last people on earth to sayso.”

“There has to be some evidence of where youwere.” The young German nodded at the cigarette inConverse’s hand. “Perhaps one of those. Perhaps youfinished a cigarette.”

“Or finger or foot prints? Pieces of clothing?There’s all of that, but they don’t tell the time.”

“There are methods,” corrected Johann. “Theadvances in the technology of. . . Forschung. . . theinvestigation techniques have been rapid.”

“Let me finish that for you. I’m not a criminallawyer but I know what you’re saying. Theoretically,for example, the ground depression of a footprintmatched with the scrapings off my shoes could putme where I was within the hour.”

"7a!”

“No. I’d be dead before a scrap of evidencereached a laboratory.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you. I wish to God I could but I can’t.”

“Again, I must ask why?” The fear in the youngman’s eyes was joined by disappointment, the lastglimpse of believability, perhaps, gone with Joel’srefusal to explain.

“Because I can’t, I won’t. You said a few minutesago that I’d done enough to you, and withoutmeaning to, I have. But I won’t do this. You’re notin a position to do anything but get yourself killed.That’s as frankly as I can put it, Johann.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t, but I wish there was a way toconvince you that I have to reach others. People whocan do something.

They’re not here; they renot in Bonn, but I’ll reachthem if I can get away.”

“There’s something else? You would have me dosomething else?” The young German stiffened again,and again his hands trembled.

“No. I don’t want you to do anything. I’m askingyou not to do anything at least for a while.Nothing. Give me a chance to get out of here andsomehow get in touch with people who can helpme help all of us.”

“All of us?”

“I mean that, and it’s all I’ll say.”

“These people are not to be found in your ownembassy A merikaner?”

Converse looked hard at Johann, his eyes assteady as he could manage. “Ambassador WalterPeregrine was killed by one or more men at thatembassy. They came to kill me last night at thehotel.”

Johann breathed deeply, taking his eyes offJoeland staring down at the table. “Back at the kiosk, inthe crowd, when you threatened me . . . you saidthree men had been killed already three decentmen.”

“I’m sorry. I was desperate.”

“It wasn’t simply that, it was what you said rightafterward. You said why should I be the exception.Because I was young? That was no reason, youclaimed, and then you shouted very strangewords I remember them precisely. You said,"When you come right down to it, who the hell arewe dying for?’ It was more than a question, I think.”

“I won’t discuss the implications of that remark,counselor. And I can’t tell you what to do. I canonly tell you what I’ve told dozens of clients overthe years. When a decision is reduced to severalstrong opposing arguments mine included andyou’ve listened to them all, put them behind youand follow your own gut instinct. Depending uponwho and what you are, it’ll be the right one for you.”Converse paused, pushing back his chair. “Now I’mgoing to get up and walk out of here. If you startscreaming, I’ll run and try to hide somewhere whereI’ll be safe before anyone recognises me. Then I’lldo whatever I can do. If you don’t set off an alarm,I’ll have a better chance, and that in my view wouldbe best for all of us. You could go to theuniversity library and come out in an hour or so,buy a paper, and go to the police. I’d expect

you to do that, if you felt you had to. That’s my view.I don’t know what yours is. Good-bye, Johann.”

Joel rose from the table, bringing his handinstantly to his face, his fingers spread, touching hiseyebrows. He turned and walked through the tablesto the pavement, veering right, heading for the firstintersection. He barely took a breath; his lungs werebursting for air but he dared not let even a breathimpair his hearing. He waited as he walked, his pulseaccelerating, his ears so keenly tuned that theslightest dissonance would have burned them.

There were only the sounds of the excited streetconversations in counterpoint with the blaring hornsof taxis not the screams of a young male voiceraising an alarm. He walked faster, entering the flowof pedestrians crossing thesquare faster,faster passing strollers who saw noneed to rush. He reached the curb of the oppositepavement and slowed down a rapidly walking mancalled attention to himself. Yet the impulse to breakinto a run was almost uncontrollable the farther hedistanced himself from the tables of the sidewalkbakery-cafe. His ear had picked up no alarm andevery split second of that absence told him to raceinto whatever secluded side streets he could find.

Nothing. Nothing broke the discordant sounds ofthe square, but there was a change, a discerniblechange, and it had nothing to do with strident alarmsprovoked by a single screaming voice. The discordantsounds themselves had become subdued, replaced byshrugs and relaxed gestures indicating inability tocomprehend. The word Amerikaner was repeatedeverywhere. The panic initially ignited by the newshad passed. An American had killed an American; itwas not a German assassin, or a Communist, or evena terrorist who had eluded the Federal Republic’ssecurity arrangements. Life could go on; Deutschlandcould not be held responsible for the death and thecitizens of Bonn breathed a sigh of relief.

Converse spun around the corner of a brickbuilding and stared across the square at the tables ofthe bakery-cafe. The student, Johann, remained inhis chair, his head bowed, supported by both hands,reading the newspaper. Then he got up and walkedinto the bakery itself. Was there a telephone insiderWould he talk to someone?

How long, can I waits thought Converse, preparedto run, as instinct held him back.

Johann came out of the bakery carrying a tray ofcoffee and rolls. He sat down and meticulouslyseparated the plates from the tray and once againstared at the newspaper in front of him. Then helooked up at nothing in particular as if he knew hewas being watched by unseen eyes and noddedonce.

Another risk-taker, thoughtJoel,as he turned andlooked and listened to the unfamiliar sights andsounds of the side street he had entered. He hadbeen given a few hours; he wished he knew how touse them he wished he knew what to do.

Valerie ran to the phone. If it was anotherreporter, she would say the same thing she had saidto the last five. I don’t believe a word of it and I’venothing more to say; And if it was one more personfrom Washington from the FBI or the CIA or theVA or any other combinations of the alphabet shewould scream! She had spent three hours beinginterviewed that morning until she had literallyordered the crucifiers out of the house. They wereliars trying to force her to support their lies. Itwould be far easier to take the phone off the hook,but she could not do that. She had called LawrenceTalbot in New York twice, telling his office to tracehim wherever he was and have him call her back. Itwas all madness. Insanity! as Joel used to say withsuch quiet intensity she thought his voice was a wildroar of protest.

"Hello?”

“Valleys It’s Roger.”

“Dad!” Only one person had ever called her bythat name and that man was her formerfather-in-law. The fact that she was no longermarried to his son had made no difference in theirrelationship. She adored the old pilot and knew hefelt the same about her. “Where are you? Ginnydidn’t know and she’s frantic. You forgot to turn onyour answering machine.”

“I didn’t forget, Valley. Too damned manypeople to call back. I just flew in from Hong Kong,and when I got off the plane I was upwinded by fiftyor sixty screaming newspaper people and so manylights and cameras I won’t be able to see or hearfor a week.”

“Some enterprising airline clerk let out the wordyou were on board. Whoever it was will eat for aweek offa generous expense account. Where areyou?”

“Still at the airport in the traffic manager’s oflice. I’ll say this for "em, they got me out of there….Valley, I just read the papers. They got me the latesteditions. What the hell is this all about?”

“I don’t know, Dad, but I do know it’s a lie.”

“That boy’s the sanest thing I ever had anythingto do with! They re twisting everything, making thegood things he did into something . . . I don’t know,sinister or something. He s too damned up-front tobe crazy!’

“He s not crazy, Roger. He’s being taken, he’sbeing put through a wringer. "

"What for?”

“I don’t know. But I think Larry Talbot does atleast more than he’s told me.”

“What has he told you?”

“Not now, Dad. Later. "

“Why?”

“I’m not sure…. Something I feel, perhaps.’

“You’re not making sense, Valley.”

“I’m sorry.”

"What did Ginny say? I’ll call her, of course.”

"She’s hysterical.”

“She always was a little bit.”

“No, not that way. She’s blaming herself. Shethinks people are striking out at her brother for thethings she did in the sixties. I tried to tell her thatwas nonsense but I’m afraid I made it worse. Sheasked me perfectly calmly if I believed what wasbeing said about Joel. I told her of course I didn’t.”

“The old paranoia. Three kids and an accountantfor a husband and it still comes back. I never couldhandle that girl. Damned good pilot, though. Soloedbefore Joel, and she was two years younger. I’ll phoneher.”

“You may not be able to reach her.”

“Oh?”

“Sine s having her number changed, and I thinkyou should do the same thing. I know I’m going tothe minute I hear from Larry.”

“Valley . . .” Roger Converse paused. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not? Have you any idea what it’s been likehere?” “Look, you know I’ve never asked whathappened between you and Joel, but I usually havedinner with that piss ant lawyer once a week whenI’m in town. He thinks it’s some

kind of filial necessity, but I’d knock it offina minuteif I didn’t like him. I mean he’s a likable guy, kind offunny sometimes.”

“I know all that, Roger. What are you trying tosay?”

They say he disappeared, that no one can findhim.”

"He may call you. I can’t think of anyone else hewould

Valerie closed her eyes; the afternoon sunthrough the skylight was blinding. "is that based onyour weekly dinner conversations? “

“It’s not intuition. I never had any except in the air

. . Of course it is. It was never said outright, but itwas always ust below the cloud cover.”

“You’re impossible, Dad.”

“Pilot error’s like any other. There are timeswhen you can ,t,lafford it; . . . Don’t change yournumber Vall “

“Now, what about me?”

“Ginny’s husband had a good idea. They’rereferring all questions to their attorney. Maybe youshould do the same. Do you have one?”

“Sure,” said Roger Converse. “I got three. Talbot,Brooks and Simon. Nate’s the best, if you want toknow the truth. Did you know that at the age ofsixty-seven that son of a bitch took up flying? He’squalified in multiengines now can you imagine?”

“Dad!” Valerie broke in suddenly. “You’re at theair

“That’s what I said. Kennedy.”

“Don’t go home. Don’t go to your apartment.Take the first plane you can to Boston. Use anothername. Call me back and let me know what flightyou’re on. I’ll pick you up.”

“Just do as I say, Roger. Please!”

“What for?”

“You’re staying here. I’m leaving.”

Converse hurried out of the clothing store on thecrowded Bornheimer Strasse and studied hisreflection in the window. He surveyed the overalleffect of his purchases, not as a customer inside infront of the full-length mirror for fit and appearance,but as one of the strolling pedestrians on thesidewalk. He was satisfied; there was nothing aboutthe clothes that called attention to him. Thephotograph in the papers the only one in the pastfifteen years that would be in a wire service ornewspaper file was taken about a year ago when hewas one of several merger attorneys interviewed byReuters. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, showinghim in his lawyer’s clothes a dark suit and vest,white shirt and striped tie the image of a risinginternational specialist. It was also the imageeveryone who read the papers had of him, and sinceit would not change but only spread with later edi-tions, then he was the one who had to change.

Also, he could not continue to wear the clotheshe had worn to the bank. A panicked Lachmannwould undoubtedly give a complete description to thepolice, but even if his panic rendered him silent, hehad seen him in a dark jacket, white shirt and stripedtie. Unconsciously or not, thought Joel, he hadsought a patina of respectability. Perhaps all menrunning for their lives did so because their essentialdignity had been stolen from them. Regardless,dressed in those clothes he was the man in thenewspaper photograph.

The appearance he had in mind belonged to ahistory professor he had known in college, a manwhose various articles of clothing were all related.His jackets were subdued tweeds with elbow patches,the trousers grey heavy or light flannel, neveranything else and his shirts were blue but-toned-down oxford, again without exception. Abovehis thick horn-rimmed glasses was perched a softIrish walking hat, the brim sloped downward frontand back. Wherever that man

went, whether down a street in Boston or NewYork’s Fifth Avenue or Beverly Hills’ RodeoDrive the last a place that oel was sure he neversaw one would know he belonged to academicNew England.

Converse had managed to duplicate the outwardappearance of the man in his memory, except forthe tinted glasses, which he would have to replacewith horn rims. He had passed a large variety store,Bonn’s equivalent of an American five-and-dime,and he knew that there would be a counter withglasses of different sizes and shapes, a few slightlymagnified for reading, others clear.

For reasons that were only beginning to comeinto focus, those glasses were now vital to him.Then he understood. He was preoccupied with whathe knew he could do change his appearance. Hewas procrastinating, uncertain what to do next, notsure he was capable of doing anything.

He looked at his face in the oval mirror of thevariety store, again satisfied with what he saw. Theersatz tortoiseshell rims were thick, the glass clear;the effect was owlish, scholarly. He was no longerthe man in the newspaper photograph, and equallyimportant, the concentration he had devoted to hisappearance had begun to clear his mind. He couldthink again, sit down somewhere and sort thingsout. He also needed food and a drink.

The cafe was crowded, the stained-glass windowsmuting the summer sunlight into shafts of blue andred piercing the smoke. He was shown to a tableagainst the black-leather upholstered banquette,assured by the maitre d’, or whoever he was, thatan he had to do was request a menu in English; theitems were numbered. Whisky on the Continent,however was universaDy accepted as Scotch; heordered a double, and took out the pad andbar-point pen he had picked up at the variety store.His drink came and he proceeded to write.

Connal Fitzpatrick?BriefcaseP$93,000 plusEmbassy outNo Larry 7albot et al.No BealeNo A nstettNo man in San FranciscoMen in Washington. WhoP

Caleb Dowling? No. Hickman, Navy, San Diego?Possible.

. . . Mattilon?

Rene! Why hadn’t he thought of Mathlonbefore?He understood why the Frenchman made theremarks attributed to him anonymously in thenewspaper story. Rene was trying to be protective. Ifthere was no defence, or if it was so weak so as notto be viable, the most logical backup was temporaryinsanity. Joel circled Mattilon’s name and wrote thenumber I on the left, circling it also. He would finda telephone exchange in the streets, the kind whereoperators assigned booths to bewildered tourists, andcall Rene in Paris. He took two swallows of whisky,relaxing as the warmth spread through him, thenwent back to his list, stardng at the top.

Connal . . ? The presumption that he had beenkilled was inevitable, but it was not conclusive. If hewas alive, he was being held for whateverinformation could be pried out of him. As the chieflegal officer of the West Coast’s largest and mostpowerful naval base, and a man who had a history ofmeetings with the State Department’s Office ofMunibons Control as well as its counterparts at thePentagon, Fitzpatrick could be an asset to the menof Aquitaine. Yet to call attention to him was toguarantee his execution, if he had not been killedalready. If he was still alive, the only way to save himwas to find him, but not in any orthodox or officialmanner; it had to be done secretly. Connal had to berescued secretly.

Suddenly, Joel saw the figure of a man in theuniform of the United States Army across the roomtalking with two civilians at the bar. He did not knowthe man. It was the uniform that struck him. Itbrought to mind the military charge d’affaires at theembassy, that extraordinarily observant and preciseofficer who was capable of seeing a man who wasnot at a bridge at the exact moment he was notthere. A liar for Aquitaine, someone whose liesidentified him. If that liar did not know whereFitzpatrick was, he could be made to find out.Perhaps there was a way, after all. Converse drew aline on the right side of his list, connecting ConnalFitzpatrick with Admiral Hickman in San Diego. Hedid not give it a number; there was too much toconsider.

Briefoase? He was still convinced that Leifhelm’smen had not found it. If the generals of Aquitainehad that attache

case, they would have let him know. It was not likethose men to conceal such a prize, not from theprisoner who had thought he was a match for them.No, they would have told him one way or another,if only to make clear to him how totally he hadfailed. If he was right, Connal had hidden it. At theinn called Das Rektorat? It was worth a try. Joelcircled the word Briefoase and numbered it 2.

“Speisekarte, main Herr?” said a waiter beforeConverse knew he was standing there.

“English, please?”

“Certainly, sir.” The waiter separated his menusas though they were an outsized deck of cards. Heselected one and handed it to Joel as he spoke.“The Spezialitat for today is Wienerschnitzel it is thesame in English.”

“That’s fine. Keep the menu, I’ll take it.”

“Danke. ” The man swept away before Joelcould order another drink. It was just as well, hethought.

$93,000 plus. There was nothing more to besaid, the irritating bulge around his waist said it all.He had the money; it was to be used.

Embassy out . . . No Larry Talbot, et al . . . NoBeale . . . No A nstett . . . No man in San Francisco.Throughout the meal he thought about each item,each statement, wondering how it all could havehappened. Every step had been considered carefully,facts absorbed, dossiers memorized, cautionuppermost. But everything had been blown away bycomplications far beyond the simple facts providedby Preston Halliday in Geneva.

Build just two or thme cases that are tied to Dela-vane even circumstantially and it’ll be enough.

In light of the revelations on Mykonos, then inParis, Copenhagen and Bonn, the simplicity of thatremark was almost criminal. Halliday would havebeen appalled at the depth and the breadth ofinfluence Delavane’s legions had attained, at thepenetrations they had made at the highest levels ofthe military, the police, Interpol and, obviously, nowthose who controlled the flow of news fromso-called authoritative sources in Westerngovernments.

Converse abruptly checked his racing thoughts.He suddenly realised that he was thinking aboutHalliday in the context of a man who saw only apair of eyes at night in the jungle, unaware of thesize or the ferocity of the unseen animal in thedarkness. That was wrong. Halliday knew thematerials

Beale was handing over to him on an island in theAegean; he knew about the connections betweenParis, Bonn, Tel Aviv and Johannesburg; he knewabout the decision makers in the State Departmentand the Pentagon he knew it all! He had arrangedit all with unknown men in Washington! Halliday hadlied in Geneva. A California wrestler he hadbefriended years ago in school named Avery Fowlerwas the manipulator, and in the name of A. PrestonHalliday, he had lied.

Where were those subterranean men inWashington who had the audacity to raise half amillion dollars for an incredible gamble but were toofrightened to come out in the open? What kind ofmen were they? Their scout had been killed, theirpuppet accused of being a psychopathic assassin.How long could they wait? What were they?

The questions disturbed Converse so much thathe tried not to pursue them they would lead only torage, which would blind his reason. He neededreason and, above all, the strength that came withawareness.

It was time to find a telephone exchange andreach Mattilon in Paris. Rene would believe him,Rene would help him. It was unthinkable that his oldfriend would do anything else.

The civilian walked in silence to the hotelwindow, knowing he was expected to deliver apronouncement that would form the basis of amiracle not a solution but a miracle, and there wereno such things in the business he knew so well. PeterStone was by all the rules a relic, a castaway who hadseen it all, and in the final years of seeing had finallyfallen apart. Alcohol had taken the place of trueaudacity, at the end rendering him a professionalmutant, a part of him still proud of pastaccomplishments, another part sickened by the waste,by the knowledge of wasted lives, wastedstrategies morality thrown into a gargantuanwastebasket of a collective nonconscience.

Still, he had once been one of the best he couldnot forget that. And when he knew it was all over, hehad faced the fact that he was killing himself with aplethora of bourbon and self-pity. He had pulled out.But not before he had gained the enmity of his pastemployers in the Central Intelligence Agency, not forspeaking out publicly but for telling them privatelywho and what they were. Fortunately, as sobriety re-turned he learned that his past employers had otherenemies in Washington, enemies having nothing todo with foreign en

tanglements or competition. Simply men and womenserving the republic who wanted to know what thehell was going on when Langley wouldn’t tell them.He had survived was surviving. He thought aboutthese things, knowing that the two other men in theroom believed he was concentrating on the issue athand.

There was no issue. The file was closed, theborder rimmed in black. The two who were withhim were so young God, so damned young., theywould find it too terrible to accept. Heremembered, vaguely, when such a conclusion wouldhave appalled him. But that was nearly forty yearsago; he was almost sixty now, and he had heardsuch conclusions repeated too often to shed tears ofregret. The regret the sadness was there but timeand repetition had dulled his senses; clearevaluation was everything.

Stone turned and said with quiet authority, “ Wecan’t do anything ” The Army captain and the Navylieutenant were visibly upset. Peter Stone continued,” I spent twenty-three years in the tunnels, includinga decade with Angleton, and I m telling you there’sabsolutely nothing we can do. We have to let himhang out, we can’t touch him.”

" Because we can’t afford to?” asked the navaloflicer scathingly. “That’s what you said whenHalliday was killed in Geneva. We can’t afford tot”

“We can’t. We were outmaneuvered.”

“That’s a man out there,” insisted the lieutenant.“We sent him out “

“And they set him up,” the civilian broke in, hisvoice calm, his eyes sadly knowledgeable. “He’s asgood as dead We’ll have to start looking elsewhere.”

“Why is that?” asked the Army captain. “Why ishe as good as dead?”

“They have too many controls, we can see thatnow. If they don’t have him locked up in a cellar,they know pretty much where he is. Whoever findshim will kill him. A riddled body of a crazed killeris delivered up and there’s a collective sigh of relief.That’s the scenario.”

“And that’s the most cold-blooded analysis of amurder I’ve ever heard! Murder, an unwarrantedexecution!”

“Look, Lieutenant,” said Stone, stepping awayfrom the window, “you asked me to come withyou convinced me I should because you wantedsome experience in this room. With that experiencecomes the moment when you recognize

and accept the fact that you’ve been beaten. Itdoesn’t mean you’re finished, but you’ve beenpunched out of the round. We’ve been punched out,and it’s my guess the punches haven’t stopped yet.”

“Maybe . . .” began the captain haltingly. “Maybewe should go to the Agency, tell them everything weknow everything we think we know and whatwe’ve done. It might get Converse out alive.”

“Sorry,” countered the former CIA man. “Theywant his head and they’ll get it. They wouldn’t havegone to all this trouble if "dead’ wasn’t written allover him. He found out something, or they found outsomething about him. That’s the way it works.”

“What kind of world do you live in? "asked thenaval officer quietly, shaking his head.

“I don’t live in it anymore, Lieutenant, you knowthat. I think it’s one of the reasons you came to me.I did what you two and whoever else is withyou are doing now. I blew a whistle only, I did itwith two months of bourbon in my veins and tenyears of disgust in my head. You say you might go tothe Company? Good, go ahead, but you’ll do itwithout me. No one worth a quarter in Langley willtouch me.”

“We can’t go to G-Two or naval intelligence,”said the Army officer. “We know that, we’ve allagreed. Delavane’s people are there; they’d shoot usdown.”

“Aptly put, Captain. Would you believe with realbullets?”

“I do now,” said the Navy man, nodding at Stone.“The report out of San Diego is that the legal,Remington, was killed in an automobile accident inLa Jolla. He’s the one who last spoke to Fitzpatrick,and before he left the base, he asked another legalthe directions to a restaurant in the hills. He’d neverbeen there and I don’t think it was an accident.”

“Neither do I,” agreed the civilian. “But it takesus to the somewhere-else we can look.”

“What do you mean?” said the Army captain.

“Fitzpatrick. SAND PAC can’t find him, right?”

“He’s on leave,” interjected the naval officer.“He’s got another twenty days or so. He wasn’tordered to list his itinerary.”

“Still, they’ve tried to find him but they can’t.”

“And I still don’t understand,” objected the captain.

“We go after Fitzpatrick,” said Stone. “Out of SanDiego,

not Washington. We find a reason to really wanthim back. A SAND PAC emergency, routed strictlythrough Eyes Only a base problem nobody else’s.”

“I hate to repeat myself,” said the Army man,“but you’ve lost me. Where do we start? Whom dowe start with?”

“With one of your own, Captain. Right now he’sa very important person. The charge d’affaires atthe Mehlemer House.”

“The what?”

“The American embassy in Bonn. He s one ofthem. He lied when it counted most,” said Stone.“His name is Washburn. Major Norman AnthonyWashburn, the Fourth.”

The telephone complex was off the lobby of anoffice building. It was a large square room with fiveenclosed booths built into three walls and a high,squared counter in the center where four operatorssat in front of consoles, each woman obviouslycapable of speaking two or more languages. Tele-phone directories of the major European cities andtheir suburbs were on racks to the left and right ofthe entrance; small pads with attached ball-pointpens had been placed on the ledges above for theconvenience of those seeking numbers. The routinewas familiar: a caller delivered a written-out numberto an operator, specified the manner of pay-ment cash, credit card or collect and wasassigned a booth. There were no lines; a half-dozenbooths were empty.

Joel found the number of Mattilon’s law firm inthe Paris directory. He wrote it out, brought it to anoperator and said he would pay in cash. He wastold to go to booth number seven and wait for thering. He entered it quickly, the soft cloth brim of hishat falling over his forehead above the tortoiseshellglasses. Any enclosure, whether a toilet stall or aglass booth, was preferable to being out in the open.He felt his pulse accelerating; it seemed to explodewhen the bell rang.

“Saint-Pierre, Nelli, et Mattilon,” said the femalevoice in Paris.

“Monsieur Mattilon, please s’il vous plait.”

“Votre. . . ?” The woman stopped, undoubtedlyrecoginzing an American’s abysmal attempt atFrench. “Who may I say is calling, please?”

“His friend from New York. He’ll know. I’m aclient.”

Rene did know. After several clicks his strainedvoice came on the line. "Joel?” he whispered. “I don’tbelieve itI”

" Don’t,” said Converse. “It’s not true not whatthey say about Geneva or Bonn, not even what yousaid. I had nothing to do with those killings, andParis was an accident. I had every reason to think Idid think that man was reaching for a gun.’

“Why didn’t you stay where you were, then, myfriend?”

“Because they wanted to stop me from going on.It’s what I honestly believed, and I couldn’t let themdo that. Let me tally…. At the George Cinq youasked me questions and I gave you evasive answersand I think you saw through me. But you were kindand went along. You have nothing to be sorry about,take my word for it my very sane word. Bertholdiercame to me that evening in my room; we talked andhe panicked. Six days ago I saw him again here inBonn only, this time it was different. He wasordered to be there, along with three other verypowerful men, two generals and a former fieldmarshal. It’s a cabal, Rene, an international cabal,and they can pull it off. Everything’s secret andmoving fast. They’ve recruited key military personnelall over Europe, the Mediterranean, Canada, and theU.S. There’s no way to tell who’s with them and whoisn’t and there isn’t time to make a mistake.They’ve got millions at their disposal, warehouses allover filled with munitions ready to ship to theirpeople when the moment comes.”

“The moment?” Mattilon broke in. “What moment?”

“Please,” insistedJoel, rushing ahead. “They’vebeen funneling weapons and explosives to maniacseverywhere terrorists, proves, certifiedlunatics with one purpose only: destabilisationthrough violence. It’s their excuse to move in. Rightnow they’re blowing up Northern Ireland.”

“The madness in Ulster?” interrupted theFrenchman again. “The horrors going on “

“It’s their horror! It’s a trial run. They did it withone massive shipment from the States to prove theycan do it! But Ireland’s only a test, a minor exercise.The big explosion’s coming in a matter of days, a fewweeks at most. I’ve got to reach the people who canstop them, and I can’t do that if I’m dead!” Conversepaused, only to catch his breath, giving Mattilon nochance to speak. “These are the men I was after,Rene after legally, to build a few cases againstthem, expose

them in the courts before they got anywhere. Butthen, I found out. They’re already there. I was toolate.”

“But why you?”

"it in Geneva with Halliday, the man who wasshot to death. He was killed by their gunmen, butnot before he recruited me. You asked me aboutGeneva and I lied to you, but that’s the truth. Now,you’ll either help me, or try to help me, or youwon’t. Not for me I’m insignificant but what I gotroped into isn’t. And I was roped into it, I knowthat now. But I’ve seen them, talked to them, andthey’re so goddamned logical, so bucking persuasive,they’ll turn all Europe fascist; they’ll set up amilitary federation with my country the progenitor.Because it started in my country, it started in SanFrancisco with a man named Delavane.”

“Saigon? The Mad Marcus of Saigon?”

“Alive and well and living in Palo Alto, pushinghis military buttons all over the place. He’s still amagnet and they’re drawn to him like flies to a pig.”

“Joel, are you . . . are you . . . all right?”

“Let’s put it this way, Rene. I took a lousy watchoffa man who guarded me a paranoid whonevertheless was nice to me and it’s got a sweephand. You’ve got thirty seconds to think about whatI’ve told you, then I’ll hang up. Now, old friend,twenty-nine seconds.”

Ten passed and Mattilon spoke. “An insane mandoes not deliver such a precise explanation soprecisely. Very well, perhaps I am mad, too, butwhat you speak of God knows the times are right,what else can I say? Everything is crazy’”

“I’ve got to get back to the States alive, toWashington. I know people there. If I can reachthem and show myself for what I am, they’ll listento me. Can you help?”

“I have contacts in the Quai d’Orsay. Let me go tothem.”

“No,” objected Converse. “They know we’refriends. One word to the wrong person and you’d bekilled. Forgive wee"cbaunttmaffrOedimthpotrtant,your talking would set off alarms.

“Very well,” said Mattilon. “There is a man inAmsterdam don’t ask me how I know him_whocan arrange such things. I assume you have nopassport.”

“I have one but it’s not mine. It’s German. Itook it off a guard who was ready to put a bullet inmy head.”

“Then I’m sure he’s not in a position tocomplain to the authorities.”

“He’s not.”

“In your mind you really did go back, didn’t you,my friend?”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

“Bien. You are you. Keep that passport, it will beuseful.”

“Amsterdam. How do I get there?”

“You are in Bonn, no?”

“Yes.”

“There is a train to Emmerich on the Dutchborder. In Emmerich, switch to localtransport streetcars, autobuses, whatever. Thecustoms are lax, especially during the peak hourswhen workers go back and forth. No one looks, sojust show the passport you have quickly, partiallycovering the photograph, perhaps. It’s good that it’sGerman. You should have no trouble.”

“Suppose I do?”

“Then I can’t help you, my friend. I’m beinghonest. And then I must go to the Quai d’Orsay.”

“All right. I get across, then what?”

“You’ll reach Arnhem. From there you take thetrain to Amsterdam.”

“And then?”

“The man. His name is on a card in my bottomdrawer. Do you have something to write on writewith?”

“Go ahead,” said Converse, reaching for the notepad and the ball-point pen on the ledge beneath thetelephone.

“Here it is. Thorbecke. Cort Thorbecke. Theapartment house is on the southwest corner ofUtrechtsestraat and Kerkstraat. The telephonenumber is zero-two-zero, four-oneone-three-zero.When you call for an appointment, tell him you area member of the Tabana family. Do you have that?Tatiana. “

“Rend?” said Joel, writing. “I never would haveguessed. How come you know someone like this?”

“I told you not to ask, but on the other hand hemay probe and you should have at least vagueanswers everything was always vague. Tatiana is aRussian name, one of the Czar’s daughters reputedlyexecuted at Ekaterinburg in 1918. I say "reputedly’because many believe she was spared along with hersister Anastasia and smuggled out with a nurse whohad a fortune in jewels on her. The nurse favoredTatiana and once free, gave everything to the childand nothing to her sis

ten It’s said she lived anonymously in greatwealth may even be living today but no oneknows where.”

“That’s what I have to know?” asked Converse.

“NO, it’s merely the origins of its presentmeaning. Today it is a symbol of trust given to veryfew people in recent years, people who themselvesare trusted by the most suspicious men on earth,men who cannot afford to make mistakes.”

“Good Lord, who?”

“Russians, powerful Soviet commissars who havea fond” ness for Western banking, who brokermoney out of Moscow for investments. You canunderstand why the circle is small. Few are calledand fewer chosen. Thorbecke is one of them and hedoes an extensive business in passports. I’ll reachhim and tell him to expect your call. Remember, noname, just Tatiana. He’ll have you on a KLM toWashington in short order. You’ll need money,however, so we must think how I can “

“Money’s one thing I don’t need,” interruptedConverse. “Just a passport and a plane ticket toDulles Airport without being picked up.”

“Get to Amsterdam. Thorbecke will help.”

“Thank you, Rene. I wanted to count on youand you came through. It means a lot to me. Itmeans my life.”

“You’re not in Washington yet, my friend. Butcall me when you get there, no matter the hour.”

“I will. Thanks, again.’

Joel hung up, put the note pad and the pen intohis pocket, and went out of the booth to thecounter. He asked for his charges, and while theEnglish-speaking operator was getting them heremembered the item he had marked 2 on his list.His attache case with the dossiers and the names ofthe deci sion makers at the Pentagon and the StateDepartment. Das Rektorat. Through someextraordinary oversight on Leifhelm’s part, hadConnal managed to hide it somewhere? Could ithave been found perhaps by an employee at thecountry inn? Converse spoke to the operator whowas handing him his bill.

There’s a place called Das Rektorat. It’s a hotelin the countryside where I’m not sure, but I’d liketo call it and reach the manager. I’m told he speaksEnglish.”

"Yes, sir. Das Rektorat has splendidaccommodations, if they are available.”

“I’m not looking for a reservation. A friend ofmine stayed there last week and thinks he may haveleft a valuable item

in his room. He called me and asked me to check forhim, to speak with the manager. If I find thenumber, would you place the call for me and get himon the line? I’m sorry to say I don’t speak German;I’d probably reach the chef.”

" Certainly, sir,” replied the woman, smiling. Itwould be easier for me to get the number. Return tobooth seven and I’ll ring you. You can pay for bothcalls when you are finished.”

Inside the glass enclosure Joel lit a cigarette,thinking about what he was going to say. He barelyhad time to formulate his words when the ring came.

“This is the Vorsteher the manager of DasRektorat, sir,” said the operator. " And he does speakEnglish.”

“Thank you.” The operator broke off herconnection “Hello?”

“Yes, may I help you, sir?”

“I hope so. I’m an American friend ofCommander Connal Fitzpatrick, chief legal officer ofthe San Diego Naval Base in California. Iunderstand he stayed there last week.”

"Indeed he did, sir. We were so sorry we couldnot have extended his visit with us, but there was aprior reservation.”

“Oh? He left unexpectedly?”

“I shouldn’t put it that way. We spoke in themorning and I believe he understood our situation.I myself made arrangements for a taxi.”

“He was alone when he left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh. Then if you’ll tell me which hotel he wentto, I can check there as well.”

"Check, sir?”

“The Commander misplaced one of his briefcases,a flat leather type with two combination locks. Thecontents are of no value except to him, but he verymuch wants to find it. It was a present from his wife,I think. Have you come across it?”

"No, sir.”

“Are you sure? The commander has a habit ofconcealing his legal papers, sometimes under a bedor in the back of a closet. "

He left nothing here, sir. The room wasthoroughly examined and cleaned by our staff.”

“Perhaps someone came to see him and took thewrong

case.” Converse knew he was pressing but there wasno reason not to.

" He had no visitors.” The German paused. “Justone moment, I do recall now.”

Yes?”

“You say a flat briefcase, what is generallyreferred to as an attache case?”

“Yes!”

“He carried it with him. It was in his hand when heleft.”

“Oh . . . ” Joel tried to recover quickly. “Then ifyou’ll just tell me what forwarding address he left,what hotel he went to.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There were no such instructions.”

“Somebody had to make a reservation for him!Rooms are tight in Bonul”

“Please, sir. I myself offered to try, but herefused my aid somewhat discourteously, I mightadd.”

“I’m sorry.” Joel was annoyed that he had lostcontrol. “Those legal papers were important. Thenyou have no idea where he went?”

“But I do, sir, if one wishes to be humored. Imade a point of asking. He said he was going to theBahnhof; the train station. If anyone asked for him,we were to say he was sleeping in a baggage locker.I’m afraid it was also meant discourteous

The train station? A locker! It was a message!Fitzpatrick was telling him where to look! Withoutspeaking further, Converse hung up the phone, leftthe booth, and went to the counter. He paid forboth calls and thanked the operator, wanting toleave her a tip but knowing it would only call at-tension to him. “You’ve been very kind and, if Imay, one last favor.”

“Sir?”

“Where is the train station?”

“You can’t miss it. Turn left out of the buildingand walk four streets, then left again for two more.It is one of the more uncertain prides of Bonn.”

“You’ve been very kind.”

Joel hurried down the pavement, constantlyreminding himself to check his speed. Everythingdepended on control now, eve“7,”thing. Everymove he made had to be normal even casual,nothing to cause anyone to take a second glance athim. Mattilon had told him to take a train;Fitzpatrick had

told him to go to the train station a locker! It wasanother omen! He was beginning to think that sucha thing did exist.

He walked through the large open doors of theentrance and turned to his right toward the row oflockers where he had left the attache case beforeheading out to the Alter Zoll to meet “AveryFowler.” He reached the locker itself; there was akey in it, nothing inside. He began scrutinising thelockers around it, on both sides, below, not at allsure what he was looking for but knowing therewould be something. He found it! Two rows above onthe left! The initials were small but clear, scratchedinto the metal by a strong, precise hand: C.F. ConnalFitzpatrick!

The Navy lawyer had done it! He had put theexplosive papers back where only the two of themknew where they would be. Suddenly Converse feltsick. How could he get them out? How could he getinside? He looked around the station at the summercrowds. The huge clock read two-thirty, in two and ahalf hours the of flees would be closed the businessday over, the crowds fuller. Mattilon had told him toreach Emmerich during the busiest time, whenworkers traveled back and forth across the border atthe end of the day, and it took nearly two hours toreach Emmerich, if there was a train. He had lessthan a half hour to get inside the locker.

There was an information booth at the far end ofthe cavernous station. He walked toward it, his mindagain racing, choosing words that might produce akey. The abrasive weight of the money belt aroundhis waist gave him a glimpse of hope.

“Thank you very much, " he said to the clerk, histortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, the clothhat falling over his forehead. He had been assignedan English-speaking, middle-aged informationdispenser with a pinched face and a bored, irritatedexpression. “Quite simply I’ve lost the key to thelocker in which I stored my luggage and I have to geta train to Emmerich. By the way, when is the nextone?”

“Ach, it is always ze case,” replied the clerk,thumbing a schedule. “Zozzing but trouble wiz zersommer people. You lose ziss, you lose zat; and youexpect everyone to help youl Zer train for Emmerichleft twenty-seven minutes ago. Zer iss another innineteen minuted, but nozzing after that for anhour.”

“Thank you. I have to be on it. Now, about thelocker?”

Joel removed a hundred-deutsche-mark note belowthe counter and raised it slowly above the ledge.“It’s very important that I get my luggage and takethat train. May I shake your hand for helping me?”

“It will be donet” exclaimed the clerk quietly,looking to his right and left, as he graspedConverse’s hand and the money. He picked up thephone at his side and dialed abusively. “Schnell! Wirmasses ein Schliessfach offnen. Standort zehn Auskunit!” He slammed down the phone and lookedup atJoel, a smile sculpted onto his rigid lips. “Aman will be here instantly to be of service. We arealways eager to be of service. The Amerikanen, sothoughtful.”

The man came, bulging out of his railroaduniform, his eyes dull, his authority questionable.“Was ist?”

The clerk explained in German, then lookedagain at Converse. “He speaks some English, notwell, of course, but adequately, and he will assistyou.”

“Zer are our regulations,” said the official keeperof the locker keys. “Come, show me.”

“Happy birthday,” said Joel to the clerk behindthe information booth.

“It is not my birthday, sir.’

“How would you know?’, asked Converse,smiling, taking the fat man’s arm.

“Zer are procedures,,, said the railroadbureaucrat, opening the locker with a master key.“You will sign for zer contents at zer office.

It was there! His attache case was on its side,nothing broken or slashed. He reached into hispocket and took out his money. “I’m in a greathurry,"’ he said as he slipped out first ahundred-deutsche-mark note, then, with hesitation,another. “My train leaves in a few minutes.” Heshook the German’s hand, passing the money, andasked calmly but with cheerful friendliness in hiseyes. “Couldn’t you say it was a mistaken,

“It vas a mistaker’ answered the uniformed manenthusiastically. “You must catch a trains”

“Thank you. You’re a nice person. Happy birthday.’

“I know, don’t bother. Thank you again.”

Glancing around rapidly but subtly, hopingagainst hope that no one was watching him, Joelwalked to an unoccupied wooden bench against thewall, sat down, and opened the attachecase everything was there. But he could not keepit.

Again he looked around the station, knowing whathe had to find; he saw it. A drugstore or itsequivalent, there would be envelopes somewhereinside. He closed the briefcase and got up, trustingsomeone in the store would speak English.

“Nearly all of Us speak English,” said thematronly woman behind the counter near thestationery section. "it is practically a requirement,especially during the summer months. What are yourneeds?”

“I have to send a business report back to theUnited States,” answered Converse, a large, thickenvelope and a roll of tape in his right hand, theattache case in his left, “but my train leaves in a fewminutes and I don’t have time to get to a post office.”

“There are several post-collection boxes in theBahnhof; sir.

“I need stamps, postage. I don’t know howmuch,” said Joel helplessly.

“If you will put your materials in the envelope,seal it and address it, I shall weigh the package andsuggest the appropriate amount of stamping. Wekeep sheets here for convenience, but they are moreexpensive than in the post office.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d like it to go airmail, withmore postage rather than less.” Five minutes laterConverse handed the accommodating clerk theheavily sealed package for weighing. He had writtena note on the top of the first dossier and printed theaddress clearly on the front of the envelope. Thewoman returned with the appropriate postage. Hepaid her and placed the envelope on the counter infront of him.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at his watch, as hebegan frantically licking the stamps and securingthem. “Would you by any chance know where I canbuy a ticket to . . . Emmerich or Arnhem, I guess?”

“Emmerich is German, Arnhem is Dutch. Any stall,sir.”

“I may not have time,” said Joel, on the last threestamps. “I suppose I could buy one on the train.”

“They will not stop it if you have money.”

“There.” He had finished. “Where’s the nearestmailbox collection box?”

“At the other end of the Bahnhof:”

Again Joel looked at his watch, and again hischest began to pound as he ran out into the station;then instantly checking himself, he watched thecrowds for anyone who might be watching him. Hehad less than eight minutes to mail the en

velope, buy a ticket and find the train. Dependingon the complications, perhaps he could eliminatethe second step. But to pay his fare on board wouldmean engaging in conversahon, conceivably havingto find someone to translate the possibilities andthe possible consequences were frightening.

As he feverishly looked for the mailbox, he keptrepeating to himself the exact words he hadscribbled on the top of the first dossier’s cover: Donot repeat, do not let anyone know you have this.If you don’t hear from me within f he days, send it toNathan S. I’ll call him if Ican. Your once and obedient husband. Love. He then looked down at the nameand the address he had written on the envelope inhis hand and wondered, stricken by a dull, sickeningpain how could he do this to her?

Ills. Valerie Charpentier R.F.D. 16 Dunes Ridge Cape Ann, Massachusetts US.A.

Three minutes later he found a mailbox anddeposited the envelope, opening and closing the slotseveral times to make sure it had fallen inside. Helooked around at the signs everywhere, the Germanscript confusing him, the lines in front of thewindows discouraging him. He felt helpless, wantingto ask questions but afraid of stopping anyone,afraid that someone would study his face.

There was a window across the station, far awayon the other side; two couples had left theline four people with a sudden change of plans.Only one person was left. Converse hurried throughthe crowds, once again trying to hold himself incheck and minimising his movements.

“Emmerich, please,” he said to the clerk, as thelone customer finally left the window. “Netherlands.”he added, enunciating clearly.

The attendant briefly turned and looked at theclock on the wall behind him. Then he spoke inGerman, the phrases fast and guttural. “Verstehen?”he asked.

“Nein . . . Here!” Converse put three hun-dred-deutsche-mark notes on the ledge of thecounter, shaking his head, shrugging. “Please, aticket! I know, I’ve only got a few minutes.”

The man took two of the bills, shoving the thirdback. He made change and pressed several buttonsbeneath him; a ticket spewed out and he handed it toJoel. “Danke. Zwei Minuten!”

The track. What track? Can you understand? Where?"

"Wo?”

Yes, yes that’s it! Where?’

"Acht. “

"What?” Then Converse held up his right hand,raising and lowering the fingers to indicate numbers.

The attendant responded by holding up bothhands, a five-finger spread and three middle fingers.

"Acht,” he repeated, pointing across the station toJoel’s left.

“Eight! Thank you. ” Converse began walking asfast as possible without breaking into a run. He sawthe gate through the throngs of people; a conductorwas making an announcement while looking at hiswatch and backing into the archway.

A woman carrying packages collided with him,careening into his left shoulder, the bundlesplummeting out of her arms, scattering on the floor.He tried to apologize through the abuse she hurledat him, loud words that caused the surroundingtravelers to stop and gape. He picked up severalshopping bags as the woman’s barking voice reacheda crescendo.

“”Up yours, lady,” he mumbled, dropping thepackages and turning, now running to the closinggate. The conductor saw him and pushed it open.

He got to his seat, gasping, his soft hat pulleddown over his forehead. The wound in his left armwas aching sharply, and he thought he might haveripped it open in the collision. He felt under hisjacket, past the handle of the gun he had taken fromLeifhelm’s chauffeur. There was no blood and heclosed his eyes briefly in relief.

He was oblivious of the man across the aisle whowas staring at him.

In Paris, the secretary sat at her desk speaking onthe telephone in a low voice that was muted furtherby her cupped hand over the mouthpiece. HerParisian French was cultured if not aristocratic.

"That is everything,” she said quietly. Do you haveit?”

“Yes,” said the man on the other end of the line.“It’s extraordinary.”

“Why? It’s the reason I’m here.”

“Of course. I should say you’re extraordinary.”

“Of course. What are your instructions?”

“The gravest. I’m afraid.”

“I thought so. You have no choice.”

“Can you?”

“It’s done. I’ll see you at Taillevent. Eight o’clock?”

“Wear your black Galanos. I adore it so.”

“The Great Spike anticipates.”

“It is ever so, my dearest. Eight o’clock.”

The secretary hung up the phone, rose from thechair and smoothed her dress. She opened a drawerand took out a purse with long straps; she slipped itover her shoulder and walked to her employer’sclosed door. She knocked.

“Yes?” asked Mattilon inside.

“It is Suzanne, monsieur.”

“Come in, come in, ” said Rene, leaning back inhis chair as the woman entered. “The last letter isfilled with incomprehensible language, no?”

“Not at all, monsieur. It’s just that I . . . well, I’mnot sure it’s proper to say.”

“What could be improper? And if it is, at my ageI’d be so flattered I’d probably tell my wife.”

“Oh, monsieur . . .”

“No, really, Suzanne, you’ve been here whatnow? a week, ten days? One would think you hadbeen here for months. Your work is excellent and Iappreciate your Wiling in.

“Your secretary is a dear friend, monsieur. Icould do no less.”

“Well, I thank you. I hope the good Lord seesHis way to pull her through. Young people today,they drive so fast so terribly fast and sodangerously. I’m sorry, what is it, Suzanne?”

“I’ve had no lunch, sir. I was wondering “

“My Cod, I’m inconsiderate! I’m afraid it goeswith two partners who take August seriously and goon holiday! Please as long as you like, and I insistyou bring the bill to me and let me reimburse you.”

“That’s not necessary, but thank you for the offer.”

“Not an offer, Suzanne, an order. Have lots of wineand

let’s both of us make messes of my partners” clients.Now, off you go.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Suzanne went to the dooropened it slightly and then stopped. She turned herhead and saw that Mattilon was absorbed in reading.She closed the door silently, reached into her purseand withdrew a large pistol with the perforatedcylinder of a silencer attached to the barrel. Shepivoted slowly and walked toward the desk.

The lawyer looked up as she approached. “What?”

Suzanne fired four times in rapid succession.Rene Mattilon sprang back in his chair, his skullpierced from his right eye to his left forehead. Bloodstreaked down his face and over his white shirt.

“Where in God’s name have you been?” criedValerie into the phone. “I’ve been trying to reach yousince early this morning!”

“Early this morning,” said Lawrence Talbot, “whenthe news broke, I knew I had to get the first plane toWashington.”

“You don’t believe what they’re saying? You can’t!”

“I do, and worse, I feel responsible. I feel as if I’dunwittingly pulled the trigger myself, and in a waythat’s exactly what happened.”

“Goddamn you, Larry, explain that.”

“Joel called me from a hotel in Bonn only, hedidn’t know which one. He wasn’t rational, Val. Hewas calm one moment, shouting the next, finallyadmitting to me that he was confused and frightened.He rambled on most of the timeincoherently telling some incredible story of havingbeen captured and thrown into a stone house in thewoods, and how he escaped, hiding in the river,eluding guards and patrols and killing a man hecalled a ’scout.’ He kept screaming that he had to getaway, that men were searching for him, in the woods,along the riverbank…. Something’s happened to him.He’s gone back to those terrible days when he was a

prisoner of war. Everything he says, everything hedescribes, is a variation of those experiences thepain, the stress, the tensions of running for his lifethrough the jungles and down rivers. He’s sick, mydear, and this morning was the horrible proof. "

Valerie felt the hollowness in her throat, thesudden, awful vacuum below. She was beyondthinking; she could only react to words. “Why didyou say you were responsible, that in some way youpulled the trigger?”

“I told him to go to Peregrine. I tried toconvince him that Peregrine would listen to him,that he wasn’t the man Joel thought he was.”

” "Thought he was’? What did Joel say?”

“Very little that made sense. He ranted aboutgenerals and field marshals and some obscurehistorical theory that brought all the commandersfrom various wars and armies together in acombined effort to take control of governments. Hewasn’t lucid. He d pretend to be, but the minute Iquestioned a statement he made or a point in hisstory, he’d blow up and tell me it didn’t matter, orI wasn’t listening, or I was too dense to understand.But at the end he admitted he was terribly tired andconfused and how badly he needed sleep. That waswhen I made my last pitch about Peregrine, but Joeldidn’t trust him. He was actually hostile toward himbecause he said he saw a former Gemman general’scar go through the embassy gates, and as you mayor may not know, Peregrine was an outstandingofficer during the Second World War. I explained aspatiently and as fimmly as I could that Peregrinewas not one of "them,’ that he was no friend of themilitary. . . . Obviously, I failed. Joel reached him,set up a rendezvous and killed him. I had no ideahow sick he was.”

“Larry, “ began Valerie slowly, her voice weak. ”I hear everything you say, but it doesn’t ring true. Itisn’t that I don’t believe you Joel once said youwere an embarrassingly honest man butsomething’s missing. The Converse I know and livedwith for four years never bent the facts to supportabstractions he wanted to believe. Even when hewas angry as hell, he couldn’t do that. I told himhe’d make a lousy painter because he couldn’t benda shape to fit a concept. It wasn’t in him, and Ithink he explained it. At five hundred miles anhour, he said, you can mistake a shadow on theocean for a carrier if your instruments are out.”

“You’re telling me he doesn’t lie.”

“I’m sure he does I’m sure he did but neverabout important things. It simply isn’t in him.”

“That was before he became ill, violently ill. Hekilled that man in Paris, he admitted it to me.”

Valerie gasped. “No!”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Just as he killed Walter Peregrine.”

“Because of some obscure historical theory? It’sall wrong, Larry!”

“Two psychiatrists at the State Departmentexplained it, but in phrases I’m sure I’d mangle if Itried to repeat them. "Progressive latentretrogression,’ I think, was one of them.”

“Bullshit!”

“But you may be right about one thing. Geneva.Remember you said it all had something to do withGeneva?”

“I remember. What about Geneva?”

“It’s where it started, everyone in Washingtonagrees with that. I don’t know if you’ve read thepapers “

“Only the Globe; it’s delivered. I haven’t left thephone.”

“It was Jack Halliday’s son stepson, actually. Hewas the lawyer who was killed in Geneva. It seemshe was a prominent leaderof the antiwar movementin the sixties and he was Converse’s opponent in themerger. It was established that they met forbreakfast before the conference. The theory is thathe baitedJoel, and we can assume it was brutal, as hehad a reputation for going for the jugular.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Val, her frayednerves now suddenly alert.

“To throw Joel off. To distract him. Remember,they were dealing in millions, and the attorney whocame off best could do very well for himself clientslining up all over Wall Street to retain him. There’seven evidence that Halliday succeeded.”

“What evidence?”

“The first part’s technical, so I won’t try toexplain it except to say that there was a subtletransfer of voting stock which under certain isolatedmarket conditions might give Halliday’s clients moresay in management than the merger intended. Joelaccepted it; I don’t think he would have normally.”

“Normally? What’s the other part?”

“Joel’s behavior at the conference itself.According to the reports interviews with everyonein that room he wasn’t himself, he was distracted,some said agitated. Several law

yers on both sides commented on the fact that hekept to himself, standing by a window most of thetime, looking out as if he expected something. Hisconcentration was so lax that questions addressed tohim had to be repeated, and when they were, heappeared as though he didn’t understand them. Hismind was somewhere else, on something thatconsumed him.”

“Larry!” shouted Valerie. “What are you saying?That Joel had something to do with this Hallidaybeing killed?”

“It can’t be ruled out,” said Talbot sadly. “Eitherpsychologically or in light of what people saw in theanteroom when Halliday died.”

“What they saw?” whispered Valerie. “The papersaid he died with Joel holding his head.”

“I’m afraid there’s more, my dear. I’ve read thereports. According to a receptionist and two otherattorneys, there was a violent exchange betweenthem just before Halliday died. No one’s sure whatwas said, but they all agree it seemed ViCiOUS,with Halliday clutching Joel’s lapels, as thoughaccusing him. Later, when questioned by theGeneva police, Joel claimed there was no coherentconversation, only the hysterical words of a dyingman. The police report added that he was not acooperative witness.”

“My God, he was probably in shock! You knowwhat he went through the sight of that man dyingliterally in his arms must have been traumatic forhim!”

“Admittedly, this is hindsight, Valerie, buteverything must be examined above all, hisbehavior.”

“What do they think he did? What’s the theorynow? That Joel went out into the street, sawsomeone who fit the bill and hired him to kill aman? Really, Larry, this is ludicrous. “

“There are more questions, than there areanswers, certainly, but what’s happened what weknow has happened isn’t ludicrous at all. It’stragic.”

“All right, all right,” said Valerie, her wordsrushed. “But why would he do it? Why would hewant Halliday killed? Why. “

“I think that’s obvious. How he must havedespised someone like Halliday. A man who stayedsafely at home, who condemned and ridiculedeverything men like Joel went through, calling themgoons and murderers and lackeys and unnecessarysacrifices. Along with his hated "commanders,’

the Hallidays of this world must have stood foreverything else he loathed. One group ordering meninto battle, to be maimed, killed, captured . . .tortured, the other making a mockery of everythingthey endured. Whatever Halliday said at thatbreakfast table must have made something snap inJoel’s head.”

“And you think,” said Valerie quietly, the wordsechoing in her throat, “that’s why he wanted Hallidaydead?”

“Latent vengeance. It’s the prevalent theory, theconsensus, if you will.”

“I don’s "will.’ Because it’s not true, it couldn’t betrue.”

“These are highly qualified experts, Val, doctorsin the behavioral sciences. They’ve analyzedeverything in the records and they feel the pattern isthere. Shock-induced, instant pathologicalschizophrenia.”

“That’s very impressive. They should embroiderit on their Snoopy baseball caps because that’s whereit belongs.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to dispute “

“I’m in a hell of a position,” interrupted theex-Mrs. Converse. “But nobody bothered to ask me,or Joel’s father, or his sister who just happened tohave been one of those wild-eyed protesters you allspeak of. There’s no way Halliday could haveprovoked Joel the way they say he did at breakfast,lunch or dinner.”

“You can’t make such a statement, my dear. Yousimply don’t know that.”

“I do know, Larry. Because Joel thought theHallidays of this world, as you put it, were right. Hewasn’t always crazy about the way they did things,but he thought they were right!”

“I don’t believe that. Not after what he wentthrough.”

“Then go to another source if that’s what youcall it. To some of those records your high priests ofthe behavioral sciences conveniently overlooked.When Joel came back, there was a parade for him atTravis Air Force Base in California, where he wasgiven everything but the keys to every starlet’sapartment in Los Angeles. Am I right?”

“I recall there was a military welcome for a manwho had escaped under extraordinary circumstances.The Secretary of State greeted him at the plane, infact.”

“In absolute fact, Larry. Then what? Where elsewas he paraded?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

"Look at the records. Nowhere. He wouldn’t doit. How many invitations did he get? From howmany towns and cities and companies andorganisations all pushed like hell by the WhiteHouse? A hundred, five hundred, five thousand? Atleast that many, Larry. And do you know how manyhe accepted? Tell me, Larry, do you know? Didthose high priests talk about this?”

“It wasn’t an issue.”

“Of course it wasn’t. It warped the pattern, itbent the shapes Joel Converse wouldn’t bend! Theanswer is zero Larry. He wouldn’t do it, any of it!He thought one day more of that war was one moreday in hell too long. He refused to lend his name.”

“What are you trying to say?” said Talbot sternly.

“Halliday wasn’t his enemy, not the way you’retrying to paint him. The brushstrokes aren’t there.They’re not on the canvas.”

“Your metaphors are more than I can handle,Val. What are you trying to tell meP”

“That something smells, Larry. It’s so rotten Ican hardly breathe, but the stench isn’t coming frommy former husband. It’s coming from all of you.”

“I have to take exception to that. All I want todo is help I thought you knew that.”

“I do, really I do. It’s not your fault. Good-bye,Larry.”

“I'll call you the minute I learn anything.”

“Do that. Good-bye.” Valerie hung up the phoneand looked at her watch. It was time to get down toLogan Airport in Boston to pick up RogerConverse.

“Koln in zehn Minuten!” shouted the voice overthe loudspeaker.

Converse sat by the window, his face next to theglass as the towns sped by on the way toCologne Bornheim, Wesel, Bruhl. The train wasperhaps three-quarters full which was to say thateach double seat had at least one occupant. Whenthey pulled out of the station a woman had beensitting where he sat now, a fashionably dressedsuburbanite. Several seats behind them anotherwoman a friend spotted her. His seatmate spoketo Joel. The brief attention she had called to both ofthem when he could not reply unnerved him. Heshrugged and shook his head; she exhaled im-patient}y, got up in irritation and joined her friend.

She had left a newspaper behind, the samenewspaper with his photograph on the front page,which remained flat out on the seat. He stared at ituntil he realized what he was doing and instantlyshifted seats, picking up the paper and folding it sothat the picture would be out of sight. He glancedaround cautiously, holding his hand casually abovehis lips, frowning, pensive, trying to seem like a manin thought whose eyes saw nothing. But he had seenanother pair of eyes and they were studyinghim staring at him while the owner was engaged inwhat appeared to be a lively conversation with anelderly woman next to him. The man had lookedaway, and Converse had a brief half-second toobserve the face before he turned to the window. Heknew that face; he had talked to that man, but hecould not remember where it was or when it was,only that they had spoken. The realisation was asmaddening as it was frightening. Where was it? Whenwas it? Did the man know him, know his name?

If the man did, he had done nothing about it. Hehad returned his concentration to the woman, theconversation still lively. Joel tried to picture thewhole man, perhaps it would help. He was large, notso much in height as in girth, and on the surfacejovial, but Converse sensed a meanness in him. Wasthat now or before? When was before? Wherek Tenminutes or so had passed since the exchange oflooks, end Joel was no further ahead in peeling awaythe layers of memory. He was stymied and afraid.

“Wir kommen in zwei Minuten in Koln an. Bitteachten Sie auf Ihr Gepa’ck!”

A number of passengers got up from their seats,tugging at their jackets and skirts, reaching forluggage. As the train began to slow down, Conversepressed his forehead against the cool glass of thewindow. He let his mind go slack, unfocused,expecting the next few minutes to tell him what todo.

The minutes passed, the suspension on hold, hismind blank as passengers got off and others got in,many carrying attache cases, several very much likehis own, which he had left in a trash can in Bonn. Hehad wanted to keep it but he could not. It had beena gift from Valerie, as his gold pen was a gift, bothinitiated in those better days…. No, not better, hetold himself, simply different. Nothing was better orworse; there were no comparisons wherecommitments were con

corned. They either stuck or they did not. Theirscame unstuck.

Then why, he asked himself, as the train groundto a stop at Cologne, had he sent the contents of hisbriefcase to Val? His answer was the essence oflogic, he thought. She would know what to do; theothers would not. Talbot, Brooks and Simon wereout. His sister, Virginia, was even further out. Hisfather? The fly-boy with a sense of responsibilitythat went as far as his last wing dip? It could not bethe pilot. He loved old Roger, more than hesuspected Roger loved him, but the pilot couldnever come to grips with the ground. Hard earthmeant relationships, and old Roger never knew howto handle them even with a wife he claimed to haveloved dearly. The doctors said she had died of acoronary occlusion; her son thought it was fromneglect. Roger was not on the scene, had not beenfor several weeks. So that left Valerie . . . his onceand former Valerie.

“Entschuldigen Sie. Ist dieser Platz fret?” Theintruding voice came from a man about his own age,carrying an attache case.

Joel nodded, assuming the words referred to theempty seat beside him.

“Danke, ” said the man, sitting down, the attachecase at his feet. He withdrew a newspaper fromunder his left arm and snapped it open. Conversetensed as he saw his photograph, his own seriousface staring at him. He turned again to the window,pulling the soft brim of the hat lower, his facedown, hoping he looked like an exhausted travellerwishing only to catch a few minuses’ sleep.Moments later, as the train started forward, he hadan inkling that he had succeeded.

“Verru’ckt, nicht wahr.P” said the man with theattache case reading the newspaper.

Joel stirred and blinked open his eyes beneaththe brim of the hat. “Umm?”

“Schade, ” added the man, his right handseparated from the paper in a gesture of apology.

Converse settled back against the window, thecoolness of the glass an anchor, his eyes closed, thedarkness more welcome than he could everremember…. No, that was not true he rememberedto the contrary. In the camps there were momenhwhen he was not sure he could keep up the facadeof strength and revolt, when everything in himwanted to capitulate, to hear even a few kind words,to see a smile that had meaning. Then the darkness would come and hewould cry, the tears drenching his face. And whenthey stopped, the anger would be inexplicablyrestored. Somehow the tears had cleansed him,purged the doubts and the fears and made him wholeagain. And angry again.

“Wir kommen in fief Minuten in Dusseldorf an!’

Joel bolted forward, his neck painfully stiff, his head cold. He had dozed for a considerable length oftime, judging from the stiffness above his shoulderblades. The man beside him was reading andmarking a report of some kind, the attache case onhis lap, the newspaper folded neatly between himselfand Converse, folded maddeningly with hisphotograph in clear view. The man opened his case,put the report inside, and snapped it shut. He turnedto Converse.

“Der Zug ist punklich, ” he said, nodding his head.

Joel nodded back, suddenly aware that thepassenger across the aisle had gotten up with theelderly woman, shaking her hand and replying tosomething she had said. But he was not looking ather; his eyes had strayed over to Converse. Joelslumped back into the seat and the window, resumingthe appearance of a weary traveler, the soft brim ofhis hat pulled down to the rims of his glasses. Whowas that man? If they knew each other, how could hebe silent under the circum. stances? How could hesimply look over now and then and casually return tohis conversation with the woman? At the very least,he would have to betray some sense of alarm or fear,or, at the minimum, excited recognition.

The train began to slow down, the metallicgrinding of the steel plates against the huge wheelsswelling; soon the whistles would commence for theirarrival in Dusseldorf. Converse wondered if theGerman next to him would get off. He had closed hisattache case but made no preliminary moves to riseand join the line forming at the forward door.Instead, he picked up the newspaper, opening it,mercifully, to an inside page.

The train stopped, passengers disembarked andothers got on board mostly women with shoppingboxes and plastic bags emblazoned with the logos ofexpensive boutiques and recognisable names in thefashion industry. The train to [:mmerich was asuburban “mink run,” as Val used to call the af-ternoon trains from New York to Westchester andConnecticut. Joel saw that the man from across theaisle had walked the elderly woman up to the rear ofthe line, again shaking her hand solicitously before sidestepping his wayback toward his seat. Converse turned his face tothe glass, his head bowed, and closed his eyes.

“Bitte, konnen wir die Pldtze tauschen? DieserHerr ist ein Bekannter. Ich sitze in der ndchstenReihe.”

“Sicher, aber or schldft ja doch nun “

“Ich wocke ihn. ” said Converse s seatmate, laughing and getting up. The man from across theaisle had changed seats. He sat down next to Joel.

Converse stretched, covering a yawn with his lefthand, his right slipping under his jacket to thehandle of the gun he had taken from Leifhelm’schauffeur. If it became necessary he would showthat gun to his new yet familiar companion. Thetrain started, the noise below growing in volume; itwas the moment. Joel hlrned to the man, his eyesknowing but conveying nothing.

“I figured it was you,” said the man, obviously anAmerican, grinning broadly but not attractively.

Converse had been right, there was a meannessabout the obese man; he heard it in the voice as hehad heard it before but where he did notremember. “Are you sure?’ asked Joel.

“Sure I’m sure. But I’ll bet you’re not, are you?”

"Frankly, no.

“I ll give you a hint. I can always spot a good aleYank! Only made a couple of mistakes in all theyears of hopping around selling my lid ale line oflook-alike, almost originals.”

“Copenhagen,” said Converse, remembering withdistaste waiting for his luggage with the man. “Andone of your mistakes was in Rome when youthought an Italian was a Hispanic from Florida.’

“You got it! That guinea bastard had mebuffaloed, figured him for a spik with a lot ofbread probably from running dope, you know whatI mean? You know how they are, how they corneredthe market from the Keys up…. Say, what s yourname again?”

“Rogers, replied Joel for no other reason thanthe fact that he had been thinking about his fathera while ago. “You speak Cerman, he added, makinga statement.

“Shit, I’d better. West Germany s just about ourbiggest market. My old man was a Kraut; it’s all hespoke.”

“What do you sell?”

“The best imitations on Seventh Avenue, but don’tget

me wrong, I’m not one of the Jew boys. You take aBalenciaga, right? You change a few buttons and afew pleats, put a ruffle maybe where the Latinodoesn’t have one. Then farm the patterns out to theBronx and Jersey, lower Miami and Pennsylvania,where they sew in a label like "Valenciana.’ Then youwholesale the batch at a third of the price andeverybody’s happy except the Latino. But there’snot a tucking thing he can do that’d be worth histime in court because for the most part it’s legal.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Well, a guy would have to plow through a roadof chazzerai to prove it wasn’t legal.”

" Sadly, that’s true.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong! We provide themerchandise and a service for thousands of nice li’lale housewives who can’t afford that Paris crap. AndI earn my bread, ale Yankee Doodle. Take thatwrinkled old broad I was with; she owns a half-dozenspecialty shops in Cologne and Dusseldorf, and nowshe’s looking into Bonn. Let me tell you, I waltzher….”

The towns and small cities went by. Leverkusen. . . Lagenfeld . . . Hilden, and still the salesmanwent on, one tasteless anecdote leading to the next,his voice grating, his comments repetitive.

“Wir kommen in fu’nf Minuten in Essen an!”

It happened in Essen.

The commotion came first but it was not sudden.Instead it grew in volume as an immense rollingwave gathers force approaching a ragged coastline, asustained crescendo culminating in the crash over therocks. The embarking passengers all seemed to betalking excitedly, with one another, heads turned,necks craned to listen to the voices coming from sev-eral transistor radios. Some were held against theear, others with the volume turned up at the requestof those nearby. The more crowded the trainbecame, the louder everyone talked as theconversations were almost drowned out by the shrillmetallic voices of the newscasters. A thin young girlin the uniform of a private school, her books in acanvas beach bag and a blaring radio in her lefthand, sat down in the seat in front of Joel and thesalesman. Passengers gathered around shouting,apparently asking the girl if she could make the radiolouder.

“What’s it all about?” asked Converse, turning tothe obese man.

"Wait a minute!” replied the salesman, leaningforward with difficulty and in greater discomfortrising partially from the seat. “Let me listen.”

There was a perceptible lull, but only among thecrowd around the girl, who now held up the radio.Suddenly there was a burst of static and Conversecould hear two voices, in addition to that of thenewscaster, a remote report from somewhere awayfrom the radio. And then Joel heard the wordsspoken in English; they were nearly impossible topick out, as an interpreter kept rushing in to givethe German translahon.

“A full inquiry . . . Eine vollstandiges Verhor. . .entailing all security forces . . . sin erfordert alleSicherheitskrafte . . . has been ordered . . . wurdeveranlasst.”

Converse grabbed the salesman’s coat. “What isit tell me what happened?” he asked rapidly.

“That nut hit again! . . . Wait, they’re goingback. Lemme hear this.” Again there was a shortburst of static and the excited newscaster came backon the air. A terrible sense of dread spread throughJoel as the onslaught of German crackled out of thesmall radio, each phrase more breathless than thelast. Finally the guttural recitation ended. Thepassengers straightened their backs. Some stood up,turning to one another, their voices raised incounterpoint, excited conversahons resumed. Thesalesman lowered himself into the seat, breathinghard not, apparently, because of the alarming newshe had heard but because of sheer physicaldiscomfort.

“Would you please tell me what this is allabout?” asked Converse, controlling his anxiety.

“Yeah, sure,” said the heavyset man, taking ahandkerchief from his breast pocket and moppinghis forehead. “This mother-loving world is full ofcrazies, you know what I mean? For Christ’s sake,you can’t tell who the fuck you’re talking to! If itwas up to me, every kid who was born cross-eyed orcouldn’t find a tit would be buried in dirt. I’m justsick of the weirdos, you know what I mean?”

“That’s very enlightening now, what happened?”

“Yeah, okay.” The salesman put thehandkerchief back in his pocket, then loosened hisbelt and undid the buttons above his zippered fly.“The soldier boy, the one who runs theheadquarters in Brussels “

“The supreme commander of NATO, ” said Joel,his dread complete.

“Yeah, that one. He was shot, his head blown offright in the goddamned street when he was leavingsome little restaurant in the old section. He was incivilian clothes, too. "

“When?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“Who do they say did it?”

“The same creep who knocked off thatambassador in Bonn. The nut!”

“How do they know that?”

“They got the gun.”

“The what?”

“The gun. It’s why they didn’t release the newsright away; they wanted to check the fingerprintswith Washington. It’s his, and they figure theballistics will show it’s the same gun that was used tokill what’s-his-name.”

“Peregrine,” said Converse quietly, aware that hisdread was not complete. The worst part was onlycoming into focus. “How did they get the gun?”

“Yeah, well, that’s where they’ve marked thebastard. The soldier boy had a guard with him whoshot at the nut and hit him they think on the leftarm. When the weirdo grabbed his arm, the gundropped out of his hand. The hospitals and thedoctors have been alerted and all the borders allover the place are being checked, every tuckingAmerican male passport made to roll up his sleeves,and anyone looking anywhere’s near like him hauledoff to a customs tank.”

“They’re being thorough,” said Joel, not knowingwhat else to say,-feeling only the pain of his wound.

“I’ll say this for the creep,” continued thesalesman, eyes wide and nodding his head in someobscene gesture of respect. “He’s got “em chasingtheir asses from the North Sea to the Mediterranean.They got reports he was seen on planes in Antwerp,Rotterdam, and back there in Dusseldorf. It onlytakes forty-five minutes to get from ”Dussel’ toBrussels, you know. I got a friend in Munich whoflies a couple times a week to have lunch in Venice.Every place over here’s a short hop. Sometimes weforget that, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. Short flights . . . Did you hear anythingelse?”

“They said he could be heading for Paris orLondon or maybe even Moscow he could be aCommie, you know. They’re checking the privateairfields, too, figuring he’s got friends who arehelping him some friends, huh? A regular happygroup of drooling psychos. They’re even comparing

him to that Carlos, the one they call "the jackal,’what do you think of that? They say if he does go toParis, the two of them might link up and therecould be a few more executions. This Converse,though, he’s got his own regular trademark. He putsbullets in their heads. Some kind of Boy Scout,huh?”

Joel stiffened, feeling the tension throughout hisslumped body, a sharp hollow pain in the centerofhis chest. It was the first time he had heard hisname spoken casually by a stranger identifying himas the psychopathic killer, an assassin hunted bygovernments whose border patrols were scrutinisingeveryone at every checkpoint private airfieldswatched, a dragnet in progress. The generals ofAquitaine had done their job with precision, rightdown to his fingerprints on a gun and a flesh woundin his arm. But the timing how could they dare?How did they know he was not in an embassy some-where asking for temporary asylum until he couldmake a case for himself? How could they take thechance?

Then the realisation came to him, and he had todig his fingers into his wrist to control himself, tocontain his panic. The call to Mattilon! How easilyRene’s phone could have been tapped, by either theSurete or Interpol, and how quickly Aquitaine’sinformers would have spread the word! Oh, Christ!Neither one of them had thought of it! They didknow where he was, and no matter where he wenthe was trapped! As the offensive salesman hadaccurately phrased it, “Every place over here’s ashort hop.” A man could fly from Munich to Venicefor lunch and be back in his office for a three-thirtyappointment. Another man could kill in Brusselsand be on a train in Dusseldorf forty-five minuteslater. Distances were measured in half-hours. Fromground-zero in Brussels, “a couple of hours ago”covered a wide circle of cities and a great manyborders. Were his hunters on the train? They mightbe, but there was no way they could know whichtrain he had taken. It would be easier and far lesstime-consuming to wait for him in Emmerich. Hehad to think, he had to mow.

“Excuse me,” said Converse, getting up. “I haveto use the men’s room.”

“You’re lucky.” The salesman moved his heavylegs, holding his trousers as he let Joel pass. “I canhardly squeeze into those boxes. I always take a leakbefore . . .”

Joel made his way up the aisle. He stoppedabruptly, swallowing, trying to decide whether tocontinue or turn back. He

had left the newspaper on his seat, the photographeasily revealed by unfolding the top page. He had tocontinue; any change of movement, however minor,might attract attention. His objective was not themen’s room but the passageway between the cars; hehad to see it. A number of people had opened thedoor and gone through, several apparently lookingfor someone they expected to find on the train. Hewould look down at the lock on the bathroom doorand proceed.

He stood in the swerving, vibrating passagewaystudying the metal door. It was a standard two-tieredexit, the top had to be opened first before the lowerpart could be unlocked and pulled back, revealingthe steps. It was all he had to know.

He returned to his seat, and to his relief thesalesman was splayed back, his thick lips parted, hiseyes closed, a high-pitched wheeze emanating fromhis throat. Converse cautiously lifted one foot afterthe other over the fat man’s legs and maneuveredhimself into his seat. The newspaper had not beentouched. Another relief.

Diagonally above and in front of him, he saw asmall receptacle in the curved wall with whatappeared to be a sheaf of railroad schedules fannedout by disuse. Limp, bent pieces of paper ignoredbecause these commuters knew where they weregoing. Joel raised himself off the seat, reached out,and took one, apologizing with several nods of hishead to the young girl below. She giggled.

Oberhausen . . . Dinslaken . . . Voerde . . . Wesel. . . Emmerich.

WeseL The last stop before Emmerich. He hadno idea how many miles Wesel was from Emmerich,but he had no choice. He would get off the train atWesel, not with departing passengers but by himself.He would disappear in Wesel

He felt a slight deceleration beneath him, hispilot’s instincts telling him it was the outer perimeterof an approach, the final path to touchdown in thescope. He stood up and carefully maneuveredbetween the fat man’s legs to reach the aisle; at thelast second the salesman snorted, shifting his posi-tion. Squinting under the brim of his hat, Joelcasually glanced around, as if he were momentarilyunsure of which way to go. He moved his headslowly; as far as he could see, no one was paying theslightest attention to him.

He walked with carefully weary steps up the aisle,a tired passenger in search of relief. He reached thetoilet door and was greeted by an ironic sign of true relief. Thewhite slot below the handle spelled out BESETZT.His first maneuver had its basis in credibility; thetoilet was in use. He turned toward the heavypassageway door, pulled it open and, stepping out-side, crossed the vibrating, narrow coupling area tothe opposite door. He pushed it open, but instead ofgoing inside he took a single stride forward, thenlowered his body, turning as he did so, and steppedback into the passageway, into the shadows. Hestood up, his back against the external bulkhead,and inched his way to the edge of the thick glasswindow. Ahead was the inside of the rear car, andby turning he had a clear view of the car in front.He waited, watching, turning, at any momentexpecting to see someone lowering a newspaper orbreaking off a conversation and looking over at hisempty seat.

None did. The excitement over the news of theassassination in Brussels had tapered off, as had therush of near panic in Bonn when the streets learnedthat an ambassador had been killed. A number ofpeople were obviously still talking about bothincidents, shaking their heads and grappling with theimplications and the future possibilities, but theirvoices were lowered; the crisis of the first reportshad passed. After all, it was not fundamentally theconcern of these citizens. It was American againstAmerican. There was even a certain gloating in theair; the gunfight at O.K. Corral had new signifi-cance. The colonists were, indeed, a violent breed.

“Wir kommen in . . . ” The rapid clacking of thewheels below, echoing in the metal chamber,obscured the distant announcement over theloudspeakers. Only moments now, thought Converseas he turned and looked at the exit door. When thetrain slowed sufficiently and the lines began to format both inner doors, he would make his move.

“Wir kommen in drei Minuten in Wesel an!”

Several passengers in both cars got out of theirseats, adjusted their briefcases and shopping bagsand started up the aisle. The grinding of the giantwheels underneath signified the approach totouchdown. Now.

Joel turned to the exit door and, finding theupper latch, snapped it open, pulling the uppersection back; the rush of air was deafening. Hespotted the handle of the lower release and grippedit, prepared to yank it up as soon as the groundbeyond slowed down. It would be in only seconds.The sounds below grew louder and the sunlightoutside created a racing

silhouette of the train. Then the abrasive wordsbroke through the dissonance and he froze.

“Very well thought out, Herr Converse! Some win,some lose. You lost”

Joel spun around. The man yelling at him in themetal chamber was the passenger who had gotten onthe train at Dusseldorf, the apologetic commuterwho had sat next to him until the obese salesmanhad asked him to exchange seats. In his left hand wasa gun held far below his waist, in his right theever-respectable attache case.

“You’re a surprise,” said Converse.

“I would hope so. I barely made the train inDusseldorf. Ach, three cars I walked through like amadman but not the madman you are, ja?”

