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The Apocalypse Watch

The Apocalypse Watch

The Apocalypse Watch

PROLOGUE

The Alpine pass, high in the Austrian Hausruck, was swept by the winter snow and assaulted by the cold Tnorth winds, while far below, a valley sprouted crocuses and the jonquils of early spring.

This particular pass was neither a border checkpoint nor a transfer post from one part of the mountain range to another. In fact, it was not on any map issued for public scrutiny.

There was a thick, sturdy bridge, barely wide enough for a single vehicle, that spanned a seventy-foot gorge several hundred feet above a rushing offshoot of the Salzach River. Once crossed, and passing through a tree-notched maze, there was a -hidden road cut out of the mountain forest, a steep, twisting road that descended well over seven thousand feet to the isolated valley where the crocuses and the jonquils grew. The much warmer flatland was dotted with green fields and greener trees .. . and a complex of small buildings, the roofs camouflaged by slashing diagonals of painted earth colors, undetectable from the skies, merely a part of the mountainous,terrain. It was the headquarters of Die Briiderschaft der Wacht, The Brotherhood of the Watch, the progenitors of Germany's Fourth Reich.

The two figures walking across the bridge were dressed in heavy parkas, fur hats, and thick alpine boots; each turned his face away from the blasts of wind and snow that buffeted him.

Unsteadily, they reached the other side and the traveler in front spoke.

“That's not abridge I'd care to cross too often,” said the American, slapping the snow off his clothing and removing his gloves to massage his face.

“But you will have to on your return, Herr Lassiter,”

countered the late-middle-aged German, smiling broadly under the protection of a tree, as he, too, brushed off the snow.

“Not to be annoyed, mein Herr. Before you know it, you will be where the air is warm and there are actually flowers. At this altitude it is still winter, below it is springtime.. .. Come, our transportation has arrived. Follow me!”

There was the sound of a gunning engine in the distance; the two men, Lassiter behind, walked rapidly, circuitously, through the trees to a small clearing, where there stood a jeep-like vehicle, only much larger and heavier, with balloon tires of very thick rubber, deeply treaded.

“That's some car,” said the American.

“You should be proud, it is amerikanisch! Built to our specifications in your state of Michigan.”

“What happened to Mercedes?”

“Too close, too dangerous,” replied the German.

“If you care to build a hidden fortress among your own, you don't employ the resources of your own. What you will see shortly is the combined efforts of numerous nations their more avaricious businessmen, I grant you, merchants who will conceal clients and deliveries for excessive profits Of course once the deliveries are made, the profits become a loaded gun; the deliveries must continue, perhaps with more esoteric merchandise. It is the way of the world.”

'41 bank on it," said Lassiter, smiling while he removed his fur hat to relieve the hairline sweat. He was a shade under six feet, a man of middle years, his age attested to by streaks of gray at his temples and crow's-feet at the edges of his deep-set eyes; the face itself was narrow, sharp-featured. He started toward the vehicle, several steps behind his companion. However, what neither his companion nor the driver of the outsize vehicle saw was that he kept reaching into his pocket, subtly withdrawing his hand and dropping metal pellets into the snow-swept grass. He had been doing so for the past hour, since they had stepped out of a truck on an alpine road between two mountain villages. Each pellet had been subjected to radiation easily picked up by handheld scanners.

At the point where the truck had stopped, he had removed an electronic transponder from his belt, and feigning a fall, had shoved it between two rocks. The trail was now clear; the honing device of those following would reach the top of its dial at that spot, accompanied by sharp, piercing beeps.

For the man called Lassiter was in a high-risk profession. He was a multilingual deep-cover agent for American intelligence, and his name was Harry Latham. In the sacrosanct chambers of the Agency, his code name was Sting.

The journey down into the valley mesmerized Latham. He had climbed a few mountains with his father and his younger brother, but they were minor, undramatic New England peaks, nothing like this. Here, as their steep descent progressed, there was change, obvious change--different colors, different smells, warmer breezes.

Sitting alone in the backseat of the large open truck, he emptied his pocket of every hot pellet, preparing himself for the thorough search he anticipated; he was clean. He was also exhilarated, his excitement under control from years of experience, but his mind was on fire. It was there! He had found it! Yet, as they reached ground level, even Harry Latham was astonished at what he had really found.

The roughly three square miles of valley flatland was in reality a military base, superbly camouflaged. The roofs of the various one-story structures were painted to blend in with the surroundings, and whole sections of the fields were beneath a latticework of ropes fifteen feet high, the open spaces between the ropes and poles filled with stretched, translucent green screening--corridors leading from one area to another. Gray motorcycles with sidecars sped through these concealed “alleyways,” the drivers and their passengers in uniform, while groups of men and women could be seen in training exercises, both physical and apparently academic_ lecturers stood before black-boards in front of serrated ranks of students. Those performing gymnastics and hand-to-hand combat were in minimal clothing-briefs and halters; those being lectured were in forest-green fatigues. What struck Harry Latham was the sense of constant movement. There was an in tensity about the valley that was frightening, but then, so was the Briiderschaft, and this was its womb.

“It is spectacular, night wahr, Herr Lassiter?” shouted the middleaged German beside the driver as they reached the bottom road and entered a corridor of roofed rope and green screening.

“Unglaublich,” agreed the American.

“Thantastiscb!”

“I forget, you speak our language fluently.”

“My heart is here. It always has been.”

“Natzirlicb, denn wi@ sind im Recht.”

“Mehr als das, wir sind die Wabrbeit. Hitler spoke the truths of all truth.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the German, smiling with neutral eyes at Alexander Lassiter, born Harry Latham of Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

"We'll go directly to the OberbefeWsbaber. The Kommandant is eager to meet you:)

Thirty-two months of grueling serpentine work were about to bear fruit, thought Latham. Nearly three years of building a life, living a life that was not his, were about to come to an end. The incessant, maddening, exhausting travels throughout Europe and the Middle East, synchronized down to hours, even minutes, so he would be at a specific place at a given time, where others could swear on their lives that they had seen him. And the scum of the world he had dealt with-arms merchants without conscience, whose extraordinary profits were measured by super tankers of blood; drug lords, killing and crippling generations of children everywhere;

compromised politicians, even statesmen, who bent and subverted laws for the benefit of the manipulators-it was all finished. There would be no more frenzied funneling of gargantuan sums of money through laundered Swiss accounts, secret numbers, and spectrograph signatures, all part of the deadly games of international terrorism. Harry Latham's personal nightmare, as vital as it was, was over.

“We are here, Herr Lassiter,” said Latham's German companion as the mountain vehicle pulled up to a barrack door under the roped green screening high above.

“It is much warmer now, much more pleasant, nicbt wabr?”

“It certainly is,” answered the deep-cover intelligence officer, stepping down from the rear seat.

“I'm actually sweating under these clothes.”

“We'll take the outerwear off inside and have yours dried for your return.”

“I'd appreciate it. I must be back in Munich by tonight.”

“Yes, we understand. Come, the Kommandant.” As the two men approached the heavy black wooden door with the scarlet swastika emblazoned in the center, there was a whooshing sound in the air.

Above, through the translucent green screening, the large white wings of a glider swooped in descending circles into the valley.

“Another wonder, Herr Lassiter? It is released from its mother aircraft at an altitude of roughly thirteen hundred feet. Natfirlich, the pilot must be extremely well trained, for the winds are dangerous, so unpredictable. It is used only in emergencies.”

“I can see how it comes down. How does it get up?”

“The same winds, mein Herr, with the assistance of disposable booster rockets. In the thirties, we Germans developed the most advanced glider aircraft.”

“Why not use a conventional small plane?”

“Too easily monitored. A glider can be pulled up from a field, a clear pasture. A plane must be fueled, be serviced, have maintenance, and frequently, even a flight plan.”

“Thantastisch,” repeated the American.

“And-of course-the glider has few or no metal parts. Plastic and sized cloth are difficult for radar grids to pick up.”

“Difficult,” agreed the new-age Nazi.

“Not completely impossible, but extremely difficult.”

“Amazing,” said Herr Lassiter as his companion opened the door of the valley's headquarters.

“You are all to be congratulated. Your isolation is matched by your security. Superb!” Feigning a casualness he did not feel, Latham looked around the large room.

There was a profusion of sophisticated computerized equipment, banks of consoles against each wall, starchy-uniformed operators in front of each, seemingly an equal mix of men and women.... Men and women-something was odd, at least not normal.

What was it? And then he knew; to an individual, the operators were young, generally in their twenties, mostly blond or light-haired, with clear, suntanned skin. As a group they were inordinately attractive, like models corralled by an advertising agency to sit in front of a client's computer products, conveying the message that potential customers, too, would look like this if they bought the merchandise.

“Each is an expert, Mr. Lassiter,” said an unfamiliar, monotonic voice behind Latham. The American turned abruptly. The newcomer was a man about his own age, dressed in camouflage fatigues and wearing a Wehrmacht officer's cap; he had silently emerged from an open doorway on the left.

“General Ulrich von Schnabe, your enthusiastic host, mein Herr,” he continued, offering his hand.

“We meet a legend in his own time. Such a privilege!”

“You're far too generous, General. I'm merely an international businessman, but one with definite ideological persuasions, if you like.”

“No doubt reached by years of international observation?”

“You could say that, and not be in error. They claim that Africa was the first continent, yet, while others have developed over several thousand years, Afrika remains the Dark Continent, the black continent. The northern shores are now havens for equally inferior people.”

“Well said, Mr. Lassiter. Yet you've made millions, some say billions, servicing the, dark and darker skins.”

“Why not? What better satisfaction can a man like me have than by helping them slaughter each other?”

“Wunderbar! Beautifully and perceptively stated.. .. You were studying our group here, I watched you. You can see for yourself that these, every one, are of Aryan blood. Pure Aryan blood. As are those everywhere in our valley. Each has been carefully selected, their bloodlines traced, their commitment absolute.”

“The dream of the Lebensborn,” said the American quietly, reverentially.

“The breeding farms-estates actu- 7 ally, if I'm not mistaken, where the finest SS officers were bred to strong Teutonic women-”

“Eichmann had studies done. It was determined that the northern Germanic female had not only the finest bone structure in Europe and extraordinary strength, but a marked subservience to the male,” interrupted the general.

“The true superior race,” concluded Lassiter admiringly.

“Would that the dream had come true.”

“In large measure it has,” said Von Schnabe quietly.

“We believe that a great many here, if not a majority, are the children of those children. We stole lists from the Red Cross in Geneva, and spent years tracing down each family where the Lebensbom infants had been sent. These, and others we shall recruit throughout Europe, are the Sonnenkinder, the Children of the Sun. The inheritors of the Reich!”

“It's incredible.”

“We're reaching out everywhere, and everywhere those selected respond to us, for the circumstances are the same. just as in the twenties, when the stranglehold of the Versailles and Locarno,treaties led to the economic collapse of the Weimar Republic and the influx of undesirables throughout Germany, so has the collapse of the Berlin Wall led to chaos. We are a nation in conflagration, the lowborn non-Aryans crossing our borders in unlimited numbers, taking our jobs, polluting our morals, making whores of our women because where they come from it's perfectly acceptable. It's totally unacceptable and it must stop! You agree, of course.”

"Why else would I be here, General? I have funneled millions into your needs through the banks in Algiers by way of Marseilles.

My code has been Frere-Brzider-I trust it is familiar to you."

“Which is why I embrace you with all my heart, as does the entire Brfiderschaft.”

"So now let's conclude . my final gift, General, final, for you will never need me again.. ..

Forty-six cruise missiles appropriated from Saddam Hussein's arsenal, buried by his officer corps, who felt he would not survive. Their warheads are capable of carrying massive explosives as well as chemical payloads-gases that can immobilize whole areas of cities. These are included, of course, along with the launchers.

I paid twenty-five million, American, for them. Pay me, what you can, and if it is less, I will accept my loss with honor."

“You are, indeed, a man of great honor, mein Herr.”

Suddenly the front door opened and a man in pure white coveralls walked into the room. He glanced around, saw Von Schnabe, and marched directly toward him, handing the general a sealed manila envelope.

“This is it,” the man said in German.

“Danke,” replied Von Schnabe, opening the envelope and extracting a small plastic pouch.

"You are a fine Scbauspieter-a good impersonator-Herr Lassiter, but I believe you lost something.

Our pilot just brought it to me." The general shook the contents of the plastic bag into his hand. It was the transponder Harry Latham had shoved between the rocks of a mountain road thousands of feet above the valley. The hunt was finished. Harry swiftly raised his hand to his right ear.

“Stop him!” shouted Von Schnabe as the pilot grabbed Latham's arm, yanking it. back into a hammerlock.

“There'll be no cyanide for you, Harry Latham of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, U.S.A. We have other plans for you, brilliant plans.”

The early sun was blinding, causing the old man crawling through the wild brush to blink repeatedly as he wiped his eyes with the back of his trembling right hand. He had reached the edge of the small promontory on top of the hill, the “high ground,” as they called it years ago-years burned into his memory. The grassy point overlooked an elegant country estate in the Loire Valley. A flagstone terrace was no more than three hundred meters below, with a brick path bordered by flowers leading to it. Gripped in the old man's left hand, the shoulder strap taut, was a powerful rifle, its sight calibrated for the precise distance. The weapon was ready to fire. Soon his target-a man older than himself-would appear in the telescopic crosshairs. The monster would be taking. his morning stroll to the terrace, dressed in his flowing morning robe' his reward his morning coffee laced with the finest brandy, a reward he would never reach on this particular morning. Instead, he would die, collapsing among the flowers, an appropriate irony: the death of consummate evil among surrounding beauty.

Jean-Pierre Jodelle, seventy-eight years of age and once a fierce provisional leader of the Resistance, had waited fifty years to fulfill a promise, a commitment, he had made to himself and to his God.

He had failed with the lawyers and in the sacrosanct court chambers; no, not failed, instead, been insulted by them, scorned by all of them, and told to take his contemptible fantasies to a cell in a lunatic asylum, where he belonged! The great General Monluc was a true hero of France, a close associate of le grand Charles Andre de Gaulle, that most illustrious of all soldier, statesmen who had kept in constant touch with

Monluc throughout the war over the underground radio frequencies despite the prospect of torture and a firing squad should Monluc be exposed.

It was all merde! Monluc was a turncoat, a coward, and a traitor!

He gave lip service to the arrogant De Gaulle, fed him insignificant intelligence, and lined his own pockets with Nazi gold and art objects worth millions. And then in the aftermath, le grand Charles, in euphoric adulation, had pronounced Monluc un bel amide guerre, a man to be honored. It was no less than a command for all France.

Merde! How little De Gaulle knew! Monluc had ordered the execution of Jodelle's wife and his first son, a child of five. A second son, an infant of six months, was spared, perhaps by the warped rationality of the Wehrmacht officer who said, “He's not a Jew, maybe someone will find him.”

Someone did. A fellow Resistance fighter, an actor from the Comedie Franqaise. He found the screaming baby amid the rubble of the shattered house on the outskirts of Barbizon, where he had come for a secret meeting the following morning. The actor had brought the child home to his wife, a celebrated actress whom the Germans adored their affection not returned, for her performances were dictated, not offered voluntarily. And when the war ended, Jodelle was a skeleton of his former self, physically unrecognizable and mentally beyond repair, and he knew it. Three years in a concentration camp, piling the bodies of gassed Jews, Gypsies, and “undesirables,” had reduced him to near idiocy, with neck tics, erratic, blinking, spasms of throated cries, and all that went with severe psychiatric damage. He never revealed himself to his surviving son or the “parents” who had reared him. Instead, wandering through the bowels of Paris and changing his name frequently, Jodelle observed from a distance as the child grew into manhood and became one of the most popular actors in France.

That distance, that unendurable pain, had been caused by Monluc the monster, who was now entering the circle of Jodelle's telescopic sight. Only seconds now, and his commitment to God would be fulfilled.

Suddenly there was a terrible crack in the air and Jodelle's back was on fire, causing him to drop the rifle. He spun around, stunned to see two men in shirtsleeves, one with a bullwhip, looking down at him.

“It would be a pleasure to kill you, you sick old idiot, but your disappearance would only lead to complications,” said the man with the whip.

“You have a wine soaked mouth that never stops chattering craziness. It's better that you go back to Paris and rejoin your army of drunken vagrants. Get out of here, or die!”

"How .. . ? How did you know .. .

“You're a mental case, Jodelle, or whatever name you're using this month,” said the guard beside the whip master.

“Youthink we haven't spotted you these last two days, breaking the foliage as you came to this very accessible place with your rifle? You were far better in the old days, I'm told.”

“Then kill me, you-sons of bitches! I'd rather die here, knowing I was so close, than go on living!”

“Oh, no, the general wouldn't approve,” added the whipper.

“You could have told others what you intended to do, and we don't want people looking for you or your corpse on this property. You're insane, Jodelle, everyone knows that. The courts made it clear.”

“They're corrupt! ”

“You're paranoid.”

“I know what I know!”

"You're also a drunk, well documented by a dozen cafes on the Rive Gauche that've thrown you out. Drink yourself into hell, Jodelle, but get out of here before I send you there now. Get up!

Run as fast as those spindly legs will carry you!"

The curtain rang down on the final scene of the play, a French translation of Shakespeare's Coriolanus, revived by Jean-Pierre Villier, the fifty-year-old actor who was the reigning king of the Paris stage and the French screen as well as a nominee for an American Academy Award as a result of his first film in the United States. The curtain rose and fell and rose again as the large, broad-shouldered Villier acknowledged his audience by smiling and clapping his hands at their acceptance.

It was all about to erupt into madness.

From the rear of the theater an old man in torn, shabby clothes lurched down the center aisle, screaming at the top of his coarse voice. Suddenly he pulled a rifle out of his loose trousers, held by suspenders, causing those in the audience who saw him to panic, the panic instantly spreading throughout the succeeding rows of seats as men pushed women below the line of fire, the vocal chaos reverberating off the walls of the theater. Villier moved quickly, shoving back the few actors and members of the technical crew who had come out onstage.

“An angry critic I can accept, monsieur!” he roared, confronting the deranged old man approaching the stage in a familiar voice that could command any crowd.

“But this is insane! Put down your weapon and we will talk!”

“There is no talk left in me, my son! My only son! I have failed you and your mother. I'm useless, a nothing! I only want you to know that I tried.. .. I love you, my only son, and I tried, but I failed!”

With those words the old man spun his rifle around, the barrel in his mouth, his right hand surging for the trigger. He reached it and blew the back of' his head apart, blood and sinew spraying over all who were near him.

“Who the hell was he?” cried a shaken Jean-Pierre Villier at his dressing-room table, his parents at his side.

“He said such crazy things, then killed himself. Why?”

The elder Villiers, now in their late seventies, looked at each other; both nodded.

“We must talk,” said Catherine Villier as she massaged the aching neck of the man she had raised as her son.

“Perhaps with your wife too.”

“That's not necessary,” interrupted the father.

“He can handle that if he thinks he should.”

“You're right, my husband. It is his decision.”

“What are you both talking about?”

“We have kept many things from you, my son, things that in the early years might have harmed you-”

“Harmed me?”

“Through no fault of yours, Jean-Pierre. We were an occupied country, the enemy among us constantly searching for those who secretly, violently, opposed the victors, in many cases torturing and imprisoning whole families who were suspect.”

“The Resistance, naturally,” interrupted Villier.

“Naturally,” agreed the father.

“You both were a part of it, you've told me that, although you've never expounded on your contributions.”

“They're best forgotten,” said the mother.

“It was a horrible time-so many who were stigmatized and beaten as collaborators were only protecting loved ones, including their children.”

I “But this man tonight, this crazy tramp! He so identified with me that he called me his son! .. . I accept a degree of excessive devotion-it goes with the profession, however foolish that may be but to the point of killing himself in front of my eyes? Madness!”

“He was mad, driven insane by what he had endured,” said Catherine.

“You knew him?”

“Very well,” replied the old actor, Julian Villier.

“His name was Jean-Pierre Jodelle, once a promising young baritone at the opera, and we, your mother and I, tried desperately to find him after the war. There was no trace, and since we knew he had been found out by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp, we assumed he was dead, a non-entry, like thousands of others.”

“Why did you try to find him? Who was he to you?”

The only mother Jean-Pierre had ever known knelt beside his dressing-room chair, her exquisite features bespeaking the great star she had been; her blue-green eyes below her full, soft white hair were locked with his. She spoke softly.

“Not only to us, my son, but to you. He was your natural father.”

“Oh, my God! .. . Then you, both of you-”

“Your natural mother,” added Vilher pre, quietly interrupting, “was a member of the Com@die-”

“A splendid talent,” broke in Catherine, “caught in those trying years between being an ingenue and being a woman, all of it made horrid by the occupation. She was'a dear girl, like a younger sister to me.”

“Please!” cried Jean-Pierre, leaping to his feet as the mother he knew rose and stood by her husband.

“This is all coming so quickly, it is so astonishing, I .. . I can't think!”

“So et' es it's best not to think for a while, my son,” in 'in said the elder Villier.

“Stay numb until the mind tells you it is ready to accept.”

“You used to tell me that years ago,” said the actor, smiling sadly, warmly, at Julian, “when I had trouble with a scene or a monologue, and the meaning was escaping me. You'd say, ”Just keep reading and rereading the words without trying so hard.

Something will happen."

“It was good advice, my husband.”

“I was always a better teacher than I ever was a performer.”

“Agreed,” said Jean-Pierre softly.

“I beg. your pardon? You agree?”

“I meant only, my father, that when you were onstage, you .. . you-”

“A part of you was always concentrating-on the others,” jumped in Catherine Villier, exchanging a knowing glance with her son-and not her son.

“Ah, you both conspire again, has it not been so for years? The two great stars being gentle with the lesser player.. .. Good! That's over with.. .. For a few moments we all stopped thinking about tonight. Now, perhaps, we can talk.”

Silence.

“For God's sake, tell me what happened!” exclaimed Jean-Pierre finally.

As he asked the question, there was a rapid knocking at the dressing-room door; it was opened by the theater's old night watchman.

"Sorry to intrude, but I thought you ought to know.

There are still reporters at the stage door.

s

They won't believe the police or me. We said you left earlier by the front entrance, but they're nor convinced. However, they cannot get inside."

"Then we'll stay here for a while, if need be all night at least I will.

There's a couch in the other room, and I've already called my wife.

She heard everything on the news."

“Very well, sir.. .. Madame Villier, and you also, monsieur, despite the terrible circumstances it is glorious to see you both again. You are always remembered with great affection.”

“Thank you, Charles,” said Catherine.

“You look well, my friend.”

“I'd look better still if you were back onstage, madame.” The watchman nodded and closed the door.

“Go on, Father, what did happen?”

“We were all part of the Resistance,” began Julian Villier, sitting down on a small love seat across the room, t4artists drawn together against an enemy that would destroy all art. And we had certain capabilities that served our cause. Musicians passed codes by inserting melodic phrases not in an original score; illustrators produced the daily and weekly posters demanded by the Germans, subtly employing colors and images that sent other messages. And we in the theater continuously corrupted texts, especially those of revivals and well-known plays, often giving direct instructions to the saboteurs-"

“At times it was quite amusing,” interrupted the regal Catherine, joining her husband and taking his hand.

“Say there was a line like ”I shall meet her at the Wtro in Montparnasse.“ We'd change it to ”I shall meet her at the east railway station-she should be there by eleven o'clock.“ The play would finish, the curtain fall, and all those Germans in their splendid uniforms would be applauding while a R@sistance team left quickly to be in place for the sabotage units at the Gare de VEst an hour before midnight.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jean-Pierre impatiently.

“I've heard the stories, but that's not what I'm asking. I realize it's as difficult for you as it is for me, but please, tell me what I must know.”

The white-haired couple looked intensely at each other; the wife nodded as their hands gripped, the veins showing. Her husband spoke.

“Jodelle was found out, revealed by a young runner who could not take the torture. The Gestapo surrounded his house, waiting for him to return one night, but he couldn't, for he was in Le Havre, making contact with British and American agents in the early planning stages of the invasion. By dawn, it was said that the leader of the Gestapo unit became furious with frustration. He stormed the house and executed your mother and your older brother, a child of five years. They picked up Jodelle several hours later; we managed to get word to him that you had survived.”

“Oh .. . my God!” The celebrated actor grew pale, his eyes closed as he sank down into his chair.

"Monsters! .. No, wait, what did you just say?

“It was said that the leader of the Gestapo-' It was said?” Not confirmed?"

“You're very quick, Jean-Pierre,” observed Catherine.

“You listen, that's why you're a great actor.”

“To hell with that, Mother! What did you mean, Father?”

“It was not the policy of the Germans to kill the families of R@sistance fighters, real or suspected. They had more practical uses for them-torture them for information, or use them as bait for others, and there was always forced labor, women for the Officers Corps, a category in which your natural mother would certainly have fallen.”

“Then why were they killed? .. . No, first me. How did I survive?”

"I went out to an early dawn meeting in the woods of Barbizon.

I passed your house, saw windows broken, the front door smashed, and heard an infant crying. You. Everything was obvious and, of course, there would be no meeting. I brought you home, bicycling through the back roads to Paris."

“It's a little late to thank you, but, again, why were my -my natural mother and my brother shot?”

“Now you lost a word, my son,” said the elder Villier.

“What?”

“In your shock, your listening wasn't as acute as it was a moment before, when I described the events of that night.”

“Stop it, Papa! Say what you mean!”

“I said 'executed,” you said 'shot."

“I don't understand.. ..”

“Before Jodelle was found out by the Germans, one of his covers was as a city messenger for the Ministry of Information-the Nazis could never get our arrondissements straight, much less our short, curving streets. We never learned the details, for as impressive as his voice was, Jodelle was extremely quiet where rumors were concerned -they were everywhere. Falsehoods, half truths and truths raced through Paris like gunfire at the slightest provocation. We were a city gripped by fear and suspic'on-”

“I understand that, my father,” broke in the ever more impatient Jean-Pierre.

“Please explain what I don't understand. The details that you were never given, what did they concern and how did they result in the killings, the executions?”

“Jodelle said to a few of us that there was a man so high in the R@sistance that he was a legend only whispered about, his identity the most closely guarded secret of the movement. Jodelle, however, claimed he had learned who the man was, and if what he had pieced together was accurate, that same man, that 'legend,” was no great hero but instead a traitor."

“Who was he?” pressed Jean-Pierre.

“He never told us. However, he did say that the man was a general in our French army, of which there were dozens. He said if he was right and any of us revealed the man's name, we'd be shot by the Germans. If he was wrong and someone spoke of him in a defamatory way, our wing would be called unstable and we would no longer be trusted.”

“What was he going to do then)”

"If he was able to establish his proof, he would take the man out himself. He swore he was in a position to do so.

We assumed-correctly, we believe, to this day that whoever the traitor was, he somehow learned of Jodelle's suspicions and gave the order to execute him and his family.

“That was it? Nothing else?”

“Try to understand what the times were like, my son,” said Catherine Villier.

"A wrong word, even a hostile stare or a gesture, could- result in immediate detention, imprisonment, and even, not unheard of, deportation. The occupation forces, especially the ambitious middle-level officers, were fanatically suspicious of everyone and everything. Each new Resistance accomplishment fueled the fires of their anger. Quite simply, no one was safe.

Kafka could not have invented such a hell."

“And you never saw him again until tonight?”

“If we had, we would not have recognized him,” replied Villier pre.

“I barely did when I identified his body. The years notwithstanding, he was, as the English say, a , rackabones' of the man I remembered, less than half the weight-and height of his former self, his face mummified” a stretched, wrinkled version of what it once was."

“Perhaps it wasn't he, is that possible, my father?”

“No, it was Jodelle. His eyes were wide in death, and still so blue, so resoundingly blue, like a cloudless sky in the Mediterranean....... Like yours, Jean-Pierre.”

“Jean-Pierre..... ?” said the actor softly.

“You gave me his name?”

“In truth, it was your brother's also,” corrected the actress gently.

“That poor child had no use for, it and we felt you should have it for jodelle's sake.”

“That was caring of you-”

“We knew we could never replace your true parents,” continued the actress quickly, fialf pleadingly, “but we tried our best, my darling. In our wills we make clear everything that happened, but until tonight we hadn't the courage within ourselves to tell you. We love you so.”

“For God's sake, stop, Mother, or I'll burst out crying. Who in this world could ask for better parents than you two I will never know what I cannot know, but forever you are my father and mother, and you know that.”

The telephone rang, startling them all.

“The press doesn't have this number, does it?” asked Julian.

“Not that I'm aware of,” replied Jean-Pierre, turning to the phone on the dressing table.

"Only you, Giselle, and my agent have it; not even my attorney or, God forbid, the owners of the theater.. ..

Yes?" he said gutturally.

“Jean-Pierre?” asked his wife, Giselle, over the telephone.

“Of course, my dear.”

“I wasn't sure-”

“I wasn't either, that's why I altered my voice. Mother and Father are here, and I'll be home as soon as the newspapers give up for the night.”

“I think you should find a way to come home now.”

4 “What?”

“A man has come to see you-”

“At this hour? Who is he?”

“An American, and he says he has to talk to you. It's about tonight.”

“Tonight .. . here at the theater?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Perhaps you shouldn't have let him in, Giselle.”

"I'm afraid I didn't have a choice. Henri Bressard is with him.

"

“Henri? What does tonight have to do with the Quai d'Orsay?”

“As we speak, our dear friend Henri is all smiles and diplomatic charm and will tell me nothing until you arrive.. .. Am I right, Henri?”

“Too true, my dearest Giselle” was the faint reply heard by Villier.

“I know little or nothing myself.”

“Did you hear him, my darling?”

“Clearly enough. What about the American? Is he a boot? just answer yes or no.”

“Quite the contrary. Although, as you actors might say, his eyes have a hot flame in them.”

“What about Mother and Father? Should they come with me?”

Giselle Villier addressed the two men in the room, repeating the question.

“Later,” said the man from the Quai d'Orsay, loud enough to be heard over the telephone.

“We'll speak to them later, Jean-Pierre,” he added even louder.

“Not tonight.”

The actor and his parents left the theater by the front entrance, the night watchman having told the press that Villier would appear shortly at the stage door.

“Let us know what's happening,” said Julian as he and his wife embraced their son and walked to the first of the two taxis called from the dressing-room phone. Jean-Pierre climbed. into the second, giving the driver his address in the Pare Monceau.

The introductions were both brief and alarming. Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France and a close friend of the younger Villiers for a decade, spoke calmly, gesturing at his American companion, a tall man in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair and sharp features, albeit with clear gray eyes that were disturbingly alive, perhaps in contrast to his gentle smile.

“This is Drew Latham, Jean-Pierre. He is a special officer for a branch of U.S. Intelligence known only as Consular Operations, a unit our own sources have determined to be under the combined authority of the American State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency.. .. MY God, how the two can get together is beyond this diplomat!”

“It's not always easy, Mr. Secretary,” said Latham pleasantly, if haltingly, in broken French, “but we manage.”

“Perhaps we should speak English,” offered Giselle Villier.

“We are all fluent.”

“Thank you very much,” the American responded in English.

"I

don't want to be misunderstood."

“You won't be,” said Villier, “but please be aware that we-l-must understand why you are here tonight, this terrible night. I have heard things this evening that I have never heard before-are you to add to them, monsieur?”

“Jean-Pierre,” broke in Giselle, “what are you talking about?”

“Let him answer,” said Vilher, his large blue eyes riveted on the Americari.

“Maybe, maybe not,” replied the intelligence officer.

“I know you've talked to your parents, but I can't know what you talked about.”

“Naturally. But it's possible you might assume a certain direction in our conversation, no?”

“Frankly, yes, although I don't know how much you'd been told before. The events of tonight suggest that you knew nothing about Jean-Pierre jodelle.”

“Quite true,” said the actor.

“The Soret@, who also know nothing, questioned you at length and were convinced you were telling the truth.”

“Why not, Monsieur Latham? I was telling the truth.”

“is there another truth now, Mr. Villier?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Will you both stop talking in circles!” cried the actor's wife.

“What is this truth?” “Be calm, Giselle. We are on the same wavelength, as the Americans say.”

“Shall we stop here?” asked the Consular Operations officer.

“Would you rather we speak privately?”

“No, of course not. My wife is entitled to know everything, and Henri here is one of our closest friends, as well as a man trained to keep his own counsel.” - “May we sit down,” said Giselle firmly.

“This is too confusing to absorb standing up.” When'they had taken their seats, hers next to her husband's, she added, “Please continue, Monsieur Latham, and I beg you to be clearer.”

I “I should like to know,” broke in Bressard, every inch the government official, “who is this Jodelle person, and why should Jean-Pierre know anything at all about him?”

“Forgive me, Henri,” interrupted the actor.

“Not that I mind, but I'd like to know why Monsieur Latham saw fit to use you as a means to reach me.” . “I knew you were friends.” The American answered for himself.

“In fact, several weeks ago, when I mentioned to Henri that I was unable to get tickets to your play, you were kind enough to leave a pair at the box office for me.”

"Ah, yes, I remember.. .. Your name seemed somehow familiar, but with everything that's happened, I didn't make the connection.

“Two in the name of Latham I do recall.”

“You were wonderful, sit-”

“You're very kind,” interrupted Jean-Pierre, dismissing the compliment and studying the U.S. intelligence officer, then looking at Bressard.

“Therefore,” he continued, “I may assume that you and Henri are acquainted.”

“More officially than socially,” said Bressard.

“I believe we've dined only once together; actually it was an extension of a conference that was largely unresolved.”

“Between your two governments,” Giselle observed aloud.

“Yes,” agreed Bressard.

“And what do you and Monsieur Latham confer about, Henri?”

pressed the wife.

“If,l may ask.”

“Of course you may, my dear,” replied Bressard.

“Generally speaking, sensitive situations, events that are taking place or have taken place in the past that might harm or embarrass our respective governments.”

“Tonight falls into that category?”

"Drew must answer that, Giselle, I cannot, and I'm as eager as you are to learn. He roused me out of bed over an hour ago insisting that for both our sakes I bring him to you immediately.

When I asked him why, he made it clear that only Jean-Pierre could permit me to have the inforination-information that pertained to the events of tonight."

“Which is why you suggested we speak privately, is that correct, Monsieur Latham?” asked Villier.

“It is, sir.”

“Then your arrival here tonight, this terrible night, falls under the blanket of official business, nest-ce pas?”

“I'm afraid it does,” said the American.

“Even considering the lateness of the hour and the tragedy we alluded to?”

“Again, yes,” said Latham.

“Every hour is vital to us. Especially to me, if you want to be specific.”

“I do care to be specific, monsieur.”

“All right, I'll speak plainly. My brother's a case officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. He was sent out under cover into the Hausruck mountains in Austria. It was a survey operation involving a spreading neo-Nazi organization, and he hasn't been heard from in six weeks.”

“I can understand your concern, Drew,” interrupted Henri Bressard, “but what has it to do with this evening this terrible night, as Jean-Pierre called it?”

The American looked at Villier in silence; the actor spoke.

“The deranged old man who killed himself in the theater was my father,” he said quietly, “my natural father. Years ago, in the war, he was a Resistance fighter. The Nazis found him and broke him, drove him mad.”

Giselle gasped; her hand shot to her left, gripping her husband's arm.

“They're back,” said Latham, “growing in numbers and influence beyond anything anyone wants to believe or talk about.”

“Say there's even a granule of truth in what you say,” pressed Bressard.

“What has it to do with the Quai d'Orsay? You said 'for both our sakes.” How, my friend?"

“You'll get a full briefing tomorrow at our embassy. I insisted on that two hours ago, and Washington agreed. Until then I can tell you only-and it's all I really know that the money trail through Switzerland to Austria and the growing Nazi movement is secretly funneled from people here in France. Who, we don't know, but it's immense, millions upon millions of dollars. To fanatics who are rebuilding Toe party-Hitler's party in exile-but still in Germany, hidden in Germany.”

“Which, if you're correct, means there's'another organization here, is that what you're saying?” asked Bressard.

“Jodelle's traitor”" whispered an astonished Jean-Pierre Villier, leaning forward in the chair.

“The French general!”

“Or what he created,” said Latham.

“For God's sake, what are you two talking about?” exclaimed the actor's wife.

"A newly discovered father,

the Resistance, Nazis, millions of dollars to fanatics in the mountains! It all sounds crazy-foul"

“Why don't you start at the beginning, Drew Latham,” said the actor softly.

“Perhaps I might. fill in with things I knew nothing about before tonight.”

ccording to the records in our possession,“ began Latham, ”in June of 1946 a repatriated member of Athe French Resistance, alternately using the names of jean Froisant and Pierre Jodelle, appeared repeatedly at our embassy in various simple disguises and always at night. He claimed he was being silenced by the Paris courts regarding his knowledge of the treasonous activities of a leader of the Resistance. The traitor supposedly was a French general under privileged house arrest accorded by the German High Command to your general officers who remained in France. The judgment of the OSI investigators was negative, the determination being that Froisant/ Jodelle was mentally unbalanced, as were hundreds, if not thousands, who had been psychologically crippled in the concentration camps."

“The OSI is the Office of Special Investigations,” explained Bressard, seeing the bewildered expressions on the faces of both Villiers.

“It's the American department created to pursue war criminals.” - “I'm sorry, I thought you knew,” said Latham.

“It operated extensively here in France in conjunction with your authorities.”

“Of course,” acknowledged Giselle.

“It was the formal name; I'm told we had others. Collaborationist hunters, pig seekers, so many names.”

“Please continue,” said Jean-Pierre, frowning, disturbed.

“Jodelle was dismissed as'a madman-just like that?”

“It wasn't arbitrary, if that's what you mean. He was interrogated at length, including three separate depositions taken independently of one another to check for inconsistencies. It's standard procedure-”

“Then you have the information,” interrupted the actor.

“Who was this general?”

“We don't know-”

“You don't know?” cried Bressard.

“Mon Dieu, you didn't lose the material, did you?”

“No, we didn't lose it, Henri, it was stolen.”

“But you said 'according to the records'!” Giselle broke in.

“I said 'according to the records in our possession,” corrected Latham.

"You can index a name in a particular time frame, and the index will summarize without specifics the substantiated case histories where procedures were followed and final determinations were made. Materials such as interrogations and depositions are in separate classified files to protect the privacy of the individuals from 'hostile inquiries.. .. Those were the files that were removed.

Why, we don't know-or perhaps now we do."

“But you knew about me,” interrupted Jean-Pierre.

“How?”

“As new information comes in, the index summaries are updated by the OSI. About three years ago, a drunken Jodelle accosted the American ambassador outside the Lyceum Theater, where you were appearing in a play” “je mappelle Aquilon!” Bressard broke in enthusiastically.

“You were magnifique!”

“Oh, be quiet, Henri.. .. Go on, Drew Latham.”

"Jodefle kept shouting what a great actor you were, and that you were his son, and why wouldn't the Americans listen to him.

Naturally, the theater's attendants pulled him away as the doorman escorted the ambassador to his limousine. He explained that the old drunken tramp was unbalanced, an obsessed fan who hung around the theaters where you were playing."

“I never saw him. Why is that?”

“Also explained b@ the doorman. Whenever you appeared at the stage door, he ran away.”

“That doesn't make sense!” said Giselle firmly.

“I'm afraid it does, my dear,” countered Jean-Pierre,

looking sadly at his wife.

“At least according to what I learned tonight.. .. So, monsieur,” continued the actor, “because of that odd yet not unusual event, my name was included in the-how do you say it?-your non classified intelligence files?”

“Only as part of a behavior pattern, not taken seriously.”

“But you took it seriously, nest-ce pas?”

“Please understand me, sir,” said Latham, leaning forward in the chair.

“Five weeks and four days ago my brother was to make contact with his Munich runner. It was a specific arrangement, not an estimate, every logistic was narrowed down to a time frame of twelve hours. Three years of a high-risk, deep-cover operation were finished, the end in sight, his secure transportation to the States arranged. When a week passed and there was no word from him, I flew back to Washington and pored over everything we had, everything there was, on Harry's operation-that's my brother, Harry Latham.. .. For one reason or another, probably because it was an odd reference, the Lyceum Theater episode struck me, stayed with me. As you implied, why was it even there? Famous actors and actresses are frequently bothered by fans who are obsessed with them. We read about that sort of thing all the time.”

“I believe I said as much,” interrupted Villier.

“It's an occupational sickness and, for the most part, quite harmless.”

“That's what I thought, sir. Why was it there?”

“Did you find an answer?”

"Not really, but enough to convince me to try and find jodelle.

Since I came back to Paris two weeks ago, I've looked everywhere, in all the back alleys of Montparnasse, in all the run-down sections of the city."

“Why?” asked Giselle.

“What partial answer did you find? Why was my husband's name forwarded to Washington in the first place?”

“I asked myself the same question, Mrs. Villier. So while I was in Washington I looked up the former ambassador-from the last administration-and asked him. You see, the information could not have been forwarded to the intelligence community unless he authorized it.”

“What did my old friend the ambassador say?” Bressard broke in, his tone unmistakably critical.

“It was his wife-”

“Ah,” said the Quai d'Orsay official, “then one should listen. She should have been the ambassadeur. So much more intelligent, so much more knowledgeable. She's a physician, you know.”

“Yes, I spoke with her. She's also an avid theatergoer. She always insists on sitting in the first three rows.”

“Hardly the best seats,” said the actor softly.

“One loses the perspective for the immediate. Forgive me, go on. What did she say?”

"It was your eyes, Mr. Villier. And those of Jodelle when he stopped them on the pavement and shouted hysterically.

“Both their eyes were so intensely blue,” she said, tyet the color was extraordinarily light, extremely unusual for blue-eyed people.“ So she thought, delusions or not, that there might be substance to the old man's ravings because the similarity of such unusual eyes could only be genetically transmitted. She admitted it was a speculative call, but one she couldn't overlook. And, as Henri mentioned, she is a doctor.”

“So your suspicions proved to be accurate,” said Jean Pierre nodding his head reflectively.

“When the news came over the television that an unidentified old man had shot himself in the theater after screaming that you were his son-well, I knew I'd found Jodelle.”

“But you didn't, Drew Lathaim. You found the son, not the father he never knew. So where are you now? There's little I can add that you don't already know, and that much I myself just found out tonight from the only parents I've ever known. They tell me Jodelle was a Resistance fighter, a baritone at the Paris Opera, found out by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp from which he supposedly never returned. Obviously he did, and apparently the poor soul recognized his infirmities and never revealed himself” The actor paused, then added sadly, pensively, “He gave me a privileged life and rejected any worthwhile life for himself.”

“He must have loved you very much, my darling,” said Giselle.

“But what sorrow, what torment he had to live with.”

“They looked for him. They tried so hard to find him he could have been given medical treatment. God, what a tragic waste!”

Jean-Pierre looked over at the American.

“Again, monsieur, what can I say? I can't help you any more than I can help myself”

“Tell me exactly what happened. I learned very little at the theater. The police weren't there when it happened, and the witnesses who remained-mainly ushers by trip time I arrived-weren't much help. Most claimed they heard the shouts, at first thinking they were part of the 'bravos,” then saw an old man in disheveled clothes running down the aisle, yelling that you were his son and carrying a rifle, which he turned on himself and fired. That was about it."

“No, there was more,” said Villier, shaking his head.

"There was a brief hush in the audience, a momentary pause, that shock of astonishment before the vocal reaction begins. It was then that I clearly heard several of his statements.

“I have failed you and your in other-I am useless, a nothing. I only want you to know I tried-I tried but failed.” That's all I recall, then there was chaos. I have no idea what he meant."

“It'has to be in the words, Mr. Villier,” said Latham rapidly, emphatically, “and it had to be something so vital to him, so catastrophic that he broke the silence of a lifetime and confronted you. A last gesture before killing himself; something had to trigger it.”

“Or the final deterioration of an unbalanced mind pushed over the edge into utter madness,” suggested the actor's wife.

“I don't think so,” the American courteously disagreed.

“He was too focused. He knew exactly what he was doing -what he was going to do. He somehow got into the theater with a concealed rifle, no mean feat, and then waited until the performance was over and your husband was accepting the praises of the crowd-he wasn't going to deny him that. A man gripped in the emotional frenzy of an insane act would be prone to interrupting the play, pivoting the entire attention on himself. Jodelle didn't. A part of him was too rational” too rationally generous to permit it."

“Are you also a psychologist?” asked Bressard.

“No more than you are, Henri. The bottom line for both of us is studying behavior, predicting it if we can, isn't that so?”

“So you're saying,” interrupted Villier, “that my father. the natural father I never knew-rationally calculated the moves for his own death because he was motivated by something that happened to him.” The actor leaned back in his chair, frowning.

“Then we must find out what it was, mustn't we?”

“I don't know how, sir. He's dead.”

``“If an actor is analyzing a character he must bring to life- on the stage or in a film, and that character is beyond the cliches of his imagination, he has to study the reality, expand upon it, doesn't he?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

"Many years ago I was called upon to play a murderous Bedouin sheikh, a very unsympathetic man who ruthlessly kills his enemies because he believes they are the enemies Of Allah. It brought to mind all the cliches one expects: the satanic brows; the sharp chin beard; the thin, evil the messianic eyes-it was all so banal, I thought. So I Tes@ to Jidda, went into the desert-under luxurious conditions, I assure you-and met with several Bedouin chieftains.

They were nothing of the sort. They Were religious zealots, indeed, but they were calm, very courteous, and truly, believed that what the West called the Arab crimes of their grandfathers were entirely justified, for those ancient enemies were the enemies of their God.

They even, explained that after each death, their ancestors would pray to Allah for the safe deliverance of their enemies. There was a true sadness in what they felt was necessary slaughter. Do you see what I mean?"

“That was Le Carnage du Voile,” said the Quai d'Orsay's Bressard.

“You were superb and stole the film from its two stars. Paris's leading-critic wrote that your, evil was so pure because you clothed it in such quiet benevolence-”

“Please, Henri. Enough.”

“I still don't know what you're driving at, Mr. Villier.”

"If what you believe about Jodelle .. . if what you believe is true, then a part of him was less mad than his actions would indicate.

Isn't that really what you are saying?"

I “Yes, it is. I believe it. That's why I've been trying to find him.”

“And such a man, regardless of his infirmities, is capable of communicating with others, with his equally unfortunate peers, not so?”

“Probably. Sure.”

“Then we must start with his reality, the environs in which he lived. We'll do it, I'll do it.”

'jean-Pierre!" cried Giselle.

“What are you saying?”

“Our revival has no matinees. Only an idiot would play Coriolanus eight times a week. My days are free.”

“And?” asked a disturbed Bressard, his eyebrows arched.

"As you have so generously implied, Henri, I am a passably adequate actor and I have access to every costume establishment in Paris. The attire will be no problem, and extremist makeup has always been one of my strengths. Before he passed away, Monsieur Olivier and I agreed that it was a dishonest artifice-the chameleon, he called it-but nevertheless more than half the battle.

I will enter the world where Jodelle existed and perhaps I'll get lucky. He had to talk to someone, I'm convinced of that."

“Those environs,” said Latham, "that 'world' of his is pretty sordid and can be violent, Mr. Villier. If some of those characters think you have twenty francs, they'll break your legs for it. I carry a weapon, and without exaggeration, I felt I had to display it on five separate occasions during the past weeks. Also, most of those people are tight-lipped and don't like outsiders who ask questions;

in fact, they resent it strongly. I didn't get anywhere.

“Ah, but you are not an actor, monsieur, and in all frankness, your French could be improved upon. No doubt you prowled those streets in your normal clothes, your overall appearance not much different from what we see now, West-ce pas?”

“Well .. . yes. ”

“Again, forgive me, but a clean-shaven man in rather decent attire and asking a question in hesitant French would hardly inspire confidence among jodelle's confreres in that world of his.”

“Jean-Pierre, stop it!” exclaimed the actor's wife.

“What you're suggesting is out of the question! My feelings and your safety aside, your run-of-the-play contract forbids you to undertake physical risk. My God, you're not permitted to ski or play polo or even fly your plane!”

“But I won't be skiing or on a horse or flying my plane. I'm merely going across the city into various arrondissements to research atmosphere. It's far less than traveling to Saudi Arabia for a secondary film role.”

“Merde!” cried Bressard.

“It's preposterous!”

“I didn't come here to ask such a thing of you, sir,” said Latham.

"I came hoping you might know something that could help me.

You don't and I accept that. My government can hire people to do what you're suggesting."

“Then without false modesty I suggest that you wouldn't be getting the best. You do want the best, don3t you, Drew Latham, or have you forgotten your brother so uickly? Your anxiety tells me you haven't. He must be a fine man, a splendid older brother who undoubtedly helped you, guided you. Naturally you feel you owe him whatever you can. do.”

“I'm concerned, yes, but that's-personal,” interrupted the American sharply, “I'm a professional.”,

“So am I, monsieur. And I owe the man we call jodelle every bit as much as you owe your brother. Perhaps more. He lost his wife and his first child fighting for all of us, then tragically consigned his own existence to a hell we can't imagine so that I might thrive. Oh, yes, I owe him professionally and personally. Also the woman, the young actress who was my natural mother, and the child whose first name I bear, the older brother who might have guided me. My debt is heavy, Drew Latham, and you will not stop me from paying something back. None of you will.. .. Be so kind as to come here tomorrow at noon. I'll be prepared and all the arrangements will be made.”

Latham and Henri Bressard walked out of the imposing Villier house on the Pare Monceau to the official's car.

“Need I tell you that I don't like any of this?” said the Frenchman.

“Neither do I,” agreed Drew.

“He may be a hell of an actor, but he's out of his depth.”

I “Depth? What depth? I simply don't like his going into the bowels of Paris where, if he's recognized, he could be assaulted for his money or even kidnapped for a ransom. You're saying something else' I believe. What is it?”

“I'm not sure, call it instinct. Something did happen to Jodelle, and it's a lot more than a deranged old man killing himself in front of the son he never acknowledged. The act itself was one of final desperation; he knew he had been beaten, irrevocably beaten.”

“Yes, I heard Jean-Pierre's words,” said Bressard, rounding the trunk to the driver's side as Latham opened the door at the curb.

“The old man shouted that he had failed; he had tried but failed.”

“But what had he tried? What did he fail to do? What was it?”

“The end of his road, perhaps,” replied Henri, starting the car and heading into the street.

“The knowledge that at long last the enemy was beyond his reach.”

“To know that, to really know it, he had to have found that enemy, and then understood that he was helpless. He knew. he was considered a madman; neither Paris nor Washington thought he was credible, and he'd been rejected, hell, thrown out of the courts. So he went out on his own to find his enemy, and once he found it .. . him .. they, something happened. They stopped him cold.”

“If that was the case, instead of merely stopping him, why didn't they kill him?”

"The couldn't. Because if they did, it would raise too y many questions. Kept alive until he died, and at his age and in his condition, that wasn't far off, he was just another delusional drunk.

But if he was murdered, his crazy accusations might appear more credible. People like me might begin digging, and his enemy can't afford that. Alive he was a nothing, killed he's something else."

“I fail to see your point as it pertains to Jean-Pierre, my friend.”

"Jodelle's enemies, the group here in France that I'm convinced is linked to the Nazi movement in Germany, are way down deep, but they've got eyes and ears above the ground. If the old man made contact, the least they'll do is follow up on his suicide. They'll be on the lookout for anyone asking questions about him. If there's any truth in what Jodelle claimed, again they can't afford not to.. . And that leads me back to the missing OSI files in Washington.

They were stolen for a reason."

“I see what you mean,” said Bressard, “and now I'm definitely against Villier's involvement. I'll do my best to stop him; Giselle will help. She's as strong as he is, and he adores her.”

“Maybe you weren't listening a while ago. He said none of us could stop him. He wasn't acting, Henri, he meant it.”

“I agree, but you've brought in another equation. We'll sleep on it, if any of us can sleep.. .. Do you still have your flat on the rue du Bac?”

“Yes, but I want to stop at the embassy first. There's someone in Washington I have to call on a secure line. Our transport will get me home.”

“As you wish.”

Latham took the elevator down to the embassy basement complex and walked through a white, neon-lit corridor to the communications center. He inserted his plastic access card into the security receptacle; there was a brief, sharp buzz, the heavy door opened, and he walked inside. The large air-cooled, dust-filtered room, like the corridor, was pristine white, the panoply of electronic equipment lining three walls, the metal glistening, a swivel chair placed every six feet in front of its own console. Due to the hour, however, only one chair was occupied; traffic was lightest between two and six o'clock in the morning, Paris time.

“I see you've got the graveyard, Bobby,” said Drew to the sole occupant across the room.

“You holding up?”

“Actually, I -like it,” replied Robert Durbane, a fifty three-year-old communications specialist and senior officer of the embassy's comm center.

“My people think I'm such a good guy when I assign the shift to myself;, they're wrong, but don't tell them. See what I have to work on?” Durbane held up a folded London Times, the page displaying the infamous Times crossword puzzle and lethal double crostic.

44I'd say that's adding masochism to double duty," said Latham, crossing to the chair to the right of the operator.

“I can't do either one, don't even try.”

"You and the rest of the youngsters. No comment, Mr.

Intelligence Man."

“I suspect there's gravel in that remark.”

“Wear sandals on the driveway.. .. What can I. do for you?”

“I want to call Sorenson on scrambler.”

“He didn't reach you about an hour ago?”

“I wasn't home.”

“You'll find his message .. . that's funny, though, he spoke as if you and he had been talking.” , “we did, but that was nearly three hours ago.”

“Use the red telephone in the cage.” Durbane turned and gestured toward a built-in glass cubicle fronting the fourth wall, the glass rising to the ceiling. The “cage,” as it was called, was a soundproof, secure area where confidential conversations could be held without being overheard. The embassy personnel were grateful for it; what they did not hear could not be extracted from them.

“You'll know when you're on scrambler,” added the specialist.

“I would hope so,” said Drew, referring to the discordant beeps that preceded a harsh hum over the line, the signal that the scrambler was in operation. He rose from the chair, walked to the thick glass door of the cage, and let himself in. There was a large Formica table in the center with the red telephone, pads, pencils, and an ashtray on top. In the corner of this uniqpe enclosure was a paper shredder whose contents were burned every eight hours, more often if necessary.

Latham sat down in the desk chair, positioned so his back was to the personnel operating the consoles; maximum security included the fear of lip-reading, which was laughed at until a Soviet mole was discovered in the embassy's communications during the height of the Cold War. Drew picked up the phone and waited; eighty-two seconds later the beep-and-hum litany was played, then came the voice of Wesley T. Sorenson, director of Consular Operations.

“Where the devil have you been?” asked Sorenson'.

"After you cleared my contacting Henri Bressard with our promise of disclosure, I went to the theater, then called Bressard.

He took me to the Villier house on Pare Monceau. I just got here."

“Then your projections were right?”

“As right as simple arithmetic.” ' "Good Lord .. . ! The old man really was Villier's father?

“Confirmed by Villier himself, who learned it from-as he put it-the only parents he'd ever known.”

“Considering the circumstances, what a hell of a shock!”

“That's what we have to talk about, Wcs. The shock produced a mountain of guilt in our famous actor. He's determined to use his skills and go underground to see if he can make contact with Jodelle's friends, try to learn if the old man told anyone where he was going during the past few days, who it was he wanted to find, and what he intended to do.”

“Your scenario,” interrupted Sorenson.

“Your scenario, if your projections proved accurate.”

“It had to be-if I was right. But that scenario called for using our own assets, not Villier himself.”

“And you were right. Congratulations.”

“I had help, Wcs, namely the former ambassador's wife.”

“But you found her, no one else did.”

“I don't think anyone else has a brother in a tight, no answer situation.”

“I understand. So what's your problem?”

“Villier's determination. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn't, I can't, and I don't think anyone can.”

“Why should you? Perhaps he can learn something. Why interfere?”

“Because whoever triggered jodelle's suicide must have faced him down. Somehow they convinced him that he'd lost the whole ball of wax, he was finished. There was nothing left for the old man.”

“Psychologically that makes sense. His obsession had nowhere to go but to destroy him. So?”

“Whoever they are will certainly follow up on his suicl 'de. As I told Bressard, they can't afford not to. If someone, no matter who it is, shows up asking questions about jodelle-well, if his enemies are who I think they are, that someone hasn't got much of a future.”

“Did you tell this to Villier?”

“Not in so many words, but I made it clear that what he wanted to do was extremely dangerous. In essence, he told me to go to hell. He said he owed jodelle every bit as much, if not more, than I owe Harry. I'm supposed to go to his place tomorrow at noon. He says he'll be ready.”

“Spell it out for him then,” ordered Sorenson.

“If he still insists, let him go.”

“Do we want his potentially shortened future on our slate?”

"Tough decisions are called tough because they're not easy.

You want to find Harry, and I want to find a rotten cancer that's growing in Germany."

“I'd like to find both,” said Latham.

“Of course. I would too. So if your actor wants to perform, don't stop him.”

“I want him covered.”

"You should, a dead actor can't tell us what he's learned. Work it out with the Deuxi@me, they're very good at that sort of thing. In an hour or so I'll call Claude Moreau. He's head of the Bureau and will be in his office by then. We worked together in Istanbul; he was the best field agent French intelligence ever had, world class, to be exact.

He'll give you what you need."

“Should I tell Villier?”

"I'm one of the old boys, Latham, maybe that's good and maybe that's bad, but I believe that if you're going to mount an operation, you go the whole nine yards. Villier should also be wired; it's an added risk, of course, and you should spell out everything to him.

Let him make a clean decision."

“I'm glad we're in sync. Thank you for that.”

“I came in from the cold, Drew, but I was once where you are now. It's a lousy chess game, specifically when the pawns can get killed. Their blips never leave you, take my word for it. They're fodder for nightmares.”

“Everything everybody says about you is true, isn't it? Including your predilection for having us in the field call you by your first name.”

“Most of what they say I did is totally exaggerated,” said the director of Consular Operations, "but when I was out there, if I could have called my boss Bill or George or Stanford or just plain Casey, I think I might have been a hell of a lot more candid. That's what I want from you people.

“Mr. Director' is an impediment.”

“You're so right.”

“I know. So do what you have to do;”

Latham walked out of the embassy on avenue Gabriel to the waiting armor-plated diplomatic car that would take him to his flat on the rue du Bac. It was a Citron sedan, the rear seats far too shallow, so he chose to sit in the front next to the marine driver.

“You know the address?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. Surely I do, certainly.”

An exhausted Drew looked briefly at the man; the accent was unmistakably American, but the juxtaposition of words was odd. Or was it simply that he was so tired that his hearing was playing tricks on him. He closed his eyes, for how long he did not know, grateful for the nothingness, the blank void that filled his inner screen. For at least several minutes his anxiety was put on hold. He needed the respite, he welcomed it. Then suddenly he was aware of motion, the jostling of his body in the seat. He opened his eyes; the driver was speeding across a bridge as though he were in a Le Mans race. Latham spoke.

"Hey, guy, I'm not rushing to a late date.

Cool it on the accelerator, pal."

“Tut mir --sorry, sir.”

“What?” They sped off the bridge and the marine swung the car into a dark, unfamiliar street. Then it was clear; they were nowhere near the rue du Bac. Drew shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

“It is a shortened cut, sir.”

“Bullshit! Stop this fucking car!”

“Nein!” yelled the man in the marine uniform.

“You go where I take you, buddy!” The driver yanked an automatic from his tunic and pointed it at Latham's chest.

“You give me no orders, I give you orders!”

“Christ, you're one of them. You son of a bitch, you're one of them!”

“You will meet others, and then you will be gone!”

“It's all true, isn't it? You're all over Paris-”

"Und England, und die Verein@gten Swaten, und Europa! .. .

Sieg Heil!"

“Sieg_ up your ass,” said Drew quietly, leveling his left hand in the rushing shadows beneath the weapon, his left foot inching across the Citron's floorboard.

“How about a big surprise, blitzkrieg style?” With those words Latham jammed his left foot against the brake pedal while simultaneously smashing his left hand up into the elbow of his would-be captor's right arm. The gun spun in the neo Nazi hand; Drew grabbed it and fired into the driver's right kneecap as they crashed into the corner of a building.

“You lose!” said Latham breathlessly, opening the door and grabbing the man by his tunic. Stepping outside, he yanked him across the seat, throwing him to the pavement. They were in one of the industrial sections of Paris, two- and three-story factories, deserted for the night. Beyond the dim street lamps' the only brightness came from the damaged Citron's headlights. It was enough.

“You're going to talk to me, buddy,” he said to the false marine curled up on the sidewalk, moaning and clutching his wounded leg, “or the next bullet goes right through those two hands around your knee. Shattered hands never fully recover. It's a hell of a way to live.”

“Nein! Nein! Do not shoot!”

“Why not? You were going to kill me, you told me so. I'd 'be gone,” I distinctly remember. I'm much kinder. I won't kill you, I'll just make your staying alive a mess. After your hands, your feet will be next.. .. Who are you and how did you get that uniform, that car? Tell me!"

“We have uniforms .. . amerikanische, franzdsische, englische.”

"The car, the embassy car. Where's the man whose place you took

“He was told not to come-”

“By whom?”

“I do not know! The car was brought to the front. The Schhisselthe key, I mean-was in it. I was ordered to drive you.”

“Who ordered you?”

“My superiors.”

“The people you were taking me to?”

"Ja.

@ 4Who are they? Give me some names. Now."

“I do not know any names! We are reached by codes, by numbers and letters.”

“What's your name?” Drew crouched by the impostor, the barrel of the gun jammed against the nearest hand around the bleeding kneecap.

“Erich Hauer, I swear it!”

“Your code name, Erich. Or forget about your hands and feet.”

“C-Zwdif-twelve.”

“You speak much better English when you're not scared shitless, Erich-buddy.. .. Where were you taking me?”

“Five, six avenues from here. I would know by the Scbeinwerfer-” “The what?”

“Headlights. From a narrow street on the left.”

“Stay right where you are, Little Adolf,” said Latham, rising and sidestepping to the car door, his weapon on the German.

Awkwardly, he backed down into the front seat, his left hand thrusting below the dashboard until he found the car phone with a direct line to the embassy. As the transmitting mechanism was in the trunk, the odds were favorable that it would be operational. It was. Glancing quickly, Drew pressed the zero button four times in rapid succession. The signal for emergency.

“American Embassy,” came Durbane's-voice over the speaker.

“Your status is Zero Four. On tape, go ahead!”

“Bobby, it's Latham-”

“I know that, I've got you on the grids. Why the big Four 0?”

"We were sandbagged.- I was on my way to a fast execution, courtesy of our Nazi nightmare. The marine driver was a phony;

somebody in the transport pool set me up. Check that whole unit out!"

“Christ, are you all right?”

“Just a tad shaken; we had an accident and the skinhead didn't fare too well.”

“Well, I've got you on the grids. I'll send a patrol out-”

“You know exactly where we are?”

“Of course.”

“Send two patrols, Bobby, one armed for assault.”

“Are you crazy? This is Paris; it's French!”

“I'll cover us. This is an order from Cons-Op.. .. Five or six blocks south, on the left, there's a car parked on a side street, its headlights on. We've got to take that car, take the people in it!”

“Who are they?”

“Among other things, my executioners.. .. There's no time, Bobby. Do it!” Latham slammed the telephone back into its receptacle and lurched out of the car to Erich Hauer, who could lead them to a hundred others in Paris and beyond, whether he knew it or not. The chemicals would open the doors of his mind; it was vital. Drew grabbed his legs as the man screamed in pain.

“Tlease .. . !”

“Shut up, pig head You're mine, you got that? Start talking, it'll be easier on you later.”

“I do not know anything. I am only C-Zwdlf, what more can I say?”

“That's not good enough! I have a brother who went after you bastards; it was the last leg of a rotten trip. So you're going to give me more, a lot more, before I'm finished with you. Take my word for it, Erich-buddy, you really don't want to deal with me.”

Suddenly, out of the deserted dark street, a black sedan came screeching around the corner. It slowed down rapidly, briefly, as the gunfire erupted, a deadly fusillade, slaughter for everything in its path. Latham tried to pull the Nazi behind the shell of the armor plated diplomatic car; he could not do it and save himself. As the sedan raced away, he looked -over at his prisoner. Erich Hauer, his body riddled, blood covering his face, was dead. The one man who could supply at least a few answers was gone. Where was somebody else, and how long would it take to find him?

he night was over, the early light creasing the eastern sky as an exhausted Latham took the small brass Televator to his flat on the fifth floor in the rue du Bac. Normally he would have used the stairs, figuring it was physically good for something or other, but not now; he could barely keep his eyes open. The hours between shortly past two and five-thirty had been filled with diplomatic necessities as well as providing Drew with the opportunity of meeting the head of the powerful and secretive Deuxieme Bureau, one Claude Moreau. He had called back Sorenson in Washington, asking him to reach the French intelligence officer at that hour and persuade him to go immediately to the American Embassy. Moreau was a middle-aged, medium-size balding man who filled out his suit as though he lifted weights for a good part of every day. He had an insouciant Gallic humor that somehow kept things in perspective when they were in danger of getting out of control. The potential loss of control first came about with the unexpected appearance of a furious and frightened Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France.

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Bressard, walking into 'the ambassador's office, instantly surprised yet accepting Moreau's presence.

“Allor Claude,” he said, reverting to French.

“I'm not entirely stunned to see you here.”

“En anglais, Henri.. .. Monsieur Latham understands us but the ambassador is still with his Berlitz. ”Ali, American diplomatic tact!"

“I did understand that, Bressard,” said Ambassador Daniel Court1drid, behind his desk in a bathrobe and slippers, "and I'm working on your language. Frankly, I wanted the post in Stockholm-1 speak fluent Swedishbut others thought differently.

So you're stuck with me as I'm stuck with you."

“I apologize, Mr. Ambassador. It's been a difficult night.. .. I tried calling you, Drew, and when all I got was your machine, I assumed you were still here.”

“I should have been home an hour ago. Why are you here? Why did you have to see me?”

“Everything's in the Soret@ report. I insisted the police call them in-”

“What happened?” interrupted Moreau. He raised an eyebrow.

“Your former wife is not becoming hostile, surely. Your divorce was-ultimately amicable.”

“I'm not sure I'd want it to be she. Lucille may be a devious bitch, but she's not stupid. These people were.”

“What people?”

“After I dropped off Drew here, I drove to my apartment on the Montaigne. As you know, one of the few privileges of my office is my diplomatic parking space in front of the building. To my surprise, it was occupied and, adding to my irritation, there were several other nearby open spaces. Then I saw that there were two men seated in front and the driver was on his car phone, not exactly a normal sight at two o'clock'in the morning, especially when the driver was subject to a five-hundred-franc fine for parking where he did without a government plate or the Quai d'Orsay emblem on the front window.”

“As always,” said Moreau, nodding his head appreciatively, “your diplomat's penchant for introducing an event with perception and suspense is evident, but please, Henri, the personal insult to you aside, what happened?”

“The bastards started shooting at me!”

“What?” Latham leapt out of his chair.

“You heard me! My vehicle is naturally protected against such assaults, so I backed up quickly, then smashed into them, pinning their car to the curb.”

“Then what?” cried Ambassador Courtland, now standing up.

"The two men got out the other side and raced away.

My heart pounding, I called the police on my car phone, demanding that they alert the SfiretL"

“You're something else,” said an astonished Drew softly.

“You rammed them while they were firing at you?”

“The bullets could not penetrate, even the glass.”

“Believe me, some can-like full jackets.”

“Really?” Bressard's face grew pale.

“You were quite right, Henri,” said Moreau, once more nodding his head, "your former wife would have been much more efficient.

Now, shall we all calm down a bit and look at what our brave hero has achieved for us? We have the vehicle, a license plate, and no doubt several dozen fingerprints which we will immediately deliver to Interpol. I salute. you Henri Bressard."

“There are bullets that can penetrate bulletproof automobiles . ?” The connection to Jodelle's suicide and the subsequent meeting at the Villier house on Pare Monceau was all too obvious.

Coupled with the attack on Latham, the situation demanded several decisions: Both Bressard and Drew would be protected around the clock by Deuxieme personnel-the Frenchman conspicuously, Latham less obviously, at his own instructions. Which was why the unmarked Deuxi@me car would remain across the street from Drew's building until relief -came to replace it or the American emerged in the morning, whichever happened first. Finally, under no conditions could Jean-Pierre Villier, who would also be guarded, be permitted to prowl the seamier sections of Paris in search of anyone.

“I myself will make that absolutely clear to him,” said Claude Moreau, chief of the Deuxi&me Bureau.

“Villier is a treasure of France! .. . In addition, my wife would either kill me or have numerous affairs in our own bed if I permitted anything to happen to him.”

The disturbing doubts about the embassy's transport pool were resolved quickly. The dispatcher was a substitute no one knew, but he had been accepted for the night shift because of his credentials.

He had disappeared minutes after Latham's car drove off down the avenue Gabriel. A French-speaking American in Paris was part of the Nazi movement.

The hours before dawn had been taken up with endless analyses of the situation-the question of who and who not to include being a priority-as well as lengthy conversations on open scrambler between Moreau and Wesley Sorenson in Washington. The two specialists in deep-cover intelligence sounded like dual practitioners of the darkest arts, creating a scenario of deep-cover pursuits. Drew approved of what he heard. He was good, not as coldly intellectual as his brother Harry, but surely superior when it came to quick decisions and physicality. Moreau and Sorenson, however, were the masters in deception and penetration; they had survived the unpublicized slaughter of spies during the bloody depths of the Cold War. He could learn from such men, even as they programmed him.

Latham walked sleepily out of the elevator and down the hall to his flat. As he started to insert his key, his eyes were suddenly riveted on the lock. It wasn't there! Instead, there was a hollow circle. The entire lock had been surgically removed, either by a laser or a high-powered miniature hand saw. He touched the door;

it swung open, revealing the shambles within. Drew yanked his automatic out of its shoulder holster and cautiously slipped inside.

His apartment was ravaged; upholstery was knifed everywhere, cushions torn apart, their stuffings scattered; drawers were pulled out, their contents dumped on the floor. It was the same in the two bedrooms, the closets, the kitchen, the bathrooms, and especially his study, where even the rugs were sliced. His large desk had been literally hacked to pieces, the assault team looking for hidden caches where secret papers might be concealed. The destruction was overwhelming; nothing was as it had been. And in his exhaustion Latham simply did not want to think about it; he needed rest; he needed sleep. He briefly considered the waste and how illogical it was; confidential materials were kept in his office safe on the second floor of the embassy. Old jodelle's enemies-now his enemies should have guessed that.

He rummaged in one of his closets, sardonically amused to find an object that intruders would have taken or smashed had they recognized what it was. The twenty six-inch steel bar had large rubber caps at either end, each cap holding an alarm mechanism. When he traveled and stayed in hotel rooms, he invariably braced it against the door and the floor, activating the alarms by twisting the caps. If whatever door he shoved it against was opened from the outside, a series of ear-shattering whistles went off that would shock the interloper into racing away. Drew carried it to the lockless door of his flat, activated the alarms, and, anchoring it to the floor, braced it against a lower panel. He walked into his destroyed bedroom, threw a sheet over the ripped mattress, removed his shoes, and la down.

Within minutes he was asleep, and within minutes after that his telephone rang. Disoriented, Latham lurched off the unbalanced surface of the bed, grabbing the phone from the bedside table.

“Yes? .. . Hello?”

“It's Courtland, Drew. I'm sorry to call at this hour, but it's necessary.”

“What happened?”,

“The German ambassador-”

“He knew about tonight?”

“Nothing at all. Sorenson called him from Washington and apparently raised hell. Shortly thereafter Claude Moreau did the same.”

“They're pros. What's going down?”

“Ambassador Heinrich Kreitz will be here at nine o'clock this morning. Sorenson and Moreau want you here too. Not only to corroborate the reports, but' obviously to protest vigorously the personal attack on you.”

“Those two old veteran spooks are mounting a pincer assault, aren't they?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about.”

"In the Second World War it was a German strategy. Close in on both sides, squeeze the enemy so he has to run north or south or east or west. If he chooses wrong, he's finished, which he will be because the points are covered.

“I'm not military, Drew, but I really don't think Kreitz is an enemy.”

"No, he's not. In fact, he's a man with a historical conscience.

But even he doesn't know who's in his ranks here in Paris. He'll damn well stir up the waters, and that's what Sorenson and Moreau want him to do."

“Sometimes I think you people speak a different language.”.

“Oh, we do, Mr. Ambassador. It's called obfuscation in the interests of deniability. You might say it's our lingua franca.”

“You're babbling.”

“I'm dead tired.”

“How long does it take you to get from your place to the embassy?”

“First I have to go to the garage where I keep my car-”

“You're in a Deuxi&me vehicle now,” Courtland interrupted.

“Sorry, I forgot.. .. Depending on the traffic, about fifteen minutes.”

“It's ten past six. I'll have my secretary wake you at eight-thirty and I'll see you at nine. Get some rest.”

“Maybe I should tell you what happened-” It was too late, the ambassador had hung up the phone. It was just as well, thought Latham. Courtland would want details, prolonging the conversation.

Drew crawled up on the bed, managing at the last to replace his telephone. The only good thing to come out of the night was the fact that he'd be spending a week, or however long it took to restore his flat, at a very fine hotel, and Washington would pick up the bill.

The white glider swept down in the late afternoon crosscurrents into the valley of the Brotherhood. Upon landing, it was immediately hauled under a covering of green screening. The Plexiglas canopies of both the forward and aft cockpits sprang open; the pilot in pure white coveralls emerged from the former, his very much older passenger from the latter.

“Komm,” said the flyer, nodding toward a motorcycle with a sidecar attached.

“Zum Krankenhaus.”