“What happens now? You fire that gun and savethe world from a madman?’

“Nothing so simplistic, pilot.”

“Pilot.”

“Names are immaterial, but I am a colonel in theWest German Luftwaffe. Pilots only kill one anotherin the air. It is embarrassing on the ground.”

“You’re comforting.”

“I also exaggerate. One disconcerting move onyour part and I shall be a hero of the Fatherland,having cornered a crazed assassin and killed himbefore he killed me.”

“"Fatherland’? You still call it that?”

“Natiirlich. Most of us do. From the father comesthe strength; the female is the vessel.”

“They’d love you in a Vassar biology class.”

“Is that meant to be amusing?”

“No, just disconcerting in a very minor way,nothing serious.” Joel had moved imperceptibly untilhis back was against the bulkhead, his whole mind,his entire thinking process, on pre-set. He had nochoice except to die, now or in a matter of hoursfrom now. “I suppose you have an itinerary for me,”he asked as he swung his left arm forward with thequestion.

“Quite definitely, pilot. We will get off the trainat Wesel, and you and I will share a telephone, mygun firmly against your chest. Within a short time acar will meet us and you will be taken “

Converse slammed his concealed right elbow into the

bulkhead, his left arm in plain sight. The Germanglanced at the door of the forward car. Alow!

Joel lunged for the gun, both hands surging forthe black barrel as he crashed his right knee with allthe force he could command into the man’stesticles. As the German fell back he grabbed hishair and smashed the man’s head down onto aprotruding hinge of the opposite door.

It was over. The German’s eyes were wide,alarmed, glassy. Another scout was dead, but thisman was no ignorant conscript from an impersonalgovernment, this was a soldier of Aquitaine.

A stout woman screamed in the window, hermouth opened wide with her screams, her facehysterical.

“Wesel. . . !”

The train had slowed down and other excitedfaces appeared at the window, the frenzied crowdnow blocking those who tried to open the door.

Converse lunged across the vibrating metalenclosure to the exit panel. He grasped the latchand pulled it open, crashing the door into thebulkhead. The steps were below, gravel and tarbeyond. He took a deep breath and plunged outsidecurling his body to lessen the impact of the hardground, and when he made contact he rolled over,and over, and over.

He careened off a rock and into a cluster ofbushes. Nettles and coarse tendrils enveloped him,scraping his face and hands. His body was a mass ofbruises, the wound in his left arm moist andstinging, but there was no time even to acknowledgepain. He had to get away; in minutes the whole areawould be swarming with men searching for him,hunting for the murderer of an officer in theFederal Republic’s air arm. It took no imaginationto foresee what would happen next. The passengerswould be questioned including the salesman andsuddenly a newspaper would be in someone’s hand,a photograph studied, the connection made. Acrazed killer last seen in a back street in Brusselswas not on his way

to Paris or London or Moscow. He was on a trainout of Bonn, passing through Cologne, Essen andDusseldorf and he killed again in a town calledWesel.

Suddenly he heard the high-pitched wail of ahorn. He looked up the small hill toward the tracks;a south-bound train was gathering speed out of thestation several thousand feet away. Then he saw hishat; it was on the hill, halfway down. Joel crept outof the tangling brush, staggered to his feet, and ranto it, refusing to listen to that part of his mind whichtold him he could barely walk. He grabbed the hatand began running to his right. The south-boundtrain passed; he raced up the hill and across thetracks, heading for an old building, apparentlydeserted. More of its windows were shattered thanintact. He might rest there for a few moments but nolonger; it was too obvious a hiding place. In ten orfifteen minutes it would be surrounded by men withguns aimed at every exit, every window.

He tried desperately to remember. How had hedone it before? How had he eluded the patrols in thejungles north of Phu Loc? . . . Vantage points! Getwhere you can see them but they can’t see you! Butthere were tall trees then and he was younger andstronger and could climb them, concealing himselfbehind green screens of full branches on firm limbs.There was nothing like that here on the outskirts ofa railroad yard . . . or maybe there wasl To the rightof the building was a landfill dump, tons of earth anddebris piled high in several pyramids; it was his onlychoice.

Gasping, his arms and legs aching, his woundinflamed, he ran toward the last of the pyramids. Hereached it, propelled his way around the mass, andstarted climbing the rear side, his feet slipping intosoft earth, and wood and cardboard and patches ofgarbage, where it had been layered. The sickeningsmells took his mind off the pain. He kept crawling,clawing with each slipping foot. If he had to, hecould burrow himself into the stinking mess. Therewere no rules for survival, and if sinking himself intothe putrid hill kept a spray of bullets from ending hislife, so be it.

He reached the top and lay prone below theridge, dirt and protruding debris all around him.Sweat rolled down his face, stinging the scrapes onhis face; his legs and arms were heavy with pain, andhis breathing was erratic from the trembling causednot only by unused muscles but by fear. He lookeddown at the outskirts of the railroad yard, then up

ahead at the station. The train had stopped, and theplatform was filled with people milling around,bewildered. Several uniformed men were shoutingorders, trying to separate passengers apparentlythose in the two cars flanking the scene of thekilling or anyone else who knew anything. In theparking lot surrounding the station ablue-and-whitestriped police car, its red roof lightspinning, the signal of emergency. There was a rapidclanging in the distance, and seconds later a longwhite ambulance streaked into the lot whipped intoa horseshoe turn and plunged back, stopping closeto the platform. As the rear doors opened, twoattendants jumped out carrying a stretcher; a policeofficer above them on the steps shouted at them,gesturing with his arm. They ran up the metalstaircase and followed him.

A second patrol car swerved into the lot, tiresscreeching as it stopped next to the ambulance. Twopolice officers got out and walked up the steps; theofficer who had directed the ambulance attendantsjoined them, with two civilians, a man and a woman,beside him. The five talked, and moments later thetwo patrolmen returned to their vehicle. The driverbacked up and spun to his left, gunning the engine,heading for the south end of the parking lot,directly toward Converse. Again they stopped andgot out, now with weapons drawn they raced acrossthe tracks and down the slope of gravel and tar intothe wild grass. They would be coming back in min-utes, thought Joel, absently clawing the raggedsurface by his shoulders. They would stop and checkout the deserted building, perhaps call forassistance, but sooner or later they would examinethe huge mounds of landfill.

Converse looked behind him; there was a dirtroad marked with the tracks of heavy trucks leadingto a tall link fence, the gate held in place with athick chain. A man running up that road andclimbing that fence would be seen, he had to staywhere he was, hidden in the putrid rubble.

Another sound interrupted his franticcalculations a sound like one he had heard onlymoments before. On his right, in the parking lot. Athird patrol car came speeding in its claxon howling,but instead of heading for the ambulance and thefirst police vehicle by the platform, it veered to itsleft, racing over to jOill the striped car at the southend of the lot. The two policemen in the field hadradioed for assistance, and Joel felt a numbing senseof despair. He was looking at his own executioners.Executioner. The newly arrived patrol

car contained only the driver or did it? Did thepoliceman turn his head and speak? No, he wasdisengaging something, a seat belt probably.

A gray-haired uniformed man got out, lookedaround then started walking rapidly toward thetracks. He crossed them and stood on the top of theslope, shouting down at the police officers in thesun-drenched brown grass. Converse had no ideawhat the man was saying, but the scene appearedstrangely out of place.

The two policemen came racing into view, theirguns no longer in their hands but holstered. Therewas a brief heated conversation. The older officerwas pointing to a distant area south of the landfill;his words, to judge by their volume, were commands.Joel looked back at his patrol car; on the panel ofthe front door was an insignia that was absent on theother car. The man held a rank superior to those ofhis young associates; he was issuing orders.

The younger policemen ran back across the tracksto their vehicle, their superior following but notrunning. They swung back the doors, literally jumpedin and, in a burst of the engine’s roar, swerved to theright and sped out of the parking lot. The older manreached his patrol car, but he made no movement toopen the door or get inside. Instead, he spoke atleast his lips moved and five seconds later the reardoors opened and two men emerged. One manConverse knew well. His gun was in Joel’s pocket. Itwas LeifLelm’s chauffeur, a taped bandage across hisforehead, another on the ridge of his nose. He pulledout a gun and barked a command to the other man;in his voice was the vengeful fury of a soldierdishonored in combat.

Peter Stone left the hotel in Washington. He hadtold the young Navy lieutenant and the slightly olderArmy captain that he would contact them in themorning. Children, he thought. Idealistic amateurswere the worst, because their righteousness wasusually as valid as their actions were impractical.Their childish disdain for duplicity and deceit did notcountenance the fact that to rip out the maniacalbastards frequently required greater malevolence andfar more deception than they could imagine.

Stone got into a taxi leaving his car in thebasement parking area and gave the driver theaddress of an apartment building on NebraskaAvenue. It was a lovely apart

meet, but it did not belong to him; it was leased byan Albanian diplomat at the United Nations whowas rarely there naturally, because he was based inNew York. But the former intelligence officer hadworked hard and turned the Albanian several yearsago, not merely with ideological pleas to a finescholar s conscience but also with photographs ofthis same scholar in all manner of sexualindulgences with very strange women women intheir sixties and seventies, bag ladies off the streets,who after carnal abuse were subject to sheerphysical abuse. He was a winner, thescholar-diplomat. A psychiatrist in Langley had saidsomething about wish-fulfillment sexuallyrepressed matricide. Stone did not need thatnonsense; he had the photographs of a son-of-abitchsadist. But it was the children that occupied hismind now, not the excesses of a fool that permittedhim access to a luxury apartment far beyond hisconsultation fees.

The children. Jesus! They were so right, theirsensibilities so correctly on target, but they did notunderstand that when they took on the CeorgeMarcus Delavanes of today’s world it was war in allits worst forms of brutality, because that was theway these men fought. Righteousness had to joinwith a commitment to crawl in the gutter ifnecessary, no quarter sought, for none would begiven. This was the last fifth of the twentieth centuryand the generals were going for it all; the paranoiaof their disgust and frustrations had come to theend of endurance.

Stone had seen it coming for years, and therewere fumes when he had come close to applauding,throwing his hands up in frustration, willing to sellwhat was left of his soul. Strategies had beenaborted men lost because of the maddeningbureaucratic restraints that led back to laws and aconshtudon that were never written with anythinglike Moscow in mind. The Mad Marcuses of thisplanet this part of the planet had a number ofvery plausible points. There were those in theCompany years ago who were adamant and notsquirrelly about it. They said, “Bomb the nuclearplants in Tashkent and Tselinogradl Blow them thehell up in Chengdu and Shenyang! Don’t let thembegin! We are responsible and they are not!”

Who knew? Would the world have been better off?

Then Peter would wake up in the morning andthat part of his soul he had not sold would tell him,no, we cannot do that. There had to be anotherway, a way without confronta

tionand wholesale death. He still clung to thatalternative, but he could not dismiss the Delavanesas megabomb off-the-willers. Where were we headingnow?

He knew where he was heading had beenheading for years. It was why he had joined thechildren. Their righteousness was justified, theirindignation valid. He had seen it all before in toomany places, always at the extremes of the politicalspectrum. The Delavanes of the planet would turneveryone into robots. In many ways, death waspreferable.

Stone unlocked the door of the apartment, closedit, took off his jacket and made himself the onlydrink he would permit himself for the evening. Hewalked to the leather chair by the telephone and satdown, taking several swallows before putting theglass on the table beneath the floor lamp. He pickedup the phone and dialed seven digits, then threemore, and one more after that. A very faint dial tonereplaced the original, and he dialed again. Everythingwas in order. The call was being routed through aKGB diplomatic scrambler cable on an island in theCabot Strait southwest of Newfoundland. OnlyDzerzLinsky Square would be confused. Peter hadpaid six negatives for the service. Five rings precededthe sound of a male voice in Bern, Switzerland.

“Allo?”

“This is your old friend from Bahrain, also thevendor in Lisbon and a buyer in the Dardanelles. DoI have to sing "Dixie’?”

“Well, mah wahd, ” said the man in Bernstretching out the phrase in a dialect bred in theAmerican Deep South, the French pretence dropped.“You go back a long time, don’t you, sub?”

“I do, sir.”

"I hear you’re one of the bad guys now.”

“Unloved, mistrusted, but still appreciated,” saidStone. “That’s more accurate. The Company won’ttouch me, but it’s got its share of unfriendlies intown who throw me consultations pretty regularly. Iwasn’t as smart as you. No deposits from UncleNo-Name in Swiss accounts.”

“I was told you had a little juice problem.”

“A big one, but it’s over.”

“Never negotiate a release from people worsethan you if you can’t pass a Breathalyzer test. You’vegot to scare them, not make "em laugh.”

“I found that out. I hear you do some consultingyourself. “

“On a limited basis and only with clients whocould pass Uncle No-Name’s muster. That’s theagreement and I stick to it. Either I do or someBoom Boom Botticelli is flown over and Massa’s inde core, cole ground. "

“Where the threats don’t do you any good,” saidthe civil"an.

“That’s the stand-off, Pearlie May. It’s our littledetente. “

“Would I pass muster? I give you my word I’mworking with good people. They’re young andthey’re on to something and they haven’t got an evilthought in their heads, which under thecircumstances is no recommendation. But I can’ttell you anything substantive. For your sake as wellas mine and theirs. Is that good enough?”

"If the consultation doesn’t take place in outerspace, it’s more than enough, and you know it. Yousaved Johnny Reb’s ass three times, only y’awl gotthe sequence backwards. In the Dardanelles andLisbon you got me out before the guns came in.Over in Bahrain you rewrote a report about a littlematter of missing contingency funds that probablykept me from five years in a Leavenworthstockade.”

“You were too valuable to lose over a minorindiscretion. Besides, you weren’t the only one, youmerely got caught or nearly did.”

“Regardless, Johrmy Reb owes. What is it?”

Stone reached for his glass and took a drink. Hespoke, choosing his words carefully. “One of ourcommanders is missing. It’s a Navy problem, SANDPAC-based, and the people I’m with want to keepit contained. No Washington input at this stage.”

“Which is part of what you can’t tell me,” saidthe Southerner. “Okay. SAND l’AC that’s SanDiego and points west and wet until the date line,right?”

“Yes, but it’s not relevant. He’s the chief legalout there maybe was, by now. If he’s not pasttense, if he’s alive he’s nearer you than me. Also ifI get on a plane, my passport ignites the computersand things can’t go that way.”

“Which is also part of what you can’t tell me.”

“Check.”

“What can you tell me?”

“You know the embassy in Bonn?”

“I know it’s in trouble. Just like the security unite inBrus

sets. psycho’s cutting one hell of a path. What aboutBonn?”

“It’s all related. Our commander was last seen there.”

“He’s got something to do with this Converse?”

Steve paused. “You can probably fill in morespaces than is good for any of us, but the bones ofthe scenario are as follows. Our commander was avery upset man. His brother-in-law who,incidentally, was his closest friend was killed inGeneva “

“Down the road from here,” interrupted theexpatriate in Bonn. “The American lawyer whosedemise was engineered by Converse, at least that’swhat I’ve read.”

"That’s what our commander believed. How orfrom whom he got the information no one knows,but apparently he found out that Converse washeading for Bonn. He went on leave to go after him.”

" Commendable but dumb,” said the Southerner.“A one-man Iynching mobs”

“Actually, no. By simple equations we can assumehe went to the embassy at least he metsomeonefrom the embassy to explain why he wasthere, perhaps to warn them, who knows? But therest speaks for itself. This Converse struck and ourcommander disappeared. We’d like to find outwhether he’s alive or dead.”

It was the Southerner’s turn to pause, but hisbreathing was clearly heard on the line. Finally: “BrerRabbit, you’ve simply got to put a little flesh onthose bones.”

“I’m about to, General Lee.”

“Much obliged, Yankee.”

“It’s also related. If you were a lieutenantcommander in the United States Navy and wanted toreach someone at the embassy in Bonn, someonewho would accord you the attention your rankdeserved, who would you call?”

“The military charge d’affaires, who else?”

“That’s the man, Uncle Remus. Among otherthings, he’s a liar, but I can’t go into that. It’s ourthinking that the commander spoke with him and thecharge dismissed him as a fringe case, probablydidn’t even give him an appointment withAmbassador Peregrine. And when it happened, tosave his ass and his career well, people do strangethings.”

“What you’re suggesting is awful damned strange.”

“I won’t back away from it,” said the civilian.

“Okay, what’s his name?”

"Washburn. He’s a “

“Norman Washburn? Major Norman AnthonyWashburn, the Third, Fifth, or Sixth?”

“That’s the one. "

“Don’t back away. You left the field too early.Washburn was in Beirut, then Athens and, afterthat, Madrid. He gave every Company flack in theterritories the business! He d nail his Park Avenuemama to a velvet wall for a good evaluation report.He figures by forty-five he’ll be heading the JointChiefs and he intends to.”

"By forty-five?”

“I’ve been out of touch for a couple of years, buthe can’t be any more than thirty-six, thirty-seven.The last I heard they were going to jump thelight-colonel status and make him a full bird, then abrigadier soon after that. He is loved, Yan

"He’s a liar,” said the civilian in the dimly litapartment on Nebraska Avenue.

“Sure ’nuff,” agreed the man in Bern, “but Inever figured anything this radical. I mean, he’s gotto be scratchin’ mule shit for oil to do something sofar out.”

“I still won’t back away,” repeated the civilian,drinking his bourbon.

“Which means you know.”

“Check.”

“And you can’t talk about that, either.” A statement.

“Check again.”

“Are you firm?” i f No room for error. He knowswhere the command

“Holy Jesus! What are you Northern boys into?”

“Will you track? Starting yesterday?”

“With pleasure, Yankee. How do you want it?”

“In the twilight zone. Only words that come withneedles that’s important He has to wake upthinking he ate a bad piece of meat.”

“Women?”

“I don’t know. You probably have a better fix onthat than I do. Would he risk his; image?”

“With two or three Frauleins I’ve got in Bonn,Jesuits would risk the papacy, sub. The name of thecommander,

“Fitzpatrick. Lieutenant Commander ConnalFitzpatrick. And, Uncle Remus, whatever you hear underthe needles, give only to me. No one else. No one.”

"Which is the last part of what you can’t tell me,right?”

“Check. "

“My blinders are in place. One objective with onlyone target. No side trips and no curiosity, just a taperecorder in my head or my hand.”

Again Stone paused, filling the silence with atentative whisper. “Tape . . . ?” Then he continued.“The latter’s not a bad idea. Mini-micro, of course.”

“Naturally. Those little mothers are so small youcan hide them in the most embarrassing places.Where do I reach you? My quill is poised.”

“All right, the area code’s eight-zero-four.” Theformer CIA man gave the expatriate in Bern atelephone number in Charlotte, North Carolina. “Awoman.will answer. Tell her you’re from the Tatianafamily and leave a number.”

Their brief good-byes concluded, Peter hung upthe phone, got out of the chair and carried his drinkto the window. It was a hot, still night in Washington,the air outside barely moving, the hint of a summerstorm. If the rains came they would wash the streetsand cleanse at least part of the pollution.

The former deep-cover agent wished there weresome balm on earth or from the skies that couldwash his hands and cleanse that part of his soul hehad not put on the auction block or for a disastrousperiod of time into a bottle of bourbon. Maybe all hehad done was hammer another nail in Converse’scoffin, one more scrap of credibility that labeled thelawyer something he was not. Stone realized thatinstead of casting reasonable doubts based on hisown certain knowledge, he had compounded thefiction that Converse was the psychopathic killer theinternational media described. Worse, he hadattributed that credibility to a responsible missingman, a naval officer who was most likely dead. Therewere two justifications for the lie, and only one wasremotely feasible; the other, however, was probablythe most productive move they could make. The firstassumed that Fitzpatrick might be alive, a weakpremise. But if he was dead, the missing commanderprovided the reason to call in an old debt and goafter a charge d’affaires named Washburn and do sowithout any connection to George Marcus Delavane.Even if “Johnny Reb” was caught and every man ina grey to black

operation had to assume the possibility nomention could be made of an internationalconspiracy of generals…. Major Norman Washburn,IV, might or might not know the fate of ConnalFitzpatrick but everything else he might say underthe needles especially about thecommander would be of value.

What surprised the civilian was Conversehimself in the matter of the Iying military attache.If Converse was running and not under lock Ed key,he certainly had to have learned about the lie thathad condemned him. If so why hadn’t the attorneydone something about it? The major’s lie was thechain’s weakest link; it could be snapped with aminimum of effort the man’s a liar. I was here orthere, or anywhere except where he placed me whenhe placed me. Stone drank sparingly from the glass;he knew the futility of speculating because he knewthe answer. It was why he did not feel that yetanother part of his soul had been clipped away.Converse was not in a position to do anything. Hewas either trapped or taken, soon to be offered upas a sacrificial corpse by the generals. There wasnothing anyone could do for him. He was a deadman, a sacrifice in the truest sense of theword given up even by his own.

Peter walked back to the chair and sat down,loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. He hadlearned years ago to cut losses in the field whereverpossible. If it meant disowning pawns or plants orblinds, one took the statistical approach and let theexecutions follow. It was better than losing more.But what was even better was to make significantprogress with whatever the loss. He was doing thatnow with Converse’s death and “Johnny Reb” inBern and a liar named Washburn.

Oh, Chrtst! He was playing God again withcharts and diagrams pluses and minuses of humanvalue! Yet the objective was worth more thananything he had ever faced before. Delavane andhis legions had to be stopped, and they would notbe stopped in Washington. There were too manywatchful eyes, too many ears, too many men inunknown corners who believed in the myth -menwho had nothing else. The children were right aboutthat. And there would be no empty bottles ofbourbon on the floor now, or blurred memories ofnights past, or words passed. Despite advancing age,he was ready; he was primed.

It was odd, thought the civilian. He had not usedthe Tatiana family in years.

Joel watched from the ridge of the landfill asLeifLelm’s chauffeur and his companion approachedthe deserted building. Both were experienced; oneraced before the other, stopping behind displacedrocks from the fill and barrels used for early-morningfires. Almost simultaneously they reached separatedoors, each door off its hinges, angling into the dirt.The chauffeur gestured with his weapon, and bothmen disappeared inside.

Converse again looked behind him. The fencewas about two hundred yards away. Could he slidedown the stinking hill, race to the interwoven wireand climb over the fence before his executionerscame out of the decrepit building? Why not? Hecould try! He raised himself off his stomach, handssinking into the debris, spun to his right and plungeddownward.

A distant crash came first and then a scream. Hespun around again and scrambled up the ten-odd feethis lunge had carried him. The chauffeur was racingout of his door, around the corner to where hiscompanion had entered, his gun leveled, prepared tofire. He approached cautiously, then seeingsomething, exploded in disgust as he entered theshadows. Seconds later he emerged holding the otherman; obviously a staircase or a floorboard hadcollapsed. The second man held his leg and limped.

Two piercing blasts came from the station; theplatform was empty, the milling passengers back onboard. The panic had subsided and the train wouldmake a Teutonic effort to be on time. The last policecar and the ambulance were gone.

Below, the chauffeur slapped his companionrepeatedly in fury, shoving him backwards to theground. The man got up, gesturing, pleading for nomore, and the chauffeur relented, ordering hissubordinate to a position between the building, thelandfill and the fence, and when the man was inplace the chauffeur went back into the desertedbuilding.

The minutes passed, the descending sunintercepted by low-flying clouds in the west, creatinglong, lateral shadows over the outskirts of therailroad yard. Finally the chauffeur came into view,emerging from an unseen exit on another side of thebuilding. He stood for a moment and looked westacross the tracks to the expanse of wild grass andmarshland

beyond. Then he turned and stared at the moundsof landfill and made up his mind.

“Rechts uber Ihnen!” he screamed at hiscompanion, pointing to the second mound. “HinterIhnen! Er schiesst. “

Joel crawled, racing down the debris like apanicked sand crab. Halfway to the bottom his lefthand was snared; he yanked at the loopingentrapment, pulled it free and was about to fling itaway when he saw it was a length of ordinaryelectric cord. He blmched it up in his hand andfrantically continued downward. When he waswithin six feet of the ground, he whipped his wholebody into a frenzy and clawed at the dirt andgarbage. He stabbed his legs repeatedly into therubbish and loose earth, and sank his body into themass pulling debris around his head. The stench wasoverpowering, and he could feel the insectspenetrating his clothes, crawling over his skin. Buthe was hidden, of that he was certain. He began tocomprehend what his fragmented mind was trying totell him. He was back in the jungle, about to springon a scout from an unseen place.

Again minutes passed, and the shadows becamelonger, then permanent, as the sun’s trajectorydropped below the top of the landfill. Converseremained immobile, straining every muscle, grindinghis teeth to stop himself from thrashing his armsand scratching his clothes and his exposed skin torip away the maddening insects. But he knew hecould not move. It would happen any moment, anysecond.

The prelude came. The limping man was inview, peering up at the hill of refuse and dirt,squinting against the residue of sunlight at the top,his gun held out, angled diagonally, prepared to fire.He sidestepped slowly, cautiously, apprehensive ofwhat he could not see. He passed directly in frontof Joel, the extended gun no more than three feetaway from Converse’s face. Another step and theline of contact could be clear.

Now! Joel lunged out, grabbing the barrel of thegun, instantly and violently twisting it clockwise anddownward. As the German fell forward Conversecrashed his knee up into the bridge of the man’snose, stunning him before he could scream. Theweapon spiraled off into the debris. The manstaggered, and was about to find his voice when Joellunged again, a section of the wire cord stretchedout in both hands he whipped it over the scout’shead, pulling it taut around the scout’s throat.

The man went limp, and Converse bent over thebody, about to roll it into the base of the landfill andconceal it, but then he stopped. There had to beanother way because there was another option, onehe had taken a hundred years ago with another scoutin a jungle. He looked around; there was a pile ofcarelessly dumped railroad ties thirty-odd yards awayon his right old ties, several broken, forming a lowwall. A wall.

It was a risk. If Leifhelm’s chauffeur finished hisexamination of the first mound of landfill andstepped out toward the second one at any three ofthe four angles, he would have a clear line of sight.The man had been sent to the Emmerich train fortwo reasons one, he knew the quarry by sight, and,two, the quarry had disgraced him; Joel’s corpsewould be his redemption. Such a man was an expertwith weapons which the quarry was not. What wasthe point of thinking! Since Geneva, everything was arisk, a gamble against death.

He gripped the German’s body under thearmpits, and breathing hard for some reasonfoolishly counting off "One, two, three” he lurchedbackwards, hauling the dead man across a deadman’s zone.

He reached the railroad ties and swung thecorpse around them, the heels of its shoes digging anarc into the dirt as he dragged the dead German intothe base of the wall. Then without thinking, actingonly on instinct, Converse did what he had beenwanting to do for the last hour. Concealed by theties, he ripped off his jacket and shirt and rolled onthe ground, scattering the insects like an infested dogin a field, scratching them out of his hair, away fromhis face. It was all he could do for the moment. Hecrawled into the bank of railroad ties and found aspace between two separated logs.

“Werner! Wo sind Sie?”

The shouts preceded the figure of Leifhelm’schauffeur. He appeared at the far end of the secondmound, moving slowly, his gun raised, each steptaken cautiously, his head shifting in all directions, asoldier experienced in combat patrol. Conversethought how much better off the world would be ifhe were an expert shot. He was not. In pilot traininghe had gone through the obligatory small-armscourse, and at twenty-five feet had rarely hit thetarget. This second soldier of Aquitaine had to besucked in much closer.

“Werner!Antworten Sie dock!”

Silence.

The chauffeur was alarmed; he walkedbackward, now crouching, scanning the hill ofrefuse, kicking away any object in his backwardpath, his head pivoting. Joel knew what he had todo; he had done it before. Divert the killer’sattention, pulling him closer to the encounter, thenmove away.

“Auaghh . . . !” Converse let the wail come outof his throat. Then added in clear English, “Oh, myGod!” Instantly he crawled to the far end of the wallof railroad ties. He peered around the side, hishead in shadows.

“Werner! Wo sind !” The German stood erect,his eyes following his line of hearing. Suddenly hebroke into a run his weapon thrust in front ofhim a man cornering a hated object, the sound ofEnglish leading him to the loathed enemy.

The chauffeur threw himself prone across therailroad ties, his expression alert, his gun in front ofhim. He fired into the shadowed corpse below, aroar of vengeance accompanying the explosions.

Joel got to his knees, aimed his automatic, andpulled the trigger twice. The German spun off theties, blood erupting in his chest.

“Some win,” whispered Converse rising to hisfeet, remembering the man on the train toEmmerich.

He was down in the marshlands, the clothes inhis arms. He had scrambled across the railroadtracks, down through the wild grass into the swampydampness of the marsh. It was water, and that wasall he had to know. Water was a benefit whether asan escape route or as a purifying agent for awracked body also lessons he had learned yearsago. He sat naked on a sloping marsh bank, takingoff his inhibiting money belt, wondering if the paperbills inside were soaked but not caring enough toexamine them.

He did, however, examine every pocket of theclothes he had stripped from his would-beexecutioners. He was not sure what was of valueand what was not. The money was irrelevant, exceptfor the small bills; and the driver’s licenses hadphotographs embedded in plastic neither wasworth the risk of scrutiny. There was anominous-looking knife, the long blade releasedthrough the head by the touch of a button on thehandle; he kept it. Also a cheap butane lighter anda comb and, for the drinking man, two breathfresheners. The rest were personal effects keys, afour-leaf-clover good-luck

charm, photographs in the wallets he did not careto look at them. Death was death, enemy and friendfundamentally equalised. only things he wasinterested in were the clothes. They were the option,the option he had used in the jungle a lifetime ago.He had crammed himself inside a scout’s tattereduniform, and twice across a narrow riverbank he hadnot been shot by the enemy who had spotted him.Instead, they had waved.

He selected the articles of clothing that fit bestand put them on; the rest he threw into the marsh.Whatever he looked like, there was little or noresemblance to the tweedy academic he had tried tobe in Bonn. If anything, he could be mistaken for aman who worked on the Rhine, a roughhewn mateor a foreman of a barge crew. He had chosen thechauffeur’s coat, a dark, coarse-woven jacket cut tothe hips with the man’s blue denim shirtunderneath both bullet holes washed clean ofblood. The trousers were those of the subordinateexecutioner; brown creaseless corduroys, flaredslightly at the ankles, which, thankfully, they reached.Neither man had worn a hat, and his was somewherein the landfill; he would find one or buy one or stealone. He had to; without a hat or a cap covering partof his face, he felt as naked as exposed and asfrightened as he would have felt without clothes.

He lay back in the dry wild grass as the sundisappeared over an unseen horizon and stared up atthe sky.

“Well, Ahh’l be . . . !” exclaimed the distinguished-looking man with the flowing mane of white hair, hisfull, nearly white eyebrows arched in astonishment.“You’re Molly Washburn’s boy?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the Army officer at theadjacent table along the banquette in Bonn’s AmTulpenfeld restaurant. “Have we met, sir?”

“Not so’s you’d remember, Major…. Pleaseforgive my intruding.” The Southerner addressed theapology to the offi

cer’s companion across the table, a baldingmiddle-aged man who had been speaking Englishwith a pronounced German accent. “But Mollywould never forgive this pore old Georgia cracker ifhe didn’t say hello to her son and insist on buyin’him a drink. "

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss,’ said Washburnpleasantly but without enthusiasm.

“I would be, too, young fella. I know it soundscornpone, but you were just barely in long pantsback then. The last time I saw you, you were in ablue blazer jacket and madder "n hell at losinga.soccer game. I think you blamed it on your leftwing, which in my opinion then and now is a logicalplace to blame anythtug. “

The major and his companion laughedappreciatively.

Good Lord, that does go back a long hme towhen I was at Dalton.”

“And captain of the team, as I recall.”

“How did you ever recognize me?”

“I dropped in on your momma the other week atthe house in Southampton. Proud girl that she is,there were a few real handsome photographs of youin the living room.”

“Of course, on the piano.”

“That’s where they were, silver frames and all.”

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Thayer. Thomas Thayer, or just plain old T.T.as your momma calls me.” The two shook hands.

“Good to see you again, sir,” said Washburn,gesturing at his companion. “This is Herr Stammler.He handles a great deal of our press relations withthe West German media.”

“How do you do Mr. Stammler.”

“A pleasure, Herr Thayer.”

“Speakin’ of the embassy and I assume you were,I promised Molly I’d ring you up over there when Igot here. Mah word on it, I was gain’ to do just thattomorrow I’m fightin’ .’et lag today. One hell of acoincidence, isn’t it? You bein’ here and my bein’here, right next to each other!”

“Major,” interrupted the German courteously.“Two people who go back so many years must havea great deal to reminisce about. And since ourbusiness is fundamentally concluded, I think I shallpress on.”

“Now, hold on, Mr. Stammler,” objected Thayer.“Ah simply couldn’t allow you to do that!”

“No, really, it’s perfectly all right.” The Germansmiled.

“Truthfully, Major Washburn felt he should insist ontaking me to dinner this evening after the terriblethings we’ve had to deal with during the past fewdays he far more than I but to be quite honest,I’m exhausted. Also I am far older than my youngfriend and nowhere near as resilient. The bed criesout, Herr Thayer. Believe me when I tell you that.”

“Hey, Mr. Stammler, Ah’ve got an idea. You’refanned out and I’m droppin’ from the jet stream, sowhy don’t we leave the young skunk here and bothhit the pillows?”

“But I couldn’t allow you to do that.” TheGerman got up from the table and extended his handto Thayer. They shook, and Stammler turned toWashburn, shaking his hand also. “I’ll call you in themorning, Norman.”

“All right, Gerhard…. Why didn’t you just say youwere tired?”

“And conceivably offend one of my largestclients? Be reasonable, Norman. Good night,gentlemen.” The German smiled again, and walkedaway.

“Ah guess we’re stuck with each other, youngman,” said the Southerner. “Why not move over hereand let me save the embassy a couple of dollars?”

“All right,” replied Washburn, getting up with hisdrink and sidling between the tables to the chairopposite Thayer. He sat down. “How is Mother? Ihaven’t called her in a couple of weeks.”

“Molly is always Molly, my boy. She came forthand they broke the mold, but I don’t have to tell youthat. She looks the same as she did twenty years ago.I swear I don’t know how she does ill”

“And she’s not going to tell you, either.”

Both men laughed as the Southerner raised hisglass and brought it forward for the touch. Theglasses met, a gentle ring was heard. It was thebeginning.

Converse waited, watching from a dark storefronton the shabby street in Emmerich. Across the waywere the dim lights of a cheap hotel, the entranceuninviting, sleazy. Yet with any luck he would havea bed there in the next few minutes. A bed with asink in the corner of the room and, with even moreluck, hot water with which he could bathe his woundand change the bandage again. During the last twonights he had learned that such places were his onlypossibilities for refuge. No questions would be askedand a false name

on a registration card expected. But even the mostsullen greeting was a menace for him. He had onlyto open his mouth and whatever came out identifiedhim as an American who could not speak German.

He felt like a deaf-mute running a gauntlet,careening off walls of people. He was helpless, sogoddamned helpless! The killings in Bonn, Brusselsand Wesel had made every American male overthirty and under fifty suspect. The melodramaticsuspicions were compounded by speculations thatthe obsessed man was being aided, perhapsmanipulated, by terrorist organizahonsBaader-Meinhof, the PLO, Libyan splinter groups,even KGB destabilizahon teams sent out by thedreaded Voennaya. He was being huntedeverywhere, and as of yesterday, the InternationalHerald Tribune printed further reports that theassassin was heading for Paris which meant thatthe generals of Aquitaine wanted the concentrationto be on Paris, not where they knew he was, wheretheir soldiers could run him down, take him, killhim.

To get off the streets he had to move with theflotsam and jetsam and he needed a run-down hotellike the one across the street. He knew he had toget off the streets; there were too many trapsoutside. So on the first night in Wesel he re-membered the student Johann, and looked for waysto re-create similar circumstances. Young peoplewere less prone to be suspicious and more receptiveto the promise of financial reward for a friendlyservice.

It was odd, but that first night in Wesel was boththe most difficult and the easiest. Difficult becausehe had no idea where to look, easy because ithappened so rapidly, so logically.

First he stopped at a drugstore, buying gauze,adhesive tape, antiseptic and an inexpensive capwith a visor. Then he went to a cafe, to the men’sroom, where he washed his face and the wound,which he bound tight, skin joining skin, the bandagefirmly in place. Suddenly, as he finished hisministrations, he heard the familiar words andemphatic melody young raucous voices in song: “On,Wisconsin…. On, Wisconsin . . . on to victoreee. . .”

The singers were a group of students from theGerman Society at the University of Wisconsin, ashe later found out who were bicycling through thenorthern Rhineland. Casually approaching a youngman getting more beers from the bar andintroducing himself as a fellow American, he told an

outrageous story of having been taken by a whoreand rolled by her pimp, who stole his passport-butnever thought of a money belt. He was a respectedbusinessman who had to sleep it off, gather his wits,and reach his firm back in New York. However, hespoke no German, would the student consider thepayment of $100 for helping him out?

He would and did. Down the block was a dingyhotel where no questions were asked; the young manpaid for a room and brought Converse, who waswaiting outside, his receipt and his key.

All yesterday he had walked, following the roadsin sight of the railroad tracks until he reached a townnamed Halden. It was smaller than Wesel, but therewas a run-down, industrial section east of therailroad yards. The only “hotel” he could find,however, was a large, shoddy house at the end of arow of shoddy houses with signs saying ZIMMER, 20MARK in two first-floor windows and a larger oneover the front door. It was a boardinghouse, andseveral doors beyond in the spill of the streetlampsaheated argument was taking place between an olderwoman and a young man. Above, a few neighbors satin their windows, arms on the sills, obviouslylistening. Joel also listened to the sporadic wordsshouted in heavily accented English.

“. . . “I hate it here!’ Das habe ich ihm gesagt. ”Ido not care to stay, Onkel! I vill go back toGermany! Maybe join .Baader-Meinhofl’ Das halveich item gesagt.”

“Barr!” screamed the woman, turning and goingup the steps. “Schweinehund!” she roared, as sheopened the door, went inside and slammed it shutbehind her.

The young man had looked up at his audience inthe windows and shrugged. A few clapped, so hemade an exaggerated, elaborate bow. Converseapproached; there was no harm in trying, he thought.“You speak very good English,” he said.

“dye not?” replied the German. “They spend bagsof groceries for five years to give me lessons. I mustgo to her brother in America. I say Nein! They sayda! I go. I hate it!”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m an American and Ilike the Cerrnan people. Where were you?”

“In Yorktown.”

“Virginia?”

“Nein! The city of New York.”

“Oh, that Yorktown.”

"Ja, my uncle has two butcher shops in NewYork, in what they call Yorktown. Shit, as you sayin America!’

“I’m sorry. Why?”

“The Schwarzen and theJuden! If you speak likeme, the black people steal from you with knives, andthe Jews steal from you with their cash registers.hreinie, they call me, and Nazi. I told a Jew hecheated me I vas nice, I vas not impolite and hetold me to get out of his shop or he call the "cops !I vas shit, he said! . . . You vear a good Germansuit and spend good German money, they don t saythose things. You are a delivery boy trying to learn,they kick the shit out of you, What do I know! Myfather vas only a fourteen-year-old sol dier. Shit!”

“Again, I’m telling you I’m sorry. I mean it. It’snot in our nature to blame children.’

“Shit!”

“Perhaps I can make up for a little of what youwent through. I m in trouble because I was astupid American. But I’ll pay you a hundredAmerican dollars . . .”

The young German happily got him a room atthe boardinghouse. It was no better than the one inWesel, but the water was hotter, the toilet nearerhis door.

Tonight was different from the other nights hehad spent in Germany, thought Joel, as he lookedacross the street at the decrepit hotel in Emmerich.Tonight could lead to his passage into Holland. ToCort Thorbecke and a plane to Washington Theman Joel had recruited was somewhat older thanthe oth ers who had helped him. He was a merchantseaman out of Bremerhaven, in Emmerich to makea duty call on his family with whom he felt ill atease. He had made the obligatory call been soundlyrebuked by his mother and father, and had returnedto the place and the people he loved best a bar atthe bend of the riverbank.

Again, as it had been in Wesel, it was theEnglish Iyrics of a song that had caught Joel’sattention. He stared at the young seaman standingat the bar and playing a guitar. This time it was nota college football song but an odd, haunting mixtureof slow biting rock and a sad madrigal: “. . . Whenyou finally came down, when your feet hit theground, did you know where you were? When youfinally were real, could you touch what you feel,were you there in the know? . . . "

The men around the bar were caught up by theprecise

beat of the minor-key music. When the seamanfinished there was respectful applause, followed by aresumption of fast talk and faster refilling of mugs ofbeer. Minutes later Converse was standing next tothe seagoing troubador, the guitar now slung over hisshoulder and held in place by a wide strap like aweapon. Joel wondered if the man really knewEnglish or only Iyrics. He would find out in seconds.The seaman laughed at a companion’s remark; whenthe laughter subsided, Converse said, "I’d like to buyyou a drink for reminding me of home. It was a nicesong.”

The man looked at him quizzically. Joelstammered thinking that the seaman had no ideawhat he was talking about. Then, to Converse’srelief, the man answered. “Danke. It is a good song.Sad but good, like some of ours. You areAmerikaner?”

“Yes. And you speak English.”

“Okay. I don’t read no good, aber I speak okay.I’m on merchant ship. We sail Boston, New York,Baltimore sometimes ports, Florida.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Sin Bier,” said the seaman, shrugging.

“Why not whisky?”

"Baja?”

“Certainly.”

“Ja. “

Minutes later they were at a table. Joel told hisstory about a nonexistent whore and a fictional pimp.He told it slowly not because he felt he had to pacethe narrative to his listener’s understanding, butbecause another option was coming sharply intofocus. The guitar-playing merchantman was young,but there was a patina about him that indicated heknew the docks and the waterfront and the variousbusinesses that flourished in that very special world.

“You should go to the Polizei, ” said the manwhen Converse had finished. “They know the whoresand they will not print your name.” The Germansmiled. “We want you back to spend more money.”

“I can’t take the chance. In spite of the way Ilook, I deal with a lot of important people here andin America.”

“Which makes you important, ja?”

“And very stupid. If I could just get over intoHolland, I could handle everything.”

“Die IViederlande? Vat is problem?”

“I told you, my passport was taken. And it’s justmy luck that every American crossing any border islooked at very carefully. You know, that crazybastard who killed the ambassador in Bonn and theNATO commander.

“Ja, and in Wesel two, three days ago, said theGerman. “They say he goes to Paris.

"I m afraid that doesn t help me…. Look, youknow the river people, the men who have boatsgoing out every day. I told you l d pay you ahundred dollars for the hotel….

“I agreed. You are generous.

“I’ll pay you a great deal more if you cansomehow get me over into Holland. You see, mycompany has an office in Amsterdam. They can helpme. Will you help me?”

The German grimaced and looked at his watch.“Is too late for such arrangements tonight and Ileave for Bremerhaven on the morning train. Myship sails at fifteen hundred.

“That was the amount I had in mind. Fifteenhundred. "

“Deutsche marks?”

“Dollars.

“You are more crazy than your Landsmann whokills soldiers. If you knew the language, it cost nomore than fifty.

“I don t know the language. Fifteen hundredAmerican dollars for you if you can arrange it.

The young man looked hard at Converse, thenmoved back his chair. “Wait here. I will make phonecall.

“Send over more whisky on your way.

“Danke. “

The waiting was spent in a vacuum of anxiety.Joel looked at the weathered guitar Iying across anextra chair. What were the words? . . . When you fnally came down, when your feet hit the ground . . .did you know where you were? When you f sally werereal, could you touch . . . what you feel, were youthere in the know?. . .

“I will stop for you at five o’clock in themorning, announced the merchant seaman, who satdown with two glasses of whisky. “The captain willaccept two hundred dollars, aber only if there are nodrugs. If there are drugs, you don’t come on board.”

“I have no drugs, ’said Converse, smiling,controlling his elation. “That’s done and you veearned your money. I pay you at the dock or pieror whatever it is.

“Natu’rlich.

* * *

It had all happened less than an hour ago,thought Joel, watching the hotel entrance across thestreet. At five o’clock in the morning he would be onhis way to Holland, to Amsterdam, to a man namedCort Thorbecke, Mattilon’s broker of illegalpassports. All the passenger manifests on all aircraftheading for the United States would be watched byAquitaine, but a hundred years ago he had learnedthat there were ways to elude the watchers. He haddone it before from a deep, cold shaft in the groundand despite a barbed-wire fence in the darkness. Hecould do it again.

A figure emerged under the dimly lit marquee ofthe hotel. It was the young merchant seaman.Grinning, he beckoned Converse to join him.

“Hell’s fire and Jeesus H. what is it, Norman?”cried the Southerner, as Washburn suddenly wentinto an erratic of convulsions, his lips trembling as hegasped for air.

“I . . . don’t . . . know.” The major’s eyes grewwide, the pupils now dancing and out of control.

"Maybe it’s that Heimlich thing!” said ThomasThayer, rising from the banquette and quicklymoving toward Washburn. Hell no, it can’t be! Ourfood’s not here; you haven’t eaten!”

The couples near by expressed alarm, talkingloudly, rapidly in German. At a remark made by oneof the diners, the Southerner turned and spoke tothe man. “Midas glaube ich night, ” said Johnny Rebin flawless German. ”Alein Wagen sight draussen Ichweiss einen Arzt. “

The maitre d’ came rushing over and, seeing thatthe commotion involved the Americans, addressedhis concern in English. “Is the major ill, sir? Shall Iask if there is . . .”

“No doctor I’m not familiar with, thanks,”interrupted Thayer, bent over the embassy’s charged’affaires, who was now inhaling deeply, his eyes halfclosed, his head swaying back and forth. “This here isMolly Washburn s boy and I’ll see he gets the best!My car’s outside. Maybe if a couple of your waiterswill give a hand we can put him in the limo and I’lltake him right over to my man. He’s a specialist. Atmy age you gatta have ”em everywhere.”

"Restimmt. Certainly!” The maitre d’ snapped hisfingers; three busboys responded instantly.

“The embassy . . . the embassy! " choked Washburn asthe

three men half carried the officer to the door of therestaurant.

“Don’t you worry, Norman-boy!” said theSoutherner hearing the plea, walking with themaltre d’. “I’ll phone “em from the car, tell ”em tomeet us at Rudi’s place.” Thayer turned to theGerman beside him. “You know what Ah think? Ahthink this fine soldier is jest plumb wore out. He’sbeen workin’from sunrise to sunrise with nary abreak. I mean, can you imagine everything he’s hadto contend with these last couple of days? Thatcrazy mongrel goin around shootin’ up a feud, killin’the ambassador, then that honcho in Brussels! Youknow, Molly’s boy here is the charday d’affaires.”

“Yes, the major is our guest frequently anhonored guest.”

“ Well, even the most honorable among us has aright and a hme to say ”The hell with it, I’ll sit thisone out.’”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ah have an idea this fine young man who Iknew as a mere saplin’ led never learned about thequantitative effects of old demon whisky.”

“Ohh?” The metre d’ looked at Johnny Reb afashionable gossipmonger relishing a new rumor.

“He had several mites too much, that’s all andthat’s jest between us.”

“He vas not in focus….”

“He started bustin’ corks before the sun hit thewhites of the west cotton.” They reached the frontentrance, the unit of busboys maneuveringWashburn out the door. “Who was more entitled?That’s what I say.” Thayer removed his wallet.

"ha, I agree.”

“Here,” said the Southerner, removing bills. “Ihaven’t had hme to convert, so there’s a hundredAmerican that should cover the tab and plenty forthe boys outside…. And here’s a hundred foryou for not talkie’ too much, verstehen ?”

“Completely, main Herr!” The German pocketedboth $100 bills, smiling and nodding his headobsequiously. “I vill say absolutely nozzing!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It might be a goodthing for Molly’s boy to learn that it ain’t the end ofthe world if a few people know he’s had a drink ortwo. Might loosen him up a bit, and in mah Georgiajudgment, he needs a little

Joosenin . Maybe you might wink at him when henext comes m.

“Vink?”

"Give him a friendly smile, like you know and it’sokay. Verstehen?”

"/a, I agree! He vas entitled!’

Outside at the curb, Johnny Reb instructed thebusboys just how to place Major Norman AnthonyWashburn IV into the backseat. Stretched out, facingup, supine. The Southerner gave each man a $20American bill and dismissed them. He then spoke tothe two men in front, pressing a button so they couldhear his voice beyond the glass partition.

"Ah got the jump seats down,” he said, pullingthe velvet backs out of the velvet wall. He’s out.Come on and join me, Witch Doctor. And you,Klaus, you entertain us with a long drive in yourbeautiful countryside.”

Minutes later, as the limousine entered abackcountry road, the overhead light switched on,the doctor unbuckled Washburn’s belt, slid thetrousers down, and rolled the charge d’affaires overand into the seat. He found the area he wanted atthe base of the spine, the needle held above in hissteady hand.

“Ready, chap? "asked the dark-skinnedPalestinian, yanking down the elastic top of theunconscious man’s shorts

“You got it, Pookie,” answered Johnny Reb,holding a small recorder over the edge of the jumpseat. “Right where he won’t find it for a week, if heever does. Take him up, Arab. I want him tony.”

The doctor inserted the long hypodermic needle,slowly pressing his thumb on the plunger. “It will bequick,” said the Palestinian. “It is a heavy dose andI’ve seen it happen when the patient began babblingbefore the interrogator was ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Put him on track instantly. Ask direct questions,canter his concentration immediately.”

“Oh, Ah will, indeed. This is a bad man, Pookie.A nasty little boy who tells tall tales that ain’t gotnothin’ to do with a big catfish that broke off ahook.” The Southerner gripped the unconsciousWashburn’s left shoulder and yanked him forward,face up on the seat. “All right, Molly’s boy, let’s youand me talk. How come you got the audacity to messaround with an officer of the United States Navynamed Fitzpatrick? Con

nal Fitzpatrick, boy! Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick,Fitzpatrick! C’mon, baby, talk to Daddy, ’causeyou’ve got nobody else but Daddy! Everyone youthink you got is gone! They set you up Molly’s boy!They made you lie in print so the whole worldknows you lied! But Daddy can make it right. Daddycan straighten it all out and put you on top righton the very top! The Joint Chiefs the bid chief!Daddy’s your tit, boy! Grab it or suck air! Where’dyou put Fitzpatrick? Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick! “

The whisper came as Washburn’s body writhedon the seat, his head whipping back and forth, salivaoozing out of the edges of his mouth. "Scharhorn,the isle of Scharhorn. . . . The Heligoland Right.’

Caleb Dowling was not only angry butbewildered. Despite a thousand doubts he could notlet it go; too many things did not make sense, notthe least of which was the fact that for three dayshe had been unable to get an appointment with theacting ambassador The scheduling attache claimedthere was too much confusion resulting from WalterPeregrine’s assassination to permit an audience atthis time. Perhaps in a week…. In short words,actor, get lost, we have important things to do andyou’re not one of them. He was being checked,shoved into a corner and given the lip service onegives to a well-known but insignificant person. Hismotives as well as his intelligence were undoubtedlybeing questioned out loud by arrogant, harrieddiplomats. Or someone else.

Which was why he was sitting now at a backtable in the dimly lit bar of the Konigshof Hotel.He had learned the name of Peregrine’s secretary,one Enid Heathley, and had sent the stunt man,Moose Rosenberg, to the embassy with a sealedletter purportedly from a close friend of MissHeathley’s in the States. Moose’s instructions hadbeen to deliver the envelope personally, and asRosenberg’s size was formidable, no one in thereception room had argued. Heathley had comedown in person. The message was short and to thepoint.

Dear Miss Heathley:

I believe it to be of the utmost importance

thatwe talk as soon as possible. I will be in the bar oftheKonigshof at 7:30 this evening. If it is convenientplease have a drink with me, but I urge you not to

speak to anyone about our meeting. Please, no one.

Sincerely,C. Dowling

It was seven-thirty-eight and Caleb was growinganxious. For the past several years he was used topeople being on time for appointments andinterviews; it was one of the minor perks of being PaRatchet. But there could be several reasons why thesecretary might not wish to meet with him. She knewthat Peregrine and he had become friends of sortsand also that there were actors who were known toseek publicity from events they had nothing to dowith, posturing with statesmen and politicians whenthey couldn’t spell out a position on slavery. Hehoped to hell . . .

There she Divas. The middle-aged woman hadcome through the door, squinting in the dim light.The maltre d’ approached her, and moments latershe was escorted to Dowling’s table.

"Thank you for coming,” said Caleb, rising asEnid Heathley took her chair. “I wouldn’t have askedyou if I didn’t think it was important,” he added,sitting down again.

"I gathered that from your note,” said thepleasant-faced woman with signs of grey in her hairand very intelligent eyes. Her drink ordered, casualtalk covered its arrival.

"I imagine it’s been very difficult for you,” saidDowling.

“It hasn’t been easy,” agreed Miss Heathley. “Iwas Mr. Peregrine’s secretary for nearly twenty years.He used to call us a team, and Jane and I Mrs.Peregrine are quite close. I should be with her now,but I told her I had some last-minute things to do atthe office.”

“How is she?”

“Still in shock, of course. But she’ll make it.She’s strong. Walter wanted the women around himstrong. He thought they were worthwhile and theyshouldn’t hide their worth.”

“I like that kind of thinking, Miss Heathley.”

Her drink came, the waiter left, and the secretarylooked quizzically at Caleb. "Forgive me, Mr.Dowling, I can’t say I’m a devoted follower of yourtelevision show, but, of course, I’ve seen it a numberof times. It seems that whenever I’m asked to dinnerand the magic hour arrives, meals are suspended.”

“I’d suggest those people upgrade their kitchens.”

The woman smiled. “You’re too modest, but that’snot

what I mean. You don’t sound at all like the manon the television screen.”

“Because I’m not he, Miss Heathley,” said theformer university professor, his expression serious,his intelligent eyes level with hers. “I assume weshare certain traits because I’ve the physicalinstrument through which his fictions are filtered,but that s the extent of any similarity.”

“I see. That’s very well put.”

“I ve had practice saying it. But I didn’t ask youhere to expound on theories of acting. It s a subjectwith limited appeal.”

“Why did you ask me?”

“Because I don’t know whom else to go to. Well,I do, but I can t get near him.”

“Who’s that?”

“The acting ambassador, the one who flew overfrom Washington.”

“He’s up to his ears “

“He should be told,” interrupted Caleb. “Warned.”

“Warned?” The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Anattempt on his life? Another killing that maniac,Converse?”

“Miss Heathley,” began the actor, his posturerigid, his voice quiet. “What I’m about to say mayshock you, even offend you, but as I said, I don’tknow another person I can go to at the embassy.However, I do know there are people over there Ican’t go to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not convinced that Converse is either amaniac or that he killed Walter Peregrine.”

“What? You can’t be serious! You’ve heard whatthey say about him, how unbalanced he is. He wasthe last person with Mr. Peregrine. Major Washburnestablished that!”

“Major Washburn is one of those people I’drather not see.”

“He’s considered one of the finest officers in theUnited States Army,” objected the secretary.

“Then, for an officer he has a strange concept oftaking orders from a superior. Last week I broughtPeregrine to meet someone. The man ran andWalter told the major to stop him. Instead,Washburn tried to kill him.”

“Oh, now I understand,” said Enid Heathley, hertone unpleasant. “That was the night you arrangeda meeting with Converse it was you, I remembernow! Mr. Peregrine told

me. What is this, Mr. Dowling? A Hollywood actorprotecting his image? Afraid he’ll be held responsibleand his ratings, or whatever they are, willplummet that is the word, isn’t it? Thisconversation is despicable. "The woman moved herchair back, prepared to leave.

“Walter Peregrine was a man of his word, MissHeathley,” said Caleb, still immobile, staring at thesecretary. I think you’ll agree with that.”

"And?”

He made a promise to me. He told me that ifConverse reached him and asked to meet with him,I’d come along. Me, Miss Heathley. Specifically notMajor Washburn, whose achons that night at theuniversity were as bewildering to him as they were tome.”

The middle-aged woman held her place, her eyesnarrowed, concerned. "He ureas upset the nextmorning,” she said softly.

Damned angry better describes him, I think. Theman who ran away wasn t Converse and he alsowasn’t crazy. He was dead serious, with the speech ofsomeone used to authority. There was or is somekind of confidential investigation going on involvingthe embassy. Peregrine didn’t know what it was, buthe intended to find out. He mentioned that he wasgoing to call Washington on a scrambler phone. I’mnot up on the technology, but I don’t think a personplaces a call like that unless he’s worried thatsomeone might try to tap the line.”

He did place a scrambler call. He told you that?”

Yes, he did. And there’s something else, MissHeathley. As you correctly stated, I’m the oneresponsible for Walter Peregrine ever having heardof Converse, and I don’t feel very good about it. Butisn’t it odd that in spite of the fact that it wasn’t asecret you knew, Washhurn knew nobody hascome to question me since Walter was killed?”

No one?” asked the woman incredulously. “ButI included your name in my report.”

“Whom did you give it to?”

"Well, Norman was handling everything….” EnidHeathley stopped.

“Washburn?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you speak to anyone else? Weren’t youquestioned?”

“Yes, of course. An inspector from the Bonnpolice. I’m sure I mentioned your name I’mpositive I did.”

“Was anybody else in the room?”

"Yes,” said the murdered ambassador’s secretary.“Norman,” she whispered.

“Strange behavior for a police department, isn’tit?” Caleb leaned forward, but only slightly. “Let mereemphasize something you just said, Miss Heathley.You asked me if I was a Hollywood actor trying toprotect his image. It’s a logical question, and if youever saw the unemployment lines in Los Angelesyou’d understand just how logical it is. Don’t youthink other people believe the same thing? I haven’tbeen questioned because specific people here inBonn think I’m shaking in Pa Ratchet’s boots,keeping silent so as to protect that image and theratings that make it possible. Oddly enough, thatreasoning is my best physical protection. You don’tkill off a Pa Ratchet unless you want the wrath ofmillions of viewers who, in my judgment, wouldlatch on to the flimsiest connection to raisehysterical questions. National Inquirer, you arethere.”

“But you’re not keeping silent,” said Enid Heathley.

“I’m not talking loudly, either,” corrected theactor. “But not for the reasons I’ve described. I oweWalter Peregrine I know that better than anyoneelse. And I can’t pay that debt if a man I think isinnocent is hanged for his murder. But here’s whereI step back into my own confusion. I can’t becertain. I could be wrong.”

The woman returned Dowling’s stare, thenslowly frowned, keeping her eyes on him. “I’m goingto leave now, but I’d like you to stay here for awhile, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m going to callsomeone I think you should see. You’ll understand.He’ll reach you here no paging, of course. Do ashe says, go where he wants you to go.”

“Can I trust him?”

“Mr. Peregrine did,” said Enid Heathley,nodding. “And he didn’t like him.”

“That’s trust,” said the actor.

The phone call came and Caleb wrote out theaddress. The doorman at the Konigshof secured hima taxi, and eight minutes later he got out in front ofan ornate Victorian house on the outskirts of Borm.He walked up to the door and rang the bell.

Two minutes later he was ushered into a largeroom once a library, perhaps but now with shadescovering the obvious bookshelves. Shades that weredetailed maps of East and West Germany. A manwearing glasses got up from behind a desk. Henodded perfunctorily and spoke. “Mr. Dowling?”

“Yes.”

"I appreciate your coming out here, sir. My nameis not important why not call me George?”

“All right, George.”

“But for your own confidential information andI must stress confidential I am the station chief forthe Central Intelligence Agency here in Bonn.”

“All right, George.”

“What do you do, Mr. Dowling? What’s your lineof work?”

“Ciao, baby,” said the actor, shaking his head.

The first indefinite light of dawn crept up thelower wall of the eastern sky, and along the river pierboats bobbed in their slips, straining their lines,creating an eerie symphony of creaks and thumps.Joel walked beside the young merchant seaman, hishand unconsciously straying to his face, to the newsoft hair that was the outgrowth of a stubble. He hadnot shaved in four days, not since Bonn, and now hehad the beginnings of a short, neat beard, not yet fullbut no longer an unkempt bristle. One more day andhe would have to begin clipping it, shaping it,another plane of removal from the photograph in thenewspapers.

And in one more day he would have to decidewhether or not to phone Val at Cape Ann. Actually,he had made his decision negative. His instructionshad been clear enough and the possibility that hertelephone was tapped was more than he couldhandle. Yet he wanted so terribly to hear her voice,to hear the support he knew he would find in it.Negative. To hear it was to involve her. Negative!

“It is the last boat on the right,’ said the seaman,slowing his pace. “I must ask you again, because Igave my word. You carry no drugs.”

“I carry no drugs.”

“He may want to search you.”

“I can’t permit that,” Converse broke in, thinkingof his money belt. What could be mistaken for acache of narcotics would reveal many times theamount of money for which most of the dregs onthe riverfront would kill.

“Maybe he want to know why. Drugs bring badpenalty, long time in prison.”

“I’ll explain to him privately,” said Joel, thinkingagain. He would do so with his gun in one hand andan additional $500 bill in the other. “But I give youmy word, no drugs.”

“It iS not my boat.”

“But you made the arrangements, and you knowenough about me to come after me if they cameafter you.”

“la, I remember. Connect-teecut I been to visitfriends in Bridge-port. A broker house, avice-president. I find you if I have to.”

“I wouldn’t want that. You’re a nice fellow who’shelping me out and l m grateful. I won t get you introuble.

“Ja,” said the young German, nodding his head.“I believe you. I believe you last night. You talkvery good, very high class, but you were stupid. Youdid a stupid thing and your face is red. A red facecosts more than you want to pay so you pay muchmore to make it go away.”

“Your homilies are getting to me. "

“Was ist?”

“Nothing. You’re right. It’s the story ofupper-level management. Here.’ Joel had the bills inhis left-hand pocket; he pulled them out. “Ipromised you fifteen hundred dollars. Count it, ifyou like.”

“dye? If is not there I talk loud and you stayhere. You are too afraid to risk that.”

“You’re a natural-born lawyer.”

“Come, I bring you to the captain. To you, he isonly’captain.’ You will be dropped off where hesays…. And be careful. Watch the men on the boat.They will think you have money.”

“That’s why I don’t want to be searched,”admitted Converse.

“I know. I do my best for you.”

The seaman’s best was not quite good enough.The captain of the filthy barge, a short hulk of a manwith very poor teeth, brought Joel up to thewheelhouse, where he told him in broken butperfectly clear English to remove his jacket.

“I explained to my friend on the dock that I can’tdo that. "

“Two hundred dollars Amer"kaner,” said the captain.

Converse had the money in his right-hand pocket.He reached down for it, his eyes briefly glancing atthe portside window where he saw two other menclimb on board below in the dim light. They did notglance up; they had not seen him in the wheelhouseshadows.

The blow came suddenly, without warning, theimpact such that Joel doubled over, his breathknocked out of him, and gripped his stomach. Infront of him the surly bull of a captain was shakinghis right hand the grimace on his face indicatingsharp pain. The German s fist had crashed into thegun lodged in Converse’s belt. Joel staggered backinto the bulkhead, leaned against it, and loweredhimself to the floor as he reached under his jacketand took out the weapon. On his haunches, his legsbracing him against the wall, he aimed the automaticat the captain’s huge chest.

“That was a rotten thing to do,” said Converse,breathing hard, still holding his stomach. “Now, youbastard, your jacketl”

“Was… 9″

“You heard mel Take it off, hold it upside down,and shake the goddamned thingI”

The German slowly, reluctantly, slid off hiswaist-length coat, twice darting his eyes to the left ofJoel, toward the wheelhouse door. “I look only fordrugs.”

“I’m not carrying any, and if I were, I suspectwhoever sold them to me would have a better way toget across the river than with you. Turn it upsidedown! Shake it!”

The captain held his coat by the bottom edge andlet it fall away. A short, ugly revolver plummeted tothe floor, clacking on the wood, followed by thelighter sound of a long knife encased in a flat bonehandle, flared at the end. As it struck the deck theblade shot out.

“This is the river,” said the German withoutelaboration.

“And I just want to cross it without anytrouble and trouble to someone as nervous as I amis anyone walking through that door.” Converseangled his head, gesturing at

the wheelhouse entrance on his left. " In my state ofmind, I’d fire this gun. I’d probably kill you andwhoever else came in here. I’m not as strong as you,Captain, but I’m afraid, and that makes me muchmore dangerous. Can you understand that?”

“Ja. I not hurt you. I look only for drugs.”

“You hurt me plenty,” corrected Joel. “And thatfrightens me.”

“Nein. Bitte . . . please.”

“When do you take the boat out?”

“When I say.”

“How many crew?”

“One man, that is all.”

“Liar/” whispered Converse sharply, the gunthrust forward.

“Zwei. Two men . . . today. We pick up heavycrates in Elten. On my word, is normal only oneman. I can t pay more.”

“Start the engine,” ordered Joel. “Or engines. Ionly know Chris-Crafts and Bertrams, which is asilly fucking thing to say.”

“What?”

“Do it!”

“Die Mannschaft. The . . . crew. I must give orders.”

“WaitI” Converse crawled sideways past thewheelhouse door, glancing above to his left at thethick wooden paneling of the pilot’s window, his gunnever once wavering from its line of fire into theGerman’s chest. Again, he used the bulkhead andhis braced legs to shinny himself up the wall; he wasin shadows, with a clear view of the bow and,through both wheelhouse windows behind him, thestern of the boat. In sight were the fore and aftpilings on both sides, the lines looped around thethick protrusions of weather-beaten logs. The twocrewmen were sitting on a storage hatchway, smok-ing cigarettes, one drinking from a can of beer. “Allright,” said Joel, clicking the hammer back on theautomatic a weapon he was not sure he could useaccurately within ten feet. “Open that door and giveyour orders. And if either of those men down theredoes anything but free those ropes, I’ll kill you. Canyou understand that?”

“I understand . . . everything you say, but you donot understand me. I search you for drugs not agrosse Mann the Polizei do not go after suchpeople, they leave them alone.

They go after the small people who use theriverboats. It makes them look good, you see. Iwould not hurt you. I only protect myself. I want tobelieve what my Neffe nephew told me, but I mustbe sure.”

“Your nephew?”

“The seaman from Bremerhaven. How you thinkhe got his job? Ach, main Bruder sells flowers! It ishis Frau’s shop! He once sailed the oceans as I did.Now, he is a Blumenhandler!

“I swear to Christ I don’t understand anything,”said Joel, partially lowering his gun.

“Maybe you understand if I tell you he offered topay me one half of the fifteen hundred dollars youpay him.”

“A consortium of thieves.”

“Rein, I not take. I tell him buy a new Gitarre.”

Converse sighed. “I have no drugs. Do you believeme?”

“Ja, you are only a fool, he told me. Rich foolspay more. They cannot tell people how foolish theyare. The poor do not care.”

“Do those little bromides run in the family?”

“What?”

“Forget it. Give the orders. Let’s get out of here.”

“Ja. Watch through the windows, please. I do notwant you to be more afraid. You are right. A manafraid is much more dangerous.”

Joel leaned back against the bulkhead as thecaptain shouted his orders. The engines started andthe lines were released from their pilings. It was socontrary, he thought. Hostile, belligerent men whostruck out in anger were not always his enemies,while pleasant, seemingly friendly people wanted tokill him. It was a world he knew nothing about, along stretch from a courtroom or a boardroom wherecourtesy and “killing” could mean a variety of things.There were no such grey areas a hundred years agoin the camps and the jungles. One knew who theenemy was; the definition was clear on all sides. Butduring the past four days he had learned that therewere no defined lines for him now. Converse staredout the window, at the pockets of mist rising out ofthe water, a few spiraling up to catch the early lightin their clouds of vapor. His mind went blank. Hedid not care to think for a while….

“Five, perhaps six minutes,” said the captain,swinging the wheel to his left.

Joel blinked; he had been in a peaceful,rest-filled void, for how long he was not sure. “Whatare the procedures?” he asked, conscious of therising orange sun firing what was left of the rivermists. “I mean, what do I do?”

“As little as you can, answered the German. “Justwalk like you walk the pier every morning and gothrough the repair yard to the street. You will be inthe south part of the town of Lobith. You will be indie Niederlande and we never saw each other.

“I understand that, but how?”

“You see that Bootshafen?’ said the captain,pointing to a complex of docks with heavy winchmachinery and hoisting devices across the water.

“It s a marina. "

Ja, marina. My second petrol tank is empty Isay I test. I stall the engines three hundred metersoffshore and go in. I yell at the Dutchman’s pricebut I pay, because I do not buy from the deutschethief this far downriver. You get off with one of mycrew, have a cigarette and laugh at your stupid cap-tain then you walk away.

“Just like that?’

”la. ,,

“It’s so easy.

“la. No one said it was difficult. You only haveto keep your eyes clear.

“For the police?”

“Nein,” said the captain, shrugging. “If there isPolizei they come to boat, you stay on board.”

“Then who am I looking for?”

“Men who may watch you, may see you walk away."

“What men?”

“Gesindel, Gauner what you call scum. Theycome each morning to the piers and look for work,most still drunk. Watch for such men. They willthink you have drugs or money. They will breakyour head and steal.”

“Your nephew told me to watch the men onyour own boat.”

“Only the new man, he is a Gauner. He chokeson his beer hoping it will clear his head. He thinkshe fools me but he does not. I keep him on board,tell him to scrape the rail something. The other isno problem for you. He is loyal to me an Idiot witha strong back and no head. The riverboats do nothire him. I do. Verstehen?”

"I think so. By the way, I have to get toAmsterdam. Is there a train here?”

“No train in Lobith. You take the omnibus toArnhem. The train to Amsterdam is in Arnhem. Iuse it many times when my ships dock in dieNiederlande. The omnibus stops at the railroadstation. Not long ride.”

“Ships? Large ships?” asked Joel, struck by thecaptain’s words.

“I once sailed the oceans, not a stinking river.Fifteen years of age I ship out with main Bruder. Bytwenty-three I am Obermaat "petit’ officer goodmoney, good life…. Very happy.” The Germanlowered his voice as he throttled back the enginesand spun the wheel starboard; the boat skidded onthe water. “Why talk? It is over,” he added angrily.

“What happened?”

“It is not for you, Amerikaner. ” The captainpushed the throttle forward; the engines coughed.

“I’m interested.”

“Warum? Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it takes my mind off myown problems,” said Converse honestly.

The German looked briefly at him. “You ask?Okay. We never see each other…. I stole money,much money. It took the company purser ninemonths to find me. Aber, ach, he find me! It wasmany years ago. No more oceans, only the

. ,,

ever.

“But you said you were making good money.Why did you steal?”

“Why do most men steal?”

“They need it the money or they want thingsthey can’t have normally, or they’re just basicallydishonest, which I don’t think you are.”

“Go back. Adam stole the apple, Amerikaner.”

“Not exactly. You mean a woman?”

“Many years ago. She was with child and shedid not want her man on the seas and the ships.She wanted more.” The captain permitted himselfthe slightest glint in his eyes and a touch of a smileon his lips. “She wanted a flower shop.”

From the core of his stomach, his painmomentarily forgotten, Joel laughed. “You’re quitea guy, Captain.” I never see you again.”

“Then your nephew “

“Never see you again!” the German broke in, nowlaugh444 ROBERT LUDLUM

ing out loud himself, his eyes on the water as heheaded into the Dutch marina.

Converse leaned against a piling smoking acigarette, the visor of his cheap cap angled over hisforehead, his eyes roaming up and down the pierand beyond to the repair yard in the Dutch marina.The men milling about the huge machinery weremechanically going about their tasks while thosearound the boats seemed more intent on inspectingthan doing, shaking their heads solemnly. Thecaptain argued with the dispenser of fuel, makingobscene gestures at the rapidly climbing figures onthe glass-encased face of the pump while hissoftheaded deckhand grinned several feet away. Onboard, the Gauner alternately leaned over therailing, a large wire brush in his hands, and abruptlyturned back to his scraping whenever his employerglanced over at him.

The time was right, thought Joel as he pushedhimself away from the piling. No one anywhere hadthe slightest interest in him; the dismal chores andthe early-morning dissatisfactions took precedenceover the insignificant and unfamiliar.

He started walking up the pier, his pace casualto the point of being slovenly but his eyes alert. Heproceeded to the edge of the repair yardapproaching a row of hulls in dry dock. Beyond thelast elevated boat, no more than three hundred feetaway, was an inordinately tall hurricane fence andan open gate. A uniformed guard sat on the leftdrinking coffee and reading a newspaper, his chairangled back into the crisscrossing wire mesh. Seeinghim, Joel stopped, his breath suspended, an internalalarm going off for no reason. Men passed backand forth through the gate, but the guard did not somuch as glance at anyone, his eyes devouring onlythe tabloid on his lap.

Converse turned, a last look at the river.Suddenly he became aware of the captain. TheGerman had run to the base of the pier and wasgesturing wildly, pressing his hands forward in short,rapid strokes. He was trying to warn Converse.Then he shouted at the top of his lungs; men staredat him and turned away, none caring to be involved.They had seen too much in the early hours on thewaterfront, the slashing with hooks too frequentlythe language of the docks.

“Laugh Run! Get oral!”

Joel was mystified; he looked around. Then he sawthem.

Two no three burly men were lurching up from thepier, their glassy eyes focused on him. The first manstaggered forward to the left of the captain. TheCerman grabbed his shoulder, swinging him around,stopping him, but only for seconds as the other twomen crashed their fists into the captain’s neck andspine. They were animals Gauner their nostrils in-flamed by the scent of a trapped fat quarry whomight keep them in food and drink for days.

Converse dove under the row of dry-dockedboats, smashing his head on several hurts as hescrambled toward the other side and the shafts oflight beyond. He could see frantic legs pounding theearth behind him; they were gaining on him; theywere running, he was crawling. He reached the endof the suspended row of hulls, sprang out and startedfor the gate. He pulled out his shirt, tore off thelower section and held it against the cuts on his headas he walked rapidly past the guard and through thegate. He looked around. The three men were arguingfuriously, drunkenly, among themselves, twocrouching and peering unsteadily under the boats.Then the man standing saw him. He shouted to theothers; they stood up and started after Joel. He ranfaster, unfit he could see them no longer; the animalshad given up.

He was in the Netherlands; the welcome was lessthan gracious, but he was there, one step closer toAmsterdam. On the other hand he had no ideawhere he was right now except that the town wasnamed Lobith. He had to catch his breath and think.He stepped into a deserted storefront, where a darkshade behind the entrance made the glass a dimmirror it was enough. He was a mess. Think. ForGod’s sake, think)

Mattilon had told him to take the train fromArnhem to Amsterdam, he remembered that clearly.And the captain of the barge had said he had to takean “omnibus” from Lobith to Arnhem; there was notrain in Lobith. The first thing he had to do wasreach the railroad station in Arnhem, clean himselfup, then study the crowds and judge whether to riskbecoming part of them. And relative to thisconsideration, his mind darted in several directionsat once. The plain-lensed glasses had long sincedisappeared, undoubtedly during the insane events inWesel; he would replace them with dark glasses.There was little he could do about the scrapes on hisface, but they would appear less menacing after soapand water, and certainly in or around a railroadstation something could be done about his tornclothing…. And a map. God

damn it, he was a pilot! He could reach Point Afrom Point B and he had to do so quickly. He hadto reach Amsterdam and find a way to makecontact with a man named Cort Thorbecke andcall Nathan Simon in New York. There was somuch to do!

As he walked out of the storefront he wassuddenly aware of what was happening to him. Ithad happened before a lifetime ago, in the jtingles when the fear of the night sounds hadpassed and he c ould watch the dawn and accuratelyplot his directions, his lines of march, his survival.He was thinking, his mind functioning again. Allthings considered, he was far less the man thanwhat he had been, but he could be better than hewas he had to be. Every day that passed broughtthe generals of Aquitaine closer to whatevermadness they were planning. Everywhere. He andthey had to reverse roles. The hunted had tobecome the hunter. Delavane’s disciples hadconvinced the world he was a psychopathic assassin,and so they had to find him, take him, kill him andhold him up as one more example of the spreadinginsanity that could be contained only with theirsolutions. Aquitaine had to be exposed anddestroyed before it was too late. The countdownwas in progress, the commanders surely, inexorably,moving into their positions, consolidating theirpowers.

Move! shouted Converse silently to himself as hewalked faster down the pavement.

He sat in the last car of the train, still wary butsatisfied by the progress he had made. He had doneeverything cautiously but without wasting mohon,his concentration absolute, aware of a dozenpossible dangers eyes that stared at him, a man ora woman seen twice in too short a bme, a clerkdelaying him by being more helpful than the hourand the crowds would normally permit. Thesecalculated possibilities were his readouts, his dials,his gauges; without clearance he would abort allforward motion, takeoff canceled, the escape hatchsprung, safety found in the streets. His equipmentwas not an aircraft that was an extension of himself,it was himself; and he had never flown with suchprecision in his life.

ENGLISH SPOKE had been the sign tacked tothe roof of the busy corner newsst.md in Lobith. Hehad asked directions to the “omnibus” to Arnhemwhile buying a map and a newspaper, holding bothclose to his face. The owner was too preoccupiedwith customers to notice his appearance and

shouted rapid instructions, more useful in thepointed finger than in the words. Joel found the busstop some four blocks away. He sat in the crowdedvehicle, his face buried in a newspaper he could notread, and forty-odd minutes later he got off at therailroad station in Arnhem.

First on his checklist was a trip to the farthestwashbasin in the men’s room, where he cleanedhimself up. He had brushed his clothes as best hecould and looked in the mirror. He was still a mess,but somehow he looked more like a man who hadbeen injured than one who had been beaten; therewas a difference.

Next, outside in the station, he converted hisdeutsche marks and five hundred American dollarsinto florins and guilders. He then bought a pair ofwide-rimmed dark glasses at a pharmacy severaldoors from the currency exchange. As he got into thecashier’s line, his hand casually covering the bruiseson his face, his eyes fell on a cosmetics counteracross the far aisle. It triggered a memory.

Shortly after their marriage, in one of thosemaddening accidents that only happen at the mostinopportune times, Valerie had slipped on a foyerrug and fell, hitting her head against the corner of anantique hallway table. By seven that night she hadwhat Joel had described as "one hell of a mouse”; theblack eye was an almost perfect oval, arcing from thebridge of her nose to the edge of her left temple. Atten the next morning she was scheduled to lead abilingual presentation for agency clients fromStuttgart. She had sent him out to the drugstore fora small bottle of liquid makeup, which, except atclose range, had concealed the bruise remarkablywell.

“I don’t want people to think my brand-newhusband beat the hell out of me for not fulfilling hiswildest sexual fantasies.”

“Which one did you miss?” he had asked.

He stepped out of the cashier’s line and made hisway around the cases to the display of creams andcolognes, shampoos, and nail polish. He recognizedthe bottle, chose a darker shade, and returned to theline.

A second trip to a washbasin had taken tenminutes, but the results justified the time. He appliedthe makeup carefully; the scrapes and bruises faded.Unless someone stood very close to him, he was nolonger a battered brawler but a man who hadperhaps suffered a not too serious fall. Conversecon

gratulated himself in that men’s room in therailroad station. Under other circumstances, hemight not have dressed a client so well before atrial for assault and battery.

The checklist continued. It had taken him towhere he was now, in the last car on thestraight-through train from Arnhem to Amsterdam.After buying his ticket on what he inferred was alow-priced excursion train that made numerousstops, he had walked out on the platform preparedto run back at the slightest negative readout, thefirst steady glance that held him in focus. Instead hesaw a group of men and women, couples around hisown age, talking and laughing together, friendsmore than likely off for a short summer’s holiday,perhaps leaving the river for the sea. The mencarried worn, dented suitcases, most held togetherwith rope, while a number of the women heldwicker baskets looped over their arms. Theirluggage and their clothing denoted workingclass factories for the men, home and children orthe less demanding clerical jobs for the women allwithin that part of the spectrum that suited Joel’sown appearance. He had walked behind them,laughing quietly when they laughed climbing onboard as though he were part of the group, sittingin an aisle seat across from a burly man with aslender woman who, despite her thin frame, proudlybore a pair of enormous breasts. Converse’s eyescould hardly avoid them and the man grinned atJoel, no malice in his look as he raised a bottle ofbeer to his lips.

Somewhere Converse had read or heard that inthe northern countries people going on summervacations or on holiday, as was theterm gravitated to the last cars in theTrans-Europe-Express. It was a custom thatsomehow signified their status, producing a generalcamaraderie that enlivened the working man’sjunket. Joel observed the none too subtletransformation. Men and women got out of theirseats and walked up and down the aisle talking tofriends and strangers alike, cans and bottles in theirhands. From the front of the car a few people brokeinto song, obviously a familiar country song; otherstook it up only to be drowned out by Converse’sgroup, who raised their voices in an entirely differ-ent chorus until the singing of both camps dwindledaway into laughter. Conviviality, indeed, was theorder of the morning in the last car on the train toAmsterdam. The stations went by, a few passengersgetting off at each, more getting on, with suitcases,baskets, and broad smiles, and being welcomed on

board with boisterous greetings. A number of menwore T-shirts emblazoned with the names of townand district teams soccer, Converse assumed.Catcalls and amiably derisive shouts were hurled atthem by age-old competitors. The railroad car wasturning into an odd Dutch version of a trainload ofsuddenly freed adults going off to a summer camp.The volume grew.

The towns were aumounced, the brief stops madeas Joel remained in his seat, motionless andunobtrusive, now and then glancing at his adoptedgroup, half smiling or laughing softly when it seemedappropriate. Otherwise he looked like someone oflimited intelligence poring over a map as a childmight, equal parts wonderment and confusion. Hewas studying the streets and canals of Amsterdam.There was a man who lived on the southwest cornerof Utrechtsestraat and Kerkstrsat, a man he had toidentify by sight, isolate and make contact with . . .his springboard to Washington would be as a "member of the Tatiana family.” He had to pull CortThorbecke away from his base of operations withoutalerting the hunters of Aquitaine. He would pay anEnglish-speaking intermediary to get to a telephoneand use words sufficiently plausible to draw thebroker out to some other location, with no mentionof the Tatiana connection or its source in Paris.Those words would have to be found; he would findthem somehow, he had to. He was psychologically onhis way back toward friendly fire in terms of actualtime less than seven hours from Washington andmen who would listen to him with Nathan Simon’shelp and an extraordinary file that would persuadethem to hide him and protect him until the soldiersof Aquitaine were exposed. It was not the wayenvisioned by a man he had once known inConnecticut as Avery Fowler hardly the legal tacticswhose roots were in ridicule as prescribed by A.Preston Halliday in Geneva, but there was no timenow. Time was running out for manipulated webs oflegality.

The train slowed down, jerking as it did so, as ifthe engineer far up ahead was trying to send anotherkind of message to a rowdy car in the rear, which feltthe shocks most severely. If that was his intent, it,too, backfired. The pitching motion served only toaccelerate the laughter and provoke insults shoutedat an unseen incompetent.

“Amstel!” screamed a conductor, opening theforward door between the cars. “Amsterdam!Amst i” The poor man

could not finish the call he had to pull the doorshut to avoid a barrage of rolled-up newspapersthrown at him. Summer camp in the Netherlands.

The train pulled into the station and acontingent of T-shirted chests and breastsannounced their arrival with shouts of recognition.Five or six people at the front of Joel’s group roseas one to welcome their friends, again cans andbottles were held in the air and laughter bouncedoff the narrow walls, nearly drowning out thewhistles of departure outside. Bodies fell overbodies, hugs were exchanged, breasts playfullygrabbed at.

Beyond the new an ivals, walking unsteadily, wasthe illogically logical capstone for the juvenile anticstaking place in front of Converse. An old woman,obviously drunk, made her way down the aisle, herdisheveled clothes matching the large, tatteredcanvas bag she clutched in her left hand while shesteadied herself with her right on the edge of theseats as the train accelerated. Grinning, sheaccepted a bottle of beer as another was thrown intoher satchel, followed by several sandwiches wrappedin waxed paper. Again, there were greetings ofwelcome as two men in the aisle bowed to the waistas if to a queen. A third slapped her behind andwhistled. For several minutes the ritual continued,a new mechanical toy for the children off to summercamp. The old woman drank and danced a jig andmade playfully suggestive gestures at men andwomen alike, sticking out her tongue and rolling itaround, her ancient eyes bulging, rolling, her raggedshawl twirling in circles like the ballet of somemacabre Scheherazade. She amused everyone withher drunken antics as she accepted all that wasdropped into her offering cloth, including coins. TheDutch vacationers were kind, thoughtJoel they tookcare of someone less fortunate than themselvessomeone who would be banred from another classof car on another train. The woman approachedhim, her canvas bag now held in front of her so asto accept alms from both sides. Converse reachedinto his pocket for a few Builders, letting them slipfrom his hand into the bag.

“Goedemorgen, ” said the old woman, weaving.“Dank u wel, haste man, erg vriendelijk van u!”

Joel nodded, resuming to his map, but the baglady remained.

“Uw hoold! Ach, heb je een ongeluk Chad, jongen?”

Again Converse nodded, reaching again into hispocket

and giving the inebriated old hag more money. Hepointed to his map and waved her away, as yetanother raucous chorus erupted.

“Spreekt u Engels?” shouted the bag lady, leaningover unsteadily.

Joel shrugged, sinking back into the seat, his eyesriveted on the map.

“I think you do. ” The old woman spoke hoarsely,clearly soberly, her right hand no longer on the edgeof the seat but instead in the canvas bag. “We’ve beenlooking for you every day, on every train. Don tmove! The gun is equipped with a silencer. With allthis noise, if I pull the trigger no one would know thedifference, including the man beside you who wantsonly to join the party and the big-breasted women. Ithink we shall let him. We have you, MeneerConverse!”

There was no summer camp, after all. Only deathminutes away from Amsterdam.

“Mag ik u even lastig fallen?” shouted the oldwoman, once more weaving unsteadily as she spoketo the passenger beside Converse. The man took hiseyes off the raucous festivities in the aisle andglanced up at the harridan. She shouted again, herright hand still in the bag, her mass of disheveledgrey hair springing back and forth as she nodded toher right, toward the front of the car. " Zou ik op uwplants molten zitten?”

“Mid loest!” The man got up grinning, as Joelinstinctively moved his legs to let him pass. “Dank uwel, ” the man added heading for a single empty seatbeyond a couple dancing in the aisle.

“Move over!” commanded the old woman harshly,swaying with the rhythm of the racing train.

If it was going to happen, thought Converse, itwas going to happen now. He started to rise, his eyesstraight ahead, his right elbow on the armrest inchesfrom the bulging bag. Suddenly he plunged his handinto the open canvas bag and

gripped the fat wrist of the woman’s hand that heldthe unseen gun. Straining, pressing farther down,clutching flesh and metal, he swung violently to hisleft and yanked the old woman through the narrowspace, twisting her, crashing her down into the seatnext to the window. There was a sharp spit as thegun exploded, burning a hole in the heavy cloth,smoke billowing, the bullet embedding itselfsomewhere below. The hag’s strength was maniacal,unlike anything he might have imagined. She foughtviciously, clawing at his face until he pulled her armabove her head, twisting it, clamping it behind her,their two hands still struggling below in the bag. Shewould not let go of the weapon and he could notpry it loose; he could only hold it downward, hisgrip immobilising her fingers, force against force,her contorted face telling him she would notsurrender.

The midmorning revels of the railroad carreached a crescendo; a cacophony of voices raisedin jumbled song competed with the swelling echoesof laughter. And no one paid the slightest attentionto the savage struggle that was taking place in thenarrow seat. Suddenly, within the panic of thatstruggle, within the violent impasse, Joel was awarethat the train was slowing don n, if onlyimperceptibly. Once again his pilot’s instincts toldhim a descent was imminent. He jammed his elbowinto the old woman’s right breast to jolt her intofreeing the gun. Still she held on, bracing herselfagainst the seat, her arm pinned, her fat legsstretched below, angled like thick pylons anchoredbeneath the forward seat, her obese body twisted,locking his own arm in place so he could notdislodge the weapon from her grip.

“Let go!” he whispered hoarsely. "I won’t hurtyou I won’t kill you. Whatever you’re being paid,I’ll pay you more!”

“Bee! I would be found at the bottom of a canal!You can’t escape, Menheer! They wait for you inAmsterdam, they wait for the train!” Grimacing, theold woman kicked out, briefly freeing her left arm.She swung her hand around, clawing his face, hernails sliding down his beard until he grabbed herwrist, pulling her arm across the seat and crackingit into her own knee, twisting her hand clockwise,forcing her to be still. It made no difference. Herright hand had the strength of an aging lionessprotecting its pride; she would not release the gunbelow.

"You’re Iying!” cried Converse. “No one knowsI’m on this trains You just got on twenty minutesago!”

“Wrong, A mer"knan ! I’ve been on sinceArnhem I start in the front, walk back. I found youout at Utrecht and a teiephone call was made.”

"Liar!”

“You will see.”

“Who hired you?”

“Men.”

“Who?”

“You will see.”

“Goddamn you, you’re not part of them! You can’tbel”

“They pay. Up and down the railroad they pay.On the piers, in the airports. They say you speaknothing but English.”

"What else do they say?”

“Why should I tell you? You’re caught. It is youwho should let me go. It could be easier for you.”

“How? A quick bullet in the head instead of aHanoi rack?”

“Whatever it is, the bullet could be better. Youare too young to know, Meneer. You were neverunder occupation.”

“And you’re too old to be so goddamned strong,I’ll give you that.”

"ha, I learn that, too.”

“Let go!”

The train was braking and the drunken crowd inthe car roared its approval as men grabbed suitcasesfrom the upper racks. The passenger who had beensitting next to Joel hastily yanked his from above theseat, his stomach pressing into Converse’s shoulder.Joel tried to appear as though he were in deepconversation with his grimacing half-prisoner; theman fell back, suitcase in hand, laughing.

The old woman lurched forward, sinking hermouth into Converse’s upper arm, millimeters fromhis wound. She bit him viciously, her yellow teethpenetrating his flesh, blood bursting out of his skin,trickling down the woman’s grey chin.

He pulled back in pain. She freed her hand fromhis grip in the canvas bag; the gun was hers! Shefired; the muted spit was followed by a shattering ofa section of the floor in the aisle, missingJoel’s feetby inches. He grabbed the unseen barrel, twisted it,pulled it, trying with all his strength to wrench itaway. She fired again.

Her eyes grew wide as she arched back into theseat. They remained open as she slumped into thewindow, blood

spreading quickly through the thin fabric of herdress in the upper section of her stomach. She wasdead, and Joel felt ill nauseated he had to swallowair to keep from vomiting. Trembling, he wonderedwho this old woman was, why she was what shehad lived through that made her become what shewas. You were too young to know…. You were neverunder occupation.

No time to think about all this! She had wantedto kill him, that was all he had to know, and menwere waiting for him only minutes away. He had tothink, move!

Twisting the gun from her rigid fingers insidethe canvas bag, he quickly lifted it up and shoved itunder his coarse jacket, inserting it under his belt,feeling the weight of the other weapon in hispocket. He reached over and bunched the woman’sdress in folds, then layered her shawl over thebloodstains and pushed her mass of disheveled hairover her right cheek, concealing the wide dead eyes.Experience in the camps told him not to try to closethe eyes; too often they would not respond. fheaction might only call attention to him to her. Thelast thing he did was to pull a can of beer out of thebag, open it, and place it on her lap; the liquidspilled out, drenching’ her lap.

“Amsterdam! Df volgende halls is Amsterdam-Cen-traal."”

A roar went up from the vacationing crowd asthe line began to form toward the door. Oh, Christ!thought Converse. How? The old woman had said atelephone call had been made. A telephone call,which implied she had not made it herself. It waslogical; there was too little time. She had un-doubtedly paid one of her sister bag ladies whoplied the trains at the station in Utrecht to make it.The information therefore would be minimum,simply because there was no time. She was a specialemployee, one who had been researched as onlyAquitaine could research, an old woman who wasstrong and who could use a weapon and who wouldnot shrink from taking a life who would not saytoo much to anyone. She would merely give atelephone number and instruct the hired caller torepeat the time of the train’s arrival. Again . . .therefore . . . he had a chance. Every malepassenger would be scrutinised, every face matchedagainst the face in the newspapers. But he was andhe was not that face! And he did not speak anylanguage but English that information had beenspread with emphasis.

Think!

“Ze is drunken!” The words were shouted by theburly man with the enormously endowed wife at hisside as he pointed to the dead woman. Both werelaughing, and Joel did not need an interpreter tounderstand. Converse nodded, grinning broadly as heshrugged. He had found his way out of the station inAmsterdam.

For Converse understood there was a universallanguage employed when the decibel of noise wassuch that one could neither hear nor be heard. It wasalso used when one was bored at cocktail parties, orwhen one watched football games on television withclowns who were convinced they knew a great dealmore than coaches or quarterbacks, or when one wasgathered and trapped into an evening in New Yorkwith the “beautiful people” most of whom qualifiedas neither in the most rudimentary sense, egos faroutdistancing either talent or humanity. In suchsituations one nodded; one smiled one occasionallyplaced a friendly hand on a shoulder, the touchsignifying communication but one said nothing.

Joel did all of these things as he got off the trainwith the burly man and his wife. He became almostmanic, playing the role as one who knew there wasnothing left between death and survival but a certainkind of controlled madness. The lawyer in himprovided the control; the child pilot tested the winds,knowing his aircraft would respond to the elementalpressures because it was sound and he was good andhe enjoyed the craziness of a stall forced by adowndraft; he could easily pull out.

He had removed his dark glasses and pulled hiscap far down over his forehead. His hand was on theburly man’s shoulder as they walked up the platform,the Dutchman laughing as he spoke, Joel nodding,slapping his companion’s shoulder, laughing in returnwhenever there was a break in the man’s monologue.Since the couple had been drinking neither tookmuch notice of his incomprehensible replies, heseemed like a nice person, and in their state nothingelse really mattered.

As they walked up out of the platform towardthe terminal Converse’s constantly roving eyes weredrawn to a man standing in a crowd of welcomersbeyond the archway at the end of the ramp. Joel firstnoticed him because unlike those aroundhim whose faces were lit up in varying degrees ofanticipation this man’s expression was serious tothe point

of being solemn. Ile was not there to offer welcome.Then suddenly Converse knew there was anotherreason why this man had caught his attention. Themoment he recognised the face he knew exactlywhere he had seen it walking rapidly down a pathsurrounded by thick foliage with another man,another guard. The man up ahead was one of thepatrols from Erich Leifhelm’s compound above theRhine.

As they approached the arch, Joel laughed alittle louder and made it a point to clap theDutchman’s shoulder a little harder, his cap stillangled down over his forehead. He followed severalnods with a shrug or two and then with agood-humored shaking of the head; with browsfurrowed and lips constantly moving, he wasobviously in fluent conversation. Through narrowedeyes Converse saw that Leifhelm’s guard was staringat him; then the man looked away. They passedthrough the arch and in the corner of his vision Joelwas abruptly aware of a head whipping around, thenof a figure pushing other figures out of his path.Converse turned, looking over the Dutchman sshoulder. It happened. His eyes locked with those ofLeifLelm s guard. The recognition was instant, andfor that instant the Cerman panicked, turning hishead back toward the ramp. He started to shout,then stopped. He reached under his jacket andmoved forward.

Joel broke away from the couple and beganracing threading his way through succeeding walls ofbodies, heading for a series of archlike ascendingexits through which sunlight streamed into theornate terminal. Twice he looked behind him as heran; the first time he could not see the man, thesecond time he did. LeifLelm’s guard was screamingorders to someone across the way, rising on theballs of his feet to see and be seen, gesturing at theexit doors in the distance. Converse ran faster,pulling his way through the crowd toward the stepsthat led to the massive exit. He climbed thestaircase swiftly but within the rhythm of the mostharried departing passengers, holding to the center,trying to call as little attention to himself aspossible.

He bolted through a door into the sunlight, intototal confusion. Below was water and piers andglass-covered boats bobbing up and down, peoplerushing past them, others ushered on board underthe watchful eyes of men in white-and-blueuniforms. He had come off a train only to emergeon some kind of strange waterfront. Then heremembered: the railroad station in Amsterdam wasbuilt on an is

land facing the center of the city; thus it was knownas the Centraal. Yet there was a street two streets,three streets bridging the water toward other streetsand trees and buildings . . . no time! He was out inthe open and those streets in the distance were hiscaves of survival; they were the ravines and the thick,impenetrable acres of bush and swamp that wouldhide him from the enemy! He ran as fast as he couldalong the wide boulevard bordered by water andreached an even wider thoroughfare clogged withtraffic, buses, trams, and automobiles, all at theirown starting gates, anxious for bells to release them.He saw a dwindling line at the door of an electrictramway, the final two passengers climbing on board;he raced ahead and, just before the door swung shut,he stepped up into the tram the last fare.

Spotting an empty seat in the last row, he walkedquickly to the back of the huge vehicle. He sat down,breathing hard, desperately, the sweat mathng hishairline and his temples and rolling down his face,the shirt under his jacket drenched. It was only thenthat he realized how exhausted he was, how loud andrapid the tattoo in his chest, how blurred his visionand his thoughts. Fear and pain had combined intoa form of hysteria. The desire to stay alive and thehatred of Aquitaine had kept him going. Pain? Hewas suddenly aware of the ache in his arm above hiswound, an old woman’s last act of ven-geance against what? For what? An enemy?Money? No time!

The tram started up and he turned in his seat tolook out the rear window. He saw what he wanted tosee. Leifhelm’s guard was racing across theintersection, a second man running to join him fromthe waterfront quad. They met, and the words theyexchanged were obviously exchanged in near panic.Another joined them, from where Joel could not see;he was suddenly just there. The three men spokerapidly, Leifhelm’s guard apparently the leader; hepointed in several directions, issuing orders. Oneman ran down the street, below the curb, and beganchecking the half-dozen or so taxis in the traffic jam;a second stayed on the pavement, slowly making hisway around the tables of a sidewalk cafe, then goinginside. Finally, Leifhelm’s guard ran back across theintersection, dodging cars, and reaching the curb, hesignaled. A woman walked out of a store and methim at the corner.

No one had thought of the tram. It was his firstcave of survival. He sat back and tried to collect histhoughts, know

ingthey would be difficult to face. Aquitaine wouldpenetrate all of Amsterdam, canvass it, tear it apartuntil they found hirn. Was there conceivably a wayto reach Thorbecke or had he been fooling himself,reaching into the past where too often accidents andmisplaced arrogance led to success? No, he couldnot think for a while. He had to lie down in thecave and rest, and if sleep came, he hoped thenightmares did not come with it. He looked out thewindow and saw a sign. It read DAMBAK.

He remained on the electric conveyance for wellover an hour. The lively streets, the lovelyarchitecture of the centuries-old buildings and theendless canals calmed him. His arm still ached fromthe old woman’s teeth but not severely, andthoughts of cleansing the wound faded. He couldnot weep for the old woman, but as with certain,strange witnesses at a trial, he wished he knew herstory.

Hotels were out. The foot soldiers of Aquitainewould scour them, offering large sums for anyinformation about any American of his generaldescription which they now specifically had.Thorbecke would be watched, his telephone tapped,his every move and conversation scrutinised. Eventhe embassy, or consulate whichever it was inAmster dam would have another military charged’affaires or his equivalent on the prowl for a signalthat a non-assassin wanted to come in and start theprocess of rectification. If his perceptions wereright, that left him with only one escape hatch. Na-than Simon.

Nathan the Wise, Joel had dubbed him once,only to be told that a Gentile with his intelligenceshould certainly come up with something moreoriginal. Then after a particularly long session at theoffice in which Nate detailed in excruciating detailwhy they should not take on a client named Lie-bowitz, who in his opinion would put too great aburden on the obligation to respect a client’sconfidence, and during which Lawrence Talbot haddozed off, Converse suggested that he alter hissobriquet to Nathan the Talmudic-pain-in-the-ass.Nate had roared, shocking Talbot awake, andproclaiming, “I love it! And Sylvia will love itbetterI”

Joel had learned more about the law fromNathan Simon than from anyone else, but there wasalways a distance between them. It was as thoughNate never really wanted them to be too close inspite of the obvious affection the older man had forthe younger. Converse thought he understood; itwas

a question of loyalty. Simon had two sons, who, mthe properly guarded phrase, “were in business forthemselves in California and Florida.” One soldinsurance in Santa Barbara, and the other ran a barin Key West. Nate Simon was a tough act to follow,and Joel was given a hint of just how hard it was onelate afternoon when Simon offered to buy him adrink at "21' after a harrowing conference on FifthAvenue.

“I like your father, Converse. I like Roger. Hehas minimal legal requirements, of course, but he’sa good man.”

“He has no legal requirements, and I tried to stophim from coming to us.”

“You couldn’t. It was the gesture he had to make.Put some business where the son is. Very touching.”

“With an unnecessary will that you much toogenerously charged him only two hundred dollars for,and some crazy disposition of his war medals tothree differentnshtutions for which you refused tobill him on patriotic grounds?”

“We were in the same theater of operations.”

“Where?”

“Europe.”

“Come on, Nate. He’s my father and I love himbut I also know he’s off the wall. Take him out of avintage prop and he’s not sure where he is. Pan Amgot their money’s worth, not in any administrativesense, but because he was a pistol at conventions.”

Nathan Simon had gripped his glass that late afternoon at “21,” and when he spoke, the quietthunder of a deeply troubled man poured forth.“You have respect for your father do you hear me,Joel? My friend Roger offered a gesture to his son,for it was all he had, all he could imagine. I had agreat deal more and I didn’t know how to make suchgestures. I only gave commands…. He said I couldstill do it. I’m going to take up flying.”

Simon would help him only if he was convincedthere was substance to his case. But he would legallylean over backwards in the negative if he thought arelationship or personal sentimentality was beingused to manipulate him. Of course, if an indictmentfollowed, he would rush in for the defense after thefact. That was professional; those were his ethics.And by now Valerie would have sent him theenvelope with the dossiers and their awesomeimplications. They were the substance Simonrequired. Knowing Val, she would have sent themdown by car, the great American postal servicehaving

given rise to a score of competitors who eschewedthe taxpayer’s dollar. Joel’s d’ cisionwas made. Sincethere was a five-hour time difference, he would waituntil early evening and then call Nathan Simon. Hewas functioning again.

The tram came to the last stop before its returnrun. At least he was the only one left on board; hewalked up the aisle, got off and saw another. He goton. Sanctuary.

A hundred streets and a dozen crisscrossedcanals later, he looked out the window, encouragedby the seedy neighborhood he saw, washed clean onthe surface but with the promise of far moreinteresting bacteria below. There was a row ofpornography shops, their wares in magnified displaysin the storefronts. Above, in open windows, garishlypainted girls stood provocatively, brassieres slippedon and off lethargically, faces bored but pelviseschurning. The crowds in the streets were animated,some curious, some feigning shock, others interestedin buying. There was a carnival atmosphere, oneinto which he could melt, thought Converse, as hegot out of his seat and went to the door.

He wandered aro"md the streets, astonished,even embarrassed, as he always was when sex wasparaded so publicly. He enjoyed sexual encountersand never lacked for them, but for him the privacyof the acts was intrinsic to their fulfillment. Hecould no more walk through one of those neon-litdoors up-to-heaven than he could have performeda bowel movement on the curb.

There was a cafe across the street; it was abovea canal, tables on the sidewalk, dark within. Whatstruck him was the crowd that hovered around thedoorway, many people simply glancing in and goingon, drawn briefly to some curious oddity inside.Regardless, it was the crowd that attracted him;there was anonymity in numbers. He crossed thethoroughfare, weaved his way through the crowdand went inside. Sleep might be out of the question,but he needed food. He had not eaten a real mealin nearly three days. He found a small empty tablein the back of the room, and was stunned that atelevision set, clamped above on the wall, wasblaring inanities. He could not understand. Therewas no television in the Netherlands during theafternoons” How many times had he heardcolleagues and friends remark that one of the mostcivilised aspects of traveling in Holland was theabsence of the idiot box until seven o’clock in theevening? Conversely, there were those sportsenthusiasts who bemoaned the fact that cer

tain events were not shown, but on the whole theverdict came down in favor of Dutch civility andrestraint. Yet here was a television set in fulloperation. It undoubtedly accounted for thosecurious passersby on the street who glanced inside,shaking their heads in bewilderment as they went ontheir way.

Then Joel saw the folded card on the table, theannouncement in four languages, English first.

In accord with the advances in teknology we are

pleased to bring our patrons and visitors fromoutsidethe Netherlands recordings of our national programs.

Video tapes! It was a come-on, an innovative ploy tolure customers; this was the district for it. And heunderstood why the English language was first: epluribus unum. Let’s not lose touch with the tube.At least the tapes were in Dutch; it helped, but notmuch.

Straight whisky helped, too, but again not much.The anxiety of the hunted came back and he keptturning his head toward the entrance, at any momentexpecting to see one of the foot soldiers of Aquitainewalk through the door, out of the sunlight and intothe cave to find him. He went to the men’s room atthe rear of the cafe, removed his jacket, placed thegun with the silencer in the inside pocket, and torehis left sleeve. He filled one of the two basins withcold water, and then he plunged his face into it,pouring the water through his hair over the back ofhis neck. He felt a vibration, a sound! He whippedhis head up, gasping, frightened, his handinsdncbvely reaching for his coat on a hook. A portlymiddle-aged man nodded and went to a urinal.Quickly Joel looked at the teeth marks on his arm;they were like a dog bite. He drained the sink,turned on the hot water faucet, and with a papertowel squeezed and blotted the painful area untilblood emerged from the broken skin. It was the besthe could do; he had done much the same thing alifetime ago when attacking water rats swam throughthe bars of his bamboo cage. Then in another kindof panic, he had learned that rats could befrightened. And killed. The man at the urinal turnedand went out the door, glancing uncomfortably atConverse.

Joel layered a paper towel over the teeth marks,put on his coat and combed his hair. He opened thedoor and went

back to his table, once again annoyed by the blaringtelevision on the wall.

The menu, like the announcement about thetelevision, was in four languages, the last Oriental,undoubtedly Japanese. He was tempted to go forthe largest, rarest piece of meat he could find, buthere his pilot’s control dictated otherwise. He’d hadno solid sleep in days oddly enough since hisimprisonment at I eifhelm’s compound, where thesleep itself had been greatly induced by the hugequantities of very decent food, all part of thehealing process for a deflecting pawn. A heavy mealwould make him drowsy, and one did not By a jetgoing six hundred miles an hour in that condition.At the moment his air speed was approaching MachI. He ordered filet of sole and rice; he could alwaysorder twice. And one more whisky.

The voice! Oh, Christ. The voice! He washallucinating! He was going mad! He was hearing avoice an echo of a voice he could not possibly behearing!

“. . . Actually, I think it’s a national disgrace, butlike so many others, I speak only English.”

“Frau Converse “

“Miss Fraulein I think that’sright Charpentier, if you don’t mmd.”

“Dames en heron . . .” a third voice broke inquietly, authoritatively, speaking Dutch.

Converse gasped for the air he could not find,gripping his wrist, closing his eyes with suchintensity that every muscle in his face was in pain,twisting his neck away from the source of theterrible, horrible hallucination.

“I’m in Berlin on business I’m a consultant fora firm in New York "

“Mevrouw Con verse, of juffronw Charpen tier,coals use . . . ",

Joel was now sure that he was mad, insane! Hewas hearing the impossible. Ilearing! He spunaround and looked up. The television screen! It wasValerie! She was there!

“Whatever you S.ly, Fraulein Charpentier, willbe accurately translated, I can assure you.”

“Coals juJfrouw (>harpentier zoduist zei . . .” Thethird voice, the voice in Dutch.

“I haven’t seen my former husband in severalyears three or four, I’d say. Actually, we’restrangers. I can only express the shock my wholecountry feels….”

“7uffrouw Charpentier, de uroogere mevronw Con-”erse . . . “

" . . . he was a deeply disturbed man, subject toextreme depressions, but I never imagined anythinglike this.”

“Hid most mentaal gestoord zidn . . .”

“There’s no connection between us, and I’msurprised you learned I was flying to Berlin. But Iappreciate the chance to clear the air, as we say.”

“Mevrouw Converse gelooft . . . “

“In spite of the dreadful circumstances over which,of ourse, I had no control, I’m delighted to be inyour beautiful city. Half-city, I guess, but yours is thebeautiful part. And I :lear the Bristol-Kempinski….I’m terribly sorry, that’s what Ale call a “plug’ and Ishouldn’t. ”

“It is a landmark, Fraulein Charpentier. It is notverboten ver here. Do you feel at all threatened?”

“Mevrouw Converse, vault u rich bedreigd?”

“No, not really. We’ve had nothing to do witheach other or so long.”

My God! Val had come over to find him! Shewas sending him a signal signals! She spoke everybit as fluent German Is the interviewer! They kept intouch every month; they had lunch together sixweeks ago in Boston! Everything she was saying wasa lie and in those lies was the code. Their coderReach me!

The Aquaintaine Progession

PART THREE

Joel was stunned, but he had to control his panicand try to isolate the words, the phrases. Themessage was in them! The Bristol-Kempinski was ahotel in West Berlin, he knew that. It was somethingelse she had said, something that should trigger amemory one of their memories. What was it?

I haven’t seen my former husband in years…. No,only one of the lies. He was a deeply disturbed man….Less a lie, but not what she was trying to tell him.Actually, we’re strangers…. There’s no connectionbetween us….Another lie, but with some truth in it….Stop it! What was it! … Before, earlier…. I’m aconsultant…. That was it! .

“May I speak with Miss Charpenher, pleased Myname is Mr. Whistletoe, Bruce Whistletoe. I’m theconfidential consultant for Springtime antiperspirantfor which your agency is doing some artwork, and it’surgent, most urgent!” Con molta forza.

Val’s secretary had been a talker, a marvelousspreader of in-house gossip, and whenever Joel andValerie had wanted an extra hour for lunch or evena day, he would make such a phone call. It neverfailed. If a demanding vice-president (one of dozens)wanted to know where she was, the excitablesecretary would tell of an urgent call from one ofthose outside watchdogs of a very large account. Itwas enough for any ulcer-prone executive, andValerie’s understated professionalism took care ofthe rest. She would say “things” were under controland rarely did a relieved account man pursue whatmight give him an acid attack.

She was telling him to use the tactic in case thepolice were monitoring her calls. He would havedone so in any event; she was simply reminding him,warning him.

The interview was over, the last few minutesobviously a recap in Dutch, the camera frozen on astill frame of Vale

rie’s face. When had the tape been made? Howlong had she been in Berlin? t"oddamn it, whycouldn’t he understand anything unless it wasspoken in English? When she lied about herinability to speak German, Val had said it was anational disgrace. She was right, but she might havegone further; it was a national disorder rooted inarrogance. He looked around the cafe for atelephone; there was one on the rear wall severalfeet from the door to the men’s room, but he hadn’tthe vaguest idea of how to use it! His frustrationsgrew swirling into circles of panic. Suddenly heheard his name.

”De Amerikaanse moordenuar Converse isadvocaut. Hid iseen ex-pilootuitl:te Vietnamese oorlog.Fen anderadvocant hen Fransman, en e.en friend vanConverse. . .”

Joel looked up at the screen bewildered, at onceshocked then paralysed. There was a film clip, ahand-held camera entered an office door andfocused on a body slumped over a desk, streams ofblood spreading from the head like a hideousMedusa wig. Oh, Christ! It was Rene!

As the recognition came an insert appeared onthe upper left of the screen. It was a photograph ofMattilon then another photograph was suddenlyinserted on the right. It was he, themoordenaarAmerikoans, JoeLConverse. The Dutchnewscast had connected two events, the interviewwith Val and a death in France. Neither languagenor diagrams were necessary. Rene had been killedand he had been named the killer. It answered thequestion; it was the reason Aquitaine had put outthe word that an assassin was heading for Paris.

He was a giver of death; it was his gift to newand old friends. Rene Mattilon, Edward Beale. . .Avery Fowler. And to enemies he did not know,could not evaluate, either as enemies or asindividuals a man in a tan overcoat in a Paris cel-lar, a guard above a riverbank on the Rhine, a piloton a train a memorably unmemorable face at thebase of a landfill pyramid, a chauffeur momentslater who had actually befriended him in a stonehouse with bars in the windows . . . an old womanwho had played her role brilliantly in a raucous rail-way car. Death. He was either the distant observeror the execuboner, all in the unholy name ofAquitaine. He was back back in the camps and thejungles that he had sworn never to return to. Hecould only survive and hope that someone betterthan himself would provide the solutions. But at themoment, death was both his closest ally and hismost hostile adversary. He wanted to collapse intonothingness let some

one else take up the cause no one knew had beengiven him in Geneva.

Jesus! The tape! If it was even twelve ortwenty-four hours old, Val probably had not receivedthe envelope he had sent from Bonn! She could nothave. She would not have flown to Europe if shehad!

Oh, my God! thought Joel, swallowing the last ofthe whisky as he rubbed his forehead, his confusioncomplete. Without the envelope in Nathan Simon’shands, no plea to him made sense! No call to himwould evoke anything but a demand that Joel turnhimself in and a telephone trace would be put on theline. Natewould not disobey the law, he would fightviolently for a client afterward, but not before thatclient obeyed the law. It was his religion, far moreimportant to him than his temple, for the lawallowed mistakes; it was essentially human, notesoterically metaphysical. Converse’s hands began totremble; he had to find out!

“Your filet of sole, Meneer.”

“What?”

“Your sole, sir,” repeated the waiter. You speakEnglish?”

“But of course,” said the gaunt, bald-headed manwith detached courtesy. “We spoke before, but youwere very excited. This district can do that to a man,I understand.”

“Listen to me.” Joel brought his hand acrosshis lips emphasising each word. "I will pay you a lotof money if you will place a phone call for me. Idon’t speak Dutch, or French or German or anythingbut English. Can you understand that?”

"I understand.”

“To West Berlin.”

“It is not difficult, sir.”

“Will you do it for me?”

“But of course, Mender. You have a telephonecredit card?”

“Yes . . . no. I don’t want to use it.”

“Of course.”

“I mean I don’t I don’t want it recordedanywhere. I have money.”

“I understand. In a few minutes I shall be off myshift. I shall come for you. We shall place your calland I shall know the amount from the operator. Youshall pay.”

“Absolutely.”

“And "a lot of money, ja? Fifty builder, ja?”

“You’re on. Yes.”

Twenty minutes later Converse sat behind asmall desk n a very small office. The waiter handedhim the phone. ”They speak English, Meneer.”

“Miss Charpentier, please,” said Joel, his voicechoking overwhelmed by a kind of paralysis. If heheard her voice he was not sure he could handle hisown reaction. For an instant he thought aboutslamming down the phone. He could not involveher!

“Hello?”

It was she, and as a part of him died anotherpart came alive. A thousand pictures flashed acrosshis mind, memories of happiness and anger, of loveand of hate. He could not speak.

“HelloP Who’s this?”

“Oh . . . there you are. Sorry, it’s a lousyconnection. This is Jack Talbot from . . . BostonGraphics. How are you, Val?”

“Fine . . . Jack. How are you? It’s been a coupleof months. Since lunch at the Four Seasons, if Iremember.”

“That’s right. When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“Staying long?”

“Just for the day. I’ve been in crisis meetings allmorning with another one this afternoon. If I’m nottoo bushed I’ll catch the plane back tonight. Whendid you get to Berlin?”

“Actually, I’m not in Berlin. I saw you on aBelgian broadcast. I’m in . . . Antwerp, but I’mgoing to Amsterdam this afternoon. Christ, I’m sorryabout all that crap you had to take. Who would everhave guessed it? About Joel, I mean.”

“I should have guessed it, Jack. It’s all sohorrible. He’s so very sick. I hope they catch himquickly for everyone’s sake. He needs help.”

“He needs a firing squad, if you don’t mind mysaying so.”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Did you get the sketches I sent you when welost the Gillette account? I figured it was a way toyour sackP”

“Sketches? . . . No. Jack, I never got anythinglike that. But thanks for the thought, the sacknotwithstanding.”

Christ! “Oh? I thought you might have looked atyour marl.

“I did . . . until the day before yesterday. Itdoesn’t matter you’ll be in Amsterdam?”

“For a week. I wondered if you were going tocheck any of the agency’s accounts up there beforeheading back to New

“I should, but I don’t think so. There’s no time.If I do, I’ll be at the Amstel Hotel. If not, I’ll seeyou back in New York. You can buy me lunch atLutece, and we’ll swap trade secrets.”

“I’ve got more of them. You buy. Take care,youngster.”

“Take care . . . Jack.”

She was magnificent. And she had not receivedthe envelope from Bonn.

He roamed the streets, afraid of walking too fast,afraid of staying in one place too long, knowing onlythat he had to keep moving, watching, finding theshadows and letting them envelope him. She wouldbe in Amsterdam by evening; he knew that, it was inher voice, and she had told him to reach her at theAmstel Hotel. Whys Why had she come? What didshe think she was doing? Suddenly, the face of ReneMattilon came to him. It was in sharp focus, fillinghis inner eye, surrounded by sunlight, the face amask a death mask. Rene had been killed byAquitaine for sending him to Amsterdam. Valeriewould not be spared if the disciples of GeorgeMarcw Delavane thought she had flown over to findhim, to help him.

He would not reach her! He could not! It wassigning another death warrant! Her death warrant.He had taken so much from her, given so little. Thelast gift could not be the taking of her life. Yet . . .yet there was Aquitaine and he meant what he hadsaid to Larry Talbot on the phone. He one JoelConverse, was inconsequential where the gatheringof the generals was concerned. So was A. PrestonHalliday and Edward Beale and Connal Fitzpatrick.If Val could help, he had no right to let his feelingsstop her the lawyer in him told him that, theoutraged man confirmed it. And it was possible shecould help, do the things he could not do himselfShe could fly back, get the envelope and go toNathan Simon herself, saying that she had seen him,talked to him, believed he

It was three-thirty; it would be dark by eighto’clock or so. He had roughly five hours to remainunseen and stay alive. And somehow find a car.

He stopped on the pavement and looked up atan overly made-up, extremely bored whore in awindow on the third

floor of a colorful brick house. Their eyes madecontact and she smiled a bored smile at him, thethumb and forefinger of her right hand meeting, thewrist motion leaving little to the imagination.

Why not? thought Converse. The only certainthing in a very uncertain world was the fact thatthere was a bed beyond that window.

The “concierge” was a clerk, a man in his middlefifhes with the pink face of an aging cherub, whoexplained in perfectly fluent English that paymentwas based on twenty-minute sessions, two sessionspaid in advance, one to be refunded should theguest come downstairs during the final five minutesof the fir st period. It was a loan shark’s dreamthought Converse, glancing at the various clocksplaced on numbered squares on the counter. As anelderly man walked down the staircase the clerkhastily grabbed one of the clocks and pushed the setond hand forward.

Joel calculated rapidly, converting Builders todollars, the rate of acceleration based on roughly$30 per session. He gave the astonished “concierge”the equivalent of $275, accepted his number andheaded for the staircase.

“She is a friend, sir?” asked the stunnedcustodian of the revels as Converse reached the firststep. “An old lover, perhaps?”

“She’s a Dutch cousin I haven’t seen in years,”replied Joel sadly. “We have to have a long talk.”With heavy shoulders, he continued up the staircase.

“Slapen?” exclaimed the woman with thespangled dark hair and heavily rouged cheeks. Shewas as astonished as her keeper below. “You wantslapen?”

“It doesn’t translate well, but yes,” said Converse,removing his glasses and his cap and sitting on thebed. “Pm very tired and sleep would be terrific, butI suspect I’ll just rest. Read one of your magazines,I won’t bother you.”

“What is the matter? You think I am not pretty?Not clean? You yourself are no fine picture, Meneer!Cuts on your face, a bruise here and there, red eyes.Perhaps it is you who are not clean!”

“I fell down. Come on, I think you’re adorableand I love your deep-purple eye shadow but I reallywant to rest.”

“Why here)>”

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel. My wife’slover is there. He’s my boss.”

“A merikoans!”

" You speak our language very well. ” Joel tookoff his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

Ach, I start with Amerikoan college boys. Alltalk, most are too afraid for nothing but talk. Thosewho get on the bed poo].7 is over. Then talk, toogoddamn much talk. Then your soldiers and yoursailors and your businessmen. Most drunk; theybehave like giggle-children. All talk. Twelve years, Ilearn.”

Don’t write a book. They’re probably allsenators and congressmen and priests by now.”Converse placed his hands behind his head andstared at the ceiling. There was a glimmer of peace.He softly whistled the tune first, then found thewords: Yankee Doodle’ came to Holland/ nothing inhis pistol . . .’ “

"You are amusing, Meneer,” said the whore,laughing coarsely and picking up a thin blanket off achair. She carried it to the bed and spread it overhim. “You don’t tell the truth but you are amusing.”

“How do you know I’m not telling you the truth?”

If your wife had a lover, you would kill him.”

"Not so.”

“Then she would not be your wife. I see manymen, Meneer. It’s in your face. You are a good man,perhaps, but you would kill.”

"I'll have to think about that,” said Joeluncomfortably.

"Sleep, if you wish. You paid. I am here.” Thewoman walked to the chair against the wall and satdown with a magazine.

"What’s your name’s” asked Converse.

"Emma,” replied the whore.

"You’re a nice person, Emma.”

No, Meneer, I am not.”

He awoke, startled by the touch, and boltedupright on the bed, his hand instinctively rushing tohis waist to make sure his money belt was in place.He had been so deep in sleep that for a moment hehad no idea where he was, then he saw the garishlymade-up woman standing beside him, her hand onhis shoulder as she spoke.

“Meneer, are you hiding from people?” she askedsoftly.

“What?”

“Word goes up and down the Leidseplein. Menare asking questions.”

“What?’ Conv’ rse whipped the blanket off thebed and swung his legs to the floor. “What men? Upand down where?”

“Her Leidseplein This district. Men askquestions. They look for an American. "

“Why here?” Joel moved his right hand from themoney belt up to the outline of the weapon above.

“People who wish not to be seen often comedown to the Leidseplein. “

Why not? thought Converse. If he thought of it,why wouldn’t the enemy? “Do they have adescription?”

“It is you,” answered the whore frankly.

“And?” Joel looked into the woman s eyes.

“Nothing was said.”

“I can’t believe our friend downstairs felt socharitable toward me. I’m sure they offered money.”

“It was given,” corrected the whore. “Morepromised with additional information. A manremains behind down the street. In a cafe next to atelephone. He is to be called and will bring back theothers. Our . . . friend downstairs thought you mightwant to match the funds.”

“I see. An auction. One head on the block.’

“I do not understand.”

“What are we talking aboutP How much?”

A thousand Builder. Much more if you are taken.”

“Our friend still sounds too charitable. I’d thinkhe’d grab it and close up shop.”

" He owns the building. Also, the man wasGerman and spoke like a soldier giving orders,that’s what our friend downstairs said.”

“He was right. The man is a soldier but not inany army Bonn knows about.”

“Zo?”

“Nothing. Find Ollt if our friend will takeAmerican money.”

“Of course he will.”

“Then I’ll match the offer and double it.”

The whore hesitated. “Now it is my turn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“En? As you say and’?”

"Oh. You?’

"ha. “

“I have something special for you. Can you drivea car, or do you know someone who can?”

"I do myself, nataurlijk. In bad weather I drivemy children to school.”

“Oh, Jesus…. I mean, that’s good.”

“Without my face like no, course.”

The stories. Oh, God, the stories! thoughtConverse. “I want you to rent a car and bring itaround here to the front door. Then get out andleave the keys inside. Can you do that?”

":la, but nothing is for nothing.”

“Three hundred dollars eight hundred Builders,give or take.”

“Five hundred fourteen hundred, take or give,”countered the woman. “And the money to rent theautomobile.”

Joel nodded as he unbuttoned his jacket andpulled out his shirt. The handle of the gun with theshort barrel and the extended silencer was clearlyvisible beneath the wide canvas belt. The whore sawit and gasped. “It’s not mine,” said Converse quickly.“Whether you believe it or not doesn’t matter to me,but I took it from someone who tried to kill me.”

The woman stared at him, her look partially oneof fear but it was not hostile, only curious. “Theman this soldier from no German army the otherswho ask questions in the street. They wish to killyou?”

“Yes.” Joel unzipped the belt and counted off themoney with his thumb. He pulled out the bills andclosed the pocket.

“You have done them much harm?”

“Not yet, but I hope to.” Converse held out themoney. “There’s enough for our friend downstairsand the rest is for you. Just bring me the car, alongwith one of those tourist maps of Amsterdam thatshow where all the major stores and hotels andrestaurants are.”

“Perhaps I can tell you where it is you wish to go.”

“No, thank you.”

"]a. ” The whore nodded knowingly and took themoney. “These people are bad people?” she asked,counting out the

“The pits, lady.”

“They do those things to your face?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

“Go to the police.”"

“The police? It’s not practical. They wouldn’tunderstand.”

“They want you also,” concluded the woman.

“Not for anything I did.”

The whore shrugged. “It is no problem for me,”she said going to the door. “I will say the auto isstolen. There is a Trom p garage twelve blocks fromhere; they know me. I have rented there when myPeugeot has troubles and I must get home. Ach,kinder"’n! Recitals, dance classes! Be downstairs intwenty minutes.’,

“Recitals?”

“Don’t look so, Veneer. I do my job and call itwhat it is. Most people do the same and call itsomething else. Twenty minutes.’ Thespangled-haired woman went out the door, closingit behind her.

Joel approached the sink against the wallwithout enthusiasm, then saw it was spotless, a canof cleanser and a bottle of bleach below on the floornext to a roll of paper towels. Naturally. Dancelessons and recitals were part of the whore’s life aswell as a car that often gave her trouble, just likeany other commuter. Converse looked in the mirror;the woman was right, he was “no fine picture,” butone had to be quite close to him to notice theseverity of the bruises. He splashed water on hisface, then blotted it, put on the dark glasses andmade himself as presentable as possible.

It had happened. Val had come to find him, anddespite the horrors surrounding their seeing eachother again, a part of him wanted tosing silently or shout silently into the mists of hisimagination. He wanted so much to look at her, totouch her, hear her voice close to him and heknew it was for all the wrong reasons. He was thehunted and in pain and vulnerable, all the things hehad never been when they were together, andbecause he was what he had become, he permittedher to find him. It was hardly admirable. He did notcare to be a hungry dog in a cold rain; it did not fithis part of their past dual image, the de suite, asRene Mattilon had phrased it . . . Rene. Atelephone call had signed the order for hisexecution. Aquitaine How in God’s name could helet Val even come near him? thought Joel, a terriblepain in his throat. The answer was the same:Aquitaine. And the fact that he thought he knewwhat he was doing. Every move he made in thestreets, and on the trains, and in the cafes, was ascarefully thought out as the steps he had taken inthe jungles in

the routes he had chosen, in the rivers and streamshe had forded and used as watery tunnels to bypassan enemy time and again. He would use anautomobile in Amsterdam, and a map of Amsterdam.

He looked at his w etch; it was almost five-thirty.He had roughly two and a half hours to find theAmstel Hotel and drive around again and again untilhe knew every foot of the area, every stoplight, everyside street and canal. And then the route to oneother place the American embassy or the consulate.It was part of his plan, the only protection he couldgive her if she followed his instructions. somewherean airlines schedule; that, too, was part of the plan.

Twelve minutes had passed, and he wanted to beat the doorway when Emma, the honest commuter,drove up in front of the house on the crowded street.If there was no place to park at the curb, he wouldwalk out on the pavement, signal to her to leave thecar and quickly replace her behind the wheel so asnot to hold up traffic.. He left the small room, wentto the staircase and started down, aware of thefeigned groans of ecstasy behind several closed doors.He wondered briefly if the girls had thought of usingcassette recorders; they could push buttons whilereading magazines. He reached the second landing;below in clear view was the cherub-faced, mid-dle-aged owner of the establishment behind hiscounter. He was on the telephone. Joel continueddown the steps, in his hand a $100 bill he haddecided to give the man an addihonal gratuity inexchange for his life.

As he set foot on the lobby floor he suddenly wasnot at all sure he should let the “concierge” haveanything but a cage in the Mekong River. Thepink-faced man looked over at Converse, his eyeswide, staring fixedly, the blood draining from hischerubic cheeks. He trembled as he hung up thephone, attempted a smile, then spoke in ahigh-pitched voice. “Problems! There are alwaysproblems, sir. Scheduling is so difficult I should buya computer.”

The bastard had done it! He had made the call toa man down the street in a cafe! “Keep your handson the counter!” shouted Joel.

The command did not come in time, theDutchman raised a gun from below. Converse lungedforward, his hand tearing at the buttons of his jacket,finding the handle of the revolver in his belt. The“concierge” fired wildly as Joel crashed his leftshoulder up into the flimsy counter; it col

lapsed and Converse saw the extended arm, thehand holding the gun. He swung the barrel of hisown weapon onto the Dutchman’s wrist; the gunwent flying, clattering over the lobby floor.

“You bastard!” cried Joel, grabbing the man bythe front of his shirt, pulling him up. “You bastard!I paid you!”

“Don’t kill me! Please! I am a poor man in muchdebt! They said they only wished to talk to you!What harm is there in that? Please! Don’t do this!”

“You’re not worth the price to me, you son ofa bitch.” Converse crashed the barrel of the gundown on the Dutchman’s head and ran to the door.The street was crowded with traffic, then suddenlythere was a break and the cars and buses and opentourist vans lurched forward. Where was she?Where was Emma the Prachcal?

“Theodoor! Doze kerel is onmogelijk! Hid wil . . .!” The hysterical words came from a bare-breastedwoman rushing down the staircase, a thin, short slipcovering the essentials of her trade. She stopped onthe next to last step, saw the carnage and theunconscious Theodoor and screamed. Joel ran toher and clamped his left hand over her mouth; hisright with the gun pressed against her shoulder,pushing her into the railing.

“Be quiet!” Converse could not restrain himselffrom showing. “Shut up!” He slammed his elbowinto the proshtute’s neck, the weapon now in frontof her face. She screamed again and kicked viciouslyat his groin, gouging his nostrils with two fingers,scratching, pushing him away. He could do nothingelse but to pummel the handle of the gun into thebase of her law. Her red lips parted and remainedopen; she went limp.

Doors crashed everywhere above, beyond thestaircase, metal and wood smashing into walls. Heheard shouts, angry frightened, questioning. A hornsuddenly intruded, blaring from the street beyondthe open front door. He ran to the doorframe, hisright arm supporting him, the gun out of sight.

It was Emma the whore, the car in the middle ofthe street, unable to crawl to the curb. He shovedthe weapon under his jacket, under his belt, and ranoutside. She understood his gestures and got out ofthe car; he raced around the hood. “Thank you!” hesaid.

, “It was stolen!” she said, shrugging. “Goodfortune, Meneer. I think you will need it, but it is notmy problem.”

He jumped into the seat behind the wheel andstudied the panel as if he were approaching Mach Iand had to understand the readouts of every dial. Itwas simple, primitive; he pulled the gear into D andstarted up with the surrounding traffic.

Without warning, the figure of an immense manslammed against the window on his right. Joellurched and slapped the lock on the window; takingadvantage of another break in the traffic, he spurtedforward. The killer held on as he yanked out a gun.Converse careened into the side of an automobileparked at the curb, and still the man held on. Joelreached under his jacket as the killer, holding on toGod knew what, brought his weapon up and aimedat Converse. Joel ducked, smashing his head into thewindow frame as the explosion shattered the glass,fragments entering his skin above his eyes. But hisgun was free; he pointed it at the figure hugging thewindow and pulled the trigger. Twice.

Two muted spits echoed in the darkness of thecar as two holes appeared in the area of the glassthat had not been shattered. Screaming, both handscovering his throat, the man fell away, rolling ontothe curb between two trucks. Converse turned rightinto a wide, empty alleyway. One man remainsbehind, down the street . . . He will bring back theothers. He was free again for a while thought Joel.A dead man could not identify an automobile. Heparked the car in shadows and pulled out a cigarette,trying to steady his hand as he struck the match.Inhaling deeply, he felt his forehead, and slowly,carefully removed the particles of glass.

He now prowled the streets like a mechanisedanimal, but with each hesitation, each stop,;he usedhis eyes and nostrils as if he were a primitive thingconscious only of its need to survive in a violentlyhostile environment. He had made the run four timesfrom the Amstel Hotel on the Tulpplein across thestreets and over the canals to the American consul-ate on the city square called the Museumplein. Hehad learned the alternate approaches, he knew theside streets that would bring him back to the mainroute without interruphon. Lastly, he drove east andcrossed the Schellingwouder Brug, the bridge overthe " River and took the road along the coast untilhe found a stretch of deserted fields above the water.They would do; they were isolated. He turnedaround and headed back to Amsterdam.

It was eight-thirty, the sky dark; he was ready.He had studied the tourist map, which included aparagraph on the use of pay phones. I le had oncebeen a pilot; instructions were second nature. Thevwere the difference between blowing an aircraftapart and landing it on a carrier. He parked the caracross the street from the Amstel Hotel and walkedinto a booth.

“Miss Charpentier, please. ”

“Dank u, ” said the operator, shifting instantly toEnglish. " One moment, please…. Oh, yes, Missen Charpentier arrive only one hour ago. I have her room now.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello?”

Oh God, should he speak? Could he speak?Aquitaine. “Val, it’s Jack Talbot. I took a chance youmight fly in. Glad you did. How are you,youngster?”

“Totally exhausted, you awful man. I talked toNew York this afternoon and mentioned ouraccounts in Amsterdam courtesy of one JackTalbot. The orders were for me to get to Canal Cityand spend tomorrow morning holding hands.”

“Why not hold mine?”

“They’re too cold. You can, however, buy medinner.”

“Be delighted, but first I need a favor. Can yougrab a cab and pick me up at the consulate onMuseumplein?”

“What. . . ?” The pause was filled with fear.“Why, Jack?” The question was a whisper.

Converse lowered his voice. “I’ve been here fora couple of hours taking too damn much abuse andI’m afraid I blew my cork.”

“What happened? “

“It was dumb. My passport expired today and Ineeded a temporary extension. Instead I got ahalf-dozen lectures and told to come back in themorning. I was very loud and not too benign.”

“And now it would be embarrassing for you toask them to call you a cab, is that it?”

“That’s it. If I knew this part of the city I’d walkand try to find one, but I’ve never been over herebefore.”

“I’ll straighten my face and pick you up. Say inabout twenty minutes?”

“Thanks, I’ll be outside. If I’m not, wait in thecab, I’ll only be a few minutes. You’ve got yourselfa good dinner, young

ster.” Joel hung up the phone, left the booth andwent back to the rented car. The waiting had begun,the watching would soon follow.

Ten minutes later he saw her, and the poundingin his chest accelerated. A mist clouded his eyes. Shewalked out the glass doors of the Amstel, carrying alarge, dark cloth bag, her posture erect, her stridelong and graceful, bespeaking the dancer she mighthave been, announcing her presence withoutpretence, telling anyone who watched her that shewas herself; no artifices were necessary. He had onceloved her so, as much for the person she appearedto be as for the woman she was. But he had notloved her enough, she had slipped away from himbecause he had not cared enough. There was notthat muc h love or care in him. “Burn-out!” she hadshouted. “Emotional burn-out!”

There had been nothing left to say; he could notdispute her. He had been running so fast, sofuriously, wanting it all yet not wanting to rememberthe reasons why wanting only to get even. He hadconcealed the intensity of his feelings with flippancyand a casualness that bordered on disdain, but hewas not casual at all, and there was little room forthe time consumed in being disdainful. There wasalso very little room for people, for Val. Beingtogether demanded the responsibility that was partof any relationship, and as the months stretched intoa year, then two and three, he knew it was not inhim to live up to that responsibility. As much as heprofoundly disliked himself for it, he could not bedishonest with either himself or Valerie. He hadnothing left to give; he could only take. It was betterto break clean.

The waiting was over; the watching began. TheAmstel doorman hailed her a cab and she climbedin, immediately leaning forward in the seat to giveinstructions. Twenty tense seconds later, duringwhich his eyes scanned the street and the pavementsin every direction, he started the car and switched onthe headlights. No automobile had crept out fromthe curb after the taxi; still, he had to be certain.Joel swung the wheel and drove into the street,heading for the most direct route to the consulate. Aminute later he saw Val’s cab take the correct rightturn over a canal. There were two cars behind her;he concentrated on their shapes and sizes; instead offollowing, he continued straight ahead, pressingdown on the accelerator, using an alternate route onthe bare chance that he himself had been picked upby a hunter from Aqui

taine.Three minutes later, after two right turns anda left, he entered the Museumplein. The taxi wasdirectly ahead, the two other automobiles no longerin sight. His strategy was working. The possibilitythat Val’s phone was being tapped was real Rene’shad been, and his death was the result so in Val’scase he assumed the worst. If it was relayed that theCharpentier woman was heading over to theAmerican consulate to pick up a businessacquaintance, one Joel Converse would be ruledout. The consulate was no place for the fugitiveassassin; he would not go near it. He was a killer ofAmericans.

The taxi pulled into the curb in front of the Museumplein, the stone building that was theconsulate. Converse remained a half-block behind,waiting again, watching again. Several cars went by,none stopping or even slowing down. A lone cyclistpedaled down the street, an old man who brakedand turned around and disappeared in the oppositedirection. The tactic had worked. \’al was alone inthe cab thirty yards away and no one had followedher from the Amstel. He could make his final moveto her, his hand under his coat, gripping the gunwith the perforated silencer attached to the barrel.

He got out of the car and walked up thepavement, his gait slow, casual, a man taking asummer night’s stroll in the square. There wereperhaps a dozen people couples mainly alsowalking, strolling in both directions. He studiedthem as a frenzied but rigid cat studies the newmounds of mole holes in a field; no one in thestreet had the slightest interest in the stationary taxi.He approached the rear door and knocked once onthe window. She rolled it down.

They stared at each other for a brief moment,then Val brought her hand to her lips, stifling agasp. “Oh, my Cod,” she whispered.

“Pay him and walk back to a grey car about twohundred feet behind us. The last three numbers onthe license are one three, six. I’ll be there in a fewminutes.” He tipped his hat, as if he had justanswered a question from a bewildered tourist, andproceeded down the pavement. Forty feet past thetaxi, at the end of the block, he turned and crossedthe square reaching the other side with his headangled to the left, a pedestrian watching for traffic;in reality he was apprehensively watching a lonewoman make her way down the sidewalk toward anautomobile. He went swiftly into the shadows of adoorway and stood there watching, breathingerratically,

peering into every pocket of darkness along theopposite pavement. Nothing. No one. He walked outof the doorway, suppressing a maddening desire torun, and ambled casually down the block until he wasdirectly across from the rented car. Again he paused,now lighting a cigarette, the flame cupped in hishand, again waiting, watching…. No one. He threwthe cigarette to the curb and, unable to containhimself any longer, ran across the street, opened thedoor and climbed in behind the wheel.

She was inches from him, her long, dark hairframing her face in the dim light, that lovely facetaut, filled now with anxiety, her wide eyes burninginto his.

“Why, Val? Why did you do it?” he asked, a cry inthe question.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she answered quietly,enigmahcally. “Drive away from here, please.”

They drove for several minutes. Neither of themspoke. Joel was concentrating on the streets, knowingthe turns he wanted to make knowing, too, hewanted to shout. It was all he could do to controlhimself, to keep from stopping the car and grabbingher, demanding to know why she had done what shedid, furiously replying to whatever she said that shewas a goddamnedfool! Why had she come back intohis life? He was death! . . . Above all, he wanted tohold her in his arms his face against hers, and thankher and tell her how sorry he was for so much, fornow.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Val,breaking the silence.

“I’ve had the car since six o’clock. A map of thecity came with it and I’ve spent the hme drivingaround, learning what I thought I had to learn.”

“Yes, you’d do that. You were always methodical. "

"I thought I should, ” he said defensively. “Ifollowed you from the hotel just in case anybody elsedid. Also I’m better off in a car than on the streets.”

“I wasn’t insulting you.”

Converse glanced at her; she was studying him,her eyes roving over his face in the erraticprogressions of light and shadow. “Sorry. I guess I’ma little sensitive these days. Can’t imagine why.”

“Neither can I. You’re only wanted on twocontinents and in some eight countries. They sayyou’re the most talented assassin since that maniacthey call Carlos.”

“Do I have to tell you it’s all a lie? All a huge liewith a very clear motive purpose is better.”

“No,” replied Vulerie simply. “You don’t have totell me that because I know it. But you’ve got to tellme everything else. Everything”

He looked at her again, searching her eyes in theflashes of light, trying to penetrate, trying to peelaway the layers of clouded glass that hi id herthoughts, her reasons. Once he had been able to dothat, in love and in anger. He could not do it now;what she felt was too deep inside her, but it was notlove, he knew that. It was something else, and thelawyer in him was cautious, oblique. “What madeyou think l d see you on television? I almost missedyou.”

“I didn’t think about television, I was countingon the newspapers. I knew my face would be on thefront pages all over Europe. I assumed your memorywas not so dulled that you wouldn’t recognise me,and reporters always pick up on hotels oraddresses it lends authenticity.”

“I can’t read anything but English.”

“Your memory is dulled. I made three trips withyou to Europe, two to Geneva and one to Paris.You wouldn’t have coffee in the morning unless theHerald Tribune was on the room-service table. Evenwhen we went skiing in Chamonix fromGeneva you made an awful fuss until the waiterbrought the Tribune.”

“You were in the Tribune?”

“Class acts aside, it’s their kind of story. With allthe details. I assumed you’d pick one up and realizewhat I was doing.”

“Because we were strangers and hadn’t seen eachother in years, and, of course, you couldn’t speakGerman or French or anything else.”

“Yes. It was an acceptable explanation for thosewho knew I did. A cover, I guess. A lot of peoplewho speak several languages do it all the time. It’scommon practice; it cuts con

versations short or at least keeps them to basicstatements, and you always know if you’remisquoted.”

“I forgot, that’s your business in a way.”

"It’s not where the idea came from. It came fromRoger.”

“Dad?”

“Yes. He flew in from Hong Kong a few days agoand some hungry clerk alerted the newspapers thathe was on the flight. When he got into Kennedy itwas a media blitz. He hadn’t read a newspaper orlistened to a radio or seen a television screen in twodays. He was in a panic and called me. I simplymade sure the wire services in West Berlin knew Iwas flying in.”

“How is Dad? He can’t handle this.”

“He’s handling it. So’s your sister less so thanyour father, but her husband stepped into the breachand took over. He’s a better man than you thought,Converse.”

“What’s happening to them? How are they taking it?”

“Confused, angry, bewildered. They’ve changedtheir telephone numbers. They speak throughattorneys supporting you, incidentally. You may notrealize it but they love you very much, although I’mnot sure you gave them much reason to.”

“I think we’re closer to home,” said Joel quietly,as they approached the Schellingwouder Brug. “Ouronce and former home.” They entered the dark spanof the bridge, diaphanous lights above, speckled dotsfar below on the water. Valerie did not respond tohis statement; it was not like her to avoid aprovocation. He could not stand it. “Why, Val?” hecried, “I asked you before, and I have to know! Whydid you fly over?”

“I’m sorry, I was thinking,” she said, her eyesleaving his face, staring straight ahead through thewindshield. “I guess it’s better I say it now whileyou’re driving and I don’t have to look at you. Youlook awful, you’re a mess, and your face tells mewhat you’ve gone through, and I don’t want to lookat you.”

“I’m hurt,” said Converse gently, trying genuinelyto lessen the impact of his appearance. “HelenGurley Brown called and wants me forCosmopolitan’s centerfold.”

“Stop that! It’s not remotely funny and you knowit worse, you don’t even feel like saying it!”

“I retreat. There were times when you never didread me right.”

“I always read you right, Joel!” Valerie continuedto focus on the road and the beams of theheadlights; she did not move her head. “Don’t playthe serious fool any longer. We haven’t time forthat; we haven’t time for your flip remarks. It wasalways a little sad to watch you put people off whoreally wanted to talk to you, but it’s finished now.”

"Glad to hear it. Then talk! Why the hell did youwalk into this?”

Their eyes met in anger, in abrupt recognition,in a love once remembered, perhaps. She turnedaway as Converse steered the car into the right exitoff the bridge, then peeled into the road that ranalong the coastline.

“All right,” said Valerie, hesitant but in completecontrol. “I’ll spell it out as best I can. I say "as bestI can’ because I’m not entirely sure there are toomany complications to be absolutely sure…. Youmay be a rotten husband and careless beyondstoning where another person’s feelings are con-cerned, but you’re not what they say you are. Youdidn’t kill those men.”

“I know that. You said you knew it, too. Whydid you come over here?”

“Because I had tO,-’ said Val, her voice firm,still staring straight ahead. “The other night afterthe news your picture was on every channel, sodifferent from what it was years ago I walkedalong the beach and thought about- you. Theyweren’t pleasant thoughts, but they were honestones…. You put me through my own personal hell,Joel. You were driven by terrible things in yourpast, and I tried to understand because I knew whathad happened to you. But you never tried tounderstand me. I, too, had things I wanted to do,but they faded, they weren’t important…. Okay, Ithought. Someday it’ll pass and the nightmares willgo away for him and he’ll stop and look at me andsay, “Hey, you’re you. ”Well, the nightmares wentaway and it never happened.”

“I concede my adversary’s logic,” said Conversepainfully. ”I still don’t understand.”

"I needed you, Joel, but you couldn’t respond.You were amusing as hell, even when I knew youdidn’t feel like it, and you were terrific in bed, butyour only real concerns were for you, always you.”

“Conceded again, learned counselor. Arld?”

" I remembered something I said to myself thatafternoon when you left the apartment, said itsilently as I watched you

leave. I promised myself that if ever a person I wasclose to needed me as much as I needed you then, Iwouldn’t walk away. Call it the one moralcommitment I’ve ever made in my life. Only theirony is that that person turned out to be you. You’renot a madman and you’re not a killer, but someonewants the world to think you are. And whoever it ishas done it very well. Even your friends who’veknown you for years believe what’s being said aboutyou. I don’t and I can’t walk away.”

“Oh Christ, Val “

"No strings, Converse. No playing an old sweetsong and hopping into bed. That’s out. I came hereto help you, not console you. And over here I can.My roots go back several generabons. They may bewithering underground but they were theunderground undergrounds and they’re willing tohelp. For once you need me, and that’s a twist, isn’tit, friend?”

" A veritable twist,” saidJoel, understanding herlast statement but little else, speeding down the coastroad toward the deserted fields. “Only a fewminutes,” he added. “I can’t be seen in the city andneither can you and you not a chance with me.”

“I wouldn’t worry so much. We’re being watchedby friends.”

“What? What "friends’?”

“Keep your eyes on the road. There were peoplein front of the Amstel, didn’t you see them?”

“I suppose so. No one got in a car and went afteryou.”

“Why should they? There were others on thestreets and over the canals to the consulate “

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“And an old man on a bicycle in the Museumplein.”

“I saw him Was he . . . ?”

“Later,” said Valerie, shifting the large cloth bagat her feet into another position and stretching herlong legs. “They may follow us out here but they’llstay out of sight.”

“Who are you, lady?”

“The niece of Hermione Geyner, my mother’ssister. You never knew my father, of course, but ifyou had he would have regaled you with tales ofMom during the war, but he would have choked atthe mention of my aunt. Even according to theFrench she went too far. The Dutch and Germanundergrounds worked together. I’ll tell you all aboutit later.”

“You’ll tell me later? Following us?”

“You’re new at this. You won’t see them.”

“Shit!”

“That’s expressive.”

“All right, all right! . . . What about Dad?”

“He’s weathering it. He’s staying at my place.”

“Cape Ann?”

“Yes. “

“I sent the envelope there! The ’sketches’ Imentioned on the phone. It’s i verything! Everythingabout what’s happened. It names the names, givesthe reasons. Everything!”

“I left three days ago. It hadn’t arrived by then.But Roger’s there.” Valerie s face paled. “Oh, myGod!”

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to call him! Two days ago, thenyesterday and again today!”

“Coddamn it!” In the distance there were thelights of a bay-front cafe. Joe} spoke rapidly, givingan order that could not be disobeyed. “I don’t carehow you do it, but you call Cape Ann! You comeback here and tell me my father’s all right, do youunderstand?”

“Yes. Because I want to hear it, too.”

Converse skidded to a stop in front of the cafe,knowing he should not have done so, but not caring.Valerie rushed out of the car, her purse open, hertelephone credit card in her hand. If there was aphone on the premises, she would use it; no onecould stop her. Joel lit a cigarette; the smoke wasacrid, stinging his throat; it was no relief. He staredout at the dark water, at the lights spanning thebridge in the distance trying not to think. It was nouse. What had he done? His father knew hishandwriting, and the instant he recognized it hewould rip open the envelope. He would be lookingfor exculpation for his son and he would find it. Hewould undoubtedly call Nathan Simonimmediately and therein was the horriblepossibility. Val would know enough from the mate-rial itself to say little or nothing on the phone, butnot his father, not Roger. He would blurt outeverything in a frenzy of anger and defense of hisson. And if others were listening on that line….Where was Val? She was taking too long!

Converse could not stop himself. He cracked thehandle of the door and leaped out of the car. Heraced toward the entrance of the cafe, then stoppedabruptly on the gravel. Valerie walked out, gesturingfor him to back away. He could see the tears rollingdown her cheeks.

"Get in the car,” she said, approaching him.

“No. Tell me what happened. Now.”

“Please, Joel, get back in the car. Two men inthere kept watching me while I was on the phone. Ispoke Cerman, but they knew I was placing a call tothe States, and they saw I was upset. I think theyrecognizedme. We have to get out of here.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“In the car.” Valerie tossed her head to the side,her dark hair flying over her shoulder as she brushedaway her tears, and walked past Converse to theautomobile. She opened the door and got in, sittingmotionless in the seat.

“Goddamn you!” Trembling, Converse ran tothe car, jumped in behind the wheel and started theengine, slamming the door shut as he pulled on thegearshift. Turning the wheel, he backed up, then shotforward into the road, the tires spinning on theborder of gravel. He kept his foot on the acceleratoruntil the dark scenery outside was a racing blur.

“Slow down,” said Val simply, without emphasis.“You’ll only call attention to us.”

He could barely hear her through his panic, buthe heard the order. He eased his foot off the pedal."He’s dead, isn’t he?”

" Yes.”

" Oh, Christ! What happened? What did theytell you? Whom did you talk to?”

“A neighbor, the name’s not important. We havekeys to each other’s house. She volunteered to takein the newspapers and check the place until thepolice reached me. She happened to be there whenI called. I asked her if there was a large envelopesent from Germany in the pile of mail. She saidthere wasn’t.”

"The police? What happened?”

“You know my house is on the beach. There’s ajetty of rocks about a hundred yards up-water. It’snot large or long really, just some kind of markingfrom years ago “

“Tell me!” shouted Joel, gripping the wheel.

“They say he must have gone for a walk lastnight, went out on the jetty and slipped on the wetrocks. There was a large bruise on his head. Hisbody was washed up onshore and found thismorning.”

“Lies! Lies! They heard him! They went afterhimI”

“My telephone? On the plane over here Ithought about that. "

“You would, he wouldn’t! I killed him. Goddamnit, I killed him!”

“ No more than I did,Joel,” insisted the ex-Mrs.Converse, touching his arm, wincing at the sight oftears in his eyes. ” And I loved him very much. Youand I left each other, but he was still a very " losefriend, perhaps my closest.”

“He called you "Valley,’” said Joel, choking,trying to push back the pain. “The bastards!Bastards!”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“No!”

“The telephone I have to ask you I thought thepolice or the FBI or people like that might get acourt order.’

“Of course they would! It s why I knew I couldnt call you. I was going to call Nate Simon.”

“But you’re not talking about the police or theFBI. You’re talking about someone else, some thingelse.”

“Yes. No one knows who they are where theyare. But they’re there. And they can do whateverthey want to do. Jesusl Even Dad! That’s what’s sogoddamned frightening.”

“And that s what you re going to tell me about,isn t it?” said Valerie, gripping his arm.

“Yes. A few minutes ago I was going to holdback and not tell you everything, instead try toconvince you to get Nate to fly over here so wecould meet and he could see I wasn’t crazy. But notnow. There’s no time now; they’re cutting off everyoutlet. They’ve got the envelope it was all I had!. . . I’m sorry, Val, but I am going to tell youeverything. I wish to God I didn t have to for yoursake but like you, I don’t have a choice anymore.”

“I didn’t come over here to give you a choice.

He drove into the field near the water’s edgeand stopped the car. The grass was high, the moona bright crescent over the bay, the lights ofAmsterdam in the distance. They got out and he ledher to the darkest spot he could find, holding herhand, suddenly realizir g that he had not held herhand in years the touch, the gyp, so comfortable,so much a part of them. He repelled the thought; hewas a provider of death.

“Here, I guess,” he said, releasing her hand.

“All right.” She lowered herself gracefully, like adancer,

and sat down on the soft grass, pushing the reedsaside. "How do you feel?” she asked.

"Awful,” said Joel, looking up at the dark sky. “Imeant what I said. I killed him. All the years oftrying his trying, my trying and I end up killinghim. If I’d only let him alone, let him be himself, notsomeone I wanted him to be, he’d probably bedrinking up a storm somewhere thousands of milesaway, telling his crazy stories, making everyonelaugh. But not in your house at Cape Annyesterday.”

“You didn’t force him to fly back from Hong Kong,Joel. "

“Oh, hell, not by pleading or giving him an order,if that’s what you mean. But the order was therenevertheless. After Mother died it was the unspokenwords between us. "Grow up, Dad! Have your littletrips but don’t stay away so long people worry. Beresponsible, father mine.’ Christ, I was so fuckingholier than thou! And I end up killing him.”

“You didn’t kill him! Others did! Now, tell meabout them.”

Converse swallowed, brushing the tears from hiseyes. “Yes, you’re right there isn’t time, even forold Roger.”

“There’ll be time later.”

“If there’s a later,” said Joel, breathing deeply,finding control. “You know about Rene, don’t you?”

“Yes, I read about it yesterday. I was sick…. LarryTalbot told me that you saw him in Paris. How evenRene thought you were disturbed, as Larry did whenyou talked to him. And Rene was killed for seeingyou. Larry must be going out of his mind.”

“That’s not the reason Rene was killed. Let’s talkabout Larry. The first time I reached him I neededinformation without asking him directly. He wasbeing used because of me, followed, and he didn’tknow it. If I’d told him, the jock in him would havereacted, and he’d have been shot down in the street.But the last time I spoke with him I walked into it.I’d broken away from the people who d caughtme I was exhausted, still frightened, and I was openwith him. I told him everything.”