“Yes, of course,” replied the civilian in German, turning and lifting a black leather medical bag out of the aircraft.

"I presume Dr.

Kroeger is here," he added, climbing into the sidecar as the pilot mounted the seat and started the engine.

“I would not know, sir. I'm only to bring you to the medical clinic. I do not know any names.”

“Then forget I mentioned one.”

“I heard nothing, sir.” The motorcycle raced into one of the screened corridors and-, making several turns, sped across the valley to the north end of the flatland. There, again covered by the screening, was the usual one-story structure, but somehow different. Where the other structures were basically solidly built of wood, this was heavier, sturdier---cinder block layered with concrete with an enormous generator complex on the south side, the continuous hum low, powerful.

“I'm not permitted inside, Doctor,” said the pilot, stopping the motorcycle in front of the gray steel door.

“I'm aware of that, young man, and I've been told how to proceed. Incidentally, I'm to leave in the morning, ”at the earliest light. I trust you know that."

“Yes, I do, sit. The winds then are the best.”."

“They couldn't be any worse.” The doctor got out of the sidecar; the flyer sped off as his passenger walked to the door, looked up at the camera lens above, and pressed the round black button to the right of the frame.

“Dr. Hans Traupman by orders of General von Schnabe.”

Thirty seconds later the door was opened by a man in his forties dressed in white hospital attire.

“Herr Doktor Traupman, how good to see you again,” he said enthusiastically.

“It's been several years since the lectures in Nuremberg. Welcome!”

“Danke, but I wish there were a less arduous way of getting here.”

“You would dislike the mountain approach even more, I assure you. One walks for miles, and the snow gets heavier with every few hundred meters. Secrecy has its price.. .. Come, have some schnapps and relax for a few minutes while we chat. Then you'll see our progress. I tell you, it's remarkable!”

“Drinks later, and we'll chat as we observe,” countered the visiting physician.

“I have a lengthy meeting with von Schnabe-not a pleasant prospect-and I want to learn as much as I can as quickly as I can. He'll ask for judgments and hold me accountable.”

“Why am I excluded from this meeting?” asked the younger doctor resentfully as both sat down in the clinic's anteroom.

“He thinks you're too enthusiastic, Gerhardt. He admires your enthusiasm but he doesn't trust it.”

“My God, who knows more about the process than I do? I developed it! With all respect, Traupman, this is my field of expertise, not yours.”

441 know that and you know that, but our nonmedical general can't understand it. I am a neurosurgeon and have a certain reputation in cranial operations, therefore he' turns to that reputation, not to the real expertise. So convince me.. .. As I gather, according to you it's theoretically possible to alter the thought process without drugs or hypnosis-that theory somewhere in the ozones of para psychological science fiction, but then so were heart and liver transplants not too many years ago. How is it actually done?"

4“You practically answered that yourself” Gerhardt Kroeger laughed, his eyes bright.

“Take the 'trans' out of 'transplant' and insert the letters i and m.”

“Implant?”

“You implant steel plates, don't you?”

“Of course. For protection.”

“So have I.. .. You've performed lobotomies, not so?”

“Naturally. To relieve electrical pressures.”

"You've just said another magic word, Hans.

“Electrical,” as in electrical impulses, the brain's electrical impulses. I simply micro calibrate and tap into them with an object so infinitesimal compared to a plate that it would be a mere shadow on an X ray."

“What in hell would that be?”

“A computer chip entirely compatible with an individual brain's electrical impulses.”

“A what .. . ?”

“Within years, psychological indoctrination will be a thing of the past. Brainwashing'will be history!”

“Come again?”

“Over the past twenty-nine months I've experimented with operated upon-thirty-two patients, often with five or more in varying stages of development-”

“So I've been given to understand,” interrupted Traupinan.

“Patients provided by suppliers, from prisons and elsewhere.”

“Scrutinized, Hans, all male and all with above-average intelligence and education. Those from the prisons were sentenced for such offenses as embezzlement, or selling inside corporate information, or falsifying official government reports for personal gain. Crimes of subterfuge requiring some degree of expertise and sophistication, not violence. The violent mind as well as the less intelligent can too easily be programmed. I had to prove that my procedure could succeed above those levels.”

“Did you prove it?”

"

“Sufficient unto the day,” as the Bible ays."

“Why do I hear a negative, Gerhardt?”

“Because there is one. To date, the implant functions for not less than nine days or more than twelve.”

“What happens then?”

“The brain rejects it. The patient rapidly develops a cranial hemorrhage and dies.”

“You , re saying the brain explodes.”

“Yes. Twenty-six of my patients so expired; however, the last seven lasted progressively from nine to twelve days. I'm convinced that with further microsurgical techniques I can eventually overcome the time factor. Ultimately, and it may take years, it will function permanently. Politicians, generals, and statesmen everywhere can disappear for a few days, and thereafter become our disciples.”

“But for the present circumstances, with this American agent Latham, you believe he's ready to be sent out, am I correct?”

“Without question. You'll see for yourself. He's in his fourth day, leaving a minimum of five left and a maximum of eight. As our personnel in Paris, London, and Washington inform us that he is needed for no more than forty to seventy-two hours, the risk is minimal. By then we'll know everything our enemies know about the Brotherhood with the much more important benefit of Latham sending them all off in wrong directions.”

“Let's go back, if you please,” said'Traupman, shifting his legs in the white plastic chair.

“Before we get to the procedure itself, what exactly does this implant of yours do?”

“Are you familiar with computer chips, Hans?”

"As little as possible. I leave that to my technicians, as I do the application of anesthesia. I have enough to be concerned about.

But I'm sure you'll tell me what I don't know."

“The newest microchips are barely three centimeters in length and less than ten millimeters wide, and they can hold the equivalent of six megabytes of software. That's sufficient to contain all the works of Goethe, Kant, and Schopenhauer. By using an E-PROM Burner to insert the information into the chip, we then activate the ROM Read-Only Memory-and it reacts to the sonic instructions delivered to it in the same way a computer search reacts to the codes a programmer enters into a processor. Granted, there is a slight delay as the brain, the thought process, adjusts to the interception, the alternate wavelength, but that in itself can only persuade the interrogator into believing the subject is truly thinking, preparing a truthful response.”

“You can prove this?”

“Come, I'll show you.” The two men got up and Kroeger pressed a red button to the right of the heavy steel door. Within seconds a uniformed nurse appeared, a surgical mask in her hand.

“Greta, this is the famed Dr. Hans Traupman.”

“Yes, I know,” said the nurse.

“A privilege to see you again, Doctor. Please, your mask.”

“Yes, of course I know youl” exclaimed Traupman warmly.

“Greta Frisch, one of the finest surgical nurses ever in my operating room. My dear girl, they said you had retired, and for one so young it seemed not only regrettable, but quite unbelievable.”

“I retired into marriage, Herr Doktor. With this one.” Greta nodded at Kroeger, who was grinning.

“I wasn't sure you'd remember her, Hans.”

“Remember? One doesn't forget a Nurse Frisch, who anticipates your every demand. To tell you the truth, Gerhardt, your credibility just went up the scale.. .. But why the mask, Greta? We're not operating.”

“My husband will answer you, sir. These things are beyond me, no matter how often he explains them.”

“The ROM, Hans, the Read-Only Memory. With this patient we don't care to have too many images of identifiable faces, and yours could-fall into that category.”

“Way past me too, Nurse Frisch. Very well, let us proceed.” The trio walked through the doors, entering a long, wide, pale green corridor with succeeding large, square glass windows on either side. Beyond the windows were pleasantly appointed rooms, each having a bed, a desk, a couch, and such items as a television set, a radio, and a door that led to a bathroom with shower. Also, there were other windows on the outside walls that looked over the meadows, profuse with weaving high grass and springtime flowers.

“if these are the patients' hospital rooms,” continued Traupman, “they're among the most pleasant I've seen. ”“The radios and the television sets are preprogrammed, naturally,” said Gerhardt.

“It's all innocuous fare, except for the radios at night, when we transmit information as it pertains to the individual patients.”

“Tell me what I'm to expect,” said the neurosurgeon from Nuremberg.

“You'll find an outwardly normal Harry Latham who still believes he's fooled us. He answers to his cover name, Alexander Lassiter, and he's extremely grateful to us.”

“Why?” interrupted Traupman.

“Why is he grateful?”

“Because he believes he was in an accident and barely escaped with his life. We used one of our huge mountain vehicles and staged the event most convincingly, overturning the truck, 'pinning' him under it and employing surrounding bursts of fire.. .. Here I did permit the use of drugs and hypnosis-immediately, so as to erase his first minutes here in our valley.”

“Are you sure they're erased?” They stopped in the corridor, the Nuremberger's gaze fixed on Kroeger.

“Completely. The trauma of the 'accident,” along with the violent images, as well as the pain we induced, superseded any memories of his arrival. They're blocked out. Naturally, we reemployed hypnosis to make certain. All he remembers are the screams, the excruciating pain, and the fires he was dragged through while being rescued."

“The stimuli are psychologically consistent,” noted the neurosurgeon, nodding his head.

“What about the time factor? If he's aware of it, how did you explain the passage of time?”

“The least difficult. When he awoke, his upper skull was heavily bandaged, and while under mild sedation he was told-over and over again-that he'd been severely injured, that he had gone through three separate operations while in a prolonged coma during which he, remained completely silent. It was explained to him that had his vital signs not remained remarkably strong, I would have given up on him.”

“Well phrased. I'm certain he's grateful.. .. Does he know where he is?”

“Oh, yes, we withhold nothing from him.”

“Then how can you send him out? My God, he'll disclose the whereabouts of the valley! They'll send in planes; you'll be bombed out of existence!”

“It will not matter, for as von Schnabe will undoubtedly tell you, we won't exist.”

“Please, Gerhardt, one thing at a time. I will not take another step until you explain yourself.”

“Later, Hans. Greet our patient first, then you'll understand.”

“My dear Greta,” said Traupman, turning to the wife.

“Is this husband of yours the same logical human being I knew before?”

“Yes, Doctor. This part, the part he will explain to you, I do understand. It's brilliant, sir, you'll see.”

“But first see our patient; he's the next window, the next door on the right. Remember, his name is Lassiter, not Latham.”

“What should I say to him?”

“Whatever you like. I'd suggest congratulating him on his recovery. Come along.”

“I'll wait by the desk,” said Greta Frisch Kroeger.

The two physicians walked into the room where Harry Latham, his head bandaged around his temples, stood by the large outside window. He turned and smiled; he was dressed in shirtsleeves and gray flannel trousers.

“Hi there, Gerhardt. Lovely day, isn't it?”

“Have you been for a walk, Alex?”

“Not yet. You can damage a businessman, but you can't take the business out of the man. I've been playing with figures; there are fortunes to be made in the Chinese mainland. I can't wait to fly over.”

“May I present Dr.. .. Schmidt from Berlin?”

“Glad to meet you, Doctor.” Latham walked over, his hand extended.

"Also glad to see another doctor in our amazing complex here, just in case Gerhardt louses me up.

“I gather he hasn't so far,” said Traupman, shaking hands.

“But then, I hear you're an exceptionally good patient.”

“I don't think I had a choice.”

“Forgive the mask, Herr .. . Lassiter. I have a slight cold and the resident surgeon is a stickler, as you Americans say.”

“I can say it in German, if you like.”

“Actually, I like to practice my English. Congratulations on your recovery.”

“Well, I'll give Dr. Kroeger some credit.”

“I'm curious, from a medical point of view. If it's not too difficult for you, what do you recall when you reached the flatland of our valley?”

“Oh.” Latham/Lassiter paused briefly while his eyes were momentarily glazed, unfocused.

“You mean the accident.. .. Oh, Christ, it was terrible. A lot of it's a blur, but the first thing I remember is the shouting; it was hysterical. Then I realized that I was stuck under the side of that truck, and a heavy piece of metal was pressed against my head-I've never felt such pain. And people were all around, trying to lift whatever it was off me-finally freeing me, and dragging me across the grass, where I screamed because I saw the fires, felt the heat, and thought my whole face was going to be burned. That's when I passed out-for a hell of a long time, as it happened.”

“A terrifying experience. But you're on your way to full health, Mr. Lassiter, that's all that matters.”

“If in the new Germany you can find a way to get Gerhardt a mansion on the Danube, I'll pay for it.” Latham's eyes were now totally clear, completely focused.

“You've done enough for us, Alex,” said Kroeger, nodding at Traupman.

“Dr. Schmidt here merely wanted to ”Say hello to our generous benefactor, and to make sure I performed as he taught me to.. .. Take your walk anytime you like-after you've finished figuring out how to extract many more millions from Asia."

“It's not that difficult, believe me. The Far East doesn't merely like money, it worships it. When you decide I'm ready to leave, Gerhardt, the Brotherhood will be richer for it.”

“You are forever in our Teutonic prayers, Alex.”

“Forget the prayers, just bring about the Fourth Reich.”

“We shall.”

“Good day, Herr Lassiter.”

Traupman and Kroeger left and walked up the corridor to the pristine anteroom.

“You were right,” said the doctor from Nuremberg, sitting down.

“It is remarkable!”

“You approve, then?”

“How could I not? Even to the pause in his voice, his clouded eyes. Perfect. You have done it!”

"Remember, Hans, it is flawed, I cannot be dishonest about that.

Conditions remaining stable in their abnormality, I can guarantee but five to eight days longer, no more than that."

“But you say London, Paris, and Washington insist it is sufficient, no?”

"Yes. ),

“Now, tell me about this nonexistence of the valley. It's shock. Why?”

“We're no longer needed. We're dispersing. Over the past years we've indoctrinated-trained-more than twenty thousand disciples-”

“You like that word, don't you ?” Traupman broke in.

“It fits. They're not only true believers, they are also leaders, both minor and potentially major.. .. They've been sent everywhere, mostly throughout Germany, but those gifted in foreign languages and with appropriate skills, to other countries, all financed, ready to take their places in carefully selected professions and occupations.”

“We've progressed so far? I had no idea.”

“Then in your haste you didn't notice that we have far fewer people here now. The evacuation began weeks ago, our two mountain vehicles operating night and day to remove personnel and equipment. It's been like a colony of ants deserting one hill for another-our destination and our destiny-the new Germany.”

“About the American, this Harry Latham. Beyond staying in contact to learn what he learns, which probably could be accomplished with paid informers, what's his' function? Or is that it? That and proving your theory for future use.”

“What we learn from him will have value, of course, and will require the use of a miniaturized electronic computer at close range. It can be easily concealed in a small object. But Harry Latham has a far higher calling. If you remember, I mentioned that he will send our enemies scurrying off in different directions. That, however, barely scratches the surface.”

“You're practically salivating, Gerhardt. Tell me.”

“Latham said he was working on figures, numbers as they pertain to his making millions from the Chinese economic expansion, yes?”

“He's probably right.”

"Wrong, Hans. Those figures have nothing to do with finance.

They're codes he's devised so he'll forget nothing after he escapes."

“Escapes?”

“Naturally. He has a 'job to do, and he's a professional. Of course, we'll let him.”

“For God's sake, be clearer!”

“During his weeks here, in our sessions and over, lunches and dinners, we've fed him hundreds of names French German, English, American.”

“What names?” Traupman interrupted impatiently.

“Those men and women in Germany and abroad who silently support us, who contribute heavily to our causein essence, people of influence and power who actually work for the Brotherhood.”

“Are you mad?”

“Among this silent, unrevealed elite,” continued Kroeget, overriding Traupman's vehement interjection, “are American congressmen, senators, and captains of industry and the media. Also, members of the British establishment, not unlike the Cliveden set that gave Hitler his supporters in England, including clandestine policymakers in British intelligence-”

“You've lost your mind-” “Please, Hans, let me finish.. .. In Paris we have influential sympathizers in the Quai d'Orsay, the Chamber of Deputies, even the secret Deuxi@me Bureau. And finally in Germany itself, a number of Bonn's most prestigious authorities. They yearn for the old days before the Fatherland was polluted by the screaming weak who want everything but contribute nothing, the inferior bloodlines that corrupt our nation. Latham has all of this information, all the names. As a trained deep-cover intelligence officer, he'll report the vast majority.”

“You are certifiable, Kroeger! I will not permit it!”

"Oh, but you must, Dr. Traupman. You see, except for a small number of legitimate, supporter who are expend- 9

able for establishing credibility, everything that Harry Latham carries out of our valley is false. The names he has in his head and concealed in his codes are, indeed, vital to us, but only in the sense that these people be discredited, even destroyed. For, in truth, they deeply oppose us, many stridently vocal in their opposition. Once their names are flashed secretly to the global intelligence networks, the witch hunts will begin. As the most sincere among them fall through official suspicion and manufactured innuendo, the resulting vacuums will be filled by many of our own .. . yes, disciples, Hans.

Especially in America, the most powerful of our enemies, for it is also the most susceptible. One has only to recall the frenzied Redbaiting of the forties and fifties. It became a nation paralyzed by fear, thousands upon thousands tainted with the Soviet brush, whole industries caving in to the paranoia, the country weakened from within. The Communists knew how to do it; Moscow, as we have learned, secretly funneled both money and ersatz information to the zealots.. .. One man can start this process for us. Harry Latham, code name Sting."

“My God!” Traupman sank back in the chair, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It is brilliant. For he's the only person who's penetrated the core, found the valley. They'll have to believe him everywhere

“He will escape tonight.”

einrich Kreitz, German ambassador to the Republic of France, was a short, slender man of seventy years .Hwith a gaunt face, silk like white hair, and sad hazel eyes, perpetually creased. For years a professor of European political development at the University of Vienna, he had been plucked from academia and recruited into the diplomatic corps, due mainly to his numerous papers detailing the history of international relations during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These lengthy articles were combined into a book entitled, quite naturally Discourse Between Nations, a staple for diplomats in seventeen languages, as well as a foreign services text in universities across the civilized world.

It was 9:25 in the morning and Kreitz, seated in front of the American ambassador's desk, stared in silence at Drew Latham, who stood to the left of Ambassador Courtland. Against the wall, on a couch, sat the Deuxieme's Moreau.

“My shame is my country's guilt,” said Kreitz finally, in his voice a sadness that matched his eyes, “the guilt of having permitted such monsters, such criminals, ever to have ruled our nation. We will increase our efforts, if that's humanly possible, to root them out and destroy whatever nucleus they have. Please understand, gentlemen, my government is dedicated to exposing them, to eliminating them, if it means building a thousand new prisons to contain them. We, above all, cannot afford their existence, surely you know that.”

“We know it, Monsieur lAmbassadeur,” said Claude Moreau, from the couch, "but it seems you have a strange way of going about it.

Your Polizei are aware of the leaders of these disrupting fanatics in a dozen cities. Why are they not incarcerated?"

“Where violence can be proved against them, they are. Our courts are filled with such indictments. But where mere dissent is concerned, we are also a democracy; we have the same freedom of speech that permits you your peaceable strikes, the Americans their rights of assembly, frequently producing marches on Washington, where men and women harangue their followers from platforms and -how is it said? oh, yes-the 'soapboxes.” Many of both your countries' statutes allow such displays of antigovernment displeasure. Are we then to silence everyone who disagrees with Bonn, including those who crowd the squares against the neo Nazis

“No, goddammit!” roared Latham.

“But you do silence them' We didn't create concentration camps, or gas chambers, or the genocide of an entire people. You bastards did that, not us!”

“Again in our shame we permitted it .. . just as you permitted the enslaving of an entire people and stood by while black men were hanged from ten thousand trees in your Southern states, and the French did much the same in Equatorial Africa and their Far East colonies. There is both horror and decency in all of us. In all our histories.”

“That's not only nonsense, Heinrich, it doesn't apply here, and you know it,” said Ambassador Courfland with surprising authority.

“I know it because I've read your book. You called it 'the perspective of historical realities.” What was perceived to be the truths of the times. You can't justify the Third Reich in such terms."

“I never did, Daniel,” rejoined Kreitz.

"I strenuously condemned the Reich for creating false truths, all too acceptable to a devastated nation. The Teutonic mythology was a narcotic that a weak, disillusioned, famished people plunged irrationally into their veins.

Did I not write that?"

“Yes, you did,” acknowledged the American ambassador, nodding.

“Let's say I just wanted to remind you.”

"Your point is well taken. However, as you must protect the interests of Washington, I have my obligations to

Bonn.. .. So where are we? We all want the same thing."

I suggest, Monsieur I'Ambassadeur,“ said Moreau, getting up from the couch, ”that you allow me to put under surveillance a number of the upper-level attach&s at your embassy."

“Beyond the intrusion of a host government on a diplomatic level, what can that serve? I know them all. They're decent, hardworking men and women, well trained and trustworthy.”

"You cannot really know that, monsieur. The evidence is beyond debate: There is an organization here in Paris dedicated to the new Nazi movement. All the signs indicate that it may well be the central organization outside of Germany, conceivably as important as the one inside your country, for it can operate beyond German laws, German eyes. Further, it has been all but confirmed, lacking only the specifics of transfer, that millions upon millions are being funneled to the movement by way of France, no doubt through the efforts of this organization whose origins may go back fifty years.

So you see, Monsieur I'Ambassadeur, we have a situation that goes beyond narrow diplomatic traditions."

“I'd need the approval of my government to give you that, of course.”

“”Of course," agreed Moreau.

“Information of a financial nature could be relayed over our secure channels by someone on the embassy staff to those here in Paris who are aiding these psychopaths,” said Kreitz pensively.

"I

see what you mean, as disturbing as it is.. .. Very well, I'll give you an answer later in the day." Heinrich Kreitz turned to Drew Latham.

“My. government will, of course, absorb all costs for the damages you sustained, Herr Latham.”

“Just get us the cooperation we need, or your government will be responsible for damages you could never pay for,” said Drew.

“Again.”

“He's not here!” cried Giselle Villier over the telephone.

“Monsieur Moreau of the Deuxieme Bureau was here four hours ago and told us about the horrible things that happened to you and Henri Bressard last night, and -my husband appeared to accept his instructions not to interfere. maintenance, mon Dieu, you know actors! They can convincingly say anything and your ears and your eyes believe them even while they're thinking something entirely different. ”

“Do you know where he is?” asked Drew.

"I know where he isn't, monsieur! After Moreau left, he seemed resigned, and told me he was going to the theater for an understudy rehearsal. He said-and he's said it many times before-that his presence at such rehearsals lends enthusiasm to the minor players.

I never thought to doubt him, then Henri called from the Quai d'Orsay, insisting that he talk with Jean-Pierre. So I told him to call the theater-"

“He wasn't there,” interrupted Latham.

“Not only was he not there, the understudy rehearsal isn't today, but tomorrow!”

“Youthink he went on with his own plans, as he described them last night?”

“I'm sure of it, and I'm frightened to death.”

“Maybe you don't have to be. The Deuxi@me has him under protection. They'll follow him everywhere.”

“Again, our new friend, Drew Latham, and I hope you are a friend-”

“Completely. Believe that.”

“You really don't know talented actors. They can walk into a building looking like themselves, then reappear on the street as someone else. A shirt stuffed under their jackets, their trousers baggy, their walk different, and God forbid there's a clothes shop inside.”

“You believe he might have done something like that?”

“It's why I'm so frightened. When we spoke last night, he was very strong in his decision, and Jean-Pierre is a strong man.”

“That's what I told Bressard when he drove me to the embassy.”

“I know. It's why Henri insisted on speaking to him, to lend his voice against any involvement.”

“I'll check with Moreau.”

“You will call me back, of course.”

“Of course.” Drew hung up the phone in his embassy office, checked his index for the Deuxieme Bureau, and called its chief.

“It's Latham,” he said.

“I was expecting your call, monsieur. What can I say? We lost the acteur, he was too clever for us. He went into Les Halles, a circus of confusion to begin with. All those stalls-meats, flowers, chickens, ligumes-total chaos. He passed through a butcher market and not one of our people saw him come out either side!”

“They were looking for someone he wasn't. What are you going to do now?”

“I have units checking out the less desirable of our streets. We must find him.”

“You won't.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's the best actor in France. But he's got to show up at the theater tonight. For Christ's sake, be there, and if you have to, put him under house arrest tomorrow.. .. If he's still alive.”

“Please, do not suggest .. .”

"I've been down in those streets, Moreau; I don't think you have.

You're too elite; your sophisticated strategies have nothing to do with the sewers of Paris, where he probably is."

“Your insult is unwarranted; we know more about this city than anyone on earth.”

“Good. Then go took.” Drew hung up the phone, wondering whom else he could call, what else he might do. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his office door.

“Come in,” he said impatiently.

An attractive dark-haired woman in her early thirties and wearing large tortoiseshell glasses walked in, carrying a thick file folder.

"I

believe we've found the materials you asked for, monsieur."

“Excuse me, but who are you?”

“My name is Karin de Vries, sir. I work in Documents and Research.”

“A euphemism for everything from 'sensitive' to 'maximum classified.”

“Not all of it, Monsieur Latham. We also have road maps, as well as schedules for airports and rail transport.”

“You're French.”

“Flemish, actually,” corrected the woman, her accent soft but unmistakable.

“However, I've spent a number of years in Paris, including studies for my degrees at the Sorbonne.”

“You speak excellent English-” “Also French and Dutch, including the Flemish and Walloon dialects, of course, and German,” interrupted De Vries quietly, "with equal reading skills.?

“That's some talent.”

“It's not at all unusual, except perhaps the in-depth reading, the abstractions and the use of idioms.”

4 CWhich is why you're in Documents and Research."

“It was a requirement, naturally.”

“Naturally.. .. What did you find for me?”

“You asked us to research the laws of the Minist@re des Finances, explore whatever cracks might exist with respect to foreign investment, and bring the information to you.”

“Let's have it.” The woman came around the desk, placed the file folder in front of Drew, and opened it, revealing a sheaf of computer printouts.

“That's a lot of data, Miss de Vries,” said Latham.

“It'll take me a week to go through it, and I haven't got a week. The world of high finance isn't one of my strong suits.”

“Oh, no, monsieur, most of this contains extracts from the laws supporting our conclusions, and case histories of those caught violating those laws. Their names and short summaries of their manipulations are on only six pages.”

“Good Lord'it's far more than I asked for. You did all this in five hours?”

“The equipment is superb, sit, and the ministry was extremely cooperative, even to the point of interceding our modems.”

“They didn't object to our invasion?”

“I knew whom to contact. He understood what you were after and why.”

“Do you?”

“I'm neither blind nor deaf, monsieur. Enormous funds are being transferred through Switzerland into Germany to unknown illegitimate individuals or accounts using the Swiss procedure of subjecting handwritten numbers to spectrographs.”

“And the identity of those numbers?”

“Wired instantly back to Zurich, Bern, or Geneva, where they are inviolate. Neither confirmed nor denied.”

“You know a great deal about these procedures, don't you?”

"Allow me to explain, Monsieur Latham. I worked for the Americans in NATO. I was cleared by the American authorities for the most highly classified materials because I frequently saw things and heard things that escaped the Americans. Why do you ask?

Are you suggesting something else?"

“I don't know. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your efficiency you responsible for this folder, aren't you? I mean you alone, correct? I can ask others in D and R.”

“Yes,” said Karin de Vries, walking slowly around the desk and standing in front of Latham.

“I saw your request -flagged red-in our department chief's file. I opened it and studied it. I knew I was qualified to expedite it, and so I removed it.”

“Did you tell your superior?”

“No.” The woman paused, then added softly, “I understood immediately that I could analyze and develop the information quicker than anyone else in our section. I've brought you the results-in only five hours.”

“You mean nobody else in D and R knew you were working on this query, including your section chief?”

“He's in Calais for the day, and I saw no reason to go to his deputy.”

“Why not? Didn't you need authorization? This is a matter that required special assignment. The red flag spells that out.”

"I told you, I was cleared by the American authorities in NATO and by your own intelligence specialists here in

Paris. I've brought you what you wanted, and my personal motives are Irrelevant."

“I guess they are. I've also got a few motives of my own, which means I'm going to check and cross-check everything in this file.”

“You'll find the entries accurate and confirmed.”

“I hope so. Thank you, Miss de Vries, that'll be all.”

“If I may correct you, sir, it's not Miss but Mrs. de Vries. I'm a widow. My husband was killed in East Berlin by the Stasi a week before the Wall came down-the Stasi, monsieur. The name was changed but they were as vicious as the most savage units of the Gestapo and the Waffen SS. My husband, Frederik de Vries, was working for the Americans. You may check and cross-check that also.” The woman turned and left the room.

Stunned, Latham watched as the door was closed so sharply, one could say it was slammed shut. He picked up his phone and touched the buttons on his console for the embassy's director of security. Once past an irritating secretary who kept practicing her college French, which was less adequate than his own, thought Drew, the security head was on the line.

“What's up, Cons-Op?”

“Who the hell is a Karin de Vries, Stanley?”

“A major blessing contributed by the NATO crowd,” replied Stanley Witkowski, a thirty-year-plus veteran of' Army Intelligence, a colonel transferred to the State Department because of his extraordinary success in G-2. “”She's quick, bright, imaginative, and reads and speaks five languages fluently.

Heaven-sent, my friend."

“That's what I want to know. Who sent her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her work habits are a little strange. I sent a sealed red flag down to Research, and without authorization or assignment she removed it from the file and processed it herself.”

“A red flag? That is strange; she knows better than that. A flag has to be signed off by the section chief and his deputy, the assignee approved and registered.”

“Tfiat's what I thought, and where this operation is concerned, I'm paranoid about leaks and false information. Who sent her here?”

“Forget that, Drew. She requested Paris, and from the supreme commander down she was golden.”

“There's gold and there's fool's gold, Stan. She inferred things that went beyond her clearance in this matter, and I want to know how and why.”

“Can you give me a clue?”

“I'll go this far. It concerns the new bad dudes marching around Germany.”

“That doesn't help me much.”

"She said her husband was killed by the Stasi in East Berlin.

Can you confirm that?"

“Hell, yes, even personally. I was stationed on our side of the Wall, busting my balls around the clock making contact with our people on the other side. Freddie de Vries was a young, smart-asa-whip infiltrator. The poor son of a bitch was caught just days before the Stasi became history.”

“Then she would legitimately have a serious, even obsessive interest in events in Germany,”

“Sure she would. You know where most of the Stasi went-when the Wall came tumbling down?”

“Where?”

“Right into the welcoming arms of the skinheads, those godda@nned Nazis.. .. Oh, speaking of Freddie de V, he 'worked with your brother Harry. I know because my G-Two coordinated with both of them. Harry wasn't just upset, he was mad as hell when he heard about Freddie. Almost like he was a kid brother, like you maybe.”

"Thanks, Stanley. I think I just made an insulting mistake.

Regardless, there are a couple of gaps that have to be filled."

“What does that mean?”

“How did Mrs. de Vries know about me?”

In the shadows of the afternoon sunlight, Jean-Pierre Villier, his face unrecognizable, the nose twice its true size, his eyelids equally bulbous, his clothes tatters and rags, stumbled down the dark alley in Montparnasse. There were drunken bodies intermittently sitting on the cobblestones, their backs against the walls, most slumped, others having collapsed into fetal positions. He sang in an alcoholic, singsong cadence, the words slurred.

“Ecoutez, icoutez-gardez-vous, mes amis! I have heard from our dear companion jodelle-is anyone interested, or am I wasting my old breath?”

“Jodelle's crazy!” came a voice on the left.

“He gets us in trouble!” cried a voice from the right.

“Tell him to go to hell.”

“I must find friends of his, he tells me it's important!”

“Go to the northern docks along the Seine, he sleeps better there, steals better there.”

Jean-Pierre wandered up to the Quai des Tuileries, stopping at every darkened back street and alley he came across, plunging into each with essentially the same results.

“Old jodelle is a pig! He'doesn't share his wine!”

“He says he has friends in high places-where are they?”

“This great actor he says is his son-such shit!”

“I'm a drunk and I do not care any longer, but I don't burden my friends with lies.”

And then, as Villier reached the loading piers above the Pont de I'Alma, he heard the first words of encouragement from a derelict old woman.

“Jodelle is mad, of course, but he is always nice to me. He brings me flowers-stolen flowers, naturally-and calls me a great actress. Can you believe that?”

“Yes, madame, I believe he means it.”

“Then you are as mad as he is.”

“Perhaps I am, for you are a lovely woman.”

“Aiyee! .. . Your eyes! They are blue clouds in the sky. You are his ghost!”

“He is dead?”

“Who knows? Who are you?”

And finally, hours later, as the sun descended behind the tall structures of the Trocaero, he heard other words, shouted in another alley, far darker than any previous one.

“Who speaks of my friend, jodelle?”

“I do,” yelled Villier, walking farther into the darkness of the narrow enclosure.

“Are you his friend?” he asked, kneeling beside the collapsed, disheveled beggar.

“I must find jodelle,” continued Jean-Pierre, “and I have money for anyone who can help me! Here, look! Fifty francs.”

“It's been a long time since I've seen fifty francs.”

“See them now. Where is Jodelle, where did he go?”

“Oh, he said it was a secret-”

“But he told you.”

“Oh, yes, we were like brothers-”

“I am his son. Tell me.”

“The Loire Valley, a terrible man in the Loire Valley, that's all I know,” whispered the derelict.

“No one knows who he is.”

A silhouetted figure suddenly came out of the bright shaft of sunlight into the alley. He was a man of Jean Pierre size when the actor stood upright and was not hunched over as he was their.

“Why are you asking about old jodelle?” said the intruder.

“I have 'to find him, sit,” replied Villier, his voice wheezing and tremulous.

“He owes me money, you see, and I've been looking for him for three days now.”

“I'm afraid you won't collect the debt. Don't you read the newspapers?”

“Why spend what money I have to read about things that do not concern me? I can laugh over the comics in yesterday's thrown away paper, yesterday's or last week's.”

“An old tramp identified as someone named Jodelle killed himself in a theater last night.”

“Oh, that bastard! He owed me seven francs!”

“Who are you, old man?” asked the intruder, approaching Jean Pierre and studying him in the dim light of the alley.

“I am Auguste Renoir and I paint pictures. Then sometimes I am Monsieur Monet, and often the Dutchman Rembrandt. And in springtime I like to be Georges Seurat; in winter I'll be the cripple Toulouse-Lautrec-all those warm bordellos. Museums are wonderful places when it rains and is cold.”

“Ah, you are an old fool!” The man turned and started walking toward the street as Villier hobbled rapidly after him.

“Monsieur!” cried the actor.

“What?” The man stopped.

“Since you were the bearer of this terrible news, I think you should pay me the seven francs.”

“Why? What kind of logic is that?”

“You've stolen my hope.”

“I stole what .. . ?”

“My hope, my expectation. I did not ask you about Jodelle, you accosted me. How did you know I was looking for him?”

“You shouted his name a few moments ago.”

“And on that trivial excuse you enter my life and destroy my anticipation? Perhaps I should ask who you are, monsieur. You're dressed too richly to be acquainted with my friend Jodelle-that son of a bitch! What is Jodelle to you? Why did you come in here?”

“You're a lunatic,” said the man, reaching into his pocket.

“Here, here's a twenty-franc note, and I apologize for coming into your life.”

“Oh, thank you, sit, thank you!” Jean-Pierre waited until the curious stranger reached the sunlit pavement, then raced up the alley, peering around the corner as the man approached a car parked at the curb twenty meters up the street. Again feigning a half-mad vagabond of Paris, Villier lurched onto the sidewalk, prancing like a deformed court jester, shouting at his benefactor.

"May God love you and may the holy Jesus embrace you, monsieur!

May the glories of heavenly paradise be-"

“Get the hell away from me, you drunken old tramp!”

Oh, I certainly will, thought Jean-Pierre, studying the license plate of the departing Peugeot.

It was late afternoon when Latham took the elevator down to the embassy basement complex for the second time in eighteen hours, not, however, to head for Communications, but instead to the sacrosanct Documents and

Research. A marine guard sat at a desk to the right of the steel door; he recognized Drew and smiled.

“How's the weather up there, Mr. Latham?”

“Not as cool and clean as yours, Sergeant, but then, you've got the most expensive air-conditioning.”

“We're very delicate down here. You want to enter our hall of secrets and hard-core porn?”

“They showing dirty movies?”

"A hundred francs a seat, but I'll get you in for nothing.

“I could always count on the marines.”

“Speaking of which, the fellas in the squad want to thank you for the freebies you set up for us at that cafe in the Grenelle.”

“My pleasure. You never know when you might want to see a dirty movie.. .. Actually, the people who own that place are old friends and your presence had a calming effect on some unattractive regulars.”

“Yeah, you told us. We dressed to the nines, like we were in an operetta or something.”

“Sergeant,” interrupted Drew, looking at the guard.

“Do you know a Karin de Vries in D and R?”

“Only to speak to' good morning, good night,” that's about it.

She's a real good7looking girl, but it seems to me she tries to hide it. Like with those glasses that must weigh five pounds and those dark clothes that definitely aren't Paris."

“Is she new here?”

“I'd say about four months, transferred from NATO. Word is that she's kinda quiet like and keeps to herself, y'know what I mean?”

“I think so.. .. All right, keeper of the mystic keys, get me into a front seat.”

“Actually, it's in the first row, third office on the right. Her name's on the door.”

“You peeked?”

“Damn right. When that door's locked, we patrol the place every night, keep our hands on our sidearms in case there are uninvited stragglers.”

“Ah, the secret-missions types. You should be in the movies, the cleaner ones.”

“You should talk. A full-course dinner with all the wine we could drink for thirteen gyrenes? And a nervous owner who kept racing around telling everybody we were his best friends and probably his American relatives, who would be at his place with bazookas the minute he called us, anytime he was in trouble? That's a straight arrow, Hardy Boys scenario?”

“A harmless, innocent invitation by an ardent admirer of the Corps.”

“Your nose is growing longer, Mr. Pinocchio.”

“You've torn my ticket. Let me in, please.”

The marine pressed a button on his desk and a loud click was heard in the steel door.

“Enter the Wizard's palace, Sir.”

Latham walked inside, into the low, continuous hum of computer equipment. Documents and Research consisted of succeeding rows of offices on both sides of a central aisle, and as in the communications complex, everything was jwhite, antiseptic, with overhead neon tubes crossing the low ceiling like columns of thick, bright circular stalks. He walked to his right, to the third office door; in the center of the upper panel was a black plastic strip with white lettering. MADAME DE VRIES. Not Mademoiselle, but Madame, and the widow De Vries had several questions to answer regarding one Harry Latham and his brother Drew. He knocked.

“Come in,” said the voice inside. Latham opened the door, greeted by the startled face of Karin de Vries; she was seated at her desk on the left wall.

“Monsieur, I hardly expected you,” she said, in her voice the sound of fear.

“I apologize for my rudeness. I should not have left the way I did.”

"You've got it wrong, lady. I'm the one who should apologize.

I spoke to Witkowski-"

“Oh, yes, the colonel-”

“That's what we have to talk about.”

“I @hould have known,” interrupted the researcher.

“Yes, we'll talk, Monsieur Latham, but not here. Elsewhere.”

“Why? I went through everything you gave me, and it wasn't just good, it was outstanding. I barely know a debit from an asset, but you made so much so clear.”

“Thank you. But you're here for another reason, aren't you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is a cafe off the Gabriel, six blocks east of here, Le Sabre d'Orleans. It is small and not popular. Be there in forty-five minutes. I'll be in a booth at the rear.”

“I don't understand-”

“You will.”

Precisely forty-seven minutes later Drew walked into the small, rundown cafe off the avenue Gabriel, blinking at the lack of light, somewhat surprised at the shabby environs in one of the more expensive real estate sections of the city. He found Karin de Vries, as she had said, in the farthest booth of the establishment.

“This is some joint,” he whispered, sitting down opposite her.

“L'obstination du Fran@ais,” De Vries explained, “and there's no need to speak so quietly. No one of substance will hear us.”

“Who's stubborn?”

“The owner. He's @een offered a great deal of money for this property, but he refuses to sell. He's rich and it's been in his family for years-long before he was rich. He keeps it to employ relatives here comes one now; don't be shocked.”

An obviously drunken elderly waiter approached the table, his walk unsteady.

“Do you care to order, we have no food?” he asked in one breath.

“Scotch whisky, please,” replied Latham in French.

“No Scotch today,” said the waiter, belching.

“We have a fine selection of wines, and some Japanese junk they call whisky.”

“White wine, then. Chablis, if you have it.”

“It'll be white.”

“I'll have the same,” said Karin de Vries. The waiter trudged away and she continued.

“Now you can see why it's not popular.”

“It shouldn't exist.. .. Let's talk. Your husband worked with my brother in East Berlin.”

“Yes.”

“That's all you can say? just 'yes'?”

“The colonel told you. I didn't know he was here in Paris when I requested the trans r. When I -own out, I was astonished, and knew this moment between us was inevitable.”

“You wanted the transfer because of me?”

“Because you are the rot er o Harry Latham, a man both Frederik and I considered a dear, dear friend.”

“You know Harry that well?”

“Freddie worked for him, although the arrangement was off the books.”

“There are no books in those areas.”

“What I mean is that not even Harry's people, much less Colonel Witkowski and his army G-Two, knew that Harry was my husband's control. There could be no hint of their association in that 'area,” as you call it, not a scintilla."

“But Witkowski told me they worked together.”

“On the same side, yes, but not as control and runner. I don't think anyone ever suspected that.”

“It was so vital to keep it a secret, even among our own top people?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of the kind of work Frederik did for Harry- willingly, enthusiastically. If certain events were traced back to the Americans, there could have been terrible consequences.”

“Neither side was particularly clean, and at times both were pretty damned gruesome. It was a negative quid pro quo, so what?”

“I think it was the killing, that's what I was led to believe.”

“We both killed-”

“Perhaps it was the prominence of many who were assassinated,” Karin de Vries broke in, her eyes wide, almost pleading.

“As I understand, a number were in high positions, Germans favored by Moscow, leaders who reported directly to the Kremlin. A parallel might be found if mayors of your large cities or the governors of New York State or California were killed by Soviet agents, do you see what I mean?”

"It couldn't have happened at all-, it's counterproductive.

Moscow would never have allowed it."

“It happened here and Moscow covered it up. Wisely, I might add.”

“Are you saying my brother, your husband's control, ordered him to assassinate such men? That's preposterous! It would make the U-2 fiasco pale by comparison. I don't believe you, lady. Harry's too smart, too knowledgeable to do anything like that; there could have been mass reprisals in the States, everyone one step closer to nuclear war, and nobody wanted that.”

“I did not say your brother ordered my husband to commit such acts.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“They were committed and Harry was Frederik's control.”

“You mean your husband-”

“Yes,” interrupted Karin de Vries softly.

“Freddie served your brother well, boring into the Stasi to the point where they threw him parties as a diamond merchant from Amsterdam who was making the apparatchiks rich. Then a pattern developed; times and locations coincided where powerful East Germans beholden to the Kremlin were assassinated. Separately and together, both Harry and I confronted Frederik. He denied everything, of course, and his innocent charm and his quick tongue-the same qualities that made him an extraordinary deep-cover operative-persuaded us both that it was coincidence.”

“There's no such thing as coincidence in this business.”

“We found that out when Frederik was captured a week before the Berlin Wall came down. Under torture, compounded by the injected serums, my husband admitted to the assassinations. Harry was among the first specialists to reach and tear apart the Stasi headquarters, and in his anger over Freddie's death he knew exactly what to look for and when it happened. He found a copy of the transcript and kept it on his person, bringing it to me later.”

“Then your husband was a loose cannon, and neither you nor my brother saw through him?”

“You would have to have known Freddie. There was a reason behind his intemperance. He had a hatred toward the militant Germans, a deep loathing that did not extend to the tolerant, even penitent citizens of West Germany. You see, his grandparents were executed in the town square by a Waffen SS firing squad in front of the entire village. Their crime: bringing food to the starving Jews held behind an open barbed-wire enclosure in a field by the railroad yard. However-and this is most painful along with his grandfather and grandmother, seven innocent males, all fathers, were shot as examples for a disobedient citizenry. In the hypocrisy of panic, the De Vries family was stigmatized for a generation. Frederik was brought up by relatives in Brussels, permitted only on rare occasions to see his parents, who eventually committed suicide together. I'm convinced the terrible memory of those years stayed with Freddie until the moment he died.”

Silence. And then the bewildered waiter returned with their glasses of wine, spilling part of one on Drew's trousers. He left, and Latham said, “Let's get out of here. There's a decent restaurant, a brasserie, around the corner.”

“I know it too, but I would prefer to finish our conversation here.”

“Why? This place is awful.”

“I don't think it's right that we be noticed together.”

“For God's sake, we work in the same place. Incidentally, why haven't I ever seen you at our embassy gettogethers? I'm sure I'd have remembered.”

“Such parties are not a priority with me, Monsieur Latham. I live a very solitary and quite happy life.”

“By yourself?”

“That is my choice.”

Drew shrugged.

“Okay, then. You saw my name on our roster sent to The Hague, and on the basis of my being Harry's brother, you asked for your transfer. Wh-?”

Y.

“I told you, I was cleared by NATO for maximum classified materials. Six months ago I took a secure--channel memorandum from radio traffic to the supreme commander, and being curious-as I was today-I looked at it. It said that one Drew Latham was being transferred to Paris with full Quai d'Orsay credentials, to explore the ”German problem.“ It took no imagination to know what that was, monsieur. It was the ”German problem' that killed my husband, and I remembered all too clearly your brother talking about you most affectionately. How he wished you had never tried to follow in his footsteps, for you were too quick-tempered and had no facility with languages."

“Harry's jealous because Mother always liked me better.”

“You're joking.”

“I certainly am. Actually, I have an idea she thought still thinks we both a little strange.”

“Because of your professions?”

“Hell no, she doesn't know what they are, and Dad's smart enough not to tell her. She's convinced we're somewhere in the ranks of the State Department, traveling all over the world for months at a time, and why aren't we both married so she can spoil her grandchildren.”

“A natural concern, I'd say.”

“Not for two sons in an unnatural, profession.”

“However, Harry did allow that you were very strong and quite intelligent.”

“Quite intelligent? .. . jealousy again. I got extra money on my college scholarship because of my prep school hockey-he fell on his ass on a pair of skates.”

“You're joking again.”

“No, not that part, it's real. ”I

“You had scholarships?”

"We had to. Our father was a Ph.D. in archeology, and all it brought him were digs from Arizona to the old Iraq.

The National Geographic Society and the Explorers' Club id for the travels but not for the wife and kids. When pal I those movies came out, Harry and I used to laugh and say to hell with the “Lost Ark,” where were the kids of Indiana Jones?"

“The frame of reference is beyond me, although I recognize the academic aspect.”

"Our father had tenure, so we weren't broke, but we certainly weren't rich, barely middle-class well-off. We had to get scholarships.. .. Now, you've heard my life story, and I've heard more than I care to hear about your husband .. . what about you?

Where are you coming from-out of the woodwork, Mrs. de Vries?"

“It's not relevant-”

“Yes, you said that before and I don't buy it. Before you go much further in the embassy, especially in D and R, you'd better make it clear.”

"You don't believe a word I've told you

“I believe the surface, what Witkowski confirmed, but beyond that I'm not sure.”

“Then you can go to the devil, monsieur.” Karin de Vries started sliding across the booth to get up, when the inebriated waiter approached.

“Is there anyone here named Latham?” he asked.

“Latham? Yes, that's me.”

“There is a call for you on our telephone. That will add thirty francs to your bill.” The waiter wandered away.

“Stay here,” said Drew.

“I told Communications where I'd be. ”

“Why should I?”

"Because I want you to I really want you to Latham got up and walked rapidly to the antiquated telephone at the end of the distressed bar. He picked up the receiver, which was lying in a pool of stale wine, and spoke.

“This is Latham.”

“Durbane here,” said the voice on the line.

“I'm patching you through on scrambler to Director Sorenson in Washington. You're clear at both ends. Go ahead.”

“Drew?”

“Yes, sir-”

“It happened! We just got word about Harry. He's alive!”

“Where?”

"As near as we can determine, somewhere in the Hausruck Alps.

A call came through from the anti-ncos in Obernberg saying they were engineering his escape, and to keep our secure lines open from Passau to Burghausen. They refused to identify themselves, but they have to be real."

“Thank God!” cried Latham in relief.

“Don't be too confident. They say he's got to get through damn near twelve miles of snow in the mountains before they can reach him.”

“You don't know Harry. He'll get there. I may be stronger, but he was always tougher.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. I'll go back to the embassy and wait.”

Latham rep laced the phone and returned to the, table

Karin de Vries was not there.

he column of figures trudged through the snow ag the long shadows of evening spread across the Tmountain range, the only illumination the headlights of the two huge vehicles and the flashlights of the guards. Harry Latham leapt off the truck, the ache in his head subsiding the nearer they came to the bridge over the gorge above the offshoot of the Salzach River. He could make it!

Once over the narrow bridge, he would find his way; he had memorized the reverse route and the markings he had made, recalling it all a thousand times during his so-called hospitalization, otherwise known as being held hostage. But he could not remain in the alpine truck, where he had hidden himself, for the vehicles were searched, each piece of equipment matched to an invoice.

Instead, he had to join the column of Sormenkinder, blindly marching off to their uncertain futures throughout Germany and all Europe, singing their songs of blood purity, Aryan righteousness, and death to the ill born. Harry sang with the loudest of them, his fervor acknowledged by grins and bright eyes as they crossed over the bridge. Only moments now.

The moment came! The column marched to the right in the snow-swept night, and Harry ducked away, crouching, and scurried to his left during a particularly brief, heavy snowfall. An observant guard saw him and raised his pistol.

“Nein!” said the Reichsfzihrer of the detail, gripping the soldier's arm and lowering it.

“Verboten. Ist sc bon gut!”

The man known in covert-operations as Sting trudged through the knee- ep snow un tramp e prece feet, breathlessly hoping he would see the first of the marks he had made weeks before-years ago in his mind -when he was first escorted to the hidden valley. There it was! Two broken limbs of a sapling that would not rejuvenate until spring. The small tree had been on the left, the next marking was on the right, a descending, diagonal right.. .. Three hundred yards later, his face hot and flushed, his' legs freezing, he saw it! The branch of an alpine spruce he had snapped; it was still angled downward, its remnant dried, devoid of sap. The mountain road between the two alpine villages was less than five miles away, most of it downhill. He would make it. He had to!

Finally, his feet in ice-cold agony, his body bent over in pain, he did. He sat down and massaged his legs, his hands scraped by his half-frozen trousers, when a truck appeared on the left. He propelled himself to his feet, staggered into the road, and violently waved his arms in the beams of the headlights. The truck stopped.

“Hilfe!”. he yelled in German.

“My car went off the road!”

“No explanations, please,” said the bearded driver in accented English.

“I've been waiting for you. I've driven up and down this road for the past three days, hour after hour.”

“Who are you?” asked Harry, climbing into the seat.

“Your deliverance, as the British say,” replied the driver, chuckling.

“You knew I was coming out?”

“We have a spy in the hidden valley, although we have no idea where it is. She, like everyone else, was taken there blindfolded.”

“How did she know?”

“She's a nurse in the hospital down there, a nurse when she isn't ordered to copulate with another Aryan Brader so to produce a new Sonnenkind. She watched you, saw you folding pieces of paper and sewing them into your clothes-”

“But how?” interrupted Latham/Lassiter.

“Your rooms have hidden cameras.”

“How did she get word to you?”

“All the Sonnenkinder are permitted, even ordered, to reach parents or relatives to explain their absences with pleasant fictitious stories. Without those explanations, the Oberfrihrer fear exposure, as with your American cults, who barricade themselves in other mountains and valleys. She reached her 'parents,” and with precise codes told us the American would be leaving, the precise day or time she couldn't know, but you were definitely going to escape imminently."

“The evacuation-and it is just that-was my way out.”

"Whatever, you're here and on your way to Burghausen. From our humble headquarters there you may reach whomever you like.

You see, we are the Antinayous."

“The who?”

"The opposite of the one who, under the nom de plume of CaracARA, slaughtered twenty thousand Romans who opposed his despotic rule, according to the historian Dio

Cassius." I

“I've heard of Caracalla, Dio Cassius as well, but I'm afraid I don't understand you.”

“Then you are not a serious student of Roman history. ” “No, I'm not.”

“So we'll bring it up-to-date, in another context, in another reversal, ja?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Anglicized, we are anti-Nyoss, ja?”

“Okay.”

“Substitute 'ncos' for 'nyoss,” h'okay?"

“Sure.”

"Then what have you got? Anti-ncos, night wabr? Antineo-Nazis.

That's who we are!"

“Why do you have to hide under an obscure name?”

“Why do they hide under the secret name of the Broderschaft?”

“What has one got to do with the other?”

“Secrecy must match secrecy!”

“Why? You're legitimate.”

“We battle our enemy both above the ground and underneath the dirt.”

“I've been there,” said Harry Latham, falling back into the seat.

“And I still don't understand you.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Drew, having gotten Karin de Vries's telephone number from security.

“There wasn't anything more to say,” replied the D and R researcher.

“There was a hell of a lot more to say, and you know it.”

“Please check my clearance files, and if anything upsets you, report it.”

“Forget that crap! Harry's alive! After three years under cover, he escaped and he@s on his way back!”

"Mon Dieu. I cannot tell you how happy, how relieved I am!

“You knew all 'along what my brother was doing, didn't you?”

“Not on the telephone, Drew Latham. Come to my flat on the rue Madeleine. It is twenty-six, apartment five.”

Drew gave the number to Durbane in Communications, grabbed his jacket, and raced out to the Deuxieme car, which was now his constant companion.

“Rue Madeleine,” he said.

"Number twenty six

“A nice neighborhood,” said the driver, starting the unmarked vehicle.

The apartment on rue Madeleine added another dimension to the enigma that was Karin de Vries. Not only was it large, it was tastefully, expensively appointed; the furniture, the drapes, and the paintings were far beyond the salary of an embassy employee.

“My husband was not a poor man,” said the widow, noting Drew's reactions to the decor.

“He not only played the part of a diamond merchant, he actively participated, and with his usual 61an.”

“He must have been some kind of fellow.”

“And then something beyond that,” added De Vries without a comment in her voice.

“Please, sit down, Monsieur Latham. May I offer you a drink?”

“Considering the sour wine at the cafe of your choice, I gratefully accept.”

“I do have Scotch whisky.”

“Then I more than accept, I beg.”

“No need to,” said De Vries, laughing softly and walking to a mirrored bar.

“Freddie taught me to always keep four libations on hand,” she continued, opening an ice bucket, a bottle, and pouring a drink.

“Red wine at room temperature, white wine chilled-one full bodied, the other dry, and both of good quality-as well as Scotch whisky for the English and bourbon for the Americans.”

“What about the Germans?”

"Beer, the quality unimportant, for he said they'd drink anything.

But then, as I told you, he was extremely bigoted."

“He must have known other Germans.”

"Natiirfich. He insisted they had a fetish for imitating the British.

“Whisky'-which is Scotch-without ice, and although they prefer ice, they deny it.” She brought Drew his glass and, gesturing at a chair, said, “Sit down, Monsieur Latham, we have several things to discuss.”

“Actually, that's my line,” said Drew, sitting in a soft leather armchair across from the light-green velveteen couch preferred by Karin de Vries.

“You won't join me?” he asked, partially raising his glass.

“Perhaps later-if there is a later.”

“You're one hell of a puzzle, lady.”

“From where you sit I'm sure I appear so. However, looking over at you, I am simplicity itself. It's you who are the puzzle. You and the American intelligence community.”

“I think that remark requires an explanation, Mrs. de Vries.”

“Of course it does, and you shall have it. You send a man out under the deepest cover, an extraordinarily talented operative fluent in five or six languages, and you keep his existence so secret here in Europe, so secret, he has no protection, no one he can reach as a control, for no one has the authority, much less the responsibility, to advise him.”

“Harry always had the option to pull out,” protested Latham.

“He traveled all over Europe and the Middle East. He could have stopped anywhere, picked up a phone, called Washington, and said, ”This is it, I'm finished.“ He wouldn't have been the first deep cover to have done that.”

“Then you don't know your own brother.”

“What do you mean? For Christ's sake, I grew up with him.”

“Professionally?”

“No, not that way. We're in separate branches.”

“Then you truly have no idea what a bloodhound he is.”

“Bloodhound .. . ?”

“As fanatic in his pursuits as the fanatics he was pursuing.”

“He didn't like Nazis, who does?”

“That's not my point, monsieur. When Harry was a control, he had assets in East Germany, paid by the Americans, who fed him information that dictated his orders to his runners, runners like my husband. Your brother had no such advantage this last time. He was alone.”

"He had to be. It was the nature of the operation, total isolation.

There couldn't be the slightest possible trace. Even I didn't know his cover name. What is your point?"

“Harry had no assets over here, but his enemy has assets in Washington.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“You rightly assumed that I knew about your brother's assignment. Incidentally, his cover name was Lassiter, Alexander Lassiter.”

“What?” Astonished, Latham shot forward in the chair.

“Where did you get that information?”

“Since even you didn't know the name he was using, where else? The enemy, of course, a member of the Brotherhood-that's the name they use.”

"This is getting awfully sticky, lady. Another explanation, please.

"

“Only partial. Some things you'll have to accept on faith. For my own protection.”

“I haven't got much faith, even less now, so let's start with the partial. Then I'll tell you whether you still have a . job or not.”

“Considering my contributions, that's hardly fair-”

“Give it a try,” interrupted Drew sharply.

“Freddie and I kept a flat in Amsterdam, in his name, naturally, an apartment commensurate with his wealth as a young entrepreneur in the diamond trade. Whenever our schedules permitted, we'd be together there, but I was always, shall we say, a far different woman from the one they saw at NATO .. . from the one you see here at the embassy. I dressed fashionably, even extravagantly, and wore a blond wig and a great deal of jewelry-”

“You were living a double life,” interrupted Latham again, nodding, again impatient.

“It was obviously necessary.”

“Conceded. And?”

“We entertained-not frequently, and only with Freddie's most vital contacts-but I was in evidence as his wife.. .. I must stop here and explain something to you, even though you undoubtedly know it. Whenever powerful government policing agencies are duped by externals, they will, of course, get rid of the penetrators by execution or by inverted compromise, thus causing them to be killed by their own people as double agents, do you agree?”

“I've heard about it, that's as far as I'll go.”

But the one thing they will not suffer is embarrassment, the admission that they were penetrated; those occasions were kept intensely private, even within their own organizations."

“I've heard about that too.”

“It happened in the Stasi. After Frederik was killed and the Wall came down, a number of his important East German contacts continuously left messages on our telephone answering machine, pleading for meetings with Freddie. I accepted several, in my role as his wife. TWO men, the first being the fourth highest ranking officer in the Stasi, and the other, a code breaker as well as a convicted rapist exonerated by his superiors, had been recruited by the Brotherhood. They came to see Frederik to reconvert their diamonds into currency. As with others, I dined them and filled them with alcohol-laced with powders Freddie always insisted I have in a sugar bowl-and as these two tried to make love to me, each telling me how important he was, they both drunkenly revealed why they were so important.”

“My brother Harry,” said Drew in a monotone.

“Yes. Under my prodding, each spoke of an American agent called Lassiter, whom the Brotherhood knew about and were prepared for.”

“How did you know it was Harry?”

"The clearest way possible. My first questions were innocuous, but I grew more specific with time-Freddie always claimed that was the best way, especially with alcohol and the powders. Eventually, each man said essentially the same words. They were as follows:

“His real name is Harry Latham, Central Intelligence, Clandestine Operations, Project Time-two years plus, Code Sting, all information deleted from computers at Level AA-Zero.”

"

“Jesus! That had to come from the top, the very top! AA-Zero doesn't go far down the hall from the director's office.. .. That's pretty outrageous, Mrs. de Vries.”

“Since I had, and have, no idea what AA-Zero means, I submit it is the truth. Those were the words I heard, the reason I requested the transfer to Paris. Do I still have my job, monsieur?”

“It's solid as a rock. Only there's a new wrinkle.”

“Wrinkle? I understand the word, but how do you apply it?”

“You'll remain in D and R, but you're now part of Consular Operations.”

tiWhy?"

“Among other things, you'll have to sign a sworn a. davit that says you won't divulge the information you've just given me, and it also spells out thirty years in an American prison if you do.”

“And if I refuse to sign such a document?”

“Then you're the enemy.”

“Good! I like that. It is precise.”

“Let's be more precise,” said Latham, his eyes locked with Karin de Vries's.

“If you turn or you are turned, there's no appeal. Do you understand?”

“With all my intellect and with all my heart, monsieur.”

“Now it's my turn to ask. Why?”

"It's really quite simple. For several years my marriage was a gift from God, a man I adored loved me as I loved him. Then I saw that man crippled by hatred, not blind hatred, but hate seen clearly with wide-open eyes, focused on a reemerging enemy that had destroyed his family-his parents and their parents before them.

That glorious, ebullient young man I married deserved far better than was meted out to him. It's now my turn to fight his enemy, the enemy of all of us."

“That's good enough for me, Mrs. de Vries. Welcome to our side.”

“Then I shall join you in a drink, monsieur. There is a 'later' after all.”

The American F-16 jet landed at the airport in Althem. The pilot, an air force colonel cleared by the CIA, requested immediate departure once his “package” was on board. Harry Latham was driven across the field, assisted into the second cockpit; the canopy was closed, and within minutes the plane was airborne back to England. Three hours after his arrival in the U.K." the exhausted deep-cover agent was driven under guard to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square, his reception committee consisting of three high-ranking members of the Central Intelligence Agency, British MI-6, and France's equivalent, the French Service d'Etranger.

“Hey, it's great to have you back, Harry!” said the American.

“Damn fine show,” said the Englishman.

“Magnifique!” added the Frenchman.

“Thank you, gentlemen, but can't we postpone the debriefing until I get some sleep?”

“The valley,” said the American, “where the hell is it? That can't wait, Harry.”

“The valley doesn't matter anymore. It's gone, the fires were started two days ago. Everything's destroyed, and everyone's out of there.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” persisted the man from Central Intelligence.

“It's our key.”

“My American colleague's quite right, old chap,” pressed the MISixer.

“Absolument,” said the man from the Deuxi@me.

“We must destroy it!”

“Hold on, just hold on!” countered Harry, looking wearily at the intelligence tribunal.

“It may be the key, but the lock isn't there anymore. However, it doesn't matter.” To the astonishment of the others around the table, Latham began ripping apart the lining of his jacket, then proceeded to get up and remove his trousers, turning them inside out, and doing the same with the interior linings of his pockets. Standing in his jacket and shorts, he slowly, carefully, removed dozens of handwritten scraps of paper and piled them across the conference table.

"I brought out everything we need.

Names, positions, agencies, and departments, the whole ball of wax, as my brother' Would phrase it. Incidentally, I'd appreciate-"

“It's been done,” interrupted the CIA station chief, anticipating the request.

“Sorenson at Cons-Op told him you came out. He's in Paris.”

“Thank you.. .. If you have a totally secure secretarial pool among you, get all of these typed up using relays-no one person should be aware of what the others are doing. Regarding the coded pieces, I'll put them together later.”

“What are they?” asked the Englishman, staring at the scattered pieces of paper, many torn.

"An influential army behind the Briiderschaft, powerful men and women in each of our countries who either for greed or warped beliefs support the ncos. I warn you, there are a number of surprises, both in our governments and the private sectors.. ..

Now, if someone will find me A decent hotel and buy me some clothes, I'd like to sleep for a day or two."

“Harry,” said the man from Central Intelligence, “put on your trousers before you walk out of here. ”

“Good point, Jack. You always were observant.”

Harry Latham lay in bed, the quasi-insulting and therefore caring telephone call from his brother, Drew, over with. They would meet in Paris by the end of the week, or as soon as Harry completed his debriefing, including the deciphering of the information he brought out of Germany. The older brother did not describe his immediate agenda, nor did he have to, the younger sibling understood the unspoken. The only pieces of information the latter offered were the following.

“With you back as a whole person, we can really move into high gear. We've got the ident of a car driven by a couple of scum buckets .. Incidentally, reach me at my office or the Meurice hotel on the rue de Rivoli.”

“What happened to your flat? The management throw you out for indecent behavior?”

“No, but someone else's indecent behavior makes it currently unlivable.”

“Really? The Meurice is pretty high living, little brother.”

“Bonn's paying for it.”

“My goodness, I can't wait to hear. I'll call you when I'm flying over. By the way, I'm at' the Gloucester under the name of Moss, Wendell Moss.”

“Very classy.. .. Glad you're back, bro.”

“”So am I, bro." Harry had closed his eyes, sleep rapidly enveloping him when there was a soft, steady knocking on his hotel door. Shaking his head in irritation, he flipped off the covers, unsteadily climbed out of the bed, and reached for the hotel provided bathrobe draped over a chair. He walked, half lurching, to the door.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“It's Catbird from Langley,” came the quiet reply.

“I have to talk to you, Sting.”

“Oh?” Bewildered, but knowing the maximum secrecy attached to his field code, Harry opened the door. In the corridor stood a relatively short man with a pleasant, rather pale, forgettable face, dressed in a dark business suit and wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

“What's a catbird?” asked Latham, gesturing for the emissary from Central Intelligence to come inside.

“Our codes changed, yours never did,” replied the stranger, entering the room and offering his hand. Harry took it, still confused.

“I can't tell you how pleased we are that you made it back from a very cold region.”

“What is this, a replay from John le Carr6? If it is, he did it better Sting I can understand,” but Catbird's a trifle banal, don't you think? And why weren't you at the embassy? I'm one exhausted deep c, Mr. Catbird. I really need my sleep."

“Yes, I know, and I sincerely apologize. However, there's a level above the embassy, I'm sure you're aware of that.”

“Sure. There's the DCI, the Secretary of State, and the President. So, to repeat, what's a catbird?”

“I'll take up but a few minutes of your time,” said the pleasant faced man, dismissing Harry's question and removing a pocket watch from his vest.

“This is a family heirloom, and with fading eyes, I find it easier to read. Two minutes, Mr. Latham, and I'll be gone.”

“And before you go any further, you'd better show me some very damned authentic identification.” I

“Naturally.” The intruder held up the pocket watch in front of Harry's face and spoke clearly, precisely, while pressin the crown.

“Hello, Alexander Lassiter. It's your friend, Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger, and we must talk.”

Harry's eyes suddenly became unfocused, the pupils dilated;

briefly, he was staring at nothing.

“Hi, Gerhardt,” he said, “how's my favorite sawbones?”

“Fine, Alex. How are you, and have you taken your stroll today through our meadows?”

“Hey, come on, Doc, it's night. You want me to walk into a pack of Dobermans? Where's your head?”

“Sorry, Alexander, I've been operating most of the day, and you're quite right, I'm as tired as you.. .. But tell me, Alex, when in your thoughts you met with those people at the American Embassy, what happened?”

“Nothing really. I gave them everything I brought out and for the next few days we'll go over it all.”

“That's good. Anything else?”

“My brother called from Paris. They're tracing a car under suspicion. My kid brother's a nice fellow, you'd like him, Gerhardt.”

“I'm sure I would. He's the one who works for Consular Operations, isn't he?”

“That's right.. .. Why are you asking me these questions?”

Instantly, the pale-faced stranger in the hotel room again held up the pocket watch, pressing the crown twice as Harry Latham's eyes became clear, his focus direct.

“You really do need sleep, Harry,” said the man who called himself Catbird.

“I'm just not getting through to you. Tell you what, I'll try you tomorrow, okay?”

"What .. . P9

“I'll be in touch tomorrow.”

"Why? @5

“Don't you remember? Good Lord, you are exhausted. The DCI, the Secretary of State .. . the President, Harry. That's who I've been cleared by, that's what you wanted, right?”

“Sure .. . okay. That's what I wanted.”

“Get some sleep, Sting. You deserve it.” Catbird left hurriedly, closing the door behind him as Harry Latham robotically walked back to the bed and fell into it.

“Who's Catbird?” asked Harry. It was morning and the, three intelligence officers were seated around the conference table, as they had been the previous day.

“I got your call two hours ago,” said the American station chief.

“I woke up the DCI himself and he never heard of a Catbird. He also thought it was a pretty stupid name-just like you did, Latham.”

"But he was there! I saw him, spoke with him. He was there!

“What did you talk about, monsieur?” asked the man from French intelligence.

“I'm not sure-I don't really know, actually. He seemed perfectly normal, asked me a few innocuous questions, and then .. . I just don't remember.”

“May I suggest, Field Officer Latham,” the brigadier from Britain's MI-6 broke in, “that you have undergone a most stressful-oh, the devil take it-an unendurable three years. Isn't it possible, and I say this with respect for your outstanding intellect, that you could be subject to illusionary moments? My God, man, I've had operatives working dual personas fantasize and break, having gone through only half your stress.”

“I don't break, General. I don't break and I don't fantasize.”

“Let's go back, Monsieur Latham,” said the Frenchman.

“When you first arrived at the Briiderschaft valley, what happened?”

“oh, ” Harry's eyes glanced downward; he felt disoriented for several moments, then everything was clear.

“You mean the accident. Christ, it was terrible. A lot of it's a blur, but the first thing I remember is the shouting, it was hysterical. Then I realized that I was stuck under the truck, a heavy piece of metal pressed against my headI've never felt such pain.. ..” Latham played out the litany programmed by Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger, and when he was finished, he raised his head, his eyes clear.

“I've told you the rest, gentlemen.”

The tribunal looked at one another, each shaking his head very briefly in obvious confusion. Then the American spoke.

“Look, Harry,” he said softly, “for the next few days we'll go over everything you've brought us, okay? After that, you've earned a long period of rest, okay?”

“I'd like to fly to Paris and see my brother-”

“Sure, no sweat, even if he's with Cons-Op, not my favorite branch.”

“I understand he's pretty good at what he does.”

“Hell,” agreed the CIA station chief, “he was damn good when he played hockey for the Islanders farm team in Manitoba. I was stationed in Canada then, and I tell you, that hulk body-checked much bigger hulks into the walls more often than anyone I ever saw. He could have made it big in New York.”

“Fortunately,” said Harry Latham, “I talked him out of such a violent profession.”

Drew Latham woke up in the overstuffed bed in his suite at the Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. Blinking his eyes, he looked at the bedside telephone and pressed the buttons for room service. As long as Germany was paying for it, he decided to have a porterhouse steak topped with two poached eggs, and porridge with heavy cream on the side; he was told his order would be delivered in thirty minutes. He stretched in the bed, his left arm annoyed by the automatic beneath the pillow, then closed his eyes for a few last minutes of rest.

A scratch, a metallic slice in the door. Not natural-not at all natural! Suddenly there were loud staccato bursts from a jackhammer six stories below in the street, a repair crew starting unusually early in the morning.. .. Unusual-not normal! It was barely light! Drew grabbed his weapon and slid off the left side of the bed; he rolled over and over until he was flush with the corner molding of a far wall. The door opened and an explosive fusillade of bullets ripped apart the bed, shattering the mattress and pillows alike, in concert with the deafening noise from outside the windows.

Latham raised his gun and fired five successive rounds into the black-encased figure in the doorframe. The man fell forward; Drew rose as the jackhammer stopped in the street, and he raced to his would be killer. He was dead, but as the assassin had clutched at his upper body, he had torn down his skintight black sweater. On his chest were tattooed three small lightning bolts. Blitzkrieg. The Briiderschaft.

can-Pierre Villier stoically accepted the criticism leveled at him by the Deuxieme Bureau's Claude Moreau.

“It was, indeed, a brave gesture on your part, monsieur, and be assured we are tracing the automobile in question, but please understand, should any harm have come to you, all France would have revolted against us.”

“I think that's rather overstated,” said the actor.

“However, I'm glad I was able to contribute in some small way.”

“In a very considerable way, but we now understand each other, isn't that so? There'll be no more contributions, correct?”

“As you wish, although it was a simple role to play, and there could be further information I might unearth-”

“Jean-Pierre!” exclaimed Giselle Villier.

“You will do no such thing, I won't permit it!”

“The Deuxieme Bureau will not permit it, madame,” interrupted Moreau.

“You'll no doubt learn of it later in the day, so I might as well tell you now. Three hours ago a second assassination attempt was made on the American Drew Latham.”

"My God .. .

“Is he all right?” asked Villier, leaning forward.

“He's fortunate to be alive. To say the least, he's a very observant man and has learned a few of our less advertised rules of Paris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everything was timed to the extremely loud and offensive noise of a street repair crew who started working at an hour when the majority of our visitors had barely gone to bed after experiencing the joys of our city, especially those to be found in the more expensive hotels.”

“It's summer,” said Giselle, shaking her head. we have enough trouble because of our manners. The Ministry of Tourism would cut off heads."

“Our friend Latham somehow instinctively knew that. There was no repair crew, only a single man with a concrete hammer machine below his windows. Perhaps akin to the title of one of your films, Monsieur Villier, Prelude to a Fatal Kiss, if I'm not mistaken. It's one of my wife's favorites.”

“It should be banned from television,” said the actor succinctly.

“The kiss was from a vacuous actress who was more concerned with her camera angles than with her lines, which she rarely got right.”

“That's why she was perfect,” rejoined his wife.

“Her insecurity was so apparent, it made your obsession terribly believable-the bewildered male driven mad because he couldn't penetrate the mystery of the woman he thought he loved. You were really very good, my darling.”

“If I was even tolerable, it was because I was trying to get the bitch to act.”

“I don't think Monsieur Moreau is here to listen to an actor's complaints, dear.”

“I'm not complaining, merely telling the truth.”

“Nor in an actor's ego-”

“Oh, but I'm fascinated, madame. My wife will hang on every word!”

“Aren't police interrogations confidential beyond official circles?”

asked Giselle.