“He mentioned it to me,” interrupted Val. “Hesaid you were reliving your experiences in NorthVietnam. There was a psychiatric term for it "

Converse shook his head, a short, derisive laughemerging from his throat. “Isn t there always? Isuppose there were similarities and I m sure Ialluded to them, but that’s all they

were, similarities…. didn’t hear what I was saying.He was listening for words that confirmed whatothers had said about me, what he believed wastrue. He pretended to be the friend I knew but hewasn’t. He was a lawyer trying to convince a clientthat he was sick, that for everyone’s safety the clientshould turn himself in. When I realized what he wasdoing and that l d told him where I was, I knewhe’d spread the word, thinking he was doing theright thing. I just wanted to get out of there, so Ihalfway agreed with him, hung up, and ran…. I waslucky. Twenty minutes later I saw a car drive up infront of the hotel with two of my would-beexecutioners.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Joel nodded. "Y’he next day one of them statedfor the record that he’d seen me at the AdenauerBridge with Walter Peregrine. I wasn’t anywherenear that bridge at least I don’t think so, I don’tknow where it is.”

" “I read that story in the Times. The man wasan Army officer, a major from the embassy namedWashburn.”

“That’s right.” Converse broke off a long bladeof grass, twisting it, tearing it in his fingers. "They’regreat at manipulating the media newspapers, radio,television. Every word they put out is cleansedthrough channels, branded authentic official. Theytake out lives as if people were pieces in a chessgame, including their own. They don’t care; theyonly want to win. And it’s the biggest game inmodern history. The terrifying thing is that they canwin it.”

“Joel, do you know what you’re saying? AnAmerican ambassador, the supreme commander ofNATO, Rene, your father . . . you. Then killers inthe embassy, a manipulated press, lies out ofWashington, Paris, Bonn all given official status.You’re describing some kind of Anschluss, some de-monic, political takeover!”

Converse looked at her in the moonlight, thebreezes off the water bending the tall grass. “That’sexactly what it is, conceived by one man and run bya handful of others, all completely sincere in theirbeliefs and as persuasive as any group ofprofessionals I’ve ester heard. But the bottom lineis that they’re fanatics, killers in a quest theyconsider nothing less than holy. They’verecruited are recruiting like-minded meneverywhere, other frustrated professionals who thinkthere’s nowhere else to turn. They grab at thetheories and the promises, accepting accepting,hell, extolling the

myths of efficiency and discipline and self-sacrifice,because they know it leads to power. Power toreplace the inefficient, the undisciplined, the corrupters and the corrupted. They’re blind; they can’tsee beyond their own distorted image ofthemselves…. If that sounds like a summation itprobably is. I haven’t slept much, but I do a lot ofthinking. "

“The jury’s still in place, Joel, ” said Valerie, hereyes alive, again levered at his. “I don’t want asummation, I want it all. I think you should begin atthe beginning where it began for you.”

“Okay. It started in Geneva "

“I knew it,’ interrupted Val, whispering.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“With a man I hadn’t seen in twenty-three years.I knew him by one name then, but in Geneva he wasusing another. He explained it and it didn’t matter.Except that it was a little eerie. I didn’t know howeerie it was, or how much he didn’t explain, or howmany lies he told me in order to manipulate me. Thehell of it is he did what he did for all the rightreasons. I was the man they needed. They. And Idon’t know who they are, only that they’re there,somewhere…. As long as I live however long I’mpermitted I’ll never forget the words he used whenhe reached the core of why he had come to Geneva.“They’re beck,’ he said. ”The generals are back.’”

He told her everything, allowing his mind and histhoughts to wander, to include every detail he couldrecall. The countdown was in progress. In a matter ofdays or at best a week or two there would beeruptions of violence everywhere like what wastaking place in Northern Ireland right now.“Accumulations,’ they said. ”Rapid acceleration!’Only, no one knew who or what or where the targetswere. George Marcus Delavane was the madmanwho conceived it all, and other powerful madmenwere listening to him, following his orders, movinginto positions from which they would leap for thecontrols. Everywhere

Finally he was finished, a part of him in anguish,knowing that if she was caught by the soldiers ofAquitaine, the narcotics inserted in her body wouldreveal the information that would result in her death.He said as much when he had finished, wantingdesperate! v to breach the space between them andhold her, telling her how much he hated himself fordoing what he knew he had to do. But he made nomove toward

her; her eyes told him not to; she was evaluating,thinking things out for herself.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, "when the dreamswould come, or you drank too much, you’d talkabout this Delavane. You d become so panickedyou’d tremble and close your eyes and every nowand then you’d scream. You hated that man so.You were also frightened to death of him.”

“He caused’ a lot of death, unnecessary death.Kids . . . children in grown-up uniforms who didn’tknow that Bung ho meant search and destroy andget blown apart.”

“There’s no way you could be what do they callit transferring your emotions?”

“If you believe that, I’ll drive you back to theAmstel and you can fly home in the morning and goback to your easels. I’m not crazy, Val. I’m hereand it’s happening.”

“All right, I had to ask. You didn’t live throughsome of those nights, I did. You were eithercrashing into the bed or so scratched by a bottle youdidn’t know where you were:”

“It didn’t happen often.”

“I’ll grant you that; but when it did you werethere. And hurting.”

“Which is exactly why I was reached in Gene-va recruited in Geneva.”

“And this Fowler, or Halliday, knew the exactwords to use. Your own.”

“Fitzpatrick got it all for him. He thought he wasdoing the right thing too.”

“Yes, I know, you told me. What do you thinkhappened to him? Fitzpatrick, I mean.”

“For days I’ve tried to come up with a reason forthem to keep him alive. I can’t. He’s moredangerous to them than I am. He’s worked thestreets they’re undermining; he knows his wayaround Pentagon procurements and export clear-ances so well he could nail them with half theevidence They’ve killed him.”

“You liked him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, and just as important, I was almostin awe of that mind of his. He was quick andperceptive and had one hell of an imagination,which he wasn’t afraid to use.”

“He sounds like someone I was married to,” saidVal gently.

Converse kept his e yes on her for a moment,then looked away at the water. “If I get out of thisalive and I don’t really

think I will I’m going hunting. I’m going to find outwho did it, who pulled the trigger. There won’t beany trial, no witnesses for the prosecution thedefence, no circumstances mitigating or otherwise.Just me and a gun.”

“Sorry to hear that, Joel. I always admired yourprinciples. They were a constant, like yourattraction your reverence, I think for the law. Itwasn’t all conceit and ambition, I knew that. It gaveyou the only real roots you ever had. You could lookat the law and argue, as a child does with a parentknowing the parent is some kind of absolute…. Yourfather never gave you that by his own admission,incidentally.”

“I think that’s pretty tasteless. "

“I’m sorry. He brought it up once. I am sorry.”

“It’s all right. We’re talking. We didn’t do muchof that the last year or so together, did we?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“You’re on target. Forget it. There’s now.”

"And there’s so much you can deny! All theyhave is words against you! I said the same thing toLarry they say you were here, you were there, youdid this and you did that, but you weren’t where theysaid you were and you didn’t do what they say!You’re the lawyer, Converse. For God’s sake, standup and defend yourself”

“I’d never get near a courtroom, can’t youunderstand that? Wherever and whenever I showedup, someone would be there, someone ordered to killme even if it meant losing his own life consideringthe consequences, an insignificant sacrifice. My ideawas to use the envelope the dossiers and all theinformation they contained, the information thatcould only have come from government sources,which means I have partners somewhere inWashington. With all of that I could reach people Iknew the firm knew and with Nathan’s help getthem to listen to me, see I wasn’t crazy. Hear fromme what I saw, what I heard, what I learned. Butwithout that envelope, even Nate couldn’t help.Besides, he’d insist I go by the book and come in,telling me he had guarantees of full protection.There is no protection, not from them. They’re inembassies and naval stations and Army bases; in thePentagon, police departments, Interpol, and theDepartment of State. They’re bag ladies on a trainand commuters with attache cases you don’t knowwho they are but they’re there. And they can’t affordto let me live. I’ve heard their almighty credofirsthand.”

"Checkmate,” said Val softly.

"Check,” agreed Converse.

“Then we have to find somebody else.”

“What?’

“Someone those people you want to reach wouldlisten to. Someone whose presence might forcethose men in Washington who sent you out fromGeneva to say who they are to show themselves.”

“Who are you thinking of? John the Baptist?”

“Not John. Sam. Sam Abbott.”

“Sam? I thought about him that night in Paris!How did you ?”

“Like you, I’ve had a lot of time to think. In NewYork

t,h"eyOpuane, Ita?s,t, night after I saw my auntin Berlin.”

“I’ll get to that…. I knew that if you were alivethere had to be a reason why you stayed in hiding,why you didn’t come out shouting, denying all thoseinsane things they were saying about you. It didn’tmake sense; it wasn’t you And if you’d been killedor captured it would have been on the front pageseverywhere, on all the broadcasts. Since there wasno such story, I assumed you had to be alive. Butwhy did you keep running, hiding? Then I thought,My God, if Larry Talbot doesn’t believe him, whowill? And if Larry didn’t, it meant that the peoplearound him, men like him, all your friends andthose so-called contacts you had had been reachedand convinced that you were the maniac everyonein Europe was talking about. No one would touchyou and you needed someone. Not me, heavenknows. I’m your ex-wife and I don’t carry any weightand you needed someone who did…. So I thoughtabout everyone you’d ever talked about, everyonewe knew. One name kept on coming back to me.Sam Abbott. Brigadier General Abhott now,according to the papers about SIX months ago.”

” “Sam the Man,’ ” said Joel, shaking his head inapproval.

e was shot down three days after I was, and wewere both shoved around from one camp toanother. Once he was in the cell next to mine andwe d tap out Morse on the walls until they movedme. He stayed in the Air Force for all the rightreasons. He knew he could be his best there.”

“He thought the world of you,” said Val, hervoice a mixture of conviction and quiet enthusiasm.“He said you did

more for morale than anyone in the camps, that yourlast escape gave everyone hope.”

“That’s a crock. I was a troublemaker that’swhat they called me who could afford to takechances. Sam had the roughest job. He could havedone what I did, but he was the ranking officer. Heknew there’d be reprisals if he ever tried. He heldeveryone together, I didn’t.”

“He said otherwise. I think he’s the reason younever thought much of your sister’s husband.Remember when Sam flew into New York and youtried to match him up with Ginny? We all haddinner at that restaurant we couldn’t afford.”

“Ginny scared the hell out of him. He told melater that if she’d been drafted and put in charge ofCommand-Saigon it never would have fallen. Hewasn’t going to refight that war for the rest of hislife.”

“And you lost a desirable brother-in-law.” Valeriesmiled then the smile faded and she leaned forward.“I can reach him Joel. I’ll find him and talk to him,tell him everything you ve told me. Above all, thatyou’re no more insane than I am, than he is. Thatyou were manipulated by people you don’t know,men who lied to you so you’d do the work theyeither couldn’t do or were afraid to do.”

“That’s unfair,” said Converse. “If they starteddigging around State and the Pentagon, there couldbe a rash of accidents very fatal and very dead….No, they were right. It had to start over here and betraced back. It was the only way.”

“If you can say that after all you’ve been through,you’re saner than any of us. Sam will know that.He’ll help.”

“He could, ” said Joel slowly, pensively, breakingoff another reed of grass. “He’d have to becareful none of the usual channels but he coulddo it. Three or four years ago, after you and I brokeup, he found out I was in Washington for a few daysand called me. We had dinner and later too manydrinks; he ended up spending the night on the sofain my hotel room. We talked both of us too much.Me about me and you and Sam about his newestmonumental frustration.”

“Then you’re still close. It wasn’t the tong ago.”

“That isn’t my point. It’s what he was doing. He’dworked his ass off to get into the NASA program,but they turned him down. They said he was toovaluable where he was. No one

was in his class when it came to all-altitude,sub-mach maneuvers. He designed more patterns inthe sky than any designer on Seventh Avenue everdid on the ground. He could look at anaircraft specs aside and tell you what it coulddo.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, sorry. He’d been brought to Washingtonfrom wherever he was stationed as a consultant tothe National Security Agency, cross-pollinating withthe CIA. It was his job to evaluate the capabilitiesof the new Soviet and Chinese equipment. ”

“What?”

“Airplanes, Val. He worked over at Langley andat a dozen different safe houses in Virginia andMaryland, appraising photographs brought out byagents, questioning defectors especially pilots,mechanics and technicians. He knows the people Ihave to reach, he’s worked with them.”

“You’re talking about the intelligence service orservices I gather.” "

“Not just services,” corrected Joel. “Men whocrawl around in the shadows of those paintings ofyours. People trained to cut down bastards likeDelavane and his tribe, cut them out silently byusing methods and techniques you and I knownothing about drugs and whores and little boys.They should have been brought in at the beginning!Not Geneva, not me. They kill when it’s thepragmatic thing to do, and justify the killing becauseit’s in the ultimate interests of the country. AndLord, how I railed against them, the righteousattorney in me demanding that they be heldaccountable. Well, Mr. Naive has changed beenchanged because I’ve seen the enemy and he isn’tus, not the us I think we are. If it takes a garrote tochoke off a cancer when legal medicine can’t do it,hand me the wire, pal, and I’ll read the manual.”

“I thought you loathed fanatics.”

“I do. I . . . do.”

“Sam,” persisted Valerie. “I’ll go home tomorrowand find him.”

“No,” said Converse. “I want you to fly backtonight. You always carried your passport in yourpurse still the same?”

“Of course. But I have “

“I don’t want you going back to the Amstel.You’ve got to get out of Amsterdam. There’s aKLM night Hight to New York at eleven-forty-five.”

“But my things “

“They’re not worth it. Call the hotel when you getback. Wire them money and say it was anemergency. They’ll mail everything to you. "

“You’re serious, aren’t you?’,

“Never more so in my life. I think you shouldknow the truth about Rene. He wasn’t killed becausewe met in Paris nothing had happened then. I calledhim from Bonn four days ago and we talked. Hebelieved me. He was shot to death because he sentme to Amsterdam, to reach a man who might havegotten me on a plane to Washington. That’s out nowand it doesn’t matter. You do. You came here andyou found me, and the people who are looking forme all over the city will know it soon if they don’tknow it already.”

“I never said I was going to Amsterdam,” Valeriebroke in. “I specifically left word at the Kempinskithat I was Hying directly home, that if I got any callsto refer them to New York.”

“Did you have a reservation on the plane?”

“Naturally. I just never showed up.”

“Good, but not good enough. Delavane’s peopleare efficient. Leifhelm has connections at everyairport and immigration point in Germany. They’llfind out otherwise. We might have fooled them oncetonight, not twice. My guess is there’s a Germanwaiting for you at the Amstel now, probably in yourroom. I want him to think you’re coming back, thatyou’re still here.”

“If someone like that goes to my room into myroom he’s in for a shock.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone else is there. An old man with a longmemory, who’s been given instructions I’d rather notrepeat.”

“Your aunt’s doing?”

“She sees things in black and white, no grays.There is the enemy and there is not the enemy. Andanyone who would harm her sister’s daughter is verydefinitely the enemy. You don’t know these people,Joel. They live in the past; they never forget. They’reold now and not what they once were, but theyremember what they were and why they did thethings they did. It was so simple for them. Good andevil. They live with those memories frankly, it’s alittle scary, they’re a little scary, to tell you the truth.Nothing in their lives since has been so alive, soimportant to them. I honestly think they’d all prefergoing back to those days, the horror and all.”

“What about your aunt, though? After everythingthat’s been said about me in the newspapers and ontelevision, she went along with you? She didn’t askany questions? The fact that you were her sister’sdaughter was enough ?”

“Oh, no, she asked one very specific questionand I answered it. That was enough. I must tell you,though. She’s odd very odd but she can do whathas to be done and that’s all that matters.”

“Okay…. You will go back tonight?”

“Yes,” said Val, nodding. “It’s reasonable and Ican do more from New York in the morning thanfrom here. From everything you’ve said, every hour’simportant.”

“Vital. Thanks…. Also you may have troublereaching Sam. I don’t have any idea where he is andthe services aren’t cooperative when it comes to awoman trying to locate an oflicer especially onewith high rank. It’s too complicated an overseaslove affair, a child the man never knew about,probably not his they’re very circumspect.”

“Then I won’t ask them to tell me where he is.I’ll say I’m a relative he’s been trying to reach, thatI travel a great deal and if he wishes to call me, I’llbe at the such-and-such hotel for the nexttwenty-four hours. Certainly they have to relay thatkind of message to a general.”

“Certainly,” agreed Joel. “But if you leave yourname you’re risking too much. For you and Sam.”

“I’ll use a variation, one he’ll recognize.” Valerieblinked, staring at the ground. “Like Parquet only,I’ll feminine it Parquette. A floor,wood something associated with a Charpentier, acarpenter. Then I’ll add Virginia he’d rememberGinny because of you. Virginia Parquette, he’ll fig-ure it out.”

“He probably will. So might others. When youdon’t show up tonight, Leifhelm will have theairports checked. They could pick you up atKennedy.”

“Then I’ll lose them at LaGuardia. I’ll go to amotel where I stay when I take the plane to Boston.I’ll check in and get out without their knowing it.”

“You’re very quick.”

“I told you, my roots go back; I’ve heard thestories. . Now, what about you?”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I’m getting pretty good atit and I can pay for anything I need.”

“Your words, Converse: "Not good enough.’ Themore

money you spread, the more of a trail you leave.They’ll find you. You have to get out of Amsterdamtoo.”

" Well, I could slip across a few borders and headdown to Paris for my old suite at the George Cinq.Of course, it might be a little obvious, but then if Itapped high enough they are French.”

“Don’t try to be funny.”

“I don’t feel remotely amusing. Also, I’d like aprivate toilet and a shower even a secondhandbath. The rooms I find you can’t find in the mostesoteric travel guides.”

“You haven’t had a shower in God knows howlong, that much I can tell you in the open air.”

“Oh, beware the wife who’s offended by herhusband’s hygiene. It’s a sign of something.”

“Cut it out, Joel, I’m not your wife…. I’ve got tobe able to reach you.”

“Let me think, I’m also getting very inventive. I’llfigure out something. I could “

“I’ve already figured it out,” interrupted Valfirmly. "Before I flew over I talked with my aunt.”

From your house?”

From the midtown hotel in New York where Iregistered under a different name.”

Lyon were thinking about your phone.”

"Not the way you were. I told her what I thoughthad happened, what I was going to try to do. Shecame to see me in Berlin last night. She talked up astorm how she could do this do that but it allboiled down to the fact that she’ll help. She ll hideyou. So will others.”

"In Germany?”

"Yes. She lives in the countryside, on theoutskirts of Osnabruck. It’s the safest place youcould go, the last place those people would think tolook for you.”

How do I get back into Germany? It was roughenough getting out! Delavane’s people aside everyborder’s on the alert, my photograph on every wall."

“I talked to Hermione this afternoon, after youcalled from a pay phone; she was staying with afriend. She started making arrangements right away,and when I flew in here a few hours ago, an old manmet me at the airport, the same man you’ll bestaying with tonight. You don’t know him but you’veseen him; he was riding the bicycle in the Museum-plein. I was taken to a house on the Lindengrachtwhere I was

to call my aunt; the phone was what they term"unberuhrt,’ clean, untouched.”

“My God, they are back in the forties.,’

“Not much has changed, has it?”

“No, I guess not. What did she say?”

“Only your instructions. Late tomorrowafternoon, when the terminal’s full, you’re to go tothe Central Station here in Amsterdam and walkaround by the information booth. A woman willcome up to you and say hello, saying she recognizedyou as someone she met in Los Angeles. Respondto her and during the conversation she’ll hand youan envelope. Inside will be a passport, a letter, anda train ticket.”

“A passport? Hawk”

“All they needed was a photograph. I knew thatmuch when I left your father in Cape Ann.”

“You knew?”

“I told you, I’ve heard the stories all my life.How they got Jews and Gypsies and all the menwho parachuted down from planes out of Germanyand into neutral or occupied countries. The falsepapers, the photographs, they became an art form.”

”And you brought a photograph?”

“It seemed logical. Roger thought so, too.Remember, he was in that war.”

“Logical . . . a photograph.”

“Yes. I found one in an album. Do youremember when we went to the Virgin Islands andyou scorched yourself that first day in the sun?”

“Sure. You made me wear a tie to dinner andmy neck was killing me.”

“I was trying to teach you a lesson. Thatpicture’s a close-up. I wanted your sunburn in all itsagony.”

“It’s still my face, Val.”

“That photograph was taken eight years ago andthe burn softened your features. It’ll do.”

“Don’t I have to know anything?”

“If you’re detained for that kind of questioning,you’ll probably be caught. My aunt doesn’t think youwill be.”

“Why is she so confident?”

“The letter. It spells out what you’re doing.”

“Which is?”

“A pilgrimage to Bergen-Belsen, later to Auschwitzin Po

land. It’s written in German and you’re to hand it toanyone who stops you because you speak onlyEnglish.”

“But why would that ?”

“You’re a priest,” interrupted Valerie. “Thepilgrimage was financed by an organisation in LosAngeles called the Coalition of Christians and Jewsfor World Peace and Repentance. Only a Germanvery sure of himself will call attention to you. I’ve gota dark suit in your size in my tote bag, along with ablack hat, shoes, and a clerical collar. Theinstructions will be with your ticket. You’ll take thenorthern express to Hanover where you’re supposedto switch trains for Celle and be driven toBergen-Belsen in the morning, but of course youwon’t. When you reach Osnabruck, get off. My auntwill be waiting for her priest. And by then I’ll beback in New York getting in touch with Sam..’

Converse shook his head. “Val, it’s all veryimpressive, but you weren’t listening to me.Leifhelm’s men have seen me in that station, as amatter of fact. They know what I look like.”

“They saw a pale-faced man with a beard and abattered face. Shave off the beard tonight.”

" And apply for cosmetic surgery?”

“No, apply a generous amount of lotion calledInstant Sun it’s with the clothes I brought you. It’lldarken your face more like the photograph on thepassport and also cover the bruises they won’t bethat noticeable. The black hat and the clerical collarwill take care of the rest.”

“Omens,” said Joel, touching the bruises on hisface and noting that they were less painful. “Do youremember when you fell and hit the table in thefoyer, the black eye?”

“I was in a panic; I had a presentation the nextday. You went out and got the makeup for me.”

“I bought the same stuff this morning. It helped.”

“I’m glad.”

They looked at each other across the shortdistance between them in the moonlit field. “I’msorry about everything, Val. I wish you weren’t partof this. If there was any other way I wouldn’t let yoube, you know that.”

“I know it, but it doesn’t matter to me one way orthe other. I came over here because of a promise Imade to myself a promise I meant. Not you. I’mover you, Joel, believe that.”

“The promise you made to yourself was provoked byme.

Since I was the offending party of the second part,that should have canceled it.”

“That’s probably a rotten legal opinion,” saidVal, shifting her legs and looking away. “There’salso the obvious. Everything you’ve told me terrifiesme not fact A and fact B. or who’s conspiring withwhom; I’m a landscape painter; I can’t deal withsuch things. But I’m so terribly afraid because I canpersonalise. I can see how these people thisAquitaine can win, can take control of our lives,turning us all into complacent flocks of sheep. GoodGod, Joel, we’d uvelcome them!”

“I missed something.”

“Then you’re blind. I don’t think it’s just women,or women who live alone like me, I think it’s mostof the people walking around in the streets, tryingto earn a living, trying to make the rent or amortgage or a car payment, trying to make itthrough life. We’re sick of everything around us!We’re told one minute we may be blown up in anuclear war unless we’re taxed out of our houses topay for bigger bombs and that our water’scontaminated, or that we can’t buy this or thatbecause it might be poisoned. Children disappear,and people are killed walking into a store for aquart of milk, and addicts and muggers with gunsand knives cut people down on the streets. I live ina small town and I won’t go there after dark, and ifI’m in the city any city I look behind me in broaddaylight, and I’ll be damned if I’ll get into anelevator unless it’s crowded…. I couldn’t afford itbut I put in a burglar alarm system in a house Idon’t own because there was a boat out in the waterone day that stayed there overnight. In my mind Isaw men crawling up the beach to my windows. Weall see such things, whether out on the water, ordown city blocks, or in a field like this. We’refrightened; we’re sick of the problems, sick of theviolence. We want someone strong to stop it andI’m not sure it even matters who they are. And ifthe men you’re talking about push things any fur-ther_believe me, they know what they’re doing.They can walk in and be crowned, no votesrequired…. And in spite of everything I’ve said,that’s even more frightening. Which is why you’regoing to take me to the airport.”

“Why did I ever let you go?” whispered Joel,more to himself than to her.

“Cut it out, Converse. It’s over. We’re over.”

* * *

He watched from the darkest area of the parkinglot at Amsterdam’s Schilphol Airport as the planesped down the runway and lifted off into the nightsky. He had driven up to a crowded platform whereVal had gotten out, giving him the scrap of paperwith the address that was to be his refuge for thenight. So that he would know she had been able toget on board the flight, she was to come out theglass doors, look at her watch and go back inside. Ifthe plane was overbooked, she was to continue onthe pedestrian walk to the temporary lot a hundredyards away from the entrance where he would bewaiting for her. She had come outside, glanced ather watch and returned to the terminal. A part ofhim had felt relief, another part a quiet, hollowemptiness.

He watched the huge silver plane bank to the leftand disappear, its fading lights a trajectory in thedark sky.

He stood naked in front of the mirror in thesmall bathroom in the house on the Lindengracht.The car was some twenty streets away. He had madethe return journey cautiously on foot. The old manwho owned the flat was pleasant and spoke inhaltingly clear English, but his eyes were far awayand never really made contact. His mind was inanother place, another time.

Joel had shaved carefully, showered far longerthan a guest should, and had finished applying thedeep red lotion to his face, neck and hands. Inmoments his skin was bronzed. The result was farmore authentic than it used to be with the earlierproducts he remembered, when anyone who usedthem stood out the mask of sickly brown was toosmooth and cosmeticized to be anything butunnatural. The new coloring further concealed thebruises on his face; he looked almost normal. Hewould discard the tinted glasses; they would only callattention to him, especially from anyone who hadseen him or had been given his description. Hewashed his hands repeatedly, kneading them togetherto remove the stains from his fingertips.

He stiffened. From somewhere beyond the doorcame the sound of an erratic bell. He quickly turnedoff the water and listened, his breathing suspended,his eyes on the gun he had placed on the narrowwindowsill. He heard the sound again; it stopped.Then he heard a single voice, a man on a telephone.He dried his hands and slipped on the short cottonbathrobe that had been left on the bed in his small,immacu

late room. He put the gun in his pocket went outthe door and down the dark, narrow hallway thatfed to the old man’s “study.” It was a formerbedroom filled with old magazines a few books, andtabloid newspapers on tables and chairs opened tothe bloodiest sections, with red crayon marks cir-cling articles and pictures. On the walls were printsand photographs of long-past wartimeaccomplishments including corpses in various posesof death. In an odd way it reminded Converse ofL’Etalon Blanc in Paris, except that here there wereno glories of war, only the ugliness of death. It wasmore honest, he thought, if nothing else.

“Ah, Meneer, ” said the old man, sitting forwardin a huge leather chair that engulfed his frail body,the telephone beside him. “You are safe, quite safe!That was Kabel code name, Kabel, nataurlijk. Hehas left the hotel and reports his progress.” Fragile,in his seventies the Dutchman struggled out of thechair and stood erect, his thin shoulders back, hisbody rigid a foolish old man playing soldier.“Operation Osnabruck proceeds”" he said, as ifreporting to a commanding officer. “Ascontemplated by underground intelligence reports,the enemy infiltrated the area and he has beencompromised.”

“He’s been what?”

“Executed, Meneer. A wire around the throat,taken from behind. The blood stays on the clothesas the neck is pulled back, thus there are no signs ofcombat and the enemy is removed from the place ofcompromise.”

“What did you say?”

“Kabel is strong for one of his age,” said the oldman, grinning, his weathered face a thousandcreases, his posture now relaxed. “He took the bodyfrom the room, dragged it to the fire exit, and downinto the alley. From there he gained access to thecellars and put the corpse back by the furnaces. It issummer; the man may not be found fordays unless the stench becomes too much.”

Converse heard the words, but his concentrationwas only on one. Compromise. In this odd languageof another time it meant . . . execution. Execution .. . murder . . . assassinationl

What would you say to compromising certainpowerful individuals in specif c governments . . . "Leifhelm’s words.

It wouldn’t Turk. His own.

You do not take into consideration the timeelement! AN cumulation! Rapid acceleration! ChaimAbrahms.

Good Christ! thought Joel. Was that what thegenerals of Aquitaine meant? Assassinations? Was itthe reason for the glaring, disapproving looksdirected at the Israeli and Abrahms’ sudden retreatinto qualification, then dismissal: It’s merely a point .. . I’m not sure it even applies.

Accumulation, rapid acceleration, one afteranother national leaders cut down everywhere.Presidents and prime ministers, ministers of state andvice-presidents, powerful men and women from allshades of the narrow, acceptable political spectrumsviolently eliminated governments in chaos. All totake place in a matter of hours, savagery erupting inthe streets, fueled by hysteria, victims and violatorsblurred until the commanders were summoned torestore order, not to leave until the controls weretheirs. The climate was established, the day wascoming. Assassinations!

He had to get back into Germany. He had toreach Osnabruck and be there when Val called. SamAbbott had to be told.

His hands manacled and chained, his woundedright forearm encased in a filthy bandage, ConnalFitzpatrick gripped the ledge of the small window andpeered out beyond the bars at the strange, violentactivity taking place on the huge concrete paradeground. That it was a parade ground had been clearon the second morning of his capture when, alongwith the other prisoners, he was granted an hour’sexercise outside the concrete barracks and theysevere barracks once part of an old refueling stationfor submarines was his guess. The slips along thewater as well as the winching machinery were far toosmall and too obsolete for today’s nuclearmarauders no Trident could fit in any space alongthe concrete and steel piers but once, he judged, thebase had served the German undersea Navy well.

Now, however, it was being used to the greatdisservice

of the Federal Republic of Germany and of freegovernments everywhere. It was Aquitaine’s trainingground, the place where strategies were beingrefined, maneuvers perfected, and the finalpreparations made for the massive assaults thatwould propel Delavane’s military commanders topower over paralysed civilian authorities. Everythingwas reduced to killing swift and brutal, the shockof the acts themselves intrinsic to the wave ofviolence.

Beyond the window, units of four and five menraced separately and in succession around andbetween a crowd of perhaps a hundred others,taking their turns at the sickening exercise they wereperfecting. For at the end of the parade ground wasa concrete platform, seven feet high and perhapsthirty feet long, where mannequins were lined up ina row some standing, others in chairs theirinanimate figures rigid, their lifeless glass eyesstaring straight ahead. They were the targets. At thecenter of each clothed chest, “male” and “female,”was an encased circle of bullet-proof wire mesh;within each was a high-intensity orange light, seenclearly in the afternoon sun. At the discretion of thecompound’s trainer, it flashed on. It was the signalthat this particular mannequin was the particularunit’s specific target or, if more than one, targets.Hits were recorded electronically by other lights onthe high stone wall above each figure on theplatform. Red was a kill, blue merely a wound. Redwas acceptable, blue was not.

The screaming admonitions over theloudspeakers were delivered in nine languages, fourof which Connal understood. The words were thesame:

Thirteen days to ground -zero!Accuracy is upper"nost! Escape is with the diversion of a kill!Otherwise there is only death!

Eleven days to ground-zero! Accuracy is upper-most. . . !

Eight days to ground-zero!Accuracy is . . . !

Individual members of the killer teams fired attheir targets, exploding stuffed skulls and pulverisingchests and stomachs, sometimes by themselves, othertimes in unison with their comrades. Each “kill’ wasgreeted with exuberant shouts as the men racedthrough the crowd, melting into it, finally becomingpart of it as their maneuver was completed. Anotherteam was then instantly formed from within theranks of the spectators; and another exercise inassassination

was mounted, executed swiftly. And so it went, hourafter hour, the crowd reacting to the “kills” with roarsof approval as weapons were reloaded for upcomingassaults against the mannequins. Every twentyminutes or so, as sections of the lifeless figures onthe platform were progressively blown apart, theywould be replaced with fresh heads and torsos. Allthat was missing were rivers of blood and masshysteria.

In anger and frustration, Connal spread hismanacled wrists apart, pulling at the unbreakablechain and yanking with all his might as the rusted,circular braces dug into his flesh and bruised hiswrist bones. There was nothing he could do, no wayto get out! He knew the secret of Aquitaine; theevidence of its ultimate strategy was right therebefore his eyes. The mass killing of political figuresin nine different nations eight days away!

He turned from the window, arms aching, wristsstinging, and looked around at the barracks full ofprisoners forty-three men trying not to fail butfailing fast. Many were lying listlessly on their cots,others stared forlornly out various windows; anumber talked quietly in small groups against theblank walls. All were manacled as he was. Theabysmally short rations and the prolonged, brutalperiods of “exercise” had weakened them all in bothbody and mind. Whispering among themselves, theyhad come to several erroneous conclusions abouttheir captors’ goal, but their own captivity eludedreason. They were part of a strategy they could notunderstand. In unwatched corners Connal tried toexplain, only to be met with blank stares andbewilderment.

Several points were established for whateverthey signified. To begin with, they were all militaryofficers ranging in rank from the middle to thehigher echelons. Secondly, all were bachelors ordivorced, none with children or currently involved inserious relationships that demanded constantcommunications. Lastly, all were on 30- to 45-dayleaves, only one other like Connal with emergencystatus, the rest on normal summer holidays. Therewas a pattern, but what did it mean?

There ureas a clue to that meaning, but it, too,was beyond understanding. Every other day or so theprisoners were brought postcards from widely diverselocations resort areas in Europe and NorthAmerica and instructed to write specific messagesto specific individuals they all recognised as variousfellow officers at the posts or bases from which they

were on leave. The messages were always in thevein of Ham ing wonderful fume; wish you were here;off to To refuse to write these peripatetic greetingswas to be denied the scant food they were given andto be driven out to the parade ground, where theywere forced to run as fast as they could in laps, withguns pointed at them, until they dropped.

They agreed among themselves that the reasonbehind the near-starvation level of daily rations hada purpose. They were all trained, competentofficers.. Such men in decent physical and mentalcondition were capable of attempting escape or, atthe least, of creating serious disturbances. But thatwas all they could understand. All but Connal hadbeen there for a minimum of twenty-two to amaximum of thirty-four days. They were in aconcentration camp somewhere on someindeterminate coastline, not knowing their crimes,real or imagined by their captors.

“Que pastas” asked a prisoner named Enriquefrom Madrid.

“Es lo mismo Athena en el camps de manio/oras,” replied Fitzpatrick, nodding his head at thewindow, and continued in Spanish, “They’re killingstuffed dummies out there, figuring each hit makesthem heroes or martyrs or both.”

“It’s crazy!” cried the Spaniard. “It’s crazy andit’s sick in the head! What do they accomplish? Whythis madness?”

“They’re going to cut down a lot of importantpeople eight days from now. They’re going to killthem during some kind of international holiday orcelebration or something like that. What the hell ishappening eight days from now? Have you anyidea?”

“I am only a major at the garrison at Zaragoza.I make my reports on the Basque provisionals, andread my books What do I know of such things?Whatever it is, it would not reachZaragoza barbarous country, but I would wearcorporal’s stripes to return to it.”

“Vise! Contre la muraille!”

“Schnell! Gegen die Mauer!”

“Move! Against the wall!”

“Pa presto! Contro it muro. “

Four guards burst through the barracks doors,others following, repeating the same order indifferent languages. It was a manacles-and-chaininspection, carried out at whim day and night, neverless than once an hour during the daylight asfrequently as four times at night. The slightestevidence of

any prisoner having attempted to break or weakenhis chain or crack his manacles by filing them againstthe concrete or smashing them into rock was metwith immediate punishment, which meant runningnaked preferably in the rain until collapse, andremaining in chains where he fell with no food orwater for thirty-six hours. Of the forty-three men,twenty-nine of the strongest among them had beenso punished, a number more than two and threetimes until they had little strength left. Connal hadrun the gauntlet only once thanks apparently to hisbilingual guard, an Italian who seemed to appreciatethe fact that his americano had taken the trouble tolearn italiano. The man from Genoa was a bitter,cynical former paratrooper and probably a con-vict who referred to himself as an outcast butpredicted he would come into his own when he wasrewarded for his work. But like most men from hispart of the world he instinctively responded to aforeigner’s praise of bella italia, bellissima Roma.

It was from their short, whispered conversationsthat Fitzpatrick had learned as much as he had, hislegal military mind operating on the level ofaddressing a malcontented military client. He hadpushed the buttons he had pushed so often before.

“What’s in it for you? They know you’re garbage!”

“They promise me. They pay me much money toteach what I know. Without people like me manyof us here they will not accomplish.’

“Accomplish what?”

“That is for them to say. I am, as you say, employed.”

“To show them how to kill?”

“And to run and not be seen. That is ourlife the lives of many of us here.”

“You could lose everything.”

“Most of us have nothing. We were used anddiscarded.” “These men will do the same to you.”

“Then we will kill again. We are experienced.”

“Suppose their enemies find this place?”

“They will not. They cannot.”

“Why not?”

“It’s an island no one thinks of.”

“They know that.”

“Im possible! No planes fly over, no boats come.We would know if they did.”

“Why don’t you think about what was here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Submarines. Surrounding your island.’.

“If that was true, americano, the how yousay? the custode . . . “

“The warden.”

“He would explode everything away. Everythingon this side of the island would befumo smoke,nothing. It is part of our contralto. We understand.”

“The warden the custody he’s the big Germanwith the short grey hair, isn’t he?”

“Enough talk. Have your drink of water.”

“I have information for you,” whispered Connal,as the guard checked his manacles and chain.“Information that will guarantee you a big rewardand might possibly save my life.”

“What kind of information?”

“Not here. Not now. There isn’t time. Comeback tonight everyone’s so exhausted they’re asleepbefore they reach their cots. I’ll stay awake. Comeand get me, but come alone. You don’t want toshare this.”

“My head is filled with zucchini? I come alone toa barracks filled with condemned mend”

“What can any of us do? What can I do? I’ll stayby the door; you open it and I’ll step out, your gunno doubt at my head. I don’t want to die, that’s whyI’m talking to you!”

You will die. May you go with God.”

“You’re a fool, a "5uffone! You could have afortune instead of a bullet in your chest.”

The Italian looked guardedly at Fitzpatrick, thenaround at the others; the inspections were nearlyfinished. “For me to do such a thing, I need morethan what you have told me.”

“Two of your guards are traitors,” whispered Connal.

“she rosa?”

“That’s all you get until tonight.”

Fitzpatrick lay on the cot in the darkness,waiting, listentng for the sound of footsteps, thesweat of anxiety drenching his face. All around himwere the sleep-induced moans of hungry, physicallyabused men. He pushed his own pains out of hismind; he had other things to think about. If hecould reach the water, the manacles would slow himdown but not stop hun, he could sidestroke nearlyindefinitely and somewhere

down the coastline, away from “this side of theisland,” there would be a beach or a dock, a placewhere he could crawl out of the sea. There wasnothing else left, he had to try it. He also had tomake sure his Italian guard could raise no alarms.

The bolt in the door was quietly sliding back! Hehad missed the footsteps; his thoughts had distractedhim. He got up silently and started down the aisle onthe balls of his feet, flexing his hands but keeping thechain taut. He could not make any noise whatsoever,because several prisoners had begun to have violentnightmares when there was the slightest disturbance.He reached the door and somehow understood hewas to push it open, not wait for it to be opened; theguard would stay back, his weapon aimed at him.

It was so. The Italian gestured with his gun forConnal to move forward as he sidestepped to thedoor and secured the bolt. He then pointed with thebarrel of his weapon, ordering Fitzpatrick to walkahead. Moments later both men stood in theshadows in front of the barracks, the old refuelingstation still visible in the darkness, the ocean waveslapping at the pilings.

“Now we talk,” said the guard. “Who are thesetraitors and why should I believe you?”

“I want your word that you’ll tell your superiorsI turned them in. I don’t say anything until I haveyour word!”

“My word, americano?” said the Italian, laughingsoftly. “Very well, amino, you have my word.”

The guard’s quiet, cynical laughter covered theseconds. Connal suddenly whipped out the chain andcrashed it down on the man’s weapon; grabbing thebarrel of the gun with his right hand, he wrenched itfree; it fell to the grass below. He then raised thechain as he kicked the guard in the groin, andslammed the heavy links into the man’s face,smashing the manacles into the Italian’s skull untilthe guard’s eyes grew wide and then closed inunconsciousness. Fitzpatrick crouched, finding hisbearings.

It was directly ahead an old submarine slip, itslong pier extending out to the middle water. He gotup and ran. The air was exhilarating, the breezesfrom the sea told him to run faster, faster. Escapewas seconds away.

He plunged over the dock into the water,knowing he would find the strength to do anything,swim anywhere! He was free!

Suddenly, he was blinded by the floodlightseverywhere.

Then a fusillade of bullets exploded from all sides,ripping up the water around him, cracking the airoverhead, but none entering his body or blowingapart his head. And words over a loudspeaker filledthe night: “You are most fortunate, PrisonerNumber Forty-three, that we still might have needof you. Otherwise, your corpse would be food forthe North Sea fishes.”

Joel walked out of the bright afternoon sun intoAmsterdam’s cavernous Centroal station. The darksuit and hat fit comfortably; the clerical collar andthe black shoes pinched but were bearable, and thesmall suitcase was an impediment he could discardat any time, although it was a correct accessory andheld odd bits of clothing, none of which was likelyto fit. Since a deja vu would be no illusion for thosehe had encountered before, he walked cautiously,alert to every sudden movement no matter howinconsequential. He expected at any instant to seemen rushing toward him, their eyes filled withpurpose and the intent to kill.

No such men came, but even if they had come,he would have had some comfort in knowing he haddone his best. He had written the most completebrief of his legal career, written it with painstakinglyclear handwriting, organizing the material, pullingtogether the facts to support his judgments andconjectures. He had recalled the salient points ofeach dossier to lend credibility to his ownconclusions. Regarding his own painful experiencesand firsthand observations, he had weighed everystatement, discarding those that might seem tooemotional, reshaping the rest to reflect the cold ob-jectivity of a trained, sane legal mind. He had lainawake for hours during the night, allowing theorganisational blocks to fall into place, then startedwriting in the early morning, ending with a personalletter that dispelled any misconceptions about hismadness. He was a pawn who had been manipulatedby frightened, invisible men who had supplied thetools and knew exactly what they were doing. Inspite of everything

that had happened he understood, and felt thatperhaps there had not been any other way to do it.He had finished it all an hour ago and sealed thepages in a large envelope supplied by the old manwho said he would post it on the Damrak afterdropping Converse off. Joel had sent it to NathanSimon.

“Pastoor Wilcrist! It is you, is it not?”

Converse spun around at the touch on his arm.He saw that the shrill greeting came from a gaunt,slightly bent woman in her late seventies. Herwizened face was dominated by intense eyes, herhead framed by a nun’s crown, her slender bodyencased in a black habit. “Yes,” he said, startled.“Hello, Sister?”

“I can tell you don’t remember me, Pastoor,”exclaimed the woman, her Englishheavily loudly accented. “No, don’t fib, I can seeyou have no idea who I aml”

“I might if you’d keep your voice down, Sister.”Joel spoke softly, leaning down and trying to smile.“You’ll call attention to us, lady.”

“The religious always greet each other so,” saidthe old woman confidentially, her eyes wide anddirect, too direct. “They wish to appear like normalpeople.”

“Shall we walk over here so we can talk quietly?”Converse took the woman by the arm and led hertoward a crowded area of a gate. “You havesomething for me?”

“Where are you from?”

“Where am I from? What do you mean?”

“You know the rules. I have to be certain.”

“Of what?”

“That you are the proper contact. There can beno substitutes, no deviations. We are not fools,Meneer. Now, where are you from? QuicklylHesitation itself is a lie.”

“Wait a minutel You were told to meet me here;you were given a description. What more do youwant?”

“To know where you’re from.”

“Chest, how many sunburned priests did youexpect to see at the information booth?”

“They are not no un-normal. Some swim, I amtold. Others play tennis. The Pope himself once skiedin the moumtain sun! You see I am a good Catholic,I know these things.”

“You were given a description! Am I that man?”

“You all-look alike. The Father last week atconfession was not a good man. He told me I hadtoo many sins for my age and he had others waiting.He was not a patient man of God.”

“Neither am I.”

“All alike.”

“Please, ” said Joel, looking at the thick, narrowenvelope in the woman’s hands, knowing that if hetook it forcibly from her she would scream. “I haveto reach Osnabruck, you know that!”

"You are from Osnabru’ck?” The “nun” clutchedthe envelope to her chest, her body bent further,protecting a holy thing.

“No, not Osnabruck!” Converse tried toremember Val’s words. He was a priest on apilgrimage . . . to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen . .. from, from. . . “LosAngeles!” he whispered harshly.

“Ja, Hoed. What country?”

“Jesus!”

“lariat?”

“The United States of America.”

“Goed! Here you are, Meneer. ” The old womanhanded him the envelope, now smiling sweetly. “Weall must do our jobs, must we not? Go with God,my fellow servant of the Lord…. I do like thiscostume. I was on the stage, you know. I don’t thinkI’ll give it back. Everyone smiles, and a gentlemanwho came out of one of those dirty houses stoppedand gave me fifty Builder.”

The old woman walked away, turning once andsmiling again, discreetly showing him a pint ofwhisky she had taken from under her habit.

It might have been the same platform, he couldnot tell, but his fears were the same as when hearrived in Amsterdam twenty-four hours ago. Hehad come to the city as an innocuous-lookinglaborer with a beard and a pale, bruised face. Hewas leaving as a priest, erect, clean-shaven,sunburned, a properly dressed man of the cloth ona pilgrimage for repentance and reaffirmation. Gonewas the outraged lawyer in Geneva, themanipulating supplicant in Paris, the captured dupein Bonn. What remained was the hunted man, andto survive he had to be able to stalk the huntersbefore they could stalk him; that meant spottingthem before they spotted him. It was a lesson hehad learned eighteen years ago when his eyes weresharper and his body more resilient. To compensate,he had to use whatever other talents he haddeveloped; all were reduced to his ability toconcentrate without appearing to concentrate.Which was how and why Joel saw the man.

He was standing by a concrete pillar up ahead onthe platorm reading an unfolded train schedule inthe dim light. Converse glanced at him as, indeed,he glanced briefly at Early everyone in sight thenseconds later he looked again. something was odd,incongruous. There could be several reaons why aman remained outside a well-lit railroad car to eada schedule a last cigarette in the open air, waitingfor omeone but that same man could hardly readthe very mall print while casually holding theschedule midway beween his head and his waistwithout any evidence of a squint. :t was like trying toread a page from a telephone directory n a car stuckin traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, it took observbleeffort.

Converse continued down the platform,approaching the wo open doors that signified the endof one railway car and :he beginning of the next. Hepurposely let his suitcase catch n a protrudingwindow ledge, pivoting as it did so, and apolo"izedto a couple behind him. Courteously he let them passmd courteously, as each saw his collar, they smiledand nodded. But while he remained facing them, hiseyes strayed to he man diagonally to the left by thepillar. The man still -latched the schedule in his handbut was concentrating now on Joel. It was enough.

Converse entered the second door, his gait casualagain, but the instant he could no longer see the manby the pillar he rushed inside the railroad car. Hetripped, falling to the floor by the first seat, andagain apologised to those behind him a divineundone by profane luggage. He looked out thewindow, past the two passengers in the seat, both ofwhom paid attention to his collar before looking athis face.

The man by the pillar had dropped the scheduleand was now frantically signaling with quickbeckoning gestures. In seconds he was joined byanother man, their conversation was rapid, then theyseparated, with one going to the door at the front ofthe car, the other heading for the entrance Joel hadjust passed through.

They had found him. He was trapped.

Valerie paid the driver and climbed out of thecab, thanking the doorman, who greeted her. It wasthe second hotel reservation she had made in thespace of two hours, having left a dead-end trail incase anyone was following her. She had taken a cabfrom Kennedy to LaGuardia, bought a ticket to

Boston on a midmorning shuttle, then registered atthe air port motel, both under the name ofCharpentier. She had lef the motel thirty minuteslater, having paid the cabdriver k return for her ata side exit and calling the hotel in Manhattar to seeif a reservation was possible at that hour. It was.The St. Regis would welcome Mrs. DePinna, whohad flown ir from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on a suddenemergency.

At the all-night Travelers Shop in SchilpholAirport, Va had purchased a carry-on bag, filling itwith toiletries anc whatever more inconspicuousarticles of clothing she could find among the all toocolorful garments on the racks. It we. still theheight of the summer, and depending upon the circumstances, such clothes might come in handy. Alsoshe needed something to show customs.

She registered at the hotel desk, using a“Cherrywooc Lane” but without a number sheremembered from hel childhood in St. Louis.Indeed, the name DePinna came from those earlydays as well, a neighbor down the street, the face ablur now, only the memory of a sad, vituperativewoman who loathed all things foreign, includingVal’s parents. “Mrs R. DePinna,” she had written;she had no idea where the “R’ came from possiblyRoger for balance.

In the room she turned on the radio to theall-news station, a habit she had inherited from hermarriage, and proceeded to umpack. She undressed,took a shower, washed out her underthings, andslipped into the outsized T-shirt. This last wasanother habit; “T-sacks,” as she called them, hadreplaced bathrobes and morning coats on her patioin Cape Ann, although none had a sunburstemblazoned on the front with words above andbelow heralding TOT ZIENS AMSTERDAM:

She resisted calling room service for a pot oftea; it would be calming, but it was an unnecessaryact that at three o’clock in the morning wouldcertainly call attention, however minor to thewoman in 714. She sat in the chair staring absentlyat the window, wishing she hadn’t given upcigarettes it would give her something to do whilethinldng, and she had to think She had to rest, too,but first she had to think, organize herself Shelooked around the room, and then at her purse,which she had placed on a bedside table. She wasrich, if nothing else. Joel had insisted she take therisk of getting through customs with more than the $5,000 legal limit. So she had rolled up anadditional twenty $500 bills and shoved them intoher

brassiere. had been right; she could not use creditcards or anything that carried her name.

She saw two telephone directories on the shelf ofthe table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, sheremoved both volumes. The cover of one read, NewYork County, Business to Business; the other,Manhattan and in the upper left-hand corner,printed across a blue diagonal strip: GovernmentList-ings See Blue Pages. It was a place to start. Shereturned the business directory to the shelf andcarried the Manhattan book over to the desk. She satdown, opened to the blue pages and foundDepartment of the Air Force . . . Command PostARPC. It was an 800 number, the address on YorkStreet in Denver, Colorado. If it was not the numbershe needed, whoever she reached could supply thecorrect one. She wrote it down on a page of St. Regisstationery.

Suddenly Val heard the words. She snapped herhead around toward the television set, her eyes onthe vertical radio dial.

” . . And now the latest update on the search for theAmerican attorney, Joel Converse, one of the mosttragic stories of the decade. The former Navy pilot, oncehonored for outstanding bravery in the Vietnam war,whose dramatic esca pe electrified the nation, andwhose subsequent tactical reports shocked the military,leading, many believed, to basic changes inWashington’s Southeast Asian policies, is still at large,hunted not for the man he was, but for the homicidalkiller he has become. Reports are that he may still be inParis. Although not of ficial, word has been leakedfrom unnamed but authoritative sources within theSurete that fingerprints found on the premises where theFrench lawyer, Rene Mattilon, was slain are definitelythose of Converse, thus confirming what the authoritiesbelieved that Converse killed his French acquaintancefor cooperating with Interpol and the Surete. Themanhunt is spread ing out from Paris and this stationwill bring you . . .”

Valerie sprang from the chair and ran to thetelevision set; she furiously pushed several buttonsuntil the radio was silent. She stood for a moment,trembling with anger and fear. And something elseshe could not define did not care to define. It toreher apart and she had to stay together.

She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, at thereflections of light from things moving in the streetbelow, and hearing the sounds of the city. None of itwas comforting only abra

sive intrusions that kept her mind alert, rejectingsleep. She had not slept on the plane, but had onlydozed intermittently, repeatedly jarred awake byhalf-formed nightmares probably induced byexcessive turbulence over the North Atlantic. Sheneeded sleep now . . . she neededJoel now. Thefirst, mercifully, came; the latter was out of reach.

There was a shattering noise accompanied by aburst of sunlight that blinded her as she shot upfrom the bed, kicking away the sheet and throwingher feet on the floor. It was the telephone. Thetelephone? She looked at her watch; it wasseven-twenty-five. The phone rang once again,piercing the mists of sleep but not clearing themaway. The telephoner How . . . ? Why? She pickedit up, gripping it with all her strength, trying to findherself before speaking.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. DePinna?” inquired a male voice.

“Yes.”

“We trust everything is satisfactory.”

“Are you in the habit of waking up your guestsat seven o’clock in the morning to ask if they’recomfortable?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but we were anxious for you.This is the Mrs. DePinna from Tulsa, Oklahoma,isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been looking for you all night . . . sincethe flight from Amsterdam arrived at one-thirty thismorning.”

“Who are you?” asked Val, petrified, holding herwrist below the phone.

“Someone who wants to help you, Mrs.Converse,” said the voice, now relaxed and friendly.“You’ve given us quite a runaround. We must havewoken up a hundred and fifty women who checkedin at hotels since two A.M…. the "flight fromAmsterdam’ did it; you didn’t ask me what I wastalking about. Believe me, we want to help, Mrs.Converse. We’re both after the same thing.”

“Who are you?”

“The United States Government covers it. Staywhere you are. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

The hell the United States Government covers it!thought Val, shivering, as she hung up the phone.The United States Government had cleaner ways ofidentifying itself…. She had to get out! What did the" fifteen minutes” mean? Was it a trap? Were mendownstairs waiting for her now waiting to see ifshe would run? She had no choice!

She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the carry-oncase off a chair and throwing her things into it. Shedressed in seconds and stuffed what clothesremained into the bag; snatching the room key offthe bureau, she ran to the door, then stopped. Oh,Lord, the stationery with the Air Force number! Sheraced back to the desk, picked up the page besidethe open telephone book and shoved it into herpurse. She glanced wildly about was there anythingelse? No. She left the room and walked rapidly downthe hall to the elevators.

Maddeningly, the elevator stopped at nearlyevery floor where men and women got on, most ofthe men with puffed circles under their eyes, a fewof the women looking drawn, sheepish. Severalapparently knew each other, others nodded absently,gazes straying to plastic name plates worn by most ofthe passengers. Val realized that some sort ofconvention was going on.

The doors opened to a crowded bank ofelevators, the ornate lobby to the right was swarmingwith people, voices raised in greetings, questions andinstructions. Cautiously Val approached the gildedarch that led to the lobby proper, looking around incontrolled panic to see if anyone was looking at her.A large gold-framed sign with block letters arrangedin black felt under glass was on the wall:WEECOME: MiCMAC DISTRIBUTORS. Therefollowed a list of meetings and activibes.

Buffet Breakfast 7:30-8:30 A.M.

Regional Conferences 8:4“10:00 A.M.Advertising Symposium Q and A 10:1”11:00 A.M.Midmorning Break. Make Reservations for citytours.

"they, sweet face,” said a burly, red-eyed manstanding next to Val. “That s a no-no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We are marked, princess!”

Valerie stopped breathing; she stared at the man,gripping the handles of her carry-on, prepared tosmash it into his face and bolt for the glass doorsthirty feet away. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“The name, princess! Where’s your Micmacspirit? How can I ask you to have breakfast with meif I don t know your name?”

“Oh . . . the name tag. I’m sorry.”

“What’s your region, beautiful creature?”

“Region?” Valerie was puzzled but only for amoment. She suddenly smiled. “Actually, I’mnew just hired yesterday. They said my instructionswould be at the desk, but it’s so crowded I’ll neverget over there. Of course, with your shoulders Imight make it before I m fired.”

“Grab hold, princess! These shoulders used toplay semi-pro ball.” The heavyset salesman was aneffective blocking back; they reached the counterand the man growled appropriately, a lion preeningbefore its conquest. “Hey, fellal This lady’s beentrying to get your attention. Need I say more Della?”The salesman, holding in his stomach, grinned atVal.

“No, sir yes, ma’am?” said the perplexed clerk,who was not at all busy. The activity was takingplace in front of the counter, not at the counter.

Valerie leaned forward, ostensibly to be heardthrough the noise. She placed her key on thecounter and opened her purse, taking out three $50bills. “This should cover the room. I’ve been hereone night, and there are no charges. What’s left isyours.”

“Thank you, ma’arn.”

“I need a favor.”

" Of coursel”

"my name is Mrs. DePinna but of course thekey tells you that.”

“What is it you want me to do, ma’am?”

“I’m visiting a friend who’s just had anoperation. Could you tell me where the LebanonHospital is?”

“The Lebanon? It’s in the Bronx, I think.Somewhere on the Grand Concourse. Any cabdriverwill know, ma’am.”

"Mrs. DePinna’s the name.”

“Yes, Mrs. DePinna. Thank you.”

Valerie turned to the heavyset, red-eyedsalesman, again smiling. “I’m sorry. Apparently I’mat the wrong hotel, the wrong company, can youimagine? It would have been nice. Thanks for yourhelp.” She turned and quickly dodged her waythrough the crowd toward the revolving doors.

The street was only beginning to come alive.Valerie walked rapidly down the pavement, thenstopped almost immediately in front of a small,elegant bookstore and decided to wait in thedoorway. The stories she had heard all her lifeincluded not only tales of leaving false informationbut lessons

showing the need for knowing what the enemylooked like it was often the difference.

A taxi drove up in front of the St. Regis, andbefore it came to a-stop the rear door opened. Shecould see the passenger clearly, he was paying thefare hurriedly without thought of change. He climbedout swiftly and started running toward the glassdoors. He was hatless, with unkempt, blandish hair,and dressed in a madras jacket and light-bluesummer jeans. He was the enemy, Valerie knew thatand accepted it. What she found hard to accept washis youth. He was in his twenties, hardly more thana boy. But the face was hard and set in anger, theeyes cold distant flashes of steel in the sunlight. Wieein HitlerJunge, thought Val, walking out of the book-store doorway.

A car streaked past her, heading west toward thehotel; within seconds she heard screeching tires andexpected a crash to follow. Like the otherpedestrians, she turned around to look. Fifty feetaway a brown sedan had come to a stop; on its doorpanels and trunk were the clear black letters u.s.ARMY. A uniformed officer got out quickly. He wasstaring at her.

She broke into a run.

Converse sat in an aisle seat roughly in themiddle of the railway car. His palms perspired as heturned the pages of the small black prayer book,which had been placed in the envelope along with hispassport, the letter of pilgrimage, and a typewrittensheet of instructions, which included a few basic factsabout Father William Wilcrist, should they benecessary. On the bottom of the page was a finalorder: Commit to memory, tear up, and flush downtoilet before immigration at Oldenzaal.

The instructions were unnecessary, evendistracting. Quite simply, he was to take a strollthrough the railway cars twenty minutes out of astation called Rheine, leaving the suitcase behind asif he intended to return to his seat, and get off atOsnabruck. The details of his supposedly changingtrains at Hanover for Celle and the subsequentmorning drive north to Bergen-Belsen could havebeen said in one sentence rather than buried in thecomplicated paragraphs describing the underground’smotivations and past successes. The facts aboutFather William Wilcrist, however, were succinct, andhe had memorised them after the second reading.Wilcrist was thir

ty-eight years old, a graduate of Fordham, with atheological degree from Catholic University inWashington. Ordained at St. Ignatius in New York,he was an “activist priest” and currently assigned tothe Church of the Blessed Sacrament in LosAngeles. In Valerie’s words, if he was asked torecite more than that he was probably caught.

For all practical purposes he was caught now,thought Joel, gazing at the back of a man’s head inthe front of the car, the same man who had joinedanother standing by a pillar on the platform inAmsterdam. Undoubtedly that first man was nowlooking at the back of his head from a seat in therear, mused Converse, turning another page in theprayer book. On the surface, the odds against himwere overwhelming, but there was a fact and afactor just below the surface. The fact was that heknew who his executioners were and they did notknow he knew. The factor was a state of mind hehad drawn upon in the past.

The train traveled north, then east; there weretwo stops before Oldenzaal, after which hepresumed they would cross the Rhine into WestGermany. They had pulled in and out of theDeventer station; that left one more, a city namedHengelo. The announcement came, and Joel got outof his seat before any of the Hengelo commutersrose from theirs; he turned in the aisle and walkedback to the rear of the car. As he passed the manwho stood by the pillar he saw that Aquitaine’shunter was staring straight ahead, his body so rigidit barely moved with the movement of the train.Converse had seen such postures many timesbefore, at trials and in boardrooms; they invariablybelonged to insecure witnesses and unsurenegotiators. The man was tense, afraid perhaps offailing an assignment or of the people who had senthim to Amsterdam whatever it was, his anxiety wasshowing and Joel would use it. He was crawling outof a deep shaft in the ground, one tenuous grasp ofearth afteranother, the indentations preformed afternights of preparation. The wire fence was in thedistance, the rain falling, the patrols concerned,anxious frightened by every sound they could notquickly identify. He needed only one to move awayand he had it. . . . He could reach the fence!

Reach Osnabruck alone.

The toilet was unoccupied; he opened the door,went inside, and took out the page of instructions.He folded it, tore it in shreds, and dropped thepieces into the bowl, pressing

the foot button as he did so. They disappeared withthe flush; he turned back to the door and waited.

A second announcement blared from thespeakers outside as the train slowed down; the soundof gathering feet was inches away beyond the door.The train came to a stop, he could feel the vibrationof moving bodies, determined commuters thinking ofhome and relief and undoubtedly the Dutchequivalent of a martini. The vibrations the soundsfaded away. Converse opened the door no more thanhalf an inch. The rigid hunter was not in his seat.Now.

Joel slid out of the door and stepped quickly intothe open separation between cars, excusing himselfbetween the stragglers getting off from the carbehind, and walked rapidly inside and down theaisle. As he approached the last rows he saw anempty seat two seats, facing the platform andswung in, he sat down beside the window, his handin front of his face, peering outside through hisfingers.

Aquitaine’s hunter raced back and forth,sufficiently aggressive to stop three men who werewalking away, their backs to him; rapid apologiesfollowed. The hunter turned to the train, havingexhausted the departing possibilities. He got back onboard, his face a creased map falling apart.

More, thought Converse. I want more. I want youstretched, as patrols before you were stretched. Untilyou can "t stand it!

Oldenzaal arrived, then was left behind. Thetrain crossed the Rhine, the clattering of the bridgebelow like snare drums. The hunter had crashed theforward door open too panicked to do anything butquickly look around and return to his companion, orto a lone suitcase perhaps. Joel’s head was below theback of the seat in front of him. Minutes later camethe Sonderpolizei checking the border, scrutinizingevery male of a vague description, dozens ofuniformed men walking through the railway cars.They were courteous, to be sure, but neverthelessthey gave rise to ugly vestiges of a time past.Converse showed his passport and the letter writtenin German for the conscience of Germans. Apoliceman grimaced sadly, then nodded and went onto the next seat. The uniforms left; the minutesbecame quarter-hours. He could see through thewindows into the forward car; the two hunters metseveral rows behind where he had been sitting. Againthey separated; one fore, one aft. Now.

Joel got up from his seat and sidestepped into theaisle,

pretending to check his schedule and bending downto look out the darkened window. He would staythere for as long as he had to, until one of thehunters spotted him. It took less than ten seconds.As Converse pitched his head down supposedly tosee a passing sign outside he caught a glimpse of afigure moving into the upper panel of glass on theforward door. Joel stood up. The man behind theglass spun out of sight. It was the sign he had beenwaiting for, the moment to move quickly.

He turned and walked to the rear of the car,opened the door and crossed the dark clatteringspace to the car behind. He went inside and swiftlymade his way down the aisle, again to the rear andagain into the next car, turning in the interveningdarkness to see what he expected to see, what hewanted to see. The man was following him. A guardwas taking himself out of position in the downpour.Only seconds and he could reach the barbed wire.

As he ran through the third car a number ofpassengers looked up at him, at a running priest.Most turned in their seats to see if there was anemergency, and seeing none shook their heads inbewilderment. He reached the door, pulled it open,and stepped into the shadows, suddenly startled bywhat he saw. In front of him, instead of anotherrailroad-car door, the upper part a window, therewas a solid panel of heavy wood, the wordFRACHT printed across the midsection above alarge steel knob. Then he heard the announcementover the loud-speakers:

“Benthelm! Nachste Station, Benthelm!”

The train was slowing down, the first of twostops before Osnabruck. Joel moved forward intothe darkest area and inched his head in view of thewindow behind him, confident that he could not beseen by a man facing light reflected off a panel ofglass. What he saw again startled him not by theactivity, but by the inactivity. The hunter made nomove toward the door; instead, he sat down facingforward, a commuter finding a more comfortableseat, nothing else on his mind. The train came to astop; those passengers getting off were forming aline in front . . . in front.

There had been a sign above this last door, butsince he could not read it, he had simply gonethrough. He looked now at the exit doors; therewere no handles. Obviously that incomprehensiblesign was there to inform anyone who approachedthe door that it was not an exit. If he had beenfacing

a trap before, he was in a cage now, a steel cage thatbegan moving again, as the wheels gathered speedagainst the tracks. A racing jail from which there wasno escape. Converse reached into his shirt pocketand took out his cigarettes. He had been so close tothe barbed wire; he had to think!

A rattle? A key . . . a bolt The door of a heavywood with the word FRACHT stenciled on it openedand the figure of a stout man emerged, preceded byhis stomach.

“Sin Zigarette for Sei, wahrend ich sum Pinkelngehe!” said the railroad guard, laughing, as he crossedthrough the short, dark corridor to the door. “Dannein Whisky, ja?”

The German was going for a drink, and althoughhe had pulled the door of his domain nearly shut, hehad not closed it; he was an untroubled man, aguard with nothing he felt worth guarding. Joelpushed the heavy panel open and went inside,knowing what would happen; it had to happen theinstant the guard walked by the hunter on his way to“ein Whss

. ,,

icy.

There were half a dozen sealed crates androughly ten cages holding animals dogs mostly andseveral cats, cowering in corners, claws extended atthe sound of growls and barks. The only light camefrom a naked bulb swaying on a thick wire from theceiling beyond another cage, this one built for manwith wire mesh at the end of the freight car.Converse concealed himself behind a crate near thedoor. He reached under his priestly coat and pulledout the gun with the perforated cylinder, the silencer.

The door opened cautiously, millimeter bymillimeter the weapon appeared before the hand orthe arm. Finally there was the man, the foot soldierfrom Aquitaine.

Joel fired twice, not trusting a single shot. Thearm crashed back into the edge of the half-opendoor, the gun spinning out of the killer’s hand, asingle spurt of blood erupting near the executioner’swrist. Converse sprang from behind the crate thepatrol was his, and so was the stretch ofbarbed-wirefence!Hecould climb it and crawl over now!The rock had smashed the window in the barracks!The staccato barrage of machine-gun fire was sprayingwhere he was not! Seconds, only seconds, and he wasout!

Joel pinned the man to the floor, gripping histhroat and pressing one knee on his chest oneprolonged squeeze and the soldier from Aquitainewould be dead. He held the barrel of the gun againstthe man’s temple.

“You speak any English?”

“la/” coughed the German. “I . . . speak English.”

“What were your orders?”

" Follow you. Only follow you. Don’t shoot! I amAngestellte! I know nothing!”

“A what?”

“A hired man!”

“Aquitaine!”

“What?”

The man was not Iying; there was too muchpanic in his eyes. Converse raised the gun andabruptly shoved it into the German’s left eye, theperforated cylinder pressed deep into the socket.

“You tell me exactly what you were told to do!The truth and I’ll know a lie and if you lie, yourskull will be all over this wall! Talk to me!”

“To follow you!”

“And?”

“If you left the train we were to phone thePolizei Wherever. Then . . . the orders were to killyou before they came. But I would not do that! Iswear by my Christ I would never do that! I am agood Christian. I even love the Jews! I am un-employed!”

Joel crashed the weapon into the man’sskull the patrol had been taken out! Ile could climbthe fence now! He pulled the German behind a crateand waited. How long it was impossible to tell; timehad lost its meaning. The railway guard came back,somewhat more drunk than sober, and took refugebehind his wire-meshed office with the single lightbulb.

The other cages were not so serene. The smellof human blood and sweat was more than the dogscould take; they began to react. Within minutes therailway car labeled FRACHT became a madhouse,the animals were now hysterical the dogs snarling,barking, hurling themselves against their cages; thecats, provoked by the dogs, screeching, hissing,backs arched, fur standing on end. The guard wasperplexed and frightened; anchoring himself to thechair in his sanctuary of wire mesh, he poured morewhisky down his throat. He stared at the cages, hiseyes wide within the folds of puffed flesh. Twice helooked at a glass-encased lever on the wall inchesabove the desk, above his hand. He had only to liftthe casing and pull it.

“Rheine/ Nachste Station, Rheine!”

The last stop before Osnabruck. Before long theGerman would revive, and unless Joel’s eyes were onhim at that instant the man would scream and anemergency lever would be pulled. Too, there wasanother man only cars behind who was also hired tofollow him, to kill him. To remain where he was anylonger was to let the trap close. He had to get off.

The train stopped, and Converse lunged for thedoor, his movement causing a dozen caged animals tovent their anger and confusion. He pushed back thebolt, opened the heavy door and raced into theforward car. He ran up the aisle a priest perhaps onan errand of mercy repeatedly apologizing as herushed past the departing passengers, intent only ongetting off before an unconscious body was found, alever pulled, an alarm sounded. He reached the exitand leaped from the second step to the platform; helooked around and ran into the shadows of thestation.

He was free. He was alive. But he was miles awayfrom an old woman waiting for her priest.

Valerie kept running, afraid to look behind, butwhen she forced herself to turn her head she saw theArmy officer ing with the driver of the Army car.Seconds later she looked again as she reached thecorner of Madison Avenue. The officer was nowrunning after her, shortening the distance betweenthem with each stride. She raced across the street justas the light turned, and the blaring of horns signifiedthe anger of several drivers.

Thirty feet away a taxi heading north had pulledto the curb and a gray-haired man was lethargicallystretching himself out onto the pavement, tired,unwilling to accept the morning. Val ran back intothe street, into the traffic, and raced to the cab’sdoor; she opened it and climbed in as the startledgray-haired man was receiving change.

“Hey, lady, you crazy?” yelled the black driver.“You’re supposed to use the curb! You’ll getflattened by a bus!”

“I’m sorry!” cried Val, sinking low and back on theseat.

What the hell? “My husband is running up the streetafter me and I win not be hit again! I hurt.He’s he’s an Arrny officer.”

The gray-haired man sprang out of the cab likea decathalon contender, slamming the door behindhim. The taxi driver turned around and looked ather, his large black face suspicious. “You tellin’ thetruth?”

“I threw up all morning from the punches lastnight.”

“An officer? In the Army?”

“Yes! Will you please get out of here?” Val sanklower. “He’s at the corner now! He’ll cross thestreet he’ll see mel”

“Fret not, ma’am,” said the driver, calmlyreaching over the seat and pressing down the lockson the rear doors. “Oh, you were right on! Here hecomes runnin’ across like a crazy man. And wouldyou look at them ribbons! Would you believe thathorseshit excuse me, ma’am. He’s kinda skinny,ain’t he? Most of the real bad characters wereskinny. They compensated that’s a psychiatricterm, you know.”

“Get out of here!”

“The law’s precise, ma’am. It’s the duty of everydriver of a medallion vehicle to protect thewell-being of his fare. . . . And I was an infantrygrunt, ma’am, and I’ve waited a hell of a long timefor this particular opportunity. Having a real goodreason and all that. I mean, you sure can’t deny thewords you said to me.” The driver climbed out ofthe cab. He matched his face; he was a very largeman, indeed. Val watched in horrified astonishmentas the black walked around the hood to the curband shouted, “Hey, Captain! Over here, on thesidewalk! You lookin’ for a very pretty lady? Likemaybe your wife?”

“What?” The officer ran up on the pavement tothe black man.

“Well, Captain-baby, I’m afraid I can’t salute’cause my uniform’s in the attic if I had anattic but I want you to know that thissearch-and-destroy has successfully been completed.Would you step over to my jeep, sir?”

The officer started to run toward the taxi butwas suddenly grabbed by the driver, who spun himaround and punched him first in the stomach, thenbrought his knee crashing up into the Army man’sgroin, and finally completed the “assignment” byhammering a huge fist into the officer’s mouth. Valgasped; blood spread over the captain’s entire faceas he fell to the pavement. The driver ran back tothe cab,

climbed in, shut the door and pulled the gear; thetaxi shot forward in the traffic.

“Lawdy, lawdy!” said the driver in a caricature ofSouthern dialect. “That felt real good! Is there anaddress, ma’am? The meter’s running. ”

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Let’s start with the basics. Where do you want togo?”

“To a telephone . . . Why did you do that?”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“You’re sick! You could have been arrested!”

“For what? Protecting a fare from assault? Thatbad character was actually rennin’ toward my caband the vibes were not good, not good at all. Also,there weren’t no cops around.”

“I presume you were in Vietnam,” said Vial, aftera period of silence, looking at the large head ofblack hair in front of her.

“Oh, yes, I was accorded that privilege. Veryscenic, ma’am.”

“What did you think of General Delavane?General George Marcus Delavane?”

The cab suddenly, violently, swerved as thedriver gripped the wheel and slammed his heavy footon the brake, causing the taxi to bolt to a stop,throwing Val against the rim of the front seat. Thelarge black head whipped around, the coal-black eyesfilled with fury and loathing and that deep un-mistakable core of fear Valerie had seen so manytimes in Joel’s eyes. The driver swallowed, hispiercing stare somehow losing strength, turninginward, the fear taking over. He turned back to thewheel and answered simply, “I didn’t do muchthinking about the General ma’am. What’s theaddress missus? The meter’s running.”

“I don’t know…. A telephone, I have to get to atelephone. Will you wait?”

“Do you have money? Or did the captain take itall? There are limits to my concern, lady. I don’t getno compensation for good deeds.”

“I have money. You’ll be well paid.”

“Show me a bill “

Valerie reached into her purse and pulled out ahundred dollars. “Will that do?” she asked.

“It’s fine, but don’t do that with every cab youwant in a hurry. You could end up in Bed-Stuy adamn good-lookin’ corpse.”

“I don’t want to believe that.”

“Oh, my, we have a liberal! Suck to it, ma’am,until they stick it to you. Me, I want ”em all toiry!Your kind don’t really get it we do. You only getthe periphery, you dig? A couple of rapes in theclassy suburbs and some of them might be open todispute; and a few heists of silver and jewelry hell,you’re covered by insurance! Where I come fromwe’re covered by a gun under the pillow, and Godhelp the son of a bitch who tries to take it fromme.”

“A telephone, please. ”

“Your meter, lady.”

They stopped at a booth on the corner ofMadison and Seventy-eighth Street. Valerie got out,and took from her purse the sheet"of St. Regisstationery with the Air Force telephone number. Sheinserted a coin and dialed.

“Air Force, Recruit Command, Denver,”announced the female operator.

“I wondered if you could help me, miss,” saidVal, her eyes darUng about at the traffic, lookingfor a roving brown sedan with u.s. ARMY printedacross its doors. “I’m trying to locate an officer, arelative, actually . . .”

“One minute, please. I’ll transfer you.”

“Personnel, Denver Units,” came a second voice,now male. “Sergeant Porter.”

“Sergeant, I’m trying to locate an officer,"repeated Valerie. “A relative of mine who left wordwith an aunt that he wanted to reach me.”

“Where in Colorado, ma’am?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“The Springs? The Academy? Lowry Field orpossibly Cheyenne Mountain?”

“I don’t know that he is in Colorado, Sergeant.”

“Why did you call Denver, then?”

“You were in the telephone book.”

“I see.” The Army man paused. “And this officerleft word that he wanted to reach you?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t leave an address or a telephonenumber.”

“If he did, my aunt lost it. She’s quite elderly.”

“The procedure is as follows, miss. If you willwrite a letter to the MPC Military PersonnelCenter at the Randolph Air Force Base, SanAntonio, Texas, staking your request and theofficer’s name and rank, the letter will beprocessed.”

“I don’t have time, Sergeant! I travel a greatdeal I’m calling from an airport now, as a matter offact.”

“I’m sorry, miss, those are the regulations.’

“I’m not a "miss’ and my cousin’s a general andhe really does want to speak to me! I just want toknow where he is, and if you can’t tell me, certainlyyou can call him and give him my name. I’ll call youback with a number where he can reach me. That’sreasonable, isn’t it, Sergeant? Frankly, this is anemergency.”

“A general, ma’am?”

“Yes, Sergeant Potter. A General Abbott.”

“Sam Abbott? I mean, Brigadier General SamuelAbbott?”

“That’s the one, Sergeant Potter.”

“Porter, ma’am.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Well, I can’t see any security breach here,miss ma’am. Everybody knows where GeneralAbbott is stationed. He’s a popular officer and in thenewspapers a lot.”

“Where is that, Sergeant? I’ll personally tell himyou’ve been most helpful to both of us.”

“Nellie Air Force Base in Nevada, ma’am, justoutside Las Vegas. He commands the advancedtactical maneuver squadrons. All the squadroncommanders get their final training at Nellis. He’sthe man…. May I have your name, please?”

“Oh, good Lord! There’s the last boarding call formy plane! Thank you, Sergeant.” Valerie hung up thephone, her eyes still scanning the street, trying todecide what to do whether to call Sam now or wait.Suddenly she realized she could not call; it wouldmean using a credit card, origin of call anddestination listed. She went back to the taxi.

“Lady, I’d just as soon get out of here, if youdon’t mind,” said the driver, a quiet urgency in hisvoice.

“What’s the matter?”

“I keep a police scanner in my cab in case there’sproblems in my neighborhood, and I just heard theword. An Army captain was clobbered on Fifty-fifthand Madison by a black driver of a taxi headingnorth. Lucky for me they didn’t get the license or thecompany, but the description’s pretty good. "A bigblack son of a bitch with a size-twelve fist’ was theway those mothers put it.”

“Let’s go,” said Val. “I hate to say this, and Imean that but I can’t get involved.” The cab spedforward, the driver

turning east on Eightieth Street. “Is my husbandpressing charges?” she asked.

“No, I’m off the hook there,” replied the driver.“He must have punched you real bad. He just fledand had nuthin’ to say. Bless his white heart. Whereto?”

“Let me think.”

“It’s your meter.”

She had to get to Las Vegas, but the idea ofgoing back to Kennedy or LaGuardia airportsfrightened her. They seemed too logical, too easilyanticipated. remembered. About five or six yearsago she and Joel were weekending with friends inShort HiDs, New Jersey, when Joel got a call fromNathan Simon, teeing him he had to fly to LosAngeles on Sunday for a Monday-morning meeting.All the legal papers would be sent to the BeverlyHills Hotel by air express. Joel had taken the planefrom Newark Airport.

“Can you drive me to Newark?”

“I can drive you to Alaska, lady, but Newark?”

“The airport.”

“That’s better. It’s one of the best. I guessNewark’s okay, too. I got a brother there and, hell,he’s stiD alive. I’D swing through the park atSixty-fifth and head down to the Lincoln Tunnel. Doyou mind if I turn on the scanner again?”

“No, go right ahead.”

The voices went in and out, then the driverpushed a button and they became steady: “Incidentat Fifty-fifth and Madison is a negative.. PrecinctTen has called it off as the victim refused assistanceand did not identify himself. So patrols, onward andupward. We helps them what helps themselves. On,brothers.”

“Oh, he’s a brother!” shouted the driver in reliefas he turned off the radio. “You catch that "incidentis a negative’? They coulda used him in Nam, inthose big body-count press conferences…. Come tothink of it, he was probably there not with thepress, just one of the bodies. They never did get itright.”

Valerie leaned forward on the seat. “I asked youabout Nam. About General Delavane. Would youted me about him?”

It was nearly a minute before the black replied,and when he did so, his voice was soft, evenmellifluous. And somewhere at the base of it wasabject defeat. “My driver’s identification is lookin’ atyou, lady. I’m drivin’ you to Newark Air

THE AQUITAINE

PROGRESSION 535port thaws what you’re payin’ for, and that’s whatyou’ll

The rest of the ride was made in silence, anoppressive sense of fear pervading the cab. After allthese years, thought Val. Oh, God

They hit heavy traffic at the tunnel and then onthe turnpike; it was the start of the weekend andvacationers were heading for the Jersey shore. Theairport was worse; it was jammed, cars backed up fora quarter of a mile in the departure lanes. Finallythey edged up into a parking space and Valerie gotout. She paid the driver a hundred dollars above thefare and thanked him. “You’ve been much more thanhelpful, you know that…. I’ll never really know whybut I’ll think about it.”

“Like I said, it’s my business. I got my reasons.”

“I wish I could say something, something thatcould help.”

“Don’t try, lady. The green is enough.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sure, it is until something better comes along,and that ain’t gonna be in my lifetime…. You takecare, missus. I think you got bigger problems thanmost of us. You said too much, which I don’t recall,of course.”

Valerie turned and went into the terminal. Thelines in front of the counters were horrendous, andbefore joining one she had to know which one.Twenty minutes later she was in the proper line andnearly an hour after that she had a ticket to LasVegas on American’s 12:30 flight, another hourbefore boarding. It was time to see if it all madesense. If Sam Abbott made sense, or whether shewas grasping desperately at a man she onceremembered who might not be that man any longer.She had exchanged $20 in bills for two $10 rolls ofquarters. She hoped it would be enough. She took anescalator up to the second floor and went to atelephone at the far end of the wide corridor pastthe shops. Nevada information gave her the numberof the main switchboard at Nellis Air Force Base.She dialed and asked to be put through to BrigadierGeneral Samuel Abbott.

“I don’t know if he’s on the base yet,” said theoperator.

“Oh?” she had forgotten. There was a three-hourtime difference.

“Just a minute, he’s checked in. Early-morningflight schedule.”

“General Abbott’s office.”

"May I speak to the general, please. The nameis Parquette, Mrs. Virginia Parquette.”

“May I ask what this is in reference to?” askedthe secretary. “The general’s extremely busy and isabout to head down to the field.”

“I’m a cousin he hasn’t seen in a long time,actually. There’s been a tragedy in the family.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Please tell him I’m on the line. He may notrecall my name; it’s been so many years. But youmight remind him that in the old days we had somewonderful dinners in New York. It’s really mosturgent. I wish someone else were making this call,but I’m afraid I was elected.”

“Yes yes, of course.”

The waiting put Valerie in the last circle of hell.Finally there was a click, followed by the voice sheremembered.

“Virginia . . . Parquette?”

“Yes.”

“Ginny from New York? Dinner in New York?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the wife, not the sister.”

“Yes!”

“Give me a number. I’ll call you back in tenminutes.”

“It’s a pay phone.”

“Stay there. The number.”

She gave it to him and hung up, frightened,wondering what she had done, but knowing that shecould not have done anything else. She sat in theplastic chair by the phone, watching the escalators,looking at the people going in and out of thevarious shops, the bar, the fast-food restaurant. Shetried not to look at her watch; twelve minutespassed. The phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Valerie?”

“Yes!”

“I wanted to get out of the office too manyinterruptions. Where are you? I know the areacode’s New Jersey.”

“Newark Airport. I’m on the twelve-thirty flightto Las Vegas. I’ve got to see you!”

“I tried to call you. Talbot’s secretary gave meyour number “

“When?”

“”Starting two days ago. I was in the Mojave onmaneuvers and too bushed to turn on a radio wedidn’t have newspapers. A man answered, and whenhe said you weren’t there I hung up.”

“That was Roger, Joel’s father. He’s dead.”

“I know. They say it was most likely suicide.”

“No!. . . I’ve seen him, Sam. I’ve seen Joel! It’s alllies!”

“That’s what we have to talk about,” said thegeneral. “Call me when you get in. Same name. Idon’t want to pick you up at the airport; too manypeople know me over there. I’ll figure out a placewhere we can meet.”

“Thank you, Sam!” said Valerie. “You’re all we haveleft.”

“We?”

“For the time being, yes. I’m all he has left.”

Converse watched from the far dark corner ofthe railroad station as the train for Osnabruckstarted up, its huge wheels pressing into the tracks,groaning for momentum. At any moment heexpected whistles to pierce the quiet night and thetrain to stop, a bewildered half-drunken guard run-ning from the freight car, screaming. None of ithappened. Why? Was the man more than halfdrunk? Had the sounds of the enraged animalsdriven him further into the bottle strengthening hisresolve to remain in the safety of his cage? Had heseen only a blur racing to the door in the dim light,or perhaps nothing, an unconscious bodysubsequently not discovered? Then Joel saw thatthere was another possibility a brutal one. He couldsee a figure running forward through the second tolast car, twice lunging between the seats, his facepressed against the glass. Moments later the man wasleaning out above the lower door of the first exit, thesteps below blocked off by the heavy solid gate. Inhis hand was a gun, held laterally across his foreheadas he squinted against the station lights, peering intothe shadows.

Suddenly the killer made his decision. He grippedthe metal rim and leaped over the guardrail,dropping to the ground, rolling over in the gravelaway from the gathering speed of the train. Thehunter from Aquitaine was in panic he dared notlose the quarry, dared not fail to carry out hisassignment.

Converse spun around the corner and racedalong the dark side of the building to a parking area.The passengers who had gotten off the train werestarting their automobiles

or climbing into them; two couples were chatting onthe near platform, obviously waiting to be pickedup. A car came curving in off the road beyond; themen waved, and in moments all four were inside,laughing as the car sped away. The parking area wasdeserted, the station shut down for the night. Asingle floodlight from the roof illuminated theemptiness, a border of tall trees beyond the wideexpanse of coarse gravel gave the appearance of animmense impenetrable wall.

Staying as best he could in the shadows, Joeldarted from one space of darkness to another untilhe reached a solid, indented arch at the end of thebuilding. He pressed his back against the brick andwaited, his hand gripping the gun at his side,wondering if he would have to use it, if he wouldeven have a chance to use it. He had been lucky onthe train and he knew it; he was no match forprofessional killers. And no matter how strongly hetried to convince himself, he was not in the junglesa lifetime ago, not the younger man he had beenthen. But when he thought about it as he wasthinking about it now those memories were all hehad to guide him. He ducked out of the shadowedarch and quickly dashed to the corner.

The explosion came, blowing out the stone tothe left of his head! He lunged to his right, rollingon the gravel, then quickly rose to get away fromthe spill of the floodlight. Three more shatteringexplosions tore up the rock and earth around hisfeet. He reached a dark row of foliage and doveinto the bushes, instinctively knowing exactly whathe had to do.

“Augh!Aughhh . . . !” His final scream ended ona convincing note of agony.

He then crawled through the underbrush as fastas he could penetrate the tangled nets of pricklygreen. He was at least ten feet away from where hehad shouted; he pivoted on his knees and remainedstill, facing the floodlit expanse beyond the bushes.

It happened, as it had happened before whenthree children in official pajamas had killed anotherchild indelicately in the jungle. Anxious men weredrawn to the last sounds they heard as this hunterfrom Aquitaine was drawn now. The man stalkedout of the darkness of the railroad station’s rearplatform, his gun extended, held steady with bothhands. He walked directly, cautiously, to that smallsection in the overgrowth where the screams hadcome from.

Converse scratched the ground noiselessly until hefound

a rock larger than his fist. He gripped it and waited,staring, feeling the drumming in his chest. The killerwas within eight feet of the border of greenery. Joellobbed the rock, arcing it in the air to his right.

The crunching thud was loud. InstantlyAquitaine’s soldier crouched and fired one roundafter another two, three, four! Converse raised hisweapon and pulled the trigger twice. The man spunto his left, gasping, as he clutched his stomach andfell to the ground.

There was no time to think or feel or considerwhat had happened. Joel crawled out to the graveland raced over to his would-be executioner; hegrabbed him by the arms and dragged him back intothe bushes. Still, he had to find out. He knelt downand held his fingers against the base of the man’sthroat. He was dead, another scout taken out in thewar of the modern Aquitaine, the militaryconfederation of George Marcus Delavane.

There was no one around if there had been, thegunshots would have provoked screams and broughtrunning feet; the police would have been summoned;they would have been there by now. How far awaywas Osnabruck? He had read the schedule and triedto figure out the times, but everything had happenedso swiftly, so brutally, he had not absorbed what heread. It was less than an hour, that much he knew.Somehow he had to get word to the station at Osna-bruck. Christ, how?

He walked out on the platform, glancing up atthe sign: RHEINE. It was a start; he had countedonly the stops, not the names. Then he sawsomething in the distance above the ground, highabove with lights on the inside. A tower! He hadseen such towers dozens of times in Switzerland andFrance they were signal depots. They dotted theEurail’s landscape, controlling the trains that spedacross their sectors. He started running along thetracks, suddenly wondering what he looked like. Hishat was gone, his clothes soiled, but his clerical collarwas still in place he was still a priest.

He reached the base of the tower. He brushed offhis clothes and tried to smooth his hair; Composinghimself, he began climbing the metal steps. At thetop he saw that the steel door to the tower itself wasbolted, the inch-thick bulletproof glass a sign of theterrorist times speeding trains were vulnerabletargets. He approached the door and rapped on themetal frame. Three men were inside, huddled overelec

tronic consoles; an elderly man turned from thenumerous green screens and came to the door. Hepeered through the glass and crossed himself, butdid not open the door. Instead there was a suddenechoing sound projected into the air, and the man’svoice emerged from a speaker: “Was ist, Hochwur-den?”

“I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”

“Englander?”

“Yes ja. “

The old man turned to his associates andshouted something. Both shook their heads, but oneheld up his hand and came to the door.

“Ich spreche. . . a little, Mr. Englander. Nichtcome enter here, verstehen?”

“I have to call Osnabruck! A woman is waitingfor me a Frau!

“Ohh? Hochwurden! Eine Frau?”

“No, no! You don’t understand! Can’t anybodyhere speak English ?”

“Sie speeches Deutsch?”

“No!”

“Warten Sie, ” said the third man from theconsole. There was a rapid exchange between thetwo men. The one who spoke “a little” turned backto the door.

“Eine Kirche, ” said the man groping for words.“Church! Din Pfarrer priest! Er spricht Englisch.Drei . . . three strassen . . . there!” The Germanpointed to his left; Joel looked down over hisshoulder. There was a street in the distance. Heunderstood; there was a church three blocks away,and a priest who spoke English, presumably a priestwho had a telephone.

“The train to Osnabruck. WhenP When does itget there?” Converse pointed to his watch. “When?Osnabruck?”

The man looked over at the console, thenturned back to Joel and smiled. “Zwolf Minuten,Hochwurden!”

“How? What?”

“Zwolf… tvelf.”

“Twelve?”

”la!”

Converse turned and clattered down the steps;on the ground he ran as fast as he could toward thestreetlamps in the distance. Once there, he raced inthe middle of the street clutching his chest, vowingfor the five hundredth time to

give up cigarettes. He had persuaded Val to throwthem away; why hadn’t he taken his own advice? Hewas invulnerable, that’s why. Or did he simply carefor her more than he cared for himself? Enough!Where was the goddamned church ?

It was there, on the right. A small church withfake spires, a silly-looking church with what lookedlike a decorated Quonset hut for a rectory beside it.Joel ran up the short path to the door, a door witha hideously bejeweled crucifix in the center arhinestone Jesus; rock along with Christ andknocked. Moments later an overweight, cherubic manwith very little white hair, though perfectly groomed,opened the door.

“Ah, Guten Tag, Herr Kollege.”

"Forgive me,” said Converse, out of breath. “Idon’t speak German. I was told you speak English.”

“Ah, yes, indeed, I should hope so. I spent mynovitiate in the Mother Country as opposed to theFatherland you understand the difference ingender, of course. Come in, come rnl A visit from afellow priest calls for a Schnaps. "A touch of wine’sounds better, doesn’t it? Again the MotherCountry so soft, so understanding. My, you’re anattractive youmg manl”

"Not so young, Father,” said Joel, stepping inside.

“That’s relative, isn’t it?” The German priestwalked unsteadily into what was obviously his livingroom. Again there were jeweled figures mounted onblack velvet on the walls the cheap stones glittering,the faces of the saints unmistakably feminine. “Whatwould you like? I have sherry and muscatel, and forrare occasions a port I’ve been saving for very specialoccasions…. Who sent you? That wicked novice fromLengerich?”

“I need help, Father.”

“Great Jesus, who doesn’t? Is this to be aconfessional? If so, for God’s sake give me untilmorning. I love the Lord my God with all my souland all my strength and if there are sins of theflesh, they are Satan ’s. Not I, but the Archangel ofDarknessl”

The man was drunk; he fell over a hassock andtumbled to the floor. Converse ran to him and liftedhim up, then lowered him into a chair a chair bythe only telephone in the room.

“Please understand me, Father. Or don’tmisunderstand

me. l have to reach a woman who’s waiting for me atOsnabruck. It’s important!”

“A woman? Satan! He is Lucifer with the eyes offire! You thinly better than me?”

“Not at all. Please. I need help!”

It took ten minutes of pleading, but finally thepriest calmed down and got on the telephone. Heidentified himself as a man of God, and moments laterJoel heard the name that allowed him to breathesteadily again.

“Frau Geyner? Es tat mir leid . . . ” The old priestand the old woman talked for several minutes. He hungup and turned to Converse. “She waited for you,” hesaid, frowning in bewilderment. “She thought you mighthave gotten off in the freight yards…. What freightyards?”

“I understand.”

“I do not. But she knows the way here and will pickyou up in thirty minutes or so…. You have sobered me,Father. Was I disgraceful?”

“Not at all,” said Joel. “You welcomed a man introuble there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Let’s have a drink. Forget Schnaps and "a glass ofwine’; they’re a bore, aren’t they? I have someAmerican bourbon in the refrigerator. You areAmerican, are you not?”

“Yes, and a glass of bourbon would be just fine.”

- “Good! Follow me into my humble kitchen. It’sright

through here, mind the sequined curtain, dear boy. Itis toomuch, isn’t it? . . . Oh, well, for all of that whateverit is I’ma good man. I believe that. I give comfort.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Where were you schooled, Father?” asked the priest.

“Catholic University in Washington,” repliedConverse pleased with himself that he remembered andanswered so quickly.

“Good Lord, I was there myself” exclaimed theGerman priest. “They shunted me around, youunderstand. Do you remember what’s his name . . . ?”

Oh, my God! thought Joel.

Frau Hermione Ceyner arrived, and took Conversein tow commandeered him, in fact. She was a smallwoman far older than Joel had imagined. Her face waswithered, remmding him of the woman in theAmsterdam station, and dominated by wide, intenseeyes that seemed to shoot out bolts of electricity. Hegot in the car and she pushed the lock

in place. She climbed behind the wheel and sped upthe street, reaching what had to be sixty miles anhour in a matter of seconds.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing for me,”said Converse, bracing his feet against thefloorboard.

“It is nothing!” exclaimed the old woman. “I havemyself taken out officers from airplanes that crashedin Bremerhaven and Stuttgart and Mannheiml I spatin soldiers’ eyes, and crashed through barricades! Inever failed! The pigs could not touch me!”

“I only meant that you’re saving my life, and Iwant you to know I’m grateful. I’m aware thatValerie your niece, and my . . . my formerwife told you I didn’t do the things they said I did,and she was right. I didn’t.”

“Ach, Valerie! A sweet child, but not veryreliable, ja? You got rid of her, jaP”

“That’s not exactly the way it happened.”

“How could she be?” continued HermioneGeyner, as if he had not spoken. “She is an artist,and we all know how unstable they are. And, ofcourse, her father was a Frenchman. I ask you, couldshe have a greater disadvantage? Franzase! Theworms of Europe! As untrustworthy as their wine,which is mostly in their stomachs. They’re drunkards,you know. It’s in their blood.”

“But you believed her where I was concerned.You’re helping me, you’re saving my life.”

“Because we could! We knew we could!”

Joel stared at the road ahead, at the rapidlyoncoming curves taken at sixty miles an hour as thetires screeched. Hermione Geyner was not at all whathe had expected, but then nothing was anymore. Shewas so old and it was late at night and she had beenthrough a great deal these last two days; it had tohave taken its toll on her. Old prejudices come to thesurface when very old people are tired. Perhaps inthe morning they could have a clearheadedconversation. The morning it was the start of thesecond day, and Valerie had promised to call him inOsnabruck with news of Sam Abbott and theprogress she was making to reach the pilot. She hadto make that call! Sam had to be told about thestrange language Joel had heard from an old man inAmsterdam, where a word meaning one thing alsomeant something else entirely. Assassination! Cal,call me. For God’s sake, call me!

Converse looked out the window. The minutespassed the countryside was peaceful but the silenceawkward.

“Here we are!” shouted Hermione Geyner,turning crazily into the drive that led to a large oldthree-story house set back off the country road.From what Converse could see, it was a house thathad once had a certain majesty, if only by its sizeand the profusion of roofed windows and gables. Inthe moonlight now, it looked like its owner veryold and frayed.

They walked up the worn wooden steps of theenormous porch and crossed to the door. FrauGeyner knocked rapidly, insistently; in seconds anold woman opened it, nodding solemnly as theywent inside.

“It’s very lovely,” began Joel. “I want you to know “

“Sshh!” Hermione Geyner dropped her car keysin a red laquered bowl on a hall table and held upher hand. “This way!”

Converse followed her to a pair of double doors,she opened them and Joel walked in behind her. Hestopped, confused and astonished. For in front ofthem in the large Victorian room with the subduedlighting was a row of high-backed chairs and seatedin each was an old woman nine old women!Mesmerized, he looked closely at them. Somesmiled weakly, several trembled with age andinfirmity, obviously senile; a few wore stern, intenseexpressions, and one seemed to be humming toherself.

There was an eruption of fragileapplause hands thin and veined, others swollenwith flesh, flesh striking flesh with obvious effort.Two chairs had been placed in front of the women;Valerie’s aunt indicated that they were for Joel andherself. They sat down as the applause dwindled offto silence.

“Meine Schwestern Soldaten,” cried HermioneGeyner rising. “Heute Nacht . . .”

The old woman spoke for nearly ten minutes,interrupted occasionally by scattered applause andexpressions of wonder and respect. Finally she satdown. “lean. Pragen!”

The women one after another began tospeak frail, halting voices for the most part, yetseveral were emphatic, almost hostile. And thenConverse realized that most were looking at him.They were asking him questions, one or twocrossing themselves as they spoke, as if the fugitivethey had saved were actually a priest.

" Come, my friendI”cried Hermione Geyner.“Answer the ladies. They deserve the courtesy ofyour replies.”

“I can’t answer what I can’t understand,”protested Joel quietly.

Suddenly, without any warning, Valerie’s auntrose quickly out of the chair and struck him acrossthe face. “Such evasive tactics will not serve youhere!” she screamed, striking him again, the ring onher finger breaking his skin. “We know youunderstand every word that’s been spoken! Why doyou Czechs and Poles always think you can fool us.You collaborated ! We have proof

The old women began to shout, their lined,contorted faces filled with hate. Converse got to hisfeet; he understood. Hermione Geyner and everyoneelse in that room were mad or senile or both. Theywere living in a violent time that was forty years inthe past.

And then, as if on some demented cue, a dooropened across the room and two men came out. Onein a raincoat had his right hand in his pocket andwas carrying some kind of package in his left. Thesecond man held a topcoat over one arm, no doubtconcealing a weapon. And then a third manappeared, and Joel closed his eyes, pressing themshut tight, the pain in his chest unbearable. The thirdman had a bandage across his forehead and one armin a sling. Converse had caused those wounds; hehad last seen the man in a freight car filled withfrantic animals.

The first man came up to him and held out thepackage, a thick manila envelope with no stamps onthe cover. It was the brief he had sent to NathanSimon in New York.

“General Leifhelm sends you his regards, even hisrespects,” said the man, pronouncing the word“general” with the hard German g

Peter Stone watched as the CIA-approved doctorput the third and final stitch into the corner of theArmy officer’s mouth as the captain sat straining inthe chair.

“The bridge will have to be repaired,” said thedoctor. “I have a man in the laboratory who’d do itin a few hours and a dentist on Seventy-secondStreet, he’ll do the rest. “I’ll call you later when I’vemade the arrangements.”

“Son of a bitch!” roared the captain, as loud ashe could with half his mouth Novocained. “He wasa tank, a tucking black tank! He couldn’t have beenworking for her, he was just a goddamnedcabdriver! Why the hell?”

“Maybe you triggered him,” said Stone, walkingaway as he looked at several pages of notes. “Ithappens.”

“What happens?” yelled the officer.

“Cut it out, Captain. You’ll break the stitches.”The doctor held up a hypodermic needle; it was athreat.

“Okay, okay.” The officer spoke in a softer voice.“What does "trigger’ mean in that esoteric languageof yours?”

“It’s perfectly clear English.” Stone turned to thedoctor. “You know I’m not employed any longer, soyou’d better give me a bill.”

“When you’re in town a dinner will do. The laband the dentist are different, though. I’d suggestcash. And get him out of uniform.”

“Will do.”

“What . . . ?” The captain stopped, seeingStone’s hand held unobtrusively in front of hischest, telling the officer to be quiet.

The doctor put his instruments in the black bagand went to the door. “By the way, Stone,” he saidto the former CIA agent, “thanks for the Albanian.His wife is spending Moscow’s rubles like mad forevery ache I can find a name for.”

“The ache is her husband. He has an apartmentin D.C. she doesn’t know about and some verystrange sex habits.”

“I’ll never tell.”

The doctor left, and Stone turned back to thecaptain. “When you’re with men like that, don’t sayany more than you have to, and that includesquestions. They don’t want to hear and they don’twant to know.”

“Sorry. What did you mean I triggered that hulk?”

“Come on. An attractive woman being chaseddown the street by a beribboned Army officer. Howmany memories black memories do you think areout there with less than fondness for your ilk.”

“ilk? I never thought of myself as an ilk, but Isee what you mean…. You were on the phone whenI got here, and

then there were two other calls. What is it? Any lineon the Converse woman?”

“No.” Stone again looked down at his notes,shuffling the pages. “We can assume she came backto reach someone someone she and her ex-husbandtrust.”

“He knows his way around Washington. Maybesomeone on the Hill, or even in the administration,or State.”

“I don’t think so. If he knew anyone like that andthought his story would get out before his head wasshot off, he would have surfaced days ago.Remember, he’s been tried, convicted, andcondemned. Can you think of anyone in Washingtonwho wouldn’t play it play him strictly by the rules?He’s contaminated. Too many "authoritative sources’have confirmed it, even diagnosed the disease.”

“And by now he’s learned what we foumd outmonths ago. You don’t know where they are or whoyou’re talking to.”

“Or whom they’ve hired,” added Stone. “Or whomthey’ve blackmailed into doing what they wantwithout giving away any trade secrets.” He sat downopposite the Army officer. “But a couple of otherthings have fallen into place. We’re getting a patternand a few additional names. If we could pullConverse out and combine what he’s learned withwhat we’ve got it might just possibly be enough.”

“What?” The captain shot forward in the chair.

“Take it easy. I said just possibly. I’ve beencalling in some old debts, and if we could put it alltogether, there are one or two left I can trust.”

“That’s why we called you in,” said the officerquietly. “Because you know what to do, we don’t….What have you got?”

“To begin with, have you ever heard of an actornamed Caleb Dowling actually, it’s Calvin, butthat’s not important except for the computers.”

“I know who he is. He plays the father on atelevision show called Santa Fe. Don’t shout it fromthe rooftops, but my wife and I watch it now andthen. What about him?”

Stone looked at his watch. “He’ll be here in a fewmix! uses.”

“No kidding? I’m impressed.”

“You may be more impressed after we’ve talked tohim.”

"Jesus, fill me inl”

“It’s one of those odd breaks we all look for thatseem to come out of left field but are perfectlylogical. It’s the timing

that’s not logical…. Dowling was in Bonn filming apicture and struck up a friendship with Peregrine.American celebrity, et cetera. He also met Converseon a plane and got him a hotel room when theywere tough to find. Most significant, Dowling wasthe initial contact between Peregrine and Con-verse which didn’t work out because Fitzpatrickstepped in.’,

“So?”

“When Peregrine was killed, Dowling called theembassy a number of times trying to get anappointment with the acting ambassador, but he wasput on hold. Finally he sent a note to Peregrine’ssecretary saying he had to see her, that it wasimportant. The secretary met with him, and thisDowling dropped a bomb on her lap. Apparently heand Peregrine had an agreement that if Conversecalled the embassy and contact was to be made,Dowling would go along. He didn’t think Peregrinewould go back on his word. Secondly, Peregrine toldDowling that something was rotten in the embassyranks some very odd behavior. One incidentDowling witnessed himself. He said there were toomany things that didn’t make sense fromConverse’s sane and lucid conversations to the factthat he, Dowling, hadn’t been officially questioned,as if people were avoiding one of the last people tosee Converse. The bottom line was that he didn’tthink Converse had anything to do with Peregrine’smurder. The secretary damn near fainted but toldhim he would be contacted. She knew the Agency’sstation chief in Bonn and called him. So did I, twodays ago, telling him I was brought in deep down by

“He confirmed all of this?”

“Yes. He called Dowling in, listened to him, andhas begun digging himself. He’s coming up withnames, one of which we know, but there’ll beothers. I was on the phone with him when you gothere. Dowling flew in yesterday, he’s at the Pierreand will be here by eleven-thirty.”

“That’s movement,” said the captain, nodding.“Any

“Two other things. You know how stymied wewere when Judge Anstett caught it and how strongthe case was made for a mob killing. Hell, weweren’t even sure why Halliday used Anstett in thefirst place. Well, the computer boys at the Armydata banks have come up with the answer. It goesback to October of 1944. Anstett was a legal officerin Brad

fey’s First Army, where Delavane held a battalioncommand. Delavane railroaded a sergeant who’dcracked through a court-martial. The charge wasdesertion under fire, and Colonel Delavane wantedan example both for his own troops and for theGermans, to let the first know they were being led bya ramrod, and the second that they were fightingone. The verdict was guilty, the sentence execution.”

“Oh, my God,” exclaimed the Army officer.“Slovik all over again.”

“Exactly. Except that a lowly lieutenant namedAnstett heard about it and came rolling in with allhis legal barrels smoking. By using psychiatricevaluation reports he not only got the sergeant senthome for treatment but literally turned theproceedings around and put Delavane himself ontrial. Using the same kind of psychologicalevaluations stress mainly he called into questionDelavane’s fitness for command. It damned nearruined an illustrious military career, and would haveif it wasn’t for the colonel’s friends in the WarDepartment. They buried the report so well it wasunder another Delavane’s name and wasn’t pickedup until all the records were computerised in thesixties.”

"That’s one hell of an explanation, Stone.”

“It’s only part of it. It didn’t explain Anstett’skilling itself. And make no mistake, it was the Mafiadown to the man with the gun. “ Stone paused andturned a page. “So there had to be a connectionsomewhere, somehow a link, probably going backyears. The boys with the disks looked further, and Ithink we’ve got it. Guess who was ColonelDelavane’s chief aide in the First Army. No, don’tbother, you couldn’t. He was a Captain Parelli,Mario Alberto Parelli. ”

“Good Christ! The senator?”

“The five-term senator, thirty years in that augustbody. Up-from-the-bootstraps Mario, with a slightpush from the G.I. Bill, some early benefactors anda few lucrative legal retainers.”

“Wow . . .” said the captain softly, withoutenthusiasm, as he leaned back in the chair. “That’sheavy, isn’t it?”

“It’s there. It fits. And I don’t mind telling youthat in “62 and ”63, during the Let’s-get-Fidel days,Parelli was a frequent visitor at the White House,courtesy of both the Kennedy boys.”

“Even in the Senate. He’s one of the biggestcannons on the Hill.”

“While you’re staring, let me give you the lastitem. We’ve found Commander Fitzpatrick.”

“Whatfl”

“At least we know where he is,” completedStone. “As to whether we can bring him out, oreven want to try, that’s another question.”

Valerie got in the cab at McCarran Airport inLas Vegas and gave the driver the address of arestaurant on Route 93 repeated twice by SamAbbott over the phone. The driver, creasing hisforehead, looked at her in his rearview mirror. Valwas used to men scrutinizing her; she was neitherflattered nor annoyed anymore. Frankly, she wasjust bored by the childishness of it all, by thefantasies of grown-up children abusing themselveswith their eyes.

“Are you sure, miss?” asked the driver.

“I beg your pardon?’

“That isn’t a restaurant like I mean arestaurant. It’s a diner, a pit stop for trucks.”

“It’s where I wish to go,’, said Val coolly.

“Sure, okay, fine.” The taxi pulled out into thedeparting traffic.

The driver was right. A half-acre of asphaltsurrounded the long, low, L-shaped diner; a dozenhuge trucks dwarfed the cars, which were parked atrespectful distances from the intimidating rigs. Valpaid the driver and went inside; she looked aroundand walked past the cashier’s counter toward theL-shaped section. Sam had told her he would be inone of the booths m that area.

He was, at the rear of the second aisle. AsValerie approached she looked at the man she hadnot seen in nearly seven years. He had not changedmuch, the brown hair had a fringe of grey aroundthe temples, but the strong, relaxed face was notvery different perhaps the eyes were a littledeeper, a few more lines at the sides and thecheekbones a touch more pronounced. It was abetter face for a portrait now, she thought; thecharacter beneath was emerging. Their eyes met,and the brigadier general got out of the booth, hisclothes denying his rank and profession. He wasdressed in an open sport shirt, tan summer slacksand dark loafers. He was somewhat shorter thanJoel, but not by much. His grey eyes said she was awelcome sight.

“Val. ” Abbott held her briefly, obviously notwanting to call attention to them.

“You look well, Sam,” she said, sitting downacross from him, putting the carry-on beside her.

“You look merely outstanding, which is militaryfor all those other adjectives.” Abbott smiled. it’sfunny, but I come out here a lot because no onepays any attention to me, so I thought, hell, it’s theperfect place. I should have remembered you walkthrough that arcade of gorillas and eggs get put inears with coffee spoons.”

"Thanks. I could use some confidence.”

“I could probably use a strong alibi. If someonedoes recognize me, word will go back that thebrigadier’s pulling outside duty.”

“You’re mamed, Sam?”

“Five years ago. Late, but with all the fixings. Alovely bride and two beguiling daughters.”

I’m so happy for you. I hope I get a chance tomeet her, meet them but not this trip. Definitelynot this trip.”

Abbott paused, looking into her eyes, a touch ofsadness in his. Thank you for understanding,” hesaid.

"There’s nothing to understand, or rather, there’severything to understand. The fact that you’re willingto meet me after all that’s happened is more than wehad a right to expect. Both Joel and I know the risksyou’re taking legally, as a general, all of it and ifthere was any other way, we wouldn’t involve you.But after you hear what I have to say, you’ll un-derstand why we can’t wait any longer, why Joelagreed to let me try to find you…. You were myidea, Sam, but Joel wouldn’t have heard of it unlesshe felt he had to not for himself; he doesn’t expectto live. That’s what he said and he believes it.”

A waitress brought coffee and Abbott thankedher. “We’ll order later,” he added, staring at Valerie.You’ll have to trust my judgment, you understandthat, don’t you?”

Yes. Because I trust you.”

“When I couldn’t reach you I made a few calls topeople I worked with a couple of years ago inWashington. They’re men who’re deep into thesekinds of things, who have answers long before mostof us know the questions.”

“Those are the people Joel wants you to reach!”interrupted Val. “You saw him then; you spent anight at his hotel, don’t you remember? He said youboth drank too much.”

“We did,” agreed Sam. “And talked too much.”

“You were evaluating aircraft "equipment,’ Joelcalled it with specialists from various intelligenceunits.”

“That’s right.”

“They’re the ones he has to contact! He has tosee them, talk to them, tell them everything heknows! I’m getting ahead of myself, Sam, butJoelthinks those people should have come in at thebeginning the beginning for him. He understandswhy he was chosen and, incredibly, he doesn’t evennow fault that decision! But they should have beentherel”

“You’re way ahead of yourself.’

“I’ll go back.”

“Let me finish first. I talked to them, tellingthem I didn’t believe what I was reading andhearing; it wasn’t the Converse I knew, and to aman they told me to back off. It was hopeless and Icould get badly tarnished. It wasn’t the Converse Iknew, they said. He’d psyched out; he was anotherperson. There was too much evidence to support theblow-out.”

“But you took my call. Why?”

“Two reasons. The first is obvious I knew Joel;we went through a lot together and none of thismakes sense to me maybe I don’t want it to makesense. The second reason is a lot less subjective. Iknow a lie when I hear one when I know it can’tbe the truth and a lie was fed to me just as it wasfed to the people who delivered it.” Abbott sippedhis coffee as if telling himself to slow down and beclear. The leader of the squadron was in control; hehad to be. “I spoke to three men I knew, men Itrust, and each checked with his own sources. Theyall came back to me, each telling me essentially thesame thing but in different language, differentviewpoints depending on their priorities that’s theway it works with these people. But one item didn’tvary so much as a syllable and it was the lie. Thelabel is drugs. Narcotics.”

“;Joel9″

“Their words were practically identical. “Evidenceis pouring in from New fork, Geneva, Paris, thatConverse was a heavy buyer.’ That was one phrase;the other was ”Medical opinion has it that thehypodermics finally blew him up and blew himback.’”

“That’s crazyl It’s insane!” cried Valerie asAbbott grabbed her hand to quiet her down. “I’msorry, but it’s such a terrible lie,” she whispered.“You don’t know “

“Yes, Val, I do know. Joel was pumped five or sixtimes

in the camps with substances sent down from Hanoi,and no one fought it harder or hated it more than hedid. The only chemicals he’d allow in his body afterthat were tobacco and alcohol. I’ve seen us both withthird-degree hangovers and while I tore medicinecabinets apart for a Bromo or an aspirin, he wouldn’ttouch them.”

"Whenever his passport shots came up, he had tohave four martinis before he went to the doctor,”said Valerie. “Good God, who would spread a thinglike that?”

“When I tried to find out I was told that even Icouldn’t have that information.”

The former Mrs. Converse now stared at thebrigadier general. “You have to find out, Sam, youknow that, don’t you?”

“Tell me why, Val. Put it together for me.”

“It began in Geneva, and for Joel the operativename the operative name was George MarcusDelavane.”

Abbott flinched and shut his eyes; his facebecame suddenly older.

The cry of the cat on a frozen lake became ascream as the man in the wheelchair fell to the floor,his two stumps that once were legs scissoringmaniacally to no avail. With strong arms he pushedhis torso up from the rug.

“Adjutant! Adjutantl” roared General GeorgeMarcus Delavane as the dark-red telephone keptringing on the desk below the fragmented map.

A large, muscular middle-aged man in fulluniform ran out of a door and rushed to hissuperior. “Let me help you sir,” he said emphatically,pulling the wheelchair toward them both.

“Not me!” yelled Delavane. “The phone! Get thephone! Tell whoever it is I’ll be right there!” The oldsoldier began crawling pathetically toward the desk.

“Just one minute, please,” said the adjutant intothe phone. “The general will be with you in amoment.” The lieutenant colonel placed thetelephone on the desk and ran first to the chair andthen to Delavane. “Please, sir, let me help

you.

With a look of loathing on his face, the half-manpermitted himself to be maneuvered back into thewheelchair. He propelled himself forward and tookthe phone. “Palo Alto International. You’re red!What is the day’s code?”

“Charing Cross” was the reply in a clipped Britishaccent.

“What is it, England?”

Radio relay from Osnabruck. We ve got him.

Chaim Abrahms sat in his kitchen, tapping hisfingers on the table, trying to take his eyes off thetelephone and the clock on the wall. It was thefourth time span, and still there was no word fromNew York. The orders had been clear: the calls wereto be placed within thirty-minute periods every sixhours commencing twenty-four hours ago, theestimated arrival time of the plane from Amsterdam.Twenty-four hours and nothing! The first omissionhad not troubled him; rarely were transatlanticflights on schedule. The second he had rationalized;if the woman was in transit, traveling somewhereelse either in a car or by plane, the surveillancemight find itself in a difficult position to place anoverseas call to Israel The third omission wasunacceptable, this fourth lapse intoler able! It wasnearly the end of the thirty-minute span, six minutesto go. When in the name of God would it ring?

It rang. Abrahms leaped from the chair and pickedit up.

“We lost her” was the flat statement.

“You what?”

“She took a taxi to LaGuardia Airport andbought a ticket for a morning Hight to Boston. Thenshe checked into a motel and must have left minuteslater.”

“Where were our people?”

“One parked in a car outside, the other in aroom down the hall. There was no reason to suspectshe would leave. She had a ticket to Boston.”

“Idiots! Garbage!”

“They will be disciplined. Our men in Bostonhave checked every Hight, every train. She hasn’tshown up.”

“What makes you think she wills”

“The ticket. There was nothing else.”

Imbeciles!”

Valerie had finished; there was nothing more tosay. She looked at Sam Abbott, who seemed farolder than he had been an hour ago.

“There are so many questions,” said the brigadiergeneral. “So much I want to ask Joel. The lousything is I’m not qual

ified, but I know someone who is. I’ll talk to himtonight, and tomorrow the three of us will fly toWashington. Like today, I have an early A.M.squadron run, but I’ll be finished by ten. I’ll take therest of the day off one of the kids is sick, but noth-ing serious, nothing out of the ordinary. Alan willknow whom we should go to, whom we can trust.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Metcalf? With my life.”

“”Joel says you’re to be careful. He warns youthat they can be anywhere where you least expectthem.”

“But somewhere there’s got to be a list. Somewhere.”

“Delavane? San Francisco?”

“Probably not. It’s too simple, too dangerous. It’sthe first place anyone would look; he’d considerthat…. This countdown Joel thinks it’s tied intomassive riots taking place in different cities, variouscapitals?”

“On a vast scale, larger and more violent thananything we can imagine. Eruptions, totaldestabilisation, spreading from one place to another,fueled by the same people who are called in torestore order.”

Abbott shook his head. “It doesn’t sound right.It’s too complicated, and there are too many built-incontrols. Police troops from the National Guardithey have separate commands. The chain wouldbreak somewhere.”

“It’s what he believes. He says they could do it.He’s convinced they have warehouses everywherestocked with weapons and explosives, even armoredvehicles and conceivably planes in out-of-the-wayairfields.”

“Val, that’s craz"sorry, wrong word. The logisticsare simply too overwhelming.”

“Newark, Watts, Miami. They were alsooverwhelming.”

“They were different. They were essentially racialand economic.”

“The cities burned, Sam. People were killed andorder came with guns. Suppose there were moreguns than either of us could count? On both sides.Just like what’s happening in Northern Ireland rightnow.”

“Ireland? The slaughter in Belfast? It’s a war noone can stop.”

“It’s their war! They did it! Joel called it a test, a trialrun!”

“It’s wild,” said the pilot.

“"Accumulation, rapid acceleration.’ Those werethe words Abrahms used in Bonn. Joel tried tofigure them out.

He couldn’t buy LeifLelm’s statement that theyreferred to blackmail or extortion. It wouldn’t work,he said.”

“Extortion?” Abbott frowned. “I don’t rememberyour mentioning that.”

"I probably didn’t because Joel discounted it.Leifhelm asked him what he thought about powerfulfigures in various governments being compromised,and Joel said it wouldn’t work. The cleansingprocess was too certain, the reactions too quick.”

“Compromised?” Sam Abbott leaned forward inthe booth. “Com promised, Val?”

“Yes. “

“Oh, my God.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? . . . Meaning, that’s what I mean.“Compromised’ has more than one meaning. Like”neutralise’ end "take out,’ and probably a dozenothers I don’t know about.”

“You’re beyond me, Sam.”

“In one context, the word "compromise’ meanskilling Pure and simple murder. Assassination.”

Valerie checked into the MGM-Grand Hotelgiving the bewildered clerk three days’ advancepayment for the room in lieu of a credit card. Keyin hand, she took the elevator up to the ninth floorand let herself into a room with the kind ofpleasantly garish opulence found only in Las Vegas.She stood briefly on the balcony, watching theorange setting sun thinking about the insanity ofeverything. She would call Joei first thing in themorning noon or thereabouts in Osnabruck, WestGermany.

She ordered from room service, ate what shecould, watched an hour or so of mind-numbingtelevision, and finally lay down on the bed. She hadbeen right about Sam Abbott. Dear Sam,straight-as-the-proverbial-arrow Sam, direct anduncomplicated. If anyone would know what to do,Sam would and if he did not know, he would findout. For the first time in days, Val felt a degree ofrelief. Sleep came, and this time there were nohorrible dreams.

She awoke to the sight of the early sun firing themountains beyond the balcony doors in the distance.For a moment or two while she emerged throughthe layers of vanishing sleep she thought she wasback at Cape Ann, the sunlight streaming into herbedroom from the balcony outside, and

vaguely recalled a distant nightmare. Then the boldfloral drapes came into focus, and then the farawaymountains and the slightly stale odor of thick hotelcarpeting, and she knew the nightmare was verymuch with her.

She got out of the oversized bed, and navigatedto the bathroom, stopping on the way to switch onthe radio. She reached the door and suddenlystopped, gripping its edge to brace herself, her headdetonating with a thousand explosions, her eyes andthroat on fire.

She could only scream. And scream again andagain as she fell to the floor.

Peter Stone turned up the radio in the New Yorkapartment, then walked quickly to the table wherethere was an open telephone directory, the pagesblue, the book itself having been taken from “Mrs.DePinna’s” room in the St. Regis Hotel. Stonelistened to the news report as he scanned the op-posing blue pages of government listings.

“. . . It has now been confirmed that the earlierreports of the crash of an F-18 jetfighterplane at NellisAir Force Base in Nevada are accurate. The accidenttook place this morning at seven-forty-two, Pacific time,during first-light maneuvers over the desert thirty-eightmiles northwest of the Nellisfield. The pilot, BrigadierGeneral Samuel Abbott, was chief of TacticalOperations and considered one of the finest pilots in theAir Force as well as a su perb aerial tactician. Thepress of dicer at Nellis said a full inquiry will belaunched, but stated that according to the other pilotsthe lead plane of the squadron, }-town by GeneralAbbott, plunged to the ground afterexecuffng a relativelylow-altitude maneuver. The explosion could be heard asfar away as Las Vegas. The press ofticer’s remarks werecharged with emotion as he described the downed pilot.“The death of General Abbott is a tragic loss for the Air Force and the nation, ”he told re porters. A few min-utes ago the President . . .”

“That’s it,” said Stone, turning to the Armycaptain across the room. “That’s where she washeading…. Shut that damn thing off, will you? I knewAbbott; I worked with him out of Langley a coupleof years ago.”

The Army officer stared at the civilian as heturned off the radio. “Do you know what you’resaying?” he asked.

“Here it is,” replied Stone, pointing to the lowerleft-hand corner of a page in the thick telephonedirectory.

“Blue thirteen, three pages from the end of thebook. “United States Government offices.Department of the ” “

“There are dozens of other listings, too,including your former employer. ”CentralIntelligence New York field Office.’ Why not it?Them? It fits better.”

"He can’t go that route and he knows it.”

“He didn’t go,” corrected the captain. “He sent her.,’

“That doesn’t fit with everything we knowabout him. She’d be sent to Virginia and come outa basket case. No, she came back here to find aparticular person, not a faceless department or asection or an agency. A man they both knew andtrusted. Abbott. She found him, told him everythingCon"eOrdd told h!e,,r and he talked to others thew h

"How can you be sure?” pressed the Army man.

“Christ, Gptain, what do you want, a diagram ?Sam Abbott was shot down over the coast of theTonkin Gulf. He was a POW and so was Converse.I have an idea that if we put it through thecomputers, we’d find out they knew each other. I’mso sure I won’t use up another debt. Puck it./”

“You know,” said the Army officer, “I’ve neverseen you lose your temper. The cold can get hot,can’t it, Stone. I be

lieve you.”

The former intelligence officer looked hard atthe captain, and when he spoke his voice wasflat and cold. "Abbott was a good man even anexceptional man for someone in uniform but don’tmistake me, Captain. He was killed and he waskilled because whatever that woman told him wasso conclusive he had to be compromised hourslater.”

“Compromised?”

“Figure it out…. I’m angry at Sam’s death, yes,you’re damned right. But I’m a lot angrier that wedon’t have the woman. Among other things, with usshe has a chance, without us I judge very little andI don’t want her on my conscience"what little I’vegot left. Also to get Converse out we have to findher, there’s no other way.”

“ But if you re right she’s somewhere near Nellis,probably Las Vegas. ”

Undoubtedly Las Vegas, and by the time wereached anyone who could check around for us,she’ll be on her way somewhere else…. You know,I d hate to be her now. The only avenue she hadwas neutralised. Whom can she turn to where canshe go? It’s what Dowling said about Converse yes

terday, what he didn’t tell Peregrine’s secretary. Ourman was systematically isolated and more afraid ofU.S. embassy personnel than anyone else. He wouldnever have agreed to a meeting with Peregrinebecause he knew it’d be a trap, therefore he couldn’thave killed him. He was set up; everywhere helooked there was another trap to keep him runningand out of sight.” The civilian paused, then addedfirmly, “The woman’s finished, Captain. She’s at theend of a bad road their road. And that may be thebest part of it for us. If she panics, we could find her.But we’re going to have to take some risks. How’sthat neck of yours? Have you made out a will?”

Valerie wept quietly by the glass doorsoverlooking the gaudy strip of Las Vegas. Her tearswere not only for Sam Abbott and his wife andchildren, but for herself and Joel. It was permittedunder the circumstances, and she could not lie toherself. She had no idea what to do next. No matterwhom she went to the answer would be the same.Tell him to come out of hiding and well listen to him.And the minute he did, Joel would be dead, fulfillinghis own prophecy. And if through a bureaucraticmiracle she was granted a meeting with someone ofpower and influence, how strong would her case be?What words would she use?

I was married to this man for four years and Idivorced him let’s call it incom patibility but I knowhim! I know he couldn’t have done what they say hedid, he didn’t kill those men…. What proof? I just toldyou, I know him! . . . What does incom patibilitymean? I’m not SUK, we didn’t get along he wasremote, distant. What difference does it make? Whatare you implying? Oh, God! You "re so wrong! I haveno interest in him that way. Yes, he’s successful andhe’s paid me alimony, but I don’t need his money. Idon’t want it!. . . You see, he told me about this . . .this incredible plot to put the military establishments ofthe United States and the countries of Western Europein virtual control of their governments, that they coulddo it by instigating massive rioting in key cities,terrorism, destabilisation everywhere. He’s met themand talked with them; there’s a plan already inprogress! They see themselves as a dedicatedinternational organization, as a strong alternative to theweak governments of the West who won’t stand up tothe Soviet bloc. But they’re not a reasonable alternative,they’re fanatics! They’re killers;

they want total control of all of us!. . . My formerhusband wrote it all up, everything he’s learned, andsent it to me, but it was stolen, his own father killedbecause he read it. IVo, it was not suicide!. . . He callsit a conspiracy of generals conceived by a generalwho’d been labeled a madman. General GeorgeDelavane “Mad Marcus’ Delavane… . Yes, I knowwhat the police in Paris and Bonn and Brussels say,what Interpol says, what our own embassy hasreported fingerprints and ballistics and seeing him inthis place and that place, and drugs, and meeting withPeregrine butcan’t you understand, they’re all lies!. .. Yes, I know what happened when he was a prisonerof war what he went through the things he said whenhe was discharged. IVone of that isrelevant!Hisfeelingsaren ”t relevant!He told me that!Hetold me he looks so terrible . . . he’s been so hurt.

Who would believe her?

Tell him to come in. We’ll listen.

He can “t! He’ll be killed! . . . You ”I'll kill him!

The telephone rang, for a moment paralysingher. She stared at it, terrified but forcing herself tostay in control. Sam Abbott was dead, and he toldher only he would call only he. My God, thoughtVal, they’d found her, just as they’d found her inNew York. But they would not repeat the mistakesthey had made in New York. She had to remaincalm and think and outthink them. The ringingstopped. She approached the phone and picked itup, then pressed the button marked O. "Operator,this is room nine-one-four. Please send the securitypolice up here right away. It’s an emergency.”

She had to move quickly, be ready to leave theinstant the security men arrived. She had to get outand find a safe telephone. She had heard the stories;she knew what to do. She had to reach Joel inOsnabruck.

Colonel Alan Metcalf, chief intelligence officer,Nellis Air Force Base, walked out of the telephonebooth and looked around the shopping mall, hishand in the pocket of his sport jacket, gripping thesmall revolver inside. He glanced at his watch; hiswife and three children would be in Los Angelessoon, then reach Cleveland by late afternoon. Thefour of them would stay with her parents until hesaid otherwise. It was better this way since he hadno idea what the “way” would be like.

He only knew that Sam Abbott had run thatsub-mach

maneuver a thousand times; he knew every stresspoint and P.S.I. throughout the entire aircraft, andhe never flew a jet that had not been scannedelectronically. To ascribe that crash to pilot error wasludicrous; instead, someone had lied to that pilot, acircuit and backup shorted. Sam was killed becausehis friend, Metcalf, had made a terrible mistake.After talking with Abbott for nearly five hours,Metcalf had called a man in Washington, telling himto prepare a conference the following afternoon withtwo ranking members each from the NSC, G-Twoand naval intelligence. The reason-of-record:Brigadier General Samuel Abbott had pertinent andstartling information about the fugitive Joel Converserelative to the assassinations of the Americanambassador in Bonn and the supreme commander ofNATO.

And if they could so readily, so efficiently kill theman who had the information, they might easily goafter the messenger, the intelligence officer bringinghim in. It was better this way, with Doris and thekids in Cleveland. He had a great deal to do and aterrible debt to repay.

The Converse woman! Oh, Christ, why had shedone it, why had she run so quickly? He hadexpected it, of course, but he had hoped againsthope that he would reach her in time, but it had notbeen possible. First there was Dpris and the kids andplane reservations and the call to her folks; they hadto get out; he could be next. Then racing to the field,his revolver beside him in the car, and ransackingSam’s office as Nellis’ intelligence officer, aparticularly loathsome duty, but in this casevital and questioning Abbott’s distraught secretary.A name had emerged: Parquette.

“I’ll pick her up,” Sam had said last night. “She’sstaying at the Grand and I promised only I’d phoneher. She’s a cool lady, but she had a close call inNew York. She wants to hear a voice she knows andI can’t blame her.”

Cool lady, thought Alan Metcalf, as he climbedinto his car, you made the biggest mistake ofyourshortenedlife. With me you had a chance tolive perhaps but now as they say in this part ofNevada, the odds are heavily against.

Nevertheless she would be on his conscience,reasoned the intelligence officer, now speeding intothe cutoff toward Route 15 and points south.

Conscience. He wondered if those silent bastardsin Washington had Joel Converse on their collectiveconscience. They had sent a man out and abandonedhim, not even having

the grace to make sure he was killed quickly,mercifully. The programmers of the kamikazeswere saints beside such people.

Converse. Where was he?

Joel stood silently as Leifhelm’s man removedhis gun and turned to speak to the assembled row ofsenile old women in the high-backed chairs. Hespoke for less than a minute, then grabbed Converseby the arm his and their trophy forcing Joel toface Hermione Geyner, whose true prisoner he was.It was a mystical ritual of triumph from a time longpast.

"I have just told these brave women of theunderground,” said the Cerman looking at Converse,“that they have uncovered a traitor to our cause.Frau Geyner will confirm this, ja, meine Dame?”

"Baja!” spat out the intense old woman, her facealive with the fierce joy of victory. “Betrayal!” shescreamed.

“The telephone calls have been made and ourinstructions received,” continued Leifhelm’s soldier.“We shall leave now, A merikaner. There’s nothingyou can do, so let us go qui

“If you had this whole thing so organized, whythose two men on the train, including that one?”asked Joel, nodding at the man with his arm in thesling, instinctively stalling for time, an attorneyallowing an adversary to compliment himself.

“Observed, not organised,” answered theGerman. “We had to be sure you did everythingexpected of you. Everyone here agrees, Stimmt Has,Frau Geyner?”

“Pa!” exploded Valerie’s aunt.

“The other one is dead,” said Joel.

“A loss for the cause and we shall mourn him.Come!” The German bowed to the ladies, as did histwo companions, and led Converse through thelarge double doors to the front entrance. Outside onthe decrepit porch, Leifhelm’s hunter gave the thickenvelope to the man with the sling and issued

orders. Both nodded and walked rapidly down thesteps, the wounded man steadying himself on arickety railing, and then they hurried to the right ofthe long circular drive. Down at the far exit, near thecountry road, Joel could see the shape of a longsedan in the darkness.

The three prison guards led him out of thecompound It was the middle of the night, and he wasbeing transferred either to another camp or to his ownexecution, the killing ground somewhere in the densejungle where his screams would be muted. The headguard barked a command to his two subordinates, whobowed and began running down the road toward acaptured American Jeep several hundred yards away inthe darkness He was alone with the man, thoughtConverse, knowing the moment would not come againexcept as a corpse. If f t was going to ha Open, it hadto ha ppen now. He moved his head slightly, loweringhis gaze to the dark outline of the gun in the guard’shand….

The German’s hand was steady, the weapon itheld rigid against Joel’s chest. Inside the house, theold women had broken into song; their pathetic frailvoices were raised in some victory anthem heardthrough the large casement windows open for thesummer breezes. Converse inched his right footaround the floorboards on the porch, testing severaland finding one weaker than the others. He presseddown with his full weight; the resulting creak wasloud and sharp. Startled, the German turned at theechoing sound.

Now. Joel grabbed the barrel of the gun, twistinghand and steel back and clockwise; he hammered theman across the porch into the wall while gripping theweapon with all his strength, twisting tighter andshoving it into the man’s stomach.

The gunshot was partially muffled by cloth andflesh, by the noise of an engine starting and theexcited singing of senile voices that came through theopen windows. The German collapsed, his headsnapping, his eyes bulging; there was a stench ofburnt fabric and intestines he was dead. Conversecrouched, then whipped around to look down at thelong U-shaped drive, half expecting to see the twoother men racing toward him with guns extended.Instead, he saw the lights of the car in the distance;it was on the country road outside, now turning intothe entrance gate on the left. It would be at theporch in moments.

Prying the weapon out of the German’s hand, Joel

dragged him across the floorboards into the shadowsto the right of the steps. Seconds now.

Get the Jeep. Use the Jeep. The nearest vehiclecheck was five miles down the road they had seen iton work details. Get the Jeep! Cover the ground! TheJeep!

The long sedan pulled up in front of the porchand the man with his arm in the sling got out of theright front door. Converse watched him from behindthe thick corner pillar as the wounded Germanstood on the pavement, looking up into theshadows.

“Konig?”he asked softly, questioning. “Konig,was ist?” He started up the steps, his left handawkwardly, tentatively, going inside his jacket.

Joel spun around the pillar and rushed down theold stair case. Grabbing the wounded man by thesling, he jammed the pistol into the foot soldier’sthroat; he turned him around and rushed him backto the car, then crashed his head against the roof ashe crouched and thrust the weapon through theopen front window.

The astonished driver was quicker than the footsoldier; he was already yanking his gun out of anunseen holster. He fired wildly, shattering thewindshield. Converse fired back blowing the man’shead half out of the window.

Take the bodies into the jungle! Don’t leave themhere near the compound! Every second counts, everyminute!

Joel sprang up and pulled the wounded Germanaway from the car as he opened the front door.“You’re going to help me, you good Christian!” hewhispered, remembering the whining supplication ofa killer in a freight car. “You do as I tell you oryou’ll join your friends. Capisce, or is it verstehen?Whatever the hell it is, you do as I say, do youunderstand me? I’m a panicked man, mister on theedge, and I’ll argue that position in front of theSupreme Court! . . . What the hell am I saying? I’vegot the gun and I’ve killed again it gets easierwhen you don’t want to be killed yourself. AfovelThat lousy son of Gestapo on the porch! Bring himdown here! In the backl”

Perhaps a minute later, Joel would never knowthe time the wounded man was behind the wheeldriving with diflficulty, the two corpses in thebackseat. A tableau of horror Converse thought hewould vomit. Fighting back the nausea, he watchedevery landmark in the countryside as he directed thedriver to take this turn and that pilotage indeli

left and sped down the country road as HermioneGeyner slammed the door shut on the porch.

There was nothing any longer without risk,thought Joel, as he crawled out of the foliage, butthe risk for him now was one he faced with a degreeof confidence. Aquitaine had used up Frau Geyner;there was nothing more it could learn from her. Toreturn to a madwoman held a greater risk for them.Envelope in hand, he walked across the ugly drive,up the creaking steps, and across the sagging porchto the door. He knocked, and ten seconds later ascreeching Hermione Geyner opened it. He then didsomething so totally unpredictable so completely outof character, he did not believe it himself as hefollowed through with the sudden impulse.

He punched the old woman squarely in thecenter of her lower jaw. It was the beginning of thelongest eight hours of his life.

The bewildered security police from theMGM-Grand Hotel reluctantly refused Valerie’soffer of a gratuity, especially as she had raised itfrom $50 to $100, thinking that the economy of LasVegas was somewhat different from New York’s andcertainly Cape Ann’s. They had driven around thestreets of the old and the new city for nearlyforty-five minutes, until both men, both professionalsin their work, assured her that no one was followingtheir car. And they would put a special patrol on theninth floor in an attempt to catch the man who hadharassed her, who had attempted to gain entrance tothe room. They were, of course, naturally chagrinedthat she took a room across the boulevard at CaesarsPalace.

Val tipped the bellman, took her small overnightbag from him, and closed the door. She ran to thephone on the table by the bed.

“I half to go to the toilet!” shouted HermioneGeyner, holding an fee pack under her chin.

“Again?” asked Converse, his eyes barely open,sitting across from the old woman, the envelope andthe gun in his lap.

“You make me nervous. You struck me.”

“You did the same and a hell of a lot more to melast night,” said Joel, getting up from the chair andshoving the gun under his belt, the envelope in hishand.

“I vill see you hanging from a rope! Betrayer! Howmany

hours now? You think our operatives in theUntergrund will not miss me?”

“I think they’re probably feeding pigeons in thepark cooing along with the best of them. Go on, I’llfollow.”

The telephone rang. Converse grabbed the oldwoman by the back of her neck and propelled herto the antique desk and the phone. “Just as wepracticed,” he whispered, holding her firmly. “Do it!”

"Baja?” said Hermione Geyner into thetelephone, Joel’s ear next to hers.

“Tame! Ich bin ’s, Valerie!”

“Val!” shouted Converse, pushing the old womanaway. “It’s me! I’m not sure the phone’s clean; shewas set up, I was set up! Quickly! Tell Sam I waswrong I think I was wrongl The countdown couldbe assassinations all over the goddamned place!”

“He knew that!” shouted Valerie in reply. “He’sdead Joel! He’s dead! They killed him!”

“Oh, Christ! There’s no time, Val, no time! Thephone!”

“Meet me!” screamed the ex-Mrs. Converse.

“Where? Tell me where?”

The pause was less than several seconds, aneternity for both. “Where it began, my darling!”cried Valerie. “Where it began but not where itbegan…. The clouds, darling! The patch and theclouds!”

Where it began. Geneva. But not Geneva. Clouds,a patch. A patch!

“Yes, I know!”

“Tomorrow! The next day! I’ll be there!”

“I have to get out of here…. Val … I love you somuchl So much!”

”The clouds, my darling my only darling oh,God, stay

Joel ripped the telephone out of the wall asHermione Geyner came rushing at him, swinging aheavy brass-handled poker from the fireplace. Theiron hook glanced off his cheek; he grabbed herarm and shouted, “I haven’t got time for you, youcrazy bitch! My client doesn’t have time!” He spunher around and pushed her forward, picking up theenvelope from the table. “You were on your way tothe bathroom, remember?”

In the hall Converse saw what he had hoped hewould

bly imprinted on the mind for the flight back withouta radio or a map or a means to obtain either. Theyreached what looked like a series of rocky pasturesat the base of a mountain, and Converse told theCerman to get off the road. They clambered overseveral hundred yards until there was a sharp declinethat ended at a dense row of trees. He ordered thedriver out.

He had given the last guard a chance. He was a kidin a mismatched uniform; his eyes were intense but hisface raised questions. How much was felt, how muchindoctrinated? He had given the boy the child asimple exam, and a believer had failed the examination.

“Listen to me,” said Joel. “You told me on thetrain that you were hired but that you didn’t want tokill anybody. You were just unemployed and neededa job, is that right?”

“Yes! I kill no one! I only watched, followed!”

“All right. I’ll put the gun away and I’m going towalk out of here. You go wherever you want to go,okay?”

“Ich verstehe! Yes, of course!”

Converse shoved the weapon in his belt andturned, his fingers still gripping the handle as hestarted up the slope. A scratch! The crunching soundof rocks displaced by moving feet! He pivoted,dropping to his knees as the German lunged.

He fired once at the body above him. The footsoldier screamed as he arced in the air and rolleddown the hill. A believer had failed the examination.

Joel walked up the incline with the envelopeaddressed to Nathan Simon and across the rockyfield to the road. He knew the landmarks; the pilotin him would make no mistakes. He knew what hehad to do.

He was concealed far back in the bushes on theedge of Hermione Geyner’s property, thirty yardsfrom the decaying house, twenty from the U-shapeddrive,"which was filled with ruts and bordered bybrown overgrown grass, dead from the heat and lackof water. He had to stay awake, for if it was going tohappen, it would happen soon. Human nature couldtake only so much anxiety; he had played upon thetruism too often as a lawyer. Answers had to begiven to anxious men panicked men. The sun wasup, the birds foraging in the early light, myriadnoises replacing the stillness of the night. But thehouse was silent, the large casement windows,through which only hours ago the voices ofdemented old women had helped muffle gunshots,were closed, many of the panes

cracked. And through all the madness, the insanityof violent events, he still wore the clerical collar,still had his priestly passport and the letter ofpilgrimage. The next few hours would tell himwhether or not they were of any value.

The roar of an engine came first and then thesight of a black Mercedes swerving off the countryroad into the drive. It sped up to the porch, joltingto a stop; two men climbed out and the driver racedaround the trunk to join his companion. They stoodfor a moment looking up at the porch and thewindows of the house, then turned and scanned thegrounds, walking over to Hermione Geyner’s carand peering inside. The driver nodded and reachedunder his jacket to pull out a gun; they went back tothe steps, taking them rapidly, heading across theporch to the door. Finding no bell, the man withouta gun in his hand knocked harshly, repeatedly,finally pounding with a closed fist while twisting theknob to no avail.

Guttural shouts came from inside as the doorswung back, revealing an angry Frau Geyner dressedin a tattered bathrobe. Her voice was that of ashrewish teacher lambasting two students forcheating when in fact they had not. Each time oneof the men tried to speak her voice became evenmore shrill. Cowed, the man with the gun put itaway, but his companion suddenly grabbed Valerie’saunt by the shoulders and spoke harshly, directly,forcing her to listen.

Hermione Geyner did listen, but when shereplied her answers were equally harsh anddelivered with authority. She pointed down at theovergrown drive and described what she hadapparently witnessed in the dark, early-morninghours what she herself had accomplished. The menlooked at each other, their eyes questioning andafraid, but not questioning what the old woman hadtold them, only what she could not tell them. Theyraced across the porch and down the steps to theircar. The driver started the engine with a vengeanceso pronounced the ignition mechanism flew into ahigh-pitched, grinding scream. The Mercedesplunged forward, skirting past Frau Geyner’s car,and in a sudden attempt to avoid a hole in theovergrown pavement, the driver swung to his left,then to his right, skidding on the surface, the tiressliding on the crawling vine weeds until the side ofthe car careened into the disintegrating stone gate.Roars of abuse from both men filled the morningair as the Mercedes straightened itself out and racedthrough the exit. It swung

tee in the red lacquered bowl on the wall table, theold *Roman had dropped them there last night thekeys to her car. The bathroom door pulled out itwas the solution. Once she was inside, Joel draggedover a heavy chair from against the wall and jammedthe thick rim under the knob, kicking the legs inplace, wedging them into the floor. She heard thecommotion and tried to open the door; it held. Theharder she pressed, the more firmly the legs becameembedded.

“We convene again tonight!” she roared. “We willsend out our best people! The best!”

“God help Eisenhower when you meet,” mutteredConverse, inwardly relieved. If Aquitaine did nothave the phone covered, the old woman would befound in a few hours. The envelope under his arm,he took the keys from the lacquered bowl and pulledthe gun from his belt. He ran to the front door andopened it cautiously. There was no one, nothing onlyHermione Geyner’s car parked on the weed-riddendrive. He went outside and pulled the door shut,leaving it unlocked, and raced down the steps to theautomobile. He started the engine; there was half atank of gas, enough to get him far away fromOsnabruck before refilling. Until he could get a map,he would go by the sun heading south.

Valerie made arrangements at the travel office inCaesars Palace, paying cash and using her mother’smaiden name, perhaps hoping some of thatresourceful woman’s wartime expertise might find itsway to the daughter. There was a 6:00 P.M. AirFrance flight to Paris from Los Angeles. She wouldbe on it, the hour’s trip to LAX made on a charteredplane to which she would be chauffeured, thusavoiding the terminal at McCarran Airport. Suchcourtesies were always available, usually forcelebrities and casino winners. There was no basicproblem with a false name on the Air Francepassenger manifest at worst, only embarrassment,in her case easily explained: her former husband,now a stranger, was an infamous man, a hunted man;she preferred anonymity. She would not legally berequired to produce her passport until she arrived atimmigration in Paris, and once through, she couldtravel anywhere she wished, under any name shegave, for she would not be leaving the borders ofFrance. It was why she had thought of Chamonix.

She sat in the chair, looking out the window,thinking of those days in Chamonix. She had flownover with Joel to Ge

neva,where he had three days of conferences withthe promise of five days off to go skiing at MontBlanc, a bonus from John Brooks, the brilliantinternational negotiator of Talbot, Brooks andSimon, who flatly refused to give up some reuniondinner for what he termed “lizard-shit meetingsbetween idiots our boy can do it. He’ll charm theirasses off while emptying their corporate pockets.” Itwas the first time Joel really knew that he was on hisway, yet oddly enough he was almost as excitedabout the skiing. They both enjoyed it so much. To-gether. Perhaps because they were both good.

ButJoel had not enjoyed the skiing at Chamonixthat trip. On the second day he had taken a terriblefall and sprained his ankle. The swelling wasenormous, the pain as acute in his head as in hisfoot. She had knighted him “Sir Grump”, hedemanded his Herald Tribune in the morning,childishly refusing to have his breakfast before thepaper arrived, and even more childishly planing themartyr as his wife went off to the slopes. When shehad suggested that she really did not care to gowithout him, it was worse. He had charged her withtrying to be some kind of saint. He would beperfectly fine he had things to read, which artistswould not understand. Reading, that was.

Oh, what a little boy he had been, thought Val.But during the nights it was so different, he was sodifferent. He became the man again, loving andtender, at once the generous lion and the sensitivelamb. They made love, it seemed, for hours on end,the moonlight on the snow outside, finally the hintof the sun’s earliest rays on the mountains until theyfell together into exhausted sleep.

On their last day before heading back to Genevafor the night flight to New York, she had surprisedhim. Instead of going out for a few final hours ofskiing, she had gone downstairs at the hotel andbought him a sweater, to which she sewed a largepatch on the sleeve. It read: DOWNHILLRACER CHAMONIX. She had presented it tohim while a porter waited outside the door with awheelchair she had made arrangements throughthe influential manager of the hotel. They weretaken to the confer of Chamonix, to the cable carthat scaled thirteen thousand feet to the top ofMont Blanc through the clouds to the top of theworld, it seemed. When they reached the final apex,where the view was breathtaking, Joel had turned toher, with that silly, oblique look in his eyes thatbelied everything he was and everything had been through again, as always, his way ofthanking

"Enough of this foolish scenery,” he had said.“Take off our clothes. It’s not really that cold.”

They had hot coffee, sitting on a bench outside,the magificence of nature all around them. They heldhands, and ,hrist! She had felt such love that she hadto hold back the ears.

She felt the love now and got out of the chair,rejecting he intrusion of emotion. It was the wrongtime. Whatever .larity of mind she could summon wasneeded now. She had o travel halfway across theworld avoiding God knew how nany people who werelooking for her.

He had said he loved her “so much.” Was it loveor was t need . . . support? She had replied with thewords “my daring” no, she had said more than that;she had been far more Specific.. She had said “myonly darling.” Was it a response corn of the panic?

Not knowing was the worst of it, thoughtConverse, tudying the road signs in the wash of theheadlights. He had Steen driving for nearly sevenhours after picking up a map in the city of Hagenwhile refilling the tank seven hours, and accordingto the map he was still a long way from the bordercrossing he had chosen. The reason lay in hisignorance, in not knowing whether HermioneGeyner’s car had been the object of a search in thefirst few hours out of Osnabruck. It undoubtedly wasnow officially by the police but during those sarlyhours he could have made better time on thehighways he dared not use in case Aquitaine hadraced to Geyner’s house with Val’s call. He hadtraveled circuitous backcountry "roads, his pilot’seye on the sun, veering always south until he reachedHagen. Now the back roads were a necessity;whether they were before he would never know.Now, however, Hermione Geyner and her band oflunatics must have gone to the police to report herstolen car. Joel had no idea what they could possiblysay that would convince the Polizei that Valerie’saunt was an injured party, but a stolen car was astolen car, whether driven by Saint Francis of Assisior Jack the Ripper. He would stay on the back roads.

Lennestadt to Kreuztal, crossing the Rhine atBendorf and following the west bank of the riverthrough Koblenz, Oberwesel, and Bingen, then southto Neustadt and east to

Speyerand the Rhine again. And again souththrough the bor der towns of Alsace-Lorraine, finallyto the city of Kehl. It we’ where he would cross intoFrance, a decision based on the fact that severalyears agoJohn Brooks had sent him to Strasbourgthe French city across the river border, to a terriblydull con ference at which eight lawyers argued socontinuously wit! each other over minor aspects oflanguage and translation that nothing of substancewas accomplished. As a result, Joe had walked thecity and driven out to the countryside, awec by itsbeauty. He had taken several boat trips up and downthe Rhine, and now he remembered the ferries thatshuttle: back and forth between the piers ofGermany and France Above all, he remembered thecrowds in Strasbourg. Always the crowds had helpedhim he needed them especially now

It would take another three to four hours ofdriving, but somewhere he would have to stop andsleep for a while. He was exhausted; he had notslept for so long he could not accu rately rememberwhen he had last closed his eyes. But there wasChamonix and Val ahead. He had told her he lovedher he had said it. He had gotten it out after somany years: the relief was incredible, but theresponse even more incredi” ble. “My darling myonly darling.” Did she mean it? Or was shesupporting him again, the artist’s emotions ridingover reason and experience?

Aquitaine! Push everything out of your mind andget into Francet

The polar flight from Los Angeles to Paris wasuneventful, the moonscapes of ice over thenorthernmost regions of, the world hypnoticallypeaceful, suspending thought by the sheer expanseof their cold infinity. Nothing seemed to matter toVal as she looked down from the substratosphere.But what’ ever tranquility the flight produced, itcame to an end in Paris.

“Are you in France on business or on holiday,madame?” asked the immigration official, takingValerie’s passport and typing her name into thecomputer.

“En pen de l’un et de l’autre.”

“Vous parley franpais?”

“C’est ma lance preferee. Mes parentsetaientparisiens, ” explained Val, and continued in French,“I’m an artist and I’ll be talking with severalgalleries. Naturally, I’ll want to travel ” Shestopped, seeing the ofllcial’s eyes glance up

from his screen, studying her. “Is anything thematter? " she asked.

“Nothing of concern, madame,” said the man,picking up his telephone and talking in a low voice,the words indishnguishable in the hum of the hugecustoms hall. “There is someone who wishes to speakwith you.”

“That’s of considerable concern to me, ” objectedValerie frightened. “I’m not travelingunder my ownname for a very good reason which I suspect thatmachine of yours has told you, and I will not besubjected to interrogations or the indignity of thepress! I’ve said all I have to say. Please reach theAmerican embassy for me.”

" There is no need for that, madame,” said theman, replacing the phone. “It is not an interrogationand no one of the press will know you are in Parisunless you tell them. Also there is nothing in thismachine but the name on your passport and arequest.”

A second uniformed official hurriedly entered theroped-offaisle from a nearby office. He bowedpolitely. “If you will come with me, madame,” he saidquietly in English, obviously noticing the fear in hereyes and assuming her reluctance. “You may, ofcourse, refuse, as this is in no way official but I hopeyou will not. It is a favor between old friends.”

“Who are you?”

“Chief inspector of immigrations, madame.”

“And who wishes to speak with me?”

“It would be up to him to tell you that his namedoes not appear on the request. However, I’m togive you another name. Mathlon. He says you twowere old friends and he respected him a great deal.”

“Mamlon?”

“If you will be so kind as to wait in my office, Iwill personally clear your luggage.”

“This is my luggage,” said Val, her thoughts onsomeone who would bring up Rene’s name. “I’ll wanta police officer nearby, one who can watch througha glass door.”

“PourquoiP. . . Why, madame?”

“One mesure de surety, ” replied Valerie.

“Out, bier sur, mais ce n’est pas necessaire.”

"7′insiste ou je pars. “

“D’accord. “

It was explained that the person who wished tospeak with her was driving out to De Gaulle Airportfrom the center

of Paris; it would take thirty-five minutes. Waiting,she had coffee and a small glass of Calvados. Theman walked through the door. Of late middle age,he was dressed in rumpled clothing, as if hisappearance did not matter any longer. His faceseemed lined as much from weariness as from age,and when he spoke his voice was tired butnevertheless precise.

“I will keep you but a few minutes, madame. I’msure you have places to go, people to see.”

“As I explained,” said Val, looking hard at theFrenchman, “I’m in Paris to talk with severalgalleries “

“That is no concern of mine,” interrupted theman, holding up his hands. “Forgive me, I do notcare to hear. I care to hear nothing unless madamewishes to speak after I’ve spoken to her.”

- “Why did you use the name of Mattilon?”

“An introduction. You were friends. May I goback before Monsieur Mattilon?”

“Go back by all means.”

“My name is Prudhomme. I am with the Surete.A man died in a hospital here in Paris several weeksago. It is said your former husband, MonsieurConverse, was responsible.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“It was not possible,” said the Frenchman calmly,sitting down and taking out a cigarette. “Have nofear, this office is not “tapped’ or ”bugged.’ The chiefinspector and I go back to the Resistance.”

“That man died after a brutal fight with myformer husband,” said Val cautiously. “I read it inthe newspapers, heard it on the radio. Yet you’retelling me he wasn’t responsible for his death. Howcan you say that?”

“The man did not die in the hospital, he waskilled. Between two-fifteen and two-forty-five in themorning. Your husband was on a flight fromCopenhagen to Hamburg during those hours. It hasbeen established.”

“You know this),”

“Not officially, madame. I was removed from thecase. A subordinate, a man with little policeexperience but with the Army later in the ForeignLegion, no less was given the assignment while Iwas shifted to more "important’ matters. I askedquestions; I will not bore you with details, but theman’s lungs collapsed a sudden trauma unrelatedto his wounds. The man was suffocated. It was notin the report. It was removed.”