"Naturally-of course, I mis spoke

“Go ahead and speak, Moreau,” said Jean-Pierre, grinning, “at least to your wife. You see, my wife is a retired attorney, if you haven't already guessed, and the actress in question has long since left the profession, having married an oil baron in the American state of Texas or Oklahoma, I forget which.”

“May we return to the issue at hand, if you please?”

“Of course, madame.”

“If Drew Latham escaped being killed, do you have any information on the failed assassin?”

“Indeed we do. He's dead, shot by Monsieur Latham.”

“Identification?”

"None. Except three very small tattoo marks above his right breast. Lightning bolts, the symbol of the Nazi blitzkrieg. Latham rightly assumed the origins, but he does not know what they stand for. We do.. .. Those marks are very selectively issued, and only to a highly trained elite group within the neo-Nazis' larger organization. They number, by our estimate, no more than two hundred here in Europe, South America, and the United States.

They're called the Blitzkrieger-they're assassins, trained killers skilled in multiple means of death, chosen for their dedication, their physical prowess, and, above all, their willingness-even their need-to kill."

“Psychopaths,” said the former woman attorney.

“Psychopaths recruited by psychopaths.”

“Precisely.”

“Who could well have been recruited by any number of fanatical organizations, or cults, because such groups would permit them to exercise their natural tendencies for violence.”

“I'd have to agree with you, madame.”

“And you haven't told the Americans or the British or God knows who else about this-how would you call it? this battalion of killers?”

“The highest officials have been informed, of course. None below those levels.”

“Why not? Why not a Drew Latham?”

“We have our reasons. There are leaks in the lower ranks.”

“Then why tell us?”

“You are French and you are famous. Celebrity is vulnerable; if word leaked out, well, we'd know-”

“And?”

“We appeal to your patriotism.”

“That's famous, unless it's an avenue to destroy my husband!”

“Now, just a minute, Giselle-”

“Be quiet, Jean-Pierre, this man from the Deuxieme is here for another reason.”

“What?”

“You must have been an extraordinary attorney, Madame Villier.”

"Your line of direct inquiry, mixed with obfuscated indirect, is also extraordinarily obvious, monsieur. You demand that my husband be prohibited from doing one thing--even by my lights and knowing his talents, not actually life-threatening-yet in the next breath you reveal highly secret-extraordinarily secret-information which if he revealed it might cost him his career and his life.

“As I said,” said Moreau, “a brilliant attorney.”

“I don't understand a goddamned word either of you are saying!”

cried the actor.

“You're not supposed to, darling, leave it to me.” Giselle.glared at Moreau.

“Youtook us from one step down to another, didn't you?”

“I cannot deny it.”

“And now that he's vulnerable, knowing what he knows, what do you want us to do? Isn't that the basic question?”

“I imagine it is.”

“Then what is it?”

"Close the play, close Coriolanus, stating a part of the truth.

Your husband has learned so much about this Jodelle that he can't go on, he's filled with remorse, and especially with loathing toward the people who did this to the old man. You'll be protected around the clock."

“What about my mother and father?” shouted Villier.

“How could I do this to them?”

"I spoke with both of them an hour ago, Monsieur Villier. I told them as much as I could, including the rise of the Nazi movement in Germany. They said it would have to be your decision, but they also hoped that you would honor your natural mother and father.

What more can I say?"

“So I close the show, and by what I have not said in public, I am the man in their gun sights, my dear wife as well. Is that what you're asking?”

“To repeat, you'll never, ever, be out of our protection. Streets, rooftops, armored limousines, agents in restaurants, police in resorts-beyond anything you would ever require for your safety. All we need is a live Blitzkrieger so we can learn where they get their orders. There are drugs as well as other methods that will convince a killer to tell US.”

“You've never captured one?” said Giselle.

"Oh, yes. Several months ago we trapped two, but they hanged themselves in their cells before we could put them under chemicals.

Such is the dedication of psychopathic zealots. Death is their profession, even their own."

In Washington, Wesley Sorenson, director of Consular Operations, studied the secure facsimiles wired from London.

“I can't believe this,” he said.

“It's incredible!” .. “That's what I thought,” agreed Sorenson's young chief of staff, standing at the left of the desk.

“But we can hardly dismiss it. Those names came from Sting' the only deep cover, ever to have penetrated the Briiderschaft. It's what he was sent out to do and he did it.”

“But, my God, man, so many of these people are beyond reproach, and this isn't even the complete list---certain names have been selectively withheld! Two senators, six congressmen, CEOs of four major corporations, as well as a half dozen prominent men and women in the media, faces and voices we see and hear and read every day on television, radio, and the newspapers.. .. Here, look, two anchormen and a'woman co-host, and three talk show bullies-”

“The fat one I'd say is a possible,”. interrupted the head staffer.

“He attacks anything he thinks is left of Attila the Hun.”

“Not at all, he's too obvious. A third-rate mind, minimally educated and filled with hate, yes, but not a bona fide Nazi. He's just a buffoon with a glib tongue.”

“The names came from the Brotherhood valley, sit. Nowhere else.”

“Jesus, here's a member of the President's Cabinet!”

“That one blew me away, I'll grant you,” said the

Cons-Op chief of staff.

“He's down-home corn silk, hardly a political bone in his body.. .. On the other hand, such people are accomplished at deception. There were Nazis in Congress during the late thirties, and Communists all over the place in the fifties, if you believe the loyalty investigations.”

“The vast majority were pure bunk, young man,” said Sorenson emphatically.

“I realize that, sir, but there were successful prosecutions.”

"How many? If I remember the statistics, and I do, the number of people specifically named by that son-of-abitch Hoover and that fraud McCarthy came to nineteen thousand seven hundred. And after the screaming was over, there were exactly' four convictions!

Four out of damned near twenty thousand! That comes to point zero zero zero two plus, and a lot of congressional wind, as well as a great deal of wasted taxpayers' money. Don't bring back those good old days to me, please. I was around your age then-not as bright, God knows-but I lost a lot of friends to that insanity."

“I'm sorry, Mr. Sorenson, I didn't mean to-”

“I know, I know,” the director of Cons-Op broke in, “there's no way you can understand the pain those times caused. And that's what worries me.”

“I don't understand, sit.”

“Could we be starting our own helter-skelter persecutions? Harry Latham is probably the only real genius the CIA has in the field, a super brain who can't be tricked but this stuff is from another planet.. .. Or is it? Christ, it's crazy! ”

“What is, Mr. Sorenson?”

“The ages of all these people, they're pretty much the same-late forties, early fifties, a number in their sixties.”

"So ?9)

“Years ago, when I first joined the Agency, there were rumors out of Bremerhaven-actually from an old submarine base in the Heligoland Bight-that told of a last-ditch strategy designed by fanatics of the Third Reich who knew they had lost the war. It was called Operation Son-nenkinder, selected children sent out secretly all over Europe and America to families who welcomed them and would bring them up to fill positions of financial power and political influence. Their final objectives were to create a climate that was conducive to .. . the Fourth Reich.”

“That's wild, sir!”

"It was also totally disproven. We had a couple of hundred agents, along with Army Intelligence and British MlSix, who tracked down every lead over a period of two years. It all came to nothing.

If there ever was such an operation, it was aborted at the start.

There wasn't a shred of evidence that it was ever put in motion."

“But you're wondering now, aren't you, Mr. Sorenson?”

“Reluctantly, Paul. Doing my goddamnedest to restrain an imagination that kept me alive in the field. But I'm not in the field, I'm not in a situation where I have to anticipate the movements of someone in the next dark street, or over a hill at night. I have to look at the whole landscape in clear daylight, and there's no way I can accept the Sonnenkinder operation.”

“So why don't you reject the premise and put the list of names on a back burner?”

“Because I can't. Because Harry Latham brought it out.. .. Set up a meeting toMorrow with the Secretary of State and the DCI over at State or Langley. Since I'm the stepchild, I'll meet wherever they say.”

Drew Latham sat at his desk on the second floor of the American Embassy, swallowing the dregs of his third cup of coffee. The single knock on his office door was followed by its being opened, an anxious Karin de Vries walking inside.

“I heard what happened!” she exclaimed.

“It had to be you!”

“Good morning,” said Drew, “or is it noon? And if you brought your Scotch, you're very welcome.”

“It's all over the papers,” cried the researcher from D and R, crossing to the desk and throwing down the noon edition of L'Expr@ss.

“A burglar attempted to rob a guest at the Meurice, shot up the room, and was killed by a floor guard!”

"Boy, their public relations people work quickly, don't they?

That's real security; it can't-get much better."

“Stop it, Drew! You were at the Meurice, you told me so. And when I called the arrondissement police, they said -very awkwardly that no information was available.”

"Wow, everybody in Paris protects the influx of tourist cash.

Actually, they should. This sort of thing never happens except to people like me."

“Then it was you.”

“You said that already. Yes, it was me.”

“Are you all right?”

“I think that's been asked before, but, yes, I am. I'm still scared to death-strike the last two words-but I'm here, breathing, warm, and ambulatory. Do you want to go to lunch, anyplace you want except the last joint you recommended?”

"I have at least forty-five minutes worth of work to do.

"I can wait that long. I just got finished with Ambassador Courtland and his diplomatic crony, Ambassador Kreitz of Germany.

They're probably still talking, but my stomach couldn't take their interacting, exculpatory bullshit any longer."

“In some ways, you are like your brother. He dislikes authority.”

- “Correction, please,” said Latham.

“We both dislike authority when it doesn't know what it's talking about, that's all. Incidentally, he's flying over from London tomorrow or the next day. Would you like to see him?”

“With all my heart. I adore Harry!”

“Strike two against my brother.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He's a nerd.”

“I don't understand.”

“His intellect, it's so far up in the sky, you can't reach it, can't talk to it.”

“Oh, yes, I recall so well. We had such wonderful conversations about the incremental explosions of religiosity from Egypt to Athens to Rome and into the Middle Ages.”

“Strike three against Harry. Where for lunch?”

“Where you suggested yesterday. The brasserie across the Gabriel from the cafe where we talked.”

“We're likely to be seen together.”

“It doesn't matter now. I spoke to the colonel. He understands completely. As he said, ”No sweat."

"What else did

Witkowski say?"

“Well”-De Vries lowered her head and spoke softly" he said you weren't your brother

“In what way wasn't P”

“It's not important, Drew.”

“Maybe it is. In what way?”

“Let's say, you aren't the scholar he is.”

“Harry just struck out on fouls.. .. Lunch in an hour, okay?”

“I'll make the reservation, they know me.” Karin de Vries walked out of the office, closing the door far more quietly than she had before.

Latham's telephone rang. It was Ambassador Courtland.

“Yes, sir, what is it?”

“Kreitz just left, Drew, and I'm sorry you weren't here to listen to the rest of what he had to say. Your brother hasn't just disturbed a hornet's nest, he's smashed hell out of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kreitz couldn't have said it in front of you anyway, actually, as a matter of security. It's so maximum classified, even I had to get clearance to confirm it.”

“You?”

“Given the fact that Heinrich had broken Bonn's seal and insofar as Harry's your brother and is flying here tomorrow, I guess the intelligence hats felt it was useless to keep me out of the circle.”

“What did Harry do, find Hitler and Martin Bormann in a South American gay bar?”

"I wish it were so insignificant. Your brother brought out lists from his German operation, names of neo-Nazi

S

supporters in the Bonn government and industry, as well as the same in the U.S.“ France, and England.”

“Good old bright Harry!” exclaimed Latham.

“He never ever did things halfway, did he? Damn, I'm proud of that elderly gentleman!”

“You don't understand, Drew. Some-no, many of those names are among the most prominent people in our respective countries, men and women of high profiles and fine reputations. It's all so extraordinary.”

“If Harry brought it out, it's also goddamned authentic. No one on earth could turn my brother.”

“Yes, that's what I've been told.”

“So what's the problem? Go after the bastards! Deep cover isn't simply a matter of weeks or months or even years. It could just as easily be decades, the dream of strategists in every intelligence think tank you can name.”

“It's all so difficult to comprehend-”

“Don't comprehend. Go to work!”

“Heinrich Kreitz totally rejects four people on the Bonn list, three men and a woman.”

“What makes him an-all-knowing God here?”

“They have Jewish blood; they lost relatives in the camps, I Specifically Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen.”

“How does he know that?”

“They're in their sixties now, but each was an early student of his when he first taught in grammar school, each he protected-from the Ministry of Aryan Investigation at the risk of his own life.”

"It's possible he was conned. From the two meetings we've had, he strikes me as being very conn able

“That's the academic in him. As with so many, he's both hesitant and loquacious, but neither weakness contradicts his brilliance. He's a perceptive man of enormous experience.”

“The last part could also describe Harry. There's no way he'd bring out false information.”

“I'm told there are some extraordinary names on the Washington list. Unbelievable was the word Sorenson used.”

“So was Lindbergh; the Spirit of St. Louis was on Goering's side until young Charlie figured out that they were the evil people and then fought like hell for us.”

“I don't think that kind of comparison is even called for.”

“Probably not. I'm only trying to illustrate a point.”

“Suppose your brother's right? Even half right, or a quarter right, or even half of that-or even far less than that?”

“He brought out the names, Mr. Ambassador. No one else did or could, so I suggest you proceed as if they were bona fides until proven otherwise.”

“What you're saying, if I read you, is that they're all guilty until proven innocent.”

“We're not talking law, sir, we're talking about the reemergence of the worst goddamned plague this world has ever seen, including the bubonic! There's no time for legal claptrap. We have to stop them now.”

“We once said that about the Communists, and the reputed Communists, and the vast majority in our own country proved to be nothing of the sort.”

“This is different! These ncos aren't boring within like the Nazis did in the thirties; they've had the power; they remember how they got it. Fear. Armed gangs roaming through the streets in blue jeans, streaked faces, and chopped hair; then come the uniform seven the shovels and the boots of the Schultse (ein, the first of Hitter's thugs -and everything goes berserk! We have to stop them!”

“With only the names we have?” asked Courtland softly.

"Men and women of such high regard that no one would ever suspect them of being remotely part of this insanity. How do we proceed?

How do any of us proceed?"

“With people like me, Mr. Ambassador. Men and women trained to break through the shells and get to the truth.”

“That has a distinctly unattractive ring to it, Latham. Whose truth? ”

“The truth, Courtland!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me-Mr. Courtland, or Mr. Ambassador. The time for diplomatic-even ethical-niceties are over! I could have been a riddled corpse in my bed at the Meurice. These bastards play hardball, and the balls are made of concrete exploded from weapons.”

“I think I understand where you're coming from-”

“Try living it, sir. Try picturing your ambassadorial bed blown apart while you're crouched against the wall, wondering if one of those bursts will find your face or your throat or your chest. This is war-undercover war, I grant you, but war nevertheless.”

“Where would you begin?”

“I've got a place to start, but I want Harry's list of names here in France while Moreau and I go after the one we have.”

“The Deuxieme's not yet cleared for any conceivable French collaborators.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Again, where would you start?”

“With the name of the man who rented the car that our famous, if crazy out-of-his-head, actor identified north of the Pont Neuf.”

“Moreau gave it to you?”

"Of course he did. The car on the Montaigne that Bressard smashed into was a bust. It was from Marseilles, but the rental is so convoluted, it would take weeks to process. This man we've got;

he goes on at his desk at four o'clock this afternoon. We'll break him if we have to put his testicles in a vise."

“You can't work with Moreau.”

“What are you talking about? Why not?”

"He's on Harry's list.1'

tunned, Drew walked out of his office, down the circular staircase to the embassy's lobby, and out the S bronze entrance onto the avenue Gabriel. He turned right and headed for the brasserie where he and Karin de Vries had agreed to have lunch. He was not only stunned, he was furious! Courtland had refused even to discuss the astonishing revelation that Claude Moreau, head of the Deuxi@me Bureau, was on “Harry's list.” He just left the extraordinary statement hanging in mid-breath, overriding Latham's protestations with the words “There's nothing more to say. Play along with Moreau but don't give him a damn thing. Call me tomorrow and tell me what happened.” With those precise instructions, the ambassador had hung up the phone.

Moreau a neo? It was about as credible as saying De Gaulle had been a German sympathizer in World War II! Drew was not a fool;

he fully understood and accepted the reality of moles and double agents, but to consign a man with Moreau's record to either category without examination was sheer sophistry. For a field officer to rise in the ranks through years of clandestine operations to head up a branch so specialized as the Deuxieme, he would have to pass under the scrutiny of a thousand pairs of eyes, both admiring and envious, the latter determined to derail him with all the damaging input at their command. Yet Moreau had survived that gauntlet, not only survived it but emerged with the epithet of “world class,” a phrase Latham doubted another world-class practitioner, one Wesley Sorenson, would use casually.

“Monsieur!” shouted the voice from a car in the street;

the Deuxi&me vehicle was obviously keeping pace with him.

“Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait!”

“I'm only walking a couple of blocks,” shouted Drew, dodging the pedestrians as he made his way to the curb.

“Like yesterday, remember?” he added in his simplified French.

“I did not like yesterday and I do not like today. Please come inside!” The Deuxi@me car stopped as Latham reluctantly opened the door and lurched into the front seat.

“You're overreacting, Rene-or are you Marc? I get confused.”

“I am Franqois, monsieur, and I don't care for confusion. I have my job.”

Suddenly, with ear- hAttering explosions, bullets pelted the thick outer safety glass of the side windows and then the windshield as a black sedan raced ahead, weaving through the traffic.

“Christ!”

roared Drew, hugging the front seat, his head below the dashboard.

“You saw that coming, didn't you?”

“Only the possibility, monsieur,” replied the driver, breathing heavily, his body arched back in the seat. He had stopped the car, the windshield so pockmarked that vision was nil.

"An automobile drove away from the curb when you emerged from the embassy.

One doesn't give up a parking space on the Gabriel without a good reason, and the men in that car were very angry when I cut them off and yelled for you."

“I owe you, Franqois,” said Latham rapidly, awkwardly rising, turning, and planting his feet on the floor as people in the street cautiously approached the Deuxieme vehicle.

“What now?”

“The police will come any moment, someone will call -them-”

“I can't talk to the police.”

“I understand. Where were you going?”

“To a brasserie in the next block, on the other side of the street.”

“I know it. Go there now. Walk with the crowds and be one of them. Look very excited, as everyone else does, when you get outside, then make your way to the brasserie as inconspicuously as you can. Stay there until we come for you or reach you on the phone.”

“What name?”

“You're American-Jones will do. Tell the maitre d' that you expect a call. Do you have a weapon?”

“Of course.”

“Be careful. It's unlikely, but be prepared for the unlikely.”

“You don't have to spell it out. What about you?”

“We know what to do. Hurry!”

Drew opened the door, closing it quickly and instantly lowering his body, then rising, feigning the panic of those surrounding him.

In moments he was indeed one with the crowd. Altering his height frequently, he scurried to the other side of the avenue Gabriel and while glancing around, his eyes darting in every. direction he once again headed for the brasserie and Karin de Vries.

He was far too early. He realized that when he saw the half empty restaurant, but he had to stay away from his office, away from the embassy. Suddenly both took on images he did not care to think about, not after what had happened less than four hundred feet up the street. Still he had to think about them, think hard and deep.

“Reservation in the name of De Vries,” he said in English to the tuxedoed man at the lectern.

“Yes, of course, sir.. .. You're a bit early, monsieur.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. Come, I'll take you to your table. The madame prefers the rear section.”

“My name's Jones. I may be getting a telephone call.”

“I'll bring it to the table-”

“To the table?”

“These days everyone has a telephone, no? How people can drive and walk across the streets in traffic while on the phone amazes me. Mon Dieu, no wonder our accident rate is so high!”

“Tell me,” said Latham, thinking quickly as he sat down.

“Could you bring me a telephone now?”

“Certainement. Local'or long distance, monsieur?”

“Long distance,” replied Drew, frowning in thought.

ill

“The telephone is numbered, and the charges will be listed on your bill.”

“It must be a pain in the neck for you,” said Latham.

“It could be, but we don't tell everyone or advertise the convenience. So many carry around their own phones-”

“Youtold me,” Drew interrupted, looking at the man.

“Well, of course. You are with the ambassade amiricaine, nestce pas? You've come in here a number of times, Mr. Jones.”

“I guess I have,” agreed Latham, handing the malt re d' his telephone credit card.

“I just never made a reservation.”

“Merci. May I order you a drink or a bottle of wine?”

“Whisky. Scotch, if you please.” The manager left, the whisky arrived, and Drew settled back in the booth, a tremble developing in his hands, his face flushed..

My God, but for an experienced, observant driver he would have been killed on the Gabriel! Three attempts on his life had been made within a day and a half, the first the night before last, the second that morning at dawn, and now only minutes earlier! He was marked, and the posthumous honor of having died in the line of duty held no appeal for him whatsoever. There was no question that the Nazi cancer was spreading throughout Germany and beyond. Where else, who knew? How effective, who could estimate? Harry's list would seem to portend the worst scenario for the NATO countries, and Karin de Vries's disclosure that the Brotherhood had invaded the Agency's top-secret computers for information. about Operation Sting certainly supported the Washington penetration. Christ, he had told Villier that the regenerated Nazis were expanding everywhere, but it was hyperbole, a hook to enlist the actor's interest because he suspected Villier's background, the jodelle connection and all it represented, not the least of which were the missing interrogation files. When Villier confirmed his suspicions, he was both elated and horrified, elated that he had zeroed in on a truth, frightened because it was the truth.

And now he was a maximum target because he had found the truth. In line with his theory that dead intelligence officers served no useful purpose, he would rescind his previous instructions and seek whatever further protection the Deuxi@me could offer.

Th e Deuxi@me-Moreau? Was it possible? By asking Moreau for additional personal security, was he signing his own death warrant?

Despite all his instincts, and regardless of his convictions about the man, was Harry's list that accurate? He,could not believe it-it was crazy! Or was it?

The'maitre d' returned to the table carrying the portable phone.

It was barely seven A.M. in Washington, and before the director of Consular Operations began his morning, one Drew Latham needed guidance.

“Press the button marked Parlez and dial, monsieur,” said the maitre d'. “Should you require additional calls, touch Finis, then again press Parlez and dial.” He handed Drew the phone and walked away. Latham touched the button marked Parlez, dialed,.

and within moments an alert voice answered.

"Yes ?@5

“Paris calling-”

“I thought you might,” Sorenson broke in.

"Has Harry arrived?

You can talk, we're on scrambler."

“He's not due until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Dammit!”

“Then you know? About the information he brought out, I mean.”

“I do, but I'm surprised you do. Brother or no, Harry's not the type who's free with classified data, and I do mean classified to the maximum.”

"Harry didn't tell me anything. It was Courtland

“The ambassador? I find that incredible. He's a good man, but he's not in this loop.”

“He had to be included. Bonn's ambassador broke the seals, pretty angrily as I understand it, over four possibles in his own government.”

“What the hell is going on?” shouted Sorenson.

“This is all supposed to be kept in a deep tank until decisions are made!”

“Somebody jumped the gun,” said Drew.

“The sprinters began running before the starter's pistol was fired.”

“Have you any idea what you're saying?”

“Oh, yes, I certainly do.”

“Then, goddammit, tell me! I have a meeting at ten o'clock with the Secretary of State and the DCI-”

“Be careful what you say,” interrupted Latham rapidly.

“What in God's name does that mean?”

“The Agency's AA-Zero computers were compromised. The Briiderschaft-that's the name the ncos call themselves-knew all about Harry's operation. Code Sting, objectives, even the projected time of his mission-two years plus. It was all picked up from Langley.”

“This is shit-kicking nuts!” roared the director of Con sOp

“How did you find out?”

“From a woman named De Vries, whose husband was Harry's runner in the old East Berlin. He was killed by the Stasi, and she's on our side. She works at the embassy now, and says she has a few scores to terminate. I believe her.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Nothing's in cement, but I think so.”

“What does Moreau think?”

“Moreau?”

“Yes, of course. Claude Moreau, the Deuxi&me.”

“I thought you had Harry's list.”

4“So ?”

“He's on it. I was ordered not to tell him anything.”

Following a short gasp, the silence from Washington was electrifying. Finally, Sorenson spoke quietly, ominously.

“Who gave you that order? Courtland?”

“Presumably relayed from on high.. .. Wait a minute. You have Harry's list-”

“I have a list that was sent to me.”

“Then you've got Moreau's name. Did you miss it?”

“No, because it's not there. ”what .. . ?"

“It was understood that for maximum security, certain names were 'selectively withheld.”

“From you?”

“Those were the words.”

"They're bullshit!

“Yes, I know.”

“Can you think of a reason-any reason?”

“I'm trying to, believe me.. .. Among the upper echelons it's common knowledge that Moreau and I worked closely together-”

“Yes, you mentioned Istanbul-”

“That was our last posting; there were others. We were a good team and whenever it was feasible, the analysts in Washington and Paris paired us.”

“Would that be reason enough to exclude -him from your list?”

“Possibly,” replied the director of Cons-Op, now barely audible.

“The argument could be made, but not convincingly. You see, he saved my life in Istanbul.”

“We all try to do that kind of thing if we're in a position to, usually on the assumption that the favor might be returned someday.”

“That's why it's not a convincing argument. Still, a bond is indelibly formed isn't it?”

“Within limits and depending on the circumstances.”, “Well said.”

"It's axiomatic.. .. I'm to reach Moreau this afternoon. There's a lead on -a rental car our actor picked up 'playing secret agent.

What should I do?"

“Normally,” began Sorenson, “even abnormally, I'd consider Claude's name on that list to be ludicrous.”

“Agreed,” interrupted Latham.

“Yet Harry brought it out. The fact that he's your brother notwithstanding-”

“Again axiomatic,” Drew broke in curtly.

“I find it extremely difficult to believe Harry could be fooled, and turned is out of the question.”

“Again-agreed,” mumbled Latham.

“So where are we? If your woman friend is genuine, the Agency's been penetrated, and there's obviously someone in either French intelligence or our own who spotted Moreau's name and by extension doesn't trust me.”

“That's ludicrous!” said Drew, raising his voice and instantly lowering it as heads turned at several tables in front of his booth.

“It's a hell of a shock, I'll say that much.”

“I'm going to call Harry in London. Tell him our thoughts.”

“He's sequestered.”

“Not to me. When he was fourteen and I was eight, to get away from me and read one of his goddamned books, he climbed a tree and got stuck. I said I'd rescue him if he promised never to avoid me again-he was kind of a wimp about climbing down, you know what I mean?”

“On such oaths are the secrets of the world nullified. If you reach him, for God's sake, call me back. If you can't -and it sticks in my craw to say it-follow the ambassador's order. Cooperate with Claude, but keep silent.”

Drew pressed the button marked Finis, touched the Parlez, and dialed. The operator at the Gloucester hotel in London, after repeated rings, observed that Mr. Wendell Moss was not in his room. Latham left a simple message.

“Call Paris. Keep calling.”

And Karin de Vries arrived, practically racing between the tables.

1, Thank God you're here!" she cried, sitting down quickly, her words whispered, intense.

“It's all over the street and the embassy's in an uproar. A French government car was attacked by terrorists below us in the Gabriel!” Karin abruptly stopped, aware of the blank look in Drew's eyes. She frowned in silence, her lips forming the word you. He nodded; she continued.

“You've got to get out of Paris, out of France! Go back to Washington.”

“Take my word for it-better yet, take your own-I'm no less a target over there than I am here. Maybe an easier one.”

“But three times they've tried to kill you in the space of two days!”

“Try thirty-five hours, I've been counting.”

“You can't stay here, they know you.”

“They know me better in Washington. I might even have a welcoming committee I'd rather not meet. Besides, Harry's going to call me and I've got to see him, talk to him. I have to.”

“He's the reason you have the phone?”

"He and someone else. Someone in D.C. I trust-I have to trust.

My boss, in fact." A waiter arrived and De Vries ordered a Chardonnay. The aproned man nodded and was about to leave, when Latham held up the portable phone for him.

“Not yet,” interrupted Karin, reaching over and touching Drew's outstretched arm. The waiter shrugged and left.

“Forgive me, but you may have overlooked a problem or two.”

“That's entirely possible. As you've pointed out, I've been shot at three times in less than two days. Discounting strenuous field training, where they used dyed pellets, that's roughly one half of all the weapons fired at me in my entire career. What did I forget? I still remember my name. Ralph, isn't it?”

“Don't try to be funny.”

“What the hell's left? For, your edification, my automatic is on my lap, and if my eyes stray now and then, it's because I'm prepared to use it.”

“There are police all over the Gabriel; no terrorist would chance a kill under the circumstances.”

“You're well versed in the language.”

“I was married to a man who was both shot at and shot more times than he could remember.”

“And I forgot. The Stasi. Sorry. What was your point?”

“Where is Harry calling you?”

“My office or the Meurice.”

“I submit that it would be foolish for you to return to either,”

“You may have half a point.”

“Grant me a full one. I'm right and you know it.”

“Granted,” said Latham reluctantly.

"There are crowds in the streets, a weapon could be inches from me and I'd never know it.

And if the CIA's been penetrated, the embassy's child's play. So?"

“Your superior in, Washington. How did you explain the attack in the Gabriel? What protection did he advise?”

“He didn't because I didn't tell him. It's one of those things you talk about later.. .. He's got a bigger problem, much bigger than any event I survived.”

“Are you really so charitable, Monsieur Latham?” asked Karin.

“Not at all, Madame de Vries. Things are coming so fast, and the problem we both face so great, I didn't want his head overburdened.”

“Can you tell me about this problem?”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because you asked.”

Karin de Vries leaned back against the banquette and raised the wine to her lips.

“You still don't trust me, do you?” she said softly.

“We're talking about my life, lady, and a spreading lethal fungus that scares the hell out of me. It should scare the hell out of the whole civilized world.”

“You're speaking from a distance, Drew. I'm speaking from the immediate, 'close up' as you Americans say.”

“It's war!” whispered Latham, the whisper guttural, his eyes on fire.

“Don't give me abstractions!”

“I gave you my husband in this war!” said Karin, bolting forward.

“What more do you want from me? What more for your trust?”

“Why do you want it so badly?”

“For the simplest reason of all, the one I explained to you last night. I watched a beautiful man destroyed by a hatred he could not control. It consumed him and for months, even years, I couldn't understand, and then I did. He was right! A putrid cloud of horror was rising over Germany, the East more than the West actually-'one evil monolith for another; they thirst for screeching leaders for they'll never change' was the way Freddie expressed it. And he was right!” Emotionally spent, her closed eyes forming tears, De Vries lowered her whisper.

“He was tortured and killed because he had found the truth,” she finished in a monotone.

Found the truth. Drew studied the woman across the table, remembering how elated he had been when he had found the truth about Villier's father, old Jodelle. And then how frightened he was because it was the truth. The parallel lines of his and Karin's response, to revealed facts could not be falsified. They were beyond lying to themselves, certainly beyond concealing the anger each felt, for it was too genuine.

“Okay, okay,” Latham said, briefly covering her clenched hands with his free left one.

“I'll tell you what I can without specific names, which may come later .. . depending on the circumstances.”

“I accept that. It's part of the drill, isn't it? Beware the chemicals.”

“Yes.” Drew's eyes wandered rapidly, widely, toward the entrance and the surrounding tables, his right hand out of sight.

“The key is Villier's father, his natural father-”

“Villier the actor? The newspaper stories .. . the old man who killed himself in the theater?”

“I'll fill you in later, but for now assume the worst. The old man was Villier's father, a Resistance fighter found out by the Germans and driven insane in the camps years ago.”

“There was a notice in the early afternoon papers!” said De Vries, unclenching her hAnds and grabbing his left.

“He's closing the play, the revival of Coriolanus.”

“That's stupid!” spat out Latham.

“Did they say why?”

“Something about that old man and how disturbed Villier was-”

“More than stupid,” broke in Latham.

“It's goddamned grotesque! He's as big a target as I am now!”

“I don't understand.”

“There's no way you could, and in a crazy way it's all tied in with my brother.”

“With Harry?”

“Intelligence files about Jodelle-that's Villier's father -were removed from the Agency's archives-”

“As in the AA-Zero computers?” asked Karin, interrupting.

"Every bit as secure, believe me. In those files was the name of a French general who wasn't simply turned by the

Nazis, he became one of them, a fanatically devoted convert consumed by the cause of the master race."

“What can he matter now? A general so many years ago-he's undoubtedly dead.”

"He may be, or he may not be, it's irrelevant. It's what he set in motion, what's going on now. An organization here in France that's brokering millions from all over the world into the ncos in Germany.

The same thing that brought you to Paris, Karin."

De Vries again leaned back in the booth, removing her hand from his, her eyes wide, staring at him in bewilderment.

“What has any of this to do with Harry?” she asked.

“My brother brought out a list of names, how many I don't know, of neo sympathizers here in France, the U.K.” and in my own country. I gather it's explosive, men and women of influence, even political power, that no one would ever suspect of such leanings."

“How did Harry get these names?”

“I haven't a clue, that's why I've got to see him, talk to him!”

“Why? You sound so disturbed.”

“Because one of those names is a man I'm working with, a man in whose hands I'd put my life without thinking twice. How do you like them apples?”

“Disregarding the grammar, I don't understand you.”

“It's idiosyncratic, Madame Linguist. I'm told it stems from an old trick apple growers used, placing their best specimens on top of a barrel they were selling, while underneath there were rotten ones.”

“It still eludes me.”

“Why not? It's probably apocryphal.”

“You sound like your brother, without his clarity.”

“Clarity is what I need from him now.”

“Regarding this man you're working with, of course.”

"Yes. I can't believe it, but if Harry's right and I meet with him later this afternoon, which I'm to do, could be the dumbest decision I could make. Fatally dumb.

“Put him off. Tell him something important has come up.”

“He'll ask what it is, and at the moment he has every right to know. Among other not-so-incidentals, an alert employee of his saved my life barely a half hour ago on the Gabriel.”

“Perhaps it was meant to appear that way.”

“Yes, that's another possible equation. I can see you've been around, lady.”

“I've been around,” conceded Karin de Vries.

“It's Moreau, Claude Moreau of the Deuxi@me Bureau, isn't it?”

“Why do you suggest that?”

"D and R gets the logs of entry and departure for every twenty four hours. Moreau's name was listed twice, the night before last, when the first attack was made on you, and then the next morning, when the German ambassador arrived. The pattern was obvious.

Several colleagues remarked that they could not remember when any member, much less the head, of the Deuxieme had ever come to the embassy."

“I won't confirm your suggestion, naturally.”

“You don't have to, and I agree with you completely. To associate Moreau in any way with the ncos strikes me as ludicrous.”

“The exact word I heard from Washington less than ten minutes ago. Still, Harry brought it out. You know my brother. Could he have been fooled?”

“The word ludicrous again comes to mind.”

“Turned?”

“Never!”

“So, as my extremely experienced boss, who worked with Moreau in the bad days, and who also agrees with us, said, ”Where the hell are we?"

"

“There has to be an explanation.”

“That's why I have to talk to Harry.. .. Whoa, hold it. You're pretty opinionated about Moreau. Do you know him?”

“I know that East German intelligence was frightened to death of him, as subsequently were the ncos, for he recognized the links between the Stasi and the Nazis before anyone else, except possibly your brother. Freddie met him once, a debriefing in Munich, and came back exuberant, claiming Moreau was a genius.”

“So to recap, where are we really?”

“You have an expression in the United States that's uniquely American,” said Karin. "

“Between a rock and a hard place.” I think it fits, at least until you can talk to Harry, which, for your own safety, you cannot do from either the Meurice or the embassy."

“They're the only numbers he has,” protested Drew.

"I should like to ask for your trust once more. I have friends here in Paris from the old days in Amsterdam, friends you can trust.

If you wish, I'll go further and give their names to the colonel."

“What for? Why?”

"They can hide you, yet you can still operate here in Paris;

they're less than forty-five minutes from the city. And I myself can reach Moreau with the most plausible explanation there is-the truth, Drew."

“Then you do know Moreau.”

“Not personally, no, but two Deuxieme staff interviewed me before I came to the embassy. The name De Vries will accord me the courtesy of speaking to him personally, believe that.”

“I do. But what's the truth, that he himself is under suspicion?”

“Another truth. Three attempts have been made on your life, and your natural concern aside-”

“Call it by its rightful name,” Latham broke in.

"The word is fear.

I was almost killed each time and my nerves are a lot frayed-like in afraid."

“Very well, that's honest; he'll accept it.. .. Your fear for your own life aside, you must meet with your brother who's flying over from London-day and time unknown -and you can't risk his life, either, by being in the open. You're going under for a few days and will contact him when you come out. Naturally, I have no idea where you are.”

“There's a large gap. Namely, why are you my conduit?”

“Yet another truth that overrides the lie and will be substantiated by Colonel Witkowski, an intelligence rock whom everyone respects. He'll confirm that my husband worked with your brother. Moreau assumes you knew that, and therefore easily understands why you came to me to act as your intermediary.”

“Two more gaps,” Drew pressed quietly, once again nervously glancing around the now-crowded brasserie.

“One, I didn't knowWitkowski had to tell me; and two, why didn't I use him?”

“Old-timers like Stanley Witkowski, smart, even brilliant veterans of the 'bad days,” as you called them, know the pecking order better than any of us. To get things done, really accomplished, he has to operate from his niche. He's in a position now to confirm things, not to initiate them. Can you understand that?"

"It's one of the things I've always objected to, but, yes, I can.

We put some of our best minds into a pasture-hold mode because either their retirements are coming up or they never quite made enough of a name for themselves to go for the next level of retirement. It's so goddamned dumb, especially in our business, because the quiet ones invariably make it possible for the 'names' to succeed. How many deep-cover legends became legends because they were guided by the quiet ones.. .. Sorry, again I'm rambling; it takes my mind off the possibility that someone in this very Parisian brasserie may get up and take a shot at me."

“It's quite unlikely,” said De Vries.

“We're close to the embassy' and you've no idea how sensitive the French are to their lack of control over terrorism.”

“So are the British, but people get killed outside of Harrods.”

“Not often, and the English have isolated their primary enemy, the IRA.” may they rot in hell. The French are targets for so many others. Whole arrondissements are populated with warring factions from abroad. In the Scandinavian countries, too, the protests grow more violent, say nothing of the Netherlands-the most peaceful of people, where the Right and the Left clash incessantly."

"Add Italy, the Mafia corruption of Rome tearing people apart, men fighting in Parliament, bombs going off. And take Spain, where the Catalonians and the Basques bear more than arms, they bear generations of resentment. And there's the Middle East, where Palestinians kill Jews and Jews kill Palestinians, each blaming the other, while in Bosnia-Herzegovina full-fledged massacres take place between people who used to live together, and nobody appears to want to do anything. It's everywhere.

Discontent, suspicion, name-calling .. . violence. It's as though some terrible grand design is being shaped."

“What are you saying?” asked De Vries, staring at him.

“They're all meat for the new Nazi grinders, can't you see that?”

“I hadn't considered things on such a large scale. It's rather melodramatically far-reaching, isn't it?”

“Think about it. If Harry's list is right, even half right, how long have the discontents everywhere been approached and told that their grievances can be addressed, the grievers crushed once the great new order is in place?”

“That's not the 'new order' you Americans have talked about, Drew. Yours is a far more benevolent agenda.”

“Suppose again. Suppose it's all a code for something else, a 'new order' going back fifty years. The New Order of the Reich to last a thousand years.”

“That's preposterous!”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Latham, leaning back in the booth and breathing hard.

“I took it to its zenith, because you're right, it couldn't happen. But a large part of it could happen, right here in Europe, the Balkans, and the Middle East. Then what's the next step? After the multiple uprisings of people against people, religion against religion, new nations breaking away from the old?”

“I'm trying to follow you, and I'm not stupid. As Harry might say, where is the clarity?”

“Nuclear weapons! Bought and sold on the international markets, and perhaps, with their millions, too many in the hands of the Brotherhood, the new religion, the cure, and maybe, eventually, the refuge for all the discontents the world over, drawn to them, convinced of their invincibility. It happened in the thirties, and not a hell of a lot has changed in terms of those circumstances.”

“You're way beyond me,” said Karin, drinking her wine.

“I fight a spreading disease, as you called it, that killed Freddie. You see an imminent apocalypse I cannot accept. We've passed that stage in civilization.”

“I hope we have, and I hope I'm wrong, and I wish to God I could stop thinking the way I do.”

“You have an extraordinary imagination, very much like Harry's, except his was-is-sang-fro id Nothing is until analyzed without emotion.”

"It's funny you say that; it's the difference between us. My brother was always so cold, so without feeling, I thought, until a young cousin of ours, a girl of sixteen, died of some kind of cancer.

We were kids, and I found him bawling his eyes out behind the garage. When I tried to help him as best I could, he yelled at me and said, “Don't you ever tell anybody I cried or I'll put a double hex on you!” Kid stuff, of course."

“Did you?”

“Of course not, he was my brother.”

“There's ”Something you're not telling me."

“Good Christ, is this a confessional?”

“Not at all. I simply want, to know you better. That's no crime.”

"Okay. I worshiped the guy. He was so smart, so kind to me, running me through exam questions and helping me with my term papers, then in college, even selecting my courses, always telling me I was better than I thought I was, if I would only concentrate.

Our dad was always away on one of his digs, so who came up to see me at college, who yelled loudest at the hockey games-Harry, that's who."

“You love him, don't you?”

“I'd be nothing without him. That's why I damn near threatened him with a. hammerlock if he didn't get me into this business. He didn't like it, but there was a bastard organization called Consular Operations being formed that apparently wanted jocks who could think. I fit the description and made it.”

"The colonel said you were a terrific hockey player in Canada.

He said you should have gone to New York."

“It was an interlude, a farm team, and I was pretty well paid, but Harry flew to Manitoba and said I had to grow up. So I did; the rest is what I am. The questions over with?”

“Why are you so hostile?”

“I'm not really. I'm good at what I do, lady, but as you've pointed out ad nauseam, I'm not Harry.”

“You have your own attributes.”

“Oh, hell, yes. Basic martial arts, but no expert, believe me. All those courses in enemy interrogation and manipulation, psychological and chemical; survival techniques and how to determine which flora and fauna are edible all that's ingrained.”

“Then what bothers you so?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I don't even know myself. I think it's the absence of authority. There's a rigid chain of command and I can't go around it-not even sure I want to. It's what I said before, the 'quiet ones' know more than I do .. . and now I can't trust them.”

"Give me your phone, please

“It's set for long distance.”

“By pressing F zero one eight you can revert it to Paris and its environs.” De Vries touched the numbers she knew by rote, waited several moments, and spoke.

“I'm arrondissement six, please run a check.” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Drew.

"A

simple intercept run, nothing out of the ordinary." Suddenly Karin's gaze shot downward to the floor, her face frozen, her chin jammed into her throat. She stood up and screamed.

“Get out! Everyone get out of here!” She grabbed Latham's arm, yanking him out of the booth, and kept yelling.

“Everyone!” she roared in French.

“Leave your tables and go outside! Les terroristes!” The mass exodus was chaotic; several windows were smashed as diners fled, clashing with waiters and busboys, racing to find whatever egresses they could as bewildered, furious management personnel tried to stem the stampede, then reluctantly followed. Out on the avenue Gabriel all watched in horror as the rear section of the brasserie was blown apart, the impact of the explosion shattering what was left of the windows, sending fragments of glass flying into the street, imbedding themselves into the flesh of faces and through the fabric of clothing into arms, chests, and legs. Pandemonium filled the street as Latham fell over the body of Karin de Vries.

“What did you learn?” shouted Drew, shoving the gun into his belt.

“How did you know?”

“There's no time! Get up. Follow me!”

hey raced down the Gabriel until they reached a deep, shadowed storefront, a joadfier whose expenTsive gems shone more brightly in the relative darkness. Karin yanked him into it; breathless, they both gulped in air before Latham spoke.

“Goddammit, lady, what happened? You said that whoever you called was running an intercept check, then you started yelling and all hell broke loose! I want an answer.”

“The check was never made,” replied De Vries, still gasping for breath.

“Instead, someone else. came on the phone and yelled, ”Three men in dark clothes, they're running up and down the street from place to place. They want your friend out!“ Before I could ask any questions, I saw two baguettes rolling on the floor toward our booth.”

“Baguettes? Loaves of bread?”

“Shiny small loaves, Drew. Artificial bread. Plastic explosives ten times more powerful than grenades.”

“Oh, my God .. .”

“There's a taxi stand at the next corner. Quickly!” Still breathless, they settled into the backseat of a cab as Karin gave the driver an address in the Marais district.

“In an hour I'll return to the embassy-”

“Are you crazy?” Latham broke in, snapping his head toward her.

“You've been seen with me, you said so yourself. They'll kill you!”

“Not if I return within a reasonable amount of time and behave as if I've had a terrible shock-reasonably hysterical, although not out of control.”

“Words,” said Drew sharply, disparagingly.

“No, basic common sense in a tenuous situation that demands my getting back to my normal routine as soon as can.”

“I repeat, you're a lunatic. Not only were you with me, you were the one who shouted the warning! You started the stampede.”

“So would anyone else who'd come in off the Gabriel, seeing all those policemen and the patrol cars, and hearing how terrorists had shot up an automobile. Good Lord, Drew, two loaves of bread-even if they were real-rolling into a booth as a man in a dark sweater and a black visored cap raced out, colliding with a waiter, really!”

“You didn't tell me about any man racing outside-”

“In a heavy sweater on a warm spring day, his face hidden and nearly upsetting a waiter carrying a tray!”

“Or about any waiter.”

“Incidentally, no waiter in a Paris brasserie would treat loaves of bread as if they were bocci balls.”

“Okay, okay, you can explain away that part, but not the fact that you were with me.”

“I'll take care of it in a way any Frenchman, terrorist or not, will understand. I'll make several phone calls establishing the fact.”

“What phone calls? About what and to whom?”

“To people at the embassy, D and R first, of course, then the entry desk, and a few others who are known gossips, including Courtland's chief aide and the first attache's secretary. I'll tell them I was with you at the restaurant that was bombed, that we got out, you disappeared, and I'm frantic.”

“You're simply pointing up the fact that we were together! ”

“For quite a different reason that has nothing to do with your work, which I know nothing about because I haven't known you that long.”

“What reason?”

“We met the other day, were attracted to each other, and obviously are heading toward an affair.”

“That's the nicest thing you've said.”

“Don't take it literally, Monsieur Latham, it's emphatically a cover. The point is that since we can assume the embassy's been penetrated, the word will circulate rapidly.”

“Do you think Paris's branch of the ncos will buy it?”

“They have no choice on two levels. If it's a lie, they'll watch me, assuming you'll reach me and they can track you down; if it's the truth, well, I'm really not worth their time. In either case, I'm in a position to help you where I am.”

“For Freddie's sake, I understand,” said Drew, smiling gently as the driver entered the Marais, “but I still think you're taking a hell of a risk, lady.”

“May I.say something about your language, please?”

“Be my guest.”

“Your erratic but inveterate use of the word lady has a distinctly condescending connotation.”

“It's not meant that way.”

“Probably not. Even so, it's an unconscious cultural contradiction. ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“By employing the word lady, you're actually using it in the pejorative sense, as in girl, or, worse, broad.”

“I apologize.” Latham smiled, again gently.

“I've used that term more times than I can remember with my mother, and I assure you it was never-what did you call it?-pejorative.”

“A mother can accept it as an en famille endearment. I'm not your mother.”

“Hell, no. She's a lot prettier and doesn't caterwaul so much.”

“Caterwaul .. . ?” De Vries studied the American's face, seeing the humor in his eyes. She laughed and touched his arm.

“You have the point you conceded to me at the table back in the brasserie. Sometimes I take things too seriously.”

“No sweat. I can see why you and Harry got along. You analyze, then reevaluate, then analyze again. It all gets to be a bunch of circles, doesn't it?”

“No, it doesn't, because somewhere among those circles there's a tangent that breaks off and leads to something else. Invariably the truth.”

“Would you believe I understand that?”

“Of course you do. Your brother was right years ago, you're much better than you think you are.. .. But then, you don't need me to say these things.”

“No, I don't. Right now I want to know where we're going, where I'm going.”

“To what you Americans call a sterile house, an intermediate place where your credentials are confirmed before you're sent on to sanctuary.”

“The people you were calling at the restaurant, the brasserie?”

“Yes, but in your case you'll be sent immediately. I'll be your confirmation.”

“Who are these people?”

“It's enough to say that they're on our side, yours and mine.”

“It's not enough for me, lady-sorry, Mrs. de Vries.”

“Then you can stop the taxi' get out, be on your own, and be hunted like an animal until they have you in their gun sights.”

“Not necessarily. I may not be Harry, but I've got certain skills that have served me through a scrape or two. Shall I tell the driver to pull over, or will you tell me exactly where we're going and who we're going to see?”

“You need protection right now and you admit you don't know whom you can trust-”

“And you're saying I should trust people I don't know?”

interrupted Latham.

“You're certifiable.” He leaned forward, speaking to the driver.

“Monsieur, s'il vous plait, arritez le taxi-”

“Non!” Karin intruded firmly.

“It's not necessary,” she continued in French to the driver, who shrugged and took his foot off the brake.

“All right,” she went on, looking at Drew, “what do you want to do, where do you want to go? Or would you rather I get out so I have no idea? You can always reach me at the embassy-I'd suggest a pay phone, but I don't have to tell you that. You can't have much money on you, and you shouldn't go to your bank any more than to the office, your flat, or the Meurice, they'll all be covered. I'll give you what I have and we can make further arrangements later.. .. For God's sake, decide. I have to start my own strategy soon-in minutes for it to be credible!”

“You mean it, don't you? You'd give me money, get out, and let me fade, not knowing where I am.”

“Naturally I mean it. It's not preferable, and I think you're a damn fool, but you're stubborn and there's nothing I can do about that. It's far more important that you stay alive, see Harry, and get on with the business at hand. Every day the new Nazi leadership survives, the deeper they entrench themselves.”

“Then you don't insist on taking me to your old friends from Amsterdam.” Latham did not ask a question.

“How can I? You won't listen to me, so of course not.”

“Then take me to, them You're right, I really don't know who to trust.”

“You're impossible, you realize that, I presume!”

“No, I'm not, I'm just very cautious. Did I mention that I've been shot at three times in less than thirty-six hours, and ten minutes ago someone tried to bomb me to the moon? Oh, yes, lady, I'm very cautious.”

“You've made the right decision, believe me.”

“I have to. Now, who are these people?”

“Germans, mostly. Men and women who loathe the ncos more than any of us do-they see their country being soiled by the socalled inheritors of the Third Reich.”

“They're here in Paris .. . ?”

“And in the U.K.” the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the Balkanswherever they believe the Briiderschaft is operating' Each cell is small in number, fifteen to twenty people, but they operate with renowned German efficiency“ secretly funded by a group of German industrial leaders and financiers who not only despise the ncos but fear what they could do to the nation's image and thus its economy.”

“They sound like the flip side of the Brotherhood.”

"What do you think is tearing the country apart? That's exactly what they are, it has to be. Bonn is political; business is practical.

The government must appeal for votes from a diverse electorate;

the financial establishment must, above all, guard against isolation from world markets because of the specter of a Nazi revival."

“These people, your friends-these 'cells'-do they have a name, a symbol, something like that?”

“Yes. They call themselves the Antinayous.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“”I really don't know, but your brother laughed when Freddie told him. He said it had something to do with ancient Rome and a historian called Dio Cassius, I believe. Harry said it fit the circumstances."

“Harry's a piece of work,” mumbled Drew.

“Remind me to replace my encyclopedia.. .. Okay, let's meet your friends.”

“They're only two streets away.”

Wesley Sorenson had made up his mind. He had not spent an adult lifetime in the service of his country to be frozen out of essential information by an intelligence bureaucrat who drew an erroneous, insulting conclusion. In short, Wcs Sorenson was an angry man and he saw no reason to conceal that anger. He had not sought the directorship of Consular Operations, he had been summoned by a thinking President who saw the need to coordinate the intelligence services so that one branch or another did not frustrate post-Cold War State Department objectives. He had answered the call out of a pleasant retirement, in which, thanks to an affluent family, there was no need of a pension. Still, he had earned it many times over, as, indeed, he had earned the respect and trust of the entire intelligence community. He would make his feelings known at the conference he was about to attend.

He was ushered into the enormous office, where Secretary of State Adam Bollinger sat behind his desk. In front of the Secretary, in one of two captain's chairs, his body turned in greeting, was a large, heavyset black man in his early sixties. His name was Knox Talbot, the director of Central Intelligence, a former ranking intelligence officer in the Vietnam action, and a giant intellect who had made several fortunes in the back-stabbing worlds of commodities and arbitrage. Sorenson liked Talbot, and was constantly bemused by the way he masked his brilliance with selfdeprecating humor and a show of wide-eyed innocence. Secretary Bollinger, on the other hand, was a problem for the Cons-Op director. Sorenson acknowledged the Secretary of State's political acumen, even his international stature, but there was a hollowness in the man that disturbed him. It was as if everything he said and did was calculated, contrived, devoid of passionate commitmenta cold man with a bright smile that held surface charm but little warmth.

“Good morning, Wcs,” said Bollinger, his smile perfunctory, for this was a meeting of dire consequence, no time for amenities, and he wanted his subordinates to know it.

“Hello there, ye spook of spooks,” added Knox Talbot, smiling.

“It seems we neophytes need a touch of input here.”

“Nothing on our agenda is remotely amusing, Knox,” noted the Secretary, his neutral eyes glancing up from the papers on his desk, directed at Talbot.

“Neither will it help to be uptight, Adam,” rejoined the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Our problems may be immense, but a, number might be dismissed with a chuckle.”

“I find that statement close to irresponsible.”

“Find it however you like, but I submit that a lot of what we have from Operation Sting is, to be blunt, really irresponsible.”

“Join us, Wesley,” said Bollinger as Sorenson crossed to the chair on Talbot's right and sat down.

“I'll not deny,” continued the Secretary of State, “that Field Officer Latham's list is appalling, but we must consider the source. I ask you, Knox, is there a more experienced undercover agent in the CIA than Harry Latham?”

“To my knowledge, there isn't,” replied the DCI, “but that doesn't preclude his being fed disinformation.”

“That assumes his cover was blown to the ncos' leadership.”

“I have no knowledge of that,” said Talbot.

“It was,” said Sorenson flatly.

“What?”

“What?”

“I spoke with Harry's brother,” said Sorenson.

"He's one of my men, and he learned it through a woman in Paris, the widow of Latham's runner in East Berlin. The ncos knew all about Sting.

Name, objective, even the presumed length of his mission."

“That's impossible!” cried Knox Talbot, his sizable frame lurching forward in the chair, his large head turned toward Sorenson, his black eyes glaring.

“That information is so deep, it couldn't be unearthed.”

“Try your AA-Zero computers.”

“Inviolate!”

“Not so, Knox. You've got somebody in the secret chicken coop who's actually a fox.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I just gave you chapter and verse, what more do you need?”

“Who the hell could it be?”

“How many people operate the AA-Zeros?”

“Five, with three alternates, each one researched to the day he or she was born. Each cleared total white, which, despite my obvious objection to the phrase, I completely accept. For Christ's sake, they' really among our top brass in high technology!”

“One of them is tarnished, Knox. One of them slipped through your impenetrable nets.”

“I'll put them all under total surveillance.”

“You'll do more than that, Mr. Director,” said Adam Bollinger.

“You'll put everyone on Harry Latham's list under surveillance. My God, we could have a global conspiracy on our hands.”

“Please, Mr. Secretary, we're nowhere near that. Not yet. But I have to ask you, Knox, who deleted Claude Moreau's name from the list that was sent to me?”

His astonishment apparent, Talbot winced, then rapidly composed himself.

“I'm sorry, Wcs,” he said quietly, “it came from a reliable source, a senior case officer who worked with you both in Istanbul. He said you two were close, that Moreau saved your life in the Dardanelles while on assignment in Marmara. Our man wasn't sure you could be objective, it's as simple as that. How did you find out?”

“Somebody cleared a list for Ambassador Courtland-”

“We had to,” interrupted Talbot.

“The Germans leaked it and Courtland was put on a diplomatic spit.. .. Moreau's name was on it?”

“So much for the Agency's oversight.”

"An error, human error, what more can I say? There are too goddamned many machines that spew out data too fast.. .. The justification in your case, however, was understandable. A man saves your life, you're damned quick to come to his defense.

Perhaps unwittingly, just by sympathetically probing, you could even tip him off that he's under a microscope."

“Not if you're a professional, Knox,” said the head of Consular Operations curtly, “and I believe I've attained that status. ”

“Christ, you certainly have,” agreed Talbot, nodding his head.

“You'd be sitting in my chair if you'd been willing to accept it.”

“I never wanted it.”

“Again, I apologize. But while we're on the subject, 9 what do you think about Moreau's inclusion?”

“I think it's crazy.”

"So are about twenty or twenty-five others in this country alone, and when you consider their staffs and associates, well over a couple of hundred in high places. There's another seventy or so in the U.K. and France and they could be multiplied tenfold. Among them are men and women we regard as true patriots, and regardless of political affiliations we may not like, people we honor.

Is Harry Latham, one of the best and the brightest, a cuckoo bird, a deep cover who lost his marbles?"

“That's hard to imagine-”

“Which is why every man and woman on his list will be back grounded from the moment they could walk and talk,” announced the Secretary of State emphatically, his thin lips now a straight line.

“Turn over every rock, bring me dossiers that make the Federal Bureau's checks took like a hungry salesman's credit search.”

“Adam,” protested Knox Talbot, “it's the Bureau's territory, not ours. That's clearly spelled out in the forty seven charter,”

“To hell with the charter. If there are Nazis roaming the corridors of government, industry, and the so-called arts, we have to find them, expose them!”

“With what authority?” asked Sorenson, studying the face of the Secretary of State.

“With my authority, if you like. I'll be responsible.”

“Congress might object,” pressed the director of Con sOp

“Screw the Congress, just keep it quiet. Good God, you can at least do that, can't you? You're both part of the administration, aren't you? It's called the Executive Branch, gentlemen, and if the Executive, the presidency itself, can root out the Nazi influence in this country, the nation will forever be thankful. Now, go to work, coordinate, and bring me results. Our conference is over. I have an appointment with one of those Sunday morning talk show producers. I'm going to announce the President's new policy on the Caribbean.”

Outside in the State Department corridor, Knox Talbot turned to Wesley Sorenson.

“Beyond finding out who's compromising our AA-Zero computers, I have no stomach for any of this.”

“I'll resign first,” said the Cons-Op head.

“That's not the way, Wcs,” countered the DCL “If you go and I go, he'll find a couple of others he can really control. I say we both stay and 'coordinate' quietly with the Bureau.”

“Bollinger ruled that out.”

"No, he specifically objected to and overrode the charter of 'forty-seven that prohibits you and me from operating domestically.

We filtered his words and came to the conclusion that he didn't actually want us to act unconstitutionally. He'll probably thank us later. Hell, the acolytes around Reagan did this all the time."

“Is Bollinger worth it, Knox?”

"No, he's not, but our organizations are. I've worked with the Bureau's chief. He's not obsessed with his turf he no Hoover.

He's a decent guy, a former judge who was considered fair, and he has plenty of street smarts. I'll convince him it's all got to be silent and deep but conclusive. And, let's face it, Harry Latham can't be ignored."

“I still think Moreau's a mistake, a terrible error.”

“There may be others too, but there could also be other others who aren't. I hate to say it, but Bollinger's right about that. I'll make contact with the Bureau, you keep Harry Latham alive.”

“I see another problem, Knox,” said Sorenson, frowning.

“Remember the garbage of the fifties, the McCarthy bullshit?”

“Please,” answered the black DCL “I was a freshman in college and my father was a civil rights lawyer. They called him a Communist, and we had to move from Wilmington, to Chicago so my two sisters and I could walk to school. Hell, yes, I remember.”

“Make sure the FBI understands the conceivable similarity. We don't want reputations, even careers, ruined by irre=ible charges-or worse, rumors that won't die. We want federal gunslingers; we have to have discreet professionals.”

“I lived through the gunslingers, Wcs. It's a priority that they be cut off at the pass. Strictly professional, strictly quiet, that's the mantra.”

“I wish us all good luck,” said the director of Consular Operations, “but half of my brain, if I have one, tells me we're in dangerous waters.”

The Antinayous' sterile house in Paris's Marais district was staffed by two women and a man ensconced in a comfortable flat above a fashionable dress shop on the rue Delacort. The introductions were quick, Karin de Vries doing most of the talking, making the case for Drew Latham not only immediate but emphatic. The grayhaired woman in charge conferred briefly with her colleagues.

"We'll send him to the Maison Rouge in Carrefour.

You'll have everything you need, monsieur. Karin and her departed husband were always with us. Godspeed, Mr. Latham. The Briiderschaft must be destroyed."

The old stone edifice referred to as the Maison Rouge was initially a small economy-class hotel converted into a small economy-class office building. According to the shabby tenant directory, it housed such businesses as an employment agency for manual labor, a plumbing firm, a printer, a private detective agency specializing in “divorce procedures,” as well as a smattering of bookkeepers, typists, janitorial services, and offices for rent, of which there were none. In reality, only the employment agency and the printer were legitimate; the rest were not in the Paris telephone book, ostensibly either out of business or closed for specific dates (altered successively on door signs). In their places were single and double rooms and a number of mini-suites, all complete with unlisted telephones, fax machines, typewriters, television sets, and desktop computers. The building was unattached, and two narrow alleyways led to the rear, where there was a concealed sliding door disguised as a tall, rectangular panoply of basement windowpanes. It was never to be used during daylight hours.

Each guest of the Antinayous was given a concise briefing as to what was expected of him or her, including clothing (wardrobe provided, if necessary), behavior (not haut Parisien), communication between residents (absolutely verboten unless cleared by the “management”), and the precise scheduling of entries and departures (again cleared by management). Failure to adhere to the regulations would result in immediate expulsion, no appeal possible. The rules were admittedly harsh, but they were for everyone's benefit.

Latham was assigned to a mini-suite on the third floor; he was as impressed by the technical appointments as he was by what Karin had described as “German efficiency.” After having been thoroughly tutored in the workings of the equipment by a member of the management, he went into the bedroom and lay down, glanced at his watch, and estimated that he could call Karin de Vries at the embassy in a little over an hour. He wished it were sooner; the waiting to find out whether or not her strategy was successful was nerve-racking, although the lie she had concocted was exotic, even humorous considering the circumstances. Her tactic was simple: She had been with him at the bombed-out brasserie; he had disappeared and she was frantic. Why? Because she found him delightful and they were “heading toward an affair.” It was an appealing prospect and equally out of the question-on second thought, perhaps not terribly appealing, thought Drew. She was a strange woman, justifiably filled with anger and painful memories, her attractiveness diminished by both. She was a child of European angst, the national and racial upheavals that were poisoning the entire continent, and Latham was not prepared to join her crowd. He was uncomfortable when he observed her sharp yet oddly soft, lovely features turn glacial, her wide, stunning eyes become two orbs of ice, when her past consumed her. No, he had enough problems of his own.

Then why was he thinking so about her? She had saved his life, of course..... but then, she had saved her own as well. His life..... what was the phrase she had used?

“Perhaps it was meant to appear that way.” No! He was sick of the circles within circles, where none broke off in tangents that led to the irrefutable truth.

Where was the truth? Harry's list? Karin's concern? Moreau? Sorenson? .. . He had nearly been killed four times and that was enough!

He had to rest, then think, but rest first. Rest was a weapon, often more potent than firepower, an old trainer had once told him. So with the exhaustion born of fear and anxiety, Drew closed his eyes.

Sleep, fitful as it was, came quickly.

The harsfi bell of the Paris phone awakened him; bolting upright, he grabbed it.

“Yes?”

“It is I,” said Karin.

“I'm speaking on the colonel's telephone.”

“It.”s swept," interrupted Latham, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his left hand.

“Is Witkowski there?”

“I thought you might ask that. Here he is.”

“Hello, Drew.”

“The attempts on my life are multiplying, Stosh.”

“So it would appear,” agreed the G-2 veteran.

“You stay deep until things are clearer.”

“How clear do they have to be? They want me out, Stanley!”

“Then we have to convince them that temporarily it would not be to their advantage. You have to buy time.”

“How the hell do we do that?”

“I'd have to know more than I do to give you an answer, but basically to make them believe you're more valuable alive than dead.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Everything. Sorenson's your boss, your ultimate control. I know Wesley, not well, but we're acquainted, so reach him, clear me, and bring me up to speed.”

“I don't have to reach him. It's my life and I'm making an on scene decision. Take notes, then burn them, Colonel.” Latham started from the beginning, with Harry's disappearance in the Hausruck Alps, his capture and escape from the Brotherhood, then the missing files in Washington that dealt with an unknown French general, followed by the Jodelle connection, his suicide at the theater, and his son, Jean-Pierre Villier. At this juncture Stanley Witkowski sharply interrupted.

“The actor?”

“That's the one. He was enough of a jackass to go out on his own playing a street bum, and come up with information that could be valuable.”

“Then the old man really was his father?”

“Confirmed and reconfirmed. He was a member of the REsistance, captured by the Germans, and sent to the camps, where he was driven insane-damn near completely.”

"

“Damn near'? What's that mean? Either you are or you're not.”

“A small part of him wasn't. He knew who he was .. what he was .. . and for nearly fifty years he never tried to make contact with his son.”

“Didn't anyone try to make contact with him?”

“Like thousands of others who never returned, he was presumed dead.”

“But he wasn't,” said Witkowski'thoughtfully, “just mentally crippled and no doubt physically a wreck.”

“Barely recognizable, I'm told. Still, he couldn't stop going after a turncoat general who had ordered his family executed and whose name disappeared with-the files. Villier confirmed that; he learned it was someone in the Loire Valley, in and around which some forty or fifty retired generals live, usually in modest country houses or larger places owned by others. That was his information, that and a license plate' number of a capo who rousted him for asking questions.”

“About the general?”

“One of four or even five dozen down there. A soldier with the rank of general fifty years ago would have to be somewhere in his middle to late nineties if he's still alive.”

“Actuarially, that's pretty remote,” agreed the colonel.

“Old soldiers, especially those who've weathered combat, rarely last beyond their early eighties-something to do with past traumas catching up with them. The Pentagon did a study a few years ago relative to secure consultancies.”

“That's pretty ghoulish.”

“And necessary where confidential information is imparted and mental stability's on a collision course with declining health. Those old gaffers usually stay by themselves, fading quietly away, as the Big Mac put it. If they don't want to be found, you won't find them.”

“Now you're overdoing it, Stosh.”

“I'm thinking, goddammit.. .. Jodelle found out something, then killed himself in front of the son he had never acknowledged while screaming that he was his son. Why?”

“I figure it's because whatever he learned was too big for him to fight. just before he shoved the barrel in his mouth and blew his head off, he also screamed that he had failed-both his son and his wife. His defeat was total.”

“I read in the papers that Villier closed Coriolanus, no specific reason except how affected he was by the old man's suicide. The article wasn't clear at all; actually it sounded as though he knew things he didn't care to talk about. Naturally, like me, everyone's wondering if Jodelle was telling the truth. Nobody wants to believe it, because Villier's mother was a great star and his father one of the most respected members of the Com@die Fran@aisc, and they're both still alive. Of course, they can't be reached by the press; they're supposedly on a private island in the Mediterranean. The gossip columns are the Super Bowls of Paris.”

“All of which makes Villier as big a target as I am, a fact I made clear to our employee, Mrs. de Vries.”

“It's crazy, Villier should have been controlled, stopped.”

“I've been thinking about that, Stanley. I called Villier a jackass, and to do what he did, he was, but he's not a blind jackass. I have no doubt he'd risk his own life, confident of his actor's disguises and techniques. However, I don't believe for a minute he'd risk the lives of his wife or parents by making himself so public a mark for the neosto repeat, a target.” “Are you saying he was programmed?”

“I don't want to even think it because the Deuxi&me's Moreau was the last knowledgeable official to confront Villier before it was announced that the play was closing.”

“I don't understand,” said Witkowski hesitantly.

“Claude Moreau's the best there is. I really don't follow you, Drew.”

“Fasten your seat belt, Colonel. Harry brought out a list of names.” Latham proceeded to describe the profoundly disturbing information his brother had learned while being held captive by the regenerated Nazis. How alarming and bewildering were the identities of so many powerful people, who were apparently not only sympathetic to the aims of the neo master race, but who were actively working for them.

“It wouldn't be the first time since the pharaohs' legions that nations have been infested by lice in the upper ranks,” Witkowski broke “If Harry Latham brought it out, you can take it to the bank. He's on that rare plateau with Claude Moreau: brains, instinct, talent, and tenacity all coming together. There's nobody in this business better than those two.”

“Moreau's on Harry's list, Stanley,” said Drew quietly. The silence from the swept embassy phone was as electric as it had been with Sorenson when Latham delivered the same information.

“I trust you're still there, Colonel.”

“I wish I weren't,” mumbled Witkowski.

“I can't think of anything to say.”

“How about bullshit?”

“That's my first reaction, but there's a secondary one and it's just as strong. His name is Harry Latham.”

“I know that-for all the reasons you mentioned and several dozen you didn't. But even my brother can make a mistake, or accept disinformation until he analyzes it. That's why I have to talk to him.”

“Mrs. de Vries explained that he's due here in Paris within a day or two, that you left word for him to keep calling you, which now he obviously won't be able to do.”

“I can't even give him a number, it's not on the phone here. But you have it.”

"That number is buried in the underground telephone lines, at least the address is, and it's undoubtedly a false one.

“So what do we do?”

“It's a leap of faith neither Sorenson nor I would normally approve of, but tell Mrs. de Vries where Harry is in London. We'll take it from there and arrange your getting together. Here she is.”

“Drew?” said Karin, now on the phone.

“Is everything at the Maison Rouge all right?”

“Only outstanding, lady-excuse me, how about 'my benevolent female friend'?”

“Stop trying to be clever, it doesn't help. The Antmayous can be quite hostile, even with their proven allies.”

“Oh, they're fine, except that everything they say seems to end with an exclamation mark.”

“It's the language, dismiss it. You heard the colonel, how can I reach Harry?”

“He's at the Gloucester, under the name of Wendell Moss.”

“I'll make the arrangements. Stay where you are and try to remain calm.”

“That's not terribly easy. I'm in this mess but I'm also outside of it. I can't call the shots, and that bothers me.”

“You're not in a position to 'call any shots,” my dear. The colonel and I are, and we will act in your best interests, in all our best interests, believe me."

“Again, I have to, and thanks for the 'my dear.” A touch of warmth is appreciated right now. It's cold out here."

"I give it freely. As you do with the word lady that you applied to your mother, who is prettier and less cotter whatever than I am.

We are now en famille, for few families could be closer than we are, whether we like it or not."

“You know, I kind of wish you were here.”

“You shouldn't. I'd be a dreadful disappointment, Officer Latham.”

Far below in the embassy's pristine white cellars, a white coated member of Team C, the afternoon shift, snapped off the override switch that taped everything spoken over every telephone in the embassy; the scramblers did not affect the in-house calls, a fact even the ambassador was not aware of-orders from Washington.

The interceptor looked at the clock on the wall; it was seven minutes to four o'clock, seven minutes to the end of his shift, seven minutes to retrieve the tape and surreptitiously replace it with a blank. He could do it. He had to do it. Sieg Heil!

Patient No. 28

Undercover.

Code Name: Sting

“Escape.”

Current Status: Day 6, post procedure.

Estimated time span remaining: 3 days minimum, 6 days maximum.

Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger studied the computer screen in his new offices on the outskirts of Mettmach. A complete clinic was being built deep in the forests of Vaclabruck; until it was finished he could continue his research but, unfortunately, without human experimentation. Still, there was enough to do in terms of unexplored microsurgery enhanced by the newest laser techniques to occupy him, but currently the progress of Patient No. 28, one Harry Latham, was as vital as anything else. The initial report from London was exhilarating. The subject had responded to interrogation under computerized electronic impulses. Excellent!

Harry Latham replaced the phone in his room at London's Gloucester hotel. A rush of warmth spread over him, sweet memories of things past, hours of comfort and delight in a world that had gone mad. He was a confirmed bachelor, realizing that it was too late to share or impose his likes and dislikes with, or on, another person. But if ever there was a woman who could negate this conclusion,

Harry J. Latham, American. CIA Case Officer.

Operation Terminated: May 14, 5:30 P.M.

it was Frederik de Vries's wife, Karin. Freddie de V had been the finest runner under his control in the Cold War years, but Harry had spotted his flaw, the flaw that made him extraordinary. Simply put, it was hatred-unmitigated, passionate hatred. Latham had tried constantly to impose a cold neutrality on De Vries's emotions, warning over and over again that his inner self would explode one day and betray him. It was a useless plea, for Freddie was a demonic romantic, riding the blinding white crest of the wave, not understanding the power beneath, preferring the shining armor of a surfing Siegfried to the force of an unseen Neptune below.

His wife, Karin, understood. How often would she and Harry talk in Amsterdam, alone, while Freddie went out playing the outrageous role of a diamond merchant, gulling players of the darkest arts of espionage until they opened up to him .. . temporarily. That very image ultimately destroyed him, for his hatred led him to one more kill he shouldn't have made.

It was the end of the minor legend that was Freddie de V. Harry had tried to comfort Karin, but she was beyond consolation. She knew too well what had led to his death, and she swore she would operate differently.

“Forget it!” Harry had yelled.

“You're not going to make any difference, can't you understand that?”

“No, .1 can't,” she had replied.

“To do nothing is to admit that Freddie meant nothing. Can't you. understand that, my dear Harry?”