“I gather that. It’s Stone.”

“Mah wand, the Tatiana re-route!” exclaimed theSoutherner. “Someday you must tell me about thishere fascinatin’ family of yours, Brer Rabbit.”

" Someday I will.”

“I seem to recollect having heard the namesomewheres around the late sixties, but I didn’tknow what it meant.”

“Trust whoever used it.”

“Why should I do that?”

" Because whoever it was was trusted by thehangingest judges in the world.”

“Who might that be?”

“The enemy, Rebel.”

“If that’s a parable, Yankee, you lost me.”

“Someday, Johnny, not now. What have you got?”

“Well, let me tell you, I saw the damnedest littleisland over here you ever did see. It’s not twentymiles off the coast near the mouth of the Elbe, rightwhere it’s supposed to be. In the Heligoland Bight,they call it, which is a section of the North Sea.”

“Scharhorn,” said Stone, making a statement.“You found it.”

“It wasn’t tough to find everybody seems toknow about it but nobody goes near a certainsouthwest shoreline. It used to be a U-boatrefueling station in World War Two. The securitywas so tight most of the German High Commanddidn’t know about it, and the Allies never got aclue. The old concrete-and-steel structures are stillthere, and it’s supposed to be deserted except for acouple of caretakers, who, I’m told wouldn’t pickyou out of the water if your boat crashed into oneof the old submarine winches.” Johnny Reb paused,then continued softly, “I went out there last nightand saw lights, too many lights in too many places.There are people out there on that old base, notjust a couple of watchmen, and you can bet aYankee pot roast your lieutenant commander is oneof them. Also around two o’clock in the morningafter the lights went out, the tallest mother-lovin’antenna this side of Houston slid up like a bioniccornstalk, but there was no corn on the top. Instead,it bloomed like a regular sunflower. It was a disk,the kind they use for satellite transmissions…. Youwant me to mount a team? I can do it; there’s a lotof unemployment these days. Also the cost will beminimal, because the more I think about it, themore I appreciate your swinging

Valerie controlled herself, keeping her voice cooland distant despite her anxiety. “Now,” she said,“what about Mattilon? My friend, Mattilon. ”

“Fingerprints,” replied the Frenchman wearily.“They suddenly are discovered twelve hours after thearrondissement police who are very good haveexamined that office. And yet there was a death inWesel, West Germany, within the rising and thesetting of the same sun. Your former husband’scountenance was described, his identity all but con-firmed. And an old woman on a train toAmsterdam the same routing who is found with agun in her hand again a description given. Has thisConverse wings? Does he fly unobserved overborders by himself? Again it is not possible.”

“What are you trying to tell me, MonsieurPrudhomme?”

The man from the Surete inhaled on his cigaretteas he tore off a page from his note pad and wrotesomething on it. “I’m not certain, madame, since Iam no longer officially leged in these matters. But ifyour former husband did not cause the man in Paristo die and could not have shot your old friendMonsieur Mattilon, how many others did he not kill,including the American ambassador in Bonn and thesupreme commander of NATO? And who are thesepeople who can tell government sources to confirmthis and confirm that, to change assignments ofsenior police personnel at will, to alter medicalreports removing suppressing evidence? There arethings I do not understand, madame, but I am cer-tain those are the very things I am not meant tounderstand. And that is why I’m giving you thistelephone number. It is not my office; it is my flat inParis my wife will know where to reach me. Simplyremember, in an emergency say that you are fromthe Tatiana family.”

Stone sat at the desk, the ever-present telephonein his hand. He was alone had been alone when thecall came from Charlotte, North Carolina, from awoman he had once loved very dearly years ago inthe field. She had left the “terrible game,” as shecalled it; he had stayed, their love not strong enough.

The connection was completed to Cuxhaven,West Germany, to a telephone he was sure would besterile. That certainty was one of the pleasures indealing with Johnny Reb.

“Bobbie-Jo’s Chicken FryI” was the greeting overthe line. “We deliver.”

me out of the Dardanelles before those guns gotthere. That was really more important than gettingme off the hook with those contingency funds inBahrain.”

“Thanks, but not yet. If you go in for him now,we show cards we can’t show.”

“How long can you wait? Remember I taped thatprick Washburn.”

“How much did you put together?”

“More than this old brain can absorb, if you wantthe truth. But not more than I can accept. It’s beena long time coming, hasn’t it? The eagles thinkthey’re gonna catch the goddamned sparrows afterall, don’t they? "Cause they’re gonna turn everyoneinto sparrows…. You know, Stone, I shouldn’t saythis because in your old age you became a bit softerthan I did in mine, but if they get it off the ground,a lot of people everywhere may just lie back in theirhammocks or go fishin’, and say the hell with it letthe big, uniformed daddies do it. Let’em straightenthings out get the potheads with their guns andswitchblades off the streets and out of the parks.Show the Russkies and the oil boys in bathrobes wedon’t take their crap anymore. Let’s show Jesuswe’re the good guys with a lot of clout. Thosesoldiers, they got the guts and the guns, thecorporations and the conglomerates, so what does itmean to me? Where do I change, says the Joe in thehammock, except maybe for the better?”

“Not better,” said Stone icily. “Those same peoplebecome robots. We all become robots, if we live.Don’t you understand that?”

“Yeah, I do,” answered Johnny Reb. “I guess Ialways have. I live on a hog-high in Bern while youscratch in D.C Yes, old buddy, I understand. Maybebetter than you do. . . . Forget it, I’m enlisted. Butwhat in all-fire hell are you going to do about thisConverse? I don’t think he’s going to get out.”

“He has to. We think he has the answers thefirsthand answers that give us the proof.”

“In my opinion he’s dead,” said the Southerner.“Maybe not now but soon soon’s they find him.”

“We have to find him first. Can you help?”

“I started the night I needled Major NormanAnthony Washburn the Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth Ikeep rosin’ track of the numerals. You got thecomputers the ones you have ac

cess to and I’ve got the streets where they sellthings you’re not supposed to buy. So far, nothing.”

".Try to find something, because you were rightbefore we don’t have much time. And, Johnny, doyou have the same feeling I have about that island,about Scharhorn?”

“Like Appomattox, way down deep in thestomach. I can taste the bile, Brer Rabbit, which iswhy I’m going to possum down here for a few days.We found ourselves a beehive, boy and the dronesare restless, I can sense it.”

Joel put the map and the thick envelope on thegrass and began pulling branches down from a smalltree in the orchard to cover Hermione Geyner’s car.Each yanking of a limb filled him with pain, asmuch from fatigue as from the strain on his arms.Finally, he bunched together reeds of tall grass andthrew them everywhere over the frame The effect inthe moonlight was that of an immense mound ofhay. He picked up the map and the envelope andstarted walking toward the road two hundred yardsaway. According to the map, he was on the outskirtsof a city or town called Appenweier, ten miles fromthe border at Kehl, directly across the Rhine fromStrasbourg.

He walked along the road, running into the grasswhenever he saw the headlights of a car in eitherdirection. He had traveled perhaps five or sixmiles there was no way to tell and knew that hecould go no farther.

In the jungles he had rested, knowing that rest wasas much a wee pon as a gun, the eyes and the mindfar more lethal when alert than a dozen steel weaponsstrapped to his bady.

He found a short ravine that bordered a brook,the rocks would be his fortress he fell asleep.

Valerie walked out of the Charles De GaulleAirport on the arm of the man from the Surete,Prudhomme, having accepted the scrap of paperwith his telephone number but vol

tmteering nothing. They approached the cabstand onthe platform and Prudhomme spoke. “I will makemyself clear madame. You may take a taxi here andI shall bid you adieu, or you may permit me to driveyou wherever you like perhaps to another taxistand in the city, to go wherever you wish and I willknow if anyone is following you.”

“You would?”

“In thirty-two years, even a fool learns something.My wife keeps telling me she has no lovers onlybecause I have learned the rudiments of myprofession.”

“I accept your invitation,” interrupted Val,smiling. “I’m terribly tired. A small hotel, perhaps.Le Pont Royal, I know it.”

“An excellent choice, but I must say that my wifewould welcome you without any questions.”

“My time must be my own, monsieur,” saidValerie, climbing into the car.

“D "accord. “

“Why are you doing this?” she asked asPrudhomme got behind the wheel. “My husband wasa lawyer is a lawyer. The rules can’t be thatdifferent. Aren’t you some kind of ac-cessory assuming what I know damned well you’reassuming?”

“I only wish that you will call me, saying that youare from the Tatiana family. That is my risk and thatis my reward.”

Converse looked at his watch a watch takenfrom a collapsed body so long ago he could notremember when and saw that it was five-forty-fivein the morning, the sun abruptly illuminating hisfortress ravine. The stream was below, and so hetook care of his necessities downstream and plungedhis face into the flow of water upstream. He had tomove; as he remembered, he had five miles to walkto the border.

He reached Kehl. There he bought a razor,reasoning that a priest would maintain hisappearance as best he could even under the duressof poor travel accommodations. He shaved at theriver depot, then took the ferry across the scenicRhine to Strasbourg. The customs officials were sodeferential to his collar and his passport as well as tohis shabby appearance undoubtedly taken as a signof the vow of poverty that he found himselfblessing a number of men, and by extension theirentire families, as he was passed through thebuilding.

Out on the bustling streets he knew that the firstthing he had to do was to get into a hotel room,shower off two days of fear and violence, and havehis clothes cleaned or replaced. Animpoverished-looking priest would not travel to theexpensive wonders of Chamonix; it would beunseemly. But a normally dressed priest, would beperfectly acceptable, even desirable, a figure ofrespectability among the crowds. And a priest hewould remain, Converse had decided the decisionhere based again on legal experience. Think outanticipate what your adversary expects you to do,then do not conform unless you retain theadvantage. The hunters of Aquitaine would expecthim to shed his priestly habit, as it was his lastknown means of disguise; he would not do that;there were too many priests in France and too muchadvantage in being one.

He registered at the Sofitel on the Place Saint-Pierre-le-Jeune and without elaboration explained tothe concierge that he had been through a dreadfulthree days of traveling and would the kind man seeto several items he needed rather desperately. Hewas from a very well-endowed parish in Los Angelesand An American $100 bill took care of the rest.His suit was cleaned and pressed within the hour,his muddy shoes shined, and two new shirts withclerical collars purchased from a shop “unfortunatelyquite a distance away on the Quai Kellermann,” thusnecessitating an additional charge. The gratuities,the expenses and the surcharges for rush service –all were a hotelman’s dream. The suntanned priestwith a blemish or two on his face, and odd demandsbased on time, certainly had to come from a“well-endowed” parish. It was worth it. He hadchecked in at eight-thirty in the morning, and bynine-fifty-five he was ready to make his finalarrangements for Chamonix.

He could not risk taking a plane or going by rail;too much had happened to him at airports and ontrains they would be watched. And sooner or laterHermione Geyner’s car would be found, and hisdirection if not his destination would be known.Aquitaine’s alarms would go out across the threeborders of Germany, France and Switzerland; againthe safest way was by automobile. The eagerlyaccommodating concierge was summoned; a finerental car was arranged for the youngish monsignor,and a route planned to Geneva, some two hundredthirty-eight miles south.

Of course, he would not cross over into Geneva butwould

go along the border roads and head for Chamonix,an hour-plus away. His estimated travel time wasbetween five and six hours; he would reach the baseof Mont Blanc by four-thirty in the afternoon, five atthe latest. He wasted no time speeding out ofStrasbourg on the Alpine Autoroute marked 83 onhis map.

Valerie dressed as the first light silhouetted theirregularly shaped buildings of Paris outside herwindows on the Boulevard Raspail. She had not beenable to sleep, nor had she made any attempt to to doso; she had lain awake pondering the words of thestrange Frenchman from the Surete who could notspeak officially. She had been tempted to tell himthe truth but knew she would not, not yet, perhapsnot at all, for the possibility of a trap wasconsiderable revelations based on truth could tooeasily be employed to corner the hunted. Still, hisplea had the ring of truth, his own truth, notsomeone else’s: “Call and say you are from theTatiana family. That is my wish and my reward.”

Joel would have an opinion. If the man was notsimply bait put out by Aquitaine, it was a crack intheir strategy the generals knew nothing about. Shehoped he was his own man, but to trust him at thispoint was impossible.

She had read the domestic schedules provided byAir France on the plane from Los Angeles and knewthe routing she would take to Chamonix. AirTouraine had four flights daily to Annecy, thenearest airport to Chamonix and Mont Blanc. Shehad hoped to make a reservation on the 7:00 A.M.flight last night but the sudden, unnerving intrusionof Prudhomme had ruled it out, and by the time shecalled Touraine from the Pont Royal there were noseats it was summer and Mont Blanc was a touristattraction. Nevertheless, she was on standby for theeleven o’clock flight. It was better to be at OrlyAirport, better to be in the crowds, as Joel insisted.

She took the open, brass-grilled elevator down tothe lobby, paid her bill, and asked for a taxi.

“A queue heure, madameF”

“Maintenant, s’il vous plait. “

“Dans quelques minutes.”

“Merci. “

The taxi arrived and Val went outside, greeted bya surly sleepy-eyed driver who had no intention ofgetting out of the

cab to help her m and was only vaguely willing toaccept her patronage.

“Orly, s’il vous plaint.”

The driver started up, reached the corner andswung his wheel to the left to make a rapid U-turnso as to head back into the Raspail toward theexpressway leading to the airport. The intersectionappeared to be deserted. It was not.

The crash behind them was close by andsudden metal striking metal as glass shattered andtires screeched. The driver slammed on his brakes,screaming in shock and fear as the taxi veered intothe curb. Val was thrown against the front seat, herknees scraping the floor. Awkwardly she started toget up as the driver leaped from the cab yelling atthe offending parties behind.

Suddenly the right rear door opened and thelined, weary face of Prudhomme was above her, atrickle of blood rolling down from a gash in hisforehead. He spoke quickly, quietly. “Go,madame wherever it is you go. No one will followyou now.”

“You9. . . You’ve been here all night! You werewaiting for me, watching. It was you who crashedinto that car!”

“There is no time. I will send your driver back.I must make out my tedious report while scatteringa few items in the man’s car, and you must leave.Now before others

" That namer” cried Val. “It was Tatiana?”

“Thank your”

“Au revoir. Tonne chance.” The man from theSGrete ducked away and ran back to the twoFrenchmen shouting at each other behind the taxi.

It was three-twenty in the afternoon whenConverse saw the sign: SAINT-JULlEN ENCENEVOlS 15 KM. He had rounded the borderof Switzerland, the autoroute to Chamonix directlyahead, east of Geneva, just south of Annemasse. Hewould reach Mont Blanc in something over an hour;he had done it! He had also driven as he had neverbefore driven in his life, the powerful Citroenresponding to his pilot’s touch, his pilot’s mindoblivious to everything but the sweep in front ofhim, the equipment around him the feel of thehard road beneath as he took the Alpine curves. Hehad stopped to refuel once at Pontarlier, where hedrank steaming

hot tea from a vending machine. Since he had leftthe expressway for the shorter distance of themountain roads, his speed depended on his everyreaction being instantaneous and accurate. An hournow. Be there, Val. Be there, my loved

Valerie looked at her watch ready to scream"sshe had wanted to scream since six-thirty in themorning at Orly Airport. It was four-ten in theafternoon, and the entire day had been filled withone crisis after another, from the crash in theBoulevard Raspail, and Prudhomme’s revelation thatshe was being followed, to her arrival at Annecy onthe one o’clock flight from Paris itself delayed by amalfunctioning luggage door. Her nerves werestretched to the outer limits, but she knew above allthat she could not lose her control. l:)oing so wouldonly rivet attention on her; it briefly had.

There were no seats on the seven o’clock flightand the eleven o’clock plane had been overbooked.Only those with lockets in their hands werepermitted through the gate. She had protested soangrily that people began staring at her. Then shehad retreated to the soft-spoken bribe, which onlyserved to irritate the clerk not because he wasmorally offended but because he could notaccommodate her and accept the money. Againpassengers behind and on both sides, in both lines,had looked over as the clerk admonished her withtrue Gallic hauteur. It was no way to get toChamonix alive, Val had thought, and had accepteda locket on the one o’clock flight.

The plane landed at Annecy over a half-hour late,several minutes after three, and the subsequent crushat the taxi platform caused her to behave in a wayshe generally tried to avoid. Being a relatively tallwoman tall in appearance, certainly she knew theeffect she provoked when she looked downdisdainfully at those around her. A geneticpreordinabon had made her privileged, didn’t theyknow? Foolishly, too many people accepted theposturing as proof of innate superiority; the womenwere intimidated, the men both inbmidated andsexually aroused. The tactic had gained her a fewforward places in the taxi line, but the line was stilllong. Then she had happened to glance to her right;at the far end of the platform were glisteninglimousines, with several chauffeurs leaning againstthem, smoking cigarettes, picking their teeth andchattering. What in heaven’s name was she doings Shehad broken away from the line, opening her purse asshe ran.

Her final frustration now was the result ofsomething she should have remembered. There wasa point in the theatrical setting that was thewondrous “village” of Chamonix where automobilescould not pass and only small official and jitneys fortourists were allowed. She got out of the limousineand walked rapidly down the wide, crowdedboulevard. She could see the large red cable-carterminal in the distance. Somewhere above, abovethe clouds, was Joel. Her Joel. She could not stopherself; she did not try to maintain the control shehad imposed on herself all day. She began torun faster faster! Be up there, my darling! Be alive,my darling my only darling!

It was ten minutes to five when Conversescreeched into the parking lot; he slammed on thebrakes and leaped out of the car. There had beentragic on the Mont Blanc autoroute a holdover atthe new construction over the vast gorge bridge.Every muscle in his right leg had been cramped bythe exertion of seizing every opportunity to swingaround the lethargic traffic.. He was here! He was inChamonix, the majestic splendor of the Alps infront of him, the village below. He started running,taking swallows of breath from the clear air of themountains, forgetting the pain for she had to bethere’ Please, Val, make itil love you so . . . goddamnit, I need you so! Be there!

She stood outside the cable lift looking at theclouds below on the mountains that formed a wallof mist hiding all earthly concerns. She shivered inthe Alpine cold but she could not leave. She stoodby the stone railing, by a thick mountain telescopethrough which tourists could observe the wonders ofthe Alpine world for a few francs. She was fright-ened to death that he would not come could notcome. Death.

It was the last cable car, none were permittedafter the sun descended over the westernpeaks cables were suddenly frozen with shadows.Except for the bartender and several customersinside the glass doors of the bar, she was the onlyone there. Joel! I told you to stay alive! Please dowhat I said, my darling my only darling! My onlylove!

The cable car laboriously approached, thenscreechingly came to a stop. There was no onethere. It was empty! Death.

And then he walked into view, a tall man in aclerical col

far, and the top of the world made sense again. Hestepped out of the car and she ran to him as he ranto her. They embraced, holding each other as theyhad never held each other as man and wife.

“I love you!” he whispered. " Oh, God, I love you.”

She pulled back, holding his shoulders, tearsfilling her eyes. “You’re alive, you’re here! You didwhat I asked you to do.”

“What l had to do,” he said. “Because it was you.”

They slept naked, their bodies together, theirarms around each other, for a while pushing out theworld as they knew it to be, a world they would facein the morning. But for a bme there had to besomething for themselves, for each other, giving andreceiving, precious hours alone, speaking in whispers,trying to understand what they had lost and why,each telling the other it would never be lost again.

When morning came, they wanted to deny itsarrival, yet not completely. There ureas the world asthey knew it, and there was another world as thegenerals of Aquitaine would have it.

They ordered Continental breakfasts and an extrapot of coffee. While Val combed her hair Joel wentto Me window and looked down at the colorful,vibrant town of Chamonix. Hoses pouring out waterwere seemingly everywhere the streets were beingwashed down. The storefronts were splashed untilthey glistened. Chamonix was preparing for theonslaught of summer tourists thinking of which,mused Converse, they had been lucky to find rooms.They had gone to three hotels the first was nearlya disaster before they reached the desk. “For Cod’ssake, get rid of that collar!” Valerie had whispered.None of the three had anything available, but thefourth, the Croix Blanche, had just received acancellation.

“I’ll go out and get you some clothes later,” saidVal, coming up behind him, placing her head on hisshoulder.

“I’ve missed that,” he said, turning, putting hisarms around her. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

“We’ve found each other, darling. That’s all thatmatters.” There was a knock on the door, the politeknock of a waiter. “That’ll be the coffee. Go use mytoothbrush.”

They sat across from each other at the smallmarble table in front of the window. It was time,and they both knew it. Joel placed a sheet of hotelstationery beside his coffee and a hotel pen on top.

“I still can’t get over my aunt!” said Valsuddenly. “How could I have done it? How could Inot have known?”

“A couple of times I asked myself the samequestion.” Converse smiled gently. “About you, Imean.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t throw me out of the cablecar.”

“Only crossed my mind twice.”

“God, I was stupid!”

“No, you were desperate, ” corrected Joel. “Justas she was desperate. You were grasping atpossibilities, for help. She was desperately trying togo back to the only meaningful days of her life. Aperson can be terribly convincing feeling like that.She had the proper words, all those esoteric phrasesyou’d heard all your life. You believed her. I wouldhave believed her too.”

“You’re devastating when you’re kind, darling.Go easy, it’s morning.”

“Tell me about Sam Abbott,” he said.

“Yes, of course, but before I do, I want you toknow we’re not alone. There’s a man in Paris, aninspector from the Surete, who knows you didn’t killRene and you couldn’t have killed the one theycalled a chauffeur at the George Cinq.”

Startled, Joel leaned forward over his coffee.“But I did kill that man. God knows I didn’t meanto I thought he was reaching for a gun, not aradio but I fought him, I smashed his head intothe wall; he died from a cranial something-or-other.”

“No, he didn’t. He was killed in the hospital. Hewas suffocated; his lungs were collapsed bysuffocation. It was unrelated to his injuries, that’swhat Prudhomme said. As he put it, if you didn’tkill the driver and you didn’t kill Rene, how manyothers didn’t you kill? He thinks you’ve been set up,he doesn’t know why any more than he canunderstand why evidence has been suppressed, orsuddenly found when it should have been foundearlier if it existed in this case your finger

prints in Mattilon’s office. He wants to help; he gaveme a telephone number where we can reach him.”

“Can we trust him?” asked Joel, writing a note onthe stationery.

“I think so. He did something remarkable thismorning, but I’ll get to that.”

“ The man at the George Cinq,” said Conversesoftly. “Bertholdier’s aide. It’s where the runningbegan. It’s as though the moment was suddenlyseized upon, someone recognizing a possible strategy,not wanting to let the opportunity slip away. ”Brandhim a killer now, maybe we can use it, build on it.All it costs is a life.’lesus!”Joel struck a match and lita cigarette. “Go on, " he continued. “Go back. Whatabout Sam?”

She told him everything, starting with themadness at the St. Regis in New York thefrightening telephone call that led to an intenseyoung man racing up the steps and an Army officerrunning after her down the street.

“The odd thing here,” interrupted Converse, “isthat those men, that call, might have beenlegitimate.”

“What? How? The first one looked like a Hitleryouth, and the other was in uniform!”

"Most people in uniform would be the first onesto want the generals of Aquitaine cut loose in atyphoon. Remember, Fitzpatrick said those fourdossiers came from way down deep in official vaults,and judging from much of the material, Connalthought there was heavy military input. Maybe mysilent partners in Washington are beginning to crawlout of their sewers. Sorry. Go on.”

She told him of meeting Sam at the diner in LasVegas the married Sam, Sam the father of twoyoung girls. Wincing, Joel listened, all his antennaerevolving, catching every turn of phrase, everymeaning that might have more than one meaning,trying desperately to find a clue, a wayffomething,anything they might use or act upon. And then heheld up his hand, signaling Val to stop.

“The three of you were going to Washington?”

“Yes.”

“You and Sam and this third person he was goingto see, going to talk to the one he said would knowwhat to do.”

“Yes. The man who had Sam killed. He was theonly one Sam talked to.”

“But Abbott said he trusted him. With "his life,’I think you said.”

“Sam said,” corrected Valerie. “He was wrong.”

“Not necessarily. Sam was easygoing but noteasily conned. He chose his friends carefully; hedidn’t have too many because he knew his rank wasvulnerable.”

“But he didn’t talk with anyone else_”

“I’m sure he didn’t, but this other man had to. Iknow something about crisis conferences inWashington and that’s exactly what Sam meantwhen he said you were going there. Those meetingsdon’t just happen; some strong words are used tocut a path through the bureaucratic mess. CertainlySam’s name would be put forward first he had thestatus and the rank and just possibly my name, oryours, or even Delavane’s, any of which would havebeen enough.” Converse picked up the pen. “Whatwas his name?”

“Oh, Lord,” said Val, closing her eyes, herfingers massaging her forehead. “Let me think….Alan, the first name was Alan…. Alan Metzger?Metland… ?”

“Was there a rank, a title of some kind?”

“No. Metcalf! Alan Metcalf, that was it.”

Joel wrote down the name. “Okay, let’s get toParis, the man from the Surete.”

She began with the odd behavior of theimmigration officials, which led to the strangemeeting with the weary, rumpled Prudhomme. Shereached the end of the Frenchman’s startlingrevelations, repeating herself but filling in all the de-tails she had omitted previously. When she finished,Converse held up his palm for the second time, hismouth open in astonishment, his eyes wide andalive.

“The Taffana family?” he asked incredulously.“Are you certain?”

“Completely. I asked him again this morning.”

“This morning? Yes, you said he did somethingremarkable this morning. What happened?”

“He stayed up all night outside the hotel in hiscar, and when I left in a taxi shortly after the sunwas up he crashed and I mean crashed into thecar behind us. I was being followed. He told me tohurry up and get out of there. That’s when I askedhim to repeat the name. It was Tatiana.”

“That was the name Rene told me to use withCort Thorbecke in Amsterdam. “Say you’re amember of the Tatiana family. Those were hisinstructions. ”

THE AQUITAINE

PROGRESSION 589“What does it meant”

“Rene didn’t go into it too deeply, but I got thedrift. Ap“arently it means some kind of trust, alitmus test that clears omeone for a level ofinformation that would be withheld rom ninety-ninepercent of the people wanting it. ”

“Why?”

“It sounds crazy, but Mattilon said it was becausewho"ver was part of Tatiana was trusted by themost suspicious eople on earth men who couldn’tafford to make a mis:ake.”

“My God, who?”

“Russians. Commissars in the Kremlin who floatmoney ut to brokers in the West who invest it.”

“You’re right,” said Val. “It’s crazy.”

“But it works, don’t you see? Decent men who forone reason or another found themselves in a worldthey probably rated, never knowing whom they couldtrust, figured out a rode among themselves. To be amember of the Tahanas is some kind of clearance.It’s not only a signal of emergency it’s more thanthat. It means that whoever sends that signal is allright in spite of what he may have to do. I’ll bet it’sone hell of a small circle. Rene, this Prudhomme,they’d fit into it. And for us it’s a key, we can trustit.”

“You’re in court, aren’t you?” said the now andformer Mrs. Converse, reaching across the table forhis free hand.

“I don’t know any other way to do it. Facts,names, tactics; somewhere there’s a crack, a road wecan take we have to take. Quickly.”

“I’d start with Prudhomme,” said Val.

“We’ll call in his hand but maybe not first. Let’stake things in sequence. Are there two phones inhere? A certain ex-wife had me too preoccupied tonotice last night.”

“She’s probably pregnant.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Down, boy. Yes, there’s another phone. It’s inthe bathroom.”

“I want you to call this Metcalf, Alan Metcalf, inLas Vegas. We’ll get the number from information.I’ll listen.”

“What do I say?”

“What name did you and Sam use?”

“The one I told you. Parquette.”

“Say that’s who’s calling, nothing else. Let him makethe

first move. If it’s wrong, I’ll know we’ll bothknow and I’ll hang up. You’ll hear me and youhang up, too.”

“Suppose he’s not there? Suppose I get a wife ora girl friend or a child?”

“Leave your name quickly and say you’ll callback m an hour.”

Peter Stone sat on the sofa, his feet up on thecoffee table. Across, in two armchairs, were theArmy captain out of uniform and the young Navylieutenant, also in street clothes.

“We agree, then,” said Stone. “We try thisMetcalf and hope for the best. If we’re wrong ifI’m wrong we could be traced, and don’t foolyourselves, you’ve been seen here, you could beidentified. But as I told you before, there comes atime when you have to take a risk you’d rather nottake. You’re out of safe territory and you hope toChrist you get through it fast. I can’t promise thatyou will. This phone is tapped into another number,a hotel across town, so any trace would be delayed,but only delayed while everyone registered ischecked, every room checked. Once that’s over with,any experienced telephone repairman could godown in the cellars and find the intercept.”

“How much time would that give us?” asked theArmy of ficer.

“It’s one of the largest hotels in New York,”replied the civilian. “With luck, twenty-four tothirty-six hours.”

“Go for it!” ordered the Navy man.

".Oh, for God’s sake,” said the captain, runninghis hand through his hair. “Yes, of course, try it, tryhim. But I’m still not sure why.”

“Scat patterns. It was routine information andeasy to get. Abbott wrote out his schedules everyday and he was preciseabout them. There was apreponderance of lunches alone with Metcalf, anddinners with both families at either the Abbott orthe Metcalf home. I think he trusted the man, andas a longtime intelligence officer Metcalf was thelogical one to go to. Also, there’s something else.Along with Converse, all three were prisoners ofwar in Vietnam.”

“Go for it!” cried the Navy lieutenant.

“For Christ’s sake, find another phrase,” said thecaptain.

“It’s an answering machine!” shouted Val,gripping the mouthpiece of the telephone.

Joel came out of the bathroom. “One hour,” hewhis"ered.

“One hour,” she said. “Miss Parquette will callback in n hour.” She hung up.

“And every hour after that,” added Converse,staring town at the phone. “I don’t like this. It’s oneo’clock in the Horning back there, and if there’s awife or children aroumd, omeone should have beenthere.”

“Sam didn’t mention a wife or children, except hisown.”

“No reason why he would.”

“There could be a dozen explanations, Joel.”

“I just hope it’s not the one I keep thinking about.”

“Let me call Prudhomme,” said Valerie. “Let’suse this atiana family.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“We need something else he needs somethingelse.’ ;uddenly, Converse’s gaze fell on the thickenvelope adlressed to Nathan Simon. It was on thebureau, his false pass"ort on top. “My God, wemay have it,” he said quietly. “It’s een right there allthe time and I didn’t see it.”

Val followed his eyes. “The analysis you wrote forNahan?”

“I called it the best brief I ever wrote, but ofcourse it’s lot a brief at all. It doesn’t address pointsof law except in the videst, most abstract sense,without acceptable evidence to upport theaccusations. What it does address is the pervertedmbitions of powerful men who want to change thelaws, alering governments, supplanting them withraw military conrols, all in the name of maintainingthe law and preserving he order they themselves willbe called upon to maintain and “reserve. And if”compromise’ means killing if they intend nountingwholesale assassinations they can do it.”

“What’s your point, Joel?”

“If I’m going to build a case, I’d better do it theonly way know how from premise to conclusionbased on affidavits, repositions starting with myown and ending with pretrial xaminahons.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

" The law, Mrs. Converse,” said Joel, picking upthe enveope. “And what it’s meant to do. I can usemost of what’s in ere just in a different form.Naturally, I’ll want other coroborating depositions,the farther afield the better. That’s

when you’ll call this Prudhomme and join theTatiana family. Then hopefully we’ll reach Sam’sfriend, Metcalf goddamn it, he’ll have something togive us…. Finally, I’m going to want to examine atleast two of the alleged defendants oral-ly Leifhelm, for one, and probably Abrahms,maybe Delavane himself.”

“You’re mad! " cried Valerie.

“No, I’m not,” said Converse simply. “I’ll needhelp, I know that. But I’ve got enough money tohire a couple of squads of miscreants and oncePrudhomme understands, I have an Idea he’ll knowwhere the union hall is. We’ve got a lot of work todo, Val. All courts like immaculate menu”

scripts. “

“For Christ’s sake, Joel, speak English.”

“You’re a romantic, Mrs. Converse,” he saidapproaching her. These are the nuts and bolts youdon’t find in seascapes. “

T eydo have to be sketched, my darling. Andbalanced or unbalanced, the colorsdeliberate What are you talking

“A stenographer a legal secretary, if you canfind one Someone who’s willing to stay here all dayand half the night; if need be. Offer three times thegoing rate.”

“Say I find one,” said Val. " What in heaven’sname are you going to tell her? Or him?”

Joel frowned as he crossed aimlessly to thewindow. "A novel,” he said, turning. “We’re writinga novel. The first twenty or thirty pages are to beread as an upcoming court case, a trial.”

"Based on real people, men everyone’s read about?”

It’s a new kind of fiction, but it’s only a novel.That’s all

Morning came to New York and Stone wasalone again. The Navy lieutenant and the Armycaptain were back at their desks in Washington. Itwas better this way; they could not help him, andthe less they were seen around the apartment themore likely they might escape detection if thehammer came down. And the hammer could comedown, Stone knew It. It was as clear as the fact thatColonel Alan Metcalf was the chord they needed tostart the music. “Without him,” as Johnny Reb mighthave said in the old days, “the tune ain’t gonna getout of the fiddle no stompin’ unless he shows up.”But could he show up? wondered the formeroperations offi

cer for Central Intelligence. To all intents andpurposes he had disappeared, that was the wordfrom Nellis, and the investigating unit did notpretend to understand or appreciate his absence.That, too, was the word and it was delivered harshly.

But Stone understood. Metcalf now knew whathe knew what they knew and the colonel wouldnot play by any rules written in the regulations, notif he was any good. Not if he was alive. And theex-agent also understood something else when itcame to telephone answering machines andintelligence personnel. The equipment was adaptableand sophisticated, courtesy of the American taxpayerand, considering the extraordinary waste, one of hisbetter investments. Metcalf would play it well if hewas alive and any good. He would use a remote,programming it and reprogramming it, hearing whathe wanted to hear, erasing what he wanted to erase,and leaving in certain information, preferablymisleading. There would also be a code, probablychanged daily, that if not inserted accurately wouldmelt the tape with a ten-second burst ofmicrowaves all standard. If he was any good. If hewas alive.

Stone counted on both that the colonel wasgood and that he was alive. There was no point inthinking otherwise; that only led to staying in JohnnyReb’s hammock or " gain’ fishin’,” doing whateverone did as a robot. Which was why Stone had left amessage on MetcalPs machine an hour ago atsix-thirty-five. He had chosen a name Converse’swife former wife would have to have relayed tothe dead Samuel Abbott. Marcus Aurelius ascending.Respond and erase, please. Then Stone had given thetelephone number at the apartment, which, if traced,would lead the tracers to the Hilton Hotel onFifty-third Street.

There was only one other person in the worldStone wished he could reach, but that man was “onholiday we have no means of getting in touch.” Thewords were patently a lie, but to challenge that liewould mean that Peter would have to say more thanhe wanted to say. The man was Derek Belamy, chiefof Clandestine Operations for Britain’s M.1.6 andone of the only real friends Stone had ever had in allhis years with the Central Intelligence Agency.Belamy was such a good friend that when Peter wasstation chief in London, the Englishman had toldhim bluntly to get out for a while before the whiskytook over altogether and his ass was nailed to analcoholic cross: “”I have a doctor who’ll certify aminor

breakdown, Peter. I’ve a guest cottage on thegrounds in Kent. Stay there, get well, old boy. "

Stone had refused, and it was the mostdestructive decision he had ever made. The rest wasthe drunken nightmare Belamy had predicted.

But it was not Derek’s concern for a friend thatmade Peter want to reach him. It was Belamy’sbrilliance, his perceptiveness, quietly concealedbehind a pleasant, even prosaic exterior. And theknowledge that Derek Belamy had the pulse ofEurope in his head, and given the most basicinformation, could smell out a Delavane operation.And, in fact, thought Stone hopefully, he wassmelling them out now in Ireland certainly wherehe was now. Sooner or later preferablysooner Belamy would return his call. When he did,a munitions shipment from Beloit, Wisconsin, wouldbe described in full. Derek Belamy loathed theDelavanes of this world. His old friend wouldbecome an ally against the generals.

The telephone rang; Stone looked at it and letit ring again. Metcalf? He reached over and pickedit up. "Yes?”

“AureliusP”

“Somehow I knew you’d come through, Colonel.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Stone and we’re on the same side,at least I think we are. However, you wear auniform and I don’t, so I need a little moreconfidence in you. Can you understand

“You’re one of those bastards in D.C. who sent himoutl” “You’re warmer, Colonel. I came on late, butyes, I am one of those bastards. What happened toGeneral Abbott?”

“He was killed, you son of a bitchl . . . I assumethis phone s clean.”

“For at least twenty-four hours. Then we alldisappear just like you disappeared.”

“No remorse? No conscience? Do you knowwhat you’ve done?”

“We don’t have time for that, Colonel. Perhapslater, if there’s a later for w…. Get to, it, soldier!I’ve lived with thisl Now. Where do we meet?Where are you?”

“Okay, okay,” said the obviously exhausted AirForce officer. “I took a dozen different Bights. I’min where the hell am I? in Knoxville, Tennessee.I’ve got a night to Washington in twenty minutes.”

“Why?”

“To blow this tucking thing out of the air, what else?”

“Forget it, you’re a dead man. I’d think you’dhave learned that by now. You set up something onthe information Abbott gave you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he was blown out of the air, right?”

“Goddamn you, shut up!”

“You should have learned. They’re where youcan’t see them or find them. But the wrong word tothe wrong person and they can find you.”

“I know that!” shouted Metcalf. “But I’ve been inthis business for twenty years. There’s got to besomeone I can trust!”

“Let’s talk about it, Colonel. Scratch D.C. and flyup to New York. I’ll get a room at theAlgonquin actually, I’ve already reserved one.”

“What name?”

“What else? Marcus.”

“You’re on, but as long as we’re in this deep Ishould tell you. The woman’s been trying to reachme since one o’clock this morning.”

“Converse’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“We need her. We need him!”

“I’ll reprogram the machine. The Algonquin?”

“That’s it.”

“He’s from New York, isn’t he? I mean he’s aNew Yorker.”

“Whatever that means, yes. He’s lived here foryears.”

“I hope he’s bright they’re bright.”

“Neither of them would be alive now if theyweren’t very bright, Colonel.”

“See you in a few hours, Stone.”

The civilian hung up the phone, his handsshaking, his eyes on a bottle of bourbon across theroom. No! There would be no drinks, he hadpromised himself. He got out of the chair and wentto the bed, where his small suitcase was open, a gap-ing mouth waiting to be filled. He filled it, leavingthe bottle of whisky on the table, and went outside tothe elevators down the hall.

* * *

I, Joel Harrison Converse, an attorney admittedto practice before the bar of the State of New Yorkand employed by the firm of Talbot, Brooks andSimon, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York City, NewYork arrived in Geneva, Switzerland, on August 9for legal conferences on behalf of our client, theComm Tech Corporation, for the purpose offinalising a contemplated business associationreferred to hereafter as the Comm Tech-Bernmerger. On the morning of August 10, atapproximately eight o’clock, I was contacted by thechief counsel representing the Bern Croup, Mr.Avery Preston Halliday of San Francisco,California. As he was an American only recently re-tained by the Swiss companies, I agreed to meetwith him to clarify the existing points of argumentand our positions with respect to them. When Iarrived at the cafe on the Quai du Mont Blanc, Irecognized Mr. Halliday as a student and closefriend I had known years ago at the Taft School inWatertown, Connecticut. His name then was AveryP. Fowler. Mr. Halliday readily confirmed this fact,explaining that his surname had been changed uponthe death of his father and the remarriage of hismother to a John Halliday of San Francisco. Theexplanation was acceptable, the circumstances,however, were not. Mr. Halliday had ample priortime and opportunity to apprise me of hisidentity the identity with which I wasfamiliar but did not do so. There was a reason.On that morning of August 10, Mr. Halliday soughta confidential meeting with the undersigned regard-ing a matter totally unrelated to the CommTech-Bern merger. This meeting was the primaryreason for his being in Geneva. It was the first ofmany disturbing revelations….

If the very proper and distant Britishstenographer had the slightest interest in thematerial she was transcribing in segments fromdictation to the typewritten page, she did not showit. Her thin lips pursed, her grey hair knotted intoa forbidding bun on the top of her head, sheperformed like a machine, as if everything wasaccepted in rote and by rote. Valerie’s somewhatguarded explanation that her husband was anAmerican novelist intrigued by recent events inEurope was

greeted with a cold stare and the gratuituousinformation that the legal secretary never watchedtelevision and rarely read the newspapers. She was amember of the Franco-ltalian Alpine Society, whosepurpose was to defend the natural endowments beingeroded by man; working for the society took up allher time and energy when she was not earning aliving to enable her to remain in her belovedmountains. She was an automaton putting in hertime; one could dictate the book of Genesis and Valdoubted the woman would know what she was typing.

It was the seventh hour and there was still noanswer at Alan MetcalPs telephone in Las Vegas.Only a machine. It was time for the eighth call.

“If we don’t get him now,” said Converse grimly,above the quiet tapping of the typewriter across theroom, “go ahead and reach Prudhomme. I wanted totalk to this Metcalf first, but it’s possible that_it maynot be possible.”

“What difference does it make? You need helpquickly, and he’s willing to help.”

“The difference is I know where Prudhomme’scoming from, you’ve told me. I got an idea what hecan do and what he can’t do, but I don’t knowanything about Metcalf except that Sam put himway up on a high priority. Whoever I call first I’vegot to make specific statements to him, accusationsand observations that’ll blow his mind. Those arecommitments, Val, and I have to go with thestrongest…. Try Metcalf again.”Joel turned andheaded for the telephone in the bathroom as Valeriedialed the international codes for Las Vegas, Nevada.

“Caller C, message received. Please reidentifyyourself twice, followed by a slow count to ten. Stayon the line.”

Joel put the phone down on the edge of the basinand rushed out to the bedroom-sitting room. Hewalked over to Val, holding up his hand as hereached for a pencil on the desk. He wrote out thewords: “Go ahead. Stay calm. P.S.E.”

“This is Miss Parquette speaking,” said Valerie,frowning bewildered. “This is Miss Parquettespeaking. One, two, three, four . . .”

Converse returned to the bathroom, picked upthe telephone and listened.

“. . . eight, nine, ten.”

Silence. Finally, there were two sharp clicks andthe metaJlic voice came back on the line.“Confirmed, thank you.

This is the second tape and will be microed out whencompleted. Listen carefully. There is a place on anisland well known for its tribal nights. The King willbe in his chair. That’s it. We are burning.”

Joel hung up the phone and studied thehalf-legible words he had hastily scribbled in soap onthe mirror above the basin. The door opened andValerie walked in, a piece of paper in her hand.

“I wrote it down,” she said, handing it to him.

“I wrote it sideways your way is better. Christ, a nd

“No more than the one you gave me. What inheaven’s name does "P.S.E.’ mean?”

” "Psychological Stress Evaluator,’ ” answeredConverse, leaning against the wall and readingMetcalPs message. He looked up at her. “It’s a voicescanner you can attach to a phone or a recordingmachine that supposedly tells you whether the personyou’re talking to is Iying or not. Larry Talbot playedaround with one for a while but claimed he couldn’tfind anyone telling the truth, including his nine-ty-two-year-old mother. He threw it away.”

“Does it work?”

“They say it’s much more accurate than a liedetector, and I suppose it is if you know how to readit or use it. It worked in your case. Your voice wasmatched against the other calls you made, whichmeans this Metcalf is into pretty high-tech equipment.That scanner tripped the second tape and it was alldone by remote, from another phone, otherwise hewould have answered himself after you passed thetest.”

- “But if I passed, why the riddle? Why an islandwith tribal

nights?”

“Because any machine like that can be beaten. It’swhy they’re not admissible in court. Years ago WillieSutton was wired into a lie detector, and according tothe result, he never even broke into a piggy bank,much less Chase Manhattan Metcalf was willing totake a risk, but not all the way. He’s running too.”Converse returned to what Val had written down.

“An island.” Val spoke softly, reading the soapedwords on the mirror. “Tribes . . . The Caribe tribes;they were all through the Antilles. OrJamaica tribalnights, Obeah rituals, voodoo rites in Haiti. Even theBahamas the Lucayan Indians they held pubertyrituals, they all did.”

“You impress me,” said Joel, looking up from thepaper. “How come?”

“Art courses,” she replied. “Those nuts and boltsyou won’t grant us that go into the makeup of aculture’s visual work…. And it doesn’t fit. It’s tooloose.”

“Why? It could mean someplace in theCaribbean, some resort that’s advertised a lot. TheKing is an emperor and that has to meanDelavane Mad Marcus, as in Aurelius. It has to beMarcus; no one’s named Aurelius! . . . All thosetelevision commercials, the newspaper ads picturesof people doing the limbo under torches withcostumed blacks smiling down benignly, counting thedollars. Which one?”

“Too loose,” repeated Val. “Too abstract blocksand geometric shapes without specifics norepresentational images.”

“Now what the hell are you talking about?”objected Converse.

“It’s too wide, Joel, too many places to choosefrom, places you might not know anything about. Ithas to be closer, more familiar to you or to me,something we can recognize. Like Bruegel orVermeer, littered with specific detail.”

“They sound like dentists.”

Valerie took the paper from him. “Manhattan’s anin land,” she said softly, reading and frowning again.

“If there are torches and tribal puberty rites, it’snot my part of town.”

“Not tribal rites, tribal nights,” corrected Val.“Tribal not Black but Red? The King will be in hischair chair . . . table. His table. Tribal . . . nights.Nights! That’s where we’re misreading it. Nights!”

“How else can you read it?”

“Not nights but knights! With a k!”

“And a table,” broke in Converse. “Knights of theRound Table.”

“But not the King Arthllr legend, not Camelot.Much nearer, much closer. Tribal American natives.American Indians. “

“Algonquins. The Round Table!”

“The Algonquin Hotel,” cried Valerie. “That’s it,that’s what he meant!”

“We’ll know in a few minutes,” said Joel. “Coinside and place the call.”

The wait was both intolerable and interminable.Converse looked at his face in-the mirror;perspiration began to

drench his face, the salt sunging his scrapes andburning his eyes. Far more telling, his hand shookand his breath was short. The Algonquinswitchboard answered and Val asked for a Mr.Marcus. There was a stretch of silence, and whenthe operator came back on the line, Joel thought hewould smash the telephone into the mirror.

“There are two Marcuses registered, ma’am.Which one did you wish to speak to?”

“Already it’s a rotten day!” Val broke in suddenlyover the phone, startling Converse with her words.“My boss, the clown, told me to call Mr. Marcus atthe Algonquin right away and give him the time andplace for lunch. Now the clown’s disappeared to ameeting somewhere outside and I’m left holding it.Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s okay, hon. we got a few like that around here.”

“Maybe you can help me. Which Marcus iswhich? Maybe I’ll recognize a first name or acompany.”

“Sure. Lemme plug into Big Reggie. We allgotta suck together when it comes to the clowns,right? . . . Okay, here they are. Marcus, Myron.Sugarman’s Original Replicas, Los Angeles. AndMarcus, Peter . . . not much help here, sweetie. Justsays Georgetown, Washington, D.C.”

“That’s the one. Peter. I’m sure of it. Thanks, dear.”

“Glad to be of help, hon. I’ll ring now.”

The folded New York Times resting on his knee,Stone inked in the last two words of the crosswordpuzzle and looked at his watch. It had taken himnine minutes, nine minutes of relief; he wished ithad been longer. One of the joys of having beenstation chief in London was the London Timescrossword. He could always count on at least ahalf-hour when he could forget problems in thesearch for words and meanings.

The telephone rang. Stone stared at it, his pulseaccelerat"ng, his throat suddenly dry. No one knewhe had checked into the Algonquin under the nameof Marcus. No one! . . . Yes, there was someone,but he was in the air, flying up from Knoxville,Tennessee. What had gone wrong? Or had he beenwrong about Metcalf? Was the supposedly angry,sermonising Air Force intelligence officer one ofthem? Had his own insuncts, honed over a thousandyears of sorting out garbage deserted him becausehe so desperately sought an opening,

an escape from a steel net that was dropping downon him? He got out of the chair and walked slowly,in fear, to the bedside table. He picked up theinsistently ringing phone.

“Yes?”

“Alan Metcalf?” said the soft, firm voice of a woman.

“Who?” Stone was so thrown by the natne hecould barely concentrate, barely think!

“I beg your pardon, I have the wrong room.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Metcalfs on his way here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please! Oh Christ, please! I was tired, I wasasleep. We’ve been up night and day…. Metcalf. Italked with him two hours ago he said he was goingto reprogram his machine, that someone was tryingto reach him since one o’clock this morning. He hadto get out of there. A man was killed, a pilot. It wasnot an accident! Am I making sense to you?”

“Why should I talk to you?” asked the woman.“So you can trace the call?”

“Listen to me,” said Stone, his voice now in totalcontrol. “Even if I wanted to and I don’t this is ahotel, not a private line,-and to do what you suggestwould take at least three men on the trunk lines andanother controlling the switchboard. And even withsuch a unit it would be at least four minutes beforethey could isolate the wire and send out a tracer sig-nal which initially would only give us an arealocation, not a specific phone. And if you werecalling from overseas we’d have to have anotherman, an expert, in that specific location to narrow itdown to perhaps a twenty-mile radius, but only if youstayed on your phone for at least six minutes…. Now,for God’s sake, give me at least two!”

“Go on. Quickly!”

“I’m going to assume something. Maybe Ishouldn’t, but you’re a clever woman, Mrs. DePinna,and you could do it.”

“DePinna?”

“Yes. You left a telephone book open to the bluepages, the government pages. When the accidenthappened in Nevada, I made a simple connectionwith a listing, and two hours ago I learned I wasright. Metcalf returned my call from a pay phone atan airport. A pilot, a general, had talked to him atlength. He’s joining us. You ran from the wrongpeople, Mrs. DePinna. But as for what I’m thinking,I think the man we want to find is listening on thisphone.”

“There’s no one else here!”

“Please don’t interrupt me, I’ve got to use everysecond.” Stone’s voice suddenly became stronger.“Leifhelm, Bertholdier, Van Headmer, Abrahms. Anda fifth man we can’t identify, an Englishman who’sdown so deep he makes Burgess Maclean and Bluntlook like amateurs. We don’t know whohe is, buthe’s there, using warehouses in Ireland and offshorecargo ships, and long-forgotten airfields to transportmaterials that shouldn’t be going out. Those dossierscame from us, Converse! We sent them to you!You’re a lawyer, and you know that by using yourname I’m incriminating myself or committing suicideif anyone’s taping this. I’ll go further. We sent youout through Preston Halliday in Geneva. We sentyou out to build a legal case from left field so wecould abort this thing with a minimum of fallout,sending all those goddamned idiots back to reality.But we were wrong! They were much further aheadthan we ever suspected we ever suspected but notBeale on Mykonos. He was dead right, and he’sdead because he was right! Incidentally, he was the"men from San Francisco.’ It was his five hundredthousand dollars; he came from a rich family, which,among other things, bequeathed him a conscience.Think back to Mykonos! To what he told you whathis life was all about. From celebrated soldier to ascholar to a killing that must have killed a part ofhim to commit…. He said you almost caught him upon a couple of things he didn’t mean to say. He saidyou were a good lawyer, a good choice. PrestonHalliday was a student of his at Berkeley, and whenthis broke a year and a half ago when Hallidayrealized what Delavane was doing and how he wasbeing used, he went to Beale, who was about toretire. The rest you can figure out.”

The woman’s voice interrupted. “Say what I wantto hear you say. Say it!”

“Of course I will! Converse didn’t kill Peregrineand he didn’t kill the commander of NATO. Both ofthem were marked by Delavane George MarcusDelavane because both those men would havetaken him and his ilk to the mat! They wereconvenient, very convenient, targets. I don’t knowabout the others I don’t know what you’ve beenthrough but we broke a liar in Bad Godesberg, themajor from the embassy who put you, Converse, atthe Adenauer Bridge! He doesn’t know it, but webroke him, and we learned something. We think weknow where Connal Fitzpatrick is. We think he’salive!”

A male voice intruded. “You bastards,” said JoelConverse.

“Thank God!” said the civilian, sitting down on thehotel bed. “Now we can talk. We have to talk. Tellme everything you can. This phone is clean.”

Twenty minutes later, his hands trembling, PeterStone hung up the phone.

General Jacques-Louis Bertholdier ceased therushing pelvic thrusts of intercourse, withdrew himselffrom the moaning dark-haired woman beneath him,and rolled over, grabbing the telephone.

“Yesfl”he shouted angrily. And then he listened,his flushed face growing ashen as his organ collapsed.“Where did it happen?” he whispered, not inconfidence but in sudden fear. “The BoulevardRaspail? The charges? . . . NarcoticsPlmpossible!”

Holding the phone, the general swung his legsover the side of the bed, listening carefully,concentrating as he stared at the wall. The nakedwoman rose to her knees and leaned into him, herbreasts pressed into his back, her open mouthcaressing his ear, her teeth gently biting his lobe.

Bertholdier suddenly, viciously, swung his armback cracking the phone into the woman’s face,sending her reeling to the other side of the bed,blood erupting from her broken lower lip.

“Repeat that, please,” he said into the phone. “It’sobvious, then, isn’t it? The man cannot be questionedfurther, can he? There is always the larger strategy toconsider, losses to be anticipated in the field, no? Itis the hospital all over again, I’m afraid. See to it,then, like the fine officer you are. The Legion’s losswas our immense gain…. Oh? What is it? The ar-resting officer was PruHhomme?” Bertholdier paused,his breathing steady and audible; then he spoke,rendering a command decision. “A stubbornbureaucrat from the Surete will not let go, will he? .. . He is your second assignment to

be carried out with your usual expertise before theday is over. Call me when both areaccomplishments, and consider yourself the aide toGeneral Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”

The general hung up and turned to thedark-haired woman, who was wiping her lips with abed sheet, the expression in her eyes an admixtureof anger, embarrassment and fear.

“Apologies, my dear,” he said courteously. “Butyou must leave now. I have telephone calls to make,business to attend to.

“I will not come back!” cried the woman defiantly.

“You will come back,” said the legend of Francestanding up, his body rigid in its nakedness. “If youare asked.”

Erich Leifhelm walked rapidly into his study anddirectly over to the large desk, where he took thephone from a whitejacketed attendant, dismissingthe man with a nod. The instant the door wasclosed he spoke. “What is it?”

“The Geyner car was found, Herr General.”

“Where?”

“Appenweier.”

"And what is that?”

“A town fifteen or eighteen kilometers from Kehl.In the

“Strasbourg! He crossed into France! He was apriest!”

“I don’t understand, Herr “

“We never thought. . . ! Never mind! Whom haveyou got in the sector?”

“Only one man. The man with the police.”

“Tell him to hire others. Send them into Strasbourg!Look

“Get out of here!” roared Chaim Abrahms as hiswife walked through the kitchen door. “This is noplace for you now!”

“The Testaments say otherwise, myhusband yet not my husband,” said the frail womandressed in black; a circle of soft white hair framedgentle features and her brown eyes were dark,receding mirrors. “Will you deny the Bible youemploy so readily when it suits you? It is not allthunder and vengeance. Must I read it to you?”

“Read nothing! Say nothing! These are matters formen!”

“Men who kill? Men who use the primitive savageryof

the Scriptures to justify the spilling of children’sblood? My son’s blood? I wonder what the mothersof the Masada would have said had they beenpermitted to speak their hearts. . . . Well, I speaknow, General. You will not kill anymore. You will notuse this house to move your armies of death, to plotyour tactics of death always your holy tactics,Chaim, your holy vengeance.”

Abrahms slowly got out of the chair. “What areyou talking about?”

“You think I haven’t heard you? Phone calls inthe middle of the night, calls from men who soundlike you, who speak of killing so easily “

“You listened !”

“Several times. You were breathing so hard youheard nothing but the sound of your own voice, yourown orders to kill. Whatever you’re doing will bedone without you now, my husband yet not myhusband. The killing is over for you. It lost itspurpose years ago, but you could not stop. You in-vented new reasons until there was no reason left inyou.”

The sabre’s wife removed her right hand fromthe folds of her black dress. She was holdingAbrahms’ service automatic. The soldier slapped hisholster in disbelief, then suddenly lunged toward thewoman he had lived with for thirty-eight years andgrabbed her wrist, spinning her around. She wouldnot relent! She resisted him, clawing at his face as hecrashed her back into the wall, twisting her hand inthe attempt to disarm her.

The sound of the explosion filled the kitchen, andthe woman who had borne him four children, thelast finally a son fell to the floor at his feet. Inhorror Chaim Abrahms looked down. Herdark-brown eyes were wide, her black dress drenchedwith blood, half her chest torn away.

The telephone rang. Abrahms ran to the wall andgrabbed it, screaming, “The children of Abraham willnot be denied! A bloodbath will follow we will havethe land delivered to us by God! Judea,Samaria they are ours!”

“Stop it!” roared the voice over the line. “Stop it,Jew!”

“Who calls me Jew calls me righteous!” yelledChaim Abrahms, the tears falling down his face, ashe stared at the dead woman with the wide browneyes. “I have sacrificed with Abraham! No one couldask more!”

“I ask more!” came the cry of the cat. “I askalways morel”

“Marcus?” whispered the sabre, closing his eyesand collapsing against the wall, turning away fromthe corpse. “Is it you . . . my leader, my conscience?Is it you?”

“It is I, Chaim, my friend. We have to move fast.Are the units in place?”

“Yes. Scharhorn. Twelve units in place, alltrained, prepared. Death is no consideration.”

“That’s what I had to know, " said Delavane.

".Theyawait your codes, my general.” Abrahmsgasped then began to weep uncontrollably.

“What is it, Chaim? Get hold of yourselfl”

“She’s dead. My wife lies dead at my feetI”

“My God, what happened?”

“She overheard, she listened . . she tried to killme. We fought and she’s dead.”

“A terrible, terrible loss, my dear friend. Youhave my deepest affection and condolences iri yourbereavement.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“You know what you must do, don’t you, Chairn?”

“Yes, Marcus. I know.”

There was a knock at the door. Stone got out ofthe chair and picked up his gun awkwardly from thetable. In all the years of sorting out garbage, he hadfired a weapon only once He had blown a foot offa KGB informant in Istanbul for the simple reasonthat the man had been exposed while drunk and hadlunged at him with a knife. That one incident wasenough. Stone did not like guns.

“Yes?” he said, the automatic at his side.

“Aurelius,” replied the voice behind the door.

Stone opened it and greeted his visitor “Metcalf?”

“Come in. And I think we’d better change the code.”

“I suppose I could use "Aquitaine’,” said theintelligence officer, walking into the room.

“Somehow I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Somehow I don’t think I will. Do you have coffee?”

“I’ll get some. You look exhausted.”

“I ve looked better on a beach in Hawaii,” saidthe slender, muscular middle-aged Air Force man.He was dressed in summer slacks and a white Izodjacket, and his thin face matched his short, thinningbrown hair; dark circles were prominent under hisclear authoritative eyes. “At nine o’clock

yesterday morning I drove south out of Las Vegas toHalloran, and from there I began a series ofcross-country flights a computer couldn’t follow,hopping from airport to airport under more namesthan I can remember.”

"You’re a frightened man,” said the civilian.

lf you’re not, I’m talking to the wrong person.”

I’m not only frightened, Colonel, I’m petrified.”Stone went to the phone, ordered coffee, and beforehanging up he turned to Metcalf. "Would you like adrink?” he asked.

I would. Canadian on the rocks, please.”

"I envy you.” The civilian gave the order, andboth men sat down; for several moments only thesounds of the street outside broke the silence. Theylooked at each other, neither concealing the fact thathe was silently evaluating the other.

“You know who and what I am,” said theColonel. "Who are you? What?”

“CIA. Twenty-nine years. Station chief inLondon, Athens, Istanbul, and points east and north.A once disciple of Angleton and coordinator ofclandestine operations until I was fired. Anythingelse?”

“No.”

“Whatever you did to your answering machine,you did it right. The Converse woman called.”

Metcalf shot forward in the chair. “And?”

“It was touch and go for a while I wasn’t at mybest but he finally got on the line, or I should sayhe finally spoke. He was there all the time.”

“Your second best must have been pretty good.”

“All he wanted to hear was the truth. It wasn’t hard.”

“Where is he? Where are they?”

“The Alps, that’s all he’d say “

"Goddamn it!”

” for now,” completed the civilian. “He wantssomething from me first.”

“What?”

“Affidavits. You could call them depositions.”

“What9″

“You heard me. Affidavits from myself and thepeople I’m working with working for,actually stating what we know and what we did.”

“He’s out to hang you, and I don’t blame him.”

“That’s part of it, and I don’t blame him, either,but he says it’s secondary and I believe that. Hewants Aquitaine. He

wants Delavane and his crowd of maniacs nailed tothe wall before the whole damn thingerupts before the killing begins.”

"That was Sam Abbott’s judgment. Thekilling multiple assassinations, here andthroughout Europe, the quickest and surest way tointernational chaos.”

" The woman told him.”

“No, he pieced it together from things Conversetold her. Converse didn’t understand the words.”

“He does now,” said Stone. “Did I say I waspetrified? What’s a stronger phrase?”

“Whatever it is, it applies to both of us becausewe both know how simple it would be so sim pie.We’re not dealing with woolly-brained crazies oreven your run-of-the-mill terrorists we’ve got thirtyyears’ experience and ninety percent of them are inour computers. When the signals break out, weknow where they are and usually we can stop them.But here we’re dealing with the roughestprofessionals in our own and in allied ranks, alsowith years of experience. They’re walking aroundthe Pentagon, and on Army and Navy bases and atan Air Force base in Nevada. Christ, where arethey? You open your mouth and you don’t knowwhom you’re talking to, who’ll cut you down orprogram an aircraft to break apart in the sky. Howcan we stop what we can’t see?”

“Perhaps Converse’s way.”

“With Affidavits:”

“Maybe. Incidentally, he wants one from you.Your meeting with Abbott, everything he told you,as well as your evaluation of his mental capacitiesand stability. That means you’ll have to stay heretonight. A half-hour ago I reserved three otherrooms I said I’d give the front desk the nameslater.”

“Would you mind answering my question? Whatthe hell are affidavits going to do? We’re dealingwith an army out there how large and howwidespread we don’t know but it is an army! Atminimum, a couple of battalions, here and inEurope. Professional officers trained to carry outorders, believing in those orders and in the generalswho are issuing them. Affidavits, depositions, forChrist’s sake! Is this some kind of flaky legalhandspring that doesn’t mean anything? Do we havetime for this?”

“You’re not thinking anything I didn’t think,Colonel. But then, I’m not a lawyer and neither areyou. Converse is, and I had a long conversation withhim. He’s taking the only route

he knows. The legal route. Oddly enough, it’s why wesent him out.”

“Give me an answer, Stone ” said Metcalf coldly.

“Protection,” replied Stone. "What Converse wantsis instant protection and for all of us to be takenseriously. Not as psychopaths or as cranks or aspeople with mental aberrations or diminishedcapacities I think those were his words.”

“Aren’t they nice? What in the name of sweetJesus do they mean? How?”

“With formal legal documents. Responsible mensetting forth what they know and, in the case ofdepositions, under qualified examination. Throughthe courts, Colonel. A court it only takes one, onlyone judge. On the basis of the affidavits a petition ismade to the court a court, a judge that protectionbe given under seal.”

“Under what?”

“Under seal. It’s completely confidential nopress, no divulging of information, simply an orderfrom the court transmitted to the authorities mostsuited to carry out the order. In this case, all thebranches of the Secret Service instructed by the courtto provide extraordinary service.”

“Extraordinary? For whom?”

“The President of the United States, theVice-President, the Speaker of the House, theSecretary of Defense, the Secretary of State righton down the line. The law, Colonel. That’s what thelaw can do also his words, I think.”

“Jesus/”

There was a rapping on the door. This timeStone covered his automatic with the folded NewYork Times. He got up and admitted a waiter, whorolled in a table with a pot of coffee, two cups, abottle of Canadian whisky, ice and glasses. He signedthe bill and the man left.

“Coffee or a drink first?” asked Stone.

“My God, a drink. Please.”

“I envy you.”

“You’re not going to join me?”

“Sorry, I can’t. I allow myself one in the evening;I’ll join you then. You live in Las Vegas, so you’llunderstand. I’m trying to beat the odds, Colonel. Iintend to beat them. I was fired, remember?” Stonebrought the Air Force officer a drink and sat down.

“You can’t beat the odds, don’t you know that?”

“I’ve beaten a few. I’m still here.”

“The courts,” said Metcalf, shaking his head. “Acourt! It’s an end run. He’s using the law to goaround the flanks of the government people heshould reach but whom he can’t trust. Can it work?”

“It buys time, a few days perhaps, it’s hard totell. "Under seal’ lasts only so long. The law alsocalls for full disclosure. But what’s most importantis that it legitimately tightens the security aroundpotential targets, hopefully screwing up whatevertactics Aquitaine is mounting, forcing the generalsto regroup, rethink. Again time.”

“But that’s only over here in the States.”

“Yes. That’s why Converse wants the time.”

“What for?”

“He won’t tell me, and I’m in no position tomake demands.”

“I see,” said the Colonel, his drink to his lips.

“You said three rooms. Who are the others?”

“You’ll meet them and you won’t like them.They’re two kids who stumbled into this along witha few others I don’t know, and they won’t say whothey are. After Halliday reached them or one ofthem they provided the dossiers for Converse.They’re young, but they’re all right, Colonel. If Iever had a son, I’d like to think he’d be one ofthem.”

“I have a son and I expect he would be,” saidMetcalf. “Otherwise, I blew it. What are theprocedures?”

Stone sat rigidly back in the chair and spokeslowly, his voice pitched to the static emphasis of amonotone. He was repeating instructions not of hisown making and certainly not to his liking. “At threeo’clock this afternoon I’m to call an attorney namedSimon, Nathan Simon, one of the senior partners ofConverse’s firm here in New York. Presumably bythen Converse’s wife will have reached him, tellinghim to expect a call from me and to please do as Iask apparently they believe he will. To be briefabout it, Simon will come over here to the hotelaccompanied by a stenographer and take all ourdepositions, along with our credentials, ranks, andcurrent responsibilities. He’ll stay until he’sfinished.”

“You were right on the phone,” interrupted themilitary man. “We’re dead.”

“I said as much to Converse and he asked mehow it felt. He was inquiring, of course, fromfirsthand knowledge.”

“He wants all of you.”

“But not you,” said Stone. “He’d like your testimo

ny and, by extension, Abbott’s but he won’t insiston it. He knows he can’t ask you to walk in on this.”

"I walked in when that plane went down. Alsothere’s something else. If we can’t stop Delavane andhis generals, what the hell’s left for people like us?.. . Converse wouldn’t tell you what he was going todo?”

"Not in terms of what he calls the countdown, butyes, as far as tomorrow is concerned. He’s sendingover his own affidavit and, he expects, another froma man from the Surete who has information showingthat most of the official reports out of Paris arelies…. And we’re not dead yet, Colonel. Conversemade it clear that Nathan Simon was the bestattorney we could have as long as he believes us.”

"What can a lawyer do?”

“I asked Converse the same thing, and he gaveme a strange answer. He said, "He can use the law,because the law isn’t men, it’s the law.’”

“That’s beyond me,” said Metcalf, irritated. “Notin a philosophical context but how it appliesnow right goddamned now! . . . Hell, it doesn’tmake any difference we don’t make any difference!Once those guns go off and the bodies fall inWashington and London, Paris or Bonn wher-ever they’ve got the controls and we won’t get themback. I know that because I know how long so manypeople have wanted someone to take control. Stopthe carnage, make things safe, piss on the Soviets.God help me, there were times I thought that waymyself.”

“So did I,” said the civilian quietly.

“We were wrong.”

“I know that. It’s why I’m here.”

Metcalf drank, holding the cold glass against hiswarm cheek. “I keep thinking about what Sam saidto me. “There’s got to be a fist,’ he said. ”A masterlist of everyone in this Aquitaine.’ He ruled out allthe obvious places not in a vault, not onpaper probably electronically programmed, flashedon with codes, as his aerial tactics were frequentlyflashed on a screen inside a jet’s cockpit. Someplaceno one would ever think of, away from anythingofficial or tied in with anyone remotely military. "Alist. There has to be a listI’ he kept saying. For apilot, he had a hell of an imagination. I guess it’swhy he was so good at that tactical stuff at fortythousand feet in the air. Come out of the sun wherethey don’t expect you,

or from a dark horizon where the radar can’t pickyou up. He knew it all. He was a tactical genius.”

As Metcalf talked, Stone leaned forward in thechair looking intently at the Air Force officer andabsorbing every word he spoke.

"Scharhorn,” he said, barely above a whisper.“It’s Sashay horn!”

The twin-engined Riems 408 circled the privateairfield at Saint-Gervais, fifteen miles east ofChamonix, the amber lights of the two runwaysthrowing an orange glow up into the lower nightsky. Inside, Prudhomme checked the strap of hisseat belt as the pilot on his left received clearanceto make his final approach to the north-south strip.

Mon Dieu, what an incredible day! thought theman from the Surete as he glanced at his right handunder the spill of the panel lights. The dark bruiseson his fingers were at least less noticeable than theblood that had covered his entire hand only hoursago. His would-be executioner had not evenbothered to conceal his assignment, such was hisarrogance bred undoubtedly in the Legionetrangere! And the sentence of death had beendelivered right inside the car at the far end of theparking area in the Bois de Boulogne! The man hadcalled him at the office and, in truth, it had enteredPrudhomme’s mind that this man might call him,and so it was less a surprise than it could havebeen and certainly gave him cause to be prepared.The man had asked his recent superior to meet himat the Bois, in the parking lot he had startlingnews. He would be driving his official Peugeot, andsince he could not leave his radio phone, would theinspector mind joining him. Of course not.

But there had been no startling news. Onlyquestions, asked very arrogantly.

“Why did you do what you did this morning?”

“Shave? Go to the toilet? Eat breakfast? Kissmy wife good-bye? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I refer to! Earlier! The man onthe Boulevard Raspail. You crashed into his car,stopping him. You threw narcotics inside. Youarrested him falselyI”

“I didn’t approve of what he was doing. Anymore than I approve of this conversation.”Prudhomme had awkwardly reached for the handleof the door with his left hand, his right having otherbusiness.

“Stopl” his former subordinate had shouted,grabbing his shoulder. “You were protecting thewoman!”

"Read my report. Let me go.”

“I’ll let you go to hell! I’m going to kill you,meddler! Insignificant bureaucrat!”

The former subordinate had yanked a gun fromhis jacket holster but he was too late. Prudhommehad fired twice the small weapon he gripped underhis coat. Unfortunately, it was small caliber and theex-colonel of the Legion was a very large man; hehad lunged at Prudhomme inside the automobile.However, the veteran of the Resistance had goneback to an old wartime habit just in case: along thelapels of his coat was threaded a long wire a wirewith two braided loops at each end. He had whippedit out, and looping it over his would-be executioner’shead with his wrists crossed, he violently yanked ittaut until the flesh burst around the throat and blooddrenched Prudhomme’s hands.

“We’re cleared for landing, Inspector,’ said thepilot, grinning. “I swear to Christ no one wouldbelieve this! Of course I have no intention of sayinga thing, I swear on my mother’s grave!”

“She’s probably drinking brandy in Montmartre atthis moment,” interjected Prudhomme dryly. "Saynothing, and you may have another six months flyingin your foolish tobacco from Malta.”

“Nothing else! Never anything else, Inspector. Iam a father!”

“You are to be commended. Six months and thenget out, do you understand?”

“On my father’s grave, I swear!”

“He’s very much alive and in jail he’ll be out insixty days. Tell him to stop his presses. Governmentrelief checks really. “

Joel and Valerie listened in silence as the manfrom the SOrete told his story. He was finished now;there was nothing left to say. Interpol had beencompromised, the arrondissement police manipulated,the Surete itself corrupted, and official governmentcommuniques issued on the basis of lies all lies.Why?

“I’ll tell you because I want your help muchmore help,” said Converse, getting out of the chairand going to the

desk, where the typewritten pages of his affidavitwere in the center of the green blotter. “Better, youcan read it yourself but I’m afraid you’ll have toread it here. In the morning I’ll have copies made;until then I don’t want it to leave this room. By theway, Val got you a reservation, a single don’t askme how, but a clerk downstairs will have a newwardrobe if not a new house by tomorrow.”

“Merci, madame.”

“The name is French,” added Joel.

“Yes.”

“No, I mean the name is French.”

“Out. “

“No, what I mean is “

“Pardon, monsieur, ” interrupted Valerie. “Lenom sur le registry est “Monsieur French, ” mais“French, ” comme en anglais French. A rthur French.“

“But I will have to sign, talk. Surely they will know.”

“You sign nothing and you say nothing,” saidVal, taking a key off the bedside table and handingit to Prudhomme.

The room is paid for three days, to be precise.After that before, if possible, if you agree tohelp the three of us will be someplace else.”

“Formidable. I must read.”

“Mon ami mon epoux est an avocat exceptionnel.“

"ye com prends. “

“There are some forty pages here,” saidConverse, bringing the papers to Prudhomme. “Toabsorb it will take you at least an hour. We’ll godownstairs and grab a bite to eat and leave youalone.”

“Bien. There is much I wish to learn.”

“What about you?” asked Joel, standing over theFrenchman. “I mean now. They’ll find that body inthe car.”

“Most certainly,” agreed Prudhomme. “I left itwhere it was along with that pig from the Legion.But for the Surete there will be no connection tome.”

“Fingerprints? The fact that you were away fromyour

“Another old habit from the war,” said the manfrom the Silrete, reaching into his pocket. He pulledout a pair of extremely thin rubberisedgloves surgical gloves cut off at the wrist. “Iwashed these out at the Bois. The German occu-pation forces had all our fingerprints in a thousandfiles. There was no point in asking for our ownexecutions. As for my ab

settee at my desk, it is quite simple. I explained to anassistant that I would be m Calais for several days ona contraband investigation and would call in. Myyears permit a certain latitude and Hexibility.”

“That’s the Surete, not the others. Not where theLegionnaire came from.”

“I am aware of that, monsieur. So I must becareful. It vill not be the first time.”

“Enjoy your reading,” said Converse, nodding atVal to join him. “If you want anything, call roomservice.”

“Bon appetrt,” said Prudhomme.

Chaim Abrahms lifted the stiffening wrist of hisdead wife’s hand, the weapon gripped fiercely in herwhite fingers, and angled the gun toward her chest,into the bloody cavern between her breasts.

The wide, brown eyes would not stay closed.They stared up at him, accusing accusing!

“What do you want from me!” he screamed. " I have seen the dead. I have lived with the dead! Leaveme be, woman. You couldn’t understand!”

Yet she had, for so many years. She had cookedthe meat the desert chicken and the lamb, caughtin the outlying marshes and fed the units of theIrgun and the Haganah, never questioning deaththen. Fighting for a hope, a simple hope that was thebeginning of a dream. The land was theirs, rightfully,Biblically, logically theirs! They had fought and theyhad won! Two thousand years of being out-casts despised, reviled, and spat upon by thealmighty Gentiles until the tribes were burned andgassed and told to eliminate themselves from theface of the earth and yet they had survived. Nowthe tribes were strong. They were the conquerors, notthe conquered.

“It’s what we fought for! What we prayed for!Why do you insult me with your eyes!” ChaimAbrahms roared as he pressed his forehead againstthe dead flesh of his wife’s face.

Hitabdut was among the most heinous crimescommitted against the laws of the Talmud. It wasebudeatzmo, the taking of one’s own life against thewishes of Almighty God, in whose image man wascreated. A Jew who consigned his or her earthlybeing to hitabdut was denied burial in the Hebrewcemetery. It would be so for Chaim Abrahm’s wife,the most devout human being he had ever known.

“ I have to do it!” he screamed, raising his eyesin supplication. ” It is for the best, can t youunderstand ?”

Prudhomme poured himself a cup of coffee andreturned to his chair. Valerie sat opposite him asConverse stood by the window looking over at theman from the Surete, listening.

“I cannot think of any other questions,” said theFrenchman, his intensely troubled eyes dartingabout, his lined face looking wearier than before.“Although it’s possible I’m still too deep in shock tothink at all. To say it’s incredible serves no purpose;also it would not be true. It’s all too credible. Theworld is so frightened it cries out for stability, for aplace to hide, for protection from the skies, fromthe streets, from each other. I believe the time hascome when it will settle for sheer, absolute strength,no matter the cost.”

“The operative word is “absolute,’ ” said Joel, “asin controls and power. A confederation of militarygovernments fueling one another, interlockingpolicies and altering the laws all in the name ofstability and anyone who disagrees with them isdeclared unstable and silenced. And if too manydisagree, the chaos erupts again stability wins,Aquitaine wins. All they need is that initial wave ofterror, a tidal wave of killing and confusion. ”Keyfigures’ were the words they used. “Accumulation’ .. . ”rapid accelerahon’ chaos. Powerful men cutdown as riots break out in half a dozen capitals andthe generals march in with their commanders.That’s the scenario, right from their own words.”

“That also is the problem, monsieur. They areonly words, but they are words you can pass alongto very few people, for they could be the wrongpeople. You could move up this countdown, as youcall it, trigger this holocaust yourself.”

“The countdown’s running out, make nomistake,” Converse broke in. “But there is a way.“accumulation’ end ”rapid acceleration’can be usedin another manner, and you’re right it’s only withwords accumulated words, accelerated words. Ican’t come out, not yet. I can’t show myself. There’sno protection any court or government agency orthe police could provide that would stop them fromkilling me, and then, once I’m dead, callingwhatever I said the ravings of a psychopath. Don’tmisunderstand me, I have no death wish, but mydeath in itself isn’t important. What is important isthat the truth goes down with me, because I’m theonly one who’s talked

directly to Delavane’s four caesars over here, andprobably the fifth, the Englishman.”

“And these declaration"these affidavits you speakof can change that?”

“They can turn things around, maybe just enough.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s a real world out there, a practical,complicated world that has to be penetrated as fastas possible people have to be reached who can betrusted, who can do something. Quickly. It’s what Iwanted to do a couple of weeks ago, but I was goingabout it the wrong way. I wanted to get everything Iknew to someone I knew. Nathan Simon, the bestattorney I’ve ever met. I wrote it all out twice notrealizing that I was only tying his hands, probablykilling him.” Joel stepped away from the window, alawyer in summation. “Whom could he go to withoutme, without the presence of an obviously sane manand not simply the words of a ”psychopathic killer’?And if I did come out, as he would have rightfullyinsisted, we’re both dead. Then Val told me aboutthe man in New York who reached her on the phoneand the other who chased her down the street and Iguessed right. Those aren’t the methods of peoplewho want to kill you; they don’t announcethemselves. They were the men in Washington whohad sent me out and were now trying to makecontact with me. Then she described her meetingwith Sam Abbott and his mentioning this Metcalf, aman he trusted and who had to be some kind of veryimportant person for him to tell the story to. Finally,there was you in Paris what you said, what you did,and how you offered to help, using the same code asRene Mattilon the Tatiana family. Tatiana, a nameor a word I think means trust, even among sharks.”

“You are right, monsieur.”

“That’s when it all came together for me. If Icould somehow establish lines of communication andreach all of you, there was a way. You people knewthe truth some of you knew all of it; others, likeyourself, knew only fragments, but regardless, youunderstood the immensity, the reality of the generalsand their Aquitaine and what they could do, whatthey’re doing. Even you, Prudhomme. What did yousay? Interpol is compromised, the policemanipulated, the Surete corrupted official reportsall lies. Added to these, Anstett in New York,Peregrine, the commander of NATO, Mattilon,Beale, Sam Abbott . . . Connal Fitzpatrick the onlyquestion

mark and God knows how many others. All dead.The generals are marching forget theories, they’rekilling! . . . If I could convince all of you to write outaffidavits have depositions taken and get them toNathan Simon, he’d have the ammunition he needs.I fed legal mumbo jumbo to Stone in New York;some of it applies, most of it doesn’t, but he’ll dohis part and force the others to join him he has nochoice. The main point, the only point, is to get thismaterial to Simon. Once he has written testimony,a series of events and observations all sworn to betrue by diverse men of experience, he has a case.Believe me, he’ll treat them like the plans of aneutron bomb. He’ll have it all tomorrow, and he’llreach the right people if he has to walk into theOval Office which he could do, but may notchoose to. ” Joel paused and looked hard at theman from the Surete; he nodded at the pages of hisown affidavit on the table beside the Frenchman.“I’ve made arrangements for that to be flown toNew York tomorrow. I’d like one from you.”

“Certainly you may have it. But can you trust thecouri

“The world could blow apart and she’d still besitting in her house in the mountains and not knowit. Or care. How’s your English?”

“Adequate, I believe. We’ve talked for severalhours.”

“I mean written English. It’d save time if youwrote it out tonight.”

“My spelling is probably no better than yours isin French.”

“Make that English,” said Valerie. “I’ll straightenit out and if you’re not sure of something, write it inFrench.”

“That would help. I must write it tonight?”

“The secretary will be here first thing in themorning,” explained Converse. "She’ll type it up.She’s the one taking the Hight from Geneva to NewYork tomorrow afternoon.”

“She agreed to do this?”

“She agreed to accept a large donation to anature organizahon that apparently runs her life.”

“Very convenient.”

“There’s something else,” said Joel, sitting on anarm of Valerie’s chair and leaning forward. “Youknow the truth now, and beyond the material thathas to reach Simon, there’s one last thing I have todo. I’ve got a lot of money and a banker inMykonos who’ll confirm I have access to a greatdeal

more but you’ve read all that. With hme to find thepersonnel and the equipment I might be able to pullit off myself, but we don’t have the time. I need yourhelp, I need the resources you have.”

“For what, monsieur?”

“The final depositions. The last part of thetestimony. I want to kidnap three men.”

I, Peter Charles Stone, ageffty-eight, a residentofWashington, D.C, was employed by the CentralIntelligence Agency for twenty-nine years, during whichtime l attained the rank of station chief in variousEuropean posts and ultimately Second Director ofClandestine Operations, Langley, Virginia. My record ison file at the Central Intelligence Agency and may beobtained pursuant to the regulations governingsuchprocedures. Sinceseparation from the CIA, I haveworked asa consultantand anaIystfor numerousintelligence departments, the specif as therein withheldfrom this statement pending government clearancesshould they be deemed pertinent to this document.

On or about last March 15, I was contacted byCaptain Andrew Packard, United StatesArmy, whoasked if he might come to my apartment to discuss aconk dential matter. When he arrived, he stated at theoutset that he was speaking for a small group of menfrom both the military services and the StateDepartment, the number and identities of which hewould not divulge. He statedfurther that they soughtprofessional consultation from an experiencedintelligence officer no longer associated (permanently)with any branch of the intelligence community. Ile saidhe had certain funds available he believed would beadequate and would I be interested. It should be notedhere that Captain Packard and his associates had madea thorough if not exhaustive search of mybackground warts and alcohol and all, as is said….

* * *

I, Captain Howard NMI Packard, US. Army,507538, age thirty-one, currently residing in Oxon Hill,Maryland, am assigned to Section 27, Department ofTechnological Controls, the Pentagon, Arlington,Virginia. In December of last year, Mr. A. PrestonHalliday, an attorney from San Francisco with whomI had struck u p a friendship as a result of hisnumerous petitions to oursectionon behalf of clients(all successful and above reproach), asked me to havedinner with him at a small restaurant in Clinton,approximately ten miles from my house. He apologized for not asking my wife, explaining that whathe had to say would only disturb her, as, indeed, itwould disturb me, but in this case it was myresponsibility to be disturbed. He added that there wasno conceivable conJqiCt in our meeting, as he had nobusiness pending, only business that should beinvestigated and stopped . . .

I, Lieutenant U G.) William Michael Landis, Us.Navy, a bachelor, age twenty-eight; current address,Somerset Garden Apartments, Vienna, Virginia, am acomputer programmer for the Department of the Navy,Sea-Armament’s Procurements Division, stationed atthe Pentagon, Arlington Virginia. Actually, in all butrank (due within sixty days), I’m in command of mostprogramming for Pentagon-Navy, having received adoctorate in advanced computer technology from theUniversity of Michigan, College of Engineering. . . .I’m probably not saying this right, sir.

Go ahead, young man.

I state this because with the highly sophisticatedequipment at my disposal as well as the classifiedmicro-conversion codes available to me, I’m able totap into a great many restricted computers with atracing capacity that can circumvent or penetrate, ifyou like closures placed on extremely sensitiveinformation.

Last February, Captain Howard Packard, UnitedStates Army, and three other men two from theDepartment of State, Office of Munitions Controls,and the third a Marine Corps officer I knew from theAm phibious Section, Navy Procurements came outto see me on a Sunday morning. They said theywerealarmed opera series of weapons and high-techtransfers that appeared to violate D.O.D. and StateDepartment sanctions. They gave me the data they hadconcerning nine such incidents, impressing upon methe confidentiality of the inquiry.

The next afternoon I went to the maximum-securitycomputers and with the conversion codes inserted thedata for the nine transfers. The initial entries wereconfirmed those numbers never change so as toeliminate the possibilities of duplication but in eachcase, after confirmation, the remaining information waserased, wiped off the computer tapes. Six of those ninetransfers were traced through the initial entries to a firmPalo Alto International, owned by a retired Armygeneral named Delavane. This was myfirst involvement,sir.

Who were the three other men, Lieutenant?

It wouldn’t do any good to give their names, sir. Itcould only hurt their families.

I’m not sure I understand can possibly understand.

They’re dead. They went back and asked questionsand they’re dead, sir. Two supposedly in automobileaccidents involving trucks on back roads they nevertook home and the third indiscriminately shot by aderanged sniper while jagging in Rock Creek Park. Allthose joggers and he was the one who got it….

[Captain Packard]

As an Army captain with full security clearanceandirequently dealing in top-secret procedures, I wasable to set up a sterile telephone (i.e., one that isconstantly scannedfor taps or intercepts) so Mr.Halliday could reach me at any time of day or nightwithoutiear of being overheard. Also in concert with Mr.Stone and LieutenantLandis, we pooled oursources andobtained in-depth intelligence dossiers on thewell-known names Halliday found among GeneralDelavane’s notes. Specifically, Generals Bertholdier,Leifhelm, Abrahms, and Van Headmer. Using fundsprovided by Dr. Edward Beale, we secured the servicesof private firms in Paris, Bonn, Tel Aviv, andJohannesburg to up-date the dossiers with all availablecurrent information about the subjects.

By now we had uncovered ninety-seven additionalcomputer erasures directly related to export licensingand military transfers involving an estimated $45million. A great many were initiated by Palo AltoInternational, but without further data there wasnothing to trace. It was like a series of blipsdisappearing from a radar screen….

* * *.

[Stone]

My years in the CIA ’sClandestine Operationstaught me that the larger the pattern, the greater thenumbers, and that those areas with the heaviestconcentration of activity invariably held the tightest andmost ruthless security. Nothing terribly original here butthe reverse application is frequently overlooked. SinceWashington was the clearinghouse for illegal ex portstotaling millions u pon millions in A merican mer-chandise and materiel, it stood to reason that therewould be a range of safeguards, scores of Delavane’sinformants both knowing and unknowing, that is,ideologically involved or sim ply hired orthreatened in the government agencies anddepartments related to the activities of Palo AltoInternational. Without going into specifics, CaptainPackard confirmed this judgment by telling me that anincident had recently taken place that cost the lives ofthree men who tried to follow up on a number of competer erasures. We had moved from the realm ofideological extremists into one of fanatics and killers.Therefore it was my contention and I hereby assumefull responsibility for the decision that saferand morera pid progress could be made by sending a man outinto the peripheral sectors of Delavane’s operation withenough information to trace connections back to PaloAlto International. By the very nature of illegalexportlicensingitself thereis more open territory at thereceiving ends. The obvious place to start was withthefourgenerals whose names werefound in Delavane’snotes. I had no candidate with the expertise If elt wasnecks sary for the assignment….

[Captain Packard]

On or aboutJuly 10, Mr. Halliday called me on thesterile phone I’d set u p for him and said he believedhe’d found the proper candidate for the assignment asoutlined by Mr. Stone. An attorney whose field wasinternational law, a man he had known years ago anda former prisoner of war in Vietnam who conceivablyhad the motivation to go after someone like GeneralDelavane. His name was Joel Converse….

I, Alan Bruce Metcalf age forty-eight, am an ofdicer in the United States Air Force, holding the rankof colonel and currently stationed at the NellisAirForceBase, Clark County Nevada, as chief intelligence ofdicer. Thirty-six hours ago, as I dictate this statement,on August 25 at four o’clock in the

afternoon, I received a telephone callfromBrigadierGeneral Samuel Abbott, commanding officer, TacticalOperations Nellis A.F.B. The general said it was urgentthat we meet preferably off base, as soon as possible.He had new and extraordinary information regardingthe recent assassinations of the supreme commander ofNA TO and the American ambassador to Bonn, WestGermany. He insisted that we be in civilian clothes andsuggested the library at the University of Nevada, LasVegas campus. We met at approximately 5:"30 P.M.and talkedforfive hours. I will be as accurate aspossible, and that will be very accurate, as theconversation is stillfresh in my mind, engraved there bythe tragic death of General Abbott, a close friend formany years and a man I admired greatly….

The above, then, are the events as told to GeneralAbbott by the former Mrs. Converse, and as he relatedthem to me, and the subsequent actions I took toconvene an emergency meeting of the highest-levelintelligence personnel in Washington. General Abbottbelieved what he had been told because of hisknowledge and perceptions of the individuals involved.He was a brilliant and stable man, not given to biaswhere judgments were concerned. In my opinion, hewas deliberately murdered because he had “new andextraordinary information” about a fellow prisoner ofwar, one Joel Converse.

Nathan Simon, tall, portly, sithng well back in hischair, removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his tiredface and tugged at the Vandyke beard that coveredthe scars of shrapnel embedded at Anzio years ago.His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows were archedabove his hazel eyes and sharp, straight nose. Theonly other person in the room was Peter Stone. Thestenographer had been dismissed; Metcalf, exhausted,had retired to his room, and the two other officers,Packard and Landis, had opted to return toWashington on separate planes. Simon carefullyplaced the typewritten affidavits on the table besidehis chair.

“There was no one else, Mr. Stone?” he asked, hisdeep voice gentle, far gentler than his eyes.

“No one I knew, Mr. Simon, " replied the formerintelligence officer. “Everyone I’ve used since whatwe call pulling in old debts was lower-level withaccess to upper-level equipment, not decisions. Please remember, threemen were killed when this thing barely started.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Can you do what Converse said? Can you getsomething "under seal’ and move some mountainswe can’t move?”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. It’s why I agreed to all of this.”

“He had his reasons. And I have to think.”

“There’s no time to think. We have to act, wehave to do something! Time’s running out!”

“To be sure, but we cannot do the wrong thing, canwe?”

“Converse said you had access to powerfulpeople in Washington. I could trust you to reachthem.”

“But you’ve just told me I don’t know whom totrust, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, Chr7st!”

“A lovely and inspired prophet.” Simon lookedat his watch as he gathered up the papers and rosefrom the chair. “It’s two-thirty in the morning, Mr.Stone, and this weary body has come to the end ofits endurance. I’ll be in touch with you later in theday. Don’t try to reach me. I’ll be in touch.

“In touch ? The package from Converse is on itsway here. I m picking it up at Kennedy Airport onthe Geneva flight at two-forty-five this afternoon.He wants you to have it right away. I want you tohave it!”

“You’ll be at the airport?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, meeting our courier. I’ll be back here byfour or four-thirty, depending on when the planegets in and traffic, of course.”

“No, don’t do that, Mr. Stone, stay at theairport. I’ll want everything Joel has compiled for usin my hands as soon as possible, of course. Just asthere is a courier from Geneva, you may be thecourier from New York.”

“Where are you going? Washington?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. At this moment I’m goinghome to my apartment and think. Also, I hope tosleep, which is doubtful. Give me a name I can useto have you paged at the airport.”

Johnny Reb sat low in the small boat, the motoridling the waves slapping the sides of the shallowhull in the darkness. He was dressed in blacktrousers, a black turtleneck

sweater and a black knit hat, and he was as close ashe dared drift into the southwest coast of the islandof Scharhorn. He had spotted the bobbing greenglows on the series of buoys the first night; they weretrip lights, beams intersecting one another above thewater, ringing the approach to the old U-boat base.They formed an unseen wall to penetrate it wouldset off alarms. This was the third night, and he wasbeginning to feel vindicated.

Trust the gut, trust the stomach and the bile thatcrept up into the mouth. The bellies of the old-timewhores of the community knew when things weregoing to happen partly out of dread, partly becausea score was near that would enlarge an account inBern. There was no account in the offing now, ofcourse only a succession of outlays to pay back aconsiderable debt, but there was a score to be made.Against the Delavanes and the Washburns, and thoseGerman and French and Jewish catfish who wouldsweep the ponds and make it impossible forgentlemen like Johnny Reb to make a high-hogliving. He didn’t know much about the SouthAfrican, except that those rigger-haters had betterthe hell wise up. The coloreds were coming alongjust fine, and that was fine by Johnny; his currentgirlfriend was a lovely black singer from Tallahassee,who just happened to be in Switzerland for sillyreasons involving a little cocaine and a good-sizedaccount in Bern.

But the other catfish were bad. Real bad. JohnnyReb had it in for men who would make it jailhousefor people to think the way they wanted to. No sir,those people had to go! Johnny Reb was veryseriously committed to that proposition.

It was happening! He focused his infraredbinoculars on the old concrete piers of the sub base.It was also flat-out crazy! The seventy-foot motorlaunch had pulled into a dock, and moving out onthe pier was a long, double line of men forty, sixty,eighty . . . nearly lO"preparing to board. What wascrazy was the way they were dressed. Dark suits andconservative summer jackets and ties; a number worehats and every damned one of them carried luggageand a briefcase. They looked like a convention ofbankers or a parade of lace-pants from thediplomatic corps. Or thought the Rebel as heinched his binoculars backward along the line ofpassengers ordinary businessmen, executives, menseen every day standing on railroad platforms andgetting out of taxis and flying in planes. It was thevery ordinariness of their collective appearance contrasted with the exotically macabredark outlines of the old U-boat refuelingstation thatgnawed at Johnny’s imagination. These men couldgo unnoticed almost anywhere, yet they did notcome from anywhere. They came from Scharhorn,from what was undoubtedly a highly sophisticatedcell of this multinational military collusion thatcould put the goddamned catfish generals in thecatbird seats. Ordinary people going wherever theywere ordered to go_ looking like everyone else,behaving like everyone else, opening their attachecases on planes and trains, reading companyreports, sipping drinks but not too many, skimmingan occasional paperback novel ostensibly to ease thestrain of business going wherever they were orderedto go.

That was it, thought the Rebel, as he loweredthe binoculars. That was it! These were the hitteams! The stomach never lied; the bile was sent upfor a reason, its acrid, sickening taste an ugly alarmthat came to those privileged enough to havesurvived. Johnny Reb turned and fingered themotor, cautiously pushing the rudder to the rightand inching the throttle forward. The small boatspun around in the water, and the rogue intelligenceofficer_former intelligence officer_headed back tohis berth in Cuxhaven, accelerating the engine witheach fifty feet of distance.

Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the slip,lashed the lines to the cleats, grabbed his smallwaterproof case, and with effort climbed up ontothe pier. He had to move quickly, but very, verycautiously. He knew vaguely the area of theCuxhaven waterfront where the motor launch wouldreturn, for he had watched the lights of the vessel asit bobbed its way out of the harbor toward theisland. Once in the vicinity he could determine thespecific dock as the boat headed into port, and thenhe would have only minutes to scout the area andget into position. Carrying his waterproof case, hehurried to the base of the pier and turned left,walking rapidly through the shadows toward thearea where he judged the launch had departed. Hepassed a huge warehouse and reached an openspace beyond; there were five short piers, one afterthe other, extending no more than two hundred feetout into the water. It was dockage for small andmedium-sized craft; several trawlers and a fewantiquated pleasure boats were lashed to the pilingson each of the piers except one. The fourth pier wasempty. The Rebel knew it belonged to the

launch; he could taste the bitterness in his mouth.He started out across the space; he would find aplace to conceal himself.

“Halt stehenbleiben!” shot out the gutturalcommand as a man walked out of the darkness fromaround the hull of a trawler at the third pier. “Wasmachen Sie trier? Wer sind Sie?”

Johnny Reb knew when to use his age; hestooped his shoulders and hung his head slightlyforward. “Passer Sie auf diese alien Kdsten auf?” heasked, and continued in German, “I’m a fishermanon one of these relics and I lost my billfold thisafternoon. Is it a crime to look for it?”

“Come back later, old man. You can’t look for itnow.”

“Ah? What?” The Rebel raised his right hand tohis ear twisting the ring on his middle finger as hedid so and pressing a catch on the band. “Myhearing’s not what it was, Mr. Watchman. What didyou say?”

The man stepped forward, first looking out at thewater, as the sound of a powerful engine was heardin the distance. “Get out of herel” he shouted, hislips close to Johnny’s ear. “Now!”

“Good heavens, you’re Hans!”

“Who?”

“Hans! It’s so good to see you!” The Rebelslapped his hand around the German’sneck prelude to an affectionate embrace andplunged the surface of his ring into the man’s flesh,deeply embedding the needle.

“Get your hands off me, you stinking old man!My name’s not Hans and I never saw you before.Get out of here or I’ll put a . . . a bullet . . . in your. . . head!” The German’s hand plunged inside hisjacket but there it remained as he collapsed.

“You younger catfish really ought to have morerespect for your elders,” mumbled Johnny as hedragged the unconscious body into the shadows tothe left of the trawler on the third pier. “"Cause youdon’t know the flies we use. Your daddies do, butyou little pricks don’t. And I want your daddies,those mind-suckers!”

The Rebel climbed aboard the trawler anddashed across the deck to the gunwale. The motorlaunch was heading directly into the fourth pier. Heopened his waterproof case into which he hadsnapped the binoculars in place, and adjusted hiseyes to the dim light, studying the tools of his trade.He unlatched a camera and then a lens, a Zeiss-lkontelescopic,

developed by conscientious Germans during WorldWar II for photographing Allied installations atnight) it was the best. He inserted it into the lensmount, locked it into position and switched on thecamera’s motor, noting with satisfaction that thebattery was at full capacity, but then he knew itwould be. He had been too long in the deadly gameto make amateurish mistakes.

The huge motor launch slid into the pier like amammoth black whale, a killer whale. The lineswere secured, and as the passengers disembarked,Johnny Reb began taking pictures.

“Honeychile, this is Tatiana. I’ve got to reach myboy.”

“The Algonquin Hotel in New York City,” saidthe calm female voice. “The number is Area Codetwo-one-two, eight-four-zero, six-eight-zero-zero.Ask for Peter Marcus.”

“ Subtle son of a bitch, isn’t he?” saidJohnnyReb. ” Pardon my language, ma’am.”

“I’ve heard it before, Rebel. This is Anne.”

“Goddamn, little lady, why didn’t you tell mebeforel How are you, sweet child?”

“Doing fine in my dotage, Johnny. I’m out, youknow. This is just a courtesy for an old friend.”

“An oldfriend? Fair girl, if it wasn’t for Petey,I’d have made one hell of a play for you!”

“You should have, Reb. I wasn’t in his cards, histerribly important cards. And you were one of thenicest a little more subterranean than most, but anice person. What was it? "Gentleman JohnnyReb’?”

“I’ve always tried to keep up appearances,Annie. May I request the privilege of calling youone day, if we ever get out of this mess?”

“I don’t know what the mess is, Reb, but I doknow you have my telephone number.”

“You give me heart, fair girl!”

“We’re older now, Johnny, but I guess youwouldn’t understand that.”

“Never, child. Never.”

“Stay well, Reb. You’re too good to lose.”

The operator at the Algonquin Hotel wasadamant. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Marcus is not in hisroom and does not answer the page.”

“I’ll call back,” said the Rebel.

“Sorry, sir. There’s no answer in Mr. Marcus’sroom and no response to the page.”

“I believe we spoke several hours ago, sir. There’sstill no answer in Mr. Marcus’s room, so I took theliberty of calling the desk. He hasn’t checked out andhe didn’t list an alternate number. Why not leave amessage?”

“I believe I will. As follows, please. "Stay put untilI reach you. Or you reach me. Imperative. Signed, Z.Tabana. That’s T-a-t-i-a “

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Z. sire”

“As in zero, miss.” Johnny Reb hung up thephone in the flat in Cuxhaven. The taste in hismouth was overpoweringly sour.

Erich Leifhelm entertained his luncheon guests athis favorite table at the Ambassador restaurant onthe eighteenth floor of the Steigenberger Hotel inBonn. The spacious, elegant room had a magnificentview not only of the city and the river but also of themountains beyond, and this particular table waspositioned to take advantage of that view. It was abright, cloudless afternoon, and the natural wondersof the northern Rhineland were there for thefortunate to observe.

“I never tire of it,” said the former field marshal,addressing the three men at his table, gesturing withmasculine grace at the enormous window behindhim. “I wanted you to see it before returning toBuenos Aires indeed, one of the most beautifulcities in the world, I must add.”

The maitre d’ intruded with deference, bowing ashe spoke softly to Leifhelm. “Herr General, there isa telephone call for you.”

“An aide is dining at table fifty-five,” saidLeiPhelm casually, in spite of his racing pulse.Perhaps there was word of a priest in Strasbourg!“I’m sure he can take it for me.”

“The gentleman on the line specifically requestedthat I speak with you personally. He said to tell youhe was calling from California.”

“I see. Very well.” Leifhelm got out of his chair,apologizing to his guests. “No surcease from thevagaries of commerce, is there? Forgive me, I shallonly be a moment or two. Please, more wine.”

The maitre d’ nodded, adding, “I’ve had the call put

through to my private office, Herr Ceneral. It s rightinside the foyer.”

"That pleases me. Thank you.”

Erich Leifhelm shook his head subtly as hepassed table 55 near the entrance. The lone dineracknowledged the dismissal with a nod of his head.In all the years of strategies and tactics, military andpolitical, that dismissal would prove to be one of thefield marshal’s gravest errors.

Two men stood in the foyer, one looking at hiswatch, the other looking annoyed. To judge by theirexpensive clothes they belonged to theAmbassador’s regular clientele and were obviouslywaiting for late luncheon companions, probablytheir wives, as they had not gone to their table. Athird man stood outside the glass doors in thecorridor; he was dressed in the maintenanceuniform of the hotel and watched the two meninside.

Leifhelm thanked the maitre d’ as the latter heldopen the door to his modest office. The restaurateurclosed the door and returned to the dining room.The two men swiftly, as one raced inside afterthe old soldier, who was at that moment picking upthe telephone.

“Was geht trier for? Wer ist . . . !”

The first man lunged across the desk andgripped Leifhelm’s head, clamping the general’smouth with very strong hands. The second manpulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket andremoved the rubber shield as he tore at Leifhelm’sjacket and then the collar of his shirt. He plungedthe needle into the base of the general’s throat,released the serum pulled out the syringe andimmediately began massaging the flesh as herestored the collar and pulled the jacket back inplace.

“He’ll be mobile for about five minutes,” said thedoctor in German. “But he can neither speak norreason. His motor controls are now mechanical andhave to be guided.”

“And after five minutesP” asked the first man.

“He collapses, probably vomiting.”

“A nice picture. Hurry! Get him up and guidehim, for God’s sake! I’ll check outside and knockonce.”

Seconds later the knock came, and the doctor,with Leifhelm firmly in his grip, propelled thegeneral out of the of lice and through the glassdoors into the hotel corridor.

“This way!” ordered the third man in themaintenance uniform, heading to the right.

“quickly!” added the doctor.

Among the strollers in the plush hallway and thediners heading for the restaurant, a numberrecognised the legendary old soldier and stared at hispale face with the lips trembling, trying to speak. Orscream.

“The great man has had terrible news,” said thedoctor repeatedly and reverentially. “”It’s terrible,simply terrible”"

They reached a service elevator, which was onHOLD, and went inside. A stretcher on wheels stoodagainst the padded back wall. The third man took akey from his pocket, inserted it in the HOLD lock torelease the controls and pressed the nonstop switchfor the basement. The other two lifted Leifhelm upon the stretcher and covered his entire body with asheet.

“They’ll start talking up there,” said the first man.“His bulls will come running. They’re never faraway.”

“The ambulance is downstairs now by theelevator door,” said the man in the maintenanceuniform. “The plane is waiting at the airfield.”

The once great field marshal of the Third Reichthrew up under the sheet.

Jacques-Louis Bertholdier let himself into theapartment on the Boulevard Montaigne and removedhis silk jacket. He walked over to the mirrored baragainst the wall, poured a vodka, threw in two cubesof ice from a sterling-silver bucket, and strolled tothe window beyond the elegantly upholstered couch.The tree-lined boulevard was so peaceful atmidafternoon, so spotlessly clean, and somehow sopastoral although very much a part of the city. Therewere times when he thought it was the essence of theParis he loved, the Paris of influence and wealth,whose inhabitants never had to soil their hands. Itwas why he had purchased the extravagant flat andinstalled his most extravagant and desirable mistress.He needed her now. My God, how he neededreleasel

The Legionnaire shot and garroted in his ownautomobilet In the parking lot of the Bois deBolognel And Prudhomme, the filthy bureaucrat,supposedly in Calais! No fingerprintsl Nothing! Theonce and foremost general of France needed an houror so of tranquility.

"canine! Where are you? Come out, Egyptiant Itrust you’re wearing what I instructed you to wear. Ifyou need re

minding, it’s the short black Givenchy, nothingunderneath you understand! Absolutely nothing”

“Of course, my general, "came the words,strangely hesitant, from behind the bedroom door.

Bertholdier laughed silently to himself as heturned and walked back to the couch. LeGrandMachin was still an event to be reckoned with, evenby highly sexual twenty-five-year-olds who lovedmoney and fast cars and elegant apartments asmuch as they adored having their bodies penetrated.Well, he was too upset to disrobe, his nerves toofrayed to go through any prolonged preliminarynonsense. He had something else in mind releasewithout effort.

The sound of the turning knob broke off histhoughts. The door opened and a raven-haired girlemerged, her elongated, perfectly proportioned faceset in anticipation, her brown eyes wide in a distantwonder. Perhaps she had been smoking marijuana,thought Bertholdier. She was dressed in a shortnegligee of black lace, her breasts wreathed in gray,her hips revolving in sexual provocation as sheapproached the couch.

“Exquisite, you whore of the Nile. Sit down. It’sbeen a dreadful day, a horrible day, and it is notover. My driver will return in two hours, and untilthen I need rest and release Give it to me,Egyptian. ” Bertholdier zipped down the fly of histrousers and reached for the girl. “Fondle it, as Iwill fondle you, and then do what you can do.” Hegrabbed her breasts and pulled her head down intohis groin. “Now. Now. Do it!”

A blinding flash filled the room, and two menwalked out of the bedroom. The girl sprang backonto the couch as Bertholdier looked up in shock.The man in front put the camera in his pocket; hiscompanion, a short, middle-aged heavyset man witha gun in his hand, walked slowly toward the legendof France.

“I admire your taste, General,” he said in a gruffvoice. “But then, I suppose I’ve always admired you,even when I disagreed with you. You don’tremember me, but you court-martialed me inAlgiers, sending me to the stockade for thirty-sixmonths because I struck an officer.. I was a sergeantmajor and he had brutally abused my men withexcessive penalties for minor offecses. Three yearsfor hitting a Paris-tailored pig. Three years in thosefilthy barracks for taking care of my men.”

“Sergeant Major Lefevre,” said Bertholdier withauthority, calmly zipping up his fly. “I remember. Inever forget. You

were guilty of treasonous conduct: assaulting. Ishould have had you shot.”

“There were moments during those three yearswhen I would have welcomed the execution.. But I’mnot here to discuss Algiers it’s when I knew youwere all crazy. I’m here to tell you you’re comingwith me. You’ll be returned unharmed to Paris inseveral days.”

“Preposterous!” spat out the general. “You thinkyour weapon frightens me?”

“No, it’s merely to protect myself from you, fromthe last gesture of a brave and famous soldier. Iknow you too wed to think that threats of bodilyharm, or even death, could move you. I have anotherpersuasion, however, one you’ve just made quiteirresistible.” The ex-sergeant major withdrew asecond, oddly shaped gun from his pocket. “Thisweapon does not hold bullets. Instead it fires dartscontaining a chemical that accelerates the heart tothe bursting point. My thoughts were to threaten youwith fielding the photograph after your death,showing that the great general died ignominiously atwhat he did best. Now, perhaps, there is anotherapproach. The angle was advantageous for certainexpert brushwork your position and the expressionon your face would not be touched, of course butyour companion might easily become a he ratherthan a she, a little boy rather than a girl. There wererumors of your excesses once, and a hastily arrangedmarriage few could understand. Was this the secretLe Grand Machin ran from all his life? Was it thethreat the great De Gaulle held over the head of hispopular but all too ambitious and rebellious colonel?That the appetites of this pretender, this would-besuccessor, were so extensive they included anythinghe could get his hands on, his body on, the gendermaking no difference. Small boys when there wereno women. The whispers of corrupted younglieutenants and captains, of rapes, convenientlycalled interrogations in your quarters “

“Enough!” cried Bertholdier, shooting up fromthe couch. “Further conversation is pointless.Regardless of how absurd and unfounded youraccusations are, I will not permit my name to bedragged through filth! I went that film!”

“My God, it’s true,” said the ex-infantry sergeant.“All of

".The filml” shouted the general. “Give it to me!”

"You shall have it,” replied Lefevre. “On the plane.”

* * *

Chaim Yakov Abrahms walked with a bowedhead out of the Ihud Shivat Zion synagogue on theBen Yehuda in Tel Aviv. The solemn crowdsoutside formed two deep flanks of devotedfollowers, men and women who wept openly at theterrible suffering this great man, this patriot-soldierof Israel, had been forced to endure at the hands ofhis wife. “Hitabdut, ” they said in hushed voices.“Ebude atzmo, ” they whispered to one another,cupping mouths to ears, out of Chaim’s hearing. Therabbis would not relent; the sins of a despicablewoman were visited upon this son of sabres, thisfierce child of Abraham, this Biblical warrior wholoved the land and the Talmud with equal fervor.The woman had been refused burial in a holy place;she was to remain outside the gates of the behthakoahroht, her soul left to struggle with the wrathof Almighty God, the pain of that knowledge anunbearable burden for the one left behind.

It was said she did it out of vengeance and adiseased mind. She had her daughters. It was thefather’s son always the father’s son who had beenslain on the father’s battlefield. Who would weepmore, who could weep more, or be in greateranguish than the father? And now this, the furtheragony of knowing that the woman he had given hislife to had most heinously violated God’s Talmud.The shame of it, the shame! Oh, Chaim, ourbrother, father, son and leader, we weep with you.For you! Tell us what to do and we will do it. Youare our king! King of Eretz Yisrael, of Judea andSamaria, and all the lands you seek for ourprotection! Show us the way and we shall follow, OKing!

“She’s done more for him in death than shecould ever have done alive,” said a man on theoutskirts of the crowd and not part of it.

“What do you think really happened?” asked theman’s companion.

“An accident. Or worse, far worse. She came toour temple frequently, and I can tell you this. Shenever would have considered hitabdut . . . We mustwatch him carefully before these fools andthousands like them crown him emperor of theMediterranean and he marches us to oblivion.”

An Army staff car, two flags of blue and whiteon either side of the hood, made its way up thestreet to the curb in front of the synagogue.Abrahms, wearing his bereavement like a heavymantle of sorrow only his extraordinary strengthcould endure, kept bowing his lowered head to thecrowds,

his eyes opening and closing, his hands reaching outto touch and be touched. At his side a young soldiersaid, “Your car, General.”

“Thank you, my son,” said the legend of Israel ashe climbed inside and sank back in the seat, his eyesshut in anguish while weeping faces pressed againstthe windows. The door closed, and when he spoke,his eyes still closed, there was anything but anguishin his harsh voice. “Get me out of beret Take me tomy house in the country. We’ll all have whisky andforget this crap. Holy rabbinical bastards! They hadthe temerity to lecture me! The next war, I'll call up the rabbis and put those Talmudic chicken-chits inthe front lines! Let them lecture while the shrapnelflies up their asses!”

No one spoke as the car gathered speed and leftthe crowds behind. Moments later Chaim opened hiseyes and pulled his thick back from the seat; hestretched his barrel-chested frame and reclined againin a more comfortable position. Then slowly, as ifaware of the stares of the two soldiers beside him, helooked at both men, his head whipping back andforth.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “You’re not my men,not my aides!”

“They’ll wake up in an hour or so,” said the manin the front seat beside the driver. He turned to faceAbrahms. “Good afternoon, General.”

“You!”

“Yes, it is I, Chaim. Your goons couldn’t stop me from testifying before the Lebanon tribunal, and nothing on earth could stop me from what I’m doingtoday. I told you about the slaughter of women andchildren and quivering old men as they pleaded fortheir lives and watched you laugh. You call yourselfa Jew? You can’t begin to understand. You’re just aman filled with hate, and I don t care for you toclaim to be any part of what I am or what I believe.You’re shit, Abrahms. But you’ll be brought back toTel Aviv in several days.”

One by one the planes landed, thepropeller-driven aircraft from Bonn and Paris havingflown at low altitudes, the jet from Israel, aDassault-Breguet Mystere 10/ 100, dropping swiftlyfrom twenty-eight thousand feet to the privateairfield at Saint-Gervais. And as each taxied to astop at the end of the runway, there was the samedark-blue sedan waiting to drive the “guest” and hisescort to an Alpine chateau fifteen

miles east in the mountains. It had been rented fortwo weeks from a real estate firm in Chamonix.

The arrivals had been scheduled carefully, asnone of the three visitors was to know that theothers were there. The planes from Bonn and Parislanded at 4:30 and 5:45, respectively, the jet fromthe Mediterranean nearly three hours later at 8:27.And to each stunned guest Joel Converse said theidentical words: “As I was offered hospitality inBonn, I offer you mine here. Your accommodationswill be better than I was given, although I doubt thefood will be as good. However, I know onething your departure will be far less dramatic thanmine.”

But not your stay’ thought Converse, as he spoketo each man. Not your stay. It was part of the plan.

The first light floated up into the dark sky abovethe trees in Central Park. Nathan Simon sat in hisstudy and watched the new day’s arrival from thelarge, soft leather chair facing the huge window. Itwas his thinking seat, as he called it. Recently hehad used it as much for dozing as for thought. Butthere were no brief interludes of sleep tonight thismorning. His mind was on fire; he had to exploreand reexplore the options, stretching the limits ofhis perception of the dangers within each. Tochoose the wrong one would send out alarms thatwould force the generals to act immediately, andonce under way, events would race swiftly out ofcontrol; the control of events would be solely in thehands of the generals everywhere. Of course, theymight decide within hours to begin the onslaught,but Nathan did not think so they were not fools.All chaos had its visual beginnings, the initialturbulence that would give credibility to subsequentviolence. If nothing else, confusion had to beestablished as the players moved into place withoutbeing seen. And the concept of military control overgovernments was a timeworn idea since the age ofthe Pharaohs. It bore early fruit in thePeloponnesus and Sparta’s conquest of Athens, laterwith the

Caesars, and, later still, was exercised by theemperors of the Holy Roman Empire, then by theRenaissance princes, and finally brought to itsapotheosis by the Soviets and the Germans in thetwentieth century. Unrest preceded violence, andviolence preceded takeover, whether it was arevolution sparked by hundreds of thousands ofoppressed Russians or the strangling inequities of aVersailles treaty.

Therein lay the weakness of the generals’strategy: the unrest had to exist before the violenceerupted. It required mobs of malcontentedpeople ordinary people who could be worked intoa frenzy, but for that to happen the mobs had to bethere in the first place. The people’s discontentwould be the sign, the prelude, as it were, but where,when? And what could he do, what moves could hemake that would escape the attention of Delavane’sinformers? He was the employer and friend of JoelConverse, the “psychopathic assassin” the generalshad created. He had to presume he was beingwatched at the very least any overt action he tookwould be scrutinised, and if he became suspect hewould be thwarted. His life was immaterial. In asense he was trapped, as he and others like him hadbeen trapped on the beaches of Anzio. They hadrealised that there was a degree of safety in thefoxholes behind the dunes, that to emerge from themwas to face unending mortar fire. Yet they hadknown, too that nothing would be accomplished ifthey remained where they were.

Contrary to what he had told Peter Stone,Nathan knew precisely whom he had to see not oneman, but three. The President, the Speaker of theHouse, and the Attorney General. The apex of theexecutive branch, the leader of the legislative, andthe nahon’s chief law-enforcement officer. He wouldsee no one of lesser stature, and it was far moreadvantageous to see them all together rather thanindividually. He had to see them, whether separatelyor as a group, and there was his dilemma; it was thetrap. One did not simply pick up a telephone andmake appointments with such men. There wereprocedures, formalities, and screening processes toensure the validity of the requests; men with theirresponsibilities could not waste time. The trap. Theminute his name was mentioned, the word would goout. Delavane himself would know within a matter ofhours, if not minutes.

Despite Joel’s gratuitous and highly dubiousstatements to Peter Stone, it was not easy to reachpowerful government figures any more than it was logical to have a judgeissue a court order under seal that somehowmiraculously, legally, guaranteed extraordinaryprotection for those same people without informingthe entire security apparatus as to why theprotection was deemed vital. Ridiculous! Such courtorders were reasonable where intimidated witnesseswere concerned before a criminal trial and evenafterward in terms of fabricated rehabilitation, butthat process hardly applied to the White House, theCongress, or the Justice Department. Joel had takena legal maneuver, ballooned it way out of prob-ability, and scaled it up into orbit for a reason, ofcourse. Stone and his colleagues had provideddepositions.

And yet, thought Simon, there was an odd logicin Converse’s misapplied exaggerations. Not in anyway Joel had considered but as a means to reachthese men. “A court, a single judge . . .” Conversehad said to Stone. That was the logic, the rest wasnonsense. The so preme Court, a justice of thatcourt. Not a request from one Nathan Simon whowould have to be screened, if only in terms ofcontent, not character, but an urgent message to thePresident from a venerated justice of the SupremeCourt! No one would dare question such a man ifhe pronounced his business to be between thePresident and himself. Presidents were far moresolicitous of the Court than of Congress, and withgood reason. The latter was a political battleground,the former an arena of moral judgment. NathanSimon knew the man he could call and see, a justicein his late seventies. The Court was not in session;October was a month away. The justice wassomewhere in New England; his private number wasat the office.

Nathan blinked, then brought his hand up toshield his eyes. For a brief moment the fireball ofthe early sun had careened a blinding ray through ageometric maze of glass and steel across the parkand entered his window before being blocked by adistant building. And suddenly, at that instant ofblindness, he was given the answer to the terrifyingquesbon of where and when the unrest that had tobe the prelude for the eruption of violence. Therewas scheduled throughout Free Europe, GreatBritain, Canada, and the United States aninternationally coordinated week-long series ofantinuclear protests. Millions of concerned peoplejoining hands and snarling traffic in the streets ofthe major cibes and capitals, making their voicesheard at the expense of normalcy. Rallies to be heldin the parks and in the squares and in

rout government buildings. Politicians and statesmen,pereiving as always the power of ground swells, hadpromised o address huge crowds everywhere inParis and Bonn, tome and Madrid, Brussels andLondon, Toronto, Ottawa, lew York, andWashington. And again, as always, both the incereadvocates and the posturing sycophants of the bodiesolitic would blame the lack of arms-control progresson the ntransigence of evil adversaries, not on theirown deficien"ies. The genuine and the phony wouldwalk hand in hand cross the many podiums, nonesure of the other’s stripes.

Crowds everywhere would espouse deeply felt,deeply divisive issues: the believers of universalrestraint would be gifted against those who intenselybelieve in the effectiveness -Jf raw power, and thelatter would surely be heard. No one thought themassive demonstrations would be without incidents,yet how far might these minor confrontationsescalate if the incidents themselves were massive?Units of terrorist fanatics financed anonymously,convinced of their mission to infiltrate and savagelydisrupt so as to get their messages across, messagesof real and or imagined grievances that had nothingto do with the protests, creating chaos primarily be-cause the crowds were not of their world or theirfevers. Crowds- everywhere. These were the hordesof people who could be galvanised by suddenviolence and worked into a state of madness. Itwould be the prelude. Everywhere.

The demonstrations were scheduled to begin inthree days.

Peter Stone walked down the wide dirt pathtoward the lake behind the A-frame housesomewhere in lower New Hampshire he did notknow precisely where, only that it was twenty minutesfrom the airport. It was close to dusk, the end of aday filled with surprises, and apparently more wereto come. Ten hours ago, in his room at theAlgonquin, he had called Swissair to see if the flightfrom Geneva was on schedule; he had been told itwas thirty-four minutes ahead of schedule and,barring landing delays, was expected a half-hourearly. It was the first surprise and an inconsequentialone. The second was not. He had arrived at Kennedyshortly before two o’clock, and within a few minuteshe heard the page over the public address system fora "Mr. Lackland,” the name he had given NathanSimon.

“Take Pilgrim Airlines to Manchester, NewHampshire,’ the lawyer had said. “There’s a reservation for Mr.Lacklanc on the three-fifteen plane. Can you makeit?”

“Easily. The flight from Geneva’s early. I assumethat’s La Guardi a? “

“Yes. You’ll be met in Manchester by a manwith red hair. I’ve described you to him. See youaround five-thirty.”

Manchester, New Hampshire? Stone had beenso sure Simon would ask him to fly to Washingtonthat he had not even bothered to put a toothbrushin his pocket.

Surprise number three was the courier fromGeneva. A prim, gaunt Englishwoman with a face ofpale granite and the most uncommunicative pair ofeyes he had seen outside of Dzerzhinsky Square. Asarranged, she had met him in front of the Swissairlounge, a copy of the Economist in her left hand.After studying the wrong side of his out-of-dategovernment identification, she had given him theattache case and made the following statement inhigh dudgeon. “I don’t like New York, I never have.I don’t like flying either, but everyone’s been solovely and it’s better to get the whole whack-a-dooover all at once, righto? They’ve arranged for me totake the next plane back to Geneva. I miss mymountains. They need me and I do try to give themmy very all, righto?”

With that abstruse bit of information she hadsmiled wanly and started back somewhat uncertainlytoward the escalator. It was then that Stone hadbegun to understand. The woman’s eyes did notreveal her condition but the whole person did. Shewas drunk or, perhaps, “pickled” having over-come her fear of flying with liquid courage.Converse had made a strange choice of a courier,Stone had thought, but had instantly changed hismind. Who could be less suspect?

The fourth surprise came at the Manchesterairport. An ebullient, middle-aged redheaded manhad greeted him as though they were long-lostfraternity brothers from some Midwestern universityin the late thirties, when such fraternal ties weredeemed far deeper than blood. He was effusive tothe point where Stone was not only embarrassed bythe display of camaraderie but seriously concernedthat unwarranted attention would be drawn to them.But once in the parking lot, the redhead hadsuddenly slammed him into the doorframe of thecar and shoved the barrel of a gun into the back ofhis neck while the man’s free hand stabbed hisclothes for a weapon.

“I wouldn’t take the risk of going through metaldetectors with a gun, damn it!” protested the ex-CIAagent.

“Just making sure, spook. I’ve dealt with youassholes, you think you’re something else. Me, I wasFederal.”

“Which explains a great deal, " said Stone, meaningit.

“You drive.

“Is that a question or an order?”

“An order. All spooks drive,” replied the redhead.

Surprise number five came in the car as Stonetook the sudden turns commanded by the redheadedman, who casually replaced the gun in his jacketholster.

“Sorry about the horseshit,” he had said in a voicefar less hostile than it had been in the parking lot,but nowhere near the false ebullience in theterminal. “I had to be careful, piss you off, see whereyou stood, you know what I mean? And I was neverFederal I hated those turkeys. They always wantedyou to know they were better than you were just be-cause they came from D.C. I was a cop in Cleveland,name’s Gary Frazier. How are you?”

“Somewhat more comfortable,” Stone had said.“Where are we going?”

“Sorry, pal. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

Surprise number six awaited Stone when hedrove the car up through the New Hampshire hills toan isolated house of wood and glass, surrounded byforests, the structure an inverted V, two narrowingstories looking out in all directions on woods andwater. Nathan Simon had walked down the stonesteps from the front door.

“You’ve brought it?” he asked.

“Here it is,” said Stone, handing the attache caseto the lawyer through the open window. “Where arewe? Who are you seeing?”

“It’s an unlisted residence, but if everything is inorder we’ll call you. There are guest quartersattached to the boathouse down at the lake. Why notfreshen up after your trip? The driver will point theway. If we need you for anything we’ll ring you onthe phone. It’s a separate number from the house, sojust pick it up.”

And now Peter Stone was walking down the widedirt path that led to the boathouse by the lake,aware that eyes were following him. Surprise numbersix: be had no idea where he was and Simon wasn’tgoing to tell him unless “everything was in order,”whatever that meant.

The guest quarters alluded to by the attorneywas a three-room cottage on the edge of the lakewith an entrance to the adjacent boathouse, inwhich was berthed a small sleek motorboat and anondescript catamaran that looked more like a raftwith two canvas seats and fishing equipment fordrift trawling. Stone wandered about trying to findsome clue as to the owner’s identity but there wasnothing. Even the names on the boats weremeaningless, but not lacking in humor.Thecumbersome, raftlike sail was named Hawk whilethe aggressive-looking little speedboat was Dove.

The former deep-cover intelligence officer saton the porch and looked out at the peaceful watersof the lake and the rolling, darkening green hills ofNew Hampshire. Everything was peaceful. Even thecries of the loons seemed to proclaim thepermanence of tranquility in this special place. ButStone’s insides were not peaceful; his stomachchurned and he remembered what Johnny Reb usedto say in the field. “Trust the stomach, Brer Rabbit,trust the bile. They never lie.” He wondered whatthe Rebel was doing, what he was learning.

The phone inside the cottage rang, accompaniedby a strident, unnerving clanging of the porch bell.As if jolted by an electric prod, Stone sprang fromthe chair, swung back the door and walked rapidlyacross the room to the telephone.

“Come up to the house, please,” said NathanSimon, adding, “If you were out on the porch, Iapologise for not telling you about that damnedbell.”

“I accept your apology. I was.”

“It’s for guests who expect calls and may be outin one of the boats.”

“The loons are quiet. I’ll be right there.”

Stone walked up the dirt path and saw thelawyer standing by a screen door that was thelake-side entrance to the house; it was on a patioreached by curving brick steps. He started climbing,prepared for surprise number seven.

Supreme Court Justice Andrew Wellfleet, histhinning unkempt white hair falling in strands overhis wide forehead, sat behind the large desk in hislibrary. Converse’s thick affidavit was in front ofhirn, and a floor lamp on his left threw light on thepages. It was several moments before he looked upand removed his steel-rimmed glasses. His eyeswere stern and disapproving, matching thenickname given him over two decades ago when hewas summoned to the Court. “Iras

cibleAndy” was the sobriquet the clerks had givenhim, but no one ever questioned his awesomeintelligence, his fairness or his devotion to the law.All things considered, surprise number seven was aswelcome a shock as Stone could imagine.

“Have you read this?’ asked Wellfleet, offeringneither his hand nor a chair.

“Yes, sir,” replied Stone. “On the plane. It’sessentially what he told me over the phone, in fargreater detail, of course. The affidavit from theFrenchman, Prudhomme, was a bonus. It tells us howthey operate how they re capable

of operating.”

“And what in hell did you think you were going todo with all of this?” The elderly justice waved hishand over the desk, on which were scattered theother, affidavits. “Petition the courts here and inEurope to please, if they’d be so kind, to issueinjunctions restricting the activities of all military per-sonnel above a certain rank on the conceivablepossibility that they may be part of this?”

“I’m not a lawyer, sir, the courts never entered mymind. But I did think that once we had Converse’sown words along with what we knew they’d besufficient to reach the right people in the highestplaces who could do something. Obviously, Conversethought the same thing insofar as he called in Mr.Simon, and if you’ll forgive me, Mr. Justice, you’rereading it all now.”

“It isn’t enough,” said the Supreme Court justice.“And damn the courts, I shouldn’t have to tell youthat, Mr. Former CIA Man. You need names, a lotmore names, not just five generals, three of whom areretired and one of them, the so-called instigator, aman who had an operation several months ago thatleft him without legs.”

“Delavane?” asked Simon, stepping away from thewindow.

“That’s right,” said Wellfleet. “Kind of pathetic,huh? Not exactly the picture of a very imposingthreat, is he?”

“It could drive him into being an extraordinarythreat.”

“I’m not denying that, Nate. I’m just looking at thecollection you’ve got here. Abrahms? As anyoneworth his kosher salt in Israel will tell you, he’s astrutting, bombastic hothead a brilliant soldier butwith ten screws loose. Besides his only real concernsare for Israel. Van Headmer? He’s a relic of thenineteenth century, pretty fast with a hangman’s

rope but his voice doesn’t mean doodlly-shit outsideof South Africa.”

“Mr. Justice,” said Stone, speaking more firmlythan he had before, "are you implying that we’rewrong? Because if you are, there are othernames and I don’t just mean a couple of attachesat the embassy in Bonn names of men who havebeen killed because they tried to find answers.”

“You weren’t listening!” snapped Wellfleet. “Ijust told Nate I wasn’t denying anything. How inhell could I? Forty-five million in untraceable, illegalexports! An apparatus that can shape the newsmedia here and in Europe, that can corruptgovernment agencies, and as Nate here puts it“create a psychopathic assassin’ so they can find you,or make you back down.. Oh, no, mister, I’m notsaying you’re wrong. I’m saying you better damnwell do what I’m told you’re pretty good at, andyou’d better do it quickly. Haul in this Washburnand any others you can find in Bonn; pick a crosssection of those people at State and the Pentagonand fill ”em full of dope or whatever the hell youuse and get names! And if you ever mention that Isuggested such wanton measures that violate ourmost sacred human rights, I’ll say you’re full of shit.Talk to Nate here. You don’t have time for nicetiesmister.”

“We don’t have the resources, either,” saidStone. “As I explained to Mr. Simon, there are afew friends I can call upon for information butnothing like what you suggest like what you didn’tsuggest. I simply don’t have the leverage, the menor the equipment. I’m not even employed by thegovernment any longer.”

“I can help you there.” Wellfleet made a note.“You’ll get whatever you need.”

“There’s the other problem,” continued Stone.“No matter how careful we are, we’d send outalarms. These people are believers, notjust mindlessextremists. They’re orchestrated; they have lines offullbacks and know exactly what they’re doing. It’sa progression, a logical capitalising on sequencesuntil we’re all forced to accept them or accept theunacceptable, the continuation of violence, ofwholesale rioting, of the killing.”

“Very nice, mister. And what are you going to do?Noth

“Of course not. Rightly or wrongly, I believedConverse when he told me that with ouraffidavits with all the evi

dencewe provided him Mr. Simon could reachpeople we couldn’t reach. Why shouldn’t I havebelieved him? It was an extension of my ownthinking without a Nathan Simon but with Conversehimself. Only, my way would take longer. Theprecautions would be far more elaborate, but it couldbe done. We’d reach the right people and start thecounterattack.”

"Who’d you have in mind?” asked Wellfleet sharply.

" The President first, obviously. Then, becausewe’re dealing with half a dozen other countries, theSecretary of State. A maximum-security screeningprocess would be set up immediately oneundoubtedly using those chemicals you didn’t speakof until we had unblemished personnel, men andwomen we were certain beyond doubt had noconnections to this Aquitaine. We create cells,command posts here and abroad. Incidentally, there’sa man who can help us immeasurably in this, a mannamed Belamy in Britain’s M.1.6. I’ve worked withhim and he’s the best knows the best and he’sdone this sort of thing before. Once our cells are inplace and in deep cover, we then pull in Washburnand at least two others we know of by description inBonn. Prudhomme can furnish us with the names ofthose in the Surete who approve transfers, and whofurnished evidence against Converse when it didn’texist. And as you know from my own affidavit, we’vegot the island of Scharhdrn under surveillancenow we think it’s a nerve confer or acommunications relay. With the proper equipmentwe could tap in. The whole point is we widen thecircles of information. Once you know a strategy, youcan mount a counterstrategy without setting offalarms.” Stone paused and looked at both men. “Mr.Justice, Mr. Simon. I was station chief in five vitalposts in Great Britain and the Continent. I know itcan be done.”

“I don’t doubt you,” said Nathan Simon. “Howlong would it take?”

“If Justice Wellfleet can get me the cooperationand the equipment I need, with the people Iselect here and abroad Derek Belamy and I canmount a crash program. We’d be operational in eightto ten days.”

Simon looked at the Supreme Court justice thenback at Stone. “We don’t have eight or ten days,” hesaid. “We have three less than three days now.”

Peter Stone stared at the tall, portly attorney withthe

sad, penetrating eyes. He could feel the blooddraining from his face.

The cry of the cat was muted in fury. GeneralCeorge Marcus Delavane slowly replaced thetelephone on the console. His half-body waspropped into the wheelchair, his waist strapped tothe steel poles, his arms as heavy as his breath wasshort, the veins in his neck distended. He broughthis hands together, entwining his fingers andpressing the knuckles against each other until thesurrounding flesh was white. He raised his largehead, his cold, angry eyes narrowing as he lookedup at the uniformed aide standing in front of thedesk.

“They’ve disappeared,” he said, his high-pitchedvoice icily controlled. “Leifhelm was taken from arestaurant in Bonn. They say there was anambulance that raced away, no one knows where.Abrahms’guards were drugged. Others took theirplaces. He was driven offin his own staffcar, pickedup in front of a synagogue. Bertholdier did notcome down from his apartment on the Montaigne,so the driver went up to discreetly remind him ofthe time. The woman was bound naked on the bed,the word "whore’ written in lipstick across herbreasts. She said two men took him away atgunpoint. There was talk of a plane, she said.”

“What about Van Headmer?” asked the aide.

“Nothing. Our charming and oblivious Afrikanerdines at the Johannesburg Military Club and says hewill put himself under extra guard. He’s not part ofthe orbit; he’s too far away to matter.”

“What do you mean, General? What happened?”

“What happened? This Converse happened! Wecreated our own most accomplished enemy,Colonel and I can’t say we weren’t warned. Chaimsaid it, our man in the Mossad made it clear. TheNorth Vietnamese created a hellhound theMossad’s words and we created a monster. Heshould have been killed in Paris, certainly in Bonn.”

“You couldn t have ordered it then,” said theaide, shaking his head. “You had to know where hecame from, and if you couldn’t find out, you had toisolate him, make him what was it.P_a pariah, sono one would come forth to claim him. It was soundstrategy, General. It still remains sound. No one’scome forth no one’s coming forth. You held themback, and now it’s too late.”

Delavane’s eyes widened as he appraised thecalonel’s

face. “You’ve always been the best of adjutants, Paul.You tactfully remind a superior that regardless ofperiodic setbacks, his decisions were based on soundreasons, and that those reasons will prevail.”

“I’ve disagreed when I thought it was necessary,General, because whatever I learned I learned fromyou, so l merely reminded you of yourself. Rightnow, at this moment, I’m right. You were right.”

“Yes, I was I am. Nothing matters now.Everything’s set in motion and nothing can stop it.This Converse this bold, resourceful enemy wasalso held in check by having to keep running. Andnow he’s too late. In any event, the men he’s takenare merely symbols, magnets to attract others. That’sthe beauty of clean strategy, Colonel. Once it’s set inmotion, it rolls like the ocean wave. The powerunderneath is unseen, but it is relentless. Events willdictate the only acceptable solutions. It’s my legacy,Colonel.”

Nathan Simon had nearly finished hisexplanation. It had taken less than three minutes,during which time Peter Stone remained motionless,his eyes riveted on the older man, his face ashen, thetaste in his mouth unbearable.

“You can see the pattern, can’t you?” concludedthe attorney. “The protests begin in the Middle Eastand follow the sun and the time zones across theMediterranean, up through Europe, and over theAtlantic, culminating in Canada and the UnitedStates. They start with the Peace Now movement inJerusalem, then Beirut, Rome, Paris, Bonn, London,Toronto, Washington, New York, Chicago, et cetera.Gigantic rallies in the major cities and capitals,covering every nation and government Delavane andhis people have infiltrated. Confrontationsoccur the initial unrest growing into major disrup-tions with the infusion of terrorist units. Bombswired into cars, or under the streets in sewers, orsimply rolled into the crowds the second wave ofgreater violence all leading to the mass confusionand disorder they require to put their leading playersin position. Or more precisely, once in position toexercise their assignments.”

" The final assaults,” said Stone quietly. Selectedassassinations.”

Chaos,” agreed Simon. "World leaders suddenlydead, the descending mantles of authority unclear,too many men

protesting, one another, screaming that they are incharge. Total chaos.”

“Scharhorn!” said the former intelligence officer." We have no other choice now. We have to go in!May I use your telephone, Mr. Justice?” Withoutwaning for a reply, Stone walked to Wellfleet’s deskas he removed his billfold and pulled out the smallpiece of paper with a number in Cuxhaven, WestGermany, written on it. He turned the phonearound under the harsh gaze of the Supreme Courtjustice, picked it up and dialed. The sequence oftransatlantic relays was intolerable. It rang.

“Rebel?”

The explosive invective over the line from halfa world away could be heard even by Simon andWellfleet. Stone broke it off. “Stop it, Johnny! Ihaven’t been near the hotel in hours and I haven’ttime for this! . . . You what?” The CIA manlistened, holding his breath, his eyes growing wide.He covered the mouthpiece and turned to NathanSimon. “My God, there’s a breakthrough!” hewhispered. “Photographs. Infrared, taken last nightand developed this morning all clear. Ninety-sevenmen from Scharhorn getting off a boat, heading forthe airport and train station. He thinks they’re thehit teams.”

“Get those photographs to Brussels and flown toWashington on the fastest goddamned militarytransport you can find!” ordered the veneratedjustice of the Supreme Court.

“Preposterous!” shouted General Jacques-LouisBertholdier from the brocaded wing chair in thespacious study of the Alpine chateau. “I don’tbelieve you for a minute’”

“That’s a favorite word of yours, isn’t it?” saidConverse, standing by the open cathedral windowacross the room, the mountain fields beyond. Hewas dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and aregimental tie, all purchased in Chamonix. “Theword "preposterous,’ I mean,” he continued. “Youused it at least twice when we spoke in Paris, Ithink. It’s as though

whatever information you don’t like ispreposterous absurd, unwarranted not only theinformation itself but also the person who gives youthe information. Is that the way you look at peoplewho don’t accommodate you?”

“Certainly not! It is the way I treat liars.” Thelegend of France began to rise. "And I see noreason “

“Stay in that chair!” Joel commanded. “Or onlyyour corpse will get back to Paris,” he added simply,without hostility. “I told you, all I wanted was thisconversation with you. It won’t take long, and thenyou’ll be free to go. That’s more charity than any ofyou showed me.”

“You were expendable. I apologise for being soblunt, but it is the truth.’

“If I was so expendable, why didn’t you just killme? Why the elaborate buildup, all that trouble tomake me a killer, an assassin, a man hunted all overEurope.”

“The Jew gave us that.”

“The Jew? Chaim Abrahms?”

“It makes no difference now,” said Bertholdier.“Our man in the Mossad incidentally, a brilliantanalyst made it clear that if we could not find outwhere you came from, if you yourself did not know,then we had to put you in’forbidden territory’ Ibelieve that was the expression. And that was notpreposterous. No one claims you. You were youare indeed, untouchable.”

“Why doesn’t it make any difference now thefact that you’ve told me what you presume I alreadyknow?”

“You’ve lost, Monsieur Converse.”

“I have?”

“Yes, and if you have delusions about druggingme as we drugged you let me spare you and methe discomfort of such procedures. I do not have theinformation. Actually, no one does. Only a machinethat is set in motion and issues commands.”

“To other machines?”

“Of course not. To men men who will do whatthey have been trained to do, who believe in whatthey’re doing. I have no idea who they are.”

“That’s the killing, isn’t it? They’re the killers.”

“All war is reduced to killing, young man. Andmake no mistake. This is war. The world has hadenough. We will put it to rights, as the English say.You will see; we will not be opposed. We are notonly needed, we are wanted.”

“"Accumulation, rapid acceleration,’ those werethe words, weren’t they?”

"The Jew was precipitate. He talks too much.

“He says you re the pompous asshole of creation.He told me that he and Van Headmer were goingto put you in a glass room with little boys and girlsand watch you screw yourself into a coronary.

“His conversations were always tasteless. . . Butno, I don’t believe you.

“So we re back to my original statement.” Joelwalked away from the window and sat down in anarmchair diagonally opposite Bertholdier. “Why doyou find it so difficult to believe? Because you didnt think of it?”

“No, monsieur. Because it s unthinkable.’

Converse pointed to a telephone on the desk.“You know their private numbers, he said. “Callthem. Call Leifhelm in Bonn and Abrahms in TelAviv. Also Van Headmer, if you like, although I’mtold he s in the States, probably California.”

“California?”

“Ask each of them if he came to see me at thatlittle stone house on Leifhelm s property. Ask themwhat we talked about. Go on, the phone s right overthere.”

Bertholdier looked sharply at the telephone asJoel held his breath. Then the soldier turned back toConverse, reluctance winning out over inclination.“What are you trying to do? What sort of trick isthis?”

“What trick? There s the phone. I can’t rig it, Ican’t make it dial numbers or hire people hundredsor thousands of miles away to impersonate thosemen.”

The Frenchman looked again at the telephone.“What could I say?” he asked quietly, the questiondirected more at himself than at Joel.

“Try the truth. You’re very big on the truth asyou see it, as it pertains to large global concepts,and this is only a small matter of several minoromissions. They’re omitting to tell you that each oneof them came to see me. Or perhaps the omissionsweren’t so minor.”

“How would I know they came to see you?’

“You weren’t listening to me. I said "Try thetruth. I had you kidnapped, no one else. I did itbecause I didn t understand, and if push comes toshove, I want to save my life. There’s a huge worldout there, General. Large parts of it you’ll leaveintact, and I could live very nicely as long as I

didn’t have to worry about someone coming out ofa doorway to blow my head off.”

" You’re not the man I thought you were wethought you were.”

“We’re all what circumstances make us. I’ve hadmy share of sweat. I’m bowing out of the crusadingbusiness, or the lid-blowing business, or whateveryou want to call it. Would you like to know why?”

“Very much so,” said Bertholdier, staring at Joel,confusion and curiosity fighting each other in hiseyes.

“Because I listened to you in Bonn. Maybe you’reright, or maybe I just don’t care anymore because Iwas left way out in the cold. Maybe the world reallydoes need you arrogant bastards right now.”

“It does! There’s no other way!”

“It’s the year of the generals then, isn’t it?”

“No, not simply the generals! We are theconsolidators, the symbols of strength and disciplineand lawful order. Surely what follows in theaggregate in the international marketplaces, in jointforeign policies, and yes, in the legal processesthemselves will reflect our leadership, our example,and out of it all will come what is most lacking intoday’s world. Stability, Monsieur Converse! Nomore madmen like the senile Khomeini or thehollow braggardQaddafi, or the insane Palestinians.Such men and such nations and would-be nationswill be pincered by truly international forces, crushedby the overwhelming might of like-mindedgovernments. Retribution will be swift and total. Iam a military strategist of some reputation, so let meassure you the Russians will stand aside, appalled,not daring to interfere knowing at last that theycannot divide us any longer. They cannot rattle theirsabers, frightening one segment while appeasingothers, for we are all one!”

“Aquitaine,” said Joel softly.

“An adequate code name, yes,” agreed Bertholdier.

“You’re as convincing as you were in Bonn,”added Converse. “And maybe it could all work, butnot this way, not with you people.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nobody has to divide you you’re alreadyoceans apart.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Place those calls, General. Make it easy on yourself.

Reach Leifhelm first. Tell him you just heard fromAbrahms in Tel Aviv and you’re appalled. SayAbrahms wants to meet with you because he hasinformation about me, that he admitted he and VanHeadmer came to see me alone in Bonn. You couldadd that I told Abrahms he and his Afrikaner friendwere my second and third visitors. Leifhelm was thefirst. "

"Why would I tell him this?”

“Because you’re angry as hell. No one told youabout these separate meetings with me and youconsider them highly improper which, if you don’tyou damn well should. A little while ago you said Iwas expendable. Well, you’re in for a shock,General. "

“Explain that!”

“No. Use the phone. Listen to what he says howhe reacts, how they all react. You’ll know. See if I’mtelling you the truth. “

Bertholdier placed both his hands on the armsof the brocaded chair and started to rise, his eyeson the telephone. Converse sat motionless, watchingthe Frenchman closely barely breathing, his pulseracing. Suddenly the general pushed himselfviolently back into the chair and gripped its arms“AII right!” he shouted. “What was said ? What didthey say?

“I think you should use that phone first.’

“Pointless!” snapped Bertholdier. “As you say,you cannot make it dial other numbers well, Isuppose you could, but to what end? Impostors?Ridiculous! I could ask any of several hundredquestions and know they were merely playactors.”

“All the more reason to call them,” said Joelcalmly. “You’d know I was telling the truth.”

“And give an advantage where none was shown tome. “

Converse breathed normally again. “It’s up toyou, General. I’m just looking for a safe way out.”

“Then tell me what was said to you.”

“Each asked me the obvious as if he didn’ttrust the drugs or the one who adminstered them oreach other. Whom did I really represent?”Joelpaused; he was about to fish with a witness, butknew he had to pull back instantly if the pond wasbarren. “I guess I mentioned Beale on Mykonos,’heoffered hesitantly.

“You did,” confirmed the general. “He wasreached several months ago, but our contact neverreturned. You expla”ned that also.”

"You thought he might be one of you, didn’t you?’

“We thought he threw away a brilliant militarycareer out of disgust. Apparently it was a differentdisgust, the very weakness we abhorred. But theseare not the things I want to hear. You madereference to some aspect of expendability That iswhat I want to hear. Now.”

"You want it straight? Without the frills?’

“No frills, monsieur.”

“LeifLelm said you’ll be out in a matter ofmonths, if not sooner. You give too many orders; theothers are sick of them and you want too much forFrance.”

“Leifhelm? The hypocritical weasel who sold hisvery soul to deny everything he espoused? Whobetrayed his leaders in the dock at Nuremberg,furnishing the court with all manner of evidence soas to worm his way into the Allies’ bowels!Everywhere, whatever our commitments, we cringed!He brought dishonoron the most honorableprofession in this world. Let me tell you, monsieur,it is not I who will be out, it is he!”

“Abrahms said you were a sexualembarrassment,” con .inued Converse, as thoughBertholdier’s response was irrelevant. “That was thephrase he used, “a sexual embarrassment. Hementioned the fact that there was a record one heobtained, in fact that spelled out a string of rapes,female and male, that were covered up by theFrench Army because you were damned good atwhat you did. But then he asked the question. Coulda bisexual opportunist, one who ravaged women atwill and who sodomised young men and boys, whocorrupted the word ”interrogations’ as well as wholesections of the officer corps, be truly considered theFrench leader of code-name Aquitaine. He also saidyou wanted too many controls cantered in your owngovernment. But by the time there were suchcontrols, you’d be gone.”

“Gone?” cried the Frenchman, his eyes once moreon fire as they had been weeks ago in Paris, hiswhole body trembling with rage. “Convicted by abarbarian, a smelly, uneducated Jew?”

“Van Headmer didn’t go that far. He said youwere simply too vulnerable “

“Forget Van Headmer!” roared Bertholdier. “He’sa fossil! He was courted solely on the basis that hemight deliver raw materials. He’s of noconsequence.”

“I didn’t think he was,” agreed Joel truthfully.

“But the strutting, foul-mouthed Israeli thinkshe can move against me? Let me tell you, I havebeen threatened before by a great man andnothing ever came of those threats because, as youput it, I was ”damned good’ at what I did. I still am!And there is another record, one of outstanding andbrilliant service, that dwarfs any compilation offilthy rumors and barracks gossip. My record isunmatched by any in code-name Aquitaine, and thatincludes the legless egomaniac in San Francisco. Hebelieves it was all his idea! Preposterous! I refined it!He merely gave it a name based on a far-fetchedreading of history.”

“He also got the ball started by exporting onehell of a lot of hardware,” interrupted Converse.

" Because it was there! And there were profits tobe made!” The general paused, leaning forward inthe chair. “I will be frank with you. As with any elitecorps of leadership, one man rises above the othersby the sheer strength of his character and his mind.Beside me the others all others pale intomediocrity. Delavane is a deformed, hystericalcaricature. Leifhelm is a Nazi, and Abrahms is abombastic polarizer; alone he could set off waves ofanti-Semitism, the worst sort of symbol ofleadership. When the tribunals rise out of theconfusion and the panic, they will look to me. Ishall be the true leader of code-name Aquitaine.”

Joel got out of the chair and walked back to thewindow, staring out at the mountain fields, feelingthe soft breezes on his face. “This examination isfinished, General,” he said.

As if on cue the door opened, and a formersergeant major in the French Army based in Algiersstood there waiting to escort the bewildered legendof France out of the room.

Chaim Abrahms sprang out of the brocadedchair, his barrel chest straining the seams of hisblack safari jacket. “He said those things about me?About himself?”

“I told you before we got into any of this to usethe phone,” said Converse, sitting across from theIsraeli, a pistol on a table beside his chair. “Don’ttake my word for it. I’ve heard it said you’ve gotgood gut instincts. Call Bertholdier. You don t haveto say where you are as a matter of fact, I’d put abullet in your head if you tried. Just tell him one ofLeifhelm’s guards, a man you bought to keep hiseyes open for you because of a certain innatemistrust you have of Germans, told you that he,Bertholdier, came to see me alone on two

separate occasions. Since I haven’t been found, youwant to know why. It’ll work. You’ll hear enough toknow whether I’m telling you the truth or not.”

Abrahms stared down at Joel. "But why do youtell me this truth? If it is the truth. Why do youabduct me to tell me these things. Why?”

“I thought I made that clear. My money’s runningout, and although I’m not wild about lox or kreplach,I’d be better off living in Israel under a protectivecover than being hunted and ultimately killedrunning around Europe. You can do that for me, butI know I’ve got to deliver something to you first. I’mdelivering it now. Bertholdier intends to take overwhat he calls code-name Aquitaine. He said you’rea foul-mouthed Jew, a destructive symbol, you’llhave to go. He said the same about Leifhelm; thespecter of a Nazi couldn’t be tolerated and VanHeadmer was a “fossil’ that was the word, ”fossil.”

“I can hear him,” said Abrahms softly, his handsclasped behind his back, pacing toward the window.“Are you sure our military boulevardier with thecock of steel did not say ’smelly Jew’? I’ve heard ourFrench hero use such words always, of course,apologising to me, saying I was exempt.”

“He used them.”

“But why? Why would he say such things to you?I don’t deny his logic, for Christ’s sake. Leifhelm willbe shot once controls are established. A l"lazirunning the goddamned German government?Absurd! Even Delavane understands this, he will beeliminated. And poor old Van Headmer is a relic weall know that. Still, there is gold in South Africa. Hecould deliver it. But why you? Why wouldBertholdier come to you?”

“Ask him yourself. There’s the phone. Use it.”

The Israeli stood motionless, his narrow eyesencased in swells of flesh riveted on Converse. " I will,” he said quietly emphatically. “You are far tooclever, Mr. Lawyer. The fire inside you remains inyour head it has not reached your stomach. Youthink too much. You say you were manipulated? Isay you manipulate.” Abrahms turned and strode likea bulky Coriolanus to the phone. He stood for amoment squinting, remembering, then picked up thephone and dialed the series of numbers long agocommitted to memory.

Joel remained in the chair, every muscle in hisbody taut, his throat suddenly dry. Slowly he inchedhis hand over the

arm of the chair nearer the pistol. In seconds hemight have to use it, his strategy his onlystrategy blown apart by a phone call he had neverthought would be made. What was wrong with him?Where were his vaunted examining tactics taking him?Had he forgotten whom he was dealing with?

“Code Isaiah, " said Abrahms into the phone, hisangry eyes again staring across the room atConverse. “Patch me through to Verdun-sur-Meuse.(prickly!” The Israeli’s massive chest heaved withevery breath, but it was the only part of his stockyframe that moved. He spoke again, furiously. “Yes,code Isaiah! I have no time to waste! Reach Ver-dun-sur-Meuse! Now!” Abrahms eyes grew wide ashe listened. He looked briefly away from Converse,then snapped his head back toward him, his eyesfilled with loathing. “Repeat that!” he shouted. Andthen he slammed the telephone down with suchforce the desk shook. “Liar!” he screamed.

“You mean me?” asked Joel, his hand inchesfrom the gun.

“They say he disappeared! They cannot find him!”

“And?” Converse’s throat was now a vacuum. Hehad lost.

“He lies! The cock of steel is no more than awhining coward! He’s hiding he avoids me! He willnot face me!”

Joel swallowed repeatedly as he moved his handaway from the weapon. “Force the issue,” he said,somehow managing to keep the tremor out of hisvoice. “Trace him down. Call LeifLelm, VanHeadmer. Say it’s imperative you reachBertholdier.”

“Stop it! And let him know I know? He had togive you a reason! Why did he come to see you inthe first place?”

“ I wanted to wait until you’d spoken to him,”said Converse, crossing his legs and picking up apack of cigarettes next to the pistol. “He might havetold you himself then again, he might not. He hasthis idea that I was sent out by Delavane to test allof you. To see who might betray him. ”

“Betray him? Betray the legless one? How?Why? And if our French peacock believed that,again why would he say these things to you?”

“I’m an attorney. I provoked him. Once heunderstood how I felt about Delavane, what thatbastard did to me, he knew I couldn’t possibly haveanything to do with him. His defences were down;the rest was easy. And as he talked I saw

a way to save my own life.’ Joel struck a match,lighting a cigarette. “By reaching you,” he added.

“At the end you bank on the morality of a Jew,then? His acknowledgment of a debt.’

“In part, yes, but not entirely, General. I knowsomething about Leifhelm, about the way he’smaneuvered through the years. He’d have me shot,then send his men after the rest of you, leavinghimself in the number one position.”

“That’s exactly what he’d do,” agreed the Israeli.

“And I didn’t think Van Headmer had any realauthority north of Pretoria.”

“Right again,” said Abrahms, walking back towardConverse. “So the hellhound created in SoutheastAsia is a survivor.”

“Let’s be more specific,” countered Joel. “I wassent out by people I don’t know who abandoned mewithout raising the slightest question as to my guiltor innocence. For all I know, they joined in the huntto kill me to save their own lives. Given theseconditions I intend to survive.”

“What about the woman? Your woman?”