He had no answer then. His only impulse was to take this woman, this intellectual companion he felt so deeply for, into his arms and love her. But it was not the time, nor, perhaps, would it ever be. She had lived with her dead Freddie, loved her dead Freddie. Harry Latham had been that man's superior, but he was not his equal.

And now, nearly five years later, she had come back into his life from Paris. Even more remarkably, as the guardian of his brother, Drew, who was marked for execution! Jesus Christ .. . no, he had to impose his legendary control on himself. Maybe it was the ache in his head that seemed to grow stronger, that allowed his frustration to surface when normally it wouldn't. Regardless, he would fly to Paris in the morning on a diplomatic jet to a private field at De Gaulle Airport, and be met by Karin de Vries in an unmarked embassy vehicle.

He wondered what he would say to her. Would he be foolish enough, when he saw her, to say things he shouldn't say? It didn't much matter.. .. The ache in his head was pulsating. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and took two more aspirin.

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he abruptly looked a second time.

A pale rash was developing above his left temple, partially obscured by his hairline. His nervous system was making its mark literally.

It would go away with a mild antibiotic or a few days of diminished tension; perhaps the sight of Karin de Vries would hasten its disappearance.

There was a knock on the suite's door, probably a maid or a steward looking after his needs; it was early evening, and such were the courtesies of the better London hotels. Early evening, he mused, walking out into the sitting room. Where had the day gone?

Gone? Wasted was the better word, for he had spent ten hours being interrogated by his tribunal. Ad nauseum, they had questioned him about the information he had brought out of the Brbderschaft valley rather than accepting it and setting the machinery in motion. To make matters even more aggravating, the three-man panel was augmented by several senior intelligence officers from the U.K.“ the U.S.” and France, all querulous, argumentative, and arrogant. Wasn't it conceivable that he had been fed disinformation, erroneous data that could easily be denied on the outside possibility that Alexander Lassiter was a double agent? Of course it was conceivable! he had said. Disinformation, misinformation, human or computer error, wishful thinking, fantasizing-anything was possible! It was their job to confirm' or deny, not his. His work was finished; he had delivered the material, it was their function to evaluate it.

Harry reached the door and spoke.

“Who is it?”

“A new old friend, Sting,” came the reply from the corridor.

Catbird! thought Latham, instantly freezing his reaction. The Catbird no one at the Agency had ever heard of Harry welcomed this strange intruder; he had been too worn out, too wasted to think clearly last night when the CIA impostor had paid him a visit.

“Just a moment,” he said in a louder voice.

“I'm dripping wet from a shower, I'll go put on a robe.” Latham ran first to the bathroom, threw handfuls of water over his hair and face, then dashed into the bedroom, removing his trousers, shoes, socks, and shirt, and grabbed the hotel bathrobe from the closet. He stopped briefly, looking down at the bedside table; he opened the top drawer and pulled out the small automatic supplied by the embassy and shoved it into the terry-cloth pocket. He returned to the door and opened it.

“Catbird, if I -remember correctly,” he said, admitting the pale, gray-faced man wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

“Oh, that,” remarked the visitor, smiling pleasantly.

“It was a harmless ruse.”

“A trick? What do you mean? What for?”

“Washington told me you were probably exhausted, more out of the picture than in it, so I decided to cover myself in case you were hyper and felt the need to make phone calls. D.C. doesn't want my participation known at this point. Later, of course, but not now.”

“So you're not Catbird-”

“I knew that if I used the code name Sting, you'd let me in,” the man interrupted.

“May I sit down? I'll only be a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” replied a bewildered Harry, gesturing ainileisly toward the couch and several chairs. The visitor chose the center of the couch as Latham sat in an armchair directly across, a coffee table between them.

"Why doesn't Washington want your presence your participation known

“You I re certainly much more alert than you were last evening,” said the stranger, again pleasantly.

“Heaven knows you weren't traumatic, but you definitely weren't yourself.”

“I was pretty tired-”

“Tired?” The visitor raised both his voice and his eyebrows.

"My dear fellow, you practically passed out as we talked. At one point I had to grab your arm to keep you from failing.

Don't you remember, I said I'd come back when you were rested?"

“Yes, I vaguely remember, but please answer my question, and while you're at it, show me some identification. Why does Washington want you to be a ghost? I'd think the opposite would be the case.”

“Quite simply, because we don't know who's really secure and who isn't.” The man removed first his pocket watch, placing it on the table, and then a black plastic ID case; he kept it closed and handed it across the coffee table to Latham.

“I'm timing myself so not to wear you out. Orders again.”

Fingering the small case, Harry had difficulty opening it.

“Where's the clasp?” he asked as his visitor held up the pocket watch and pressed the crown.

“I can't find the-” Latham stopped.

His eyes grew unfocused, the pupils dilated; he blinked briefly but repeatedly, then his face sagged, the tense muscles turning flaccid.

, “Hello, Alex,” said the visitor sharply.

“It's your old sawbones, Gerhardt. How are you, my friend?”

“Fine, Dr. Straightface, it's good to hear from you.”

“Our telephone connection's better this evening, isn't it?”

“Telephone? I guess so.”

“Did everything go well today at the embassy?”

“Hell, no! Those idiots kept asking questions they should find the answers for, not me.” '

“Yes, I understand. Men in that other business of yours -the one we never mention-protect themselves at all costs, don't they?”

“It's in every question they ask, every word they say. Frankly, it's deplorable.”

“I'm sure it is. So what are your plans, what have the idiots allowed you to do?”

"I'm flying to Paris in the morning. I'll see my brother, and also someone I'm very fond of, Gerhardt. The widow of a man I worked with covering East Berlin. I'm quite excited about seeing her again.

She'll meet me at the airport, the diplomatic complex, in an embassy car."

“Your brother can't meet you, Alex?”

“No.. .. Wait! Alex's brother?”

“Never mind,” said the gray-faced visitor quickly.

“The brother you speak of, where is he?”

“It's off the books. They tried to kill him.”

“Who tried to kill him?”

“You know. They did .. . we did.”

“Tomorrow morning, the diplomatic complex. That's De Gaulle airport, right?”

“Yes. Our ETA is ten o'clock.”

“Fine, Alex. Have a splendid reunion with your brother and the woman you find so attractive. ”“Oh it's more than her looks, Gerhardt. She's extraordinarily intelligent, a scholar actually.”

“I'm sure she is, for my friend Lassiter is a deep man with many facets. We'll talk again, Alex.”

“Where are you going, where are you?”

“They're beeping me for the OR. I have to operate.”

“Yes, of course. You'll call again?”

“Certainly.” The visitor wearing steel-rimmed glasses leaned forward over the edge of the coffee table; he continued quietly, firmly, staring into Latham's neutral eyes.

"Remember, old friend, respect the wishes of your guest from Washington. He's under orders. Forget his name, which you just read on his identification.

It's authentic, that's all you really care about."

“Sure. Orders are orders, even when they're stupid.”

Half rising, the “guest” reached over and took the ID case out of Harry's limp-Left hand. He opened it, sat back down on the couch, and picked up the pocket watch from the small, low table. He pressed the crown, holding it in place until he saw Latham's eyes coming back into focus, saw him blinking, suddenly aware of his surroundings, his face again firm, the muscles of his chin taut.

“There,” said the visitor, loudly snapping the ID case shut, "so now that you know I'm legitimate, photograph and all, just call me Peter.

"

“Yes .. . authentic. I still don't understand .. . Peter. All right, you're a ghost, but why? Who's not secure on the tribunal?”

“Mine not to wonder why or who, I'm just the unseen presence that talks to you.. .. My word, I think that's a rhyme.”

“A bad one, but never mind. How could any of them be questioned?”

“Maybe they're not, individually, but others were brought in, weren't they?”

“A gaggle of clowns, yes. They didn't want to examine the names I brought out. They just wanted to clear a lot of them before the microscopes are activated-less work and less chance of stepping on the toes of big feet.”

“What do you think of the names?”

“What I think doesn't matter, Peter. Naturally, a number of them strike me as preposterous, but I was at the source, a trusted confidant until I escaped. I was a major contributor, a believer in their cause, so why would they feed me dirt?”

“The rumor is that the Nazis, the new Nazis, may have known who you were from the beginning.”

“That's not a 'rumor,” that'll be their credo. What the hell would we do, and how often did we do it, when we found a mole or a turnaround who fled to Mother Russia after looting us? Of course we proclaimed how smart we were, how deep-efficient, and how useless was the information stolen from us-when it wasn't."

“It's a conundrum, isn't it?”

“What isn't in this business? Right now, for my own sanity, if you like, I have to purge Alexander Lassiter from my psyche. I have to be Harry Latham again; my job is finished. Let others take over.”

“I agree with you, Harry. Also my time's up. Please, remember my orders. We didn't meet tonight.. .. Don't blame me, blame Washington.”

The visitor walked up the hallway to the elevators. He took the first one available and descended a single floor, then went down the corridor to his own suite, directly below Latham's. Inside, on the desk, was an arrangement of electronic equipment. He crossed to it, pressed several buttons rewinding a tape, and confirmed its accuracy. He picked up the telephone and dialed Mettmach, Germany.

“Wolf's Lair,” said the quiet voice over the line.

“It's Catbird.”

“Introduce your impediment, please.”

“At once.” The man who called himself Peter delicately pulled a thin wire out of his equipment, its tip attached to a razor-sharp alligator clamp, and rotated it around the telephone cord until there was a momentary burst of static on the line.

“The metro meter indicates clearance, how so there?”

“Clear. Go ahead.”

“Catbird, if I remember correctly,” began the tape recording. The resident below Harry Latham's suite played it to the finish.

“I agree with you, Harry.. .. Don't blame me, blame Washington.”

“What's your assessment?” asked Latham's visitor.

“It's dangerous,” said Gerhardt Kroeger in Germany.

“Like most deep-cover operatives, he's subconsciously crossing over from one identity to another. It's in his own words: ”I have to purge Alexander Lassiter from my psyche.“ He was Lassiter too long, and he's fighting back to be himself. It's not an uncommon occurrence, the dual persona becoming a dual personality.”

"He's accomplished what you wanted him to do in a matter of two days. The list itself was sufficient to put our enemies into a collective state of shock. They don't want to believe his information, they're very vocal about that, but they're also frightened to deny it. I can take him out with a single shot in the hallway.

Shall I?"

“It would lend credence to the list of names, but no, not yet. His brother is closing in on the trail of that senile tramp, jodelle, and it could be catastrophic for us. As much as it tortures me not to follow up on my patient's progress, the movement comes first and I must make the sacrifice. Alexander Lassiter will lead us to the other interfering Latham. Kill them both.”

“It won't be difficult. We have Lassiter's itinerary.”

“Follow it, follow them, and leave nothing but corpses. jodelle's resurrected son, the actor, will be next, then all traces to the Loire Valley will be dust, as it is with the Hausruck.”

Harry Latham and Karin de Vries held each other as close brothers and sisters do after having been parted for a very long time. Their chatter, at first, was garbled, each excitedly telling the other how marvelous it was to be together again. Karin then clutched his arm, steering them both toward the diplomatic lounge, where Harry was processed rapidly, then out to the restricted parking area thick with uniformed guards, a number holding the leashes of various dogs trained to ferret out such items as narcotics and explosive devices.

The car was a nondescript black Renault, indistinguishable from several thousand others on the streets of Paris. De Vries climbed behind the wheel while Harry got into the passenger seat.

“We don't rate a driver?” asked Latham.

“Let's say we're not permitted, to have one,” replied Karin.

“Your brother is under the protection of the Antinayous, remember them?”

“Most emphatically-from the other night to be precise; they were waiting for me. I pretended not to understand a word my contact said in the truck because it would have involved an explanation that could lead to Freddie, and by extension, you.”

“You needn't have feared. I've been working with them since my last year in The Hague.”

“It's so good to see you,” said Harry, his voice filled with emotion, “to hear you.”

“I feel the same way, old friend. Since I learned the Briiderschaft knew about you, I've been so terribly worried-”

“They knew about me?” Latham interrupted sharply, his eyes wide, bulging in astonishment.

“You're not serious!”

“Nobody's told you?”

“How could they? It's not true.”

“It is, Harry. I explained to Drew how I found out.”

“You?”

“I assumed your brother had passed on the information.”

“Christ, I can't think!” Latham brought both his hands to his temples, pressing harshly, his eyes tightly closed, the crow's-feet emphasized.

“What is it, Harry?”

“I don't know, there's a dreadful pain-”

“You've been through so much, so long. We'll get you to a doctor. ”

“No. I'm Alexander Lassiter-I was Alexander Lassiter, that's all I was to them.”

“I'm afraid not, my-dear.” Karin glanced at her old friend, suddenly alarmed. There was a dark red circle on his left temple;

it seemed to throb.

“I brought your favorite brandy so we could celebrate, Harry. It's in the glove compartment. Open it and have some. It'll calm you down.”

“They couldn't have known,” choked Latham, with trembling fingers opening the glove compartment and pulling out the pint of brandy.

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” said De Vries, now frightened.

"Have a drink and relax.

“We're meeting Drew at an old country inn on the outskirts of Villejuif. The Antinayous wouldn't permit us to meet at the safe house. Calm down, Harry.”

“Yes, yes, I will, because, my dear-my dearest Karinyou are wrong. My brother will tell you, Gerhardt Kroeger wi ”II tell you, I'm Alex Lassiter, I was Alex Lassiter!"

“Gerhardt Kroeger?” asked a bewildered De Vries.

“Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?”

“A goddamned Nazi .. . also a superb doctor.”

“In fifteen or twenty minutes we'll be at the inn where your brother is waiting for us.. .. Let's talk about the old days in Amsterdam, my old friend. Do you remember the night Freddie came home half soused and insisted on playing your American game of Monopoly?”

“Good God, yes. He threw out a handful of diamonds and said we should use them instead of the paper money.”

“And the time you and I drank wine and listened to Mozart until it was almost dawn.”

“Do I?” cried Latham, swallowing brandy and laughing, his eyes, however, not bright with laughter, but dark, glaring.

“Freddie came out of your bedroom and made it plain that he preferred Elvis Presley. We threw pillows at him.”

“And that morning in the cafe on the Herengracht when you and I told Freddie he could not jump into the canal to make a point about pollution?”

“He was going to do it, my dear-my dearest Karin. I swear he was.”

The harmless badinage covered the remaining minutes until De Vries turned into the graveled parking area of the rundown country inn, country but barely out of the city, flanked by overgrown fields, isolated, and not really inviting. The meeting between the brothers was as warm, although warmer on the younger's part, as the welcoming embrace between Harry and Karin. The difference was in the older brother; there was surface ebullience, but a chill underneath. It was unexpected, not natural.

“Hey, big bro, how did you do it?” exclaimed Drew as the three of them sat in a booth, De Vries on Har 's side..ry “I've got a legend for a brother!”

“Because Alexander Lassiter was a person. It's the only way it could be done.”

“Well, you sure. pulled it off-at least up to a point, enough to get you there.”

“You're talking about what Karin told you?”

“Well, yes-”

“Untrue. Totally false!”

“Harry, I said I could be wrong.”

“You are wrong.”

“Okay, Harry, okay.” Drew held up both hands, palms forward.

“So she's wrong, it happens to be what she heard.”

“Bastard sources, illegitimate, no confirmation.”

“We're on your side, bro, you know that.” The younger brother looked at De Vries, his expression questioning, disturbed.

“Alexander Lassiter was real,” said Harry emphatically, wincing as he raised his left hand to his temple, rubbing it in circles.

“Ask Gerhardt Kroeger, he'll tell you.”

“Who is-”

“Never mind,” Karin broke in, shaking her head, “he's a fine doctor, your brother explained that to me.”

“How about to me, bro? Who's this Kroeger?”

“You'd really like to know, wouldn't you?”

“Is it a secret, Harry?”

“Lassiter can tell you, I don't think I should.”

“For Christ's sake, what the hell are you talking about? You're Lassiter, Harry Latham is Lassiter. Cut the bullshit, Harry.”

“I hurt, oh, God, I hurt. Something's wrong with me.”

“What is it, dear Harry?”

“”Dear Harry'? Do you know how much that means to me? Have you any idea how much I love you, adore you, Karin?"

“And I adore you, Harry,” said De Vries, suddenly finding the older Latham crying and falling into her chest.

“You know I do.”

“I love you so much, so very much!” went on the semi hysterical babbling Harry as Karin cradled him in her arms.

“But I hurt so-”

“Oh, my God,” said Drew softly, watching the astonishing sight across the table.

“We have to get him to a doctor,” said De Vries, whispering.

“He began this in the car.”

“You're damned right,” agreed Drew.

“A head doctor. He was in deep cover too long. Jesus!”

“Call the em bass get an ambulance. I'll stay with y him.”

The younger Latham got up from the booth just as two men carrying weapons came rushing through the entrance, both in stocking masks. The target and the kill were apparent.

“Get down!”

he shouted, pulling his gun from his hip holster and firing before the assassins had adjusted to the dim light. He took out the first killer and lunged behind the freestanding bar as the second man raced forward, his automatic weapon on rapid fire. Drew stood up,

squeezing the trigger repeatedly, emptying his magazine. The second assassin fell as the few scattered customers ran hysterically out the front door. Latham rushed from behind his worthless barrier. Karin de Vries was on the floor, her left hand still gripping his brother's arm; she had tried to drag him with her. She was alive, her right hand bloodied, but she was alive! But Harry Latham was dead, his head blown apart, a horrible mass of blood and white tissue, what was left of his brain in fragments, half out of his skull.

Drew, his mouth stretched in dread, shut his eyes in terror, then forced them open as he plunged his hands into his dead brother's pockets, pulling out his billfold and all other papers that could lead to his identity. Why? He was not sure, he just knew he had to do it.

He then pulled the sobbing Karin out from under the booth and, wrapping her hand in a cloth napkin, propelled her away from the terrible scene. He shouted to the management, who had fled into the kitchen, to call the police. He would make the proper inquiries later. It was no time to mourn the brother he loved, nor any moment to stare in remembrance at his corpse. He had to get Karin de Vries to a doctor, and then go back to work. The Brotherhood had to be destroyed, they had to be, if it took him the rest of his life, or if it took his life. It was a commitment he swore before any and all the gods there might be.

“You can't go to your office, don't you understand that?” said Karin, sitting on a gurney in the surgical annex of the doctor on the embassy's secure listing.

“The word will go out and you're a dead man!”

“Then my office has to be moved to wherever I am,” said Drew, his voice low, insistent.

“I need all the resources we have, everywhere, and I'm not settling for anything less. The key is a man named Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger, and I'll find the son of a bitch, I've got to! Who is he? Where is he?”

“He's a doctor, we know that, and he must be German.” De Vries studied the younger Latham brother as she slowly raised and lowered her bandaged right hand following the doctor's instructions.

“For God's sake, Drew, let it out.”

“What?” asked Latham sharply, standing beside her and taking his eyes off her wounded hand.

“You're trying to make believe it didn't happen, and that doesn't make sense. You grieve for Harry as I do undoubtedly more so-but you're holding it inside, and it's shattering you. Stop pretending to be so coldly effi-cent. That was Harry, not you.”

“When I saw what they did to him, I told myself that mourning would come later. It's on hold and that's the way it's going to stay.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. Your rage can't be contained. You want revenge, and that comes first.”

"You used a phrase about Harry before, about the way he approached problems, or crises. You called it sangfroid, which I understand means calmly or dispassionately

“It does.”

“My French is limited, a fact I'm reminded of a lot, but there's a variation of that phrase-”

“De sang-fro id-in cold blood,” said Karin, her eyes locked with his.

“Exactly. That's what Harry was really good at. He approached everything in life, not just calmly or coolly, but coldly-ice cold. I was the only exception; when he looked at me there was a warmth in those looks I rarely saw otherwise.. .. No, there was one other, our cousin, the one I told you about who died of cancer. She was also special to him, very special. Speaking in the gender sense, could be she was his ”Rosebud' until you came along."

“You refer to Welles's Citizen Kane, o course.”

“Sure, it's part of our lexicon now. A symbol from the past that has more meaning for the present than a person realizes.”

“I had no idea he had such feelings toward me.”

“Neither did Kane. In his mind's eye he just saw a thing he loved as a child, and he never found anything else to take its place. That left only his accomplishments.”

“Harry was like that as a child?”

“Child, young man', and man. A straights student with an IQ that was off the charts. Bachelor's degree, master's, and Ph.D. before he was twenty-three. He was always driven to be the best there was, and along the way he became fluent in five, or is it six, languages. As I mentioned, he was a piece of work.”

“What an extraordinary life.”

“Hell, I suppose the Freudians would say he was a gifted kid reacting to a distant father-distant geographically as well as emotionally-and a sweet, intuitively bright but nonintellectual mother who was maritally mismatched and decided that being attractive, loving, and gracious was her role in life, so why get into debates she couldn't win,”

“And you?”

“I guess I inherited a few more of my mother's genes than Harry did. Beth's a large woman and was a damn good athlete when she was young. She captained the girls' track team in college, and if she hadn't met my father, she might have tried out for the Olympics.”

“You have a very interesting family,” said Karin, once again studying Drew's face, “and you're telling me all this for another reason beyond my curiosity, aren't you?”

“You're quick, lady-sorry, I'll try to stop saying that.”

“Don't bother, I'm beginning to find it rather nice.. What's the reason?”

“I want you to know me, where I am and where I came from. At least part of your curiosity should be satisfied.”

“Considering your penchant for reticence, that's an odd thing to say.”

“I realize that. I'm only just putting it together.. .. Back at the inn, when the firing stopped and the horrible thing was over, I found myself in a panic, rummaging through Harry's pockets, inches from what was left of his skull, his destroyed face, every second hating myself, as though I were committing some despicable act. The strange thing was, I didn't know why, I just knew I had to do it. I was being ordered to and I had -to obey that order despite the fact that I knew it wouldn't make any difference, wouldn't bring him back.”

“You were protecting your brother in death as you would in life,” said De Vries.

“There's nothing strange in that. You were shielding his name-”

“I think I told myself that,” Latham interrupted, “but it doesn't hold water. With today's pathology, his identity would be known in a matter of hours .. . unless his body were taken, quarantined.”

“After you got the name of the doctor from the embassy-”

“From the colonel, in fact,” Drew clarified.

“You called back, asking the doctor for a private telephone. It was a long conversation.”

“Again with Witkowski. He knows whom to reach and how to do these things.”

“What things?”

“Like removing a body and holding it in isolation.”

“Harry?”

“Yes. No one at the scene could have learned who he was after we left. That's when I put it together, somewhere between our getting out of there and my second call to the colonel. Harry was giving me those orders, he was telling me what to do.”

“Please be clearer.”

“I'm to become him, I'm taking his place. I'm Harry Latham.”

Colonel Stanley Witkowski moved quickly, calling in old debts from the Cold War years. He reached a C deputy chief of the Paris Sfiret@, a former intelli-I gence officer who had headed up the French garrison in Berlin, and with whom a frustrated Witkowski, then a major in the U.S. Army G-2, had seen fit to go around regulations and exchange information. (“I thought we were on the same side, Senator!”) As a result, the colonel had under his sole control not only the body of the slain Harry Latham, but also those of the two assassins. All three were stored under fictitious names in the morgue on the rue Fontenay. Further, in the interest of both countries, a fact readily accepted by the Sfiret6 deputy, a blackout was put on the terrorist act in the pursuit of additional information.

For Witkowski understood what Drew Latham only half perceived. The removal of his brother's body would create partial confusion, but along with the blackout, the disappearance of the killers made it total.

In a hotel room at Orly, prepared to take the three-thirty P.m. flight to Munich, the man in the steel-rimmed glasses paced nervously in front of a window, erratically distracted by the planes departing from and arriving at the field. The muted thunder of the jets served only to heighten his anxiety. He kept glaring at the telephone, furious that it did not ring,. delivering him the news that would justify his return to Munich, his mission completed. That the assignment could fail was unthinkable. He had reached the Paris branch of the Blitzkrieger, the elite killers of the Briiderschaft, so highly trained and skilled, so superior in the deadly crafts, they numbered less than two hundred instantly mobile predators operating in Europe, South America, and the United States. Catbird had been officially informed that in the four years since they had been sent to their posts, only three had been taken, two preferring their own deaths to interrogation and one killed in Paris in the line of duty. No details were ever revealed;

regarding the Blitzkrieger, secrecy was absolute. Even Catbird had to appeal to the second highest leader of the Brotherhood, the tempestuous General von Schnabe, to be permitted to enlist these elite assassins.

So why didn't the phone ring? Why the delay? The lethal surveillance had been in operation since the arrival of Harry Latham at 10:28 in the morning at De Gaulle airport and his departure by car at eleven o'clock. It was now past one-thirty in the afternoon!

Catbird couldn't stand the lack Of communication; he crossed to the bedside telephone and dialed the Blitzkrieger number.

“Avignon Warehouses,” said the female voice on the line in French.

“How may I direct your call?”

“Frozen foods division, if you please. Monsieur ”Giroux."

“I'm afraid his line is busy.”

“I'll wait precisely thirty seconds, and if he's not free, I'll cancel my order.”

“I see.. .. That won't be necessary, sir, I can ring him now.”

“Catbird?” asked a male voice.

“At least I used the right words. What the hell is going on? Why haven't you called?”

“Because there's nothing to report.”

“That's ridiculous! It's been over three hours!”

"We're as disturbed as you are, so don't raise your voice to me.

Our last contact was an hour and twelve minutes ago; everything was on schedule. Our two men were following Latham in a Renault driven by a woman. Their last words were “Everything's under control, the mission will be carried out shortly.”

“That was it? An hour ago?”

"Yes.

“Nothing else?”

“No. That was the last transmission.”

“Well, where are they?”

“We wish we knew.”

“Where were they going?”

“North out of Paris, specifics weren't mentioned.”

“Why not?”

“With frequency traffic, it would be stupid. Besides, those two are a prime unit, they've never failed.”

“Is it possible they failed today?”

“It's extremely unlikely.”

“Extremely unlikely is hardly an unequivocal answer. Have you any idea how vital this assignment is?”

“All our assignments are vital, or else they would not be directed to us. May I remind you, we are the solution of last resorts.”

“What can I say to Von Schnabe?”

“Please, Catbird, at this point, what can we say to him?” said the leader of the Paris branch of the Blitzkneger, hanging up the phone.

Thirty minutes passed and the man called Catbird could contain himself no longer. He dialed a number deep in the forests of Vaclabruck, Germany.

“This is information I do not care to hear,” said General Ulrich von Schnabe, the words delivered through a frozen mist.

"The targets were to be eliminated at the earliest opportunity. I approved Dr.

Kroeger's orders, for, you, yourself, told the doctor that there would be no difficulty, as you had the itinerary. On that-basis alone I permitted you to contact the Blitzkrieger."

“What can I say, Herr General? There is simply no word, no communication. Nothing.”

“Check with our man at the American Embassy. He may have heard something.”

“I have, sir, from public phones, of course. His last intercept simply confirmed that the Latham brother was under the protection of the Antinayous.”

“Those black-loving, Jew-kissing scum. No location, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Stay in Paris. Stay in touch with our killer unit and keep me informed of any developments.”

“Now you're the one who's crazy!” cried Karin de Vries.

“They've seen you, they know you, you can't possibly be Harry!”

“Sure I can, if they don't see me again, and they won't,” said Drew.

“I'll operate in absentia, from one place to another, keeping in touch with you and the colonel because I don't dare show up at the embassy. As a matter of fact, since we know the embassy's penetrated hell we knew it when Little Adolf showed up as my driver the other night-we might be able to find out who it is, or who they are.”

“Just how?”

“A railroad trap.”

“A what?”

“Like in a row of railroad cars filled with passengers, only one of them holds wild dogs.”

“Tlease-”

"I'll call you as Harry three or four times asking for papers from my dead brother Drew's files, naming one of Witkowski's couriers to meet me at a given time and place -a crowded place. You process the requests and I'll be wherever it is, but not where anybody can see me. If a legitimate courier shows up-I know them all-and he's not followed, fine.. I'll throw away whatever you send.

Then later I'll call again, with another request, telling you it's.urgent, I'm on to something. That's your cue to hang up and say nothing, relay nothing."

“And if anyone shows up, you'll know he's a neo, and that my phone was tapped from inside,” Karin interrupted.

“Exactly. If the circumstances are right, maybe I'll be able to take him and turn him over to our chemists.”

“Suppose there's more than one?”

“I said if. I'm not about to challenge a crowd of swastikas.”

“To use your own technique, I see a very large 'gap,” as you called it. Why would Harry Latham remain here in Paris?"

“Because he is Harry Latham. Tenacious to a fault, unrelenting in his pursuits, all the things that Harry was with the added intensely personal burden of his younger brother having been murdered here in Paris.”

“Certainly a convincing motive,” agreed De Vries.

“Yours actually.. .. But how will you get the news out? Isn't that a problem?”

“It's touchy,” said Drew, nodding his head and frowning.

“Primarily because the Agency will throw up its collective hands and cry foul. However, be too late if we're off and running, and I have an idea the colonel might come up with something. I'm meeting him later at a cafe in Montmartre.”

“You're meeting with him? What about me? I believe I'm somewhat intrinsic to this strategy.”

“You've been shot, lady. I can't ask you-”

“You don't ask, monsieur,” Karin broke in.

“I'll tell you. I'm going with you. Frederik de Vries's wife is going with you. You lost a brother most horribly, Drew, and I lost a husband .. . most horribly. You will not exclude me.”

The door of the outpatient surgery room opened, and the doctor cleared by the embassy walked in.

“I have reasonably favorable news for you, madame,” said the physician in French, an awkward smile on his face.

“I've studied the postoperative X rays, and with therapy you should regain at least eighty percent of the use of your right hand. However, the tip of the middle finger will be lost. Of course, a permanent replacement can be attached.”

“Thank you, Doctor, it is a small price and I'm grateful. I'll come to see you in five days, as you instructed.”

“Pardon, monsieur-your name is Lat'am?”

“It's as close as you people get. Yes.”

“You're to telephone a Monsieur S 'in Washington when it's convenient. You may use the phone here. All expenses are billed, naturally.”

“Naturally, but it's not convenient at the moment. If he calls again, please tell him I left before you could give me the message.”

"is that proper, monsieur?,)

“He'll thank you for not adding to his problems and personally approve your charges.”

“I understand,” said the doctor, his smile now appreciative.

“I don't,” said Karin, her first words as they walked through the entrance of the medical building and up the concrete pavement toward the parking area.

“Don't what?”

“Understand. Why didn't you want to talk to Sorenson? I'd think you'd want his advice; you said you trusted him.”

“I do. I also know that he basically trusts the system, he's lived with it for decades.”

"So?)@

“So he'd have trouble with what I'm going to do. He'd say it's the Agency's turf, the Agency's decision as to what happens next, not mine. Of course, he'd be right.”

“If he's right, why are you doing it? .. . Sorry, don't bother to answer, it was a stupid question.”

“Thank you.” Latham looked at his watch.

"It's nearly six o'clock.

How's your hand?“”I can't say it's terribly pleasant. The local anesthesia is wearing off, and thank God I couldn't see anything with my hand in that little cloth tent."

“An hour under the knife means a lot of cutting . Are 9 you sure you want to go with me to meet Witkowski?”

“My damn hand can fall off and you still won't stop me.”

“But why? You're one exhausted lady and you hurt. I wouldn't keep anything from you, you should know that by now.” :, They stopped at the car as Drew opened the "I do.

door; their eyes met.

“I know you won't keep anything from me, and I appreciate that. But perhaps I can add something, once I understand what you're really trying to do. Why don't you explain it to me?”

“All right, I'll try.” Latham shut the door, walked around the Renault, and climbed into the driver's seat. He started the engine, maneuvered the car into the exit lane, and continued, aware that she was staring at him.

“Who's Gerhardt Kroeger and what hold did he have over Harry?”

“Hold? What hold? He's obviously a Nazi doctor, a skilled one apparently, whom your brother knew in the Hausruck. He probably treated Harry for some sort of severe trauma. One can appreciate even the enemy if he helps you, especially if it's medical.”

“This Kroeger goes beyond normal gratitude,” said Drew, studying the road signs for the one that would lead them to Paris's Montmartre.

"When I asked Harry who Kroeger was, he answered me with these words; they're exact and I don't think I'll ever forget them.

“Lassiter can tell you. I don't think I should.” That's frightening, lady."

"Yes, it is-it was. But it was also consistent with his behavior.

The sudden display of emotion, the weeping, the cries for help.

That wasn't the Harry we both knew and described to each other, not the cool, analytical man, the dispassionate man we talked about."

“I disagree,” said Latham quietly.

"Isolate those words, repeat them, and you'll hear the Harry we knew speaking, pondering an option, not prepared to make a decision until he thought it through.

“Lassiter can tell you. I don't think I should.” Drew shuddered as he turned the Renault into the main highway toward the center of Paris.. "Gerhardt Kroeger is more than just a doctor he met in the Brfiderschaft valley. I called him a son of a bitch before, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he's the one who helped my brother to escape.

Whoever he is, he can tell us what happened to Harry when he was there, how he got his hands on that list of names."

“You're saying that Kroeger may be an ally, not a neo, and that Harry in his psychological confusion is actually protecting him?”

“I just don't know, but I do know that he's more than a doctor who treated him for a bad cold, or the arthritis Harry was beginning to complain about. Gerhardt Kroeget was too important to my brother, I sense it; I'm convinced of it. That's why he's the key, and that's why I have to find him.”

“But how?”

“Again, I don't know. Witkowski may have some ideas. Maybe we can enlist the Antinayous, they can spread the word that Harry's still alive. I simply don't know. I'm flying blind, but our. combined antennas will pick up things.. .. Sorry, Madame Linguist, I should have said 'antennae,” except it sounds silly."

“I concur. I'm also intrigued by your constant apologies over the things you say and think, backtracking, as though I'm a tutor of sorts.”

“I guess it's because you were closer to Harry than I was in those areas. He was constantly correcting me, mostly in a nice way, but he never stopped.”

“He loved you-”

“Yeah,” Drew interrupted wearily.

“Let's change the subject, okay?”

“Okay. What do you think the colonel will come up with, as you put it?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea, but if he's anything like his dossier, it'll be pretty fine-tuned.”

THE INTERNA-noN AL HERALD TRIBUNE

Paris Edition Terrorist Attack on U.S. Embassy Personnel

The United States Embassy has revealed that yesterday terrorists in stocking masks assaulted a restaurant in the

Villejuif area, where two Americans were having lunch. Mr.

Drew Latham, an attache at the American Embassy, was killed.

His brother, Mr. Harry Latham, a liaison at the embassy, survived and is currently in hiding on orders of his government.

The assassins escaped and neither the identity nor the cause of the assailants are clear, for they disappeared. They are described as two men, medium height, and wearing dark business suits. The surviving Mr. Latham described both assailants as being severely wounded as a result of his brother's alertness. Mr.

Drew Latham was armed and fired his weapon repeatedly until he was killed. French authorities, under enormous pressure from the American Embassy, are looking into the matter.

Speculations center upon both Iraqi and Syrian" For

Christ's sake, what's going on over there?" yelled the

Secretary of State, Adam Bollinger, over the phone to the ambassador to France, Daniel Courtland.

"If I knew, I'd tell you. Do you want to replace me? If so, go right ahead, Adam. You bastards put me into a raging fire and I don't know enough French to call for help. I'm career State, Mr.

Secretary, not one of your fucking political appointments-come to think of it, none of your contributors speak the language anyway, most barely speak English."

“It's no time to be vitriolic, Daniel.”

“It's time to have a chain of command, Bollinger! Drew Latham, one of the very few spooks with an open-minded head on his shoulders, is killed after four previous attempts on his life, and I don't have any answers!”

“His brother's alive,” said the Secretary of State lamely.

“That's just terrific! Where the hell is he?”

“I've got open lines to the Agency. As soon as I know, you'll know.”

“You're something else,” said Courtland derisively, letting his breath out.

“Do you really think deep-cover Agency personnel will tell you a goddamned thing? You're sitting behind a desk, but they have to survive. Hell, I learned that when I was posted to Finland, and the KGB was right next door. We're zeros -in situations like this, Adam. We're told what they want to tell us.”

“That's hardly proper. We are the ultimate authority, your chain of command, if you like.”

“Tell that to Drew Latham, who got blown away because we couldn't support him. Even our own embassy is penetrated. ”

“I simply can't understand you people.”

“You'd better begin to, Mr. Secretary. The Nazis are back.”

Director Wesley Sorenson of Cons-Op sat at his desk, his head forward, resting on his fingers. His sorrow was such that tears slowly emerged from his eyes, the loss so tragic, so unnecessary, that he questioned the essence of his own life. Drew Latham taken out-as he might have been so many times-and for what? What changes could the life of a single intelligence officer make when the hoo-haws of international negotiations came together at their fancy hotels and their banquets, their flag-strewn parades in convention halls signifying nothing but ceremonial hypocrisy?

Sorenson felt that it was the end for him. He had nothing more to give; he had seen too much death in the shadows of those parades. If there was a spark of light, it did not come:

And then it did!

“Wcs, I trust we're on scrambler,” said the familiar voice on the line.

“Drew? My God, is that you?” Sorenson lurched forward over his desk, the blood drained from his face.

“You're alive?”

“I also trust you're alone. I asked your secretary and she gave me an affirmative.”

“Yes, of course.. .. Let me catch my breath; this is incredible-I don't know what to say, what to think. This is you?”

“Last time I checked my pulse it was.”

Silence. The quiet before the storm.

“Then I believe you have some serious explaining to do, young man! Goddammit, I wrote a sympathy note to your parents.”

“Mother's a tough lady, she can handle it; and Dad, if he's around, will probably try to figure out which one of us caught the bullets.”

“You're distastefully cavalier-”

“It's better than being the other way, Mr. Director,” Latham interrupted.

“There's no time for that now.”

“There'd better be time for an explanation. Then Harry is-he's the one who was killed?”

“Yes. I'm taking his place.”

“You're doing what?”

“I just told you.”

“For Christ's sake, why? I never cleared anything like this, I wouldn't!”

“I knew that. It's why I went around you and did it myself. If I make any progress, you can take the credit. If I don't, well, it won't matter, will it?”

"To hell with credit, I want to know what you think you're doing.

This an intolerable breach of field conduct, and you know it!"

“Not entirely, sir. We all have the leeway of on-scene decisions, you gave us that.”

“Only in the event that proper channels of authority can't be reached in times of crisis. I'm here and you can reach me, whether I'm at the office, at home, on a golf course, or in a goddamned whorehouse-if I had any use for one! Why didn't you?”

"I just told you. You'd turn me down, and it'd be wrong because you aren't here, and there's no way I can make you understand because I don't really understand it myself, but I know I'm right.

And, if I may, sir, knowing something of your service record, I believe you've taken such unilateral actions yourself in the past."

“Cut the crap, Latham,” said a weary, frustrated Sorenson.

“What've you got and how are you approaching it? Why are you playing Harry?”

Painfully, reluctantly, Drew described the last minutes of his brother's life, the uncharacteristic outbursts of emotion, the tears, the apparent confusion he had in differentiating between his cover and his real identity, and finally, his refusal to amplify on a name, a doctor, that he brought up several times with Karin de Vries and then with Drew himself.

“He mentioned him,” explained Latham, “as if the man were some sort of secretive figure, to be either exposed or protected.”

“A sinner and a saint?” Sorenson asked.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“It's the Stockholm syndrome, Drew. The captive identifies with the captor. His feelings are a mixed bag of resentment, yet he's still currying favor, until finally, he episodically imagines himself to be the one with power. Quite simply, Harry was burned out; he lived over the edge too long.”

"I understand all that, Wcs, including the all-too-familiar Stockholm theory which covers too many bases for me, at least as it applies to Harry. His well-known cold rationality was still there.

This Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger, that's his name, was somehow important to my brother, sinner or saint notwithstanding. He knows what happened to Harry, maybe even how he got that list of names. It's possible this Kroeger is on our side and slipped them to him."

“I suppose anything's possible, and right now those names are a national catastrophe waiting to happen. At the moment, the Bureau is mounting a dozen covert operations to microscope everyone on the list over here.”

“Things have gone that far already?”

“In the words of our ubiquitous Secretary of State, who has both ears of the President, if this administration 'can root out the Nazi influence in the country, the nation will be forever grateful.” It's 'damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead."

"

“My God, that's scary.”

“I agree, but I can also understand why it's happening. Harry Latham was considered the finest, most experienced undercover man in the Agency. It's not easy to dismiss his findings.”

“Not was,” corrected Drew.

“Is, Wcs. Harry's alive; he's got to remain alive until I can smoke out this Gerhardt Kroeger.”

“If he's alive, he's got to reach the Agency, you damn fool!”

“He can't, because he knows, as I told you, that Langley is penetrated, as high up as the AA-Zero computers, and that's practically as close as you can get to Director Talbot.”

“I relayed that information to Knox. He can't believe it. ”

“He'd better, it's on the mark.”

“He's working on it, I convinced him,” said Sorenson.

“But your flying solo won't wash, young man. You do that, you become a rogue-agent no one will trust.”

“My flying solo is restricted because I have a conduit to Langley.”

“Not me. I won't compromise Consular Operations by going around the Agency. There's enough turf-sniping in this town as it is, and I admire Knox Talbot, I respect him. I will not be a party to it.”

“I knew you wouldn't, so I found someone else. Remember Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski?”

“Certainly. G-Two Berlin. Met him a number of times, a bright mAn-that's right, he's posted at the embassy now.”

“Chief of Security. He's got all the credentials he needs to satisfy the DCI. Harry worked with Witkowski in Berlin, and he's the natural conduit because my brother trusted him-hell, he had to, the colonel fed him enough G-Two input to prolong his station and probably his life. Stanley will figure out a way to reach Talbot on a sub-rosa channel and ask him to run an in-depth trace on this Kroeger.”

“It makes sense, Witkowski makes sense. What do you want me to do?”

“Absolutely nothing; we can't risk any cross-checks that might be picked up by neo. moles. However, I'd appreciate your standing by when and if I think I'm in over my head and could use some advice.”

“I'm not sure I'm capable of that. It's been a long time.”

"I'll take what you even vaguely remember as gospel, Mr.

Director.. .. Here we go. Harry Latham's alive and well and going out in search of a doctor-saint or sinner or both. Be in touch."

The line went dead and Wesley Sorenson held the phone in his hand, as if in a daze. The younger Latham's actions were dangerously unorthodox and should be aborted, the Cons-Op director knew that, knew that he should call Knox Talbot and come clean, saying whatever he could say to explain and protect his man, but it wasn't in him to do it. Drew had been right; how often had Case Officer Sorenson worked outside of sanction because he understood that his decisions would be struck down, yet knew that his course of action was the only one to take. Not only knew it, but passionately believed it. He heard his younger self talking as he listened to Drew Latham's words. Slowly, he replaced the phone, the chant of a prayer forming silently on his lips.

Jean-Pierre and Giselle Villier stepped out of the limousine at the hotel L'Hermitage in Monte Carlo; they had flown there from Paris by private jet. The reason for the trip, as described by the press, was to give the celebrated actor some rest after six arduous months performing in Coriolanus, culminating in the emotionally draining event that caused him to close the play. This information, however, was all that the media was given, all it would be given, as there would be no further statements and certainly no interviews. And after a few days of pleasant distraction at the Casino de Paris, it was understood that the couple would fly to an undisclosed island in the Mediterranean, perhaps to 'join his parents.

What the press did not know was that two military Mirage jets flew above and below the private plane from Paris, escorting it to its destination. Further, one of the two uniformed doormen, the assistant manager at the front desk, and assorted minor hotel functionaries were all Deuxi&me personnel, each cleared by the Bain de Mer, the select organization that ran the affairs of Monte Carlo and was the diplomatic liaison to the royal family of Monaco.

In addition, whenever Monsieur and Madame Villier left the hotel for the slow three-block ride to the casino, the bulletproof limousine was flanked by armed men in expensive, well-tailored suits- until the luxurious vehicle arrived at the steps of the majestic gambling establishment, where their counterparts took over.

Upon their arrival, the couple was joined in their suite by the chief of the Deuxi@me Bureau, Claude Moreau.

“As you can see, my friends, everything is covered, including the rooftops, where we have expert marksmen; and below in cars, all windows are constantly under roving telescopes. You have nothing to fear.”

“We are not your 'friends,” monsieur," said Giselle Villier coolly.

“And as to these precautions, a single gunshot destroys the facade.”

“Only if a gunshot is permitted, madame, and none will be.”

“What about the casino itself, how can you possibly control the crowds who may recognize me?” asked the actor.

“Actually, they're part of the protection, but only a peripheral part. We know the games you enjoy and at each such table we will have men and women who follow you, surround you, and block your bodies with theirs. No assassin, and certainly no Blitzkrieger, will attempt to fire unless his shot is clean. Such killers can't afford to.”

“Suppose your assassin is someone at a table?” Giselle interrupted.

“How can you protect my husband?”

“Another astute question, which I fully. expect from you, madame,” replied Moreau, "and I trust my answer will satisfy you.

At each table you will observe a man and a woman going around, pausing at each player-curious bystanders trying to decide whether or not to enter the gambling fray. Actually, they will carry in their palms metallic scanners which will pick up the solid steel of even the smallest-caliber weapon."

“You are thorough,” conceded Giselle.

“We are, I promised you that,” agreed Moreau.

“Please remember, I'll settle for just one Blitzkrieger who tries to assault you. My goal is to take him alive. If it does not happen here, with all the publicity we've issued, you're free to fly out and join your husband's parents.”

“On that mythical island?”

“No, monsieur, it's quite real. They're enjoying a lovely vacation on an estate in Corsica.”

“In a way, then,” said Jean-Pierre, “I hope the hell it does happen here. I never appreciated how lovely it was to be free.”

It did happen, but not in any way Claude Moreau had anticipated.

he music from the salon floated in diminishing strains the farther one walked from the marble enTrance of the Casino de Paris into the interior of the majestic gaming establishment. It was so easy to imagine the glorious early decades of the century, when magnificently adorned horse-drawn carriages, and then enormous motorcars, drew up to the glistening steps and disgorged royalty and the wealthy of Europe in all their finery. The times had changed, the clientele hardly as rarefied now, but the core of opulence remained, defined by the restored elegance of bygone eras.

Jean-Pierre and Giselle walked between the myriad tables toward the exclusive Baccarat Room, the entrance to which required an initial deposit of fifty thousand francs, said fee instantly waived for the celebrated actor and his wife. As they made their way, heads turned, audible gasps were heard, and not a few cries of “C'est lui!” overrode the general hum as various guests recognized Villier. The actor smiled and continuously nodded his head in appreciation, but with a distant modesty that conveyed a desire for privacy. While he did so, his entourage of finely dressed couples flanked Jean-Pierre and his wife, permitting only glimpses of the couple. Moreau's theory that no assassin would dare fire a weapon at such an elusive target was being borne out.

Once in the large, restricted room replete with silver stanchions connected by thick red velvet cords around the tables, champagne was ordered. The entourage was filled with ebullient laughter as Jean-Pierre and Giselle sat down, two large stacks of expensive chips placed in front of each, a cont rOle unobtrusively slipping a receipt for the actor to sign. The game proceeded, far better for Giselle than for Jean-Pierre, who mocked tragedy with every turn of the boot. Their accompanying “friends” subtly, slowly, silently moved around the table, each with one hand out of sight, in shadow. Moreau again;

palm-held metal scanners were at work detecting weapons.

Obviously, there were none and the game continued until the actor cried in great good humor.

“C'est finis pour moil Un autre table, s'il vous plait!”

They moved to another table, champagne glasses refilled for everyone, including the Villiers' gambling companions at the previous table, everything put on the actor's account. They settled in for another series of rounds and boots, now tilting to Jean Pierre favor. As the laughter grew, fueled by the chilled Cristal Brut, several members of the entourage sat in the seats of discontinued players. The actor pulled a double neuf, and, consistent with his excitable, theatrical reactions, he roared with approval.

Suddenly, at the table they had left, there was a prolonged scream, a hysterical cry of pain. All heads turned; the room erupted with consternation as the men at Jean Pierre table rose as one, their attention on the man who was collapsing off his chair, breaking down the velvet cord as he plunged to the floor.

Then there came another sound, more than a scream, far louder than a cry. It was the roar of alarm, shouted by a female voice, as a fashionably dressed woman lunged across the table at another woman sitting beside the actor, a killer with an ice pick she was about to plunge into the dark side of Jean-Pierre's left ribcage, only inches away. The tip drew blood, a complete thrust would have penetrated Villier's heart, but Moreau's agent gripped the assassin's wrist, twisting it counterclockwise. Paralyzing her at the throat, she slammed the would-be killer to the floor.

“Are you all right, monsieur?” yelled the Deuxi@me agent, looking up at the actor as she lay across the immobile assailant.

“A small puncture, mademoiselle-how can I thank you?”

“Jean-Pierre-”

“Easy, my dearest, I'm all right,” replied the actor, holding his left side and sitting down, “but we owe this courageous woman so much. She saved my life!”

“Are you hurt, young lady?” shouted Giselle, leaning over her husband's legs and grabbing Moreau's agent's arm.

“I'm fine, Madame Villier. Quite a bit better when you call me a young lady. I'm well beyond that.” Breathlessly, she smiled.

“Aren't we all, my dear. I must get my husband to a doctor.”

44MY associates are taking care of that, madame, believe me. 5@

Claude Moreau, appearing as if from nowhere, walked into the Baccarat Room, his expression one of both concern and muted exhilaration.

"We have done it, monsieur and madame-you have done it! We have our Blitzkrieger.

“My husband has been wounded, you idiot!” shouted Giselle Villier.

“For which I apologize, madame, but it is not serious, and his contribution has been enormous.”

“You promised he'd be safe!”

“In my business, guarantees are not always absolute. However, if I may say it, he has greatly enhanced the quest of his natural father and performed an act for which the Republic of France is eternally grateful.”

“That's gratuitous nonsense!”

"No, it isn't, madame. Whether you accept it or not, the unholy Nazis are coming out of the mud, out of 'the filth of their own creation. Each rock we can turn over brings us all closer to stamping out the snakes underneath. But your part in this is over.

Enjoy your vacation on Corsica. After you see a doctor, our plane is waiting for you in Nice, everything paid for by the Quai d'Orsay."

“I can do without your money, monsieur,” said Jean Pierre

“But I should like to reopen Coriolanus.”

"Good heavens, why? You've proved your triumph.

You certainly do not need the employment, so why go back to such a grueling schedule?"

“Because like you, Moreau, I'm pretty good at what I 40.”

“We shall discuss it, monsieur. One night's success does not mean the battle is over.”

Gray-haired, sixty-three-year-o@d Senator Lawrence Roote of Colorado hung up the phon@ in his Washington office, a disturbed man. Disturbed, bewildered, and angry. Why was he the subject of an FBI investigation he knew nothing about? What did it concern and who called for it? Again, why? His assets, admittedly considerable, were in a blind trust by his own choice s3 as to avoid even a scintilla of legislative compromise; his second marriage was solid, his first wife having been tragically killed in a plane crash; his two sons, one a banker, the other a university dean, were upstanding citizens of their communities, so much so that Roote thought they were at, times insufferable; he had served in Korea without incident but with a silver star; and his drinking consisted of two or three martinis before dinner. What was there to investigate?

His conservative views were well known and frequently attacked by the liberal press, which consistently took his words out of context, making him appear like a rabid proselytizer of the far right, which he definitely was not. Among his colleagues on both sides of the aisle, it was common knowledge that he was fair and listened to the opposition without rancor. He simply believed firmly that when government did too much for the people, they did too little for themselves.

Further, his wealth did not come from any inheritance; his family had, been dirt poor. Roote had climbed that elusive ladder to success, frequently slipping on the rungs, by holding three jobs through a small, obscure college and the Wharton School of Finance, where several members of the faculty recommended him to corporate recruiters. He chose a young, profitable firm; there was room and time to grow in the executive ranks. However, the smaller company was taken over by a larger corporation, which was in turn absorbed by a conglomerate, whose board of directors recognized Roote's talents and audacity. By the time he was thirty five the sign on the door to his suite of offices read Chief Executive Officer. At forty it proclaimed President and CEO. Before fifty, his mergers, acquisitions, and stock options had made him a multimillionaire. At which point, tired of the limiting pursuit of an ever-increasing profit margin and bothered by the direction the country was taking, he turned to politics.

As he sat at his desk, ruminating over his past, he tried to coldly objectify, searching areas where his actions might call into question his ethics or morality. In the early days, overworked and vulnerable, he had had several affairs, but they were discreet and only with women who were his peers, as eager as he was to maintain the discretion. He was a tough negotiator in business, always using the tools of advantage by researching, even creating what his adversaries wanted, but his integrity had never been doubted.. .. What in hell was the Bureau doing?

It had begun only minutes ago when his secretary buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“A Mr. Roger Brooks from Telluride, Colorado, on the line, sir,” said his secretary.

-Who?"

“A Mr. Brooks. He said he went to high school with you in Cedaredge.”

“My God, Brooksie! I haven't thought of him in years. I heard he owns a ski resort somewhere.”

“They ski in Telluride” Senator."

“That was it. Thank you, all-knowing one.”

“Shall I put him through?”

“Sure.. .. Hello, Roger, how are you?”

“Fine, Larry, it's been a long time.”

“At least thirty years-”

“Well, not quite,” Brooks contradicted gently.

“I headed up your campaign here eight years ago. The last election-you didn't really need one.”

“Christ, I'm sorry! Of course, I remember now. Forgive me.”

“No forgiveness required, Larry, you're a busy guy.”

“How about you?”

"Built four additional runs since then, so you could say I'm surviving pretty well. And the summer backpackers are growing faster than we can cut new trails.

“Course the ones from the East want to know why we don't have room service in the woods.”

“That's good, Rog! I'll use it the next time I'm debating one of my distinguished colleagues from New York. They want room service for everyone on welfare.”

“Larry,” said Roger Brooks, his tone of voice altered, serious.

“The reason I'm calling is probably because we went to school together and I ran that campaign down here.”

“I don't understand.”

“I don't either, but I knew I had to call you in spite of the fact that I swore I wouldn't. Frankly, I didn't like the son of a bitch; he talked quietly, like he was my best friend and was telling me the secrets of King Tut's tomb, all the while saying it was for your own good.”

“Who?”

“Some guy from the FBI. I made him show me his ID and it was for real. I came damn near throwing him the hell out of here, then I figured I'd better learn what his grief was, if only to let you know.”

“What was it, Roger?”

“Nuts, that's what it was. You know how some of the press paiin you, like they did old Barry G. in Arizona? The nuclear freak who'd blow us to hell, the downtrodder of the downtrodden, all that crazy stuff?”

“Yes, I do. He survived it with honor and so will I. What did the Bureau man want?”

“He wanted to know if I'd ever heard you express sympathy forget this-”Fascist causes.“ If maybe at one time or another you might have indicated that you thought Nazi Germany had certain justifications for what they did that led to the war.. ..” I tell you, Larry, by then my blood was boiling hot, but I kept cool and just told him that he was way off base. I brought up the fact that you were decorated in Korea, and you know what the bastard said?"

“No, I don't, Roger. What did he say?”

“He said, and he said it with kind of a smirk: ”But that was against the Communists, wasn't it?“ Shit, Larry, he was trying to build a case without a case!”

“The Communists being an anathema to Nazi Germany, is that what you gathered?”

“Hell, yes. And that kid wasn't aid enough to know where Korea is, but he was smooth-Jesus, was he wrapped tight, and spoke like a benevolent angel. All innocence and sww talk.”

“They're using their best men,” said Roote softly, staring down at his desk.

“How did the conversation end?”

“Oh, upbeat, let me tell you. He made it clear that his confidential information was obviously wrong, very wrong, and the investigation would stop then and there.”

“Which means it's just begun.” Lawrence Roote picked up a pencil and cracked it with his left hand.

“Thanks, Brooksie, thank you more than I can say.”

“What's going on, Larry?”

“I don't know, I really don't know. When I find out, I'll call you.”

Franklyn Wagner, anchorman for MBC News, the most watched evening news program in the country, sat in his dressing room rewriting much of the copy he would recite in front of the cameras in forty-five minutes. There was a knock on his door and he casually called out, “Come in.”

“Hi there, Mr. Sincere,” said Emmanuel Chernov, chief producer of network news, walking inside and shutting the door; he crossed to a chair and sat down.

"You got problems with the words again?

I hate to repeat myself, but it's probably too late to change the TelePrompTers."

“And to repeat myself, that won't be necessary. None of this would be necessary if you hired writers who could spell the word journalism, or even knew its basic precepts.”

“You print-types, or should I say, you refugees from print who can now afford joints in the Hamptons with swimming pools, always complain.”

“I went to the Hamptons once, Manny,” said the handsome, silver-haired Wagner while continuing to edit the sheets of copy, “and I'll tell you why I won't go there again. Do you want to hear?”

“Sure.”

“The beaches are filled with people of both sexes, either very thin or very fat, who walk up and down the sand carrying galleys to -prove that they're writers. Then at night they gather together in candlelit cafes to extol their unprintable scribblings and exercise their egos at the expense of unwashed publishers.”

“That's pretty heavy, Frank.”

“It's pretty damned accurate. I grew up on a farm in Vancouver where, if the Pacific winds brought in sand, it meant the crops wouldn't grow.”

“That's kind of a leap, isn't it?”

“Perhaps, but I can't stand writers, on television or otherwise, who let the sand pile up between the words.. .. There I'm finished. If there aren't any news breaks we'll have a relatively literate broadcast.”

4 4Nobody can say you're humble, Mr. Sincere."

“I don't pretend to be. And, speaking of humility, to which you're uniquely entitled, why are you here, Manny? I thought you delegated all criticisms and network objections to our executive producer.”

“This goes beyond that, Frank,” said Chernov, his eyes heavy lidded sad.

“I had a visitor today, this afternoon, a fellow from the FBI, who, God knows, I couldn't ignore, am I right?”

“So far. What did he want?”

“Your head, I think.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're Canadian, right?”

“I am, indeed, and proud of it.”

"When you were in that university, the .. . the

“University of British Columbia.”

“Yeah, that one. Did you protest the Vietnam War?”

“It was a United Nations 'action,” and, yes, I opposed it vociferously."

“You refused to serve?”

“We, were not obligated to serve, Manny.”

“But you didn't go.”

“I wasn't asked to and if I had been, I wouldn't have.”

“You were a member of the Universal Peace Movement, is that correct?”

“Yes, I was. Most of us, not all, of course, were.”

“Did you know that Germany was one of the sponsors?”

“The young people of Germany, student organizations, certainly not the government. Bonn is prohibited from engaging in armed conflicts or even parliamentary discussions of the issues. Their surrender codified neutrality. Good God, despite your title, don't you know anything?”

"I know that a lot of Germans were part of the Universal Peace Movement, and you were a member in pretty obvious good standing.

“Universal Peace' could have another meaning, like Hitler's ”Peace Through Universal Might and Moral Strength."

“Are you playing paranoid Hebrew, Manny? If so, I should remind you that my wife's mother was Jewish, which is apparently more important than if her father were. Therefore, my children, by extension, are hardly Aryan. Beyond that irrefutable fact, which disqualifies me from being part of the Wehrmacht, the German government had nothing to do with the U.P.M.”

“Still, the German influence was pretty damned apparent.”

“Guilt, Manny, profound guilt was the reason. What the hell are you trying to say?”

“This FBI man, he wanted to know if you had any ties with the new political movements in Germany. After all, Wagner is a German name.”

“I don't believe this!”

Clarence “Clarr” Ogilvie, retired chairman of the board of Global Electronics, drove his restored Duesenberg off the Merritt Parkway at the Greenwich, Connecticut, exit nearest his home, or estate, as the press sarcastically called it. In his family's wealthier days, before the '29 crash, three acres of land with a normal-size pool and no tennis court or stables would have hardly constituted an estate.

However, because he had I come from money," he was somehow an object of scorn, as if he had chosen to be born rich, and his accomplishments were therefore deemed meaningless, merely the products of high-priced public relations which he obviously could afford.

Forgotten, or, to be less charitable, purposefully overlooked, were the years he had spent, twelve to fifteen hours a day, turning an only marginally profitable family company into one of the most successful electronics firms in the country. He had graduated from M.I.T. in the late forties, an advocate of the new technologies, and when he came into the family business, he had instantly recognized that it was a decade behind the times. He let go virtually the entire executive hierarchy, providing all with pensions he hoped he could afford, and replaced them with like minded computer-oriented young bulls-and cows-for he hired by talent, not gender.

By the middle fifties the technological advances his teams of long-haired, jean-clad, pot-smoking innovators came up with had caught the attention of the Pentagonwith a shock and a thud. The patience of the sharply pressed “uniforms” was sorely tried by the despised, ill kempt “beards” and “miniskirts” who casually placed their feet on polished tables or buffed their fingernails during conferences while they patiently explained the new technology. But their products were irresistible and the nation's armed might was substantially increased; the y family business went global.

All that was yesterday, thought Clarr Ogilvie as he threaded through the backcountry roads that led to his house. Today was a day he never in his wildest nightmares had thought could come to pass. He realized that he had never been the most popular player in the so-called military-industrial complex but this was beyond the pale.

In short words, he had been labeled a potential enemy of his country, a closet zealot who supported the aims of a growing Fascist-Nazi-movement in Germany!

He had driven into New York to see his attorney and good friend, John Saxe, who said over the phone that it was an emergency.

“Did you supply a German firm called Oberfeld with electronic equipment that involved satellite transmissions?”

“Yes, we did. Cleared by F.T.C.” the export boys, and the State Department. No end-user contract was necessary."

“Did you know who Oberfeld was, Clarr?”

“Only that they paid their bills promptly. I just told you, they were cleared.”

“You never examined their, let's say, their industrial base, their business objectives?”

“We understood their desire to expand electronically, their specifications. Anything else was up to Washington's export controls.”

“That's our out, naturally.”

'What are you talking about, John?"

“They're Nazis, Clarr, the new generation of Nazis.”

“How the hell would we know that if Washington didn't?”

“That's our defense, of course.”

“Defense against what?”

"Some may claim that you knew what Washington didn't know.

That you willfully, knowingly, supplied a bunch of Nazi revolutionaries with the latest technological communications equipment."

“That's insane!”

“It may be the case we have to fight.”

“For Christ's sake, why?”

“Because you're on a list, Clarr, that's what I've been told. Also, you're not universally loved. Frankly, I'd get rid of that Duesenberg of yours.”

“What? It's a classic!”

“It's a German car.”

“The bell it is! The Duesenbergs were American, built mostly in Virginia!”

“Well, the name, you understand.”

“No, I don't understand a goddamned thing!”

Clarence “Clarr” Ogilvie pulled into his driveway, wondering what he could possibly say to his wife.

The elderly man with the shaved head and the thick tortoiseshell glasses that magnified his eyes stood thirty feet from the line of passengers validating their departures on Lufthansa Flight 7000 to Stuttgart, Germany. As each produced his or her passport, along with an airline ticket, the only pause in the procedure came when the clerks checked passports against an unseen computer screen on the left side of the counter. The bald man had been processed, his boarding pass in his pocket. He watched anxiously as a grayhaired woman approached a clerk and presented her credentials.

Moments later he sighed audibly in relief; his wife walked away from the counter. They met three minutes later at a newspaper stand, both studying the displays of magazines, but neither acknowledging the other, except in whispers.

“That's over with,” said the man in German.

“We board in twenty minutes. I'll be among the last, you be there among the first.”

“Aren't you being overly cautious, Rudi? Our passports and the photographs show two people completely different from our true selves, if, indeed, anybody is remotely interested in us.”

“I prefer excessive caution to indifference in these matters. I'll be missed in the morning at the laboratory-I may have been missed already if one of my colleagues has tried to reach me. We are approaching breakneck speed refining the fiber optics that will intercept international satellite transmissions regardless of frequencies.”

“You know I don't understand such talk-”

“Not talk, dear wife, but hard, solid research. We're working in shifts, twenty-four hours a day, and at any moment an associate may wish to check the research in our computers.”

“So let them, dear husband.”

“You are an unscientific fool! I have the software, and I've spread a virus throughout the system.”

“You know, your bald head is far less attractive than your waves of full white hair, Rudi. And if I ever permit this much gray in my hair, I'll forgive you if you seek a mistress.”

“You are also impossible, my adorable young wife.”

“Acb so why do we go through this nonsense?”

“I've told you time and time again. The Briiderschaft, there is only the Brtiderschaft!”

“Politics so bore me.”

“We'll see each other in Stuttgart. By the way, I bought you, the diamond necklace you saw at Tiffany's.”

“You're a darling! I shall be the envy of every woman in Munich!”

“Vaclabruck, my dear. Munich only on weekends.”

“Boring!”

Arnold Argossy, radio and television impresario of the hysteria prone ultraconservative wing of American political thought, squeezed his enormous frame into the inadequate chair at the studio table. He put on his earphones and looked over at the tinted glass panel, beyond which were his producer and the various technicians who caused the familiar high-pitched, grating voice, so beloved of his constituency, to be heard across the land. The once staggering number of his listeners had begun to fall off, insulted perhaps, by his singularly vicious attacks on anything and everything he considered liberal! without his offering any coherent alternatives to the programs he attacked. The gradual decline in his ratings had done nothing to diminish his ego; instead, he held on to his decreasing audience by ever-increasing assaults on LibboCommies, Female-Fascists, Embryo-Killers, Homeless Suckers and assorted labels that eventually had to turn off even the vast “patient, stable majority” who began to question his diatribes.

The red light flashed. ON AIR.

"Hello, America, you true red blooded sons and daughters of giants who carved a nation out of a land of savages and made it sweet.

It's AA. talking, and this afternoon I want to hear from you! The honest, hardworking people of this great land that's been soiled and spoiled by the sex-ridden, religion-bashing, morality-blasting, sick sycophants who run our government while running away with your money. Hear the latest, my friends! There's a bill before Congress that would permit our taxes to pay for obligatory sex education, specifically targeting innercity youths.

Can you believe Our cold cash squandered away on a hot topic, our dollars to fund, at the least, a million condoms a day so the rootless offspring of the lazy and the indolent can fornicate at the drop of a-no, I can't say it, for this is a family program. We spread the morality of our God; we do not pander to the base, savage hungers of Lucifer, the archangel of hell.. .. What is the solution to this promiscuous madness? It's so obvious, I can hear you shouting the answer, Sterilization, my friends! Benign denial of procreation by lust, for lust is not married love. Lust is the nonselective appetite of animals, and no amount of so-called sexual education can cure it, it can only cause it to proliferate! .. . Now, you know and I know who we're talking about, don't we? Oh, yes? I can hear the liberal chorus shouting racism! But I ask you, my friends, is it racist to inaugurate programs that without the slightest doubt can benefit the very people who are being debased by their promiscuity? I think not. What do you think?"

“Whippo!” cried the first caller.

“I got nuthin' against nobody, but I betcha if we paid every black person on welfare twenty-five thousand bucks to go back to Africa and start his own tribe, they'd grab it in a shot. I even figured it out. It'd be cheaper, right?”

“We cannot condone migration through bribery, sir, it's unconstitutional. But in a word, yowsah! Next, please.”

“I'm calling from New York City, AA.” lower West Side, and let me tell you, the Cuban-Spic cooking's stinking up the whole apartment house, and I can't read the signs on the stores no more.

Can't we get rid of Castro and send 'em back where they belong?"

“We also can't condone ethnic slurs, sir, but disregarding the unfortunate epithet you attached to a nationality, you do have a point. Write your senators and congressmen and ask why we haven't sent in a hit team to assassinate the Commie dictator. What else is left?”

“Double whippo, AA.! The senators and congressmen, they gotta listen to us, don't they?”

“They certainly do, my friend.”

“Great! .. . Who are they?”

“The post office has that information. Next caller for the Argossy Argonaut, please.”

"Good evening, mein Herr, I'm calling from Munich, Germany, where it is evening. We listen to you on the Religion of the World Broadcast, and we thank God they bring you to us. Also, we thank you for everything you've done for us!

“Who the hell is this?” said A covering the mirgossy, crop hone and looking over at the tinted glass panel.

“The RWB is a hell of a good market for us, Arnie,” answered the producer over the earphones.

“We're reaching into Europe on shortwave. Be nice and listen to the guy, it's his nickel and it's a lot of nickels.”

“So -how are things in Munich, my new friend?”

“Much better- for hearing your voice, Herr Argossy.”

“That's nice to know. I went to your fair city about a year ago and had the best sausage and sauerkraut I ever tasted. They mixed it all together with mashed potatoes and mustard. Terrific.”

“It is you who are terrific, mein Herr' You are obviously one of us, one of the new Germany.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean-”

“Nanirlich, of course you do! We will build the new Reich, the Fourth Reich, and you will be our Minister of Propaganda. You will be far more effective than Goebbels ever was. You are far more persuasive!”

“Who the fuck is this?” roared Arnold Argossy.

“Cut the mikes and stop the tape!” yelled the producer.

“Christ, how many stations did this go over live?”

“Two hundred and twelve,” replied an uninterested technician.

“Holy shit,” said the producer, falling into a chair.

THE WASHINGTON POST

Quiet Investigations Alarming Hill FBI Agents Roaming

Around Asking Questions

WASHINGTON, D.C." Friday The Post has learned that agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation have been traveling across the country seeking information about prominent figures of the Senate and the House of Representatives, as well as members of the administration. The nature of these inquiries is not clear and justice will not elaborate on or even confirm the existence of such interrogations. The rumors, however, persist, given substance by an angry Senator

Lawrence Roote of Colorado, whose staff admitted he had demanded an immediate meeting with the Attorney General.

After their conference, Roote, too, refused to comment, stating only that there had been a misunderstanding.

Hints that other “misunderstandings” have spread beyond the nation's capital came last night when the popular and respected anchor of MBC's evening news program, Franklyn

Wagner, set aside two minutes for what he called a “personal essay.” In his normally well-modulated tones there was an obvious bitterness, if not a controlled fury. He struck out at what he termed “the hyenas of vigilantism who pounce on long-past but totally legitimate political positions, even names and their origins, to smear the objects of their disaffections.”

He recalled the “mass hysteria of the McCarthy years, when decent men and women were ruined by innuendo and baseless guilt by association,” ending his essay by saying he was “a grateful guest in this magnificent country”-Wagner is Canadianbut would grab the next plane back to Toronto should he and his family “be pilloried.”

Bombarded later by questions, he also refused comment, saying only that the instigators knew who they were, and “that was enough.” MBC stated that their switchboards were. overloaded estimating that the calls were well into the thousands, over eighty percent supporting Mr. Wagner.

The only clue this reporter has been able to unearth is that the inquiries are somehow related to recent events in

Germany, where right-wing factions have made significant inroads throughout the Bonn government.

In his still unfinished medical complex, Gerhardt Kroeger paced aimlessly, impetuously, in front of his wife, Greta, who sat in a chair in their quarters deep in the forests of Vaclabruck.

“He's still alive, that we know,” said the surgeon excitedly.

“He's passed the first crisis, and that's a good sign for my procedure but not healthy for the cause.”

“Why so, Gerhardt?” asked the surgical nurse.

“Because we can't find him!”

“So? He will die shortly, no?”

“Yes, of course, but if he has a cranial hemorrhage and dies among the enemy, their doctors will perform an autopsy. They will find my implant, and that we cannot permit! ”

“There's not much you can do about it, so why aggravate yourself?”

“Because he must be found. I must find him.”

“How?”

“There will come a time in his. last days, his last hours, when he'll have to make contact with me. His confusion will be such that he demands instructions, demands them.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“I know. I don't know the answer.” The telephone rang on the table beside the wife's chair. She picked it up.

“Yes? .. . Yes, of course, Herr Doktor.” Greta placed her hand over the phone.

“It's Hans Traupman. He says it's an emergency.”

“I would think so, he rarely calls.” Kroeger took the telephone from his wife.

“This must be an emergency, Doctor. I can't remember when you called me last.”

“General von Schnabe was arrested an hour ago in Munich.”

“Good heavens, what for?”

“Subversive activities, inciting to riot, crimes against the state, all the usual legal garbage our forebears refined in a far more conducive environment.”

“But bow?”

“Apparently your Harry Latham-Lassiter was not the only infiltrator in our valley.”

“Inconceivable! Each and every one of our followers was put through the most rigorous examinations, even to the point of electronic brain scans that would reveal lying, doubts, the smallest hesitation. I myself devised the procedures; they're foolproof.”

"Perhaps one of them had a change of heart after he or she left the valley. Regardless, von Schnabe was picked up by the police and identified in a lineup where the accuser could not be seen.

According to what little we've learned, it may have been a woman, as there apparently were references to sexual abuse. A middle-level police officer was heard laughing about it with his colleagues in the Munich station."

“I told the general constantly, warned him repeatedly, about his liaisons with female personnel. He always answered, ”With all your learning, Kroeger, you don't understand. A general connotes power, and power is the essence of sex. They want me."

“And he wasn't even. a general,” said Traupman over the phone.

“Much less a von.”

“Really? I thought-”

“Youthought what you were meant to think, Gerhardt,” interrupted the doctor from Nureniberg.

“Schnabe is a brilliant student of military operations, a devoted partisan of our cause-few among us could have found, created, and managed our valley-those were his enormous strengths. Actually, in medical terms, he was, is, a sociopath of the highest intelligence, the sort of person such movements as ours demand, especially in the initial stages. Afterward, of course, they are replaced. That was the error of the Third Reich; they believed their false titles, lived them out, and overrode the real generals, the Junkers who might have won the war with a properly timed invasion of England. We will not make those mistakes.”

“What do we do now, Herr Doktor?”