“She goes with me.” Converse put down thecigarette and picked up the gun. “What’s youranswer? I can kill you now, or leave that toBertholdier, or Leifhelm, if he kills the Frenchmanfirst. Or I can bank on your morality, your ac-knowledgment of a debt. What’s it going to be?”

“Put away the gun,” said Chaim Abrahms. “Youhave the word of a sabre.”

“What’ll you do?” asked Joel, placing the weaponback on the table.

“Do?” shouted the Israeli in a sudden burst ofanger. “What I’ve always intended to do! You thinkI give a horse’s fart for this abstraction, thisAquitaine’s infrastructure? Do you think I care onewhit for titles or labels or chains of command? Letthem have it all! I only care that it works, and for itto work respectability must come out of the chaosalong with strength. Bertholdier was right. I am toodivisive a figure as well as a Jew to be so visibleon the Euro-American scene. So I will beinvisible except in Eretz Yisrael, where my word willbe the law of this new order. I, myself, will help theFrench bull get whatever medals he wants. I will notfight him, I will control him.”

“How?”

“Because I can destroy his respectability.”

Converse sat forward, suppressing hisastonishment. “His sex life? Those buried scandals?”

“My God, no, you imbecile! You kick a manbelow his belt in public you ask for trouble. Half thepeople cry "Foul,’thinking it could happen to them,and the other half applaud his courage to indulgehimself which they would very much like to do.”

“Then how, General? How can you do this,destroy his respectability?”

Abrahms sat down again in the brocaded chairhis thick body squeezed dangerously between thedelicately carved mahogany arms. “By exposing therole he played in "code-name Aquitaine.’ The roleswe all played in this extraordinary adventure thatforced the civilized world to summon us and thestrengths of our professional leadership. It’s entirelypossible that all free Europe will turn to Bertholdieras France nearly turned to him after De Gaulle. Butone must understand a man like Bertholdier. Hedoesn’t merely seek power, he seeks the glory ofpower the trappings, the adulation, the mysticism.He would rather give up certain intrinsic authoritythan lose any part of the glory. Me? I don’t give ashit about the glory. All I want is the power to getwhat I need what I command. For the kingdom ofIsrael and its imprimatur in all of the Middle East.”

"You expose him, you expose yourself. How canyou win that way?”

“Because he’ll blink first. He’ll think of the gloryand submit. He’ll do as I say, give me what I want.”

“I think he’ll have you shot.”

“Not when he’s told that if I die several hundreddocuments will be released describing every meetingwe attended, every decision we made. Everything isscrupulously detailed, I assure you.”

“You intended this from the beginning?”

“From the beginning.”

“You play rough.”

“I’m a sabre. I play for the advantage withoutit we would have been massacred decades ago.”

“Among these documents is there a list ofeveryone in Aquitaine?”

“No. It has never been my intention tojeopardise the movement. Call it whatever name youwill, I believe truly in the concept. There must be aunified, international mili

tary-industrial complex. The world will not stay sanewithout it.’

"But there is such a list.

“In a machine, a computer, but it must beprogrammed correctly, the proper codes used.’

“Could you do it?

“Not without help.

“What about Delavane?’

"You have certain perceptions yourself, said theIsraeli, nodding. “What about him?

Again Joel had to control his astonishment. Thecomputer codes that released the master list ofAquitaine were with Delavane. At least the keysymbols were. The remainder were provided by thefour leaders across the Atlantic. Converse shrugged.“You haven t really mentioned him. You’ve talkedabout Bertholdier, about the elimination of Leifhelm,and the impotence of Van Headmer, who could,however, bring in raw materials “

“I said "gold,’” corrected Abrahms.

“Bertholdier said "raw materiels.’ But what aboutGeorge Marcus Delavane?”

“Marcus is finished,” said the Israeli flatly. “Hewas coddled we all coddled him because hebrought us the concept and he worked his end in theUnited States. We have equipment and materiel allover Europe, to say nothing of the contraband we’veshipped to insurgents, just to keep them occupied. "

“Clarification,” interrupted Joel. ” "Occupied’means killing?”

“All is killing. Disingenuous philosophersnotwithstanding, the ends do justify the means. Aska man hunted by killers if he will jump into humanexcrement to conceal himself.”

“I’ve asked him,” said Converse. “I’m he,remember? What about Delavane?”

“He’s a madman, a maniac. Have you ever heardhis voice? He speaks like a man with his testicles ina vise. They cut off his legs, you know, amputatedonly months ago for diabetes. The great generalfelled from an excess of sugar! He’s tried to keep ita secret. He sees no one and no longer goes to hisimpressive office filled with photographs and flagsand a thousand decorations. He operates out of hishome, where the servants come only when he’shidden in a darkened bedroom. How he wished itcould have been a mortar shell or a

bayonet charge, but no. Only sugar. He’s becomeworse, a raving fool, but even fools can have flashes ofbrilliance. He had it once.”

“What about him?”

“We have a man with him, an aide with the rank ofcolonel. When everything begins, when our commandsare in place, the colonel will do as instructed. Marcuswill be shot for the good of his own concept.”

It was Joel’s turn to get out of his chair. Onceagain he walked to the cathedral window across theroom and felt the cool mountain breezes on his face.“This examination is finished, General,’ he said.

“What?” roared Abrahms. “You want your life. /want guarantees!”

“Finished, " repeated Converse as the door openedand a captain m the Israeli Army walked inside, hisgun levered at Chaim Abrahms.

“There will be no discussion between us, Herr Con-verse,” said Erich LeifLelm, standing by the door of thestudy. The doctor from Bonn had just left.the room.“You have your prisoner. Execute him. Over manyyears and in many ways

I have been waiting for this moment. In truth, I’m wearyof the morbidity.”

“Are you telling me you want to die?” asked Joel,standing by the table with the pistol on top.

“No one wants to die, least of all a soldier in thequiet of a strange room. Drums and sharp commandsto a firing squad are preferable there’s a certainmeaning in that. But I’ve seen too much death to gointo hysterics. Pick up your pistol and get it over with.I would if I were you.”

Converse studied the German’s face, whose strangeeyes were noncommittal, expressing only contempt.“You mean it don’t you?”

“Shall I give orders myself? There was a newsreelyears ago. A black man did that against a bloodstainedwall in Castro’s Cuba. I’ve always admired that soldier.”Leifhelm suddenly shouted, “Achtung! Soldaten!P"sentiert das Gewehr!”

“For Christ’s sake, why not talk ?” roared Joel,riding over the fanatical voice.

“Because I have nothing to say. My actions speak,my life has spoken! What is it, Herr Converse? Youhave no stomach for executions? You cannot give theorder to yourself? A small,

insignificant man’s conscience will not permit him tokill? You are laughable!”

“I remind you, General, I’ve killed several peoplethese past few weeks. Killed with less feeling than Iever thought possible.”

" The lowliest coward running for his life will killin panic. There is no character in that, merelysurvival. No, Herr Converse, you are insignificant, animpediment even your own forces care nothingabout. You abound in this world. There is an oddphrase you have in your country that so readily ap-plies to you, a phrase our associate uses frequently.You are a ’shit-kicker,’ Herr Converse, nothing moreand probably less.”

"What did you say? What did you call me?”

“You heard me clearly. A shit-kicker. A littleman who steps in waste. Shit-kicker, Herr Converse.Shit-kicker!”

He was back a lifetime ago, on the bridge of acarrier, the face in front of him contorted, obscene, thetwice shrill. Shit-kicker! Shit-kicker, shit-kicker,shit-kicker! Then other explosions followed, and he wasblown into the dark clouds, the wind and the rainbuffeting him, hammering him as he swung downtoward the earth. Down to the ground and four yearsof madness and death and dying children weeping.Madness! Shit-kicker . . . shit-kicker . . . shit-kicker!

Converse reached down for the pistol on thetable. He picked it up and, with his index fingeraround the trigger, leveled it at Erich Leifhelm.

And then a sudden shock went through him.What was he doing? He needed all three men ofAquitaine. Not one, not two, but three! It was thebasis, the spine of what he had to do! But still therewas something else. He had to kill, he had to destroythe deadly human virus staring at him, wantingdeath. Oh, Jesus! Had Aquitaine won, after ally Hadhe become one of them? If he had, he had lost.

"Your kind of courage is cheap, Leifhelm,” hesaid softly, lowering the gun. “Better a quick bulletthan other alternatives.”

“I live by my code. I die by it gladly.”

“Cleanly, you mean. Swiftly. No Dachau, noAuschwitz.”

“You have the gun.”

“I thought you had so much to offer.”

“My successor has been chosen carefully. He willcarry out details, every nuance of my agenda.

The opening was there, a strategy suddenlyrevealed. Joel pushed the /outton

“Your successor?”

"ha. “

“You have no successor, Field Marshal.”

“What?”

“Any more than you have an agenda. You don’thave anything without me. It’s why I brought youhere. Just you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sit down, General. I’ve several things to tellyou, and for your own sake you’d better be seated.Your own execution might be more preferable toyou than what I’ve got to say “

“Liar!” screamed Erich Leifhelm four minuteslater, his hands gripping the arms of the brocadedchair. “Liar, liar liar!” he roared.

“I didn’t expect you to believe me,” said Joelcalmly standing in the middle of the spacious,book-lined study “Cali Bertholdier in Paris .md tellhim you just heard some dlsturbing news and you’dlike a clarification. Say it outright, you’ve learnedthat while you were in Essen, Bertholdier andAbrahms came to see me at your place in Bonn.”

“How would I know that?”

“The truth. They paid a guard to open thedoor I don’t know which one, I didn’t seehim but a guard did unlock the door and let themin.”

“Because they believed you were an informer,sent out by Delavane, himself?”

“That’s what they told me.”

“You were drugged! There were no suchindications!”

“They were suspicious. They didn’t know thedoctor and they didn’t trust the Englishman. I don’thave to tell you they don’t trust you. They thoughtthe whole thing might be a hoax. They wanted tocover themselves.”

“Incredible!”

“Not when you think about it,” said Converse,sitting down opposite the German. “How did I reallyget the information I had? How did I know theexact people to reach except through Delavane?That was their thinking.”

“That Delavane would do this could do it?”began the astonished Leifhelm.

“I know what that means now,” interrupted Joelquickly seizing on the new opening presented him.“Delavane’s finished, they both admitted it whenthey understood he was the

last person on earth I’d work for. Maybe they werethrowing me a few crumbs before setting me up formy own execution.”

“That had to be done!” exclaimed the ThirdReich’s once youngest field marshal. "Certainly youcan understand. Who were you? Where did you comefrom? You yourself did not know. You spoke ofinconsequential names and lists and a great deal ofmoney but nothing that made sense. Who hadpenetrated us? Since we could not find out, you hadto be turned into a pariah. Into something rotten. Athing of rot no one would touch.”

“You did it very well.”

“For that I must take credit,” said LeifLelm,nodding. “It was essentially my organization.Everything was mine.”

“I didn’t bring you here to discuss yourachievements. I brought you here to save my life.You can do that for me the people who sent meout either can’t or won’t but you can. All I have todo is give you a reason.”

“By implying that Abrahms and Bertholdierconspire against me?”

“I won’t imply anything, I’ll give it to you straightin their own words. Remember, neither one of themthought I’d leave your place except as a corpseconveniently shot in the vicinity of some particularlygruesome assassination.” Suddenly Converse got outof the chair, shaking his head. “No!” he said em-phatically. “Call your trusted French and Israeliallies, your fellow Aquitainians. Say anything youlike, just listen to their voices you’ll be able to tell.It takes an accomplished liar to spot other liars, andyou’re the best.”

“I find that offensive.”

“Oddly enough, I meant it as a compliment. It’swhy I reached you. I think you’re going to be thewinner over here and after what I’ve been through Iwant to go with a winner.’

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, come on, let’s be honest. Abrahms is hated;he’s insulted everyone in Europe, the U.K. and theU.S. who doesn’t agree with his expansionist policiesfor Israel. Even his own countrymen can’t shut himup. All they can do is censure him and he keeps onscreaming. He’d never be tolerated in any kind ofinternational federation.”

The Nazi quickly, repeatedly shook his head.“Never!” he shouted. “He is the most loathsome manto come out of the Middle East. And, of course, he’saJew. But how is Bertholdier to be equated in thismanner?”

Joel paused before answering. “His manner,” hereplied thoughtfully. “He’s imperious, arrogant. Hesees himself not only as a great military figure anda history-making power broker, but also as somesort of god, above other men. There’s no room onhis Olympus for mortals. Also he’s French. TheEnglish and the Americans wouldn’t give him spit:one De Gaulle in a century is enough for them.”

“There’s clarity in your thoughts. He’s the sort ofabominable egotist only the French can suffer. Heis, of course, a reflection of the entire country.”

“Van Headmer doesn’t count except where hecan bring South Africa around for raw materials.”

“Agreed,” said the German.

“But you, on the other hand,” Converse went onrapidly again sitting down, “worked with theAmericans and the English in Berlin and Vienna.You helped implement occupation policies, and ingood conscience you turned over evidence to boththe U.S. and the U.K. prosecution teams inNuremberg. Finally, you became Bonn’s spokesmanin NATO. Whatever you were in the past, they likeyou.” Again Joel paused, and when he continuedthere was a degree of deference in his voice.“Therefore, General, you’re the winner, and you cansave my life. All you need is a reason.”

“Then give it to me.”

“Use the phone first.”

“Don’t be an idiot and don’t take me for one!You would not insist so unless you were sure ofyourself, which means you are telling the truth. Andif those Schweine conspire against me, I will notinform them that I’m aware of it! What did they

“You’re to be killed. They can’t risk theaccusation that an old-line member of the Naziparty has assumed vital controls in West Germany.Even under Aquitaine there’d be too many criesof’Foul!’ too much fuel for the inevitable dissent-ers. A younger man or someone who thinks likethey do, but with no party affiliations in his past,will take your place. But no one you recommend.”

Leifhelm was braced rigidly in the brocadedchair, his aged but still taut body immobile, hispallid face with the piercing light-blue eyes like analabaster mask. “They have made this most holydecision?” he said icily through lips that barelymoved. “The vulgar Jew and the depraved Frenchprince of maggots dare to attempt such a moveagainst me?”

“Not that it matters, but Delavane agrees.”

“Delavane! A raging, infantile clump of fantasies!The man we knew two years ago has disintegrated toa point beyond senility! He doesn’t know it, but wegive him orders, couched naturally as suggestionsand beneficial possibilities. He has no more powersof reason than Adolf Hitler had in his last years ofmadness.”

“I don t know about that,” said Converse."Abrahmsand Bertholdier didn’t go into it other thanto say he was finished. They talked about you.”

“Really? Well, let me talk about me! Who do youthink it was that made Aquituine feasible throughoutall Europe and the Mediterranean? Who fed theterrorists with weapons and millions of pounds ofexplosives from the Baader-Meinhof to the BrigateRosse to the Palestinians priming them for theirfinal, let’s say their {nest, hours? Who? It was l! Whyare our conferences always in Bonn? Why are alldirectives funneled, ultimately issued, through me?Let me explain. I have the organisation! I have themanpower dedicated men ready to do my biddingwith a single order. I have the money! I created anadvanced, highly sophisticated communicationscanter out of rubble, no one else in Europe couldhave done that this I’ve known all along.Bertholdier has nothing to speak of in Paris otherthan influence and the aura that hovers abouthim in true battle, meaningless. The Jew and theSouth African are a continent away. When the chaoscomes, it is I who will be the voice of Aquitaine inEurope. I never thought otherwise! My men will cutdown Bertholdier and Abrahms at their toilets!”

“Scharhorn’s the communications center, isn’t it?”asked Joel with no emphasis whatsoever.

“They told you that?”

“The name was dropped. The master list ofAquitaine’s in a computer there, isn’t it?”

“That, also?”

“It’s not important. I don’t care anymore. I wasabandoned, remember? You must have figured outthe computer, too no one else could. "

“A considerable accomplishment,” admittedLeifhelm, his humility shining brightly on his waxenface. “I even prepared for the catastrophe of death.There are sixteen letters we each carry different setsof four, the remaining twelve are with the leglessmaniac. He thinks no one can activate the

codes without his primary set, but in truth apre-coded combination of two sequences doubledwill do it.”

"That’s ingenious,’ said Converse. Do the othersknow?”

"Only my trusted French comrade,” answeredthe German coldly. “The prince of traitors,Bertholdier. But, naturally, I never gave him theaccurate combination, and an inaccurate insertionwould erase everything.”

“That was a winner thinking.” Joel noddedapprovingly, then frowned with concern. “Whatwould happen, though, if your center wasassaulted?”

“Like Hitler’s plans for the bunker, it would goup in flames. There are explosives everywhere.”

“I see.”

“But since you speak of winners, and in myjudgment such men are prophets,” continuedLeifhelm, leaning forward in the chair, his eyeswidening with enthusiasm, “let me tell you about theisle of Scharhorn. Years ago, in 1945, out of theashes of defeat, it was to be the site of the mostincredible creation designed by true believers theworld has ever known, only to be aborted bycowards and traitors. It was called OperationSonnenkinder the children of the sun infantsbiologically selected and sent out all over the worldto people waiting for them, prepared to guide themthrough their lives to positions of power and wealth.As adults, the Sonnenkinder were to have but onemission across the globe. The rising of the FourthReich! You see now the symbolic choice ofScharhorn? From this inner complex of Aquitainewill come forth the new order! We will have done it!”

" Stow it,” said Converse, getting out of the chairand walking away from Erich Leifhelm. Theexamination s finished.”

"What?”

“You heard me, get out of here. You make mesick. ”The door opened, and the young doctor fromBonn came in, his eyes on the once celebrated fieldmarshal. Strip him,’ ordered Converse. “Search him.

Joel entered the dimly lit room where Valerieand the Surete s Prudhomme flanked a man behinda video camera mounted on a tripod. The thick lensof the camera was inserted in the wall and ten feetaway was a television monitor,

which showed only the deserted study, with thebrocaded wing chair in the center of the screen.

“Everything go all right?” he asked.

“Beautifully,” said Valerie. “The operator didn’tunderstand a word, but he claimed the lighting wasexquisite. Au bel nature!, he called it. He can makeas many copies as you like; they’ll take aboutthirty-five minutes each.”

“Ten and the original print will be enough,” saidConverse, looking at his watch, then at Prudhommeas Val spoke quietly in French to the cameraman.“You can take the first copy and skill make the fiveo’clock flight to Washington.”

“With the greatest of enthusiasm, my friend. Iassume one of these prints will be for Paris.”

“And every other head of government along withour affidavits. You’ll bring back copies of thedepositions Simon took in New York?”

“I’ll go make arrangements,” said Prudhomme. “Itis best my name does not appear on the passengermanifest.” He turned and left the room, followed bythe cameraman, who headed for his duplicatingequipment down the hall.

Valerie went to Joel, and taking his face in bothher hands, she kissed him lightly on the lips. “For afew minutes in their you had me in knots. I didn’tthink you were going to make it.”

“Neither did I.”

“But you did. That was some display, mister. I’mso very proud of you, my darling.”

" A lot of lawyerstll cringe. It was the worst sortof entrapment. As an old, bewildering, but verybright law professor of mine would have put it, theywere admissions elicited on the basis of falsestatements, those same admissions forming the basisof further entrapment.”

“Stow it, Converse. Let’s go for a walk. We usedto walk a lot, and I’d like to get back in the habit.It’s not much fun alone.”

Joel took her in his arms. They kissed, gently atfirst, feeling the warmth and the comfort that hadcome back to them. He pulled his head away, hishands sliding to her shoulders, and looked into herwide, vibrant eyes. “Will you marry me, Mrs.Converse?” he said.

“Good Lord, again? Well, why not? As you saidonce before, I wouldn’t even have to change theinitials on my lingerie.

“You never had initials on it.”

“You found that out long before you made theremark.”

“I didn’t want you to think I stared.”

“Yes, my darling, I’ll marry you. But first wehave things to do. Even before our walk.”

“I know. Peter Stone by way of the Tabana familyin Charlotte, North Carolina. He did terrible thingsto me, but strange as it seems, I think I like him.”

“I don’t,” said Valerie firmly. “I want to kill him.”

It was the end of the second day in thecountdown of three. The worldwide demonstrationsagainst nuclear war were only ten hours away, tostart at the first light halfway across the world. Thekillings would begin, setting the chaos in mobon.

The group of eighteen men and five women satscattered about in the dark projection room in theunderground strategy complex of the White House.Each had a small writing tray attached to his seatwith a yellow pad lighted by a Tensor lamp. On thescreen was flashed in thirty-second intervals one faceafter another, each with a number in the upperright-hand corner. The instructions had been terse, inthe language best understood by these people, anddelivered by Peter Stone who had selected them.Study the faces, make no audible comments, and markdown by number any you recognise, bearing in mindterminal operations. At the end of the series the lightswill be turned on and we’ll talk. And, if need be, runthe series again and again until we come up withsomething Remember, we believe these men are killers.Concentrate on that.

They were told nothing else. Except M.1.6’sDerek Belamy, who had arrived within a half-hour ofthe extraordinary session, looking haggard from hisobviously exhausting journey. When Derek walkedthrough the door, Peter had pulled him aside andeach gripped the other’s arms. Stone was never sohappy or so relieved in his life to see any man.Whatever

he might have missed, or could miss, Belamy wouldfind it. The British agent had a tenth sense aboveanyone else’s sixth, including Peter’s, which, ofcourse, was denied modestly by Derek.

“I need you, old friend,’ said Peter. “I need youbadly.”

“It’s why I’m here, old friend,” replied Belamywarmly. Can you tell me anything?”

“There’s no time now, but I can give you a name.Delavane.

“Mad Marcus?”

“The same. It’s his crisis and it’s real.”

“The bastard!” whispered the Englishman.“There’s no one I’d rather see at the end of abarbed-wire rope. Talk to you later, Peter. You’vegot your socialising do. Incidentally, from what I cansee, you’ve got the best here tonight.”

“The best, Derek. We can’t afford any less.”

Beyond the American military personnel who hadinitially approached Stone, as well as Colonel AlanMetcalf, Nathan Simon, Justice Andrew Wellfleetand the Secretary of State, the remaining audiencewas composed of the most experienced and secureintelligence officers Peter Stone had known in alifetime of clandestine operations. They had beenflown over by military transport from France, CreatBritain, West Germany, Israel, Spain and theNetherlands. Among them were, besides theextraordinary Derek Belamy, Frangois Villard, chiefof France’s highly secretive Organisation Etrangere;Yosef Behrens, the Mossad’s leading authority onterrorism; Pablo Amandarez, Madrid’s specialist inKCB Mediterranean penetrations, and HansVonmeer of the Netherlands’ secret state police. Theothers, including the women, were equally respectedin the caverns of deep-cover, beyond-salvageoperations. They knew by name, face or reputahonthe legions of killers for hire, killers by order, andkillers by reason of ideology. Above all, each wastrusted, each a man or woman Stone had workedwithi collectively they were the elite of the shadowworld.

A face! He knew the face! It stayed on the screenand he wrote on his pad: “Dobbins. Number 57.Cecil or Cyril Dobbins. British Army. Transferred toBritish Intelligence. Personal aide to . . . DerekBelamy!”

Stone looked over at his friend across the aisle,fully expecting him to be writing on his yellow pad.Instead, the Englishman frowned and sat motionlessin his chair, his pencil

poised above the paper. The next face appeared onthe screen. And the next, and the next, until theseries was over. The lights came on, and the firstperson to speak was the Mossad’s Yosef Behrens.“Number seventeen is an artillery officer in the IDFrecently transferred to the Security Branch, Jeru-salem. His name is Arnold.”

“Number thirty-eight,” said Francois Villard, " isa colonel in the French Army attached to the guardof Invalides. It is the face; the name I do notrecall.”

"Number twenty-six,” said the man from Bonn,“is Oberleutnant Ernst Muller of the FederalRepublic’s Luftwaffe. He is a highly skilled pilotfrequently assigned to fly ministers of state toconferences both within and without WestCermany.”

“Number forty-four,” said a dark-skinned womanwith a pronounced Hispanic accent, “has no suchcredentials as your candidates. He is a drug dealer,suspected of many killings and operates out of Iviza.He was once a paratrooper. Name Orejo.”

“Son of a gun, I just don’t believe it!” said theyoung lieutenant William Landis, the computerexpert from the Pentagon. “I know number fifty-one,I’m almost positive! He’s one of the adjutants inMiddle East procurements. I’ve seen him a lot butI don’t know his name.”

Six other men and two women volunteeredtwelve additional identities and positions aseveryone in the room silently looked for anemerging pattern. There was a preponderance ofmilitary personnel, and the umbrella of the rest waspuzzling. In the main they were ex-combat soldiersfrom high-casualty outfits who had drifted intocrime largely violent crime, the sort of men PeterStone knew the generals of Aquitaine consideredhuman garbage.

Finally Derek Belamy spoke in his hard, clippeddistant voice. “There are four or five faces Iassociate with dossiers but I’m not makingconnections.” He looked over at Stone. "You’ll runthem again, won’t you, old boy?”

“Of course, Derek,” replied the former stationchief in London. Stone, who had said nothing, rosefrom his chair and addressed the gathering.“Everything you’ve given us will be fed immediatelyinto computers, and we’ll see if we come up withany correlations. And to repeat what I saidpreviously, I want to thank you all and apologiseagain for not giving you the explanations youdeserve, not only for your help but for the troublewe’ve caused you. Speaking personally, my conso

ration is that you’ve all been here before and I knowyou understand. We’ll break for fifteen minutes andstart again. There are coffee and sandwiches in thenext room.’ Stone nodded his thanks once more andstarted for the door. Derek Belamy intercepted himin the aisle.

“Peter, I’m dreadfully sorry it took me so long toget back to you. Truth is, the office had a devil of atime tracking me down. I was visiting friends inScotland.”

“I thought you might be in Northern Ireland. It’sa hell of a mess, isn’t it?”

“You were always better than you thought youwere. I was in Belfast, of course. But right now Ipromise to do better I’m sure I will but the factis I’m bushed, it was a perfectly terrible trip and, ofcourse, no sleep whatsoever. All those faces began tolook alike I either knew them all or I didn’t knowa damned one!”

“Running them again will help,” said Stone.

“Quite so,” agreed Belamy. “And Peter, whateverthis tangle is with that maniac, Delavane, I couldn’thave been more delighted to see you in the controlchair. We were all told you were out, rather firmlyout.”

“I’m back in. Very firmly.”

“I can see that, chap. That is your Secretary ofState in the back row, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Congratulations, old boy. Well, off for coffee,black and hot. See you in a few minutes.”

“Across the aisle, old friend.”

Stone walked out the door and turned right inthe white corridor. He could feel the rapidacceleration of his heartbeat it was a cousin toJohnny Reb’s claims of a churning stomach and anacid taste in his mouth bile, the Rebel called it. Hehad to get to a telephone quickly. Converse’s courier,the Surete’s Prudhomme, would be arriving withinthe hour; a Secret Service escort was waiting for himat Dulles Airport with instructions to bring himdirectly to the White House. But it was not theFrenchman who concerned Stone now, it was Con-verse himself. He had to reach him before thesession began again. He had to!

When the lawyer had contacted him through theTatiana relay, Peter had been astonished by thesheer audacity of what Converse had done.Kidnapping the three generals video-taping theinterrogations or the “oral examina

lions” or whatever the legal terminology was, it wasinsanel The only thing more insane was the fact thathe had carried it off thanks obviously to theresources of a very determined, very angry man fromthe Surete. The computer was in Scharhorn, themaster list of Aquitaine buried somewhere in its in-tricate mechanism, only to be erased by inaccuratecodes, the complex itself mined with explosives.Jesus!

And now the final insanity. The man no onecould find, the source so deeply shrouded theyfrequently doubted his existence despite the fact thatall logic insisted he was there. There had to beAquitaine’s man in England, for there could be noAquitaine without the British. Further, Stone knewhe was the conduit, the primary communicatorbetween Palo Alto and the generals overseas, forconstant screenings of Delavane’s telephone chargesshowed repeated calls to a number in the Hebrides,and such a relay device was all too familiar to theformer intelligence agent. The calls disappeared atthat number in the Scottish islands, just as the KGBcalls processed through Canada’s Prince Edwarddisappeared, and the Company’s communicationsrouted through Key West could not be traced.

Belamy! The man whose face never appeared inany publication film was destroyed instantly byaides if he was even in the background of aphotograph. The most guarded operations of ficer inEngland, with access to secrets culled over decadesand scores of devices created by the best minds ofM.I.6. And yet, was it possible? Derek Belamy, thequiet good-humored chess player, the friend whogave good whisky and a fine ear to an Americancolleague who had progressively had serious doubtsabout his calling in life. The betterfriend for havingthe wisdom and the courage to warn his cotleaguethat he was drinking too much, that perhaps heshould take a sabbatical, and if money was aproblem, surely some sort of quiet consultationagreement could be worked out with his ownorganization. Was it possible, this decent man thisfriend ?

Stone reached the door in the hallway markedsimply by the number 14, OCCUPIED. He walkedinside the small room and went to the desk and thetelephone. He did not sit down; his anxiety wouldnot permit it. He picked up the phone and dialedthe White House switchboard as he took out the slipof paper in his pocket with Converse’s numbersomewhere in France. He gave it to the operator,adding simply, “This

should be scrambled. I’m talking from StrategyFourteen confirm by trace. "

“Trace confirmed, sir. Scrambler will be inoperation. Shall I call you back?”

“No, thanks, I’ll stay on the line.” Stone remainedstanding as he heard the hollow echo of numbersbeing punched and the faint hum of the scramblingmachine. And then he heard the sound of a dooropening. He turned.

" Put the phone down, Peter,” said Derek Belamyquietly as he shut the door. “There’s no point tothis.”

“It is you, isn’t it?” Stone slowly, awkwardlyreplaced the phone in its cradle.

“Yes, it is. And I want everything you want, myold friend. Neither of us could deny ourselves theparting shots, could we? I said I was visiting friendsin Scotland and you said you thought I was inIreland. We’ve learned over the years haven’t we?The eyes don’t lie. Scotland calls to the Hebrides;the glass fell over your eyes. And earlier, when thatface came on the screen, you looked across the Eslea bit too obviously, I thmk.

“Dobbins. He worked for you.”

“You wrote frantically on your pad, yet you saidnothing.’

“I was waiting for you to say something.”

“Yes, of course, but I couldn’t, could I?”

“Why, Derek? For Christ’s sake, why?”

“Because it’s right and you know it.”

“I don’t know it! You’re a sane, reasonable man.They’re not!”

“They’ll be replaced, naturally. How often haveyou and I used drones we couldn’t abide becausetheir contributions were necessary to the objectives”

“What objective? An international totalitarianalliance? A military state without borders? All of usrobots marching to the drums of fanatics?”

“Oh, come off it, Peter. Spare us both the liberaldrivel. You left this business once, drinking yourselfinto a stupor because of the waste, the futility, thedeceits we all practiced the people we killed tomaintain what we laughingly called the status quo.What status quo, old man? To be continuouslyharassed by our inferiors the world over? To be heldhostage by screaming mullahs and hysterical foolswho still live in the Dark Ages and would cut ourthroats over the price of a barrel of oil? To bemanipulated at every turn by Soviet

deceptions? No, Peter, there really is a better way.The means may be distasteful, but the end result isnot only desirable, it’s also honorable.”

"Whose definition? George Marcus Delavane’s?Erich Leifhelm’s? Chaim “.

They’ll be replaced!’.

They can’t be!” shouted Stone. Once it starts,you can’t stop it. The image becomes the reality. It’sexpected, de manded! To deviate is to be accused, tooppose is to be ostracized, penalized! It’s lockstepand lockjaw, and you damn well know that!”

The telephone rang.

“Let it ring,” ordered the man from M.1.6.

“It doesn’t matter now. You were theEnglishman at Leifhelm’s house in Bonn. A briefdescription of you would have confirmed it for me.”

"That’s Converse?” The phone rang again.

“Would you like to talk to him? I understandhe’s quite a lawyer, although he broke afundamental rule he took himself on as a client.He’s coming out, Derek, and he’s going after you,all of you. We all are after all of you.”

“You won’t!” cried Belamy. "You can’t! As youyourself put it, once it starts you can’t stop it!”

Without the slightest indication that he wasabout to move, the Englishman suddenly lunged atStone, the three middle fingers of his right handrigid, zeroing in like steel projectiles on the CIAman’s throat. Stone took the agonizing blow, gaspingfor air as the room spiraled out of his vision, athousand dazzling spots of white light flashing in hiseyes. He could hear the door opening and closing asthe phone insistently rang again. But Peter couldnot see it. the white lights had turned into darkness.The ringing stopped as Stone wildly, blindlycareened around the room, trying to trace the belltrying to find the phone. The minutes passed inmadness as he smashed into walls and fell over thedesk. Then the door crashed open and Colonel AlanMetcalf rushed in.

“Stone! What ha opened ?” Racing to Peter, theAir Force officer instantly recognised the effects ofthe judo chop. He began massaging Stone’s throat,pressing his knee into the CIA man’s stomach toforce up air. The switchboard reached us, sayingthat room fourteen had placed a scrambler call butdidn’t pick up. Christ, who was it?”

Vague images came back to Stone, but still he couldnot

speak; he was capable only of gasping coughs. Hewrithed under MetcalEs strong hands, pointing to anote pad that had fallen from the desk. The colonelunderstood; he reached for it and yanked out aball-point pen from his pocket. He rolled Stone overand, placing the pen in his hand, guided the hand tothe pad.

Struggling for control, Peter wrote: BELMY.STP. AQUTAIN.

“Oh, my God!” whispered Metcalf, reaching forthe phone and dialing zero. “Operator, this is anemergency. Give me Security…. Security? ColonelAlan Metcalf talking from Strategy Fourteen.Emergency! There’s an Englishman named Belamywho may still be on the premises trying to leave.Stop him! Hold him! Consider him dangerous. Andget word to the infirmary. Send a doctor to StrategyFourteen. Quickly!”

The White House staff doctor removed theoxygen mask from Stone’s face and placed it on thedesk next to the cylinder. He then gently movedPeter’s head back in the chair, inserted a tonguedepressor and peered into the CIA man’s throat witha pencil light.

“It was a nasty shot,” he said, “but you’ll feelbetter in a couple of hours. I’ll give you some pillsfor the pain.”

“What’s in them?” asked Stone hoarsely.

“A mild analgesic with some codeine.”

“No thanks, Doctor,” said Peter, looking over atMetcalf. "I don’t think I like what I see on yourface.”

“I don’t either. Belamy got out. His pass was highpriority, and he told the East Gate he was neededurgently at the British embassy.”

“Goddomn it!”

“Try not to strain your voice,” said the doctor.

“”Yes, of course,” replied Stone. “Thank youvery much, and now if you’ll excuse us.” He got outof the chair as the doctor picked up his medical bagand headed for the door.

The telephone rang as the door closed. Metcalfpicked it up. “Yes? Yes it is; he’s right here.” Thecolonel listened for several moments then turned toStone. “Breakthrough,” he said. “All those militarywho were identified have two things in common.Each is on a minimum thirty-day summer leave, andevery request was made five months ago, nearly tothe day.”

“Thus guaranteeing request-granted statusbecause they were first in line,” added the CIA manwith difficulty. “And the plans for the antinucleardemonstrations were announced in Sweden sixmonths ago.”

“Clockwork,” said Metcalf. “To identify andneutralize the others we’ll send out the word. Everyofficer in half a dozen armies and navies who’scurrently returning from summer leave is to berestricted to quarters. There’ll be errors but that’srough. We can send out the photographs and correctthem.”

“It’s time for Scharhorn.” Stone got out of thechair, massaging his throat. “And I don’t mindtelling you it scares me to death. A wrong symboland we erase Aquitaine’s master list. Worse, awrong move and that whole complex is blown away.”The CIA man went to the phone.

“Are you going to call the Rebel?” asked thecolonel.

“Converse first. He’s working on the codes.”

The three generals of Aquitaine sat stunned,staring straight ahead, refusing to look at oneanother. The lights had been turned on, the largetelevision screen turned off. Behind each generalwas a man with a gun and concise instructions “If hegets up, kill him.”

“You know what I want,” said Converse, walkingin front of the three. “And as you’ve just seen,there’s really no reason -why any of you shouldn’tgive it to me. Four little numbers or letters each ofyou has memorized in sequence. Of course if yourefuse, there’s a doctor here who I’m told has a bagof magic the same sort of magic you administeredto me in Bonn What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

Sllence.

“Four, three, L, one,” said Chaim Abrahms,looking down at the floor. “They’reilth,” he addedquietly

“Thank you, General.” Joel wrote in a small notepad. “You’re free to go now. You can get out of thechair.”

“Go?” said the Israeli, getting up. “Where9″

“Wherever you like,” replied Converse. “I;m sureyou’ll have no trouble at the airport in Annecy.You’ll be recog

General Chaim Abrahms left the roomaccompanied by the Israeli Army captain.

“Two, M, zero, six,” said Erich Leifhelm. “And, ifyou

wish, I will submit to the drugs for verification. I willnot be associated with such treacherous pigs.”

“I want the combination,” pressed Joel, writing.“And I won’t hesitate to send you up into space toget it.”

“Inversion,” said the German. “Reverse the orderof the symbols in the second sequence.”

"He’s yours, Doctor.” Converse nodded to theman behind Leifhelm’s chair. “We can’t take thechance of blowing this one.”

General Erich Leifhelm, once the youngest fieldmarshal of the Third Reich, got up and walkedslowly out of the room, followed by the doctor fromBonn.

“You’re all unworthy, all blind,” said GeneralJacquesLouis Bertholdier with imperious calm. “Iprefer to be shot.”

“I’m sure you would, but no such luck,” answeredJoel. “I don’t need you now, and I want to knowyou’re back in Paris, where everyone can see you.Take him to his room.”

“The room? I thought I was free to leave, or wasthat another lie?”

“Not at all. Just a matter of logistics you knowwhat logishcs are, General. We’re a little short oftransportation and drivers here, so when the doctor’sfinished, I’m lending the three of you a car. You candraw straws for who drives.”

“What?”

“Get him out of here,” said Converse, addressinga former sergeant major in the French Army oncestationed at Algiers.

“Allen, cochon!”

The door opened, only coincidentally forBertholdier. It was Valerie and she looked at Joel.“Stone’s on the telephone. He says hurry.”

It was 2:05 A.6f. when the Mystere jet droppedout of the night sky and landed at the airstrip eightmiles from Cuxhaven, West Germany. It taxied tothe north end of the runway where the stately,white-maned figure of Johnny Reb waited by a blackMercedes sedan.

The doors of the plane opened and the shortsteps swung down in place; Converse climbed out,taking Valerie’s hand as she descended after him.Next came the former sergeant major from Algiers,followed by a fourth passenger, a slender blond manin his mid-forties who wore tortoiseshell glasses.

They walked away from the aircraft as the pilotretracted the steps and closed the automatic doors,the twin engines accelerated and the plane swervedaround heading back toward the maintenancehangars. The Rebel came away from the car andmet them, extending his hand to Joel. “Ah’ve seenyour picture here and there and it’s a pleasure, sir.Frankly, I never thought I’d meet you, leastways notin this world.”

“There were a number of times I had my doubtsjust how long I’d be here. This is my wife, Valerie.”

“Ah m enchanted, ma’am,” said the Southerner,bringing Val’s hand to his lips as he bowed gallantly.And then to Joel: “Your accomplishments haveastonished some of the best minds in my formerprofession.”

“I hope not too former,” interjected Converse.

"knot at the moment, son.”

“This is Monsieur Lefevre and Dr. GeoffreyLarson. Stone said you’ve been briefed.”

“A pleasure, sir,’ exclaimed the Rebel, shakingthe Frenchman’s hand. " My hat’s off to you, to allof you for what You did with those three generals.Absolutely remarkable!”

“Such men have enemies,” said Lefevre simply." They are not hard to find and InspectorPrudhomme knew that. We are in many places withmany memories. Let us hope they will be put to resttonight.”

“Let’s hope,” said the Rebel, turning to thefourth passenger. “Dr. Larson, so nice to meet you,sir. I understand you know just about everythingthere is to know about every computer ever made.”

“An exaggeration, I’m sure,” said the Englishmanshyly. “But I suspect if it kicks I can make it hum.Actually, I was vacationing in Geneva.”

The non sequitur momentarily threw JohnnyReb, who could only utter “Sorry about that” as helooked at Joel.

It had been the most difficult decision Peter Stonehad made in all his years of agonising decisions. Tomake the wrong move to telegraph the incursion intothe complex at Scharho’rn"ould result in itsdestruction by the setting off of explosivesall over thecommunica*ons renter. There would be nothing left ofthe old U-boat station but shattered concrete andtwisted equipment. Stone had gone by instincts honedover a life*me in the shadow world There could be noelite commando units, no official specialforces orderedup Moran extraordinary assignment, for there was notelling who

within the various government forces could be amember, an of finer of Aquitaine. Such a man couldmake a telephone call and the complex at Scharhornwould be blown up. Therefore the incursion had to bemade by rogue elements, men hired by outlaws whohad no allegiance to anyone or anything but moneyand their immediate employers. Nothing was a secretany longer without the master list of Aquitaine. ThePresident of the United States gave Stone twelve hours,after which he said he would convene an emergencysession of the Security Council of the United Nations.Peter Stone could hardly believe he had replied to themost powerful man in the free world with the words:“That’s meaningless. It would be too late. “

The Rebel finished his briefing, his flashlight stillshining on the map spread over the hood of theMercedes. “As I told you, this is the original layoutwe got from the Zoning Commission in Cuxhaven.Those Nazis sure were particular when it came tospecifics I figure everyone was justifyin’ a salary ora rank. We get over the ocean radar and head to theold strip that was used for supplies, then do ournumber. Now, mind you, there are still a lot of lightsout there, still a lot of people, but a hell of a lot lessthan there were two days ago. There are some walls,but we got grappling hooks and a few boys whoknow how to use them.”

“Who are they?” asked Converse.

"No one you’d ask into your mother’s parlor, myfriend, but five of the meanest hornets you couldfind. I tell you they have absolutely no redeemingsocial qualities. They’re perfect.”

“What’s the aircraft?”

“The best Petey could get, and it’s the best. AFairchild Scout. It holds nine people.”

“With a glide ratio of eight to one at fourthousand feet,” said Joel. “I’m flying.”

Converse inched the half-wheel forward as hecut the engines and entered a left-bank glide overthe small airstrip 2,400 feet below. It was erraticallyvisible through the tails of low-flying North Seaclouds, but Joel guessed it could be seen clearly at500 feet. He would then start his final circle for theshort approach, his touchdown heading away fromthe old U-boat base, minimising sound the outsizedballoon tires made while braking. The maneuveritself was the nearest thing to a carrier landing hecould imagine, and he noted with satisfaction thathis hands were as steady as his concentration. Thefear he was afraid of did not materialise; it wasstrangely absent. The anxiety and the anger wereanother matter.

Valerie and Lefevre over the Frenchman’sstrenuous objections remained behind on adeserted pier in Cuxhaven where Johnny Reb hadmanaged to install a primitive but functional relaystation. It was Val’s job to stay in radio contact withthe team either the Rebel or Converse operatingthe powerful handheld equipment onScharhorn and the former sergeant from Algierswas to stand guard, letting no one on that pier. Thefive “recruits”Johnny Reb had hired for apparentlylarge amounts of money were difficult to appraise,for they said very little and wore dark wool-knitcaps pulled down above their eyes and blackturtleneck sweaters pulled up around their throats.The same clothing was provided for Joel and theBritish computer expert, Geoffrey Larson; the Rebelhad his in the Mercedes. Each man, except Larson,carried a pistol with an attached silencer that washeld firmly in an extended holster strapped to hiswaist. On the left side of the black leather belt wasa long-bladed hunting knife, and beside it a coil ofthin wire. Situated in back, above the kidneys, andheld in place by clips, were two canisters of aMace-like gas that rendered their victims helplessand silent.

The fact that each, including the aging Johnny Reb,wore his eqt"ipment with such casual authoritymade Converse feel out of place, but the degree ofconcentration they gave to the installation’s plansand the curt suggestions they had for gaining entryand subsequent explorations also made him feel thatthe Rebel had hired well.

Joel circled slowly, delicately into his finalapproach, silently gliding over the darkened U-boatbase, his eyes on both the strip ahead and theinstrument-guidance altimeter. He struck the flapsand dropped; the heavy tires absorbed the jarringshock of contact. Touchdown.

" We’re down,” said Johnny Reb into the radio.And with a little luck we’ll stop, won’t we, son?”

“We’ll stop,” said Converse. They did, no morethan forty feet from the end of the airstrip. Joelremoved the knit hat, breathing deeply; his hairlineand forehead were drenched with sweat.

“We’re going out.” The Rebel snapped off theradio and pressed it into the front of his chest; itstayed in place. “Oh,” he added, seeing that Conversewas watching him. I forgot to mention it. There’sheavy-duty Velcro around the case and on yoursweater.”

"You’re full of surprises.”

“You had a fair share yourself during the pastfew weeks. Let’s go catfishin’, boy.” Johnny Rebopened his door; Joel did the same, and theyclimbed out, followed-by Larson and the five men,three of them carrying rubberized grappling hooksattached to coils of rope.

The second man who had said nothing during thestrategy session stood before Converse and spokequietly, startling Joel with his American accent. " I’ma pilot, mister, and that was supposed to be part ofmy job. I’m glad it wasn’t. You’r? good, man.”

“Where did you fly? With whom?”

" Let’s say a new kind of Peruvian airline. Thescenic Florida run.”

“Come onI” The Rebel ordered, starting for theovergrown borders of the airstrip.

They approached the high walls of the oldU-boat base, all crouching in the tall grass, studyingwhat was before them. Converse was struck by thesheer immensity of the unending thick concrete. Itwas like a fortress with no fort inside, no treasuredstructure that warranted the protection of the mas

sive walls. The only break was over on the left, in asection that faced the airstrip. A pair of steel doubledoors layered with plates of bolted, reinforced ironstood ominously in the erratic moonlight. They wereimpenetrable.

“This place has quite a history,” whisperedJohnny Reb beside Joel. “Half the German HighCommand had no idea it was here and the Alliesnever got a smell of it. It was Doenitz’s private base.Some said he was going to use it as a threat ifHitler didn t turn things over to him. "

“It was also going to be used for something else,’said Converse, remembering Leifhelm’s incrediblestory of the rising of the Fourth Reich a generationafter the war. Operation Sonnenkinder.

One of the men with a grappling hook crawledover and spoke to the Rebel in German. TheSoutherner replied angrily, looking pained, butfinally nodded as the man crawled away. He turnedto Joel.

“Son of a no-account hound dog hitch!” heexclaimed under his breath. “He stole me blind! Hesaid he’d make the first assault on the eastflank which you know damn well that motherstudied if I guaranteed him an additional fivethousand American!”

“And you’ll pay, of course.”

“Of course. We’re honorable men. If he’s killed,every penny goes to his wife and children. I knowthe lad; we took a building once with the Meinhofinside. He scaled eight stories, dropped downthrough an elevator shaft, kicked a door open andshot the bastards cold with his Uzi on rapid fire.

“I don t believe all this,’ whispered Converse.

“Believe, " said the Rebel softly as he looked atJoel. “We do it because no one else will. Andsomebody has to do it. We may be rogues, son, butthere are times we’re on the side of the angels fora price.

The muted sound of the rubberized grapplinghook taking hold on top of the wall split the air; therope stretched taut. In seconds the black-clothedman could be seen climbing hand over hand, racingup the dark concrete. He reached the ledge, his lefthand disappearing over the top, his right legswinging up as he vaulted into a prone position, hisbody level with the ledge of concrete. Suddenly heheld out his left arm waving it back and forth twice,a signal. Then bracing himself he reached for hisholstered weapon with his right hand and pulled itout slowly.

A single spit was heard, and once more there wassilence as the man’s left arm shot out. A secondsignal.

The two other men with grappling hooks racedout of the grass; flanking the first man, they swungtheir hooks in circles and heaved them up, eachaccurately as the ropes were yanked taut, and thenbegan scaling the wall. Joel knew it was his turn; itwas part of the plan if he was up to it and he wasdetermined to be. He rose and joined the remainingtwo men hired by the Rebel; the American pilot whohad spoken to him pointed to the center rope. Hegripped it and started the painful climb to the top ofthe wall.

Only in the last extremity were the elderly JohnnyReb and the slender, professorial Geoffrey Larsonexpected to use the ropes. By his own admission theSoutherner might not be capable, and the risk ofinjury to the computer expert was unacceptable.

Arms and legs aching, Converse was hauled upthe final inches by his German companion. “Pull upthe rope!” ordered the man in a heavily accentedwhisper. “Drop it slowly down the other side andreverse the hooks.”

Joel did as he was told, and saw for the first timethe interior of the strange fortress and a uniformedman below on the ground, dead, blood trickling downthe center of his forehead from the incrediblyaccurate shot. In the intermittent moonlight he couldmake out a series of huge watery slips in the distancebroken up by concrete piers on which were giantwinches, black wheels of immense machinery, longout of use, relics of a violent past. In a semicirclefacing the U-boat docks and the sea were five lowconcrete one-story buildings with ’small windows, thefirst two dimly lit inside. The buildings were joinedby cement walkways, wide steps where they werenecessary, as the central structures were higher offthe ground; these no doubt had once been theofficers’ quarters, commanders of the behemoths thatprowled the deep waters of the Atlantic, killers foran abominable cause.

Directly below the wall where the three ropesnow dangled were more wide steps that led up bothsides of what appeared to be a concrete podium orplatform, the area in front some kind of courtyard,perhaps two hundred feet wide, that led to the rearof the buildings facing the U-boat slips. A paradeground, thought Converse, visualising rows of subma-rine crews standing at attention, receiving orders andlisten

ing to the exhortations of their of fleers as theyprepared once more to enter the deep in search oftonnage and carnage.

“Follow me!” said the German, tapping Joel’sshoulder and grabbing the rope as he slid over thewall and lowered himself onto the concrete platformbeneath. On both sides the four men were on theirway down, one after the other. Converse, lessgingerly than the professionals, rolled over theledge, his hands gripping the rope, and slid to theground.

The two men on Joel’s left raced silently acrossthe platform and down the steps toward the hugesteel doors. The two men on his right, as if byinstinct, ran down the opposite steps, returningbelow to crouch in front of the platform, theirweapons drawn. Converse, following the German,swiftly joined the pair at the doors. Both men werestudying the bolts and the layers of plating and thecomplicated lock with tiny flashlights.

“Fuse it and blow it,” said the American.“There’s no alarm.”

“Are you sure?” asked Joel. “From what Igathered, this whole place is wired.”

"The trips are down there,” explained the otherpilot pointing toward the three-foot-high concretewall on each side of the parade ground.

“Trips?”

“Trip lights. Intersechng beams.”

“Which means there are no animals,” said theGerman, nodding. “Keine Hunde. Sehr gut!”

The fourth man had finished stuffing wads of asoft, puttylike substance into the lock mechanism,using his knife to finish the job. He then took out asmall circular device no larger than a fifty-cent coinfrom his pocket, layered another mound of thesubstance directly over the lock and plunged thecoin into it. “Move back,” he ordered.

Converse watched, mesmerised. There was noexplosion, no detonation whatsoever, but there wasintense heat and a glowing blue-white flame thatliterally melted the steel. Then a series of clickscould be heard, and the American quickly slid backthe triple bolts. He pushed the right door open andblinked his flashlight outside. Moments later JohnnyReb and Geoffrey Larson walked through the doorinto the strange compound.

“Trips,” repeated the American to the Rebel.“They’re all along those two walls,” he said, pointing.“See them?”

“I can,” replied the Southerner. “And that meansthere’ll be a few shooting straight up on top fortiptoeing feet. All right, boys, let’s do a littlecrawling. Bellies down with knees and asseswiggling.” The six at the door joined the twocrouched in front of the platform. Johnny whisperedin German, then turned to Larson. “My Englishfriend, I want you to stay right here until usold-timers give you the high sign to catch up withus.” He looked at Joel. “Sure you want to come?”

“I won’t bother to answer that. Let’s go.’

One by one, with the German who was $5,000richer in the lead, the seven men snaked their wayacross the old parade ground. Barely breathing,trousers torn, knees and hands scraped by the rough,cracked concrete. The German headed for the breakbetween buildings 2 and 3, counting from the right.It was a connecting cement path with gradually risingsteps on the left. He reached the open space andstood up.

Suddenly he snapped his fingers once not veryloud but loud enough. Everyone froze where he wasunder the field of intersecting alarm beams.Converse turned his head on the ground to try to seewhat was happening. The German was crouched inthe shadows as a man came into view, a guard witha rifle slung over his shoulder. Aware of anotherpresence, the guard whipped his head around; theGerman lunged out of the shadows, his long-bladedknife arcing in midair toward the man’s head. Joelclosed his eyes, the sound of savagely expunged airtelling him more than he cared to know.

The movement began again, and again, one byone, each member of the unit reached the path.Converse was soaked with sweat. He looked at therow of U-boat slips ahead and the sea beyond themand wished to God he could fall into the water. TheRebel touched his elbow, indicating that Joel shouldtake out his gun as the Southerner had done. It wasnow Johnny Reb who took the lead; he crept out tothe front of building 2 and turned right, crouchingclose to the ground, heading toward the lightedwindows. His fingers snapped; all movement stopped,bodies now prone. Diagonally to the left, by the edgeof a giant slip were the glow of cigarettes and thesound of men talking quietly three men, guardswith rifles.

As if they had been given an order, three of thefive men hired by the Rebel which ones Conversecould not tell broke away and started crawling in awide arc toward

the opposite side of the old U-boat berth.Approximately a minute and a half later thelongest ninety secondsJoel could remember abarrage of muted reports punctured the nightbreezes off the sea. The subsequent sounds wereminimal as hands clutched at heads and bodiessnapped before falling to the concrete ground. Thehired guns returned and Johnny Reb waved themforward, with Converse forced to be the last as mengrabbed his shoulders and passed him. Theyreached the only lighted window in building 2; theRebel stood up and inched his way to the glass. Heturned and shook his head; the unit proceeded.

They came to the open space between buildings 2 and 2. Cautiously each man ran across, crouchingthe instant he reached the opposite edge and thenracing ahead. It was Joel’s turn; he got to his knees,then to his feet.

“Horst? Bist das au?” said a man harshly, walkingout of a door and up the cement path.

Converse stood motionless. The rest of the unitwas well past the edge of building 1 as the soundsof the North Sea crashing on the rocks in thedistance blocked out the intruder’s voice. Joel triednot to panic. He was alone, and if he panicked, hecould blow the operation apart, destroy the complexat Scharhorn, killing everyone, including ConnalFitzpatrick, if, indeed, the young commander wasthere.

“Ja, ” he heard himself saying as he turned awayinto the shadows, his right hand reaching across hiswaist for the hunting knife. He could not trust hisgun in the darkness

“Warten Sie einen Augen/,lick! Sin sind nicht Horst’”

Joel shrugged, and waited. The footstepsapproached, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spunaround, gripping the handle of the knife with suchforce that it nearly blocked out the terrible thing hismind told him he had to do. He grabbed the man’shair and brought the razor-sharp blade across thethroat.

Wanting to vomit, he pulled the man into thedarker shadows; the head was all but severed fromthe body. He raced across the open space andcaught up with the others No one had missed him;each man was taking his turn peering into one ofthe four lighted windows in a row. Johnny Reb wasbeyond the first, successively pointing in differentdirections firmly, rapidly, and each man, after acrisp nod, ducked away. An assault was about to beimmediately executed. Converse raised himself tothe edge of the last window and looked in

side. Instantly he understood why the Rebel had toact quickly. There were ten guards in what could onlybe described as paramilitary uniforms belonging tono recognisable army. Each was either strapping ona weapon, looking at his watch or crushing out acigarette. Then, more ominously, they checked theammunition clips in their rifles and automatics.Several laughed, raising their voices as if makingdemands at the expense of the others. Joel could notunderstand the words. He moved away from thewindow and confronted Johnny Reb, who was closeto the ground.

"It’s a patrol going out, isn’t it?” whispered Converse.

“No, son,” replied the Southerner. " It s a firingsquad. They just got their orders.”

“My God!”

“We follow them, staying low and out of sight.You may find your old buddy Fitzpatrick, after all.”

The next minutes were straight out of Kafka,thought Joel. The ten men lined up and walked outthe door leading to building 2. Suddenly floodlightsblazed throughout the parade ground, the trip lightsobviously turned off as the squad walked out on theconcrete. Two men with automatics in their handsran to building 4; they unlocked and then unboltedthe heavy door, and raced inside shouting orders aslights were turned on.

“Alles auistehen! "Raus! Mach schnell! Schnell!”

Seconds later, gaunt, manacled figures beganstraggling out in their ragged clothes, blinking at theharsh lights, some barely able to walk and supportedby others who were stronger. Ten, twenty,twenty-five, thirty-two, forty. . . forty-three.Forty-three prisoners of Aquitaine about to beexecuted! They were marched toward the concretewall fronting the platform at the far end of theparade ground.

It happened with the hysterical force of a crowdgone mad! The condemned men suddenly bolted inall directions, those nearest the two guards with theautomatics crashing the chains of their manacledhands into the stunned faces. Shots rang out, threeprisoners fell and writhed on the ground. The firingsquad raised their rifles.

“Now, you mother-lovin’ catfish hunters!” shoutedJohnny Reb as the entire Scharhorn unit raced intothe melee, pistols firing, muted spits mingling withthe ear-shattenng explosions of the unsilencedweapons.

It was over in less than twenty seconds. The ten menof

Aquitaine lay on the ground. Six were dead, threewounded, one on his knees trembling with fear. Twomen of the Scharhorn unit sustained minorwounds the American pilot and one other.

“Connal!” roared Joel, racing about the scatteredprisoners, relieved that most were moving.“Fitzpatrick! Where the hell are you? "

"Over here, Lieutenant,” said a weak voice onConverse’s right. Joel threaded his way through thefallen bodies and knelt down beside the frail,bearded Navy lawyer. “You took your sweet timegetting here,’ continued the commander. “But thenjunior-grade officers usually have deficiencies.”

“What happened back there?’ asked Converse.“You could all have been killed!

"That was the point, wasn t it? It was made clearto us last night, so we figured what the hell?’

“But why you? Why all of you?

“We talked and we couldn t figure it out. Exceptone thing we were all senior officers on thirty- toforty-day leaves, most of them summer leaves. Whatdid it mean? ”

“It was meant to throw people off if they beganto see a pattern. There are ninety-seven men out inhit teams all on summer leaves. Numerically youwere nearly fifty percent of that number,presumably above suspicion. You were a bonus andit saved your life.”

Suddenly Connal whipped his head to the left.A man was running out of building 5, racing downthe concrete path “That’s the warden! ’shoutedFitzpatrick as loud as he could “Stop him! If he getsinto the second barracks he ll blow the whole placeup!

Joel got to his feet and, gun in hand, startedafter the racing figure as fast as his painful legswould carry him. The man had reached themidpoint of building 3; he had less than thirty yardsto go to the door of 2. Converse fired, the bulletwas way off its mark, ricocheting off a steel windowframe. The man reached the door, smashed it openand slammed it shut Joel raced to it and crashed thefull weight of his body into the heavy wood. It gaveway, swinging violently back into the wall. The manwas running to a metal-encased panel, Conversefired wildly, frantically, again and again. The manspun wounded in the legs, but he had opened thepanel. He reached up for a bank of switches. Joellunged, gripping the man s hand, smashing his headagainst the stone floor.

Gasping for breath, Converse crawled away fromthe man, his hands covered with warm blood, hisempty pistol on the floor. One of the Scharhorn teamburst through the door. “Are you fine?” he asked inan accent Joel could not place.

“Splendid,” said Converse, feeling weak and sick.

The hired gun walked past Joel and glanced atthe still figure on the floor on his way to the openpanel. He studied it and reached into his pocket forsome kind of small, multifaceted tool. In seconds hewas taking out screws and pulling off the interiormetal plating. Moments later, with another part ofthe instrument he was cutting wires far back intotheir receptacles, leaving nothing but stubs of copper.

“You are not to worry,” said the man, finished. “Iam best of Norwegian demolitions. Now we do notconcern ourselves that a stray pig can do damage.Come, there is much work left to do.” The teammember stopped and stood above Converse. “Weowe you our lives. We will pay.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Joel, getting up.

“It is the custom,” replied the man, heading for thedoor.

Out on the parade ground, Aquitaine’s prisonerswere sitting up against the wall all but five, whosebodies were covered with sheets. Converse went overto Fitzpatrick.

“We lost them,” said the naval officer, with nostrength in his voice.

“Look to the things you believe in, Connal,” saidJoel. “It may sound banal, but it’s the only thing Ican think of to say.”

“It’s good enough.” Fitzpatrick looked up, a wansmile on his lips. “Thanks for reminding me. Go on.They need you over there.”

“Larson!” shouted Johnny Reb, standing abovethe trembling unhurt guard. “Get in here!”

The professorial Englishman walked hesitantlythrough the steel door at the base of the airstrip intothe floodlights. He came over to the Rebel, his eyeswandering about the parade ground, his expressionone of consternation and awe. “Good Cod!” heuttered.

“I guess that says it,” said the Southerner as twomembers of the Scharhorn team came running out ofbuilding 5. “What’d you find ?” yelled Johnny Reb.

“Seven others!” shouted one of the men. “They’rein a toilet, which is suitable to their conditions!”

“I say!” said Ceoffrey Larson, raising his voice.“Would any by chance be the computer chap?”

“We did not ask!”

“Go ask!” ordered the Rebel. “Time’s run out!”He turned to Converse. "I’ve been in touch withyour lady. The word out of Israel and Rome isdownright awful some of the hit teams eludedStone’s men. The demonstrations began an hourago, and already twelve government people havebeen killed. In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv they’rescreaming for Abrahms to take over. In Rome thepolice can’t handle the riots and the panic; theArmy’s moved in.”

Joel felt the sharp, hollow pain in his lowerchest and for the first time noticed the early light inthe sky beyond the walls. The day had come, and sohad the killing. Everywhere. “Oh, Jesus, ” he said.

“The computer, boy!” roared Johnny Reb, hispistol jammed into the temple of the guard beneathhim. “You don’t have any choices left, catfish!”

“Baracke pier!”

“Danke! It’s in building four. Come on, Brit, let’sgo! Move!”

The enormous, glistening machine covering thelength of the fifteen-foot wall stood in an air-filteredroom. With Joel’s note pad in front of him, Larsonspent nine agonising minutes studying it, turningdials, punching the keyboard and flipping switcheson the console. Finally he announced “There’s alock on the inner reels. They can’t be releasedwithout an access code.”

“What in goddamned catfish hell are you talkie’about!” screamed the Rebel.

“There’s a predesigned set of symbols that wheninserted releases the springs that permit the lockedreels to be activated. It’s why I asked if there was acomputer man about.”

Johnny Reb’s radio hummed, and Converseripped it off the Southerner’s Velcroed chest.

“Cal?”

“Darling! You’re all right?”

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“Radio-France. Bombs set off in the ElyseePalace. Two deputies were shot riding to the dawnrallies. The government’s calling in the armedforces.”

“Christ! Out!”

A man was brought into the room by twomembers of the Scharhorn team, who were grippinghim by the arms. “He did not care to admit hisfunction,” said the hired gun on the

left. “But when all were against the wall, the otherswere not so secretive.”

The Rebel went to the man and grabbed him bythe throat, but Joel, with the hunting knife in hishand, rushed forward, pushing the Southerner aside.

“I’ve been through a lot because of you bastards,”he said, raising the bloodstained blade to the man snose. “And now it’s the end!” He shoved the pointinto the man’s nostrils; the computer expertscreamed as blood erupted and streamed down.Then Converse raised the blade again, the point nowin the corner of the man’s right eye. “The codes, orit goes inl” he roared.

“Zwei Bins, null, elf!” Again the technician screamed.

“Process it!” yelled Joel.

“They’refree!” said the Englishman.

“Now the symbols!’ cried Converse, shoving theman back into the hands of the Scharhorn invaders.

They all looked in astonishment at the greenletters on the black television screen. Name aftername, rank after rank, position after position. Larsonhad punched the printout button, and the curling,continuous sheet of paper spewed out with hundredsof identities.

“It won’t do any good!” shouted Joel. “We can’t get them vat!”

“Don’t be so antediluvian, chap,” said theEnglishman, pointing to a strange-looking telephonerecessed in the console. “This is splendid equipment.There are those lovely satellites in the sky, and I cansend this to anyone anywhere with compatiblesoftware. This is the age of technology, no longerAquarius.”

“Get it out, ” said Converse, leaning against thewall and sliding down to the floor in exhaustion.

The world watched, stunned by the eruption ofwidespread assassinations and random homicidalviolence. Everywhere people cried out for protection,for leadership, for an end to the savagery that hadturned whole cities into battlegrounds, as panicked,polarized groups of citizens hurled rocks and gas atone another and finally turned to bullets becausebullets were being fired at them. Since few could tellwho their enemies were, anyone who attacked wasassumed to be an enemy, and the attackers wereeverywhere, the orders issued from unseen commandposts. The police were helpless; then militias and state troops appeared,but it was soon evident that they and their leaderswere also powerless. Stronger measures would haveto be implemented to control the chaos. Martial lawwas proclaimed. Everywhere. And militarycommanders would assume control. Everywhere.

In Palo Alto, (California, former general of theArmy George Marcus Delavane sat strapped to hiswheelchair, watching the hysteria recorded on threetelevision sets. The set on the left went blank,preceded by the screams of a mobile crew as theirtruck came under sudden attack and the entire unitwas blown up by grenades. On the center screen awoman newscaster, with tears streaming down herface, read in a barely controlled, angry voice thereports of wholesale destruction and wantonmurder. The screen on the right showed a Marinecolonel being interviewed on a barricaded street inNew York’s financial district. His .45 Marine issueColt automatic was in his hand as he tried to answerquestions while shouting orders to his subordinates.The screen on the left pulsated with new light as afamiliar anchorman came into focus, his eyes glassy. He started to speak, but could not; he turned in hischair and vomited as the camera swung away to anunsuspecting newsroom editor screaming into aphone, “Goddamned shit-bastards! What the fuckhappened?” He, too, was weeping. He pounded thedesk with his fist, then collapsed, dropping his headon his arms while his whole body shook in spasmsas the screen again went dark.

A slow smile emerged on Delavane’s face.Abruptly he reached for two remote controls,switching off the sets on the right and left, as heconcentrated on the canter screen. A helmetedArmy lieutenant general was picked by the cameraas he strode into a press room somewhere inWashington. The soldier removed his helmet, wentto a lectern and spoke harshly into the microphone.“We have sealed off all roads leading toWashington, and my words are to serve as a warningto unauthorised personnel and civilians everywhere!Any attempts to cross the checkpoints will be metby immediate force. My orders are brief and clear.Shoot to kill. My authority is derived from theemergency powers just granted to me by theSpeaker of the House in the absence of thePresident and the Vice President, who have beenflown out of the capital for security purposes. The military is now in charge, the Arm, its spokesman, and martial law is in full effect untilfurther notice.”

Delavane snapped off the set with a gesture oftriumph. “We did it, Paul!” he said, turning to hisuniformed aide, who stood next to the fragmentedmap on the wall. “Not even the whining pacifistswant that law reversed! And if they do . . .” Thegeneral of Aquitaine raised his right hand, his indexfinger extended, thumb upright, and mimed a seriesof pistol shots.

“Yes, it’s done,” agreed the aide, reaching downto Delavane’s desk and opening a drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, General. This also must be done.” Theaide pulled out a .357 magnum revolver.

Before he could raise it, however, Delavane’s lefthand shot up out of the inside cushion of thewheelchair. In it was a short-barreled automatic. Heshouted as he fired four times in rapid succession.

“You think I haven’t been waiting for this? Scum!Coward! Traitor! You think I trust any of you? Theway you look at me! The way you talk in whispers inthe hallways! None of you can stand the fact thatwithout legs I’m better than all of you! Now youknow, scum! And soon the others will know becausethey’ll be shot! Executed for treason against thefounder of Aquitaine! You think any of you areworth trusting? You’ve all tried to be what I am andyou can’t do it!”

The uniformed aide had crashed back into thewall, into the fragmented map. Gasping, bloodflowing from his neck, he stared wide-eyed at theraving general. From some inner core of strength heraised the powerful magnum and fired once as hecollapsed.

George Marcus Delavane was blown across theroom, a massive hemorrhage in his chest, as thewheelchair spun and fell on its side, its strapped-inoccupant dead.

No one knew when it started to happen, butgradually, miraculously, the gunfire slowly began todiminish. The restoration of order was accompaniedby squads of uniformed men, many units havingbroken away from their commanders, racing throughthe streets and buildings and confronting other men.It was soldier against soldier, the eyes of the inter-rogators filled with anger and disgust, staring at facesconsumed with arrogance and defiance. Thecommanders of

Aquitaine were adamant. They were right! Couldnot their inferiors understand? Many refused tosurrender, preferring final assaults that cost themtheir lives. Others bit into cyanide capsules.

In Palo Alto, California, a legless legend namedGeorge Marcus Delavane was found shot to death,but apparently not before he had been able to killhis assailant, an obscure Army colonel. No oneknew what had happened. In Southern France, thebodies of two other legendary heroes were found ina mountain ravine, each of whom, upon leaving achateau in the Alps, had been given a weapon.Generals Bertholdier and LeifLelm had lost.General Chaim Abrahms had disappeared. Onmilitary bases throughout the Middle East, all Eu-rope, Great Britain, Gnada and the United States,officers of high rank and responsibilities werechallenged by subordinates with levered weapons.Were they members of an organization calledAquitaine? Their names were on a list!Answer! InNorfolk, Virginia, an admiral named Scanlon threwhimself out of a sixth-story window; and in SanDiego, California, another admiral named Hickmanwas ordered to arrest a four-striper who lived in LaJolla the charge: murder of a legal officer in thehills above that elegant suburb. Colonel AlanMetcalf personally made the call the chiefoperations officer of Nellis Air Force Base; theorder was blunt throw into a maximum-securitycell the major who was in charge of all aircraftmaintenance. In Washington the venerated SenatorMario Parelli was called out of the cloakroom by aCaptain Guardino of Army G-2 and taken away;while at State and the Pentagon, eleven men inarmaments controls and procurements were placedunder guard.

In Tel Aviv, Israeli Army intelligence roundedup twenty-three aides and fellow officers of GeneralChaim Abrahms, as well as one of the Mossad’smost brilliant analysts. In Paris, thirty-oneassociates military and nonmilitary of GeneralJacques-Louis Bertholdier, including deputydirectors of both the Surete and Interpol, were heldin isolation, and in Bonn no fewer than fifty-sevencolleagues of General Erich Leifhelm, among themformer Wehrmacht commanders and current officersof the Federal Republic’s Army and its Luftwaffe,were seized. Also in Bonn, the Marine Corps guardat the American embassy, on orders from the StateDepartment, arrested four attaches, including themilitary charge d’affaires, Major Norman AnthonyWashburn IV.

And so it went. Everywhere. The fever ofmadness that was Aquitaine was broken by legions ofthe very military the generals assumed would carrythem to absolute global power. By nightfall the gunswere still and people began to come out from behindtheir barricades from cellars, subways boarded-upbuildings, railroad yards, wherever sanctuary couldbe found. They wandered out on the streets,numbed, wondering what had happened, as truckswith loudspeakers roamed the cities everywheretelling the citizens that the crisis was over. In TelAviv, Rome, Paris, Bonn, London, and across theAtlantic in Toronto, New York, Washington andpoints west, the lights were turned on, but certainlythe world had not returned to normal. A terribleforce had struck in the midst of a universal cry forpeace. What was it? What had ham pened?

It would be explained on the following day,blared the sound trucks in a dozen differentlanguages, pleading for pahence on the part ofcitizens everywhere. The hour chosen was 3:00 P.M.,Greenwich Mean Time; 10:00 A.M. Washington 7:00A.M. Los Angeles. Throughout the night and themorning hours in all the hme zones, heads of stateconferred over telephones until the texts of all thestatements were essentially the same. At 10:03 A.M.the President of the United States went on the air.

“Yesterday an unprecedented wave of violenceswept through the free world taking lives, paralysinggovernments, creaking a climate of terror that verynearly cost free nations everywhere their freedomand might have led them to look for solutions whereno solutions should be sought in democraUcsocieties namely, turning ourselves into policestates handing over controls to men who wouldsubjugate free people to their collective military will.It was an organized conspiracy led by demented anddeluded men who sought power for its own sake,willing even to sacrifice their own fellow conspiratorsto achieve it, and to deceive others who were se-duced into believing it was the way of the future, theanswer to the serious ills of the world. It is not, norcan it ever be.

“As the days and weeks go by as this terriblething is put behind us the facts will be placedbefore you. For this has been our warning, the tolltaken in blood and in the shaken confidence of ourinstitutions. I remind you, however, that ourinstitutions have prevailed. They will prevail.

"in an hour from now a series of meetings will starttaking

place involving the White House, the departmentsof State and Defense, the majority and minorityleaders of the House and the Senate, and theNational Security Council. Beginning tomorrow, inconcert with other governments, reports will beissued on a daily basis until all the facts are beforeyou.

“The nightmare is over. Let the sunlight of truthguide us and clear away the darkness.”

On the following morning Deputy Director PeterStone of the Central Intelligence Agency,accompanied by Captain Howard Packard andLieutenant William Landis, were brought to theOval Office for a private ceremony. The specifichonors awarded them were never made public, asthere was no reason to do so. Each man, with deeprespect and grahtude but with noregrets declined to accept, each stating thatwhatever honors were involved belonged to a mannot currently residing in the United States.

A week later, in Los Angeles, California, anactor named Caleb Dowling stunned the producersof a television show called Santa Fe by giving themhis notice effective before the start of the newseason. He refused all inducements, claiming simplythat there was not enough time to spend with hiswife. They were going to travel. Alone. And if theresiduals ever ran out, hell, she could always typeand he could always teach. Together. Ciao, friends.

The Aquaintaine Progession

EPILOGUE

Geneva. City of bright reflections and inconstancy.

Joel and Valerie Converse sat at the table whereit had all begun, by the glistening brass railing in theChat Botte. The traffic on the lakeside Quai duMont Blanc was disciplined, unhurried purposemixed with civility. As the pedestrians passed by,both were aware of the glances directed at Joel.There he is, the eyes were saying. There is . . . theman. It was rumored he was living in Geneva, atleast for a while.

By agreement, the second report issued across thefree

world made a direct but on Conversesinsistence brief reference to his role in the tragedythat was Aquitaine. He was exonerated of allcharges. The labels were removed and refuted, thedebt to him acknowledged without specifics on thebasis of NATO security. He refused all interviews,and was not pleased when the media dredged up hisexperiences in Southeast Asia and speculated oncorrelations with the drama of the generals. But hewas consoled by the knowledge that just.as theinterest in him had dwindled years ago, it would doso again faster in Geneva, city of purpose.

They had leased a house on the lake, an artist’shouse with a studio built on the slope leading to thewater, the skylight catching the sun from earlymorning to dusk. The beach house in Cape Ann wasclosed, the lease paid in full and returned to the realestate agent in Boston. Vals friend and neighbor hadpacked her clothes and all her paints, brushes andfavorite easel, and sent everything air freight toGeneva. Valerie worked for several hours eachmorning, happier than she had ever been in her life,permitting her husband to evaluate her progress dailyHe judged it to be eminently acceptable, wonderingout loud whether there was a market for “lakescapes”as opposed to seascapes. It took him two days toremove the last dabs of paint from his hair.

Nor was Joel without employment; he was TalbotBrooks and Simons European branch all by himself.The income itself, however, was not a vital factor, asConverse never remotely considered himself in themold of those attorneys in films and on televisionwho rarely if ever collected fees. Since his legaltalents had been called upon for crucial evidence, hebilled the major governments a reasonable$40O,OOO apiece the minor ones, $250,000. No oneargued. The total came to something over $2.5million, safely deposited in an interestbearing Swissaccount.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Valerie,reaching for his hand.

"About Chaim Abrahms and Derek Belamy Theyhaven’t been found they’re still out there, and Iwonder if they will ever be found. I hope so, becauseuntil they are, it really islet over.

“Its over, Joel, you’ve got to believe it. But thatsnot what I meant. I meant you. How do you feel?”

“I’m not sure. I only knew I had to come hereand find out.” He looked into her eyes, and at thecascading dark hair

that fell to her shoulders, framing the face he lovedso much. “Empty, I think. Except for you.”

“No anger? No resentment?”

“Not against Avery, or Stone or any of theothers. That s past. They did what they had to do;there wasn’t any other way.”

“You re far more generous than I am, my darling."

“I’m more realistic, that’s all. The evidence hadto be gotten by penetrating the outside by anoutsider wandng to get inside. The core was tootight, too lethal.”

“I think they were bastards. And cowards.”

“I don’t. I think they should all be canonized,immortalized, bronzed and with poems writtenabout them for the ages.”

“That’s absolute rubbish! How can you possiblysay such a thing?”

Joel again looked into his wife’s eyes. “Becauseyou’re here. I’m here. And you’re paintinglakescapes, not seascapes. And I’m not in NewYork and you’re not in Cape Ann. And I don’t haveto worry about you, hoping that you’re worryingabout me.”

“If only there’d been another woman or anotherman. It would have been so much easier, so muchmore logical, darling. "

“There was always you. Only you.”

“Try to get away from me again, Converse.”

“No way, Converse.”

Their hands gripped, unashamed tears were intheir eyes. The nightmare was over.