“We've arranged for Schnabe to be shot in his cell tonight. The assassin will use a silenced pistol. It's not difficult; unemployment is high even among the criminal classes. It must be done before his interrogation begins, specifically the Amytals.”

“And Vaclabruck?”

“It's yours to run for now. What concerns us, what concerns our leader in Bonn, is your computerized robot in Paris. When will he die, for God's sake?”

“One day, three days at the outside, he can't last more than that.”

“Good.”

“Excuse me, Herr Traupman, but it is all too possible that he will experience a virtual explosion in his occipital lobe.”

“Where your implant resides?”

"Yes.

“We must find him before that happens. If they discover one robot, they'll believe there are a thousand others! ”

“I said as much to my wife.”

“Greta, of course. What does she suggest?”

“She agrees with me,” replied Kroeger as his wife stood up and shook her head violently.

“I must fly to Paris and meet with our people. First with the Blitzkrieger; they're missing something. Then with our plant at the American Embassy; we must refine what he knows about the Antinayous. Finally, our man at the Deuxi@me Bureau. He vacillates.”

“Be careful with Moreau. He's one of us in his stomach, but he's a Frenchman. We really don't know which side he's on.”

Andrew Latham, now his brother Harry, waited in the shadows of the Trocadero, behind the statue of DKing Henry the Innocent, his eyes peering through night-vision binoculars. Nearly a hundred yards across the vast concrete pavement were the equally dark spaces between the statues of Louis the Fourteenth and Napoleon the First.

It was the rendezvous point of his last request to Karin de Vries that day. The delivery of selected confidential papers he needed from his “dead brother's” office. It was almost eleven o'clock, the Paris night illuminated by a summer moon, a professional white hunter's moon in the African veldt, and Drew Latham found comfort in that fact.

“Two men emerged from a black sedan parked in the long, curbed entrance to the great facade of monuments. They wore dark business suits and walked toward the rendezvous, each carrying a briefcase ostensibly holding the papers he had ”urgently requested“ from his ”brother's" desk. They were ncos, for that last request, as coded, had not been transmitted by Karin de Vries. It was proof that her telephone was tapped within the embassy.

Drew ambled into the scattered groups of strollers, many Parisians, the majority foreign tourists holding cameras. Erratic flashes popped everywhere. The lapels of Drew's jacket were turned up, and a black visored cap partially covered his face as he made his way through the crowds, constantly remaining in the company of one group after another until he was within fifty feet of the rendezvous. He studied the two men between the two imposing statues; they were calm, as immobile as the monuments, the immobility only slightly marred by their slowly turning heads. Latham moved with his current group of tourists, instantly, alarmingly, noting that they were Asian and uniformly much shorter than he. Another small crowd of Westerners was coming from the opposite direction; he joined it, ironically realizing by the language that these sightseers were German. Perhaps it was a favorable omen; then it became practically optimistic. As one, the group closed in on the monument to Napoleon, conqueror of conquerors, and by the stridency of the comments there was a certain unmistakable association. S@cg Nappy! thought Drew as he kept his eyes on the two false couriers, now less than ten feet away. It was the moment to do something, but Latham was not sure what it was. Then it came to him. Les rues de Montparnasse.

Pickpockets! The scourge of the seventh ariondissement.

He chose the thinnest, least imposing woman nearest him and suddenly grabbed her shoulder bag. She screamed, “Ein Dieb!” In the semidarkness, Drew threw the purse to an unsuspecting man closest to the first false messenger from the embassy, and pummeled a couple into him, then another man and then another, while shouting unintelligible words in ersatz German. In seconds, a minor riot was taking place in front of Napoleon's statue, the screams reaching a rapid crescendo as everyone in the crowd tried to locate the thief and his stolen property in the shadows. The first illegitimate courier was caught up in the melee; he awkwardly struggled against the encompassing crowd, when suddenly -Latham stood in front Of him.

“Heil Hitler,” said Drew quietly in counterpoint to the surrounding hysterical voices as he punched the man in the throat with all his strength. As the neo collapsed, Latham dragged him away, pulling him into the darkness behind the row of statues that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, its majestic spires bathed in floodlights.

He had to get the man out of the Troca&ro! Get him out but avoid the second courier and whatever backups there were in the black sedan. He had come prepared to this rendezvous as he had to the others, with equipment willingly provided by the Antinayous.

A medical spray of

Arcane that would numb the vocal chords, a wire garrote that served to immobilize wrists, and a cellular phone with an untraceable number. He exercised the first two, taking a moment off to render his awakening captive back into unconsciousness, then pulled out the phone from his inside pocket. He dialed the colonel's unlisted home number.

“Yes?” came the soft voice over the line.

“Witkowski, it's me. I've got one.”

“Where are you?”

“The Trocadero, north side, last statue.”

“The situation?”

“I'm not sure. There's another man, and a car, a black four-door parked above. Who's in it, I don't know.”

“Is the place crowded?”

“Half and half.”

“How did you grab your target?”

“Have we got time for this?”

“If I'm to operate effectively, we make time. How?”

"A crowd of tourists near the marks. I stole a purse and started a riot!

“That's good. We'll escalate. I'll call the police and say we believe an American may have been murdered for his money.”

“They were German.”

“That's hardly relevant. The sirens will be' there in a few minutes. Get to the south side and work your way to the street. I'll be there soon.”

“Jesus, Stanley, the guy's dead weight!”

“You out of shape?”

“Hell, no, but what do I say if I'm stopped?”

"He's a drunken American. Everyone in Paris loves to hear that.

Should I repeat -it in French-actually it doesn't matter, you'll do better your way-more believable. Get going!"

True to the colonel's words, ninety seconds later the clamorous hee-haws of the Paris police filled the vast complex of the Trocadero as five, patrol cars converged on the entrance. The crowds raced toward the street and the excitement as Latham, his arms supporting a dragging figure, hurried across the concrete to the south side. Once behind the statuary, he lifted the neo over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and raced up the darkness to the street. The Nazi's body slumped beside him, Drew knelt waiting for Witkowski's signal. It came when an embassy car swerved into the curb, its lights flashing on and off twice, the basic signal to evacuate.

THE NEw YORK TIMES

Top-Secret Gov't Laboratory Robbed Rudolph Metz, Scientist,

Disappears.

Data Missing

BALTIMORE, Saturday In the hills of outer Rockland, a little known and highly classified scientific compound housing topsecret experiments. in micro-communications called in the authorities this morning, initially because the staff could not reach Dr. Rudolph Metz, the internationally renowned fiber optics scientist, on his telephone or on his beeper. Visits to his residence produced no response. The police, under warrant, broke in and found nothing irregular except for a minimal amount of clothing in the closets of a couple as well off as Dr. Metz and his wife. Later, the laboratory's technicians reported that the past year's entire research had been deleted from the computers, leaving in its stead a series of “frostbites” connoting a virus.

Dr. Metz, a seventy-three-year-old former wunderkind of

German science and a man who continuously extolled and “thanked the heavenly Father” for his American citizenship, was “a strange person,” as was his fourth wife, according to neighbors in Rockland.

“They always kept to themselves, except when his wife would suddenly throw grand parties, showing off her jewelry, but nobody really knew them,” said Mrs. Bess Thurgold, who lives next door.

"I

couldn't relate to him," added Ben Marshall, an attorney who lives across the street.

“He'd clam up whenever I mentioned anything political, you know what I mean? I mean, here we were, a bunch of people who'd made it-hell, we couldn't afford to live here if we hadn't-but he never had an opinion. Not even about taxes!”

Unattributed speculation, at this juncture, centers on psychiatric distress induced by overwork, marital problems as a result of the disparity of age between his current wife and the oft-married Metz, and even kidnapping by terrorist organizations who could benefit by extracting his knowledge.

Latham and Stanley Witkowski drove the unconscious body of the false courier, directly to the colonel's apartment on the rue Diane. Using the delivery entrance, they took the neo up the freight elevator to Witkowski's floor and dragged him into the colonel's suite of rooms.

“This way we're not official, and that's bardzo dobrze,” said Witkowski as they splayed the figure of the would-be killer on the couch.

“What?”

“It means that's 'good.” Harry would have understood; he spoke Polish."

“Sorry about that.”

“It's okay. You did all right tonight.. .. Now, we just have to get this cat awake and scare the shit out of him until he talks.”

“How do we do that?”

“Do you smoke?”

“Actually, I'm trying to cut down.”

"I'm not your conscience or someone from your support group.

Have you got a butt?"

“Well, I carry a few---emergencies, you know.”

“Light one' and give it to me.” The colonel began slapping the cheeks of the neo; the killer's eyes began to blink as Witkowski took the lighted cigarette from Latham.

“There's a bottle of Evian on my bar over there. Bring it to me.”

“Here it is.”

“Hey, Junge! ” cried Witkowski, pouring the water over the face of their captive, whose eyes sprung wide.

“Keep those baby-blues open, fella, because I'm going to burn your eyeballs out, okay?” The colonel placed the burning cigarette a quarter of an inch above the neo's left eye.

“Ah-baal” screamed the Nazi.

“Please, nein!”

“Are you telling me you're not so tough after all? Hell, you burned people, eyes and all, bodies and all. Are you saying you can't take one eyeball-then, of course, maybe the next?” The lighted cigarette touched the outer jell of the neo's eye.

“Ahhyaa-ayahh!” The colonel slowly pulled the cigarette away.

“The sight may come back in that one, but only with proper treatment. Now, if I perform the same operation with your other, it will be different. I'll burn through the retina and, God knows, even I couldn't stand the pain, forget about the blindness.” Witkowski moved the cigarette to the right eye, an ash falling into it.

“Here we go, -Wehrmacht, see how it feels.”

I “Nein-nein! Ask me what you will, but do not do this!”

Moments later, the colonel continued while the neo held an ice pack over his left eye.

“Now you know what I'm capable of, Herman, or whatever your name is. just as you bastards were fifty years ago, when I lost a couple of grandparents in Auschwitz. As far as I'm concerned, I'll put you back on those pillows and not only burn your eyes out, but cut off your balls. Then I'll set you free and see how you handle the streets!”

“Cool it, Stosh,” said Latham, gripping Witkowski's shoulder.

“Don't you tell me to cool anything, youngster! My people hid Jews and they were gassed for it!”

“Okay, okay, but right now we need information.”

“Right .. . right.” The colonel breathed deeply, then spoke quietly.

“I got carried away .. . you don't know how I hate these bastards.”

“I've got a good idea, Stanley. They killed -my brother. The interrogation, please.”

“Right. Who are you, where do you come from, and whom do you represent?”

“I am a prisoner of war and I am not required-”

Witkowski struck the neo's mouth with the back of his free hand, the blow savage, his gold army ring drawing blood.

“There's a war, all right, you scum, but it's not declared, and you're not entitled to a damn thing except what I can dream up for you. And let me assure you, it won't be pleasant.” The colonel looked up at Latham.

“There's an old carbine bayonet of mine on the desk over there, I use it to open envelopes'. Be a good lad and bring it to me, will you? We'll see how it opens throats, that's really what it was designed for, you know.”

Drew crossed to the desk and returned with the snub handled blade as Witkowski probed the flesh around the terrified false courier's neck.

“Here you are, Doctor.”

“Funny you should say that,” said the far older G-2 veteran.

"I

was thinking of my mother only last night; she always wanted me to become a doctor, a surgeon, to be exact. If she said it once, she said it a thousand times.

“You got big strong hands, Stachu. Be a doctor who operates; they make good money.” .. . Let's see if I can get the hang of it." The colonel jabbed his finger into the soft flesh just above the German's breastbone.

“This feels like, a good place to start,” he continued, lowering the point of the blade.

"It's kind of Jell-O-like, and you know how that spreads so easily when you put the edge of a spoon into it. Hell, it ought to be a cinch with a knife, and believe me, this is a real knife. Okay, let's start the first incision-how do you like that?

“Incision.”

"

“Nein!” shrieked the struggling neo as a trickle of blood rolled down across his neck.

“What do you want from me? I know nothing, I do only as I'm ordered!”

“Who gives you the orders?”

“I don't know! I receive a telephone call-a man, sometimes a woman-they use my code number and I inuist obey.”

“That's not good enough, scum bucket-”

“He's telling the truth, Stosh,” Latham broke in quickly, stopping Witkowski from cutting further.

“The other night, that driver told me the same thing, practically word for word.”

“What were your orders tonight?” pressed the colonel as the Nazi screamed under the increased pressure of the blade.

“Tonight!” roared Witkowski.

“To kill him, jato kill the traitor, but to make sure we take the body far away and burn it.”

“Burn it?” interrupted Drew.

“Ja, and to cut off the head, burning it also, but in another place, far away from the body.”

“”Far away' .. . ?" Drew stared at the trembling, horror-stricken neo.

“I swear it, that's all I know!”

“The hell it is!” shouted the colonel, drawing more blood.

"I've interrogated hundreds like you, slug ball and I know. It's always in your eyes, something you haven't said, haven't told us! .. . A kill's no big deal, the rest of it's a little tougher, maybe a lot more dangerous, carrying around a dead body, cutting off a head, and burning everything. That's even a little weird for you psychopaths.

What haven't you told us? Talk, or it's the last breath of air in your throat!" I .

“Nein, please! He will die shortly, but he cannot die among the enemy! We must reach him first!”

“He's going to die?”

“Ja, it cannot be stopped. Three days, four days, that's all he has, all we know. We were to take him tonight, kill him before morning, far away, where he will not be found.”

Latham walked away from the couch, half in a daze, trying to understand the enigma presented by the Nazi revolutionary.

Nothing made sense, except one apparently incontrovertible projection.

"I'm sending this rat face over to French Intelligencewith our entire testimony, every word he said here, which,

actually, we've got, thanks to that little machine on my desk," said Witkowski.

“You know, Stosh,” countered Drew, turning around and looking at the colonel, "maybe you should put him on a diplomatic jet to Washington, to Langley, no information available, except to the receivers at the

CIA."

“Good Christ, why? This is a French problem.”

“Maybe it's more than that, Stanley. Harry's list. Perhaps we should see who at the Agency tries to protect this man, or, conversely, who tries to kill him.”

“You're beyond me, youngster.”

“I'm beyond myself, Colonel. I'm Harry now, and someone expects me to die.”

t was three o'clock in the morning in Monte Carlo, the narrow, dimly lit streets beyond the casino deserted except for stragglers from the still-active gambling palace; a few were despondently drunk, several elated, most weary. Claude Moreau made his way down an alley that led to a stone wall overlooking the harbor. He reached the wall, his eyes scanning the scene below; it was a haven for the world's rich, memorialized by the lights of the huge, luxurious yachts and ca cruisers at their moorings. He felt no sense of envy whatsoever; he was merely an observer appreciating the surface beauty of it all. His civil. servant's lack of jealousy came easily, for his job required that he spend infrequent time among the owners of these opulent craft, watching their lifestyles, often delving deeper. It was enough. If one could categorize, in many ways they were a desperate people, forever seeking out new interests, new experiences, new thrills. The constant seeking became their reality, the search without end, leading only to still another search. They had their comforts; they needed them, for the rest was boredom, looking for the next stimulation that would occupy them. What now? What's new? @

“Allor, monsieur,” said the voice out of the darkness as a figure approached from the shadows.

“Are you the friend of the Brotherhood?”

“Your cause is futile,” said Moreau without turning.

“I've told you people that a hundred times, but if you continue to better my impoverished circumstances, I'll do as you ask.”

“Our Blitzkrieger, the woman at the table in the casino.. Youtook her away. What happened?”

“She took her own life, as the other two did in prison months ago. We are French; we did not, upon her arrest, examine her private areas. If we had, we would have found cyanide capsules encased in plastic.”

“Sehr gut. She told you nothing?”

“How could she? She never came out of the ladies' room alive.”

“Then we are clear?”

“For now. And I shall expect the usual payment in Zurich for my considerable cooperation. Tomorrow.”

“It will be done.”

The figure walked away in the darkness as Moreau reached into his breast pocket and turned off his recorder. Unwritten contracts meant nothing, unless their violations were recorded.

Basil Marchand, member of the House of Lords, slammed the brass paperweight down on his desk with such force that the glass cover shattered, sending fragments across the room. The man facing him took a step backward while briefly turning his face away.

“How dare you?” shouted the elderly gentleman, his hands trembling with rage.

“The men of this family go back to the Crimea and all the wars since, including the Boer, where a newspaper boy named Churchill extolled their bravery under fire. How can you think to imply such .a thing to me?”

“Forgive me, Lord Marchand,” said the MI-5 officer calmly, unflinchingly, “your family has deservedly received recognition for its military contributions throughout this century, but there was an exception, wasn't there? I refer, of course, to your older brother, who was among the founders of the Cliveden set, which held Adolf Hitler in rather high regard.”

“Drummed out of the family!” Marchand broke in furiously as he yanked open a drawer and pulled out a silver-framed -scroll.

“Here, you insolent bugger! This is a citation from the King himself for my boat at Dunkirk. I was a lad of sixteen and brought out thirty-eight men who would have been slaughtered or captured. And that was before I was awarded the Military Cross for my service in the Royal Navy!”

“We're aware of your outstanding heroism, Lord Marchand-”

“So don't ascribe to me the warped delusions of an older brother I barely knew. and didn't like what I did know,” continued the outraged member of the House of Lords.

“If you've done your research, you should know that he left England in 1940 and never returned, no doubt drank himself to death hiding in one of those South Pacific islands.”

“Not quite accurate, I'm afraid,” said the MI-5 visitor.

“Your brother ended up in Berlin with another name, and worked throughout the war in the Reich's Ministry of Information. He married a German woman and, like you, he had three sons-”

“What .. . ?” The old man fell slowly back in his chair, his mouth agape, barely breathing.

“We were never told,” he added so quietly he could hardly be heard.

“There was no point, sir. After the war he disappeared with his entire family, presumably to South America, one of those German enclaves in Brazil or Argentina Since he was not officially listed as a war criminal, no search was instituted, and considering the losses the Marchands sustained-”

“Yes,” Lord Marchand interrupted softly, “my other two brothers and my sister-two pilots and a nurse.” “Precisely. Our offices decided to bury the whole nasty business.”

“That was kind of you, very kind. I'm sorry I treated you so shabbily.”

“Not to be concerned. As you said, you couldn't know what you'd never been told.”

“Yes, yes, of course.. .. But here, now, this afternoon, you damn near accused me-and by extension, the family-of being part of some Fascist movement in Germany. Why?”

“It's a rather clumsy technique few of us are comfortable with, but it's effective. I didn't specifically accuse you, sir; if you recall, I phrased my allusion in terms of 'how offended the Crown would be to learn' etcetera, etcetera. The immediate answer is always outrage, but there is false outrage and then there is true outrage. It's not difficult to discern which is which, not if you've been around for a while, and I have.”

“What did I do right?”

“I believe, if you were younger, you would have physically assaulted me, thrown me bodily out of your house.”

“Quite true, I would have.”

“It was a genuine reaction on your part, not false at all.”

“Again, I ask why?”

“The names of two of your sons are on a list, a highly confidential list of people who silently support the neo Nazi revolutionaries in Germany.”

“Good God, how?”

“Marchands Limited is a textile complex, is that correct?”

“Yes, of course, everyone knows that. With our factories in Scotland, we're the second largest in the U.K. Two of my sons run it since I retired; the third, may- the Lord have mercy on his soul, is a musician. So what have they done to warrant such an accusation?”

I “They've dealt with a firm called Oberfeld, shipped thousands upon thousands of rolls of fabric for identical shirts, blouses, trousers, and slacks to their warehouses in Mannheim.”

"Yes, I've studied the accounts, which I insist on doing.

Oberfeld pays its charges on due-date time and is a splendid customer. So?"

I "Oberfeld doesn't exist, it's a front for the neo-Nazi movement.

As of seven days ago, the name and the warehouse in Mannheim are gone, disappeared, as your brother disappeared fifty years ago."

“What are you suggesting?”

“I'll put this as gently as possible, Lord Marchand. Is it possible that the sons of your brother have come back, and with terrible irony have involved your own unwitting sons in a conspiracy to accelerate the Nazi resurgence by supplying uniforms?”

“Uniforms?”

“It's the next step, Lord Marchand. Historically, it's standard.”

Knox Talbot disliked playing God, for too many had played God over his race for too long. He was uncomfortable assuming the position, feeling not a little hypocritical, but he had no choice. The Agency's all-powerful top-secret computers had been compromised, software containing the secrets of the globe invaded, including the most sensitive operations the CIA had mounted across the world, among them Harry Latham's torturous three-year odyssey. Harry Latham-Alexander Lassiter .. . code name, Sting.

Under the pretext of rotation assignments, he had requested over three dozen personnel records but only eight demanded his attention. The men and women responsible for the AA-Zero computers, for they alone had the keys, the codes, to learn the secrets that could end the lives of deep-cover agents and informers, or conversely render the operations useless. Someone had-no, more than someone, some two, for the locked disks required two people to punch in different codes, freeing the software and permitting screen transmission. But which two, and what had they really accomplished? Harry Latham had escaped, at the terrible price of his brother's life, but he was alive and in hiding in Paris.

Not only alive, but he had brought out an incriminating list of names that was already alarming the country, or at least the media, which did its damnedest to alarm the country whenever possible.

According to the murdered Drew Latham, the -Nazis knew about Sting, but when did they know? Before or after Harry had uncovered the names? If before, the entire list was suspect, but even that judgment did not wash with the disappearance of Rudolph Metz, a neo-fanatic if there ever was one. The Rockland laboratories had established that Metz had arrogantly used his own ciphers to extract and delete an entire year's research, and the FBI had traced Metz and his wife's escape to Stuttgart, using false passports, via Dulles International Airport and Lufthansa Flight 7000. How many other Metzes were there? Or to reverse the question, how many other innocent Senator Rootes were there? Everything was spiraling out of control, or soon would be, as the investigations continued.

Two out of eight totally “white,” completely cleared specialists in the most demanding of computer operations were moles. How was it possible? Or even was it? There was nothing in their personnel records that gave the slightest hint.. .. Then suddenly sections of Harry Latham's London debriefing came back to Talbot. He opened a drawer and pulled out the transcript. He found the page.

Q (MI-5): The rumor is that the Nazis, the new Nazis, may have known who you were from the beginning.

HL: That's not a rumor, that will be their credo. How often did we do the same thing when we found a mole who fled back to

Mother Russia after looting us. Of course we proclaimed bow smart we were, and bow useless was the information stolen from us-when it wasn't.

Q (DEUXIgME): Isn't it conceivable that you were fed disinformation?

HL: I was a trusted confidant until I escaped, a major contributor and a believer in their cause. Why would they feed me dirt? But to answer your question, yes, of course it's conceivable. Disinformation, misinformation, human or computer error, wishful thinking, fantasizing-anything's possible. It's your job to confirm or deny. I've brought you the material, "now it's your function to evaluate it.

Knox Talbot studied the agent's statements. It could be argued that Harry Latham himself left the door wide open. Everything was crazy, crazy with probable confirmations and possible contradictions, except the existence of a spreading Nazi virus in Germany. The CIA director put the transcript away and stared at the eight separated records spread in an arc over his desk. He reread the words but found no hints, nothing of substance. He would take each one and try with all his concentration to read between the lines until his eyes were bloodshot. Then, thankfully, his telephone buzzed. He touched the button on his console; his secretary spoke.

“Mr. Sorenson on line three, sir.”

“Who's on one and two?”

“Two network producers. They want you to appear on programs discussing the Bureau's domestic interrogations.”

“I'm out to lunch for a month.”

“I understood that, sir. Line three, unless you want me to tell him the same.”

“No, I'll take it.. .. Hello, Wcs, please don't add to my aggravation.”

“Let's have lunch,” said Wesley Sorenson.

“We have to talk. By ourselves.”

“I'm kind of obvious, old boy, if you hadn't noticed. Unless you want to go to a restaurant in the darker part of town, where you'd be more obvious than me by a couple of nine yards.”

"Then let's eliminate any yards. The zoo in Rock Creek Park.

The bird sanctuary; there's a hot dog stand I was introduced to by my grandchildren. Not 4ad; it has chili."

“When?”

“This is priority. Can you make it in twenty minutes?”

"I guess

I have to."

Oliver Mosedale, a fifty-year-old scholar attached to the Foreign Office and a prominent adviser to Britain's Foreign Secretary, poured himself a brandy as his young housekeeper filled his pipe, packed it down, and brought it to him.

“Thank you, my child,” he said, crossing to a large leather armchair facing a television set.

The pipe securely in his mouth, he sat down with a sigh, placed his drink on a side table, reached into his pocket, and fired his pipe with a gold Dunhill lighter.

“The evening was nothing short of an exhausting bore,” Mosedale continued.

“The chef was undoubtedly drunk-I'm sure the canard 4 Vorange was soaked in Gatorade-and those idiots from Treasury would cut our budgets to the point where we couldn't represent Liechtenstein, much less what's left of the British Empire. It's really all quite mad as well as most irritating.”

“You poor ducks,” said the buxom twentyish housekeeper, more than a trace of cockney in her voice.

“You work too' hard, that's what you do.”

“Please don't mention ducks, my dear.”

"Wot?

“It's what I presumably had for dinner.”

“Sorry.. .. Here, let me massage your neck, that always relaxes you.” The girl walked behind the chair and leaned over her employer, her generous breasts, made obvious by her decolletage, touching the back of his head, while her hands moved about his neck and shoulders.

“Marvelous,” moaned the foreign service officer, drawing out the word as he reached for his brandy, taking sips between draws on his pipe.

“You do that so well, but then, you do everything well, don't you?”

“I try, Ollie darling. As I may have mentioned, I was brought up to respect men of quality, to do their bidding out of admiration. I'm not one of those scruffs who shout all the time about privileged classes, I'm not. My mum always said, ”If the good Lord wanted you to live in a castle, you'd have been born in one." And my mum's a wise old bird, she is. She also says 'that we should take Christian pride in serving our betters, 'cause somewhere in the Bible it says it's better to give than to get, or sompin' like that.

“Course my pa works on the docks and doesn't have mum's refinements-”

“It really isn't necessary that you talk dear child,” Mosedale interrupted, his brows arched in controlled frustration.

“As a matter of fact, it's time for the BBC news, isn't it?” He glanced at his watch.

“Indeed, it is! I think that's enough of a massage, my sweet. Why not turn on the telly, then go up and bathe. I'll join you in a while, so wait for me, my angel.”

“Sure, Ollie. And I'll wear that nightie you like so much. God knows it's easy to put on, what there is of it.” The housekeeper-cum-concubine went to the television set, snapped it on, and waited for the proper channel to be in focus. She blew Mosedale a kiss and walked provocatively through the arch to the staircase.

The BBC news reader his voice and expression neutral, began with the recent events in the Balkans, shifted to the news out of South Africa, briefly touched on the accomplishments of the Royal Academy of Science, then paused and continued with words that caused Oliver Mosedale to sit up and stare at the figure on the screen.

"Reports out of Whitehall have a number of members of Parliament and other government officials in high dudgeon due to what appear to be ongoing inquiries by British intelligence into their private lives. Jeffrey Billows, MP from Manchester, rose on the floor to denounce what be called 'police state' tactics, claiming that his neighbors had been questioned about him, including his vicar.

Another MP, Angus Ferguson, shouted that not only had his neighbors -been interrogated, but that his garbage had been rummaged, and the bookstore be frequents asked what books be purchases.

Apparently, even the Foreign Office is not immune, as several high officials have declared they will resign before -being subjected to such 'utter nonsense," as one put it. Their names are being withheld at the request of the Foreign Secretary.

These events would seem to mirror the news from the United States, where prominent figures in and out of government are experiencing similar invasions of privacy. A story in the Chicago Tribune headlined the question, “Is the Hunt for Unreconstructed Communists or for Reconstructed Fascists?” We here at BBC will keep you informed as the story develops.

Now to the painful, all-too-familiar antics of the Royal family.. .. "

Mosedale shot out of his chair, turned off the television, and lurched for the telephone on a Queen Anne table against the wall.

Frantically, he dialed.

“What the hell is going on?” screamed the adviser to the Foreign Secretary.

“You have time, Rute,” said the female voice on the line.

“We were going to call you early in the morning, suggesting you not go to Whitehall. They haven't reached your section yet, but they're close. You have a reservation on British Air for Munich tomorrow at noon, the ticket's in your name. Everything's been cleared.”

“That's not good enough. I want out tonight!”

“Plea'se hold, I'll check the computers.” The interim silence was torture for Mosedale. Finally the voice came back.

“There's a Lufthansa flight to Berlin at eleven twenty Can you make it?”

“You're damned right I can.” Oliver Mosedale hung up the phone, walked into the foyer, and shouted at the base of the staircase.

“Angel, start packing a bag for me! just a simple change of clothes like you've done before. Quickly!”

A naked “Angel” appeared at the railing above.

“Where are you going, luv? I'm about to put on the nightie you like to take off. And then it's heaven, isn't it, Ollie?”

“Sbut up and do as you're told! I've one more call to make, and when I'm finished I expect my suitcase to be down here!” Mosedale ran back to the Queen Anne table, picked up the phone, and again dialed furiously.

“I'm leaving,” he said to the voice which had only grunted.

“My phone indicator tells me that this is Rute's number. Is that you, code Switch?”

“You know goddamned well it is. Take care of my affairs here in London.”

“I've already done so, Switch. The house is on the market, the proceeds to be wired to Bern, when and if there's a sale.”

“You'll probably take half-”

“At least, Herr Rute,” the voice on the line interrupted.

“I think it's quite fair. How many thousands have I transferred to Zurich at my own peril?”

“But you're one of us!”

“No, no, you're mistaken. I'm merely a solicitor who accommodates nefarious men who may or may not be traitors to the Crown. How am I to know?”

“You're nothing but a rotten money changer!”

“Again, you're wrong, Switch. I'm an expediter, no matter how it frequently pains me. And to tell you the truth, you'll be lucky to receive ten pounds for your house. You see, I really don't like you.”

“You've worked for me-for us-for years! How can you say that?”

“So easily, I can't tell you. Farewell, code Switch, and for your edification, the one thing that remains constant between us is the confidentiality between client and solicitor. You see, it's my strength.” The English attorney hung up, and Mosedale looked around the huge sitting room, panicked by the thought that he would never see so many mementos of his life again. Then he stood up straight, his posture rigid, and recalled the words his father had shouted from the upper staircase when war was declared.

“We'll fight for England, but we'll spare Herr Hitler! He is far more right than wrong! The inferior races are corrupting our nations. We will win the temporary conflict, establish a unified Europe, and make him the de facto chancellor of the Continent!”

The young woman called' Angel slid a suitcase down the staircase, properly-or improperly, as one would have it-clad in her brief nightgown.

“C'mon, luv, what's goin' on here?”

“I may be able to send for you later, but right now I have to leave.”

“Later? What're you talking about, Ollie?”

“There's no time for explanations. I must catch a plane.”

“Wot about me? When are you comin' back?”

“Not for a while.”

“Well, isn't that nice and clear! Wot am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here until someone throws you out.”

“Throws me out?”

“You heard me.” Mosedale grabbed the suitcase, rushed to the front door, and opened it, stunned by what he saw. The London fog had turned into a downpour, and two men in raincoats stood on the brick steps to his house.

Beyond them, in the street, was a black van with a lateral antenna on the roof

“Under proper authority, your telephone has been monitored, sir,” said the first man.

“I think it's best you come with us.”

“Ollie,” cried the scantily clad maid in the foyer.

“Ain't you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

The shouts of children marshalled in groups by parents and camp counselors mingled with the shrieks of myriad birds behind the wired screens of the huge aviary in the Rock Creek Park Zoo. The summer crowds were boisterous, the exceptions being Washingtonians who had come to the park for peaceful strolls, away from the hectic pace of the nation's capital. When faced with the hordes of tourists, these natives usually cut their interludes short, preferring the quiet of silent monuments. A particularly nasty condor, its wingspread at least eight feet, suddenly swooped down from a high perch, screeching as its claws gripped the wires of the enormous cage. Children and adults alike backed away instantly;

the glaring eyes of the giant bird conveyed hostile satisfaction.

“That's one mother of a predator, isn't it?” said Knox Talbot, standing behind Wesley Sorenson.

“I've never understood the use of the word mother to describe enormity,” replied the director of Consular Operations, looking straight ahead.

“Try tenacity. It was the female's unrelenting agressiveness in protecting her young that got us through the kc Age.”

“What were we men doing?”

“Pretty much the same as we're doing now. Out hunting while the women protected the caves from far more dangerous beasts than our quarry.”

“You're particularly biased.”

“I'm particularly married, and that conclusion was drawn by my wife. Since we've only been together thirty six years, why rock the boat at this early stage?”

“Let's get a hot dog. The stand's about fifty yards to the left and we can sit down on a bench. It's usually crowded, so I doubt anyone will notice us.”

“Chili gives me gas.”

“Try sauerkraut.”

“Worse.”

“Then just mustard.”

“Ever see how hot dogs are made, Wcs?”

“Have you?”

“I think I own a company that makes 'em.”

Seven minutes later Sorenson and Talbot sat next to each other, not unlike two grandfathers taking a much needed respite from their rambunctious grandchildren.

“There's something I can't tell you, Knox,” began the Cons-Op director, “and you're going to be mad as hell later when you find out.”

“Like our removing Moreau's name from Harry Latham's list, the one we sent to you?”

There's a distinct similarity."

“Then we're even. What can you tell me?”

“First, I can openly tell you that the request comes from a former G-Two specialist who operated in the Berlin sectors during the bad times. His name is Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski-”

“Currently chief of security, Paris embassy,” Talbot interrupted.

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. He's a man so bright that he could have been right behind you for my job if he'd gotten the recognition he deserved. But he couldn't; he worked in the silent zone.”

“Right now he's apparently working as a conduit for Harry Latham, who won't risk reaching Langley himself.”

“The AA-Zero computers?”

“Apparently.. .. Latham wanted a sub-rosa route to you but he doesn't know you. Remember, you became the DCI with the new administration, almost two years after Harry went deep. So knowing Witkowski from the old days, he used him; and since I've known the colonel from those same days, he decided to use me as the sub rosa.”

“Logical,” said Talbot, nodding his head.

“Maybe logical, Knox, but later, when I can come clean, you'll see it's so ironic, you may even forgive me.”

“What's the sub rosa?”

“There's a man, a German doctor, who may have enormous influence in the Nazi movement, or, conversely, may be a man with a conscience who's turned against them. We have to learn everything we can about him, and you people are the kings of the hill in that department.”

“So I'm told,” agreed the DCI.

“What's his name?”

"Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger. But there's a catch and it's a big one.

“Do tell.”

“You've got to go underground with this, and I 'mean deep. His name can't be circulated within the Agency.”

“The AA-Zero computers again?”

“The straight answer to that is yes, but there could also be others beyond the computers. Can you do it?”

"I think so. When I took this job, the job you should have taken, I insisted on bringing along my secretary of twenty years. She's quick and bright to the point that I don't have to finish sentences.

She's also British; that apparently gives her a certain authority over us colonials.. .. Kroeger, Gerhardt, medicine man, the works.

She'll go down to the vaults herself and bring up everything there is."

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I'll call you when I've got the papers. We'll have a few drinks at my place.”

“Fine, I appreciate it.”

“There's something else neither of us has said, isn't there, Wesley?”

“The witch-hunts, naturally. Harry's list is getting out of control.”

“I said the very same thing to myself only moments before your call. Have you heard the latest from the U.K.?”

“The outcry in Parliament, yes. Even the insidious comparisons to what's happening here. I suppose it couldn't be avoided. Sua culpa, Secretary Bollinger, and I hope he knows it.”

“Then you haven't heard. We get this stuff before you, I suppose.”

4 ZWhat are you talking about?"

“A man named Mosedale, very high up in the Foreign' Office.”

“What about him?”

“Faced with various alternatives, he confessed. He's been working for the Brotherhood for the past five years. He was on Harry's list, and he claims there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, like him everywhere.”

“Oh, my God. Gasoline tanks on the fires. Everywhere.”

erhardt Kroeger walked out to the transportation platform at Orly Airport carrying two pieces of luggage, a medical bag, and a medium-size nylon suitcase, both carry-ons. He veered to the left and proceeded down the long concrete walkway until he saw the area designated as PETITE CARGAISON, small cargo. He scanned the constantly moving traffic, then centered in on the few vehicles parked at the curb in front of the huge sliding metal doors through which pre cleared cases and cartons of merchandise were wheeled on dollies to those waiting for them. He saw what he hoped to see, a gray van with white lettering on the side. ENTREP&S AVIGNON, the Avignon Warehouses, a massive market depot where over a hundred distributors kept their consumer goods prior to delivering them to retail stores throughout Paris. And somewhere within that mazelike complex were the quarters of the Blitzkrieger, the elite assassins of the Brotherhood. The doctor approached a man in a red and white rugby shirt leaning against the side of the vehicle. As he had been ordered to do.

“Has- the Malasol arrived, monsieur?” he asked.

“The best caviar from Iranian waters,” replied the muscular man in the rugby shirt, flipping away a cigarette and staring at Kroeger.

“Is it really better than the Russian?” continued Gerhardt.

“Anything's better than Russian.”

“Good. Then you know who I am.”

“No, I don't know who you are, monsieur, and I do not care to know. just get in the back with the rest of the fish, and I'll take you to another who does know you.”

The ride to their destination was odious for Gerhardt, both in terms of the overpowering smell of iced fish and the fact that he was forced to sit on a hard-slatted bench while the tight-springed van raced over potholed roads that might have been the remnants of the Maginot line. Finally, after nearly thirty minutes, they stopped, and a harsh voice came over an unseen speaker.

“Out, monsieur. And please to remember, you never saw us, and we never saw you, and you never were carried in our truck.”

The rear doors of the van opened mechanically. Kroeger grabbed his luggage, bent over so as not to hit his head on the roof, and squat-walked to his exit and fresh air. A youngish man in a dark suit, With closecropped hair, studied him in silence as the van sped away, its tires screeching in a hasty retreat.

“What kind of transport was this?” exclaimed Gerhardt.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Do you know who we are, Herr Kroeger? If so, your question is foolish. Our presence must be the most secret in France.”

“We'll discuss that when I meet your superiors. Take me to them immediately!”

“There's no one superior to me, Herr Doktor. I insisted on meeting you myself.”

“But you're-you're .. .”

“So young, sir? .. . Only the young can do what we do. Our reflexes are at the height of their powers, our bodies superbly trained. Old men like you would be disqualified during the first hour of indoctrination.”

“That said and agreed to, you should be disqualified within two hours for not carrying out your orders!” . “Our unit is the best. May I remind you that they killed one of the targets under the most hostile conditions-”

“Not the right one, you imbecile!”

“We'll find the other. It's merely a question of time.”

“There is no time! We must talk further; you've missed something. Let's go to your headquarters.”

“No. We talk here. No one goes to our offices. We've made arrangements for you; the Hotel Lutetia, once the headquarters of the Gestapo. It has changed, but the memories are in the walls. You will be comfortable, Herr Doktor.”

“We must talk now.”

“Then talk, Herr Kroeger. You will go no farther.”

“You're insubordinate, young man. I am now the commandant of Vaclabruck until a replacement for Von Schnabe is named. You'll take your orders from me.”

“I beg to differ, Herr Doktor. Since General von Schnabe's removal, we've been instructed to take our orders solely from Bonn, from our leader in Bonn.”

“Who is?”

“If I knew, I would have been sworn to secrecy, but since I don't, it doesn't matter. Codes are used, and through them we recognize their absolute authority. All our assignments must be sanctioned by him, and only him.”

“This Harry Latham must be hunted down and killed. There's not a moment to waste!”

“We understand that, Bonn made it clear.”

“Yet you stand there and say to me quite casually that it's 'merely a question of time'?”

“It-wouldn't help matters to shout, mein Herr. Time is measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and-”

“Stop it! This is a crisis and I demand that you accept the fact.”

“I do-we do, sir.”

“So what have you done, what are you doing? And where in hell are your two men? Have you heard from them?”

The young Blitzkrieger, his body rigid but his eyes flickering with insecurity, answered slowly, quietly.

“As I explained to Catbird, Herr Kroeger, there are several possibilities. They escaped but both were wounded, how severely we don't know. If their situations were hopeless, they would have done the honorable thing, as each of us has sworn to do, and taken themselves out with cyanide or gunshots to their heads.”

“You're saying you haven't heard from them.”

"Correct, sir.

But we know they escaped in the car."

“How do you know it?”

"It was in all the papers and on the news broadcasts. Also, we've learned that there is a massive search for them, a manhunt employing the police, the Sfiret&, even the Deuxieme Bureau.

They've spread out everywhere: towns, vi ill ages even the hills and the forests, questioning every doctor within two hours of Paris."

“Then your conclusion is dual suicide, yet you said there were several possibilities. What others?”

“That is the strongest, sir, but it is conceivable that they are getting their strength back, minimally recuperating, out of reach of a telephone. As you are aware, we are trained like animals to succor our wounds out of sight until we are strong enough to make contact. We are all schooled in advanced aid to bodily punctures and the setting of broken bones.”

“That's splendid. I'll turn in my license and send my patients to you.”

“It's not a joke, mein He”, we are simply trained to survive."

1 4Any other 'possibilities')"

“You're asking if they were captured, no?”

"Yes. 9 @

“We'd know it if they were. Our informers in the embassy would have picked it up, and the manhunt has been established beyond question. The French government has over a hundred personnel looking for our unit. We've watched them, heard them.”

“You're persuasive. So what else? Where are you? Harry Latham must be found!”

“We believe we're closing in, sit Latham is under the protection of the Antinayous-”

“We know that!” Kroeger broke in angrily.

“But knowing it means nothing if you don't know where they are or where they've hidden him.”

“We may learn. the whereabouts of their central headquarters within two hours, mein Herr.”

“ What? .. . Why didn't you say that before?”

“Because I'd prefer to present you with an accomplished fact rather than speculation. I said 'we may learn,” we haven't yet."

“How?”

“Telephone contact with the Antinayous was made by the embassy's security chief, whose phone, like the ambassador's, is swept for intercepts. However, there's a sealed log of the calls he's made; our man thinks he can get a took at it and run a handheld photocopier down the list. Once we have the numbers, we can easily bribe someone in the telephone company to unearth the locations. From that point it is a process of elimination.”

“It sounds too simple. It's my understanding that unpublished numbers are well guarded, God knows ours are. I doubt you can walk into the office of a telephone official and put money on his desk.”

"We won't walk into any office. I used the word unearth and that's exactly what I mean. We find a worker in the underground trunk lines, for that's where the true locations are in the computers.

They have to be, for installations and repairs."

“You seem to know your business, Herr-what is your name?”

“I have no name, none of us does. I am Number Zero One, Paris. Come, I've arranged transportation for you. and we'll stay in constant touch, perhaps within minutes after you reach your hotel.”

Sitting at the desk in his rooms at the Antinayous' Maison Rouge, Drew picked up the telephone and dialed the embassy, asking the switchboard to connect him with Mrs. de Vries in Documents and Research.

“This is Harry Latham,” said Drew in response, to Karin's greeting.

"Can you talk

“Yes, monsieur, there is no one here, but first I have instructions for you. The ambassador summoned me and asked me to deliver them to you when you next called.”

“Go on,” said Latham, now his dead brother Harry, squinting, and listening carefully. Karin was about to send him a message.

He picked up a pencil as she spoke.

“You are to make contact with our courier number sixteen at the top of the' funicular in Sacro-Coeur at ninethirty this evening. He has communiques from Washington for you. . You understand, non?”

“I understand, yes,” replied Drew, knowing that the French non, rather than the usual nest-ce pas, meant he was to disregard the information. Witkowski was setting another trap, based on the knowledge that Karin's phone was tapped.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. You were scheduled to meet your brother Drew's friend from London's Cons-Op office at the fountains in the Bois de Boulogne at eight forty-five, correct?”

“Yes, it was cleared.”

“It's canceled, monsieur. It interferes with the Sacr& Coeur contact.”

“Can you reach him and call it off?”

“We have, oui-@-yes. We'll arrange another meeting.”

“Please do. He can tell me things I want to know about Drew's last weeks, especially the details of the Jodelle business.. .. Is that all?”

“For now, yes. Did you have something?”

“Yes. When can I come back to the embassy?”

“We'll let you know. We're convinced it's being watched around the clock.”

“I don't like this hiding out. It's damned inconvenient.”

“You can always return to Washington, you know that.”

"No! This is where Drew was killed, this is where his killers are.

I'm staying here until we find them."

“Very well. You'll call tomorrow?”

“Yes, I want more papers from my brother's files. Everything he's got on that actor.”

“Au revoir, monsieur:,”

“Bye.” Latham hung up the phone and studied the brief notes he had made, brief because he quickly understood the method of Karin's concealed instructions. The Sacr& Coeur was out and the fountains at the Bois de Boulogne in; the French non eliminated the first, the double oui-yes confirmed the second. The rest was merely “fill” to emphasize “Harry” Latham's insistence on remaining in Paris.

Whom he was to meet at the Bois, he had no way of knowing, but he would obviously recognize whoever it was, or if he did not, someone would reach him.

At the end of his shift, the Brotherhood's informer in Communications at the embassy had walked out into the Gabriel, waited, then suddenly crossed the avenue, brushing up against a man on a motorcycle. He slipped the cartridge to the cyclist and the motorcycle shot away down the street, weaving between the traffic. Twenty-six minutes later, at precisely 4:37 in the afternoon, the tape was delivered to the assassins' hidden headquarters at the Avignon Warehouses.

Holding a 5-inch-by-6-inch photograph of Alexander Lassiter/Harry Latham, the Blitzkrieger's Zero One, Paris, for a third time listened to the tape recording of the telephone conversation between Latham and the De Vries woman.

“It would seem our search has ended,” said Zero One, standing above the table and reaching down to shut off the cassette player.

“Who will go to the Sacr&Coeur?” he asked, addressing his colleagues around the conference table.

As one, they all raised their hands.

“Four of you will be sufficient, more could be obvious,” continued the leader.

“Split up and carry the photograph with you, remembering that Latham will no doubt disguise his appearance.”

“What can he do?” asked the Blitzkrieger nearest Zero One.

“Put on a mustache and wear a beard? We know his height, the nature of his build, and his facial structure. Ultimately, he will reach a courier who will be waiting for him, a stationary man or woman we'll certainly spot within the contact area.”

“Don't be so optimistic, Zero Six,” said the young leader.

“Bear in mind that Harry Latham is an experienced deep-cover agent. As we have tricks, so does he. And for God's sake, remember the kill must be made through the head, a coup de grace shattering the left side of his skull. Don't ask me why, just don't forget it.”

“If you have such serious doubts about us,” interjected an older Blitzkrieger at the far end of the table, his tone of voice in the zone of implied hostility, “why don't you go yourself ? ”

“Instructions from Bonn,” answered Zero One coolly.

“I'm to remain here for orders that will arrive at ten o'clock. Would any of you care to take my place in the event we have not found Harry Latham and must deliver the news?”

“Non.”

“Nein.”

“Of course not.” These were the responses of those around the table, some chuckling, others grim.

“However, I will cover the Bois de Boulogne.”

“Why?” asked Zero Seven.

“It's canceled; you heard the tape.”

“Again, I ask you, would any of you not care to cover the Boulogne in the event that an emphatic negative was the signal for a positive, or that plans were changed again?”

“You have a point,” said Zero Seven.

“Probably a useless one,” conceded the youthful leader.

“Nevertheless, it will take me no more, than fifteen or twenty minutes, then I'll drive back and be here by ten o'clock. If I were in Sacr&Coeur, I'd never make it on time.”

The unit for the Sacro-Coeur selected, Zero One, Paris, returned to his office and sat down at his desk. He was a relieved man, for his mythical instructions from Bonn had not been questioned, nor had anyone insisted that, as their superior, he should lead the assault on Harry Latham and let someone else take the call from Bonn. In truth, he wanted no part of the kill for the simple reason that it might not be successful. Any number of unforeseen contINgencies could prevent it, and Zero One, Paris, could not afford another “miss” on his record, like the driver who had been no match for the late Drew Latham, or the unit sent to take out two Americans, which had missed the vital one and then disappeared, or their female comrade who had not survived Monte Carlo. Should Alexander Lassiter/Harry Latham be properly executed, shattered skull included, he could take the credit, for he had orchestrated the assault. If the trap failed, he wasn't there; others were to be blamed.

For Paris's Zero One understood what the others did not; as their leader he was to carry out the orders. If a Blitzkrieger failed once, he was severely reprimanded; if he failed twice, he was shot, another in training given his or her place. If Sacr&Coeur failed, he knew who would be eliminated-the thirty-year-old Zero Five, for a start; his resentment of his younger superior was surfacing too frequently .. . and he had strenuously objected to the selection of the unit that had disappeared.

“One's a baby who simply likes to kill, and the other's a bull head; he takes too many risks! Let me handle it!” Those had been Zero Five's words, spoken in front. of Zero Six.

Both were heading out to Sac rE-Coeur; both would be executed if the kill failed. Zero One, Paris, could not allow another blemish on his record. He had to be brought into the inner circle of the Brotherhood; he had to gain the respect of the true leaders of the movement, of the new F4ihrer himself, and pay his obeisance with all his heart and soul. For he believed , he truly believed.

He would take his camera out to the Bois de Boulogne, snapping enough night photographs to prove he was there, the proof in the camera itself as it imprinted the date and the time of each picture. It was merely a cover, if he ever needed one, which he doubted.

The telephone rang, startling the young superior Blitzkrieger. He picked it up.

“The code's right,” said the female operator, “it's Malasol caviar on the line.”

“Herr Doktor-”

“You haven't called!” cried Gerhardt Kroeger.

“I've been here over three hours and you haven't called me.”

“Only because we are refining the strategy. If my subordinates do not miscalculate, we may achieve the objective, mein Herr. I have orchestrated it down to the last detail.”

“Your subordinates? Why not you?”

"A contradictory piece of information was received, sir,

one that may be far more dangerous and possibly equally productive. I have decided to take the risk myself."

“You're not making sense!”

“Nor can I over the telephone.”

“Why not? The enemy hasn't the slightest idea who I am, or that I'm even here, so the hotel's switchboard could hardly be compromised. I demand to know what's happening!”

“There are two situations converging within the hour. Tell Bonn that Zero One, Paris, has used all of his talents to control both, but he cannot be in two places at once. Since he cannot, he's chosen to take the highest risk. That's all I can tell you, mein Herr. If I do not survive, think well of me. I must go.”

“Yes .. . yes, of course.”

The young neo-revolutionary slammed down the phone. No matter what happened, he was covered. He would have a long, leisurely dinner at the Au Coin de la Famille, then stroll to the main fountain in the Bois de Boulogne, take useless photographs, and return to the Avignon Warehouses, accepting whatever took place. Either the credit for the kill, or the death of two Blitzkrieger executed for incompetence.

He truly believed.

Drew moved about the Bois de Boulogne's glistening fountain, bathed in floodlights from the waters below, and meandered through the evening strollers, looking for a face he knew. He had arrived at the rendezvous shortly before eight-thirty; it was now nearly nine o'clock, and he had seen no one he recognized, nor had anyone approached him. Had he misread Karin's instructions? Had the reversed words presumed an acknowledged reversal on the part of those tapping her phone, and thus were they to be taken literally?

No, that made no sense. Karin's Amsterdam years notwithstanding, they did not know each other well enough to play cover-recover games; they had no history of intuitive communication under stress.

Latham looked at his watch; it was 9:03. He would circle the area once more, then return to the Maison Rouge. -

“Amiricain!” He spun around at the sound. It was Karin, her face crowned by a blond wig, her right hand bandaged.

“Walk to your left, quickly, as if I'd bumped into you. There's a man taking photographs on the right. Meet me on the north path.”

Latham did as he was told, relieved by knowing she was there but concerned by her words. He circled his way in the lackadaisical rhythm of the fountain crowds until he reached the flagstone path to his extreme right. He entered it, walked up the tree-lined tunnel thirty or forty feet, and waited. Two minutes later Karin arrived.. . As if by an accident neither anticipated, they fell into each other's arms, holding one another, not long, but long enough.

"I'm sorry said De Vries, pushing herself gently away and uselessly brushing her blond wig with her bandaged right hand.

“I'm not,” Drew interrupted, smiling.

“I think I've wanted to do that for a couple of days now.”

“Do what?”

“Hold you.”

“I was simply pleased to see that you were all right.”

“I'm all right.”

“That's very nice.”

“It was also nice to hold you.” Latham laughed softly.

“Look, lady, you put the idea in my head. You were the one who said your excuse at the embassy was that you found me attractive, etcetera, etcetera. ”

“It was not a self-fulfilling wish, Drew. It was an excuse, strategically employed.”

"Come on, I'm not Quasimodo, am IF'

“No, you're a rather large, not ungainly fellow who, I'm sure, many women find quite attractive.”

“But not you.”

“My concerns lie elsewhere.”

“You mean I'm not Freddie-”Freddie de V,“ the incomparable.”

“No one could be Freddie, the good or the ugly.”

“Does that mean I'm still in the race?”

“What race?”

“For your affections, maybe, as temporary and as little as they may be.”

“Are you talking about sleeping with me?”

“Hell, that's down the road. Remember, I'm an American from New England. Way down the road, lady.”

“You're also a prevaricator.”

“A what?”

“I won't say a liar, that's too harsh.”

“What?”

"You're also a brutal man who smashes other men into whatever it's called in hockey matches. Oh, yes, I've heard.

Harry told me."

“Only when they got in my way. Never gratuitously.”

“Who made those decisions?”

“I did, I guess.”

“My point is made. You're a belligerent individual.”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“Only, at the moment, I'm grateful that you are.”

“What?”

“The man with the camera, at the other side of this fountain.”

"What about him? People take pictures of Paris at night.

Toulouse-Lautrec painted them, today they take photos."

“No, he's a neo, I feel it, I know it.”

“How?”

“The way he stands, the way he's so .. . so aggressive.”

“That's not a lot to go on.”

“Then why is he here? How many people really take pictures at night in the Bois de Boulogne?”

“You've got a point. Where is he?”

“Directly across from us-or he was. On the south path. ”

“Stay here.”

“No. I'll go with you.”

“Goddammit, do as I say.”

“You cannot order me!”

"You don't have a gun, and even if you did, you couldn't fire it.

Your hand's all wrapped up."

“I do have a weapon, and if you were more alert, you'd know I'm left-handed.”

“What?”

“Let's go.”

Together they raced through the trees until they reached the south path that led to the illuminated fountain. The man taking photographs was still there, ramrod-straight and snapping what seemed to be random shots of the strollers circling the fountain.

Silently, Latham approached, his hand gripping the automatic in his belt.

“You get your kicks taking pictures of people who don't know they're being photographed,” said Drew, tapping the man on the shoulder.

The Blitzkrieger whipped around at his touch, staring at Drew in the dim light, his eyes bulging.

“You!” he chied gutturally.

“But no, not the same! Who are you?”

“I've got one for you.” Latham grabbed the man by the throat, hurling him into the trunk of a tree.

“Kroeger!” he shouted.

“Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?”

The neo recovered quickly, instantly kicking his boot up into Drew's groin; Latham leapt backward, avoiding the blow, and smashed the barrel of his automatic into the Nazi's face.

“You son of a bitch, you were looking for me, weren't you?”

“Nein!” screamed the neo, blood spreading across his face, partially blinding him.

“You are not the man in the photograph!”

“But someone like me, right? Same kind of face, sort of, right?”

“You are crazy!” shrieked the Nazi, leveling a lethal chop to Drew's neck; Latham gripped the wrist and twisted it violently counterclockwise.

“I was only taking photographs!” The man fell into the bushes.

“Now that we've established that,” said Drew breathlessly, straddling the neo, then suddenly crashing his knee into the man's ribcage, “let's talk about Kroeger!” Latham pressed the barrel of the automatic into the flesh between the Nazi's eye. “Youtell me or you've got a tunnel in your head!”

“I am prepared to die!”

“That's nice, because you're about to. You've got five seconds, Adolf.. .. One, two, three .. . four-”

“Nein! .. . He's here in Paris. He must find Sting!”

“And you thought I was Sting, correct?”

“You are not the same man!”

“You're damned right I'm not. Sit up!”

Where it came from, Drew would never know, but before he could adjust, a large pistol was in the neo's right hand. Without any sound preceding it, a loud gunshot suddenly came from behind them; the Nazi's head snapped back, blood flowing from his neck.

Karin de Vries had saved Latham's life. She ran down the path to him.

“Are you all right?” she cried.

“Where did he get the gun?” asked a shaken, bewildered Drew.

“The same place you got yours,” answered De Vries.

“What?”

“The belt. You grabbed him and told him to sit up; that's when I saw him reaching under his jacket.”

“Thank you-”

“Don't thank me, do something. People are running away from the fountain. Soon the police wi e here.”

“Come on!” ordered Latham, shoving the automatic into his belt and pulling the cellular phone from his inside pocket.

“Into the trees-way into.” Awkwardly' they raced through roughly sixty feet of dark foliage when Drew held up his hand.

“This'll do,” he said, out of breath.

“Where did you get that?” asked Karin, pointing at the barely visible outline of the telephone in Latham's hands.

“The Antinayous,” replied Drew, squinting and touching the buttons in the dim, filtered light from the fountain.

“They're very high-tech.”

“Not when anyone can scan into a mobile phone's frequency, although in emergencies, I suppose-”

“Stanley?” said Latham, cutting her off.

“Christ, it happened again! The Bois de Boulogne; a neo was covering the area, sent to take me out.”

“And?”

“He's dead, Stosh, Karin shot him when he was about to blow my head off.. .. But, Stanley, listen to me. He said Kroeger was here in Paris, here to find Sting!”

“What's your situation?”

“We're in the woods off a path, maybe twenty or thirty yards from the body.”

“Now, you listen to me,” said Witkowski harshly.

“If you can do it without running into the police-hell, even if you risk running into them-pick that bastard's pockets clean and get out of there.”

"Like I did with Harry. Drew's voice dropped to a painful whisper.

“Do it for Harry now. If what you say about this Kroeger isn't second-hand nonsense, that corpse is our only link to him.”

“For a moment he thought I was Harry; he's got a photograph, he said.”

“You're wasting time!”

"Suppose the-police arrive

“Use your well-known bullshit officialese to talk your way out of it. If that doesn't work, I'll take care of it later, although I'd rather not go by the book on this. Get going!”

“I'll call you later.”

“Make it sooner rather than later.”

“Come on,” said Latham, grabbing Karin's right wrist above the bandage and heading for the path.

“Back there?” cried De Vries, stunned.

“Our colonel's orders. We've got to move fast-”

“But the police!”

“I know, so even faster.. .. I've got it! You stay on the path, and if the police come, act frightened, which won't take much talent if you're anything like me, and tell them your boyfriend stepped into the woods to take a leak.”

“Not impossible,” conceded Karin, ol ing on and dodging the trees and the underbrush with Latham.

“More American than French, but not impossible.”

“I'll drag our would-be killer into the woods and sweep him clean. He also has a better watch than mine; I'll take that too.”

They reached the path, the fountain below now practically deserted, only a few morbidly curious observers scattered about the borders.

Several kept glancing down the other paths, obviously expecting the police. Drew pulled the corpse feet first into the brush and went through the pockets, removing everything that was in them. He did not bother to look for the weapon that came within a second of ending his life; it would tell them nothing. Finished, he rushed back to the path and Karin as the shouts came' from below.

“Les gendarmes, les gendarmes! De I'autre ceti ”Oh?"

“Oti done?”

Fortunately, in answer to the two police officers' demands of where “on the other side,” the remaining civilians pointed in various directions, including several shadowed paths. Frustrated, the policemen split and raced down different paths. It was enough;

Latham and De Vries ran across the open fountain and up the north path again until it leveled out, and they found themselves in the splendor of summer gardens surrounding a small manmade pond where white swans paddled majestically under the wash of floodlights. They spotted an empty bench, and with very little breath in either of their lungs, sat down, their spines slumping against the back slats. Karin tore the blond wig from her head and shoved it into her purse, shaking her hair loose.

“As soon as I can talk, I'll call'Witkowski,” said Drew, breathing deeply.

“How's your hand? Does it hurt?”

“You can think of my hand at a time like this?”

“Well, -1 grabbed it back there because you were still holding the gun in your left and I though t the goddamned thing, might go off if I reached for it-your left hand, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. There was no time to put it back in my purse then.. .. Call the colonel, please.”

“Okay.” Latham again removed the cellular phone from his pocket and dialed, thankfully seeing the numbers clearly under the pond's floodlights.

“Stanley, we made it,” he said.

“Someone else didn't, lad,” interrupted the colonel.

“And we don't know how the hell it happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That neo scum bucket I put on a military jet under a drape to Washington at five o'clock this morning.”

“What about him?”

“He arrived at Andrews Air Force Base at three-thirty A.m.” D.C.

time-total darkness; incidentally-and was shot while under military escort to the waiting area."

“How?”

“A damned powerful rifle with an infrared scope on one of the roofs. Naturally, nothing was found.”

“Who was looking?”

"Who knows? As we agreed, I let the word out on a need-to know basis to Knox Talbot's top senior officers that we had a genuine Nazi, when he was flying in, and all the rest.

“So?”

“Someone hired a gun.”

“So where are we-”'

“Narrowing everything down, that's where we are. We know about the AA computers, now we've got another four or five deputy directors on the list. That's how it's done, youngster, you keep closing the doors until there's only one or two left in a room.”

“What about me, what about Paris?”

“It's a cat-and-mouse, isn't it, lad? This Kroeger wants to find Harry-you-as much as you want to find him, isn't that so?”

“Apparently, but why?)l ”We'll only know that when we catch him, won't we?"

“You're not very comforting-” “I don't care to be, get that straight. I want you on your uppers every minute of the day and night.”

“Thanks a lot, Stosh.”

“Bring me whatever you've got-” “I grabbed everything there was,” Latham broke in furiously.

“So don't say 'whatever.” Except I forgot to take the goddamn e'd watch!"

“I like that,” said the colonel.

“I like anger in situations like this. My place, in an hour, and make three changes of vehicles.”

the flames shot upward, bright bursts of fire illuMInating the darkness. The enormous Vaclabruck Tcomplex was nearly completed, including a vast scythed-down field descending from a sloping hill that held fifteen hundred selected disciples of the BrUderschaft from all over the world. The night was cloudless and the torches filled the huge natural arena, both along the surrounding borders as well as in front of the dais, a fifty foot-long table on the crest of the hill where the leaders sat. A microphone was in the center lectern, its wires leading to speakers throughout the area, and on top of tall poles behind the imposing table, spotlighted and fluttering in the breezes, were the bloodred and black flags of the Third Reich, with one startling difference. A white lightning bolt shot down across the swastikas. It was the banner of the Fourth Reich.

A series-of speakers, all in the military uniforms of Nazi Germany, had spoken, their exhortations bringing the audience to clamorous crescendos of fanatical endorsement. Finally, the next to-last orator approached the center of the dais; he gripped the lectern, his fiery gaze sweeping over the serrated ranks, and spoke with quiet, echoing authority.

“You have heard it all tonight, the cries of those around the world who need us, demand us, insist that we take up the sword of global order, purifying the races and eliminating the human and ideological garbage that pollutes the civilized world. And we stand ready!”

The applause, pulsated by roars of approval, rocked the ground, reverberating throughout the surrounding forests.

The uniformed man held up his hands for silence; it came quickly, and he continued.

“But to lead us, we must have a Zeus, a Ftibrer greater than the last-not in thought, for no one could surpass Adolf Hitler in philosophy-but in strength and determination, a leader who will strike down the timid and not be stopped by the cautious strategies of military intellectuals; who will smite the enemies of racial progress, and will attack when he knows the time is right! History has proved that had the Third Reich invaded England when Herr Hitler ordered his armies to do so, we would have a different and far better. world than we have today. He was persuaded not to by the privileged dilettantes of the Junker corps. Our new leader, our Zeus, will never submit to such cowardly interference.. .. However, and I know this will be a disappointment, it is not yet the time to reveal his identity, even to you. Instead, he has recorded a message for you, for each and every one of you.”

The next-to-last orator shot his right arm up in the Nazi salute.

As he abruptly snapped it back, an amplified voice came from the speakers everywhere. It was a strange voice, mid-deep, sharp, and cutting, each echoing consonant delivered like a swinging ax meeting hard wood. In some ways it evoked the memory of Hitler's diatribes in the sense that the hysterical climaxes came numerously and rapidly, but there the similarity ended. For this speaker was more of this age; the shock value of his screaming apogees was preceded by cold words, spoken slowly, icily, followed by sudden bursts of emotional excess that lent power to his conclusions. His harangues were not diminished by the shrieking one-note delivery of Hitler; instead, they were heightened by contrast, as if he were confiding in his -audience, who undoubtedly understood every point he was leading up to, then rewarded their acumen by shouting, affirming the judgments they had already made. The Age of Aquarius was long gone; the age of manipulation had taken its place. The lessons of Madison Avenue were heeded across the world.

"We are at the beginning, and the future is ours! But you know that, don't you? You who work tirelessly here in the Fatherland, and you who labor unceasingly in foreign countries-you can see what is happening, can't you? And isn't it magnificent? The message we bring is not only accepted, but zealously desired, desired in the hearts and minds of people everywhere-and you do see that and hear that, and you know it! .. I cannot see you, but I hear you, and I accept your gratitude, although, to be frank, it is misplaced. I am merely your voice, the voice of the righteously discontented all over the civilized globe.

And you understand that, don't you? You understand the agony we face everywhere when inferior people make us pay for their inferiority! When industrious men and women are deprived of their hard-earned benefits by those who refuse to work, or are incapable of working, or too demented even to try! Are we to suffer for their laziness, their incompetence, or their derangement? If so, the indolent, the incompetent, and the deranged will rule the world! For they-will rob us of our moral leadership by overwhelming us, draining our coffers in the name of humanity-but no, it is not humanity, my soldiers, for they are garbage! .. . But they cannot and will not do that, for the future is ours!

“Everywhere our enemies are increasingly confused, bewildered by what is sweeping over them, not sure who is and who is not part of us, in their deepest thoughts applauding our progress, even as they deny those thoughts. Continue the march, my soldiers. The future is ours!” Again, the applause was thunderous, as the strains of the Horst Wessel anthem filled the huge stadium carved out of the forest. And in a prearranged back row, two men, alternately clapping and shouting cries of devotion, turned to each other and spoke softly, both recognizing their partially shaved opposing eyebrows.

“Madness,” said the Frenchman in English.

“Not unlike the newsreels we've seen of Hitler's speeches,” added the Hollander from the Dutch Foreign Service.

“I think you're wrong, monsieur. This Fahrer is far more believable. He doesn't force his judgments on the crowd by constant shouting. He leads them there by ask- Ming seemingly reasonable questions. Then suddenly explodes, delivering the answers they want to hear. He understands dynamics-very clever, indeed.”

“Who is he, do you think?”

“He could be any one of the far-right wingers in the Bundestag, I imagine. As instructed, I've recorded him so our department can match voiceprints, if the ridiculously small machine in my pocket is sufficient for the task.”

“I haven't been in touch with the office in over a month,” offered the Dutchman.

“Nor I in six weeks,” said the Frenchman.

“We must, however, give our superiors credit. The satellites picked up the clearing of the forest the way the high-altitude planes revealed the missiles in Cuba nearly thirty years ago. They could not accept the explanation of another wealthy Far Eastern religious retreat despite the official papers. They were right.”

“My people were convinced something was odd when foreign construction workers were recruited.”

“I was a simple carpenter, what about you?”

"An electrician. My father owned a magasin ilectrique in Lyons.

I worked there until I went away to university."

“Now we have to get out of here, and I don't think that's going to be so easy. This compound is nothing short of an old concentration camp-barbed-wire fences, towers with machine guns, and all the rest.”

“Be patient, we'll find a way, monsieur'. We'll meet at breakfast, tent six. There has to be a way.”

The two men turned from each other, only to be faced by a semicircle of uniformed men, their tunics emblazoned with the banner of the Fourth Reich, the white lightning bolts descending across the swastikas.

“Have you heard enough, meine Herren?”

said an officer, standing forward of the guards confronting the two foreigners.

“Youthink you are so clever, nicbt wahr? You even converse in English.” The soldier held up a small electronic listening device, common in police and intelligence circles.

“This is a wonderful piece of equipment,” the officer continued.

“One can zero in on, say, two people in a crowd and hear every word being spoken by shutting out the external noises. Remarkable.. .. You have both been watched since the moment you showed up among our privileged, invited guests, enthusiastically claiming to be two of them. Do you think we're so unsophisticated? Did you really believe we had no computerized lists to scrutinize? When you were nowhere, we cross-checked the foreign labor forces. Guess what we found? Never mind, you know, of course. A gruff Dutch carpenter, and a particularly peevish French electrician.. .. Mitkommen! Zackig! We shall talk for a while, your accommodations unfortunately not the finest, but then you'll find peace, your earthly remains in a deep trench along with the other worms and grubs.”

“You people are well versed in such executions, aren't you?”

“I regret to say, Dutchman, that I wasn't alive to participate. But our time will come, my time will come.”

Witkowski, Drew, and Karin sat around the colonel's kitchen table in his apartment on the rue Diane. Spread across the surface were the articles Latham had taken from the pockets of the dead neo.

“Not bad,” said the army G-2 veteran, alternately picking up the objects and studying them.

“I'll tell youthi's much,” he went on, “this bastard son of Siegfried didn't expect to find any trouble at the Bois de Boulogne.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Latham, gesturing at his empty whisky glass.

“Get it yourself.” The colonel raised his eyebrows and nodded at the brass dry bar just beyond the archway to the living room.

“In this house I pour the first, the rest is up to you. Except for the ladies-ask the lady, you jackass.”

“That's a pejorative term,” said Drew, standing up and looking at Karin, who shook her head.

“A what?”

“Never mind, Colonel, he's childish,” interrupted De Vries.

"But please answer his question. There are no papers, no identification;

why is it 'not bad'?"

“Actually, it's pretty good. He'd tell you that himself if he'd look at the stuff instead of swilling the sauce.”

“I've had one drink, Stosh! A damn well-deserved one, I might add.”

“I know, lad, but you still haven't really looked, have you?”

"Yes, I have. As I put it all on the table. There's a matchbook from a restaurant called Au Coin de la Famille, a dry cleaning pickup receipt for a store on the avenue Georges Cinq in the name of AndrE-meaningless; a gold money clip with a couple of, I presume, endearing words in German and nothing else; another receipt on a credit card, that name and number so obviously false, or so buried, it would take days to trace it to another blind alley. The banks pay;

that's all the merchants want and they get paid.. .. The rest, I grant you, I didn't examine, but then, what I just told you was the result of approximately eight seconds. Anything else, Colonel?"

“I told you, Mrs. de Vries, he does have merit. I doubt it was even eight seconds-nearer five by my count, because of his wanting a drink so fast.”

“I'm impressed,” conceded Karin, “but you found other things, other items?”

“Just two. One, another receipt for repairs from a cusi0m boot shop, also in the name of Andre, and the last a crumpled admission to an amusement park outside of Neuilly-sur-Seine-a free admission ticket.”

“I never saw those!” protested Latham, pouring himself a drink at the dry bar.

“What do they tell you?”

“Shoes, especially boots, are extremely personal, Mrs. de Vries-”

“Please stop calling me that, sir. Karin will do.”

"All right, Karin. Footwear is, shall we say, idiosyncratic; a custom shop services the particular form and shape of an individual foot. If a person goes to such a store, he's usually been there before, that is, if he's been in Paris for any length of time.

Otherwise, he would return to his original boot maker you follow me?"

“I do, indeed. And the amusement park?”

“Why was he issued a free ticket?” interjected Drew, carrying his drink back to the table and sitting down.

“I really didn't sea those, Stosh.”

“I know, cblopak, and I wasn't trying to top you, but they were there.”

“So tomorrow morning we hit on a boot maker and someone in an amusement park who gives away free tickets-not exactly a French tradition. Christ, I'm tired. Let's go home.. .. No, wait a minute! What, about the trap you set at Sacro-Coeur?”

“What trap?” asked an astonished Witkowski.

“The trap! Courier Sixteen at the top of the funicular.”

“Never heard of it.” Both men looked at Karin de Vries.

“You?”

“I did that for Freddie many times,” said Karin, smiling awkwardly.

“He used to say, ”Make up something, the more foolish the better, for we're all fools."

“Just hold it, both of you,” said Witkowski, shaking his head, then looking at Drew.

“Are you positive no one could have followed you here?”

"I'll overlook the insult, and give you my professional reply. No, you son of a bitch, because I knew better than to take three changes of vehicles, which could have been picked up electronically, but you're too antediluvian to know that. Our changes took place underground, on the Metro, not three, but five.

You got that? “”Oh I do like your anger. My sainted Polish mother always said that there was truth in anger. It was the only thing you could trust."

“That's fine. Now may I call a taxi and get us both home?”

“No, that's the one thing you can't do, lad. Since no one knows where you are, you'll stay right here, both of you. I've -got a guest bedroom and that very nice couch over there.. .. I suspect you'll be on the couch, youngster, and I'll thank you not to drink up all of my whisky.”

The frustrated Blitzkrieger unit had returned to headquarters from the “trap” at Sacr&Coeur only to be met by muted confusion. It served to heighten the elite killers' anger.

“There was no one!” spat out the ojder Paris Five, throwing himself into a chair at the conference table.

“Not a goddamned man or woman who even looked like a contact! We were set up-a foolish and dangerous waste of time. ”

“Where's our so brilliant leader, Zero One?” asked another member of the unit, addressing the three remaining Blitzkrieger who had not been sent to Sac rE-Coeur.

“He may be in charge between his changes of diapers, but he's got an explanation or two to deliver. If we were set up, we were undoubtedly spotted!”

“He's not here,” replied another neo killer, his elbow on the table, his voice a mixture of weariness and boredom.

“What are you talking about?” cried Paris Five, sitting up sharply.

“The ten o'clock call from Bonn. He had to be here for it.”

“He wasn't, and no call came,” said another.

“Could it have come in on his private line?”

"No, it could not and did not'. answered the weary Blitzkrieger whose number was Zero Two, Paris.

“When he didn' tshow up, I sat in his putrid office from nine thirty to quarter of eleven. Nothing. . Zero One may be a devoted favorite of our superiors, but I wish he'd bathe more often. That room is a stink tank.”

“Taking a shower takes him away from his throne, and all its gadgets.”

“He's a mad child in an electronics toy store-”

“Careful,” interrupted yet another.

“Dissension's frowned upon, I remind you.”

“Legitimate criticism isn't,” pressed Paris Five.

“Where is One and why isn't he here? I gather you haven't even heard from him.”

"You 'gather' correctly, but then, we all understand the friction between you two

“Admitted and irrelevant,” said Five, standing up, his lean frame over the table, supported by strong, splayed out hands.

"However, his behavior now is unacceptable,

and I'll express that to Bonn. Our team is sent out on a false mission filled with jeopardy-"

“We all heard the embassy tape,” the weary Paris Two broke in.

“We agreed it was the priority.”

“We certainly did, I foremost. But instead of leading this priority assault, our first Zero chose the secondary Bois de Boulogne on the pretext that he could not return from the Sacro-Coeur in time for the call from Bonn. There was no call and he's not here. An explanation is definitely required.”

“Perhaps none is available,” said a previously silent Blitzkrieger at the far right end of the table.

“However, there was another call, our informer at the American Embassy.”

As one, the unit from Sacro-Coeur reacted like startled cats.

Again Five spoke.

“It's absolutely forbidden for him to contact us directly, especially by telephone.”

“He felt the information warranted his disobedience.”

“What was it?” demanded Three.

“The subterranean, Colonel Witkowski.”

“The coordinator,” added Paris Two quietly.

“His impressive connections in Washington are familiar to our our people over there.”

“Whit was it?” insisted Five.

“Our man stationed himself in an automobile outside the colonel's apartment on the rue Diane. It was instinct, based on the telephone intercepts of Frederik de Vries's widow in Documents and Research.”

“And?”

"Over an hour ago a man and a woman ran into the building.

They were in shadow, and he couldn't really see the man but thought he knew him. The woman he did know. It was the widow De Vries."

“The man's Latham!” exploded Paris Five.

“She's with Harry Latham; it can't be anyone else. Let's go!”

“To do what?” asked the skeptical Blitzkrieger, Zero Two.

“To complete the kill that One miscalculated.”

“The circumstances are different, and considering the colonel's background in security, the location is extremely dangerous. In Zero One's absence, I suggest we get clearance from Bonn.”

“I suggest we don't,” Paris Six broke in.

“Sacro-Coeur was enough of a fiasco, why open a window, much less a door? If we bring in the kill, it erases the fiasco.”

“And if you fail?”

“The answer to that is obvious,” replied another from Sacr6Coeur, touching the outline of the shoulder holster under his jacket with his right hand, his left reaching for the- collar of his shirt, wherein were sewn three cyanide capsules.

“We may have our differences, our frictions, if you like, but the baseline is our commitment to the Brilderschaft, the emergence of the Fourth Reich. Let no one mistake that commitment.”

“I don't think anyone does,” said Two.

“Then you agree with Paris Six? We go to the rue Diane.”

“Certainly. We'd be idiots not to.”

“We present Bonn with a triple kill our leaders can only applaud,” added the angry, frustrated Paris Five.

“Without Zero One, who's screwed us up enough. When he returns, he can answer to us as well as to Bonn. I suspect, at best, he'll be recalled.”

“You really want to command this unit, don't you?” asked Two, looking up, wearily at the imposing figure of Five.

“Yes,” answered the elder assassin, elder because he had reached the age of thirty.

"I'm the oldest and more experienced.

He's a mad teenager who acts and makes decisions before he's thought things out.. I should have been given the position three years ago, when we were assigned here."

“Why weren't you? After all, we're all mad, so madness doesn't count, does it?”

“What the hell are you saying?” pressed another Blitzkrieger, sitting up and staring at Zero Two.

"Don't mistake me, I approve of our madness. I'm the son of a diplomat and grew up in five different countries. I saw firsthand what you've only been told. We're right, absolutely right. The weak, the mentally and racially inferior, are inserting themselves in governments everywhere;

only the blind do not see that. One doesn't have to be a social historian to understand that intellectual levels everywhere are being dragged down, not propelled upward. That is why we are right.. . But my question to Paris Five started this. Why was Zero One chosen, my friend?"

“I really don't know.”

“Let me try to explain. Every movement must have its zealots, its shock troops who inhabit that dark area beyond madness that compels them to hurl themselves against impenetrable barricades to make a statement heard across the land. Then they disappear into the background, supplanted-or at least they should be supplanted -by superior people. The gravest error the Third Reich made was to permit the shock troops, the, thugs, to control the party and thus the nation.”

“You're a thinker, aren't you, Two?”

“The philosophical theories of Nietzsche have always appealed to me, especially his doctrine of perfectibility through self-assertion and the moral glorification of the supreme rulers.”

“You're too educated for me,” said Zero Six, “but I've heard the words before.”

“Of course you have.” Paris Two smiled.

“Variations have been drummed into us.”

“We're wasting time!” Five broke in, standing erect, his eyes squinting slightly, riveted on Two.

"You are a thinker, aren't you?

I've never heard you talk so much, especially about such matters.

Is there something else beneath your words? Perhaps you believe that you should command our Paris unit."

“Oh, no, you're very wrong, I'm not qualified. What I may have in my head I lack in practical experience, as well as by my youth.”

“But there is something else-”

“Indeed, there is, Number Five,” interrupted Two, their eyes locked.

“When our Reich emerges, I have no intention of fading into an obscure background-any more than you do.”

"We understand each other.. .. Come, I'll choose the team for the rue Diane-six men. Two of you remain here to expedite emergency procedures should they be necessary,

The chosen six rose from the table, three of them going to their rooms to change into black sweaters and trousers, the remaining Blitzkrieger studying a large street map of Paris, concentrating on the area of the rue Diane. The three properly dressed killers returned; the team checked their weapons, gathered up the equipment designated by Zero Five, and the telephone rang.

“This situation's now intolerable!” screamed Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger.

“I shall report you all for gross incompetence and refusal to keep in communication with a Briiderschaft of the highest level!”

“Then you would be doing yourself a disservice, sir,” sal 'd a controlled Zero Five.

“Before the night is over, we'll have the kill you so greatly desire, as well as two additional targets Bonn will be pleased to know you were instrumental in directing us to.”

“I was told that nearly four hours ago! What happened? Let me talk to that insulting young man who claims he's your leader.”

“I wish I could, mein Herr,” replied Five, choosing his words carefully.

“Unfortunately, Zero One, Paris, has not kept in touch with us. He elected to pursue a secondary source, a highly questionable source, if you'll forgive me, and he hasn't called in to report. In truth, he's over two hours late.”

"A 'questionable' source? He said it was the highest risk.

Perhaps something happened to him."

“In the delights of the Bois de Boulogne, sir? Again, highly unlikely.”

“Then what happened at the first location, for God's sake?”

“No more than a trap, mein Herr, but my team, Zero Five's team, eluded it. However, it led to a third source, an unimpeachable one, that we're going after now. Before the sun comes up you'll have proof of the primary target's death, the prescribed method of execution very much in evidence. I, Zero Five, will have the photographs delivered to you personally at your hotel.”

“Your words relieve me; at least you speak more reasonably than that damned youngster with the eyes of a cobra.”

“He's young, sir, but very accomplished in the physical aspects of our work.”

“Without a head on his shoulders, that sort of talent doesn't mean a thing!”

“I tend to agree, but, please, mein Herr, he is my superior, so I never said what I just said.”

“You didn't say it, I did. You merely agreed to a generalization. . What was your number? Five?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring me the photographs and Bonn will be apprised of your worth.”

“You're most kind. We must leave now.”

Stanley Witkowski sat in the darkness, peering down through a window at the street below. His broad, leathery face was set, immobile, as every now and then he brought a pair of infrared binoculars to his eyes. The object of his concentration was a stationary automobile at the far right corner of the block, no more than a hundred feet across from the entrance to his apartment building. What had caught the veteran intelligence officer's attention was the flash of a face in the front seat picked up by a street lamp. Sporadically, the face came into view, then receded in the shadows as if the man were waiting for someone or watching for something on the opposite side. The hollow pressure in the colonel's chest, a pressure he had felt hundreds of times in the past, was a warning to be accepted or rejected with the passing minutes or hours.

Then it happened. The face came into view again, but there was a car phone pressed against the man's right ear. He appeared to be excited, angry, his head angled upward, his gaze directed at the upper floors of the apartment building, Witkowski's building. The observer then thrust the phone away, again in anger or frustration.

It was enough for the colonel. He rose from the' chair and walked rapidly to his bedroom door' and into the living room, shutting the door behind him. He found Drew

Latham and Karin de Vries sitting on the couch, to his distinct pleasure at opposite ends; Witkowski hated personal relationships in their work.

“Hello, Stanley,” said Drew.

“You chaperoning? If so, you've nothing to fear. We're discussing the post-Cold War situation, and the lady doesn't like me.”

“I didn't say that,” countered Karin, laughing softly.

“You've done nothing to cause me to really dislike you, and I do admire you.”

“Translation. I've been shot down, Stosh.”

“Let's hope that's figuratively speaking,” said the colonel icily, the tone of his voice bringing Drew up short.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you weren't followed, youngster.”

“We weren't. How could we have been?”

“I'm not sure, but there's a man in a car down in the street who makes me wonder. He's been on the phone and he keeps looking up here.” Drew quickly rose from the couch and started for Witkowski's bedroom door.

“Turn off the lamp before you go in there, you damn fool,” Witkowski barked.

“You can't allow any light to bleed through that window.” Karin reached over and switched off the single floor lamp above her.

“Good girl,” the intelligence officer went on.

“The eye-red binoculars are on the sill and stay low, away from the glass. It's the sedan across the street at the corner.”

“Right.” Latham disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Witkowski and De Vries alone in the relative darkness, only the spill of the streetlights below providing what illumination there was.

“You're really worried, aren't you?” asked Karin.

“I've been around long enough to be worried,” replied the colonel, still standing.

“So have you.”

“It could be a jealous lover, or a husband too intoxicated to go home.”

“It could also be the tooth fairy trying to find the right pillow.”

“I wasn't being facetious, and I don't think it's fair for you to be.”

“I'm sorry. I mean that. To repeat what my old acquaintance-friend would be misleading, I'm not in his leagueSorenson said in Washington, ”Things are moving too fast and getting far too complicated.“ He's right. We think we're prepared, but we're not. The Nazi movement is coming out of the dirt like white slugs in a garbage heap, many real, many not, merely specks of light-colored refuse. Who is and who isn't? And how do we find out without accusing everybody, forcing the innocent to prove they're not guilty?”

“Which would be too late once the accusations are made.”

"You couldn't be more accurate, young lady. I lived through it.

We lost dozens of deep- and middle-level agents. Our own people blew their covers, sucking up to politicians and so-called investigative journalists, none of whom knew the truth."

“It must have been very difficult for you-”

“The standard resignations included such Ohrases as ”I don't need this, Captain,“ or Major, or whatever I was at the time. And ”Who the hell are you to ruin my life?“ and most terribly, ”You clean my slate, you son of a bitch, or I go ballistic and blow your whole operation out of the water.“ I must have signed fifty or sixty 'confidential memorandums' stating that the individuals involved were extraordinary intelligence operatives, an awful lot of them far more flattering than they deserved.”

“Not after what had been done to them, certainly.”

“Maybe not, but a lot of those clowns are in the private sector now, making twenty times what I make due to the mystique of their past employment. Several of the lesser ones, who couldn't decipher a cereal box code, are heading up the security of big corporations.”

“That sounds 'nuts,” an American expression, I believe."

“Of course it is. We're all nuts. It's not what we do, it's what we did-on paper, that is, no matter how ridiculous. Blackmail is the order of the day, from top to bottom, my dear.”

“Why haven't you resigned yourself, Colonel?”

“Why?” Witkowski sat in the nearest chair, his eyes on the bedroom door.

“Let me put it this way, as archaic as it may sound. Because I'm very good at what I do, which doesn't say much for my character-being serpentine and suspicious are not exactly admirable traits-but if they refined and applied to the work I do, they can be assets. The American entertainer Will Rogers once said, ”I never met a man I didn't like.“ I say, I never met a man in my business I didn't suspect. Perhaps it's the European in me, my heritage. I'm Polish by descent; actually it was my first language.”

“And Poland, which has given more to the arts and sciences than most other countries, has been betrayed more than most countries,” said De Vries, nodding.

suppose .-..a+'s part oil it. I guess you could say it's ingrained."

“Freddie trusted you.”

“I wish I could return the compliment. I never trusted your husband. He was a burning fuse I couldn't control, couldn't stamp out. His death at the hands of the Stasi was inevitable.”

“He was right,” said Karin, her voice rising.

“The Stasi and their ilk are now the core of the Nazis.”

“His methods were wrong, his rage misplaced. Both betrayed his cover and he was killed for it. He wouldn't listen to us, to me.”

“I know, I know. He wouldn't listen to me either.. .. By then, however, it didn't really matter.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

"Freddie became violent, not only to me but to anyone who disagreed with him. He was enormously strong trained by your commando troops in Belgium-and came to think he was invincible.

At the end he was as fanatic as his enemies."

“Then you understand where I come from when I say I never trusted your husband.”

“Naturally. Our last months in Amsterdam were not days I care to relive.”

Suddenly the door to Witkowski's bedroom flung open, Latham in its frame.

“Bingo!” he shouted.

“You were right, Stanley. That bastard down there in the street is Reynolds, Alan Reynolds in Communications!”

"Who ?1)

“How many times have you gone down to Communications, Stosh?”

"I don't know. Maybe three or four times in the last year.),

“He's the mole. I saw his face.”

“Then something's about to happen, and I suggest we take countermeasures.”

“What do we do and where do we start?”

“Mrs. de Vries-Karin-would you please go to my bedroom window and let us know what develops?”

“On my way,” said Karin, rising from the couch and running into the colonel's room.

“Now what?” asked Drew.

“The obvious,” answered Witkowski.

“Weapons first.”

“I have an automatic with a full clip.” Latham pulled the gun from his belt.

“I'll give you another one with an extra clip.”

“You're expecting the worst, then?”

“I've been expecting it for nearly five years now, and if you haven't, it's no wonder your flat was blown apart.”

“Well, I have this instrument that stops anyone from opening the door.”

“No comment. But if the bastards send two or three after you, Lord love a duck, I'd surely like to ship a couple back to Washington. It'd make up for the one we lost there.” The colonel walked to an imposing Mondrian print on the wall and swiveled it back, revealing'a safe. He spun the dial back and forth, opened the large vault, and withdrew two sidearms and an Uzi, which he clipped to his belt. He threw an automatic to Drew, who caught it, followed by a clip of ammunition which Latham missed; it fell to the floor.

“Why didn't you throw them both at once?” said an irritated Drew, bending down to retrieve the clip.

“I wanted to watch your reactions. Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

“Did you also mark the bottle?”

"Didn't have to. With what's left in your glass, you've had maybe a couple of ounces during the last hour. You're a big fella, like me;

you can handle it."

“Thank you, mother. Now what the hell do we do?”

“Most of it's been done. I simply have to activate the externals.”

Witkowski walked to the kitchen sink, unscrewed the chromium faucet in the center, reached into the orifice, and pulled out two wires; each end was capped with a small plastic terminal. He broke the seals and pressed the wires together; five loud beeps filled the adjoining rooms.

“There we are,” said the colonel, replacing the faucet and returning to the living room area.

“Where are we, 0 Wizard?”

“Let's start with the fire escapes; in these old buildings there are two-one in my bedroom, the other over there in the alcove, in what I foolishly call my library. We're on the third floor, the building has seven. By activating the external security devices, the fire escapes between the top of the second floor and the bottom of the fourth are electrified, the voltage sufficient to cause unconsciousness but not death. ”“Suppose whoever the evil people are simply walk up the stairs or take the elevator?”

“Naturally, one has to respect the privacy and civil rights of one's neighbors. There are three other flats on this floor. My apartment is on the left front quadrant, the door twenty feet from the nearest resident on my right. You probably didn't notice, but there is a thick, rather attractive Oriental runner leading to my door.”

“Arid once you turn on your externals,” interrupted Latham, “something happens when the bad guys step on the rug, is that it?”

“You're exactly right. Four-hundred-watt floodlights go on, accompanied by a siren that can be heard in the place de la Concorde.”

“You won't catch anybody that way. They'll run like hell.”

“Not on the fire escape; and if they use the stairs, they'll come right into our welcoming arms.”

“What? How?”

“On the floor below is a miscreant, a Hungarian who deals in, shall we say, misappropriated jewels. He's barely above small-time and does no great harm, and I've befriended him. A phone call or a tap on his door and we wait inside his apartment. Whoever comes racing down these stairs will have bullets in their legs-I trust you're a decent shot, I wouldn't want anyone killed.”

“Colonel!” Karin de Vries's voice from the bedroom was emphatic.

“A van just pulled in front of the car; men are climbing out.. .. Four, five, six-six men in dark clothing.”

“They really must want you, youngster,” said Witkowski as he and Drew ran into the bedroom, joining Karin at the window.

“A couple of them are carrying knapsacks,” said Latham.

“One of them is talking to the driver of the car,” added De Vries.

“He's obviously telling him to leave. He's backng away.”

“The others are spreading out, examining the building,” completed the colonel, touching Karin's arm, forcing her to turn to him.

“The young fellow and I are going to leave.” The woman's eyes flashed in alarm.

“Not to worry, we'll be right below. Close the bedroom door and bolt it; it's steel-plate and no one could break it open without a truck or a ten-man battering ram.”

“For Christ's sake, call the police or at least embassy security!”

Drew was cool but firm.

“Unless I'm grossly mistaken, my friendly neighbors will reach the police, but not before you and I have a chance to grab one or two of the bastards for ourselves.”

“And you'd lose them if our security was involved,” Karin broke in.

“They'd be forced to cooperate with the police, who'd take everyone into custody.”

“You're very quick,” Witkowski agreed, nodding at her in the dim light from the street.

“You'll hear a loud siren from the hallway, and most likely a great deal of electric static from the fire escape-”

“It's wired. You activated the current.”

“You knew about that?” asked Latham, astonished.

“In Amsterdam, Freddie did the same with ours.”

“I taught him,” said the colonel without emphasis.

“Come on, chlopak, there's no time to waste.”

Eighty-five seconds later, the irritated Hungarian had been persuaded to accept the price offered by an influential American who had interceded for him in the past and in . ight be helpful in the future. Witkowski and Drew stood by the downstairs neighbor's door, which was open less than an inch. The waiting was interminable, the time elapsed nearly eight minutes.

“Something's wrong,” whispered the colonel.

“It's not reasonable.”

“No one's come up the stairs and there's no static from either fire escape,” said Latham.

“Maybe they're still casing the building.”

“That doesn't make sense either. These old structures are open books, and like books on a shelf, close together.. .. Jesus, 'close together The knapsacks!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm a damn fool, that's what. They've got grappling hooks and ropes! They're crossing from one building to another and scaling down the stone. Out! Upstairs as fast as we can. And for God's sake, don't step on the rug!”

Karin sat in the shadows across from the window, her weapon in her hand, listening for the sounds of high-voltage electricity from outside. None came, and it was now nearly ten minutes since the colonel and Latham had left. She began to wonder. Witkowski, by his own admission, was suspicious of everyone and everything to the point of paranoia, and Drew was exhausted. Was it possible all of them were wrong? Had the colonel mistaken a jealous lover or a frightened husband for something sinister? And had the tired Latham seen a face that reminded him of Alan Reynolds in Communications but was someone else's entirely? Were the men in the van, men who moved so quickly they had to be young, merely a group of university students returning from a camping trip or a late night in Paris? She put the gun down on a small table beside the chair, and stretched, her head arched back and yawning. Good heavens, she needed sleep.

And then, like an enormous combination of thunder and lightning, a figure crashed through the window, shattering glass and wood, landing on its feet and releasing a rope. Karin sprang out of the chair, instinctively rushing backward, her bandaged right hand groping for anything and everything. And then came another silhouetted, daredevil intruder, sliding on his rope until he landed by the bed.

“Who are you?” screamed De Vries in German, collecting what thoughts she could, realizing that her gun was on the small table.

“What do you want here?”

“You speak German,” said the first invader, “so you know what we want! Why else would you speak our language?”

“It is second to my own, and few understand my native Walloon.”

Karin circled, approaching the table.

“Where is he, Mrs. de Vries?” asked the second man by the bed menacingly.

"You won't get out of here, you know. Our comrades will block you; they're on their way up now. They just needed our signal and the window was;

“I don't know what you're talking about! Since you know who I am, does it shock you that I'm having an affair with the owner of this flat?”

“It's an empty bed, not even slept in-”

“We had a lovers' quarrel. He drank too much and we fought.”

Karin was within arm's reach of her weapon, and neither of the Nazis had bothered to un holster his.

“You've never had such fights with your women? If not, you're children!” She lunged for the gun, grabbed it, and fired into the first neo as the stunned second unstrapped his holster.

“Stop or you're dead!” said De Vries.

As she spoke, the steel-plated bedroom door swung open, crashing into the wall.

“Oh, my God!” roared Witkowski, snapping on the light.

“She's got a live one.”

“I thought it took a truck or a battering ram to get in here,” said Karin, visibly shaken.

“Not if you've got grandchildren who visit you in Paris; they can get real playful. There's a concealed button in the frame.” It was as far as the colonel got. An ear-shattering siren erupted, so loud that within seconds lights were turned on in the nearby buildings.

“They're coming to stop you from leaving!” cried De Vries.

“Let's welcome them, youngster,” said Witkowski. He and Latham ran through the living room to the front door. The colonel opened it, he and Drew standing concealed behind the door itself.

Two men rushed in, their automatic weapons on rapid fire, blowing up whatever was in their paths. The colonel and Drew took aim, and shooting three rounds apiece, shattered the arms and hands of the killers. They collapsed, writhing and moaning.

“Cover them!”

shouted Witkowski, racing into the kitchen. Seconds later the siren stopped and the hallway lights were out. The colonel returned, giving his orders rapidly as clamoring footsteps, growing fainter, could be heard running down the hallway steps.

"Tie, these sons of bitches up and throw them into the guest bathroom along with the live one in my bedroom. We'll give the gendarmes the bastard Karin sent to Valhalla'

“The police will want to know what happened, Stan.”

"Until tomorrow-this morning-that's their problem. I just want to pull some diplomatic strings and get these scum on one of our supersonics to Washington. With no announcement except to

Suddenly a scream came from the bedroom; it was Karin. Drew raced through the door and saw her, weapon hanging at her side, staring at the still, wide-eyed figure across the bed.

“What baPPened?”

“I'm not sure. He reacfied for his collar and bit into it. Seconds later he collapsed.”

“Cyanide.” Latham felt the young neo's throat for a pulse.

“Deutschland fiber Alles, ” he said softly.

“I wonder if this kid's mother and father will be proud. Christ, I hope not.”

heir hands and forearms bandaged, their shirt collars ripped off, Zero Five, Paris, sat with Paris Two Tin the cramped quarters of the jet flying across the Atlantic to Washington. It was unlikely they would be executed, thought Five; the Americans were weak in that area, especially if a prisoner appeared irrational and repentant. He nudged the scholarly Zero Two, who was dozing.

“Wake up,” he said in German.

“Was ist?”

“What should we do when we get there? Have you any ideas?”

“A couple,” replied Two, yawning.

“Let's hear them.”

“The Americans are, by nature, given to violence, although their leaders pontificate otherwise. Equally ingrained is a proclivity for seeking out conspiracies, no matter how remote they may be. Our leaders have their mistresses, who cares? Their leaders enjoy a whore, and suddenly they're tied to the overlords of crime. Do such men really need criminals to provide such women for them? It's ludicrous, but the Americans accept it; their hypocritical puritanism rejects natural law. A life of monogamy is simply not the nature of the male animal.”

“What the hell are you saying? You're not answering me.”

“Certainly I am. When we get there we feed both their hypocrisy and their need for conspiracy.”

“How?”

“They believe, or surely must believe by now, that we're an elite branch of the Broderschaft, and in a way we are, although not in the way they think. What we must do is to pretend we really are important. That we have ties to the zealots in Bonn who see us as the true storm troopers, who confide in us because they need us.”

“But they don't. We have no names, only codes that change twice weekly. The Americans will put us under drugs and learn this.”

“These days the truth serums are no more reliable than hypnosis in sophisticated circles; one can usually be programmed to resist them. U.S. intelligence knows that.”

“We haven't been programmed.”

“Why should we be? As you say, we have no names, only codes authorizing us to proceed with our orders. If we're subjected to chemicals and we reveal those useless codes, they can be only more impressed.”

“You're still not answering me. I liked you better when you didn't talk so much and were less erudite. How do we deal with the Americans)”

"First, we acknowledge our importance, our close ties with the leadership both in Europe and in America. Then, with reluctance, we also admit that there's a fair degree of hypocrisy in our actions.

Our lifestyles are extravagant concealed expensive residences, unlimited funds, the most voluptuous women whenever we want them. The fantasies of every young man are our reality, and the cause that makes this possible is the cause we work for, not necessarily a cause we would die for."

“Very good, Two, very convincing.”

“It's the foundation. From there we appeal to their appetite for conspiracy. We reemphasize our importance, our influence, the fact that we're constantly consulted and must be in contact with our counterparts all over the world in these days of supersonic travel.”

“Especially the United States, of course,” said Zero Five, Paris.

“Of course. And the information we have-specific names, and in the absence of names, positions in both government and civilian industry-is truly shocking. Men and women they could not imagine are sympathetic to the Brotherhood of the Watch.”

“That's being done now.”

“We'll escalate the process to new heights. After all, no one's heard it from 'the horse's mouth,” as the Americans say. If our computers are right, and I expect they are, we're the first of the new Nazi elite to be taken alive. Actually, we're trophies, prisoners of war of the highest order. We might very well be given special privileges if we appear to waver. I'm rather looking forward to the next few days."

Zeros Four and Seven, near-hysterical escapees from the rue Diane, burst into the Blitzkrieger headquarters at the Avignon warehouse complex, trying to impose some control over their emotions-none too successfully. Their two remaining comrades were in the conference room-one at the table, the other pouring Coffee.

“We're finished!” cried the impulsive Paris Zero Four, breathlessly throwing himself into a chair.

“All hell broke loose!”

“What happened?” The Blitzkrieger pouring coffee dropped the cup.

“It wasn't our fault.” Paris Seven, standing, held his place, and spoke in a loud, defensive voice.

“It was a trap, and Five and Two panicked. They ran inside the flat on rapid fire-”

“Then there were different shots and we heard them fall,” Zero Four broke in, his eyes unfocused.

“They're probably dead.”

“What about the others, the two who scaled down the building to the window?”

“We don't know; there was no way we could know!”

“What do we do now?” asked Seven.

“Any word from Zero One?”

"Nothing.

“One of us must assume his position and reach Bonn,” said the elite killer by the coffee.

To a man, the other three shook their heads emphatically.

“We'll be executed,” said Four -quietly, matter of-factly.

"The leaders will demand it, and speaking personally, I will not die for others' mistakes, others'

panic. Were I responsible, I would gladly take the cyanide, but I am not, we are not!"

“But what can we do?” repeated Seven.

The erect Four walked pensively around the table, pausing in front of the Blitzkrieger by the coffee machine.

“You handle our accounts, not so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How much money do we have?”

“Several million francs.”

“Can you get more quickly?”

“Our requests for funds are not questioned. We place a phone call and they are wired. We justify them later, naturally understanding the consequences if they are for false pretenses.”

“The same consequences we face now, am I right?”

“Essentially, yes. Death.”

“Make your call and ask for the maximum you can get. You might drop a hint that we may have the President of France or the head of the Chamber of Deputies in our pockets.”

“That would call for the maximum. The transfer will be immediate, but the funds would not be available to us until the Algerian bank opens.. .. It's past four now; the bank opens at nine o'clock.”

“Less than five hours,” said Zero Seven, staring at Four.

“What are you thinking of?”

"The obvious. We stay here, we all face execution.. .. What I'm about to say to you may turn your stomachs, but I submit that we can better serve our cause alive than dead. Especially when our deaths are the result of others' incompetence; we still have much to offer.. .. I have an elderly uncle outside of Buenos Aires, seventy miles south of the Rio de la Plata. He was one of many who fled the Third Reich when it was being destroyed, but the family still holds that Deutschland to be holy. We have passports;

we can fly there and the family will give us sanctuary."

“It's better than execution,” said Seven.

“Unwarranted execution,” added the Blitzkrieger at the table solemnly.

“But can we be unreachable for five hours?” asked the killer accounts manager.

“We can if we tear out the phones and leave,” replied Four.

“We'll pack whatever we need, burn what has to be destroyed, and get out of here. A long day and night lie before us. Hurry! Crumple the files and any other papers there are, stuff them into the metal wastebaskets and light them.”

“I'm rather looking forward to it,” said a relieved Zero Seven.

The ultimate believers had found a convenient crack in their sacred covenant, and as the first wastebasket was set on fire, the bookkeeper opened a window to let out the smoke.

Knox Talbot, director of the CIA, opened the front door for Wesley Sorenson. It was early evening, the Virginia sun descending over the fields of Talbot's property.

“Welcome to these humble lodgings, Wcs.”

“Humble, like hell,” said the head of Consular Operations, walking inside.

“Do you own half of the state?”

“Only an itty-bitty part. The rest I leave for the white folk. ”

“Really, it's very beautiful, Knox.”

“I won't argue,” agreed Talbot, leading them through an extravagantly appointed living room to a huge glass enclosed sun porch.

“If you like, and if you have time, I'll show you the barn and the stables. I have three daughters Who fell in love with horses until they discovered boys.”

“I'll be damned,” exclaimed Sorenson, sitting down.

“I have two daughters who did the same.”

“Did they leave you when they found husbands?”

“Well, they come back now and then.”

“But they left you with the horses.”

“Yea so, my friend. Fortunately, my wife adores them.”

“Mine doesn't. As she frequently points Out, growing up on 145th Street in Harlem didn't exactly prepare her for an estate with stables. She allows me to keep them cause they draw the kids back, sometimes too often.. .. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks. My cardiologist allows me three ounces a day, and I've already had four. Then I'll get home, and it'll be a total of six with my wife.”

“Then to business.” Talbot reached down to a wicker magazine rack and pulled up a black-bordered file folder.

“First, the AA computers,” he said.

“There was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could go on. I'm not questioning Harry Latham and his source, but if they're right, it's so buried, it would take an archeologist to pull him or her out.”

“They're right, Knox.”

“I don't doubt it, so while I continue to dig, I've replaced the whole unit as a matter of a new rotation policy. Expanding the venues of upper-level personnel is the way I explained it.”

“How did that go down?”

“Not well, but with no discernible objections, which, of course, I was looking for. Naturally, the former team is under a microscope.”

“Naturally,” said Sorenson.

“What about this Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger?”

“Far more interesting.” Talbot flipped several pages in the file folder.

“To begin with, he was apparently some kind of genius in the brain surgery field, not only in removing delicate tumors, but in eliminating 'subcutaneous pressures , that made mentally sick people well again.”

“Was?” asked Wesley Sorenson.

“What do you mean, was?”

“He disappeared. He resigned his post as associate chief of cranial surgery at the Hospital of Nuremberg at the age of forty three claiming he was burnt out, psychologically unfit to continue operating. He married a prominent surgical nurse named Greta Frisch, and the last anyone heard-the last trace, in fact-was that they immigrated to Sweden.”

“What do the Swedish authorities say?”

"That's what's interesting. They have him entering Sweden, at G6teborg, four years ago, ostensibly on a pleasure trip. The hotel records show that he and his wife spent two days and departed.

The trail ends there."

“He's back,” said the director of Consular Operations.

“In reality, I suppose, he never went away. He found another cause beyond making sick people well.”

“What in hell could that be, Wcs?”

“I don't know. Maybe making well people sick. I just don't know.”

Drew Latham opened his eyes, annoyed by the sounds from the street, louder because of the smashed window in the bedroom.

Witkowski, along with marine guards, had taken the captured Nazis to the airport under cover, and someone had had to stay in the colonel's room. An open window was too inviting. Slowly, Drew slid over to the other side of the bed and got to his feet, cautiously avoiding fragments of glass. He grabbed his trousers and shirt from a chair, put them on, and walked to the door. He opened it and saw Witkowski and De Vries across the living room at a table in the alcove, having coffee.

“How long have you been up?” he asked of both, not really caring.

“We let you sleep, my dear.”

“There's that 'my dear' again. I sincerely believe you do not mean an endearment.”

“It's an expression, Drew,” said Karin. “”You were quite wonderful last night-this morning."

“Naturally, the colonel was better.”

“Naturally, youngster, but you held your own, by damn. You're a cool customer in the face of the enemy.”

“Would you believe, Mr. Super Guy, that I've done it before? Not that I take any pride in it; it's merely a matter of survival.”

“Come,” said De Vries, rising.

“I'll get you some coffee. Here, sit down,” she continued, heading for the kitchen.

“Take the third chair.”

“I'll bet she wouldn't give it tome if it was hers,” said Latham, stumbling across the room.

“So, what happened, Stosh?” he asked, sitting down.

"Everything we wanted, young man. At five o'clock this morning I got our scum buckets on a jet to D.C. and nobody will know but

“What do you mean, will? Didn't you speak to Wcs?”

“I spoke to his wife. I met her once and nobody could duplicate that half-American, half-British speech. I told her to tell the director that a package was due at Andrews at four-ten in the morning, their time, under the code name Peter Pan Two. She said she'd tell him the moment he got in.”

“That's too loose, Stanley. You should have requested a return confirmation.”

The apartmerittelephone rang. The colonel got up and walked rapidly across the room; he picked it up.

“Yes?” He listened for six seconds and then hung up.

“That was Sorenson,” he said.

“They've got a platoon of marines on the ground and on the roofs. Anything else, Mr. Intelligence Man?”

“Yes,” replied Latham.

“Do we call off the boot maker and the amusement park?”

“I shouldn't think so,” answered Karin, bringing Drew his coffee and sitting down.

“Two ncos are dead and two on their way to America. Others have fled, an additional two, by my count.”

“Six altogether,” agreed Drew.

“Hardly a platoon,” he added, looking at Witkowski.

“Not even half a squad. How many others are there?”

“Let's try and find out. I'll take the amusement park-7 ”Drew," cried De Vries, sharply interrupting.

“You'll take nothing,” added the colonel.

“You haven't much of a short-term memory, youngster. They want you -or I should say Harry-on a slab with rigor mortis, remember?”

“What am I supposed to do, open a trapdoor and hide in the sewers?”

“No, you'll stay right here. I'll send two marines to guard the stairs and a maintenance man to repair the window.”

“Would you mind, I'd like to be useful?”

“You will be. This will be our temporary base camp and you'll be the contact-”

“With whom?”

“With whoever I tell you to reach. I'll be calling you at least once an hour.”

“What about me?” asked Karin apprehensively.

“I can be of value at the embassy.”

“I realize that, ”specifically in my office with a guard at the door.

Sorenson knows who you are and no doubt Knox Talbot as well. If either reaches me on my secure phone, you take the messages, call them to our amnesiac here, and I'll get them from him. Now, if I can only figure out a way to get you there in case there are hostiles in the street. "

“Perhaps I can help you help us both.” De Vries reached down for her purse beside the chair, stood up, and started for the bedroom.

“This will only take a moment or two, but. it does require a little prodding and primping.”

“What's she doing?” said Witkowski as Karin went through the door.

'.“I think I know, but I'll let her surprise you. Maybe then you'll promote her as your assistant.”

“I could do worse. Freddie taught her a lot of tricks.”

“Which you taught him.”

“Only the fire escape; the rest he figured out for himself and he was usually way ahead of us .. . all of us, except probably Harry.”

“What happens when she leaves the embassy, Stanley?”

“She won't. There are a lot of staff rooms. I'll throw someone out for a few days and she'll stay there.”

6“With a guard, of course.”

The colonel looked over at Latham, his eyes steady.

“You care, don't you?”

“I care,” replied Drew simply.

“Normally, I wouldn't approve, but in this case I'll reduce my objections.”

“I didn't say it'll lead anywhere.”

"No, but if it does, you've got a couple of miles on me.

She's in the same business."

“I beg your pardon?”

"You don't get grandchildren because some quartermaster issued them. I was married for thirteen years to a fine woman, a splendid woman who finally admitted she couldn't accept what I did for a living, and all the complications it involved.

For once in my life I pleaded, but to no avail-she saw through those pleas. I was too used to what I did, too primed for it every day.

She was very generous though-I had unlimited visitation rights with the children. But, of course, I wasn't around that much to visit them very often."

“I'm sorry, Stanley. I had no idea.”

“It's not the sort of thing you put in Stars and Stripes, now, is it?”

“I guess not, but you obviously get along with your kids. I mean, visiting grandchildren, and all.”

"Hell, yes, they consider me a hoot. Their mother remarried very well, and what in Sam Hill am I going to do with the money I make?

I've got more perks than I can handle, so when they all come to Paris, well, you can figure it out."

They were interrupted by the figure in the bedroom doorway, a very blond woman in dark glasses, her skirt hiked up above her knees, her blouse unbuttoned to mid chest She shifted her weight from leg to leg in mock sensuality.

“What'll the boys in the back room have?” she said, her voice low, imitating the well-worn motion picture clichL

“Outstanding!” exclaimed the stunned Witkowski.

“And then some.” Drew spoke softly, adding a quiet whistle.

“Will this do, Colonel?”

“It surely will, except I'll have to screen the guards, hopefully find a few gay ones.”

“Worry not, Wizard,” said Latham.

“Beneath the heat is a will of ice.”

“Obviously, I can't fool you, monsieur.” Karin laughed, released her skirt, buttoned her blouse, and started toward the table, when the telephone rang.

“Shall I get it?” she asked.

“I can say I'm the maid-in the proper French, naturally.”

“I'd be obliged,” answered Witkowski.

“Today's the laundry morning; he usually calls around now. Tell him to come up, and press Six on the phone to open the foyer door.”

“AI16? C'est la residence du grand colonel.” De Vries listened for a moment or two, placed her hand over the phone, and looked over at the embassy's chief of security.

“It's Ambassador Courtland. He says he must speak to you immediately.”

Witkowski rose quickly and crossed the room, taking the phone from Karin.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

“You listen to me, Colonel! I don't know what happened at your place last night or at the Orly Airport annex field-and I'm not sure I want to know-but if you have any plans for this morning, scratch them, and that's an order!”

“You heard from the police, then, sit?”

“More than I care to. And more to the point, I heard from the German ambassador, who's fully cooperating with us. Kreitz was alerted several hours ago by the German section of the Quai d'Orsay that there was a fire in a suite of offices at the Avignon Warehouses. Among the debris were remnants of Third Reich memorabilia, along with thousands of charred pages, burned beyond recognition, set on fire in wastebaskets.”

“The papers set the whole place on fire?”

“Apparently a window was left open and the breezes spread the flames, setting off the smoke alarms and the sprinklers. Get over there!”

“Where are the warehouses, sir?”

“How the hell do I know? You speak French, ask somebody!”

“I'll check the telephone book. And, Mr. Ambassador, I'd prefer not to take my own car, or a taxi. Would you please call-have your secretary call-Transport, and send secure equipment to my apartment on the rue Diane. They know the address.”

"

“Secure equipment'? What the dickens is that?”

“An armored vehicle, sir, with a marine escort.”

"Christ, I wish I were in Sweden!

Find out what you can, Colonel. And hurry!"

“Tell Transport to hurry, sir.” Witkowski hung up, not, however, before giving the telephone the proverbial “finger.” He turned to Latham and Karin de Vries.

“Everything's changed, at least for the time being. With any luck we may have found a jackpot. Karin, you stay the way you are. You, youngster, you go to my closet and see if you can find a uniform that fits. We're about the same size, one of 'em will come close.”

“Where are we going?” asked Drew.

"To a group of offices in a warehouse that got torched by ncos.

A Nazi wastebasket brigade didn't quite work out the way it was intended. Some asshole opened a window. "

The neo-Nazi headquarters were in shambles, the walls scorched, the few curtains burned up to their rods, and the whole mess drenched by the sprinkler system. In an office filled with computerized electronic equipment, undoubtedly used by the leader of the unit, was a huge locked steel cabinet. Smashed open, it revealed an arsenal of weapons, from high-powered rifles, telescopic sights attached, to boxes of hand grenades, miniaturized flamethrowers, garrotes, assorted handguns, and various stilettos some automated from canes and umbrellas. Everything coincided with Drew Latham's description of elite Nazi killers in Paris. This was their lair.

“Use pincers,” ordered Colonel Witkowski, speaking French and addressing the police while pointing to charred sheets of paper on the floor.

“Get plates of glass and place anything that isn't totally destroyed between them. You never know what we can pick up.”

“The telephones have all been torn from the walls and the receptacles destroyed,” said a French detective.

“The lines haven't, have they?”

“No. I have a technician from the telephone company on his way. He will restore the lines and we can trace their calls.”

“Outgoing, maybe, incoming negative. And if I know these bozos, the ones made here were routed for payment to a little old lady in Marseilles who gets a money order and a bonus once a month.”

“As it is with the drug dealers, no?”

“Yes.”

“Still, there are instructions somewhere, yes?”

“Definitely, but none you can trace. They'll come from a Swiss or Cayman bank, the secret accounts not to be nvaded. That's the way things work these days.”

1 investigate domestically, monsieur, in Paris and its environs mainly, not internationally."

“Then get me someone who does.”

“You would have to appeal to the Quai d'Orsay, the Service d'Etranger. These are beyond my province.”

“I'll find 'em.”

The uniformed Latham and a blond-wigged Karin de Vries approached, stepping cautiously on the floor, their feet avoiding the charred, windblown pages.

“Have you figured out anything?” asked Drew.

“Not much, but this sure was the core of their operations, whoever they were.”

“Who else but the men who attacked us last night?” said Karin.

“I'll buy that,. but where did they go?” agreed Witkowski.

“Monsieur IAmiricain,” shouted another plainclothes police official, rushing from an outer room.

“Look what I found. It was beneath a pillow on a sitting room chair! It is a letter-the beginning of a letter.”

“Let me have it.” The colonel took the piece of paper. “”Meine Liebste," Witkowski began, his eyes squinting.

“Etwas Entsetzlicbes ist gescheben.”

"

“Give it to me,” said De Vries, impatient with Witkowski's hesitation. She translated in English. "

"My dearest, tonight is most shocking. We must all leave immediately lest our cause be damaged and we are all to be executed for others' failures. No one in Bonn must know, but we are flying to South America, to some place where we will be protected until we can return and fight again.

I adore you so .. . I must finish later, someone is coming down the hallway. I will post this at the air-' It stops there, the letters slurred."

“The airport!” cried Latham.

“Which one? Which airlines fly to South America? We can intercept them!”

“Forget it,” said the colonel.

“It's ten-fifteen in the morning, and there are a couple of dozen airlines that leave between seven and ten and end up in any one of twenty or thirty cities in South America. Those flights are well beyond us. However, there's a positive. Our killers got the hell out of Paris fast, and their scum bucket brothers in Bonn haven't a clue. Until others take their place, we've got some breathing room.”

Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon and alterer of minds, was about to lose his own. He had called the Avignon Warehouses a dozen times in the past six hours, using the proper codes, only to be told by an operator that all lines to the office he wished to reach were “not in service at this time. Our computers show manual disconnects.” No amount of protestations on his part could change the situation; it was all too obvious. The Blitzkrieger had shut down. Why? What had happened? Zero Five, Paris, had been so confident: The photographs of the kill would be delivered to him in the morning.

Where were they? Where was Paris Five?

There was no other option. He had to reach Hans Traupman in Nuremberg. Someone had to have an explanation!

“It's'foolish of you to reach me here,” said Traupman.

“I don't have the proper telephone devices.”

“I had no choice. You cannot do this to me, Bonn cannot do this to me! I'm ordered to find my creation at whatever the cost, even to the point of employing the socalled incomparable skills of our associates here in Paris-”

“What more can you ask for?” interjected the doctor in Nuremberg arrogantly.

“Something, anything that makes sense! I've been treated abominably, given promise after promise with nothing to show for them. Now, at this minute, our associates cannot even be reached!”

“They have special arrangements, as befits confidential consultants.”

“I used them. The operator said her computers show that the phones were disconnected, manually disconnected. What more do you need, Hans? The .. . our associates have cut us off, cut us all off! Where are they?”

Seconds passed before Traupman spoke.

“If what you say is accurate,” he said quietly, “it's most disturbing. I assume you're at the hotel.”

41 am."

“Stay there. I'll drive home, reach several others, and call you back. It may take me over an hour.”

“It doesn't matter. just call me back.”

Nearly two hours passed before the Lutetia phone rang.

“Yes?”

said Kroeger, pouncing on it.

“Something very unusual has happened. What you told me is true .. . more than true, it's catastrophic. The one man in Paris who knows where our associates were -located went over and found the police everywhere.”

“Then they have disappeared!”

“Worse than that. At four thirty-seven this morning, their 'bookkeeper' reached our finance department, and with a plausible, if outrageous, story involving women and young boys and drugs and high French officials, requested an enormous sum of money-to be verified later as proper expenditures, of course.”

“But there is no later, no verification.”

“Obviously. They're cowards and traitors. We'll hunt them to the ends of the earth.”

“Your hunting them doesn't help me. My creation has reached the critical period. What do I do? I must find him!”

“We've talked it over. It's not the most favorable course of action, but we think it's the only one you've got. Reach Moreau at the Deuxi@me Bureau. He knows everything that happens in French intelligence circles.”

“How do I reach him?”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“I've seen photographs, yes.”

“It must be done on the outside, no phone calls, no messages, a simple meeting in the street, or a cafe, someplace where no, one would suspect an encounter. Say something short, no more than a sentence or two, in a way that only he can hear. The important thing is for you to use the word brotberbood.”

“What then?”

“He may dismiss you, but even as he does so he'll tell you where to meet him. It will be a common place, probably crowded, and the hour late.”

“Youtold me before to be suspicious of him.”

“We've taken that into consideration, but we have a counterattack should he not be the sympathizer he claims to be. To date, we've paid over twenty million francs into his Swiss account, substantiated by written records. He would be destroyed, sent to prison for years, if those records were anonymously leaked to the French government, not to mention the press. He could not deny them. Use it if you have to.”

“I'll head for the Deuxi@me immediately,” said Kroeger.

“Perhaps tomorrow, Harry Latham.”

n his office at the Deuxi@me Bureau, Claude Moreau studied the decoded message from his man in Bonn.

The content was judgmental, not factual, and not terribly enlightening, but there was a substance to it that could be helpful.

In yesterday's session, the Bundestag fully addressed the problem of the spreading Nazi revivals throughout Germany, the parties coalescing, united in their denunciations. However, my inside sources, several of whom dine frequently with the leaders of the left and the right factions report that there is rampant cynicism among both. The liberals don't trust the conservative denouncements, and a small circle of conservatives seem to wink at their own oratory. The leaders of industry, of course, are appalled, fearing the Nazi movement will close markets to them abroad, but are reluctant to support the socialistic ally inclined left, and do not know' whom on the right to trust. Their money flows like spreading inkblots throughout Bonn, without sure direction.

Moreau leaned back in his chair, mentally abstracting the phrase that caught his attention. Not only caught it, but set it on fire. A small circle of conservatives seem to wink at their own oratory.

Who, specifically, were they? What were the names? And why didn't his man in Bonn include them?

He picked up his console phone, the line to his secretary.

"I

want to go on absolute scrambler, no intercepts possible." .

“I'll activate the procedure, sit, and you'll know by the five second hum on line three, as usual,” said the female voice in the outer office.

“Thank you, Monique, and since my wife expects me for lunch at L'Escargot in a few minutes, she'll undoubtedly call when I'm not there. Please tell her that I'm delayed but will arrive shortly.”

“It's no problem, sir. R6gine and I are good friends.”

“Certainly. You both conspire against me. The scrambler, please.”

The low-toned hum on the line-three telephone completed, Moreau dialed his man in Bonn.

“Hallo,” said the man in Germany.

“Ibr Mann in Frankreich.”

“Go ahead and talk,” the man in Bonn broke in.

“I'm so clean here, I'm wired into the Saudi Arabian Embassy.”

“What?”

“I use their lines, not their receivership. Think of the money I save France. I should be given a bonus.”

“You are a rogue.”

“Why else would you pay me, Paris?”

“I read your communique to us. Several things were left out.”

“Such as?”

“Who comprises that 'small, circle of conservatives who wink at their own oratory.” You deliver no names, not even a hint of their affiliations."

“Naturally. Isn't that part of our very personal agreement? Do you really want the entire Deuxi@me Bureau to have the information? If so, your bank in Switzerland is entirely too generous to this rogue.”

“Enough!” snapped Moreau.

“You do what you do, and I do what I do, and neither has to know what the other is doing. Is that understood?”

“I imagine it has to be. So what do you want to know?”

“Who are the people leading, or behind, this small circle you describe?”

“Most are nothing but opportunists with little ability who wish to catch on to a tail that will bring back the old days. Others are followers who march to past drums because they have none of their own-”

“Their leaders?” said Moreau curtly.

“Who are they?”

“That'll cost you, Claude.”

“It will cost you if you don't spell them out. Monetarily and otherwise.”

"I believe you. Alas, my presence would barely be missed.

You're a tough man, Moreau."

“And eminently fair,” countered the Deuxi@me chief.

“You're well paid, both on and off the books, the former far more dangerous for you. I wouldn't have to leave this office, or issue a single order except one: ”Quietly release selected top-secret information to our friends in Bonn.“ Your demise probably wouldn't even make the papers.”

“And if I give you what I have?”

“Then a lovely, productive friendship will continue.”

“It's not much, Claude.”

“I trust that's not a prelude for your withholding anything.”

“Of course it isn't. I'm not a fool.”

“There's logic in your words. So give me this disappointing, limited information that concerns your 'small circle.”

"

“My informants tell me that every Tuesday night a meeting is held at one or another's house along the Rhine, usually a large house, an estate. Each has docking facilities and all those coming together arrive by boat, never by automobile.”

“A boat's wake is somewhat less identifiable than tire tracks,” interrupted Moreau, "or vehicles with license plates.

“Understood. Therefore, these meetings are secret and the identities of those attending concealed.”

“The houses, however, are not, are they? Or hadn't that fact occurred to your informants?”

“I was getting to them. For God's sake, give me some credit.”

“I'm impatient. The owners' names, please.”

“It's a mixed bag, Claude. Three are upstanding aristocrats whose families opposed Hitler and paid for it; three, possibly four, are part of the new rich who guard their assets from further government appropriations; and two are men of the cloth-one an old Catholic priest, the other a Lutheran minister who apparently takes his vows of non ostentation seriously. He's listed as the lessee of the smallest house on the river.”

“The names, damn you!”

“I have only six-- ”Where are the others?"

“The unknown three are also renters, and the leasing agents in Switzerland won't reveal anything. That's standard practice among the very rich who want to avoid taxes on outside income.”

“Give me the six, then.”

“Maximilian von L6wenstein, he owns the largest-” “His father, the general, was executed by the SS in the Wolfsschanze incident, the attempted assassination of Hitler. Next?”

“Albert Richter, once a playboy, now a converted, serious politician.”

"He's still a dilettante, with property in Monaco. His family was about to cut him off unless he changed his ways. It's an act.

Next?"

“Gunter jAger, he's the Lutheran minister.”

“I don't know him, at least nothing that comes to mind. Next?”

“Monsignor Heinrich Paltz, he's the priest.”

“An ancient right-wing Catholic who covers his biases with sanctimonious drivel. Next?”

“Friedrich von Schell, he's the third of the rich people we've identified. His estate has more than-”

“He's smart,” interrupted Moreau, “and -he's tough where the unions are concerned. A nineteenth-century Prussian in Armani suits. Next?”

“Ansel Schmidt, very outspoken; an electronics engineer who made millions in high-technology exports and fights the government at every turn.”

“A pig who went from one firm to another stealing technology until he had it all, and formed his own companies.”

“That's what I have, Claude; it's hardly worth my life.”

“Who are the Swiss rental agencies?”

"The contact is a real estate company here in Bonn.

One sends an emissary with a hundred thousand deutsche marks as a sign of serious intent, and they forward it to a bank in Zurich, along with a profile of the would-be lessee. If the money's returned, there's no deal. If it isn't, someone goes to Zurich."

“Telephone and household bills? I trust you've looked into these with our unknown three.”

“In each case they are sent to personal managers, two in Stuttgart, one in Munich, all coded, no names included.”

“Certainly the Bundestag has a fist of addresses.”

“Private residences are closely guarded, as they are in governments everywhere. I could try, but it might be dangerous if I were caught. Frankly, I can't stand pain, even the thought of it.”

“Then you don't have the specific addresses?”

“There, I'm afraid, I've failed you. I could describe them from a distance, and from the river, but the residence numbers have been removed, the gates closed, and there are patrols with guard dogs both within and without. There are no mailboxes, of course.”

“It's one of those three, then,” said Moreau softly.

“Who's one of what?” asked the man in Bonn.

“The leader of our 'small circle.” .. .. Put your people on the roads to these houses and order them to identify the vehicles driving through the gates. Then match them with those at the Bundestag."

“My dear Claude, perhaps I wasn't clear. These estates are patrolled both inside and outside, dozens of cameras mounted throughout the grounds. If I could hire such men, which is unlikely, and they were caught, the trail would lead to me, and, as I mentioned, even the prospect of pain is abhorrent to your obedient servant.”

“I often wonder how you got to where you are.”

“By living well, with the proper finances to ingratiate myself among the powerful, but most important, by-not being caught. Does that answer you?”

“God help you you ever get caught.”

“No, Claude, God help you.”

“I won't pursue that.”

“My fee?”

“When mine comes in, yours will follow.”

“Whose side are you on, my old friend?”

“No one's and everyone's, but especially my own.” Moreau hung up the phone and looked at the notes he had taken. He circled three names: Albert Richter, Friedrich von Schell, and Ansel Schmidt. One was probably the leader he sought, but each had a reason to be and the wherewithal to build a constituency. At the least, they provided him with the immediate ammunition he needed.

He saw that the blue strip on line three was lit; the scrambler was still activated. He picked up the phone and dialed a number in Geneva.

-L'University de Gen@ve,said the operator four hundred miles away.

"Professor Andre Benoit, if you please.

“Allo?” said the voice of the university's most prominent scholar of political science.

“It's your confidant from Paris. May we talk?”

“In a moment.” The phone was silent for eight seconds.

“Now we may,” said Professor Benoit, back on the line.

“No doubt you're calling about the problems we've had in Paris. I can tell you now, I know nothing. Nobody does! Can you enlighten us?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Where have you been?”

“In Monte Carlo, with the actor and his wife. I got back just this morning.”

“Then you haven't heard?” asked the man in Geneva, astonished.

“About the attacks on the American Latham and his subsequent murder at the country restaurant, no doubt engineered by your psychopathic K Unit here in the city? It was a stupid act.”

“No! Zero One, Paris, has disappeared, and early this -morning the police reported an assault on the rue Diane-”

“Witkowski's place?” Moreau interrupted.

“I haven't seen the information.”

“They don't have what I know either. The entire K Unit has also disappeared.”

“I never knew where they were posted-”None of us did, but they're gone!"

“I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say, get on top of things and find out what happened!”

demanded Geneva.

“I'm afraid I have more bad news for you and Bonn,” said the Deuxi@me chief haltingly.

“What could it possibly be?”

“My agents in Germany have come up with names, men who meet every Tuesday night in houses along the Rhine.”

“Oh, my God! What names?”

Claude Moreau gave them to him, slowly spelling out each.

“Tell them to be very, very careful,” he said.

“They're all under intelligence microscopes.”

“Outside of certain reputations, I don't know any of them!”

exclaimed the professor in Geneva.

“I had no idea-”

“You weren't meant to have any ideas, Herr Professor. You follow orders, as I do.”

"Yes, but .. . but

“Academicians aren't very competent when it comes to practical matters. just make sure our associates in Bonn get the information.”

“Yes .. . yes, of course, Paris. Oh, my God!”

Moreau hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair.

Things-things-were going his way. They might not be the best, but they were better than anyone else's. If he lost, he and his wife could always retire comfortably somewhere outside of France. On the other hand, he could also be executed by a firing squad. C'est la vie.

It was early evening, the setting sun filtered through the windows of Karin de Vries's apartment on the rue Madeleine.

“I went to my flat this afternoon,” said Drew, sitting in the armchair, talking to Karin, across on the couch.

“Of course, I had a marine on either side of me-sworn to secrecy by Witkowski, who could send them back to boot camp-and they kept their hands on their bolstered weapons, but still it felt good to be able to walk in the street, you know what I mean?”

“I do, indeed, but I worry about misplaced confidence. Suppose there are others we don't know about?”

“Hell, we know about one, Reynolds, in Communications. I'm told he fled like a rat into the sewers, probably living on a Nazi pension in the Mediterranean, if they didn't decide to shoot him first.”

“If he's in the Mediterranean, I suspect his body is several hundred feet below on the ocean's bottom.”

“Actually, it's a sea.”

“I don't think the definition would matter to him.”

Silence. Finally, Drew spoke.

“Where are we, lady?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I have to do, go by the numbers?”

“What numbers?”

“Like ”One, two, three, four, what the hell am I marching for?"

You've been hiding me all night and all day, but I can't get near you."

“What are you talking about, Drew?”

“Christ, I'm not even sure how to put it.. .. I never thought I'd think it, not really, and certainly not say it to someone who may be keeping me from being killed, a subordinate who has an apartment I could never afford.”

“Please be clearer.”

“How can I? I always thought I'd march to my brother's drum; he was so right, so perfect. Then I heard him in that booth before he was killed-you know what I mean-crying out how much he loved you, adored you-”

“Stop it, Drew,” said De Vries sharply.

“Are you saying you're imitating your brother in his delusions?”

“No, I'm not,” said Latham calmly, quietly, his eyes locked with hers.

“His delusions are not my feelings, Karin. I've grown out of that syndrome; it never did me much good anyway. You came into his life first, mine years later, and the equation, no matter how similar, is worlds apart. I'm not Harry, I could never be him, but I'm me, and I've never known anyone like you.. .. How's that for some kind of declaration?”

“Extremely touching, my dear.”

“There's that 'my dear' again. Meaning nothing.”

"Don't belittle it, Drew. I have to get rid of my ghosts, and when I do, it would be nice to think that you might be there for me.

Perhaps I could become attached to you, for you have qualities I so admire, but a relationship is a remote and distant thing to me now.

The past has to be put to rest. Can you understand that?"

“Whether I do or I don't, I'll do my goddamnedest to make it happen.”

The post-noonday crowds filled the street, the office buildings severely depleted as hordes of employees rushed to their favorite cafes and restaurants for luncheon engagements. The Parisian lunch was more than a meal; as often as not, it was a minor event, and God help the employer who expected his hired hands, particularly his manicured executives, to return on time, most especially during the summer weeks.

Which is why Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger was becoming more and more agitated, continuously jostled as he was by the departing crowds while he stood holding the folded newspaper in front of his face, his eyes on the entrance of the Deuxi@me Bureau's building oh his left. He could not afford to miss the figure of Claude Moreau. Time was of the essence, not an hour to be wasted. His creation, Harry Latham, had entered the countdown; he had, at maximum, two days, forty-eight hours, and even this was imprecise.

And what added to the surgeon's near-unbearable stress was a detail he had not described to his superiors in the Briiderschaft:

Prior to a subject's brain finally rejecting the implant, virtually exploding, the area around the surgery became horribly discolored;

an inflamed skin rash the size of a demitasse saucer appeared, directing whoever performed an autopsy to investigate the unusual manifestation. Contrary to general belief, the data stored in an ROM for a solitary purpose and environs could be extracted by equipment foreign to its original controls.

In the wrong hands, the Brotherhood of the Watch could be destroyed, its secrets exposed, its global objecttives all too clear. Mein Gott! reflected Kroeger. We are the victims of our own progress! Then he thought of the proliferation of nuclear weapons and realized the truth of his unoriginal conclusion.

There was Moreau! The broad-shouldered chief of the Deuxi@me walked out of the building's entrance and turned to his right, hastening his steps on the pavement. He was in a hurry, which meant Kroeger had to practically run to catch up, for the Frenchman was heading in the opposite direction. Parting the bodies in front of him, his apologies half in German, half in French, he closed the distance between himself and Moreau, leaving angry strollers in his wake. Finally, he was within arm's reach.

“Monsieur, monsieur!” he cried out.

“You dropped something!”

“Pardon?” The Deuxi@me chief stopped and turned around.

“You must be mistaken, I dropped nothing.”

“I was sure it was you,” continued the surgeon in French.

"A

billfold or a notebook. A man picked it up and ran!"

Moreau quickly felt his pockets, his face changing from concern to relief.

“You are mistaken,” he said, “I'm missing nothing, but I'm grateful nevertheless. Pickpockets are numerous in Paris.”

“As they are in Munich, monsieur. I apologize, but the brotherhood I belong to insists we follow the Christian precepts of helping others.”

“I see, a Christian brotherhood, how admirable.” Moreau stared at the man as pedestrians rushed by on both sides.

“The Pont Neuf at nine o'clock tonight,” he added, lowering his voice.

“The north trespass.”

The Paris mist diffused the moon's reflection on the waters of the Seine; a summer rain was imminent. In contrast to the majority of strollers on the bridge who were hurrying to escape the inclement weather, the two figures walked slowly toward each other on the north pedestrian walk. They met at midpoint; Moreau spoke first.

"You made reference to something that might be familiar to me.

Would you care to clarify?"

"There's no time for games, monsieur. We both know who we are and what we are. Terrible things have happened

“So I understand-things I knew nothing about until this morning. The alarming aspect is that my office was not kept up-to-date. I can't help but wonder why. Have any of your couriers been indiscreet?”

“Certainly not! Our mission now, our paramount mission, is to find the American Harry Latham. It's more vital than you can imagine. We know that the embassy, with the aid of the Antinayous, is hiding him somewhere here in Paris. We must find him! Surely American intelligence keeps you informed. Where is he?”

“You've just made several leaps beyond my knowledge, monsieur .. . what is your name? I do not talk to unidentified men.”

“Kroeger, Dr. -Gerhardt Kroeger, and a call to Bonn will confirm my high station!”

“How impressive. And what 'high station' do you occupy, Doctor?”

“I was the surgeon who .. . who saved Harry Latham's life. And now I must find him.”

“Yes, you said that. You're aware, are you not, that his brother Drew was killed by your idiot K Unit?”

“It was the wrong brother.”

“Again, I see. It was the K Unit, killers barely out of school, if they ever went to one.”

“I will not tolerate your insults!” cried a frustrated Kroeger.

“Frankly, you're not considered entirely reliable, so I advise you to be direct with me. You know the consequences if you're not.”

“If what you say is true, I'm a rich man for it.”

“Find us Harry Latham!”

“I'll certainly try-”

“Stay up all night, reach every source you have French American, British, everyone. Find out where they've hidden Harry Latham! I'm at the Lutetia, room eight hundred.”

“The top floor. You must be important”

“I will not sleep until I hear from you.”

“That's foolish, Doctor. As a physician, you should know that a lack of sleep makes for unstable thinking. But since you're so persuasive, your threats also, be assured I'll do my best to satisfy you.”

“Sehr gut!” said Kroeger, reverting to German.

"I will leave now.

Do not disappoint me; do not disappoint the Briiderschaft, for you know what will happen."

“I understand.”

Kroeger walked rapidly away, his figure quickly obscured by the settling mists. And Claude Moreau strolled slowly to find a taxi on the Rive Gauche. He had some thinking to do, among those thoughts the secure communications equipment at the Deuxi@me Bureau. Too many things had become elliptical.

It was 7:42 A.M. Washington time when Wesley Sorenson walked into his office at Consular Operations; the only other person there was his secretary.

“All the overnight reports are on your desk, Sir,” she said.

“Thanks, Ginny. As I've said repeatedly, I really hope you put in for overtime. No one else gets here before eight-thirty.”

“You're very understanding when the kids are sick, so why push it, Mr. Director. Also, it's easier for me; I can collate everything before the troops come in.”

They have come in, in more ways than you know, thought Sorenson. He had been at Andrews Air Force Base at four o'clock in the morning and personally escorted the two neo-Nazis off the jet from Paris, seeing them into a marine van to a safe house in Virginia. Despite his exhaustion, the Cons-Op director would be driven there shortly past noon to, again, personally interrogate the prisoners; it was a craft he knew well.

“Anything urgent?” he asked his secretary.

“Only everything.”

“Nothing changes.”

Sorenson walked into his inner office, crossed to his desk, and sat down. The file folders were labeled: THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC

OF CHINA, TAIWAN, THE PHILIPPINES, THE MIDDLE

EAST, GREECE, THE BALKANS .. . and finally, GERMANY and

FRANCE.

Shoving aside the rest, he opened the file from Paris. It was explosive. Using the police reports, it described the assault on Colonel Witkowski's apartment with no mention of the colonel's sending two captives on a military jet to Washington. It spoke of the burned-out headquarters of a neo-Nazi unit in the Avignon warehouse complex. They were reputed to be killers who had disappeared. The final news from Paris was a coded message from Witkowski, decoded in Consular Operations; this was the explosion.

Gerhardt Kroeger in Paris. He's bunting Harry Latham. The target has been alerted.

Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon, mystery man, and the key to many things. No one outside of American intelligence knew about him.

In a way, thought Sorenson, it was wrong. The French and the British should be included, but the CIA-Knox Talbot agreeing--could not trust them.

And then at eight in the morning his telephone rang.

“Paris calling,” said his secretary.

“A Mr. Moreau from the Deuxieme Bureau.”

Sorenson quietly gasped, his face suddenly pale. Moreau had been cut off; he was suspect. The Cons-Op director breathed deeply, picked up the phone, then spoke, his words controlled.

“HeLLO, Claude, it's good to hear from you, old friend.”

“Apparently, Wesley, it's not proper for me to hear from you, if I may speak plainly.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, come, within the last thirty-six hours a great many things have happened that concern us both, but not a word of them has been processed to my office. What kind of cooperation is that?”

“I .. . I don't know, Claude.”

“Of course you do. I've been systematically excluded from the operation. Why?”

"I can't answer that. I don't control the operation, you know that.

I had no idea-"

“Please, Wesley. In the field you were an accomplished liar, but not with someone who told lies with you. We both know how these things work, don't we? Someone heard something from someone else and the diseased oyster grows, producing a false pearl. But there's time for that later. Assuming that you're still functioning, I may have a chess piece for you.”

“What is it?”

“Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?”

“What?”

“You heard me, and it's obvious that you've heard the name before. He's a doctor.”

Kroeger was off limits to the Deuxi@me. Moreau was out of the loop! Was he fishing?

“I'm not sure I have heard it, Claude. Gerhardt .. . Kroeger, was it?”

“Now you're positively insulting. Again, I'll let it pass, for my information is too important. Kroeger followed me and stopped me during my evening stroll. In short words, he made it plain that I either directed him to Harry Latham or I was a dead man.”

“I can't believe this! Why would he come to you?”

“I asked him the same question and his answer was one I might have expected. I have people in Germany, as I do in most countries. A year ago I negotiated for the life of one man being held by a skinhead crowd in Mannheim. I got him out for roughly six thousand dollars American, a bargain, I'd say. Still, they had the name of the Deuxieme, and knew the arrangement could not have been made without my approval.”

“But you never heard of Gerhardt Kroeger before?”

"Not until last night, I just told you that. I went back to my office and searched our records for the past five years; there was nothing.

By the way, he's staying at the Hotel Lutetia, room eight hundred, and he expects me to call him."

“For God's sake, take him!”

“Oh, he won't leave, Wesley, I can assure you of that. But why not play with him a bit? He certainly doesn't work solo, and we're looking for bigger fish.”

A wave of relief spread over Sorenson. Claude Moreau was clean! He never would ha@,e offered up Gerhardt

Kroeger, hotel and room number included, if he were working for the Brotherhood.

“If it makes you feel any better,” said the director of Cons-Op, “I was excluded myself for a while. Guess why? Because we worked together, specifically Istanbul, where you had the grace to save my ass.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“That's what I angrily told the Agency, and what I'm going to tell them again, even angrier.”

“One moment, Wesley,” said Moreau slowly.

“Speaking of Istanbul, do you remember when the apparatchiks of the KGB believed you were a double, actually an informer for' their superiors in Moscow?”

“Certainly. They lived like the suleimans with the riches of the Topkapi at their disposal. They were frightened to death.”

“So they took you into their confidence, did they not?”

“Naturally, telling me things-anything-to justify their lifestyles. Most of it was rubbish, but not all.”

“But they did take you into their confidence, no?”

“Yes.”

“Then, for the moment, let things stay the way they are. I'm still on the outside, not to be trusted. Perhaps I can play with Herr Doktor Kroeger and learn things.”

“Which means you need something first.”

"

“Anything,” as you said, referring to Istanbul. It doesn't have to be accurate, but it should be relatively acceptable."

“Like what?”

“Where is Harry Latham?”

There was no Harry Latham. The doubts returned to the former deep-cover intelligence officer.

“Even I don't know that,” said

“I don't mean where he really is,” broke in Moreau, “just where he might be. Something they would believe.”

The doubts receded.

“Well, there's an organization called the Antinayous-”

“They know about it,” interrupted Moreau.

“Those people are untraceable. Something else.”

“They certainly know about Witkowski and the De Vries woman-”

“They certainly do,” agreed the Deuxi@me chief.

“Give me someplace where, with a little research, they could learn how your people operate.”

“I suppose that would be Marseilles. We follow up on the drug interdictions; too many of our people have been bought or disappeared. Actually, we're fairly obvious if anyone's looking. It's a deterrent.”

“That's good. I'll use it.”

“Claude, I'll be honest, I want to clear you over here! It's insufferable that you're under suspicion.”

“Not yet, my old friend. Remember Istanbul. We've played these games before.”

In Paris, Moreau hung up the phone, once more leaning back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling, his thoughts bouncing from one fragment of information to another. He was now in the race to the finish. The risks he was taking were gargantuan, but he could not stop. Revenge, it was all that mattered.

ince Drew Latham had supposedly departed this world, his Deuxi@me car had been withdrawn. In its S place, Witkowski had ordered embassy Transport to supply security measures: three personnel on eight-hour shifts, and an unmarked vehicle kept available for an unnamed army officer and his lady, at the moment in the rue Madeleine. The colonel made it clear to the marines, who would be on rotation duty, that should they recognize the officer, his identity was to remain secret. If it did not, certain “gyrenes” would be sent back to Parris Island along with the lowest recruits, their accomplishments stricken from their records.

“You don't have to say that, Colonel,” said a marine sergeant.

“If you'll forgive me, sir, it's goddamned demeaning.”

“Then I apologize.”

“You should, sir,” added a corporal.

“We've been on embassy duty from Beijing to Kuala Lumpur, where real security mattered.”

“Hog damn right!” whispered a second corporal, then louder.

“We're not army-sir. We're marines.”

“Then I really apologize, fellas. Forgive this old G.I. issue. I'm just a fossil.”

“We know who you are, Colonel,” said the sergeant.

“You have nothing to worry about, sir.”

“I thank you.”

As the three departed for the bowels of Transport, Witkowski was struck by a comment from one of the corporals.

“He shoulda been a marine. Hell, I'd follow that son of a bitch down the barrel of a cannon.”

Stanley Witkowski considered for a moment that it was the highest praise he had ever received during his entire career.

But now there were other things to think about, not the least of which were Drew Latham and Karin de Vries. The confluence of hours and exhaustion dictated that Latham stay in De Vries's apartment rather than drive out to the Antinayous' sterile house actually the Antinayous' insisted upon it in the event the target was still being followed. After several days without any untoward occurrence, they would reconsider, but only reconsider.

“He has involved himself in things too public for our purposes,” had said an abrupt woman at the Maison Rouge.

“We admire him, but we cannot tolerate the remotest possibility of being discovered.”

As to Karin staying at the embassy, there simply was no point.

As a member of classified D and R who resided outside the embassy, her address was filed only in Security, and anyone requesting it had to be cleared by the colonel himself. Several male at tachs had; they were refused. Added to which, the widow De Vries had once shared a piece of information that greatly relieved him.

“I'm not a poor woman, Colonel. I have three automobiles here in Paris in different garages. I change appearances with each change of vehicle.”

“That takes a load off my mind,” said Witkowski.

“Considering the information in your head, it's damned smart thinking.”

“It wasn't mine, sit. General Raichert, the supreme commander of NATO, ordered it in The Hague. There the Americans paid for it, but the circumstances were different. I don't expect it here.”

“You must not be poor.”

“I'm committed to what I do, Colonel. The money's not important.”

That conversation had taken place over four months before, and Witkowski then had no idea how “committed” the new arrival was.

He had no doubts now. The telephone on his private line rang, interrupting the colonel's reverie.

“Yes?”

“It's your wandering angel, Stanley,” said Drew.

“Any word from House Red?”

“There's no room at the inn, at least not for a while. The fact that you're a mark has them worried.”

“I'm wearing a uniform, your uniform, for Christ's sake! By the way, you're a tad bigger in the waist and the ass than I am. The tunic's fine, however.”

“I'm greatly relieved; it'll cover the imperfections when the fashion photographers take your picture.. .. You could be disguised by that actor, Villier, and they'd still want you to stay away.”

“I guess I can't really blame them.”

“I don't,” agreed the colonel.

“Will Karin put up with you another day or two until I can find proper lodgings?”

“I don't know, ask her.” Latham's voice became fainter as he held the phone away from his face.

“It's Witkowski. He wants to know if my lease is up.”

“Hello, Colonel,” said Karin.

“I gather the Antinayous are balking.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“It's understandable.”

“Yes, it is, but I haven't come up with a suitable alternative. Can you stand him for another day, perhaps two? I'll arrange something by then.”

“It's not a problem. He tells me he made his bed this morning.”

“Hell yes,” Drew's voice was heard in the background.

“I'm back in Boy Scout camp with lots of cold showers!”

“Pay no attention to him, Colonel. I believe I mentioned he can be quite childish.”

“He wasn't at the Trocadero or the Meurice or the Bois de Boulogne, Karin. Even I'll give him that.”

“Agreed,” said De Vries, "but if you have difficulties, there's a possible solution, at least it worked several times in Amsterdam.

Freddie would put on one of several uniforms-American, Dutch, English, it didn't matter-and register at the Amstel for confidential meetings."

“One of his well-known tricks, then?” asked a wary Witkowski.

“A benign one, Colonel. As Drew told you, your uniform fits him quite well, and I can easily sew tucks in the waist and other places-”

“I'm painfully aware of that other place.. .. What then; he's still Latham?”

“With a slight altering of appearance, certainly less so.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A change of hair color,” she replied, speaking softly, It especially around the temples, where it's obvious below his officer's cap, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, plain lenses of course, and a false military ID. I can do the hair and supply the glasses if you'll furnish an identification card. He could then register at any crowded hotel, which I'm sure you can arrange."

“This is hardly in the embassy's purview, Karin.”

“From what I understand of Consular Operations, I submit it's within its range of operations.”

“You've got me there, I guess. You must really want him out.”

“It's not the person, Colonel, it's the fact that he's a man, seen here only as an American army officer. I doubt that anyone in the building knows that I work for the embassy, but if anyone does or suspects that I do, it compromises Drew, myself, and our objectives.”

“In simple words, your residence could become another target.”

“Far-fetched, perhaps, but not implausible.”

“Nothing's implausible in this war. I'll need a photograph.”

“I still have Freddie's camera. You'll have a dozen in the morning.”

“I wish I was there to see you dye his hair. That'd be a real hoot.”

De Vries hung up the telephone, walked to a closet in the foyer, opened it, and took out a small suitcase with two combination locks.

Latham watched her from the armchair, a drink in his hand.

“I trust that's not holding a quickly assembled automatic weapon,” he said as Karin placed the luggage on the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down.

“Good heavens, no,” she replied, manipulating the combination locks and opening the suitcase.

"In truth, I

hope it can help you avoid the necessity of facing such a gun2l

“Hold it. What's in there? I couldn't hear you most of the time when you were talking to Stanley. What's boiling in that awesomely attractive head of yours?”

-This is what Freddie called his 'emergency traveling case.? "

“Already I'd rather not know. Freddie was violent with you and that makes him unfriendly.”

“There were the other years too, Drew.”

“Thanks for nothing. What's in there?”

"Simple methods of disguise, nothing dramatic or mind-boggling.

Various pre-glued mustaches, also a couple of chin beards, and numerous eyeglasses .. . and some basic washable dyes." She described the last far more quietly.

“What was that?”

“You can't stay here, my friend,” said Karin, looking at him over the top of the suitcase.

“Now, don't become defensive and take it personally, but the houses and flats here in the Madeleine are like a small upscale neighborhood in America. People talk, and gossip abounds in the cafes and the bakeries. To use your word, it could reach unfriendly' ears.”

“I accept that, I understand it, but that's not what I asked you.”

“You'll be registering at a hotel under a different name, which the colonel will supply, and with a slightly different appearance.”

“What?”

“I'm going to dye your hair and your eyebrows with a washable solution. Reddish-blond, I think.”

“What are you talking about? I'm no Jean-Pierre Villier!”

“You don't have to be. just be yourself; no one will recognize you unless he's standing a few feet in front of you and staring straight at you. Now, if you'll please put on the colonel's trousers, I'll pin them and adjust the size.”

“You know, you're crazier than a pissed loon!”

“Can you think of a better solution?”

“Goddammit!” roared Latham, swallowing the remainder of his Scotch.

“No, actually, I can't.”

“On second thought, we'll do the hair first. Please remove your shirt.”

“How about my trousers? I'd feel more natural, more at home that way.”

“”You're not at home, Drew."

“Gotcha, lady!”

Moreau picked up his console phone, pressing a button that would record his conversation, and spoke to the Lutetia switchboard.

“Room eight hundred, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Yes?” said the muffled, guttural voice on the line.

“Monsieur le docteur?” asked the chief of the Deuxieme, unsure that he had the right connection.

“It is I, from the Pont Neuf. Is it you?”

“Of course it is. What have you brought me?”

“I have reached deep, Doctor, far deeper than is healthy for me. I've provoked the American CIA into telling me that it is, indeed, hiding Harry Latham.”

“Where?”

“Perhaps not here in Paris, perhaps in Marseilles.”

“Perhaps, perhaps? That does me no good! Can you be sure?”

“No, but possibly you can.”

“Me?”

“You have people in Marseilles, no?”

“Of course. A great deal of finance comes through there.”

“Look for the ”Consulars,“ that's what they're called.”

“We know about them,” said Gerhardt@ breathless.

“The bastard intelligence group, Consular Operations. One can spot them at every corner, every cafe.”

“Take one of them, see what you can learn.”

“Within the hour. Where can I reach you?”

“I'll call you back an hour from now.”

The hour passed, and Moreau called the Lutetia.

“Anything?”

he asked a hyper Gerhardt.

“It's insane!” said the doctor.

“The man we spoke with is someone we've paid thousands to so we could collect millions through the network. He said we were crazy; no such man as Harry Latham is on their list or in Marse'lles!”

Then he's still in Paris," said Moreau, frustration in his voice.

“I'll go back to work.”

“As fast as you can!”

“Ever so,” said the Deuxi@me chief, hanging up the phone and smiling an enigmatic smile. He waited exactly fourteen minutes and then called back the Lutetia. It was the moment to propel anxiety into high gear.

“Yes?”

“It is I again. Something just came in.”

“For God's sake, what is it?”

“Harry Latham.”

“What?”

“He called one of my people, a man he had worked with in East Berlin who rightfully believed he should inform me. Apparently Latham is quite intense-isolation can do that, you know--even to the point that he thinks his own embassy is compromised-”

“It's Latham!” interrupted the German.

“The symptoms are predictable.”

“What symptoms? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. As you say, isolation can do strange things to people.. .. What did he want?”

“Possibly French protection, is what we gather. My man's to meet him at the Metro station, the Georges Cinq stop at two o'clock this afternoon, toward the rear of the platform.”

“I must be there!” shouted Gerhardt.

“It's not advisable, nor is it the policy of the Bureau to involve the hunted with the hunter, monsieur, when they are not part of our organization.”

“You don't understand, I must be with you!”

“Why is that? It could be dangerous.”

“Not to me, never to me.”

“Now I don't understand you.”

“You don't have to! Remember the Brotherhood, it is what you must obey, and I'm giving you your orders.”

“Then, of course, I must obey, Herr Doktor. We meet on the platform at ten minutes to two o'clock. Not before or after, is that understood?”

“I understand.”

Moreau did not hang up the phone; instead, he pressed the disconnect button and touched the digits that connected him to his most trusted subordinate officer.

“Jacques,” he said calmly, "we have a very important confrontation at two o'clock, just you and me.

Meet me downstairs at one-thirty and I'll fill you in. Incidentally, carry your automatic, but fill the magazine with blanks."

“That's a very strange request, Claude.”

“It's a very strange confrontation,” said Moreau, hanging up the phone.

Drew looked into the mirror, his eyes wide in shock.

“For Christ's sake, I look like a Disney cartoon!” he roared.

“Not really,” said Karin, standing above him over the kitchen sink and taking the mirror from him.

“You're just not used to it, that's all.”

“It's preposterous! I look like the leader of a gay rights parade.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Hell, no, I've got a lot of friends in that crowd, but I'm not one of them.”

“It can be washed out in a shower, so stop complaining. Now, put on the uniform and I'll take some photographs for Colonel Witkowski, then adjust the trousers.”

“What has that son of a bitch got me into?”

“Basically, saving your life, can you accept that?”

“Are you always so logical?”

“Logic and the illogically logical saved Freddie's life more times than I can tell you. Please put on the uniform.”

Latham did as he was told, returning two minutes later as a full colonel in the United States Army.

“A uniform becomes you,” said De Vries, observing him, “especially when you stand up straight.”

"One doesn't have any choice in this coat---excuse me, tunic.

It's so damn tight, if you don't arch your spine, you're punctured somewhere and can't breathe. I'd make a lousy soldier. I'd insist on wearing fatigues."

“Regulations wouldn't permit it.”

“Another reason why I'd make a lousy soldier.”

“Actually, you'd probably be a good one, as long as you were a general.”

“Hardly likely.”

“Hardly.” Karin gestured toward the foyer.

“Come into the hallway, I'm set up. Here are your glasses.” She handed him a pair of heavy tortoise shells

“Set up? Glasses?” Drew looked over at the short hall that greeted a visitor from the front door. There was a camera on a tripod aimed at a blank off-white wall.

“You're a photographer too?”

“Not at all. Frequently, however, Freddie needed a new photograph for a different passport. He instructed me how to use this, not that I needed any instructions. It's an instant -picture camera sized down to passport dimensions.. .. Put on the glasses and stand against the wall. Take off the hat; I want the full glory of your blond hair evident.”

A few minutes later De Vries had fifteen small Polaroid photographs of a light-haired, bespectacled colonel, looking as grim and uncomfortable as any passport picture.

“Splendid,” she decreed.

“Now let's go back to the couch; where I've got my equipment.”

“Equipment?”

“The trousers, remember?”

“Oh, this is the good part. Should I take them off?”

“Not if you want them to fit. Come along.”

Fifteen minutes later, having suffered only two painful punctures of a straight pin, Latham was ordered back into the guest room to resume his normal appearance. Again he returned, now to find Karin at the alcove table, on which was placed a sewing machine.

“The trousers, please.”

“You know, you're blowing my mind, lady,” said Drew, handing her the army issue.

“Are you some kind of female deep-cover factotum who works behind the scenes?”

“Let's say I've been there, Monsieur Latham.”

“Yes, it's not the first time you've said that.”

“Accept it, Drew. Besides, it's none of your business.”

“You're right there. It's just, as the layers peel away, I'm not sure whom I'm talking to. I have to accept Freddie, and NATO, and Harry, and the subterranean way you got to Paris, but why do I have the feeling that there's something else that's driving you?”

“It's your imagination because you live in a world of probables and improbables, possibles and impossibles, what's real and what isn't. I've told you everything you have to know about me, isn't that enough?”

“For the moment it has to be,” said Latham, his eyes locked with hers.

“But my instinct says there's something else you won't tell me.. .. Why don't you laugh more? You're goddamned radiant when you laugh.”

“There hasn't been that much to laugh about, has there?”

“Come on, you know what I mean. A little laughter now and then relieves the tension. Harry once told me that, and we both believed Harry. Years from now, if we run into each other, we'll probably laugh at the Bois de Boulogne. It had its funny moments.”

“A life was taken, Drew. Whether it was the life of a good man or a bad man, I killed him, I cut short the life of a very young person. I've never killed anyone before.”

“If you hadn't, he would have killed me.”

“I know that, I keep telling myself that. But why does the killing have to go on? That was Freddie's life, not mine.”

"And it shouldn't have to be yours. But to answer your question logically-logic being a part of your lexicon-if we don't kill when it's necessary, if we don't stop the ncos, ten thousand times the killings will take place. Ten thousand, hell, let's start with six million.

Yesterday they were Jews and Gypsies and other 'undesirables."

Tomorrow they could be Republicans and Democrats in my country who can't stomach their bilge. Don't kid yourself, Karin,

they get a foothold in Europe, the rest of this discontented world goes down like a row of dominoes, because they're constantly, incessantly, appealing to every zealot who wants 'the good old days.“ No crime in the streets because even the onlookers are shot on sight; executions rampant because there are no appeals; no habeas corpus because it's not necessary; the presumed innocent and the guilty are lumped together, so let's get rid of them both, prison being more expensive than bullets. That's the future we're fighting against.”

“Youthink I don't know that?” said Karin.

“Of course I do, you sermonizing fool! Why do you think I've lived as I have my entire adult life?”

“But the exalted Freddie notwithstanding, there's something else, isn't there?”

“You have no right to probe. May we stop this conversation?”

“For now, sure. But I think I've made clear my feelings for you, returned or not, so it may come up again.”

“Stop it!” said De Vries, tears slowly falling from her blinking eyes.

“Do not do this to me.”

Latham ran to her, kneeling by her chair.

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't do that. ”

“I know you wouldn't,” said Karin, composing herself and cupping his face with her hands.

"You are a good person, Drew Latham, but don't ask any more questions -they do hurt too much.

Instead .. . make love to me, make love to me! I so need someone like you."

“I wish you'd eliminate the 'someone,” and just say 'you." @,

“Then I say it. You, Drew Latham, make love to me.”

Gently, Drew helped her from the chair, then lifted her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

The rest of the morning was one of sexual excess. Karin de Vries had been too long without a man; she was insatiable. At the last, she threw her right arm over his chest.

“My God,” she cried, “was that me?”

“You're laughing,” said Latham, exhausted.

“Do you know how wonderful you sound when you laugh?”

“It feels wonderful to laugh.”

“We can't go back, you know,” said Drew.

“We have something now, we are something now, that we weren't before. And I don't think it's the bed alone.”

“Yes, my darling, and I'm not sure it's wise.”

“Why isn't it?”

“Because I must operate coldly at the embassy, and if you're involved, I don't think I can act coldly.”

“Am I hearing what I want to hear?”

“Yes, you are, you American naif.”

“What does that mean?”

“I believe, in your parlance, that it means I think I'm in love with you.”

“Well, as a good old boy from Mississippi once said, 'if that don't beat hens a-wrastlin'!”

“What?”

“Come here and I'll explain it to you.”

It was twelve minutes to two in the afternoon when Claude Moreau and his most-trusted field officer, Jacques Bergeron, arrived at the Georges Cinq station of the Paris Metro. They walked, separately, to the rear of the platform, each carrying a handheld radio, the frequencies calibrated to each other.

“He's a tall man, quite slender,” said the Deuxieme chief into his instrument.

“With a propensity for bending over due to his usually addressing shorter people-”

“I've got him!” exclaimed the agent.

“He's leaning against & wall, waiting for the next train to come in.”

“When it does, do as I told you.”

The underground train arrived and came to a halt; the doors opened, disgorging several dozen passengers.

“Now,” said Moreau into his radio.

“Fire.”

As ordered, Bergeron's blank gunshots reverberated along the platform as the Metro riders raced en masse to the exit. Moreau ran to the panicked Gerhardt Kroeger, grabbing his arm and shouting.

“They're trying to kill you! Come with me!”

“Who's trying to kill me?” screamed the surgeon, running with Moreau into a prearranged open storage room.

“What's left of your idiotic K Unit, you fool.”

“They've disappeared!”

“To your ears from their mouths. They must have bribed a maid or a maintenance man and placed a tap in your room.”

“Impossible!”

“You heard the gunfire. Shall we bring back the train and see where the bullets came from? You were lucky it was crowded.”

“Acb, mein Gott!”

“We have to talk, Herr Doktor, or we both may be within their gun sights.”

“But what about Harry Latham? Where was he?”

“I saw him,” lied Jacques Bergeron, walking behind them, his pistol filled with spent blank shells in his pocket.

“When he heard the gunfire, he got back on the train.”

“We must talk,” said Moreau, staring at Kroeger, and heading for a large steel door that was partially open, otherwise, we all lose."

They walked inside.

The Deuxi@me chief found the light switch and flipped it on.

They were in a medium-size enclosure of dull white cinder block, housing huge antiquated switches and track lights along with unopened crates of new equipment.

“Wait outside, Jacques,” said Moreau to his agent.

“When the police arrive, as they surely will, identify yourself and tell ”II them you were on the train and got off when you heard the gunshots. Close the door, please."

Alone with the German in the dim gray light of a wire enclosed ceiling bulb, Moreau sat on one of the crates.

“Make yourself comfortable, Doctor, we'll be here for a while, at least until the police have come and gone.”

“But if they find me in here-”

“They won't, the door locks upon closing. We were most fortunate that some idiot left it open. On the other hand, who'd want to steal anything here? Who could even carry anything?”

“We missed him, we missed him!” cried Kroeger, banging his fist on a crate, then sitting on the large wood box, shaking his bruised hand.

“He'll call again,” offered Moreau.

“Perhaps nor today, but certainly tomorrow. Remember, we're dealing with a desperate man, an isolated man. But I must ask you, why is it so important that you find Latham?”

“He's .. . he's dangerous.”

“To whom? You? The Brotherhood?”

“Yes .. . to all of us.” 4"Why?)@

“How much do you know?”

“Everything, naturally. I am the Deuxieme Bureau.”

“I mean specifically.”

“Very well. He escaped from your Alpine valley, somehow made his way through the mountain snows until he reached a road, and was picked up by a villager in a truck.”

“A villager? Now you're the fool, Herr Moreau. The Antinayous, that's who picked him up. His escape was arranged from inside, a traitor inside the valley. We must find that Hocbverrdter!”

"

“Traitor,” yes, I understand." Over the years the head of the Deuxi@me had learned to sense a lie when told by amateurs under stress. The vacuous desperation in the eyes, the words tumbling over one another, often accompanied by spittle forming at the corners of the mouth. As he studied Gerhardt Kroeger, the signs were all there.

“So that's why you must find him? To interrogate him before executing him, so as to learn the identity of your traitor?”

“You must understand, it was a woman, and she has to be someone very high up in the organization. She must be eliminated!”

“Yes, of course, I understand that too.” Beads of perspiration began to form on Kroeger's hairline, and the underground room was cool.

“So that's it, the reason for your K Unit, the reason such an important man as yourself would come to Paris-to learn the identity of a traitor high in the ranks of the Brotherhood.”

“Precisely.” “I see. And there's no other reason?”

“None.” Two rivulets of sweat rolled down the German's forehead, fell over his brows, and continued down his cheeks.

“It's terribly warm in here,” said Kroeger, wiping his face with the back of his right hand.

“I hadn't noticed it. Actually, I thought it was rather cool, but then, such events as this afternoon are not unfamiliar to me, and do not excessively fray my nerves. Off and on, gunfire has been a part of my life.”

“Yes, yes, that's you, not me. I daresay if I brought you into an operating room during a particularly nasty procedure, you'd probably faint.”

“There's no debate, undoubtedly I would. But you see, Doctor, for me to be at my most efficient, I must know everything, and something tells me you baven't told me everything.”

“What more can you possibly need?” Kroeger's sweat was more profuse.

“Perhaps you're right, at times I'm overzealous. Then this is how we'll proceed. When Harry Latham calls again, I will not phone you at the Lutetia, but instead take him ourselves. Once taken, we'll treat him handsomely, and after a few hours I'll reach you.”

“Unacceptable!” cried the surgeon, rising from the crate, his hands trembling.

"I must be there when you find him! I must be alone with him before any interrogation takes place, away from all of you, for I'll be discussing information no one else can overhear.

It's vital, and those are your orders from the Briiderschaft!"

“And if, for my own well-being, I don't comply?”

“News of over twenty million francs deposited into your account in Switzerland could find its way to the Quai d'Orsay and the French press.”

“Well, that certainly is a persuasive argument, isn't it?”

“I should hope so.”

“When you say jaway from all of you,” what do you mean?"

“Just what I say. I carry with me several syringes and various narcotics that will force Harry Latham to reveal to me what we must know. NaWrlich, no one else may be in the vicinity.”

“You mean in a room by yourselves?”

“Absolutely not. Conversations in a room can be transmitted, as you claim my own hotel room is tapped.”

“Then how can we accommodate you?”

“An automobile of my own choosing, not one of yours. I will drive Latham somewhere, administer my chemicals, learn what I must learn, and bring him back to you.”

“No execution?”

“Only if I'm followed.”

“Again, I understand. It seems I have no choice.”

“Time, Moreau, time! It's extremely important. He must be found within the next thirty-six hours!”

"What? Now I don't understand you at all. Why thirty six hours?

Does the earth stop moving around the sun then? Please explain to me."

"Very well, it's what you perceived, what I haven't told you.. ..

Remember, I'm a doctor, some say the finest cranial surgeon in Germany, and I will not dispute that judgment. Harry Latham is insane, a combination of schizophrenia and manic-depressive syndrome. I saved his life in our valley, operating to relieve the pressures that caused his illness. In looking over my notes, I found a horrible realization. Unless given medication within six days after he escaped, he will die! He's reached four and a half of those six days. Now do you see? We must question him before he takes the name of the traitor to his grave."

“Yes, now I do understand, but, Doctor, are you all right?”

“What?”

“You've grown quite pale and your face is drenched with perspiration. Are there pains in your chest, perhaps? I can have an ambulance here in minutes.”

“I don't want an ambulance, I want Harry Latham! And I have no chest pains, no angina, only an intolerance for slow-witted bureaucrats.”

“Would you believe I understand that too? For you're a learned man, a brilliant man, and in addition to my devotion to your cause, I'm honored to know you.. .. Come, we'll leave now, and I shall press my energies to their zenith.”

Out on the Charnpstlys6es, Moreau and his field officer saluted as Gerhardt Kroeger climbed into a taxi, then headed for their Deuxi@me vehicle.

“Hurry!” said the veteran of Istanbul and more posts than one could name.

“That bastard was lying to the point of swallowing his spit! But what was he lying about?”

“What are you going to do, Claude?”

“Sit and think and make several phone calls. One to the eminent scholar Heinrich Kreitz, the German ambassador. He and his government are going to dig out some records for me whether they like it or not.”

rew Latham, attach case in hand, presented himself at the InterContinental's front desk. He placed Don the counter an American Embassy requisition order for a reservation and a military identification card. They were swiftly picked up and studied by a formally dressed hotel clerk who pulled a card out of his file.

“Ah, oui, Colonel Webster, you are a most welcome guest. The embassy requested a mini-suite and would you believe we found one for you. A Spanish couple left early.”

“I'm very grateful.”

“Further,” said the clerk, reading the card, “you may be having visitors, and we are to call you before giving them your room number, nest-ce pas?”

“Quite correct.”

“Your luggage, monsieur?”

“I left it at the concierge's desk and gave him my name.”

“Excellent. You are a traveler, then.”

“The army has me going from one place to another,” said Drew, signing the register. Anthony Webster, Col." U.S. Army.

Washington, D.C." U.S.A.

“Ah, so interesting.” The clerk spun the registry pad around and withdrew the hotel record.

He raised his eyes and tapped his bell.

“Take Monsieur le Colonel to Suite 703, and inform the concierge to send up his luggage. The name is Webster.”

“Oui,” replied the uniformed bellman.

"Follow me, monsieur.

Your luggage will arrive in a few minutes."

“Thank you.”

The elevator ride to the seventh floor was uneventful except for a middle-aged American couple who were arguing. The woman, hair bluish and neck and wrists replete with jewels, berated her obese husband, who was wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson.

“Lucas, you can at least be pleasant!”

“What's to be pleasant about? Ah cain't git a real lit no jest one of those tiny jobs you can barely put yer ass in, and nobody speaks American till you give 'em a tip, then you'd think they were brought up in Texarkana.”

“That's because you won't learn the money.”

“You did?”

“I shop. Do you know what you gave the last taxi driver?”

“Hell, no, Ah jest peeled off some paper.”

“The fare was fifty-five francs, roughly ten dollars. You gave him a hundred, which is nearer twenty dollars.”

“Ali'll be swaggled. Mebbe that's why he kept winkin' at me when you got out, sayin' in perfectly good English that he'd be outside the hotel most of the night and I should look for him.”

“Really!” Fortunately, the door to the sixth floor opened and the couple walked out.

“I apologize for my countrymen,” said Drew, lacking for anything else to say as he saw the raised eyebrows of the bellman.

“Don't, Monsieur le Colonel. Later tonight it's quite possible the gentleman will be on the pavement looking for that taxi.”

“Touchif. ”

“D'accord. This is the Paree of their dreams, nest-ce. pas?”

“C'est vrai, I'm afraid.”

“It's all harmless.. .. Here is your floor, monsieur.”

The suite was small, a bedroom and a separate living area, but it was charming, very European, and what made it rather outstanding was a bottle of Scotch on the small bar. Witkowski must have had pangs of guilt, which were definitely appropriate.

Latham hated the goddamned uniform. His chest, his waist, and his rear end were encased in a cloth tube. Why weren't there massive resignations in the armed forces on the basis of clothing alone?

The bellman gone, Drew waited for his suitcase, which held a basic change of civilian clothes, taken from his flat by a blond wigged Karin. He removed the suffocating tunic, poured himself a drink, turned on the television set, switching the channels until he found the CNN station, and sat down. The current news was on sports, mainly American baseball, which did not interest him; when the hockey season arrived, it was different.

The doorbell rang; it was a young bellboy with his suitcase.

Drew thanked and tipped. him, astonished to hear him say, “This is for you, monsieur.” The wide-eyed youngster gave him a note.

“It is, how do you say, confidentiel?”

“That's good enough, thanks very much.”

Call Room 330. A friend.

Karin? It was so like her very unpredictable behavior. They were lovers now-more than lovers. There was something between them that no one could take away. So like her!

He picked up the phone, studied the printed instructions, and dialed.

“Hi, I made it,” he said, the moment the phone was picked up.

“Hey, man, then it is you!” said a mate voice on the line.

“What? Who are you?”

"C'mon, Bronco, you can't recognize your old roommate from the Manitoba Stars? It's Ben Lewis! I saw you in the lobby. At first I thought I was seeing double, but I knew it was you!

“Course, then you took off your hat and I figured I was nuts, until I watched you walk to the elevators. ”

“I .. . I really don't know what you're talking about.”

"Get with it, Brond Your right foot. Remember when your ankle got sliced by a guy on the Toronto Comets? You heated in a few weeks and came back on the ice, but your right foot was always angled, just slightly, to the left.

Nobody who didn't know you would notice, but I did. I knew it was you!"

“Okay, okay, Benny, it's me, but you can't say anything to anybody. I'm working for the government now and you've got to keep your mouth shut.”

“Hey, I understand, pal. You know, I played for the Rangers for two seasons-”

“I know, Benny, you were terrific.”

“The hell I was, I got cut on the third.”

“It happens.”

“Not if I were you, pal. You had it over all of us.”

“That's history. How did you find me, Ben?”

“The concierge's desk. I asked where the bag was going.”

“They told you?”

“Sure, because I said it was mine!”

“Christ, you do bring back memories. We'd go to an expensive restaurant in Montreal, the check would come, and if it was too large, you'd say it belonged to another table, or another one after that, until it was small enough for you to accept it. What are you doing in Paris?”

"I'm in the fast-food business, representing all of the majors;

they recruit jocks like you and me 'cause we got big muscle and they hype our reputations. Would you believe my resumE says I was a star on the Rangers? What do they know over here? I was a second-rater, but I fill out a jacket."

“I never filled out one like you did.”

“No, you didn't. You were like a Toronto paper said, 4all raw sinew and speed.” I wished the hell they'd said that about me."

"Again, that's history, Ben, but I have to tell you once more.

You've got to forget you saw me! It's terribly important that you remember that."

“Sure, old pal.” The man named Lewis burped, then hiccupped twice.

“Benny,” said Latham firmly, “you're not on the sauce again, are you?”

“No,” answered the fast-food international salesman,

combining another burp and a hiccup.

“But what the hell, pal, this is Paris.”

“Talk to you later, pal,” said Latham, hanging up the phone. No sooner had he done so than it rang again.

“Yes?”

“It's me,” said Karin de Vries.

“Did everything go all right?”

“No, goddammit, someone I knew years ago recognized me.”

“Who?”

“An old hockey player from Canada.”

“Is he a problem?”

“I don't think so, but he's a drunk.”

“Then he's a problem. What's his name?”

“Ben-Benjamin Lewis. He's in room three-thirty.”

“We'll get on .. .. How are you, my darling?”

“Wanting you with me, that's how I am.”

4 “I've decided.”

“Good God, what have you decided? Do I want to hear it or not?”

“I hope so. I do love you, Drew, and as you said, quite rightly, the bed was but a small part of it.”

“I love you so much, I can't find the words to tell you.. .. I can't believe I just said that! I never believed it could happen-”

“Nor did I. I hope we're not wrong.”

“What we feel couldn't be wrong. In a few days we've been through more than most people have in a lifetime. We've been tested, lady, and neither of us blew apart. Instead, we found each other.”

“TheEuropeaninmemight call that inconclusive, but I know what you feel, for I feel it too. I do, and I ache for you.”

'-“Then come to the hotel, blond wig and all.”

“Not tonight, my darling. The colonel would courtmartial us both. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Within the hour, as it was barely noon in New York, the president of the International Food Services Trade Association on Sixth Avenue received a call from Washington.

Thirty minutes later, one of their representatives, a former star of the New York Rangers, currently in Paris, was ordered to Oslo, Norway, to pave the way for new business opportunities. There was only one minor difficulty. The salesman in question was dead drunk on his bed, and it took two of the concierge's assistants to rouse him for the call, help him pack, and put him in a taxi for Orly Airport.

Unfortunately, everything being rather hectic, Benjamin Lewis got in the wrong line, missed the plane, and bought a ticket to Helsinki, as he could not remember Oslo, but knew his employer had named a Scandinavian city, and he had never been to Helsinki.

Such is the fate of those interfering with far-flung intelligence operations.

Halfway through the flight, Benny suddenly recalled Oslo, and asked the stewardess if he could step out and flag down another plane. The flight attendant, a gorgeous Finnish blonde, was sympathetic but explained that it would not be a good idea. So Benny asked her for a late dinner in Helsinki. She politely refused.

Wesley Sorenson left Cons-Op headquarters and was driven to the safe house in Fairfax, Virginia, where the two Nazi revolutionaries were being held. As the car passed through the gates into a long, circular drive that led to the imposing front entrance, once the estate of an Argentinean diplomat, the director of Consular Operations tried to remember all the tricks he had used in his field interrogations. The first, of course, was “Hey, fellas, I'd rather see you alive than dead, which won't be my decision, I hope you understand that. We can't play games here; there's an underground soundproof room where the wall is pretty well pockmarked from previou's executions” .. . etcetera, etcetera. Naturally, there was no such wall, no such room, and usually only the most fanatical prisoners would be taken down the black-draped elevator to an anticipated death. Those that chose to travel that short fifty feet were in'ected with scopolamine derivatives and were so thankful when they revived that they normally cooperated to a fault.

The large two-man cell was not the prison variety. It was twenty feet long and twelve feet wide, and included two normal-size beds, a sink, a walled toilet, a small refrigerator, and a television set. It was closer to a moderately priced hotel room than to something out of the old Alcatraz or Attica. What the prisoners did not know, but probably suspected, was that concealed cameras were in the walls, covering every foot of space.

“May I come in, gentlemen?” said Sorenson, standing outside the cell door.

“Or should I speak German to make myself clear?”

“We are well versed in English, mein Herr,” replied the relaxed Paris Two.

“We have been captured, so what can we say? .. . No, you cannot come in?”

“I take that as an affirmative. Thank you.”

“Your guard and his weapon will remain outside,” said the less cordial Paris Five.

“Regulations, not mine personally.” Sorenson was let into the cell by the intelligence patrol, who stepped back to the opposite wall, removing his sidearm from its holster.

“I think we should talk, talk seriously, gentlemen.”

“What is there to talk about?” asked Paris Two.

“Whether you live or die, I suppose is the primary question,” replied the director of Cons-Op.

"You see, it's not my decision.

Downstairs, twenty feet below ground, there's a room.. .."

Sorenson described the execution chamber to the discomfort of Paris Five and a cooler reception from Zero Two, who kept staring at the director, a tight smile across his lips.

“Do you think we're so committed as to give you an excuse to kill us?” he said.

“Unless you're predisposed to do so.”

“In this country we regard the taking of a life very seriously. It's never predisposed or accepted lightly.”

“Really?” Paris Two continued.

“Then why is it that outside of certain Arab states, China, and what's left of selected Russian breakaways, you are the only country in the civilized world to retain the death penalty?”

"The will of the people-in certain states, of course. However, your situation is beyond national policies.

You're international killers, terrorists operating on behalf of a discredited political party that doesn't dare show itself, for it would be denounced throughout the world."

“Are you so certain of that?” interrupted Paris Five.

“I would hope so.”

“Then you'd be wrong!”

“What my comrade is saying,” Two broke in, “is that perhaps we have more support than you think. Look at the extreme Russian nationalists, are they so different from the Third Reich? And your own right-wing fanatics and their brothers, the book-burning religious fundamentalists. Their agendas could have been written by Hitler and Goebbels. No, mein Herr, there is far more sympathy for our goals of cleansing than you can conceive of.”

“I would hope not.”

"

“Hope is a thing with feathers,” as one of your finest writers suggested, is it not so?"

“I don't happen to believe that, but you're a pretty well-read young man, aren't you?”

“I've lived in various countries, and-I would hope absorbed some of their cultures.”

“You mentioned something about being committed,” said Sorenson.

“You asked me if I thought you were 'so committed' as to use that commitment as an excuse to have you executed.”

“I said 'to kill us,”

" corrected Zero Two.

“Execution implies a legal justification.”

“For which, in your case, there's more than ample evddence. I refer to three attempts and the final murdering of Field Officer Latham, for starters.”

“It's war!” cried Paris Five.

“In war, soldiers kill soldiers!”

"I'm not aware of any declaration of hostilities, no national call to arms. Therefore, it's murder, pure and simple.. .. However, this is all academic and beyond my scope. I can only relay information;

the decision is up to my superiors."

“What sort of information?” asked Two.

“What can you offer in exchange for your lives?”

“Where do you wish to begin-if we have such information?”

“Who are your colleagues in Bonn?”

“That I can tell you honestly, we don't know.. .. Let me go back, mein Herr. We are an elite group who live extraordinary lives, the fantasies of all young men who are superbly trained to follow orders. These orders are issued to us by codes, codes that change constantly.” Paris Two described their lifestyles as he had told Zero Five he would do on the jet to Washington.

“We are the shock troops, the storm troopers, if you wish, and we maintain contacts with our units in every country. No names are ever used, the prefix Zero is Paris-I am Paris, Zero Two-the United States is the prefix Three, the specific names preceding.”

“How do you make contact?”

"By revolving, secure telephone numbers issued by Bonn.

Again, our digits are used, no names."

“Regarding this country, what can you tell me that could convince me to recommend leniency with regard to your executions?”

“Mein Gott, where do you want to begin?”

“Anywhere you like.”

"Very well, let's start with the Vice President of the United

“What?”

“He's one of us to the core. Then there is the Speaker of the House, German ancestry, naturally, an aging gentleman who claimed conscientious objector ship during World War Two. Of course, there are others, many others but their names, or positions, will depend on your recommendation to the execution committee.”

“You could be lying through your teeth.”

“If that's what you think, shoot us.”

“You're garbage.”

“As you are in our eyes!” shouted Paris Five.

“But time is on our side, not yours. Sooner or later the world will wake up and see that we're right. The dehumanized blacks commit the vast majority of crimes; the Arabs constitute the largest groups of terrorists, and the Jews are the manipulators of the world, cheating and corrupting all within their reach-everything for themselves, nothing for any-one else!”

“My passionate associate notwithstanding, do you want our information or not?” asked Zero Two.

“I loved my privileged life in Paris, but if it is to stop, why not make it complete?”

“Can you provide any evidence for the outrageous accusations you've made?”

“We can only tell you what we've been told. But please remember, we are the elite of the Brotherhood.”

“Die Briiderschaft,” said the director of Consular Operations, disgust in his voice.

“Precisely. That name will sweep across the globe and it will be honored.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“But do you, mein Herr? You are no more than a small cog in many wheels, as I am. Frankly, I'm bored with the whole thing. Let history take its inevitable course, it's beyond such men as you and me. Also, I'd much rather live than die.”

“I'll confer with my superiors,” said Wesley Sorenson coldly, walking to the cell gate and signaling the guard.

When both men had disappeared through the outer door, Paris Two picked up a notepad and, covering his hand, wrote in German, "He cannot afford to execute

US."

“Monsieur IAmbassadeur,” said Moreau, alone with Heinrich Kreitz in the latter's office at the German Embassy.

“I trust there is no recording made of our conversation. It would not be to the advantage of either of us.”

“There is none,” replied the aged ambassador, his small stature, pale, lined face, and thin steel-rimmed glasses making him appear more like a weathered gnome than a giant intellect of Europe.

"I

have the information you requested-"

“Requested over a secure line, nest-ce pas?” interrupted the chief of the Deuxi@me Bureau, seated in front of the desk.

“Naturally, you have my word for it.. .. The records go back to what's known of Gerhardt Kroeger's childhood and family, through his university and medical training, to his hospital appointment and his eventual resignation in Nuremberg. It's a remarkable dossier, filled with the triumphs of a brilliant man; and with the possible exception of his abrupt resignation from the medical community, there's nothing to indicate impropriety, much less sympathy with the neo-Nazi movements. I've made a copy for you, of course.” Kreitz leaned forward and placed the sealed manila envelope in front of Moreau, who picked it up, impressed by its thickness and weight.

“Save me some time, if you've got the time, sir.”

“There's nothing more important than our combined investigations. Go on.”

“You've read this thoroughly?”

“As if it were a doctoral thesis I had to accept or reject. Very thoroughly.”

“Who were his parents?”

“Sigmund and 91si Kroeger, and you've just struck the first note that discredits any association with the neo Nazis Sigmund Kroeger was officially listed as a deserter. from the Luftwaffe in the final months of the war.”

“So were thousands of others.”

“Of the Wehrmacht, perhaps, not the Luftwaffe, and very few senior officers. The elder Kroeger was a decorated major, decorated by Goering himself. The military records, ours and yours, show that had the war continued and Kroeger been captured, he would have been courtmartialed and shot. By the Third Reich.”

“What happened to him after the war?”

"The usual obfuscations. He had flown his Messerschmitt over the Allied lines, parachuted out, and let his plane crash into a field.

British troops kept the nearby villagers from killing him and he was given the status of prisoner of war."

“And after the surrender, he was repatriated?”

“Obfuscations, what can I tell you? He was the son of a factory owner who employed hundreds of people. However, in the final analysis, he was a deserter, and no devoted follower of the Ffihrer. Hardly the basis for his own son to become one.”

“Yes, I see. What about his wife, Gerhardt's mother?”

“A stolid, upper-middle-class Hausfrau who probably detested the war. At any rate, she was never listed as a member of the National Socialist Party and never known to attend the numerous rallies.”

“Not exactly a pro-Nazi influence.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“And Kroeger's university and medical schooling, were there any student factions antagonistic to Germany's democratizations, its rejection of the Third Reich, that might have impressed the young Kroeger?”

“None that I can find. His professors, by and large, termed him a man who kept to himself, a born scholar and doctor in training, simply outstanding. His surgical residency was so superb, he was operating months before it was customary.”

“His specialization?”

“The brain. They say he had 'golden hands and quicksilver fingers'; that's a direct quote from the renowned Hans Traupman, another giant in the field.”

"Who ?5)

“Traupman, Hans Traupman, chief of cranial surgery, Nuremberg.”

“Are they friends?”

“Other than a professional association, there's no reference to a specific friendship.”

“Yet he was excessive in his praise of a subordinate.”

“Not all surgeons are ungenerous, Moreau.”

“I suppose not. Were there any conclusions or opinions as to why Kroeger resigned his post and immigrated to Sweden?”

"Other than his own very emotional statement, no. He had been performing extremely delicate, one might say nerve-racking, operations for nearly twenty years. His personal judgment was that he had burnt himself out, that a tremble had developed in those 'quicksilver' fingers of his, and he would not further risk patients' lives. Most admirable.

"Most obfuscation al said Moreau quietly.

“Has anyone followed up on where he is now?”

“Only hearsay, as you'll read. Several former colleagues who've heard from him, none less than four years ago, say he opened a general practice under a Swedish name, north of Gbteborg.”

“Who are these 'former colleagues'?”

“Their names are in the report. You may reach them yourself, if you wish.”

“I wish.”

“Now, Monsieur Moreau,” said the German ambassador, his short, skeletal body leaning back in the chair, "I think it's time you were clear with me. When we spoke on a secure line, as you demanded-you implied that one Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon, could be part of the Nazi movement, but you offered no evidence, to say nothing of proof. Instead, rather outrageously, you said that if my government, through this office, refused to comply with your request to furnish you with a complete dossier on Kroeger, you would complain to the Quai d'Orsay that we were conceivably covering up the identity of a powerful member of the new Nazi core.

Again, no evidence, no proof, and once you enter that file into your system, it's quite possible that an doctor somewhere in Sweden will have his very life in jeopardy, for I have no doubt you'll find him. There's your information, Monsieur Moreau. Give me something, if only to assuage my conscience, for, as I say, you will find him."

“We have found him, Monsieur IAmbassadeur. He's here in Paris, less than twenty blocks away. His mission is to find Harry Latham and kill him. But why be, why a doctor, a surgeon? That's the question we must answer.”

Out on the street, Moreau went directly to his Deuxieme Bureau vehicle, climbed in, nodded to his driver to proceed, and picked up the embassy telephone from its cradle. He dialed an in-house sterile number.

“Jacques?”

“Yes, Claude?”

“Run an in-depth trace on a doctor named Traupman, Hans Traupman, a surgeon in Nuremberg.”

The evening was passing slowly, far too slowly for an agitated Drew Latham. The hotel suite was his personal prison; even the recycled air was beginning to become oppressive. He opened a window, immediately shutting it; the Paris night was humid, the air-conditioning preferable. He had spent too long cooped up like the fugitive he was presumed to be. He had to get out as he had yesterday afternoon when he had visited his flat on the rue du Bac, accompanied by his marine escort. It had taken less than an hour, only minutes in the street, but that hour, those minutes, were a brief respite from the suffocating, restricting enclosures of the Antinayous'Maison Rouge, Witkowski's place, even Karin's apartment-no, not Karin's apartment. That had been a release from something else, something he had been running away from for years, and it was splendid and warm and filled' with comfort.

But now, now he had to feel like a free man again, if only for a while; he had to walk in the streets among people, it was as simple as that, perhaps. He had spoken to Karin two hours earlier while she was still at the embassy, agreeing that in the interests of absolute security, he would not call her in the Madeleine. Certainly not; the last thing he wanted was to make her a fugitive too. She had, however, given him an urgent message from Washington. He was to reach Wesley Sorenson on his very private line, and keep trying until the Cons-Op director answered; and if by six o'clock D.C. time they had not made contact, he was to call Sorenson at his home, regardless of the hour.

He had tried repeatedly, knowing the number could not be traced, until eleven o'clock in Paris, six o'clock in Washington.

Then he had phoned Wcs's home. Mrs. Sorenson had answered;

the compleat spook's wife had said the proper words.

“My husband's expecting a call from our antiques dealer in Paris. If this is he, Mr. Sorenson is tied up until around seven, our time, but if it's not too inconvenient, please try then, as we don't have your apartment number. He's most eager about the tapestry we saw last month.”

“It hasn't been sold, madam,” Drew had said.

“I'll call him shortly past midnight, Paris time, seven o'clock yours. It's the least I can do for such excellent clients.”

What was so important that Sorenson termed it “urgent”? No matter, there was an hour to waste, and to speculate on a dozen possibilities in the confines of the small hotel suite was more than he could tolerate. Besides, he was wearing the inhibiting uniform that barely allowed him to breathe, his hair was dyed a ridiculous blond, he would wear the glasses Karin had given him, and it was dark out. What could be more secure than the combination of altered appearance and darkness? Finally, he had his thin cellular phone. If Witkowski or anyone with maximum clearance at the embassy needed him in an emergency, they would try that number should they not be able to reach him at the hotel.

He took the elevator down to the lobby, walked past the concierge's desk, feeling foolish as fingers touched caps along with such salutations as “mon colonel?” and “Monsieur le Colonel Webster?” until he went through a revolving door and out onto the rue de Castiglione. God, it felt good to be outside, away from his prison walls! He turned right, away from the street lamps, and proceeded down the sidewalk, breathing the air deeply, his stride firm, almost military, he realized, chuckling to himself.

And then it happened. The phone in his tunic pocket rang, a low, emphatic ring. It so startled him that he fumbled, forgetting the buttons on the army jacket, wanting only the damn noise to stop.

At last he ripped the ringing instrument out, pressed the receiver button, and put the phone to his ear.

“Yes, what?”

“This is marine unit W, that's you, mister! What are you doing outside the hotel?”

“Getting a little air, do you mind?”

“You can bet your ass we do, but it's too late. You're being followed.”

“What?”

“We've got a photograph; we can't be sure, but we think it's Reynolds, Alan Reynolds from the comm center. We've got him in our binoculars, but the light's not so good, and he's wearing a hat with his lapels up.”

“How the hell could he spot me? I'm in uniform and my goddamn hair's blond!”

“A uniform can be rented, and blond hair doesn't mean much when it's mostly dark out and someone's wearing an officer's cap. . Keep walking and laugh a lot when you put the phone back in your pocket. Then turn right into the next narrow street. We've studied the area; we'll get out and be behind you.”

“For Christ's sake, stop him, take him! If he's found me, it's more than likely he's zeroed in on Mrs. de Vries's place!”

“S he's not our priority, whoever she is. You are, mister.”

“She's a big priority with me, Mr. Marine!”

“Start laughing real loud and put the phone away.”

“You got it!” Drew, making a fool of himself on the crowded rue de Castiglione, laughed like a howling hyena, replaced the cellular phone in his pocket, and turned right into the first narrow street only yards ahead. However, instead of walking, he broke into a run, racing to the nearest door front on the right and whipped around the stone corner out of sight. The street itself, barely more than a double alleyway, was one of those lower Parisian residential areas where the histories were long and the rents short. The only light came from two street lamps, at opposite ends of the thoroughfare;

the rest was bathed in dark shadows. Removing his officer's hat, Latham, inch by inch, peered around the stone. The figure walking cautiously down the narrow street held a gun in his hand, causing Drew to swear silently. He had not thought to carry a weapon thought hell, there was no place under the tight-fitting fabric of the uniform to wear one!

Then, obviously seeing no one, the man with the gun began running toward the lamplight at the other end; it was all Latham had to observe. At the instant the figure came into view, Drew lashed his right foot out, catching the man in the groin, then sprang forward, throwing Alan Reynolds across the wide alleyway into the wall, Latham's hand gripping the weapon loosened by the traitor's lack of balance.

“You son of a bitch!” roared Drew, crashing Reynolds into the stone more aggressively than he had ever body checked an opponent on the ice.

“Where do you come from, what do you know? Where does my brother fit in?”

“You're not him!” choked the Nazi.

“I suspected as much, but they wouldn't listen to me!”

“I'm listening, you bastard,” said Latham, the mole's gun pressed against his forehead.

“Talk!”

“There's nothing to talk about, Latham, they have my report. You and the De Vries woman, the trap you've set.”

Suddenly Reynolds's right hand surged up in the shadows to his collar. He squeezed the cloth and bit into the bulging fabric.

“Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein 174ihrer!” shrieked Alan Reynolds with his dying breath.

The marine unit, designated W, raced down the dark, narrow street, their weapons bared.

“Are you all right?” yelled the sergeant in charge.

“No, I'm not all right!” answered a furious Drew.

“How did this son of a bitch pass muster? How did he get by all those high-tech microscopes and the psychiatrists and the researchers who supposedly can pinpoint the date, hour, and minute of an applicant's conception? It's all bullshit! This man wasn't just a neo out for money or a few medals, he was a certifiable fanatic who screamed the Nazi salute as he took his cyanide. He should have been spotted years ago!”

"Can't argue with you there said the sergeant.

“We radioed Colonel Witkowski that we'd spotted him, or thought we had. He told us to do whatever we had to do, shoot him in the legs or the arms, but to bring him in alive.”

“Unless the Corps issued you powers I don't think it possesses, that'll be a tad difficult, Sergeant.”

“We'll take the' body to the embassy, but first we're getting you back to the Inter-Continental.”

“You'd have to drive around several blocks to drop me off. I can walk quicker.”

“The colonel would fry our asses if we let you do that.”

"And

I'll fry them if you don't. I'm not responsible to

Witkowski, but if it'll make you feel better, he's the first person I'm going to call."

Back in his hotel suite, Latham picked up the phone and dialed the colonel's apartment.

“It's me,” he said.

“And the next time you tell my people you'll do what you like because you're not responsible to me, I'll dismiss your protection and do my best to steer you into a Nazi assassination unit.”

“I believe you would.”

“You can take it to the bank!” confirmed the angry colonel.

“I had my reasons, Stanley.”

“What the hell are they?”

“Karin, to begin with. Reynolds filed a report to the ncos that claimed I wasn't Harry but the other Latham and that Karin was part of the trap.”

“Pretty goddamned accurate. Did he say what the trap was?”

“The cyanide cut him off-”

“Yes, I gathered that from the sergeant, along with your rather strong opinions of our security checks.”

“I believe I called them bullshit, and that's exactly what they are. . Get Karin out of her apartment, Stanley. If Reynolds found me, the rue Madeleine isn't far behind. Get her out!”

“Any suggestions?”

“Here at the Inter-Continental, blond wig and all.”

“That's about the dumbest thing you could say. If Reynolds found you there, who else did he tell, and who told him?”

“I'm missing something.”

“You certainly are. There's another Alan Reynolds, another mole, at the embassy and he's as high up as they come. I'm moving you to the Normandie, on the pretext that Colonel Webster is being transferred back to Washington for evaluation.”

“That's kind of negative, isn't it?”

“Actually, we'll probably imply that you're incompetent. The French love to hear that about Americans.”

“Colonel Webster is outraged. At least I can wash out this blond hair and get rid of the uniform, right?”

“Wrong,” said Witkowski.

"Keep both awhile longer. You can't go back to your own name and you've got the proper ID as Webster.

It's been leaked, and by keeping it that way we may find the mole here. The circle is tight and we're watching the few who know, and they're damned few. Maybe only the marines, Reynolds, and that fruit juiced salesman Lewis, who's probably going from door to igloo door in some tundra somewhere."

“If Reynolds leaked it to the right people, measure me for a coffin!”

“Not necessarily. You're guarded, Colonel. By the way, did Karin tell you? Wesley Sorenson has been trying to reach you. We didn't give him your cover and he didn't want it, but you're to phone him.”

“It's next on my list. Call me back on my move to the Normandie, and get Karin out of harm's way. How about the Normandie?”

“For a spook, you're not entirely subtle, Latham.” Drew hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. It was past midnight, past seven o'clock in D.C. He picked up the telephone and pressed the numbers for the States.

“Yes?” said the voice of Sorenson.

“It's your antiques dealer from Paris.”

“Thank heavens! Sorry I was tied up, but that's another story, another massive headache, if not a catastrophe.”

“Can you tell me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then what was so urgent?”

“Moreau. He's clean.”

“That's nice to hear. Our embassy isn't.”

“I gather that, so judgment wise it's in your court. if you're strung out and don't know where to turn-”

“Hold it, Wcs, I have no problem with Witkowski,” interrupted Latham.

“Nor do I, but we don't know who's tapped in to him.”

1 4Agreed. Someone is."

"Then turn to Moreau. He doesn't know you're alive,

so before you do, reach me and I'll play the scenario for him."

“He's still cut out?”

“One of our larger mistakes.”

“Incidentally, Wcs, did you ever hear of an Alan Reynolds, embassy comm center?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“Wish we hadn't. He was a neo.”

“Was?”

“He's dead.”

“I suppose that's a blessing.”

“Can't say that it is. We wanted him alive.”

“Things go wrong sometimes. Stay in touch.”

erhardt Kroeger labored over the fax from Bonn, a code book in his left hand, a pencil in his right.

Carefully he inserted the proper letters above the coded words of the message. The nearer he came to completing the task, the more excited was his state of mind, excited but controlled, the scientist in him demanding total concentration. Finished at last, elation swept over him. Their informer at the American Embassy had succeeded where the vaunted Blitzkriezer had failed. The mole's information was flawed, but he had found the surviving Latham! His last source remained nameless, but he claimed it was irrefutable, a person he had cultivated over the years, a woman for whom he had done many favors, now living far beyond her means.

She would not lie to him for two specific reasons, the first being her current expensive way of life; the second and far more powerful, the threat of exposure. They were the usual components in keeping an inner source on a chain.

Where the informer was in error was his conviction that the Latham who had survived the assassination attempt was not Harry Latham but his brother, Drew Latham, the Consular Operations officer. Kroeger knew that was preposterous; the evidence was overwhelmingly to the contrary, evidence from so many different quarters, it could not have been manufactured. Beyond the police reports, the press, and the government's widespread dragnet for the killers, there was the Deuxieme's Moreau and his associate. The latter had seen Harry Latham get back on the Metro train after the gunfire. Of all the officials in French Intelligence, Moreau was the last who would dare lie to the Brotherhood. Should he do so, he would become a pariah, a man disgraced beyond redemption. Scores of financial transfers to his account in Bern guaranteed it.

My inner source, concluded the message from Bonn, tells me that Documents and Research mocked up papers for a Colonel Anthony Webster, a military identification card, and an embassy requisition for rooms at the Hotel Inter-Continental on the rue de Castiglione. The same source further states she briefly saw the plastic ID card. The inserted photograph was obviously also mocked, a man with familiar features but with blond hair rather than dark brown, and wearing a uniform and large-framed glasses.

Although she has never seen a photograph of Harry Latham, she believes the man in the picture is his brother, Drew Latham, a Consular Operations officer. According to embassy records, authorized by security, the body of Drew Latham was flown back to the family in the United States. However, my own research, including the manifest records of American diplomatic aircraft, shows no such transfer for the date in question. Therefore, in'my judgment, the Latham at the Inter-Continental is not Harry Latham but his brother. Together with embassy security and the Dutch woman, De Vries, they have mounted a strategy to entrap a member or members of our Brotherhood. What the nature of the trap is I hope to learn tonight, as I will post myself outside Latham's hotel, and if it takes all night and all day, I will take him and learn. Or I will kill him in the method prescribed.

Rubbish! thought Kroeger. Brothers frequently have similar features. Why would the Americans lie about the slain Latham?

There was no reason to, and every reason not to! Harry Latham's list was the key to the global search for the reemerging Nazis everywhere. They needed him, which was why they were going to such lengths to keep him alive, from enlisting the contentious Antinayous to issuing false military identification cards and moving him from hotel to hotel. Harry Latham/ Alexander Lassiter was an intelligence tiger; he mourned his brother and wanted revenge at all costs. Little did he know that in roughly twenty-eight hours it wouldn't make any difference to him; he would be dead. But it did to Gerhardt

Kroeger. He had to find him and blow his head apart. Now he knew where to go, hoping rather desperately that their informer had already performed the execution properly

It was two-ten in the morning and Kroeger put on his jacket and a light raincoat; the raincoat was necessary if only to conceal the large, heavy-calibered pistol that held six Black Talon shells. Each bullet penetrated the flesh and spread on impact like a lethal Roman candle, leaving total destruction in its wake.

“You're being picked up at three o'clock sharp,” said Witkowski.

“Not before?” asked Latham.

“Hell, it's only forty-five minutes. By the time you come down, I want a unit in the lobby and a team in the street. That takes a little organization, proper civilian clothes and all.”

“I approve. What about Karin?”

“She's out of harm's way, as you wanted. Blond wig and all, as I think you suggested.”

“Where ?”

“Not where you are.”

“You're all heart, Stanley.”

“You sound like my mother, God rest her soul.”

“Why can't I wish the same for yours?”

“Because you always want instant gratification, and I won't permit it.. .. One of my people will pick up your luggage and attache case fifteen minutes before you go down. If anyone asks where you're off to, just tell him you can't sleep. Another of your strolls outside. We'll take care of the hotel later.”

“You really believe Reynoldstipped off other ncos here in Paris?”

"Frankly, no, because from what we can piece together, his killer platoon is gone-who was he going to reach? No one in Germany could get here in time, and this Kroeger's a doctor, not an assassin.

My judgment is that he's here to confirm, not to pull an y triggers, assuming he knows how. Reynolds was acting solo because he'd been spotted in the street outside of my place and wanted to make up for it. Killing you would have given him points."

“We can't be sure he knew he was spotted, Stanley.”

“Really? Then why didn't he show up at the embassy in the morning? Remember, chlopak, two ncos got away while surviving my externals-”

“The fire escapes and the rug, right?” interrupted Drew.

“You're getting brighter. If A equals B and B equals C, then it's a good bet that A equals C. Not a bad rule to go by.”

“Now you sound like Harry.”

“Thanks for the compliment. Get yourself ready.”

Latham packed his suitcase rapidly, which was easy because he had barely unpacked, taking out only his civilian trousers and blazer, an embassy attach's uniform of the day. Now the waiting began, minutes ticked off within his prison walls. Then his telephone rang;

expecting Witkowski, he picked it up.

“Yes, what is it now?”

“What is what? It's Karin, my dear.”

“Jesus, where are you?”

“I swore not to tell you-”, “Bullshit!”

“No, Drew, it's called protection. The colonel tells me he's moving you-please, I don't care to know where.”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“Then you don't know our enemy. I just want you to be careful, very careful.”

“You heard about tonight?”

"Reynolds? Yes, Witkowski told me, which is why I'm calling you.

I can't get through to the colonel; his line's busy, which means he's constantly on the phone to the embassy, but something occurred to me only moments ago, and someone other than me should know about it."

“What are you talking about?”

“Alan Reynolds frequently came down to D and R on one pretext or another, usually concerning our maps and transportation information.”

“No one thought it was odd?” Latham broke in.

“Not really. It's easier than calling the airlines or track- Ming train schedules, or, even worse, buying road maps in small lettered French. Ours are in legible English.”

“But you thought it was strange, right?”

"Only after the colonel told me about tonight, not before, frankly.

Many of our people take weekend trips all over France, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. Especially those whose tours in Paris are limited.

No, Drew, it was something else, and that was strange."

“What was it?”

“On two occasions when I went back to Transport, I saw Reynolds walking out of the last aisle before the Transport door. I suppose I thought something like, ”Oh, he has a friend in one of the offices and is arranging a lunch or a dinner,“ or some such thing.”

“And now you're thinking so meting e se?”

“Yes, but I could be quite wrong. All of us in D and R work with degrees of confidential materials, much of it not deserving the designation confidential, but it's common knowledge that those in the last aisle, the farthest from the door, deal solely with maximum classified information.”

“A pecking order?” asked Latham.

“From the first to the last aisle degrees of confidentiality?”

“Not at all,” replied Karin.

"The offices are simply different.

When one is working on highly secret material, he or she moves into the last aisle, where the computers are far more inclusive and the communications set up for instant contact worldwide. I've worked there three times since I arrived here."

“How many offices in the last aisle?”

“Six on each side of the central corridor.”

“Which side did you see Reynolds in?”

“The left side. I turned my head to the left, I remember that.”

“Both times?”

“Yes.” “What were the days, the dates, you saw him?”

“Good Lord, I don't know. It was over several weeks, going back a month or two.”

“Try to think, Karin.”

“if I could pinpoint them, I would, Drew. At the time, I simply didn't consider it important.”

“It is. He is.”

4"Why? ))

“Because your instincts are right. Witkowski says there's another Alan Reynolds at the embassy, another mole, someone very high up and very inside.”

“I'll get a calendar and do my best to isolate the weeks, then the days. I'll try like mad to recall what I was working on. ”

“Would it help to get into your office at the embassy?”

“That would mean getting into the supercomputer, which is somewhere below our own cellars. It stores everything for five years because our own papers are destroyed.”

“It can be arranged.”

“Even if it can, I haven't the vaguest idea how to operate it.”

“Someone does.”

“It's two-thirty in the morning, my darling.”

“I don't care if it's half past the third moon! Courtland can order in whoever operates it, and if he can't, Wesley Sorenson can, and if be can't, the goddamn President can!”

“Getting angry won't help, Drew.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not Harry.”

“I loved Harry, but he was never you either. Do what you have to do. In you ranger which is probably the only way it can be done.”

Latham depressed the lever, disconnecting the call, then immediately dialed the embassy, demanding to speak to Ambassador Courtland.

“I don't care what time it is!” he shouted when the operator objected.

“This is a matter of national security, and I'm under direct orders from Washington's Consular Operations.”

“Yes, this is Ambassador Courtland. What can be so urgent at this hour?”

“Is this phone secure, sir?” asked Latham, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“I'll put you on hold and take it in another room. It's constantly swept, and besides, my wife is asleep.” Twenty seconds later Courtland continued on an upstairs telephone.

“All right, who are you and what's this all about?”

“It's Drew Latham, sir-”

“My God, you're dead! I don't understand-” 4 “You don't have to understand, Mr. Ambassador. just find our computer whizzes and order them down to the underground super stuff.” “That's pretty heavy-my God, you were killed!”

“Sometimes we get too complicated, but please, do as I ask.. . Also, you have the capability. Break into Witkowski's phone and order him to call me.”

“Where are you?”

“He knows. Do it quickly. I'm expected to leave here in fifteen minutes, but I can't until I speak to him.” ,

“All right, all right, whatever you say.. .. I guess I should mention that I'm glad you're alive.”

“So am I. Go to it, Mr. Ambassador.”

Three minutes later Latham's phone rang.

“Stanley?”

“What the hell's going on?”

“Get Karin and me to the embassy as soon as possible.” Drew explained in a few emphatic words what De Vries told him about Alan Reynolds.

"A couple of minutes won't change the scenario, young man.

Stick to the schedule I've set, and I'll reroute you to the embassy and meet you both there."

Latham waited; Witkowski's marine, in civilian clothes, arrived and took his suitcase and attache case.

“Come down in four minutes, sir,” said the man courteously.

“We're prepared.”

“Are you people always so polite in these situations?” asked Latham.

“It doesn't help to be uptight, sir. It blurs your focus.”

“Why do I think I've heard that before?”

“I don't know. See you downstairs.”

Three minutes later, Drew walked out the door and went to the elevators. At that hour the ride down was swift, the lobby practically deserted except for a few late night revelers, Japanese and Americans, by and large, all of whom disappeared into the bank of elevators. Latham strode across the marble floor, every inch the military man, when suddenly, ear-shattering gunshots exploded, echoing off the walls, emanating from the mezzanine balcony. Drew lunged toward a space between the lobby furniture, his eyes riveted on the two men behind the concierge's desk. He saw the chest and stomach of one literally explode, a monstrous detonation that sent the man's bloody intestines hurling across the lobby; the other raised his hands as his head blew apart, skull tissue flying everywhere. Madness!

Additional gunfire then filled the huge ornate enclosure, followed by voices, shouting in English with American accents.

“We've got him!” yelled a man, also on the mezzanine level.

“In the legs!”

“He's alive!” roared another.

“We've got the son of a bitch! He's nuts! He's crying and moaning in German!”

“Take him to the embassy,” said a calmer voice in the lobby, turning to the terrified clerks behind the front desk.

“This is an antiterrorist operation,” he continued.

“It's over now, and you may assure the owners that all expenses for damages will be covered, as well as generous compensation for the families of your personnel who tragically lost their lives. However meaningless it may appear to you now, they died heroes, and a grateful Europe will honor them.. .. Hurry up!”

The horrified clerks stood frozen behind the marble counter.

The man on the left began to weep as his colleague slowly, as if in a trance, reached for a telephone.

Latham and De Vries embraced under the disapproving eyes of Colonel Stanley Witkowski and Ambassador Daniel Courtland in the latter's office at the American Embassy.

“May we get to the issue-the issues-at hand, if you please?” said the ambassador.

“Dr. Gerhardt Kroeger will survive and our two man computer team will arrive shortly. Actually one of them is here now, and his superior is being flown in from his holiday in the Pyrenees. Will somebody now tell me what the hell is going on?”

"Certain intelligence operations are beyond your purview, Mr.

Ambassador,“ replied Witkowski, ”for your own deniability, sit."

"You know, I really find that phrase rather obscene, Colonel.

Since when did civilian intelligence, or military intelligence, or any of the clandestine exercises take precedence over the State Department's ultimate control?"

“That's why Consular Operations was created, sir,” answered Drew.

“The purpose was to coordinate between State, the administration, and the intelligence services.”

“Then I can't say that you have, have you?”

“In crises we can't afford a bureaucratic delay,” said Latham firmly.

“And I don't give a goddamn if it costs me my job. I want the person, the people, who killed my brother. Because they're part of a much larger disease, and it's got to be stopped-not by bureaucratic debate, but by individual decision.”

Courtland leaned back in his chair. Finally, he spoke.

“And you, Colonel?”

“I've been a soldier all my life, but here I must reject the chain of command. I can't wait for some Congress to declare war. We are at war.”

“And you, Mrs. de Vries?”

“I gave you my husband, what more do you want?”

Ambassador Daniel Courtland leaned forward in his chair, both hands on his forehead, his fingers massaging his flesh.

“I've lived with compromises all my diplomatic life,” he said.

“Maybe it's time to stop.” He raised his head.

“I'll probably be demoted to Tierra del Fuego, but go for it, you rogues. Because you are right, there are times when we can't wait.”

The three rogues were taken down to the supercomputer thirty feet below the cellars. It was both enormous and frightening; an entire ten-foot wall was covered by a plate of thick glass with whirling disks behind it, dozens spinning and abruptly stopping, trapping information from the skies.

“Hi, I'm Jack Rowe, one half of your deep, under-the earth geniuses,” said a pleasant-looking sandy-haired man of less than thirty years.

“My colleague, if he's sober, will be here in a few minutes. He landed at Orly a half hour ago.”

“We didn't expect to find drunks,” exclaimed Witkowski.

“This is serious business!”

“Everything's serious here, Colonel-yes, I know who you are, it's standard operating procedure. Youtoo, Con sOp guy, and the lady who probably could have run NATO if she were a man and wore a uniform. There are no secrets here. They all spew out on the disks.”

“Can we get at them?” said Drew.

“Not until my buddy arrives. You see, he has the other code, which I'm not allowed to have.”

“To save time,” said Karin, “can you collate the data from my office with specific dates as I recalled them?”

“Don't have to, it's one and the same. You give us the dates, and whatever you recorded on those days will show up on the screen. You couldn't change it or erase it if you wanted to.”

“I don't care to do either.”

“That's a relief. When I got the hurry-up from the Big Man, I figured we maybe had one of those Rose Mary Wood things we read about in history books.”

“History books?” Witkowski's brows arched in indignation.

“Well, I was about six or seven when all that stuff happened, Colonel. Maybe history is the wrong word.”

“I hope to kiss a pig it was.”

“That's an interesting phrase,” said the young, sandyhaired technician.

“Root linguistic vernaculars are kind of a hobby with me. That's either Irish or Middle European, Slavic probably, where sus scrofa-pigs or hogs-were valuable property. To 'hope to kiss a pig' implied ownership, a status symbol, actually. And if you supplant the a with a my, therefore my pig, it meant you were either pretty rich or soon expected to be.” .- “Is that what you do with computers?” asked an astonished Latham

“You'd be surprised at the mountains of incidental intelligence these Big Birds can hold. I once traced a Latin chant, a religious chant, to a pagan cult in Corsica.”

“That's very interesting, young man,” interrupted Witkowski, “but our concerns here are speed and accuracy.”

“We'll give you both, Colonel.”

“Incidentally,” Witkowski said, “the phrase I used was Polish.”

“I'm not sure of that,” said Karin.

“I believe it stems from Gaelic roots, Irish in fact.”

“And I don't give a damn!” cried Drew.

“Will you please concentrate on the days, the time spans, you can remember, Karin?”

“I already have,” replied De Vries, opening her purse.

“Here they are, Mr. Rowe.” She handed the computer expert a torn piece of notebook paper.

“These are all over the place,” said the technician partial to linguistic vernaculars.

“They're in sequence, it's the best I could do.,” '“No problem for the biggest bird in France.”

“Why do you call this thing a bird?” asked Latham.

"

“Cause it flies into the ether of infinite recall.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“But this helps, Mrs. de Vries. I'll program my side, so when Joel arrives, he can key in and the sideshow can begin.”

“Sideshow?”

“The screen, Colonel, the screen.”

As Rowe inserted the codes that released his side of the massive computer, and typed in the data, the metal door of the subterranean complex opened and another technician, this one perhaps in his early thirties, perhaps older, walked in. What distinguished him from his colleague was a long, neatly bound ponytail, held in place by a small blue ribbon at the nape of his neck.

“Hi,” he said pleasantly,.“I'm Joel Greenberg, the resident general here. How're you doin', Jackman?”

“Waiting for you, Genius Two.”

“Hey, I'm Numero Uno, remember?”

“I just replaced you, I got here first,” replied Rowe, still typing.

“You must be the exalted Colonel Witkowski,” said Greenberg, extending his hand to the perplexed chief of security, whose glare did not convey much pleasure at the sight of the slender man in blue jeans and an open-collared bush jacket, to say nothing of the ponytail.

“It's an honor to meet you, sir, and I mean that.”

“At least you're sober,” said the colonel awkwardly.

"I wasn't last night. Wow, did I do a mean flamenco! .. And you have to be Mrs. de Vries. The rumors weren't wrong, ma'am.

You're a gorgeous, A-plus."

“I'm also an officer-attache of the embassy, Mr. Greenberg.”

“I'll bet I outrank you, but who's counting.. .. I apologize, ma'am, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just sort of the ebullient type. No offense, okay?”

“Okay,” said Karin, laughing quietly.

“You've got to be our Mr. Cons-Op, right?” said Greenberg, shaking hands with Drew, then becoming suddenly serious.

“My heart goes out to you, sir. You lose a parent, it's kind of expected, you know what I mean? You lose a brother-yes, Jackman and I were told the scenario -well, it's something else. Especially the way it happened. I don't know what else to say.”

I “You've said it very well; it's appreciated.. .. Who else down here knows what you just told, me?”

"Nobody, only Rowe and myself. We have two pairs of relief.

The last left when the Jackman arrived, but none have the codes to invade our super bird. If either of us has an accident or a cardiac arrest, a sub is flown down from NATO."

“I've never seen you around the embassy,” said Witkowski.

“And I'm sure I'd recall having seen you.”

“We're not permitted to fraternize, Colonel. We have a separate entrance and our own very small elevator.”

“That seems rather excessive.”

"Not when you consider what's in Mother Bird. The only people accepted for this job are computer PhDs, male and unattached.

That may be sexist, but it's the way things are."

“Are you armed?” asked Latham.

“Just curiosity.”

“Two weapons. Both Smith and Wesson, nine mil limeters. One,in a chest holster and one strapped to the leg. Trained in usage, by the way.”

“May we get to work,” said Karin firmly.

“I believe your partner has inserted the information I need.”

“It won't do us any good until I repeat it,” said Greenberg, heading for his chair on the left of the giant equipment and sitting down, entering his code.

“Print it up for me, Jackman, okay?”

“Transfer in sequence,” answered Rowe.

"It's in your ballpark.

Repeat and release on demand-print key."

“I'm with you.” Joel Greenberg swiveled in his chair and addressed the three intruders.

“As I repeat his data, it'll come out on the printer below the center screen. That way you won't have to remember everything on the movie.”

“The movie?”

“The screen, Colonel, the screen,” said Jack Rowe.

As the computer printouts spewed forth, page by page, date by date, Karin ripped them off and studied them. Twenty minutes passed. When the printouts were finished, she went back over each, circling items in a red pencil. Finally, she said softly but emphatically, “I've found it. The two occasions when I went back to Transport. I remember exactly.. .. Can you now bring up the names of the D and R personnel on the left side of the center aisle?” She handed the printouts with the data circled in red to Greenberg.

“Sure,” said the Ph.D. with a ponytail, in concert with his associate.

“Ready, Jack?”

“Go ahead, Numero Duo.”

“Asshole.”

The names appeared on the screen before the ten-second delay for the printer.

“You're not going to like this, Mrs. de Vries,” said the computer Ph.D. named Rowe.

“Out of the six days you specified, you were. on three of them.”

“That's crazy-insane!”

“I'll bring up your data, see if you recall it.”

The screen printed out the information.

“Yes, that's mine!” cried Karin, her eyes on the line of green letters as they first appeared.

“But I wasn't there.”

“Big Bird doesn't lie, ma'am,” said Greenberg.

“It wouldn't know how.”

“Try the others, their inputs,” insisted Latham.

The bright green letters appeared again on the screen, each from different offices. And again, the very data Karin had recognized was on two others.

“What more can I say? I could not have been in three offices at once. Someone has penetrated your holy computers.”

“That would require such a complex number of codes, including insertions and deletions, that it would take someone with more knowledge than Joel and I have to do it,” said Jack Rowe.

“I hate to say it, Mrs. de Vries, but the info on you from Brussels made it clear that you were pretty expert in this department.”

“Why would I implicate myself? With three insertions?”

“You've got me there.”

“Run down our top personnel, and I don't care if it takes until the sun comes up,” said Drew.

“I warn to see every resume from the Big Man on down.”

The minutes passed, the printouts continued, studied by all, until an hour went by, then an hour and a half.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Greenberg, looking at his screen.

“We may have a probable.”

“Who is it?” asked Witkowski, ice in his voice.

"You're not going to like this, any of you. I don't like it

“Who is it?”

“Read it yourselves,” said Joel, arching his head, his eyes closed as if in disbelief.

“Oh, my God,” cried Karin, staring at the center screen.

“It's Janine Clunes!”

“Correction,” said the colonel.

“Janine Clunes Courtland, the ambassador's wife, his second wife, to be precise. She works in D and R, under her maiden name for obvious reasons.”

“What were her qualifications?” asked the stunned Latham.

“I can bring them up in a couple of minutes,” replied Rowe.

“Don't bother,” said Witkowski.

"I can give you a fairly accurate picture; it isn't often security's told to clear an ambassador's wife.

Janine Climes, University of Chicago its think tank, Ph.D. and full professorship in computer science before marrying Courtland after his divorce about a year and a half ago."

“She's brilliant,” added Karin.

"She's also the sweetest, kindest woman in D and R. If she hears somebody has a problem and thinks she can help, she'll go right to her husband. Everyone adores her because, among other reasons, she never takes advantage of her position; to the contrary, she constantly covers for those who may be late, or can't complete their assignments on time.

She's always offering to help."

“A real roving butterfly,” said Drew.

“Christ, is Courtland now on our list, Harry's list?” ,

“I can't believe that,” answered the colonel.

“I'm not very partial to him, but I can't believe it. He's been too open with us, even gone out on a limb for us. I remind you and Karin that we wouldn't be here without his giving us the go-ahead, because we shouldn't be here unless we had clearance from the State Department, D.C.” the CIA, the National Security Council, and probably the joint Chiefs. @

“The only people left out are in the White House,” said the irreverent Greenberg.

“But then, what do they know? They're too busy trying to get their free parking spaces back.”

“I remember reading about Courtland's divorce in The Washington Post,” interrupted Drew, looking at Stanley Witkowski.

“As I recall, he gave everything to his wife and children, admitting that the constant relocations of a State Department officer were no way to bring up the kids.”

“I can understand that,” said the colonel coldly, returning Latham's look.

“But it doesn't necessarily mean his current wife is the other informer.”

“Of course it doesn't,” broke in Jack Rowe.

“My comrade in computer arms merely said he had a possible, right, Joel?”

“I believe he said 'probable,” right, Joel?" Latham said.

“Okay, Cons-Op, because I happen to believe it. The Big Bird fed us too much not to. Don't tell me Courtland doesn't know about our lady from NATO here, and please don't tell me they haven't talked about her. Her looks, her remoteness, her NATO duty-she's high-quality fodder for the rumor mill. If anyone was a logical candidate for suspicion, I submit it's Mrs. de Vries. At least it throws people off the scent for the real mole.”

“What about languages?” said Latham, turning to Karin.

“They'd have to be important.”

“Janine speaks an acceptable French and Italian, but her German is completely fluent-” De Vries stopped, aware of what she just said.

“A 'probable,” mused Drew softly.

“Where do we go from here?”

“I've gone,” replied Greenberg.

“I just sent a query to Chicago, asking for in-depth data on Professor Climes. That stuff is all stored, so it should be coming back in a minute or two.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Karin.

“It's nearly midnight there.”

“Shhh!” whispered the computer scientist in mock secrecy.

“Chicago's a government-funded database, like the earthquake equipment, but don't tell anybody. Someone's always there because no one on the taxpayer's payroll wants to find his pants wet for withholding information from a machine like ours.”

“Here it comes!” cried Jack Rowe as the screen lit up from Chicago.

The woman named Janine Clunes held the position of full professor of computer science for a period of three years before her recent marriage to Daniel Courtland, then ambassador to Finland. She was highly regarded by both faculty and students alike for her ability to demystify computer- Mese She was active in campus politics, a staunch conservative when it was not popular, but her winning personality softened the negative reactions. It was rumored that she had several affairs while in residence but nothing of consequence or detrimental to her position. It was noted, however, that political events excepted, she was not known to frequent social occasions, living off campus in Evanston,

Illinois, an hour's drive from the university.

Her background is quite conformist for the times. She emigrated from Bavaria in the late forties as an infant, her parents deceased, and was brought up by relatives, Mr. and

Mrs. Charles Schneider, in Centralia in the county of Marion,

Illinois. Her records show that she was an outstanding student in high school, won a Merit Scholarship to the University of

Chicago, and upon completion of her bachelor's degree, master's, and doctorate, was offered a position on the faculty. She made frequent trips as an unpaid political consultant to

Washington, D.C." where she met Ambassador Courtland.

That's about it, Paris. Regards, Chicago.

“That's not 'about it,” said Witkowski quietly as he read the bright green letters on the screen.

“She's a Sonnenkind.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Stanley?”

“I thought the Sonnenkinder theory was discredited,” said Karin softly, nearly inaudible.

“To most people,” replied the colonel, “not to me, never has been. Look what's happening now.”

“What's a Sonnen-whatever?”

“A concept, Drew. The premise was that before and after the war, the zealots of the Third Reich sent out selected children to chosen ”Parents' throughout the world, whose mission was to raise the Kinder to positions of influence and power so as to pave the way for a Fourth Reich."

“That's fantasyland, it couldn't happen.”

“Maybe it did after all,” said Witkowski.

“Christ, the world's gone crazy!” exploded the embassy's chief of security.

“Hold it,” said Joel Greenberg at the computer, overriding Witkowski's outburst.

“There's an addendum coming in from Chicago. Catch the movie.” All heads turned to the screen and the bright green letters. Additional information re Janine Clunes.

While championing conservative causes, she violently opposed the Nazi march through Skokie, Illinois. She went on the parade's rostrum at her own peril and denounced the event as barbarism.

“What do you make of that, Stanley?” asked Drew.

“I'll tell you what I make of it,” interrupted De Vries.

"What better way to support an ultimately horrible agenda than by denying it?

You could, be right, Colonel. The Sonnenkinder operation may be alive and well."

“Then tell me, how I can approach the ambassador? What the hell can I say? He's living with, sleeping with, a daughter of the Third Reich?”

“Let me handle this, Stanley,” said Latham.

“I'm the coordinator, right?”

“Who are you going to lay it on, youngster?”

“Who else? A man we both appreciate. Wesley Sorenson.”

“May God have mercy on his soul.”

The telephone rang on Rowe's computer. He picked it up.

“STwo here, what is it? .. . Yes, sit, right away, sit.” He turned to Witkowski.

“You're to go right up to medical, Colonel. Your 'prize' is awake and talking.”

erhardt Kroeger, strapped in a straitjacket, was on the narrow bed, crouched against the wall, his body Gcurled up and pressed into the wood. He was alone in a room at the embassy's infirmary, his wounded legs bandaged underneath his medical pajamas, his eyes wide, glaring, roving everywhere but focused on nothing.

“Mein Vater war ein Verrdter,” he whispered hoarsel@. “Mein Vater war ein Verrdter! .. . Mein Leben ist vorbei, alles vernicbtet!”

Two men watched him through a false mirror in an adjoining office-one, the embassy physician, the other, Colonel Witkowski.

“He's getting real squirrelly,” said the chief of security.

“I don't understand German. What's he saying?” asked the doctor.

“Something about his father being filth, a traitor, and that his life is over, everything destroyed.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Only what I hear. He's a basket case, carrying a ton of guilt that's driving him up the wall he can't climb.”

“Then he's suicidal,” concluded the doctor.

“He stays in the jacket.”

“You're damn right,” agreed the colonel.

“But I'm still going in and try to question him.”

“Be careful, his blood pressure's almost out of sight. Which, I suppose, is natural, considering who he is-or was. When the mighty fall, they crash with a bang.”

“You know who he is-was?”

"Sure. Most anybody who got through medical school would.

Especially the head sessions."

“Enlighten me, Doctor,” said Witkowski, looking at the physician.

“He is, or was, a famous German surgeon-I haven't heard of him for a few years now-but his specialty was brain disorders. It was said at the time that he cured more mentally dysfunctional patients than anyone else in the field. With a scalpel, not drugs, which are overloaded with side effects.”

“So why was this goddamned genius sent to Paris to kill someone when he couldn't hit the side of a barn with buckshot?” .

“I wouldn't know, Colonel, and if he said anything about it, I wouldn't understand.”

“Fair enough, but not good enough, Doctor. Let me go inside, please.”

“Sure, but remember, I'll be watching. If I see him reaching an apex-the jacket is wired to blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen you out. Understood?”

“I don't take lightly to orders like that where a killer is concerned-”

“You'll take them from me, Witkowski,” the doctor interrupted curtly.

"My job is to keep him alive, perhaps even for your benefit.

Do we understand each other?"

“I don't have a choice, do I?”

“No, you don't. I'd advise talking quietly.”

“That advice I don't need from you.”

The colonel sat in a chair in front of the bed; he remained immobile until the unfocused Kroeger realized he was there.

“Guten Abend, Herr Doktor. Sprechen zie Engliscb, mein Herr?”

“You know perfectly well I do,” said Kroeger, struggling against the constricting jacket. Why am I in this undignified attire? I am a doctor, a surgeon of repute, so why am I treated like an animal?"

Because the families of two of your victims at the Hotel InterContinental no doubt consider you a vicious animal. Should we let you free to face their wrath? I assure you that death at their hands would be far more painful than execution at ours."

“They were an error, a mistake! A tragic event brought about by your hiding an enemy of humanity!”

“An enemy of humanity .. . ? That's a very serious charge. Why is Harry Latham an enemy of humanity?”

"He's insane, a violent schizophrenic who must be relieved of his tortures, or given medication so he can be institutionalized.

Hasn't Moreau told you?"

“Moreau? The Deuxi@me Bureau?”

"Of course. I explained everything to him! He did not reach you?

Of course he's French, and they keep things to themselves, don't they?"

“Perhaps I overlooked the communication.”

“You see,” said Kroeger, still struggling, but sitting up straight on the bed, “I treated Harry Latham in Germany -where, it does not matter-I saved his life, but you must bring me to him so I can inject him with the drugs that were in my clothes. It's the only way he can stay alive and serve your purposes!”

“A tempting scenario,” said Witkowski.

“He brought out a list of names, you know, several hundred names-”

“Who knows where he got them?” interrupted Gerhardt Kroeger.

“He traveled with the drug-infected scum of Germany. Some could be right, many could be wrong. That's why you must bring me to him in neutral quarters so we can learn the truth.”

“My Go 'd, you're desperate enough to cover all the bases, aren't you?”

“Was ist?”

“You know goddamned well was ist, Doktor. Let's talk about something else for a minute, okay?”

“Was?”

“Your daddy, your Vater, do you mind?”

“I never discuss my father, sit,” said Kroeger, his eyes blank, unfocused, staring at nothing on the wall.

“Oh, I think we should,” insisted the colonel.

“You see, we ran a check on you, the whole you, and we considered your father a hero, an enlightened hero of Germany.”

“Nein! Ein Verrdter!”

“We don't think so. He wanted to save lives, German, English, and American. He finally saw through the hollow crap of Hitler and his thugs and decided to make a statement at the risk of his life, if not certain death. That's a real hero, Doctor.”

“Nein! He betrayed the Fatherland!” Kroeger writhed in the straitjacket, bouncing back and forth on the bed, a man in agony, as tears fell from his eyes.

"Throughout the Gymnasium, then through the Universitdt, the schoolboys would come up to me-frequently they beat me.

“Your father was a traitor, we all know itV and ”Why did the Americans make him the Btirgermeister when none of us wanted him?“ Mein Gott, such tortures!”

"So you decided to make up for what he never completed, is that

Herr Kroeger?"

“You have no right to interrogate me this wayl” screamed the surgeon, sitting up straight, his eyes wet and red.

“All men, even enemies, have the privacy of their lives! ”

“And I respect that,” said Witkowski, his posture straight in the chair.

“But you're an exception, Doctor, because you're too intelligent, too educated to buy the bilge you've been sold, and are now selling. Tell me, do you respect the sanctity of life outside of the womb?”

“Naturally. ”Breathing life is life."

“Including Jews, Gypsies, the disabled and mentally impaired, along with homosexuals of either gender?”

“Those are political decisions, beyond the realm of the medical profession.”

"Doctor, you are one son of a bitch. But I'll tell you something.

I may just bring you to the Latham you're after, if only to watch him listen to you, then spit in your face......... Political decisions?“ You make me sick.” '

Wesley Sorenson stared out his corner office window in Washington, absently noting the morning traffic congestion in the street below. The scene resembled a fish tank maze filled with insects, all trying to reach the next horizontal tube, only to find themselves in yet another tube, leading to still another, none with a finish line. It was a visual metaphor for his thoughts, concluded the director of Consular Operations, swinging his chair around, facing the separate plies of notes on his desk, notes that would be shredded and burned before he left the office at the end of the day.

The strands of information were coming in too fast, clogging the alleyways of his mind, each revelation seemingly no less explosive than the one preceding it. The two Germans in custody in Fairfax had implicated the Vice President of the United States and the Speaker of the House in the spreading hunt for neo-Nazis, with the promise of additional names to follow; the CIA was compromised in its upper levels (how many more agencies were so infected?); a Defense Department communications laboratory had had an entire year's research deleted from its computers by a neo who had disappeared on a Lufthansa flight to Munich; senators, congressmen, powerful businessmen, even newscasters, had been tainted with the Nazi brush with no substantive evidence whatsoever, the allegations dismissed until an influential member of Britain's Foreign Office had been caught, apparently giving the names of other influential figures in the U.K."s government hierarchy. Finally, Claude Moreau was clean,-but the U.S. Embassy in Paris was not-good God, it was far from it if the latest information was accurate! Ambassador Courtland's wife?

It was a maelstrom of charges and counter charges of insidious implications furiously denied, a battleground where blood would be spilled, the innocent mortally wounded, the guilty vanishing from the scene. It was as if the insanity of the crazed McCarthy period had been fused with the Nazi madness of the late thirties, the marching Bunds everywhere, all in lockstep with demonic leaders whose screaming exhortations brought the intellectually unwashed to their feet, their fears and their hatreds-frequently one and the same finding volcanic outlets for their own inadequacies. The sickness of fanaticism was again spreading across the world; where would it end, if ever?

What concerned Sorenson at the moment, however concerned hell, shocked him-was the information, followed by a faxed background check, on Courtland's second wife, Janine Clunes. On the surface it would ap- 3 pear inconceivable; he had said as much to Drew Latham over their secure phones only minutes before.

“I can't believe it!”

"That's what Witkowski said until he read the check from Chicago. Then he said something else, only he kind of whispered it. You could barely hear him but the words were clear.

“She's a Sonnenkind.”

"

“Do you know what that means, Drew?”

“Karin filled me in. It's wild, Wcs, and it could never fly. Infants, kids, sent all over the place-”

“You left out a couple of items,” interrupted Sorenson.

“Selected kids, pure Aryan blood, parents with combined IQ's over two hundred seventy, none less.”

“You know about it?”

“They were called the products of the Lebensborn. SS officers impregnating blond-haired, blue-eyed northern European women, those closest to or across the Scandinavian borders whenever possible.”

“That's nuts!”

“That was Heinrich Himmler. It was his concept.”

“It happened?”

"Not according to every intelligence investigation after the war.

The conclusion was that the Lebensborn scheme was abandoned, due to the difficulty of transport and the time it took for medical evaluations."

“Witkowski doesn't believe it was abandoned.”

Silence. Then Sorenson spoke.

“I was convinced it was,” he said.

“Now I'm not so sure.”

“What do you want us to do-me to do?”

“Keep cold and keep silent. If the ncos know Kroeger's alive, they'll break everyone's balls to find him. If you've lucked out, nobody on our side will be killed.”

“That's pretty icicle like Wcs.”

"

“Remembrance of things past,” if you'll forgive the literary bastardization," said Sorenson.

“Send a signal out to the Antinayous. Tell them you've got the prize.”

“For Christ's sake, w y?”

“Because at this point I don't trust anybody, and I'm covering all our flanks. Do as I say. Call me back in an hour, or less, as things develop.”

Things, however, had developed for the veteran intelligence officer, now the director of Consular Operations. No one had ever found a Sonnenkind. Even those once suspected were totally, angrily, deemed innocent children because of official papers and the perfectly Americanized, loving couples who took in the bereft orphans. But now, courts notwithstanding, a possible Sonnenkind had surfaced! A grown-up woman, once a child of Nazi Germany, now a highly desirable, accomplished academician who had snared a high-level officer of the State Department. It was a Sonnenkinder agenda if one ever existed.

Sorenson picked up his phone and touched the numbers for the private phone of the director of the FBI, a decent man of whom Knox Talbot had said, “He's okay.”

“Yes?”

“It's Sorenson over at Cons-Op, am I disturbing you?” on this line, hell no. What can I do for you ?), I'll be up front. I'm transgressing into your area, but I don't have a choice."

“Do any of us at certain times?” asked the FBI director.

“We've never met, but Knox Talbot says you're a friend of his, which gives you a pretty clean slate with me. Where's the transgression?”

“Actually, I haven't gone over the line yet, but I want to, I think I have to.”

“You said you had no choice.”

"I don't believe I do. However, it's got to remain within Con sOp

“Then why call me? Isn't solo better?”

“Not in this case. I need a shortcut.”

“Go ahead, Wcs-that's what Knox calls you. I'm Steve.”

“Yes, I know. Steven Rosbician, the paradigm-of law enforcement.”

"My troops carry the PR. way beyond the goal line. I was a white L.A. judge who got lucky, 'cause the blacks figured I was fair.

Your petition, please."

“Have you got a unit in Marion County, Illinois?” Fm sure we do. Illinois goes way back in our history. What city?"

“Centralia.”

“Close enough. What do you need?”

“Anything you've got on a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Schneider. They may be dead and I don't have an address, but I have an idea they may have immigrated from Germany in the early to middle thirties.”

“That's not much to go on.”

“I realize that, but in the context of our inquiry and considering the times, the Bureau may have a file on them.”

“If we have one, you'll get it. So where's the transgression? I'm not that long in this 'job, but I don't see it.”

“Then let me clarify, Steve. I'm going domestic, which is your province, and I can't give you the background for my inquiry. In the old days, J. Edgar, the hound, would have demanded it or slammed down the phone.”

“I'm no goddamned Hoover, and the Bureau has changed considerably. If we can't cooperate with each other, full disclosure or no, where are we?”

“Well, it's kind of spelled out in our charters-”

“More honored in the breach, I'd suggest,” interrupted Rosbician.

“Give me your secure fax number. Whatever we've got, you'll have within the hour.”

“Thanks very much,” said Sorenson, “and also, as you suggested, whatever I do from now on, I'll go solo.”

“Why the bullshit?”

“Wait till you face a congressional hearing with six dour faces who don 't like you. Then you'll understand.”

“Then I'll go back to a law firm and live a hell of a lot better.”

“I like your perspective, Steve.” Sorenson gave the FBI director the number of his secure fax machine.

Thirty-eight minutes passed before the loud beep of the Con sOp machine in his office preceded the emergence of a single page of paper from the FBI. Wesley Sorenson retrieved it and read the information.

Karl and Johanna Schneider came to the U.S. on January 12, 1940, expatriates from Germany with relatives in Cicero,

Illinois, who vouched for them, stating that the young male Schneider had skills that would easily find him work in the technical field of optometry.

Their ages were, respectively, twenty-one and nineteen. The stated reason for their leaving Germany was that Johanna

Schneider's grandfather was Jewish, and she was discriminated against by the Aryan Ministerium -in Stuttgart.

In March of 1946, Mr. Schneider, by then Charles rather than Karl, owned a small optometric factory in Centralia, and petitioned the Immigration Service to allow his niece, one

Janine Clunitz, an infant female child, to immigrate, as her parents had died in an automobile crash. The petition was granted and the Schneiders legally adopted the child.

In August of 1991, Mrs. Schneider died of heart failure. Mr.

Schneider, age 76, still resides at 121 Cyprus Street, Centralia,

Illinois. He has retired, but goes down to his business twice a week.

The MO for this file is based on long-ago surveillance of

German immigrants at the beginning of World War H. In the opinion of this field officer, it should be terminated.

Thank heavens, it wasn't, thought Sorenson. If Charles Karl Schneider was really a Sonnenkind recipient, a wealth of information might be extracted from him on the assumption that the Sonnenkinder had a network. It would be asinine to assume that it did not have one. The legal and technical paperwork involved in the U.S. immigration procedures were complex to the point of total confusion; a support system was mandatory. It could well be past the time when it should have happened, but a crack in the ice now might release the fouled waters below, exposing dirt that was relevant to the present. Sorenson picked up his phone and pressed the button for his secretary.

“Yes, sir?”

"Book me on an airline that flies into Centralia, Illinois,

or whatever's closest. Under an assumed name, of course, which, I trust, you'll tell me."

“For when, Mr. Director?”

"Early this afternoon, if you can. Then get my wife on the phone.

I won't be home for dinner."

Claude Moreau studied the transcript from Nuremberg, Germany, the decoded dossier on one Dr. Hans Traupman, chief surgeon in residence at the Nuremberg Hospital.

Hans Traupman, born April 21, 1922, in Berlin, the son of two physicians, Drs. Erich and Marlene Traupman, showed early signs of a high intelligence quotient, according to his initial school years .. .

The dossier went on to describe Traupman's academic achievements, including a brief period in the Hitler Youth movement, ordered by decree, and his duty after medical school in Nuremberg as a young doctor in the Sanitdtstruppe, the Wehrmacht's medical corps.

After the conflict, Traupman returned to Nuremberg, where he was trained in residence and specialized in surgeries of the brain. Within ten years, with scores of operations behind him, he was considered one of the leading cranial surgeons in the country, if not the Free World. As to his personal life, little is known. He was married to an ElkeMueller, said marriage dissolved by divorce after five years and no children. Since that time be has resided in an elegant apartment in

Nuremberg's most fashionable section. He is a wealthy man, frequently dining at the most expensive restaurants and known to be an excessive tipper. His guests range from medical colleagues to political fl9ures from Bonn and various celebrities from the motion pictures and television. To summarize, if such a summary is possible, be is a bon vivant with the medical skills to permit his extravagant living.

Moreau picked up his phone and touched the button that put him in direct contact with their man in Nuremberg.

“Yes?” said the voice in Germany.

“It is L”

“I sent you everything there was.”

“No, you didn't. Dig up everything you can on Elke Mueller.”

“Traupman's former wife? Why? She's history.”

"Because she's the key, you idiot. A divorce after a year or two is understandable, after twenty perfectly acceptable but not after five.

There's a story there. Do as I ask, and send me the material as fast as you can."

“It's a whole different agenda,” protested the agent in Nuremberg.

“She's living in Munich now, under her maiden name.”

“Mueller, of course. Do you have an address?”

“Naturally.” The Deuxieme agent gave it to him.

“Then forget my previous order. I've changed my mind. Alert Munich that I'm flying in. I wish to confront this lady myself.”

“Whatever you say, but I think you're crazy.”

'Everyone's crazy," said Moreau.

“It's the times we're living in.”

Sorenson's plane landed in Mount Vernon, Illinois, roughly thirty miles south of Centralia. Using the false driver's license and credit card provided by Consular Operations, he rented a car and, following the routes highlighted for him by the rental agency's clerk, drove north to the city. Cons-Op had also given him a street map of Centralia, the address, 121 Cyprus Street, clearly marked, and the directions from the city limits on Highway 51 specific. Twenty minutes later Sorenson drove down the quiet tree lined street looking for number 121. The street itself was, indeed, central America, but of a different, bygone era. It was upper-middle-class Norman Rockwell, the houses large, with generous front porches, profuse with latticework, even rocking chairs. One could easily imagine the owners sitting in them and drinking afternoon tea with their neighbors.

Then he saw the mailbox, 121. Only this house was different, not in style or size, but something else, something subtle. What was it? The windows, thought the director of Consular Operations.

The windows on the second and third floors all had their shades drawn. Even on the ground floor, the large, multi paned bay window, flanked by two stained-glass vertical rectangles, was blocked by venetian blinds. It was as though this particular residence was not terribly receptive to visitors. Wesley wondered if he'd fall into that category, or worse. He parked in front, got out and walked up the concrete path, climbed the steps, and rang the bell.

The door opened, revealing a slender old man with thinning white hair and wearing thick-lensed glass ds

“Yes, please?” he said in a soft, wavering voice with barely a trace of an accent.

“My name is Wesley Sorenson and I'm from Washington, D.C., Mr. Schneider. We have to talk, either here or in far less comfortable quarters.”

The old man's eyes grew wide, what color there was in his face leaving it. He started to speak several times but choked on the words. Finally, he became clear.

“Ach, it has taken you so long, it was so long ago....... Come in, I've been expecting you for nearly fifty years....... Come, come, it is too warm out, and the air-conditioning is expensive.. .. Nothing matters now anyway.”

“We're not so far apart in years, Mr. Schneider,” said Sorenson, walking into a large Victorian foyer and following the Sonnenkind recipient into the shadowed living room, filled with overstuffed furniture.

“Fifty years is not that long for either of us.”

“May I offer you some schnapps? Frankly, I could use one or two, probably more.”

“A short whisky would be sufficient, if you have it. Bourbon would be nice, but it doesn't matter.”

“Oh, but it does, and I do have it. My second daughter is married to a man from one of the Carolinas, and he prefers it.. Sit, sit, I shall disappear for a minute or two and bring us our libations.”

“Thank you.” The Cons-Op director suddenly wondered whether he should have arranged for a weapon. He had been away from the field too long! The old son of a bitch could be finding one of his own. Instead, Schneider returned, carrying a silver tray, glasses and two bottles on it, without any bulges in his clothing.

“This will make things easier, night wahr?” he said.

“I'm surprised you expected me at all,” observed Sorenson once their drinks were in front of them, his on a coffee table, the German's on the arm of an easy chair across from him.

“As you say, it was so many years ago.”

“My young wife and I were part of the fanatical youth of Germany at the time. All those torchlit parades, the slogans, the euphoria of being the true master race of the world. It was all quite seductive, and we were seduced. We were assigned our mission by the legendary Heinrich Himmler himself, who thought 'long range,” as we say today. I honestly believe he thought we would lose the war, but he was totally devoted to the thesis of Aryan superiority. After the war we did as we were ordered by the Odessa. And even then, we still believed."

“So you petitioned, accepted the immigration of one Janine Clunitz, later Clunes, and adopted her?”

“Yes. She was an extraordinary child, far more intelligent than Johanna and me. Every Tuesday night from the time she was eight or nine, men would come for her and drive her to someplace else where she was-I suppose the word is indoctrinated.”

“Where was this place?”

“We never found out. In the beginning she was only given sweets, ice cream, and so on while blindfolded. Later, as she grew older, she simply told us that she was being trained in our 'glorious heritage,” those were the words she used and, naturally, we knew what they meant."

“Why are you telling me this now, Mr. Schneider?”

"Because

I've lived in this country for fifty-two years. I

cannot say it is perfect, no nation is, but it is better than what I came from. Do you know who lives across the street from me?"

“How could I?”

“The Goldfarbs, Jake and Naomi. Jews. And they were Johanna's and my best friends. And down the block, the first negro couple to buy a house here. The Goldfarbs and we gave them a welcoming party, and everyone came. And when a cross was burned on their lawn, we all got together, hunted the hooligans down, and had them prosecuted.”

“Hardly the agenda of the Third Reich.”

“People change, we all change. What can I tell you?”

“How long has it been since you were in contact with Germany?”

“Mein Gott, those idiots keep calling twice, three times a year. I tell them I'm an old man and to leave me alone, for I am no longer involved. I must be in their computers or whatever the new technical machines order them to do. They keep track of me; they never let go, never stop threatening me.”

“There are no names?”

"Yes, one. The last caller a month ago was nearly hysterical, shouting at me that a Herr Traupman might order my execution.

“What for?” I asked.

“I'll be dead soon anyway and your secret will die with me.”

Claude Moreau was driven down the Leopoldstrasse by his man in Munich who had reconnoitered the apartment house where Elke Mueller, the former Frau Traupman, lived. To save Moreau's time, the secret Deuxi&me office in the K6niginstrasse had telephoned Madame Mueller, explaining that a high-ranking member of the French government wished to discuss a confidential matter with her which could be to her financial advantage-.. .. No, the caller had no idea what the confidential matter was, except that it would in no way compromise the eminent lady.

The apartment house was grand, the apartment itself grander still, a fulsome mixture of baroque and art deco.

Elke Mueller matched her surroundings, a tall, imperious woman in her seventies, her coiffed dark hair streaked with whitish-gray, her face angular, her features aquiline. She was obviously a woman not to be trifled with; it was in her eyes, wide and bright and bordering on the hostile or suspicious, or both.

“My name is Claude Moreau, madame, and I'm with the Quaid'Orsay in Paris,” said the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau in German, having been ushered into a sitting room by the uniformed maid.

“It's not necessary to speak die Deutsche, monsieur. My French is fluent.”

“You greatly relieve me,” lied Moreau, “for my German is barely adequate.” .

“I suspect it's more than that. Sit down across from me and explain this confidential matter if you will. I can't imagine why the government of France has the slightest interest in me.”

“Forgive me, madame, but I suspect that you might.”

“You're impertinent, monsieur.”

“I apologize. I only wish to be clear and speak the truth as I perceive it.”

“Now you're admirable. It's'Traupman, isn't it?”

“Then my gentle suspicion was correct, no?”

“It was, of course. There could be no other possible reason.”

“You were married to him-”

“Not for long, as marriages go,” interrupted Elke Mueller swiftly, firmly, “but far too long for me. So his filthy little chickens are coming home to roost, is that it? .. Don't look so surprised, Moreau. I read the papers and watch television. I see what's happening.”

“About those 'filthy chickens'? May I inquire about them?”

“Why not? I left the incubator coop over thirty years ago.”

“Would it be impertinent of me to ask you to amplify only what's comfortable for you, naturally.”

“Now you're a liar, monsieur. You'd prefer that I be terribly uncomfortable, even bitterly hysterical, and tell you what a horrible man he was. Well, I can't do that, whether it's true or not. However, I can tell you that when I think of Traupman, which is rarely, I'm filled with disgust.”

-Oh .. . r

“Oh, yes, your amplification. Very well, you shall have it.. .. I married Hans Traupman rather late. I was thirty-one, he thirty-three, and a very successful surgeon even at that age. I was struck by his medical brilliance and believed there was a good man beneath his rather cold exterior. There were flashes of warmth that excited me, until I soon realized it was all an act. Why he was attracted to me became evident quite rapidly. I was a Mueller from Baden-Baden, the richest landowners in the area, also socially prominent, and gave him access to the circles he so desperately wanted to be a part of. You see, his parents were both doctors, but not really attractive people, and certainly not very successful, their practices relegated to clinics serving the lower economic classes-”

“If I may,” Moreau broke in, “did he use his position as your husband to further his social ambitions?”

“I just told you that.”

“Then why did he risk a divorce?”

“He didn't have much to say about it. Besides, after five years he had made the inroads he needed, and his skills accomplished the rest. In deference to the Mueller family, I agreed to a so-called amicable divorce-simple incompatibility, neither party charged with anything. It was the biggest mistake I made, and my father, before he died, soundly criticized me for it.”

“May I ask why?”

"You don't know my family, monsieur, and Mueller is a common name in Germany. I will explain for you. The Muellers of BadenBaden opposed the criminal Hitler and his gangsters. The Fuhrer didn't dare touch us because of our holdings and the loyalties our several thousand employees accorded us. The Allies never understood how frightened Hitler was of domestic dissent. Had they understood, they might have developed tactics within Germany that could have shortened the war. Like Traupman, the little thug with a mustache reached far beyond his grasp, mixing with people he had admired from afar, but who never accepted him.

My father always claimed Hitler's diatribes were the rantings of a frightened, man, driven to eliminate by murder the slightest opposition, as long as there were no consequences. However, Herr Hitler, through conscription, made sure my two brothers were sent to the Russian front, where they were killed, more likely by German bullets than Soviet."

“Hans Traupman, please?”

“He was the total Nazi,” said Madame Mueller quietly, turning her face toward the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window.

"It was strange, almost inhuman, but he wanted power, simply power, beyond the rewards of his profession. He would recite the discredited theories of a superior Aryan race as if they were considered infallible, although he had to know they were not.

I think it was the bitter resentment of the rejected young man who could not walk among the elite of Germany, in spite of his growing reputation, because he simply was a coarse, unlikable person."

“You're leading to something else, I think,” said Moreau.

4 “Yes, I am. He began to hold meetings at our house in Nuremberg, meetings with people I knew were unreconstructed National Socialists, Hitler fanatics. He soundproofed the cellar, where they met every Tuesday-I was not permitted to attend. There was a great deal of drinking and from our bedroom I could faintly hear shouting and ”Sieg Heils' and the Horst Wessel song, over and over. This went on for three years, until the fifth year of our marriage, and finally I confronted him-why I did not do so earlier, I simply don't know.. .. Affection, no matter how dwindling, does involve protection. I shouted at him, accusing him of dreadful things, of trying to bring back the horrors of the past. And on a Wednesday morning, after one of those terrible nights, he said to me, “It doesn't matter what you think, you rich bitch. We were right then and we're right now!” I left the next day. Does that amplify enough for you, Moreau?"

“It certainly does, madame,” replied, the head of the Deuxieme.

“Can you recall any of the men or women at those meetings?”

"It was more than thirty years ago. No, I cannot.

"Even one or two of the 'unreconstructed Nazis'?

“Let me think.. .. There was a Bohr, a Rudolf Bohr, I believe, and a former, very young colonel in the Wehrmacht named Von Schteifel, I think. Other than those two, my memory leaves me. I remember them only because they were frequent visitors for lunch or dinner, where no politics were discussed, but I saw them getting out of their cars through my bedroom window.”

“You have been of enormous help, madame,” said Moreau, getting up from his chair.

“I'll not disturb you any longer.”

“Stop them,” whispered Elke Mueller harshly.

“They'll be the death of Germany!”

“We'll remember your words,” said Claude Moreau, walking into the foyer.

At the Deuxi&me headquarters in the Kbniginstrasse, Moreau exercised his privileges and ordered Paris to reach Wesley Sorenson immediately.

Sorenson was on the plane back to Washington when his Sky Pager buzzed. He got out of his seat, walked up to the telephone on the first-class bulkhead, inserted his card, and reached his office.

“Hold on, Mr. Director,” said the operator in Consular Operations.

"I'll call Munich and patch you through

Allor, Wesley?"

“Yes, Claude?”

“It's Traupman!”

“Traupman's the key!”

They had spoken simultaneously.

“I'll be in my office in roughly an hour,” said Sorenson.

“I'll call you back.”

“We've both been busy, mon ami.”

“You can bet your French ass!”

rew lay beside Karin in the bed in her room at the Bristol

Hotel, their being together a reluctant conDcession on the part of Witkowski. They had made love, and were now experiencing the comfortable afterglow of lovers who know they belong with each other.

“Where the hell are we?” said Latham, having lighted one of his infrequent cigarettes. The smoke curled above them.

“It's in Sorenson's hands now. You have no control.”

“That's what I don't like. He's in Washington and we're in Paris and that goddamned Kroeger is on another planet.”

“Drugs could extract information from him.”

“The embassy doctor says we can't do anything in that area until he stabilizes from the gunshot wounds. The colonel's as mad as I've ever seen him, but he can't override the medicine man. I'm not exactly sanguine either; every twenty-four hours we lose makes the bastards harder to find.”

“Are you so sure of that? The ncos have been entrenching themselves for over fifty years. What difference can a single day make?”

“I don't know, maybe another Harry Latham. Let's say I'm impatient.”

“I can understand. Is there any strategy where Janine is concerned?”

“You know as much as I do. Sorenson said to keep cold and silent, and let the Antinayous know we had Kroeger. We've done both and left word at Wesley's office that his instructions were carried out. Signed, Paris.”

“Does he really believe the Antis have been infiltrated?”

"He told me he was covering all our flanks; it can't do any harm.

We've got Kroeger and nobody can get near him. If anyone tries, we know we've got an exposed flank."

“Could Janine be an asset there?”

"That's Wesley'sob I wouldn't know how to get near

“I wonder if Courtland told her about Kroeger.”

“He had to say something after we got him up at three o'clock in the morning.”

“He could have said anything, not necessarily the truth. All ambassadors are schooled in what and what not to tell their immediate families. Most of the time for their own protection.”

“There's a flaw in that argument, Karin. He put his own wife in D and R, a hornet's nest of classified information.”

“His marriage is relatively recent, and if what we believe is true, Janine wanted to be put there. It wouldn't be very difficult for a new wife to persuade her husband. Heaven knows she had the qualifications, and no doubt she put it in terms of wanting to make a patriotic contribution.”

“True, or at least I have to take your word for it, Eve and the apple being your foundation-”

“Male chauvinist,” interrupted De Vries, laughing and gently jabbing his thigh.

“The apple wasn't our idea, lady.”

“You're being pejorative again.”

“I wonder how Wcs is going to handle it,” said Latham, grabbing her hand and holding it while extinguishing his cigarette.

“Why not call him?”

“His secretary said he wouldn't be back until tomorrow, which means he went somewhere. He mentioned that he had another problem, a heavy one, so perhaps he went after it.”

“I'd think Janine Courtland would take precedence.”

“Maybe she did. We'll know tomorrow-actually today. The sun's coming up.”

“Let it come up, my dearest. We're not allowed near the embassy, so let's consider this our holiday, yours and mine.”

“I like that idea,” said Drew, turning to her, their bodies touching.

And the telephone rang.

“Some holiday,” added Latham, reaching for the abusively intruding phone.

“Yes?”

“It's onem-something in the morning here,” said the voice of Wesley Sorenson.

“Sorry if I woke you, but I got your hotel number from Witkowski and wanted to keep you up to speed.”

“What happened?”

“Your computer whizzes were on the mark. Everything panned out. Janine Clunitz is a Sonnenkind.”

“Janine who?”

“Clunitz is her real name-the Clunes is anglicized. She was brought up by the Schneiders in Centralia, Illinois.”

“Yes, we read that. But how can you be sure?”

“I flew out there this afternoon. Old Schneider confirmed it.”

“What the hell do we do now?”

“Not 'we,” me," replied the director of Consular Operations.

“The State Department is recalling Courtland for thirty-six hours for an emergency meeting with several other European ambassadors, the subject to await their arrival.”

“State agreed to this?”

“State doesn't know about it. It's a Four Zero directive, issued back-channel through this office to avoid any traffic interception.”

“I trust that makes sense.”

“Who gives a damn? We'll pick him up at the airport and he'll be in my office before Secretary Bollinger orders his eggs Benedict.”

“Wow, I think I hear an old case-officer talking.”

“Could be.”

“How are you going to handle Courtland?”

“I'm trusting he's as bright as his service record says he is. I recorded Schneider-with his permission-and had him vocally confirm a very complete deposition. I'll pre- 9 sent Courtland with everything, and hope he sees the light.”

"He may not, Wcs'

“I'm prepared for that. Schneider's ready to be flown to Washington. He really doesn't like where he came from his words, incidentally.”

“Congratulations, my honcho.”

“Thanks, Drew, not bad, if I do say so.. .. Also, there's something else.”

“What?”

“Contact Moreau. I spoke to him a few minutes ago and he expects your call this morning-your time.”

“I'm not comfortable going around Witkowski, Wcs.”

“You won't be, he knows everything. I reached him too. It'd be stupid to freeze him out; we need his expertise.”

“What's with Moreau?”

“He and I went in different directions but came back with the same information. We've found our tunnel to the Brotherhood. It's a man, a doctor in Nuremberg, where the trials took place.”

“Ironic. What goes around comes around.”

“Talk to you later, after you speak to Moreau.”

Latham hung up the phone and turned to Karin.

“Our holiday's been cut a tad short, but we've still got an hour or so.”

She held out her arms, her bandaged right hand lower than her left.

The night was dark and still, as, one by one, ten minutes apart, the speedboats swung into the long dock in the Rhine River. A dim red light on the highest pylon was their point of arrival, the erratic moon not helpful, for the sky was overcast. The operators of these swift craft, however, were familiar with the waterways and the estates they frequented. Engines were cut a hundred or so feet from the dock, the river tides gently ushering the boats toward their slips, where a two-man crew caught the thrown ropes and pulled them silently into their resting places. And, one by one, the men attending the conference walked up the dock and onto a flagstone path that led to the mansion on the river.

The arrivals greeted one another on a huge candlelit veranda where coffee, drinks, and canapes were served. The conversation was innocuous-golf scores and tennis competitions, nothing of relevance; that would change abruptly. An hour and twenty minutes later the group was, complete, the servants dismissed, and the formal meeting began. The nine leaders of Die Briiderschaft der Wacht sat in a semicircle facing a lectern. Dr. Hans Traupman rose from his chair and walked to it.

“Sieg Heil!” he shouted, thrusting his right arm forward in the Nazi salute.

“Sieg Heil!” roared the leaders in unison, rising as one and shooting out their arms.

“Sit, if you please,” said the doctor orn Nurern rg. Everyone did so, their posture straight, their concentration absolute. Traupman continued.

"We have glorious news to report. Across the globe, enemies of the Fourth Reich are in disarray, they tremble in fear and confusion. It is now time for another stage, an assault that will plunge them further into bewilderment and panic, while our disciples-yes, our disciples-are prepared to move cautiously but firmly into positions of influence everywhere.. .. Our action will require sacrifices from many in the field, risk of imprisonment, even death, but our resolve is strong, our cause mighty, for the future is ours.

I shall turn the meeting over to the man we've chosen to be the Ffibrer of the BAiderschaft, the Zeus who will guide our movement to fulfillment, for he is a man without compromise and with a will of steel. It's an honor to ask Ginter jdger to address you."

Again, as one, the small congregation rose, and once more their arms shot forward.

“Sieg Heil!” they shouted.

“Sieg Heil, Gunter jdger!”

A slender, blond-haired man of nearly six feet in height and dressed in a black suit, his neck encased in a pure white clerical collar, rose from a center chair and approached the lectern. His posture was erect, his walk a stride, his head that of a sculptured Mars. It was his eyes,

however, that demanded attention. They were gray-green and penetrating, at once cold, yet strangely alight with flashes of warmth as his gaze settled on individuals, which it did as those eyes roamed from chair to chair, each recipient bathed in the glory of his stare.

“I am the one who is honored,” he began quietly, permitting himself a gentle smile.

“As you all know, I'm a defrocked father of my own church, for it finds my positions impolitic, but I have found a flock far greater than any in Christendom. You represent that flock, those millions who believe in our cause.” Jdger stopped and inserted his right forefinger between his clerical collar and his neck, adding in self-deprecating humor.

“I often wish the elders of my misguided church had made my banishment public, for this white coil around my throat is suffocating. But, of course, they can't; it would be bad politics. They conceal more infelicitous sins than the scriptures enumerate; they know it and I know it, so an accommodation was made.”

Softly, knowing laughter came from the audience. Gfinter Jdger continued.

“As Herr Doktor Traupman has told you, we are about to enter out next phase of disorientation among our enemies. It will be devastating, an unseen army attacking the most vital source of life on earth.. Water, gentlemen.”

The response was now bewilderment; the congregation talked among themselves.

“How is this to be accomplished, my defrocked brother?” asked the old Catholic priest, Monsi c gunro r Heinrich Paltz.

“If your eh knew who and what you are, Father, we'd be joined at the hip.”

Laughter again.

“I can substantiate our theories back to the book of Genesis!” the mon signor broke in.

“Cain was obviously a Negro, the mark of Cain was his skin and it was black! And in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, both spoke of the inferior tribes who rejected the words of the prophets! ”

“Let's not get into a scholarly debate, Father, for we might both lose. The prophets, by and large, were Jews.”

"So were the tribes! 5@

“Similias similibus, my friend. That was two thousand years ago, and we are here now, two thousand years later. But you asked how this operation can be accomplished. May I explain?”

“Please do, Herr Jdger,” said Albert Richter, a dilettante turned politician, but with property and another way of life in Monaco.

"The reservoirs, gentlemen, the main water reserves for London, Paris, and Washington. As we convene, plans are being developed to drop tons of toxic chemicals into those central reservoirs from aircraft at night. Once they are dispersed, thousands upon thousands of people will die. Corpses will pile up in the streets, the governments of each nation will be blamed, for it is their responsibility to protect their resources. In London, Paris, and Washington, it will be nothing less than a catastrophic plague, leaving the citizenry terrified, outraged. As political figures fall, our people will take their places, claiming to have the answers, . P the solutions. Weeks, perhaps months, later, once the crises have been reduced through -specific antitoxins introduced into the water in a similar manner, we shall have made considerable inroads within governments and their militaries. When relative calm has been restored, our disciples will be given the credit, for they alone will know and will order the chemical theriacs or counter poisons

“When will this take place?” asked Maximilian von L6wenstein, son of the general and Wolfsschanze traitor executed by the SS but whose loyal mother was a mistress of Josef Goebbels's, a devoted courtesan of the Reich who loathed her husband.

“My mother constantly spoke of the extravagant promises emanating from the Chancellory without specifics. She felt they were most unfortunate and weakened the Fuhrer.”

“And our history books will extol the contributions your mother made to the Third Reich; how she exposed her treacherous husband among them. However, in the current situation, tactics are being studied, including the payloads of radar-eluding, low-flying aircraft. Everything is in place within two hundred kilometers of the targets, our specialists on the scene. According to the latest projections, Operation Water Lightning will occur between three and five weeks of this date, each national catastrophe taking place at the same moment, in the darkest hours of night on both sides of the Atlantic. It is now determined that it will be at four-thirty A.M. Paris time, three-thirty London, and ten-thirty P.m. of the previous evening in Washington. They are the most accommodating hours of darkness. That is as specific as I can be at this juncture.”

“It's more than sufficient, mein hibrer, our Zeus!” exclaimed Ansel Schmidt, multimillionaire electronics tycoon who had stolen the majority of his high technology from other firms.

“I see a problem,” said a heavyset man whose enormously large legs dwarfed his chair, his face balloonlike, devoid of lines despite his age.

“As you know, I'm a chemical engineer by training before branching out. Our enemies are not fools; water samples are constantly analyzed. The sabotage will be revealed, and treatments prescribed. How do we handle that?”

“German inventiveness is the simplest answer,” replied Gfinter J@ger, smiling.

“As several generations ago our laboratories created Zyklon B, which rid the world of millions of Jews and other undesirables, our people have developed another lethal formula employing soluble compounds of seemingly incompatible elements, made compatible by isogonic bombardment prior to mixture.” Here JAger stopped and shrugged, continuing to smile.

“I am a man of the cloth, our cloth, and do not pretend to be a master of the subject, but we have the finest chemists, a number of whom were recruited from your own laboratories, Herr Waller.”

"

“Isogonic bombardment'?” said the obese man, a thick-lipped smile slowly spreading across his large face.

“A simple variation of isometric fusion, semetrizing the hostile elements, forcing compatibility, like a coating on aspirin. It could take days, weeks, to break down the compounds, let alone isolate them for specific counteract ants Absolutely ingenious, Herr JAger-mein Fuhrer-I salute you, salute your talent for bringing together other brilliant talents.”

“You're too kind, but I would not know my way around a laboratory.”."

“Laboratories are for cooks, the visions must come first! Yours was in 'attacking the most vital source of life on earth. Water.. ..”

"

“The rich and even the less affluent will buy their Evians and Pellegrinos in the markets,” countered 'a short man of medium build and close-cropped dark hair.

“The lower classes will be ordered to boil water for the prescribed twelve minutes-for purification.”

“The accepted twelve minutes will be insufficient, Hekr Richter,” interrupted the new hihrer.

“Replace that number with thirty-seven, then tell me how many can or will comply. Granted, the bottom rungs of the social ladder will be affected most severely, then again, that is not antithetical to our cleansing purposes, is it? Whole ghettos will be wiped out, saving us time later.”

“I see an even greater advantage,” said Von L6wenstein, son of a Reich's courtesan.

“Depending on the success of Water Lightning, those same compounds could be dropped into selected reservoirs throughout Europe, the Mediterranean, and Africa.”

“Israel first!” shouted the senile Monsignor Paltz.

“The Jews killed our Christ!” A number of the congregation looked at one another, then up at Gfinter JAger.

“Surely, my brother priest,” said the Brotherhood's Zeus, “but we must never raise our voices about such solutions, no matter how justified our anger, must we?”

“I simply wanted the logic of my demand made clear.”

"It is,

Father, it is."

On this same evening, at a long-forgotten airstrip ten miles west of the legendary Lakenheath in England, a small group of men and women studied blueprints and a map under the glare of a single floodlight. Behind them, in the distance, was a partially camouflaged vintage 727 jet, circa the middle 1970s. It stood by the bordering woods, its cloth covering pulled up to permit entry into the forward cabin. The language the group spoke was English, several with British accents, the rest with German.

“I tell you it's impossible,” said a German male.

"The payload capacity is more than adequate, but the altitude is unacceptable.

We'd shatter windows for kilometers from the target and be caught on radar the moment we ascended. It's a harebrained scheme, any other pilot would have told you that. Insanity coupled with suicide."

“In theory it could work,” observed an Englishwoman, “a single low pass as in a final landing approach, then rapid acceleration in the sweep away, staying below three hundred meters, thus avoiding the grids until over the Channel. But I see your point. The risk is enormous, and the slightest malfunction definitely suicidal.”

“And the reservoirs here are relatively isolated,” added another German.

“But Paris is treacherous.”

“Are we back to land vehicles, then?” asked an elderly Briton.

“Ruled out,” answered the pilot.

“It would take too many large ones to be feasible, and it eliminates the spreading effect, requiring weeks for the poisons to enter the major sluice flows.”

“Then where are we?”

“I believe it's obvious,” said a young neo-Nazi who had been at the rear of the group; he now walked forward, arrogantly brushing' aside the aircraft blueprints.

“At least to anyone who kept his eyes open during our training in the Hausruck.”

“That's a gratuitously harsh remark,” objected the Englishwoman.

@“W eyesight's quite splendid, thank you.”

“Then what did 'you see, what did all of you see, frequently swooping and circling down from the sky?”

“The glider,” replied the second German.

“A rather small glider.”

“What did you have in mind, mein junger Mann?” asked the pilot.

“A squadron of such aircraft, say fifty or a hundred, colliding above the water reserves?”

“No, Herr F1ugzeugfzihrer. Replace them with aircraft that already exist! Two giant military transport gliders, each capable of carrying twice or three times the tonnage of that excessively heavy relic across the field.”

“What are you talking about? Where are such aircraft?”

“At the aerodrome in Konstanz, under heavy coverings, there are some twenty such machines. They have been there since the war.”

“Since the war?” cried the stunned German pilot.

“I really don't understand you, junger Mann!”

"Then your studies of the Third Reich's collapse fail you, sit.

During the final years of that war, we Germanswho were the experts in gliding equipment-developed the massive Gigant, the Messerschmitt ME 323, which evolved from the ME 321, both the largest transport gliders in the air. They were initially created to aid the supply lines to the Russian front in full expectation for use in the invasion of England, their construction of wood and cloth eluding radar."

“They're still there?” asked the elderly Briton.

“As is much of your Royal Navy and the American destroyers-'in mothballs,” I believe is the phrase. I've had airmen check them out for me. With minor modifications they can be operable."

“How do you propose to get them airborne?” said the second German.

“Two aircraft carrier jets can easily lift them off from short fields, assisted by disposable booster rockets under their wings. The Luftwaffe proved it can be done. They did it.”

There was a brief silence, broken by the older Briton.

“The young man's idea has merit,” he said.

"During the invasion of Normandy, scores of such gliders, many carrying jeeps, small tanks, and personnel, were released behind your lines and wreaked havoc. Good show, chap, really very good

“I agree,” said the German pilot pensively, his eyes squinting.

“I take back my sarcasm, young fellow.”

“Further, if I may, sir,” continued the delighted younger neo, “the carrier jets could drop off both gliders from an altitude of, say, three thousand meters above the reservoirs, then rapidly ascend to forty thousand, sweeping across the Channel before the radar operators could piece anything together.”

“What about the gliders themselves?” asked a skeptical British neo.

“Unless the mission is specifically one of no return, they have to land somewhere-or crash somewhere.”

“I'll answer that,” replied the pilot.

“Opfn fields or pastures close by the water reserves should be the designated landing sites, and once on the ground, the gliders will be blown up while our flyers race away in pre-positioned vehicles.”

“Jawohl.” The second German held up his hand in the spill of the floodlight.

“This strategy could well change many things,” he said with quiet authority.

“We'll confer with our aircraft engineers as to the modifications of these gliders. I must return to London and call Bonn. What is your name, young man?”

“Von L6wenstein, sir. Maximilian von L6wenstein the Third.”

"You, your father, and your grandmother have erased the treachery on your family's escutcheon caused by your grandfather.

Walk with pride, my boy."

“I've prepared myself for these moments all my life, sir.”

“So be it. You've prepared-yourself brilliantly.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Claude Moreau as he embraced Latham.

They stood by a stone wall overlooking the Seine, a blond-wigged Karin de Vries several feet to their left.

“You are alive and that is the most important thing, but what has that madman Witkowski done to you?”

“Actually, I'm afraid it was my idea, monsieur,” said Karin, approaching both men.

“You are the De Vries woman, madame?” asked Moreau, removing a visored walking cap.

“I am, sir.”

“The photographs I've seen say you are not. But then, if this yellow-haired gargoyle is Drew Latham, I suppose anything is possible.”

“The hair is not my own, it's a wig, Monsieur Moreau.”

“Certainement. However, madame, I must admit it is not in concert with such a lovely face. It is, how can I say it, somewhat more blatant?”

“Now I understand why it's reported that the head of the Deuxieme is one of the most charming men in Paris.”

“A lovely sentiment, but please don't tell my wife.”

“Would anybody mind,” interrupted Drew.

“I'm the one he's happy to see.”

“You are, indeed, my friend, but I mourn the loss of your brother.”

"I do too, so let's get on with the reason. we're here. I want the sons of bitches who killed him .. . among other things.

“We all do, among other things. There's an outdoor cafe up the street; it's usually crowded and no one will notice us. I know the owner. Why don't we stroll up there and get a table far from the entrance? Actually, I've arranged it.”

“An excellent idea, Monsieur Moreau,” said Karin, taking Latham's arm.

“Please, madame,” continued the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau, putting on his cap as they started walking.

"My name is Claude, and I suspect we'll be together until the finish'. if there is one.

Therefore, the 'monsieur' is hardly necessary, but you don't have to tell my adorable wife."

“I'd love to meet her.”

“Not in that blond wig, my dear.”

The owner of the sidewalk cafe greeted Moreau quietly behind a row of flower boxes and escorted the three of them to the farthest table from the latticed entrance. It abutted the bordering shoulder high row of flowers, more in shadows than in light, a single flickering candle in the center of the checkered tablecloth.

“I thought Colonel Witkowski might be with us,” said De Vries :

“So did I,” agreed Latham.

“How come he isn't? Sorenson made it clear that we needed his expertise.”

“It was his decision,” explained Moreau.

“He is a large, imposing man known by sight to many in Paris.”

“Then why didn't we meet somewhere else?” asked Drew.

“Say a hotel room?”

"Again, the colonel. You see, by extension his presence is here.

Parked at the curb in front is an unmarked American embassy car.

The driver will remain behind the wheel, and his two marine companions in civilian clothes are roaming among the strollers beyond our garden wall."

“He's running a test, then,” said De Vries, making a statement, not posing a question.

“Exactly. It is why our mutual friend here is still posing as a soldier, a most contradictory role. Witkowski wants to make certain that there are no other leaks, but if there are, he intends to take a prisoner and learn the source.”

“That would be Stanley,” Latham again agreed.

“The only chance he's taking is with my life.”

“You're perfectly safe,” said the Deuxieme chief.

“I have the utmost regard for your aggressive marines.. .. Karin,” he added, seeing her bandaged hand, “your hand .. the colonel told me you'd been wounded. I'm so sorry! ”

“It's healing well, thank you, and later a small prosthesis will complete the cosmetics. I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow, after which I shall be wearing a fashionable pair of gloves, I expect.”

“A Deuxi@me vehicle is at your disposal, of course.”

“Stosh already made the arrangements,” said Drew.

“I insisted on that because I want everything on the embassy record. I'll be damned if she pays a sou for her medical bills. ”

“My darling, it doesn't matter-”

“It does to me!”

“Ah, 'mon chou.” So that's the way it is. I'm so happy for both of you."

“It slipped out, monsieur. je regretter”

“Do not, please. Despite my profession, I'm a from antique au coeur. Also, Colonel Witkowski did mention, most confidentially, a possible liaison between you. It's far better not to be alone in these situations, loneliness is a terrible detriment when under stress.”

“Well said, monsieur .. . mon ami, Claude.”

“Merci. ”

“One question,” interrupted Latham.

“I can understand Stanley's not being here, but what about you? Aren't you pretty well known in Paris?”

“Hardly at all,” replied Moreau.

“My photograph has never appeared in the newspapers or on television-that is the policy of the Deuxi@me Bureau. Even my office door does not have a Le Directeur sign on the glass. I am not saying that our enemies do not have snapshots of me, they obviously do, but my presence is not significant. I am neither a tall man nor do I dress extravagantly, I'm really quite ordinary. As you Americans say, I hardly stand out in a crowd, and I have a large collection of hats; witness the idiotic cap I'm wearing. They're all I need.”

“Except in the case of your enemies,” said Drew.

“That is a risk we all take, is it not, my friend? And now let me bring you up to the moment. As you may or may not know, Ambassador Courtland will be on the Concorde for Washington tomorrow morning-”

“Sorenson said he was bringing him back for thirty-six hours,” Drew broke in, “the explanation being some trumped-up State Department business that State doesn't know about.”

“Precisely. In the meantime, Mrs. Courtland is under our surveillance; believe me, it's absolute. Every move-she makes outside the embassy will be watched, and even within the embassy every telephone number she calls will be instantly transmitted to my office, courtesy of the colonel-”

“You can't tap her conversations?” interrupted Latham.

"The risk is too great, there isn't time to reprogram the phones.

She's undoubtedly aware of such tactics and will run tests of her own. Should she confirm an intercept, she will know she's under surveillance."

“In the same way you confirmed that my own telephone was compromised, Drew.”

“The meetings at specific locations.” Latham nodded.

“All right, you've got her under a scope. Suppose nothing happens.”

“Then nothing happens,” said Moreau.

“But that would strike me as most unusual. Remember, beneath her charming exterior there is a zealot, a trained believer in a fanatical cause. Here she is, an hour from the borders of the holy Reich of her passions, and she has risen so high in her life's work, her ego will demand a certain satisfaction. Acclamation says it better, for the Sormenkinder must have extraordinary egos. The temptation will be equally extraordinary. In my judgment, with the ambassador away, she'll make a move and we'll learn something more.”

“I hope you're right.” Latham frowned as a waiter approached the table carrying glasses and two bottles of wine on a tray.

“The owner here always brings me his newest acquisitions of wine for my approval,” interjected the chief of the Deuxi@me Bureau quietly as the waiter uncorked the bottles.

“If you'd prefer something else, please tell me.”

“No, that's fine.” Drew glanced at Karin, and both nodded.

May I ask,“ began De Vries after the waiter had left, should Drew be. right and nothing happen, is it possible we might force Janine to make a move?”

“In what way?” asked the Frenchman.

"A votre santi,he added softly, raising his glass.

“To all of us.. .. How, my dear Karin?”

“I'm not sure. The Antinayous, perhaps. I know them and they know me; more to the point, they held my husband in great esteem.”

“Go on,” said Latham, his eyes fixed on her.

“Keeping in mind that Sorenson didn't exactly give them a clean bill of health.”

“That's rubbish.”

“It may be, but old Wesley has instincts few people are born with-except perhaps Claude here, and probably Witkowski.”

“You're too generous where I am concerned, but I can vouch for my friend Sorenson. Brilliant only half describes his talents.”

“He says the same about you. He also told me you saved his life in Istanbul.”

“While saving my own, he should have added. But back to the Antinayous, Karin. How would we use them to urge the ambassador's wife into an indiscreet act?”

"Again, I'm not sure, but their knowledge of the ncos is extensive. They've unearthed names, codes, methods of contact;

their files contain a thousand secrets they will not share. However, this might be an exception."

“Why?” asked Drew.

“I must 'join him,” added Moreau.

“From everything we've learned about the Antinayous, they, indeed, share nothing. They are an independent intelligence organization wholly unto themselves, responsible to no one but themselves. Why would they change the rules now and open their files to outsiders?”

“Not 'files,” only appropriately selected information, perhaps simply a method of contact using an emergency code recognized by the Sonnenkinder, if there is one."

“You're not hearing us, lady,” said Latham, leaning forward and gently covering her bandaged hand.

“Why would they do it?”

“Because we have something they don't know about. We have an authentic, highly visible Sonnenkind right here in Paris. I myself will negotiate.”

“Wow,” whispered Drew, leaning back in his chair.

“That's powerful bait.”

“It's not unreasonable,” said the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau, studying De Vries.

“But won't they demand some proof?”

“Yes, they will, and I think you can provide it.”

“In what way?”

“Forgive me, darling,” said Karin, glancing at Latham, “but the Antinayous are somewhat more comfortable -with the Deuxi@me than they are with the Central Intelligence Agency. It's a European thing, and not necessarily justified.” She turned back to Moreau.

"A

short note on your stationery-date, time, and. secrecy classification registered by your security equipment-stating that I'm permitted to describe an ongoing surveillance operation on a confirmed high ranking Sonnenkind here in Paris, without giving a name until authorized by you. That should be sufficient. If they're willing to cooperate, we'll go on scrambler and I'll call you on a private line."

“At the moment I cannot think of a flaw,” said Moreau admiringly.

“I can,” objected Drew.

“Suppose Sorenson's right? Suppose a neo or two has infiltrated the Antinayous? She's dead meat and I won't. allow it.”

“Oh, Please,” said De Vries.

“The three Antinayous we met together I've known since I came to Paris, and two of them were Freddie's contacts.”

“What about the third?”

“For heaven's sake, darling, he's a priest!”

Suddenly there was shouting from the pavement beyond the row of flower boxes. The owner rushed to the table and spoke harshly to Moreau.

“There is trouble!” he exclaimed.

“You must leave; get up and follow me!” The three of them rose and walked behind the owner, no more than ten feet, where he pressed a concealed button and the last flower box opened.

“Run,” he cried, “into the street!”

“The wine was excellent,” said the Deuxi&me chief as he and Latham held Karin's arms and raced through the opening.

Suddenly all three turned, their attention drawn by the panicked screaming crowd in front of the outdoor cafE Then each understood. Karin gasped, Moreau briefly closed his eyes in pain, and Latham swore in fury. The light of a street lamp penetrated the windshield of the unmarked embassy car, illuminating the driver behind the wheel. He was arched back in the seat, a stream of blood rolling down his face from his forehead.

Christ, they're everywhere, and we can't see them!"

roared Drew, hammering his clenched fist down a on the hotel desk.

“How did they find me?”

Claude Moreau had been standing silently by a window, looking out.

“Not you, my friend,” he said quietly, “not Colonel Webster and his uniform, but me.”

“You? I thought you said hardly anybody in Paris knew who you were,” Latham broke in abrasively.

“That you were so ordinary and had a collection of goddamn hats!”

“It had nothing to do with recognizing me, they knew where I'd be.”

“How, Claude?” asked De Vries, sitting on the bed in her room at the Bristol Hotel, where they had decided to retreat, each entering separately.

“Your embassy is not the only place that's been infested.”

Moreau turned from the window, his expression a mixture of sadness and anger.

“My own office has been compromised.”

4'you mean the sacrosanct Deuxi@me Bureau actually has a mole or two?"

“Please, Drew,” said Karin, shaking her head, conveying the fact that Moreau was deeply disturbed.

“I did not say the Bureau, monsieur.” The Deuxi@me chief locked eyes with Latham and spoke coldly.

“I said my own office.”

“I don't understand.” Drew lowered his voice, the sarcasm now absent.

“There's no way you could, for you do not know our system. As le directeur, my whereabouts must be known at all times in case there are emergencies. Outside of Jacques, who helps me plan my days, I give them to only one person, a subordinate who works closely with me, one whom I trust completely. This person wears a beeper and can be reached any time of day or night.”

“Who is he?” Karin sat forward on the bed.

“Not he, I must reluctantly say, but she. Monique d'Agoste, my secretary of over six years, but more than a secretary, a confidential assistant. She was the only one who knew about the cafe-Lmtll she told someone else.”

“You never had the slightest doubts about her?” continued Karin.

“Did you about Janine Climes?” asked Drew.

“No, but then, she was the ambassador's wife.”

“And Monique is unquestionably my wife's closest friend. In fact, my wife suggested her to me. They went to university together and Monique was trained at the Service d'Etranger, where she worked during a disastrous marriage. All those years, they were like schoolgirls together .. . and now it's all so clear.” Moreau stopped and crossed to the desk where Latham sat. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“All those years,” repeated the chief of the Deuxi@me, waiting for the call to be completed.

“So amiable, so caring.. .. No, you were not the targets, my friends, I was. The decision was made, my time was up. I was found out.”

“What are you talking about?” pressed Latham from the chair.

“I regret that I cannot tell even you that.” Moreau held up his hand and spoke French into the phone.

"Go to Madame d'Agoste's residence in the St. Germain at once and take her into custody.

Bring along a female officer and have the prisoner immediately strip-searched for possible self-administered poison.. .. I will answer no questions, just do as I say!" The Frenchman hung up the phone and wearily sat down on the small love seat against the wall.

“The maddening sorrow of it all,” he mused softly.

“That's two different things, Claude,” said Drew.

“You can't be mad and sorry at the same time; at least one's got to outweigh the other where your life is concerned.”

“You can't just leave things suspended, mon ami,” added De Vries.

“Considering everything we've been through, I submit we deserve some sort of explanation, vague though it may be.”

“I keep wondering how long she planned this, how much she learned, how much she revealed-”

“To whom, for God's sake?” demanded Latham.

“To those who report to the Brijderschaft.”

“Come on, Claude,” Drew went on.

“Give us something!”

“Very well.” Moreau leaned back in the chair, massaging his eyes with the fingers of his left hand.

“For three years I've played a dangerous game, filling my pockets with millions of francs, which will be mine only if I fail and their cause succeeds.”

“You became a double?” De Vries broke in, startled, and rising from the bed.

“Like Freddie?”

“A double agent?” Latham got out of his chair.

“Like Freddie,” continued the Deuxi@me chief, looking at Karin.

“They were convinced I was a convenient and powerful informer, but it was a strategy that could not @e entered into the Bureau's records.”

“On the assumption, no matter how remote, that you were 'infested,” De Vries completed emphatically.

"Yes. My great weakness was that I could not find a safety net.

There was no one, no one in official Paris I felt I could trust.

Bureaucrats come and go, the more influential ones into private business, and politicians are sworn companions of the wind. I had to act alone, without authorization, a highly questionable 'solo,“ as the term goes.”

“My God!” exclaimed Drew.

“Why did you put yourself in that position?”

“That part I cannot tell you. It goes back a long time and must remain a forgotten event'.. . except to me.”“If it's forgotten, can it be so important, mon ami?”

“It is for me.”

"D'accord.

“Merci. ”

“Let me try to piece this together,” said Latham, pacing aimlessly in front of the window.

“You did say 'millions,” am I right?"

“Indeed, yes.”

“Did you spend any of it?”

“A great deal, moving in circles a directeur's salary could not permit, always getting closer, paying others who could be bought, learning more and more.”

“A real solo operation. What's for who and what's for you and who's to tell.”

“Unfortunately, that's quite accurate.”

“But you told us,” interrupted Karin.

“That has to mean something.”

“You are not French, my dear. Instead, you are part of the secret movements, the covert operations no country cares to reveal, but which for the average citizen are filled with corruption.”

“I don't think you're corrupt,” stated Drew emphatically.

“I don't think so either,” agreed Moreau, "but we both could be wrong. I have a wife and children, and before I subject them to the calumny of a disgraced husband and father-to say nothing of an unsanctioned firing squad or years in prison-I will flee with my millions and live comfortably wherever I wish in the world.

Remember, I am an experienced intelligence officer with talons everywhere. No, my friends, I've thought this out. I will survive, even if I fail. I owe it to my family."

“And if you do not fail?” asked Karin.

“Then every remaining sou will be turned over to the Quai d'Orsay, along with a complete accounting of every franc used in my solo operation.”

“Then you're not going to fail,” said Latham.

“We're not going to fail. Among other things, I haven't got any millions, I've got only a brother whose face was blown away, and Karin has a husband who was tortured to death. I don't know what your problem is, Moreau, and you won't tell us, but I have to assume it's as important to you as ours is to us.”

“You may assume that.”

“So I think we should go to work.”

“With what, mon ami?”

“With our heads, our imaginations. It's all we've got.”

M

“I like your phraseology,” said the Deuxi@me chief.

“It is, indeed, all we have.”

“In death, his brother lives after him,” said Karin, crossing to Drew and taking his hand.

"Let's go back to Tratipman and Kroeger and the second Mrs.

Courtland," said Latham, releasing Kgrin's hand and sitting down at the desk, impatiently opening a drawer and removing several pages of hotel stationery.

"A connection's going to be made, it has to be.

But how? The first assumption is your secretary, Claude, your Monique -whatever her name."

"Entirely possible. We can get her internal telephone calls;

they'll show us whom she reached."

“Also the calls she made at home-”

“Certainement. I can do that in minutes.”

“Put 'em all together and confront her with them. Tell her she's expendable-put a gun to her head if you have to. If Sorenson's right, this Traupman has to ow what's going on, and she's the bitch who can tell him! Then we move on to that all-too-waffling scholar, Heinrich Kreitz, ambassador from Germany, and I don't give a damn if we put him into a tank until he sends out the alarms to Bonn.”

"You move swiftly, my friend; you cut through diplomatic imperatives. It's attractive, but it could backfire on you. @5

“Fuck it! I'm impatient!”

The telephone rang. Moreau picked it up, identified himself, and listened. The muscles in his strong face fell; his flesh went pale.

“Merci,” he said, hanging up.

“Another failure,” he added, closing his eyes.

“Monique d'Agoste was beaten to death. Obviously, that's how the information of my whereabouts was extracted from her.. .. Where is our God?”

Vice President Howard Keller was five feet eight inches tall, but he gave the impression of being a much larger man. Many had remarked on this fact, but few had rendered a satisfactory explanation. Perhaps the closest was that of an aging New York choreographer who had observed the Vice President during one of those White House cultural evenings. He had whispered to a dancer, "Watch him. He's simply walking to a microphone to introduce someone, but watch him. He breaks the space in front of him, parting the air with his body.

Truman did that; it's a gift. A rooster in the barnyard."

Gift or rooster notwithstanding, Keller was a politician to be reckoned with, a Washington insider to the core, having spent four terms as a congressman and twelve years as a senator, rising to chair the powerful Finance Committee. He had weathered the Beltway's slings and deadly arrows, accepting the nomination for Vice President despite the fact that he was older and far wiser than his party's nominee for President. He did so because he knew he could deliver the states to guarantee the election, which for him was a national priority. Beyond this, he was genuinely fond of the President, admiring his courage as well as his brains, although the latter had a hell of a lot more to absorb about Washington than was evidenced so far.

At the moment, however, such considerations were far distant concerns as he sat behind his large, cluttered desk and gazed at Consular Operations' Wesley Sorenson.

“I've heard of gorilla shit before, but this makes King Kong look like an organ grinder's pet,” he said calmly.

“I realize that, Mr. Vice President-”

“Cut the crap, Wcs, we go back too long for that,” Keller interrupted.

"I'm the one who tried to promote your name for the DCI spot, remember? The only person who shot me down was you;

the whole damn Senate would have been behind me."

“I never wanted the job, Howard.”

“So you took on a tougher one. A small bastard operation that's supposed to coordinate between State, the CIA, and the administration, say nothing of the gung-ho uniforms at the Pentagon. You're a lunatic, Wcs. You of all people know that's an impossible job.”

"Granted, I thought it would be more in the area of advise and consent-no, don't say it, that's the Congress's job.l@

“Thank you for saving my breath.. .. Now, to add to the antics of the asylum you're in, two Nazis tell you I'm with them, part of their new Fascist uprising. It'd be hysterically funny except for the quicksand. It was Hitler who said if you told a large enough lie long enough, it would be believed.. .. This is large enough, outrageous enough, Wcs.”

“For Christ's sake, Howard, I'd never let it circulate!”

“Maybe you won't be able to stop it. Sooner or later your two skinheads will have to be interrogated by others, among them administration haters who'll grab a brass ring even if it's lead.”

“I won't let it go that far. I'll shoot the bastards first.”

“That's not the American way, is it?” asked Keller, chuckling.

“If it isn't, I'm pretty un-American. I've done it before.”

“That was in the field, and you were much younger.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, they also implicated the Speaker of the House, and he's in the other party.”

"My God, how convenient. A direct line of succession to the presidency. The man himself, then the VP, followed by the Speaker.

Your Nazis know our Constitution."

“One of them is pretty well educated, I'll say that.”

“The Speaker .. . ? That sweet, kindly old Baptist whose only real sin is praying while he makes deals he doesn't like because it's the only way to get legislation through? How the hell did they arrive at him?”

“They said he was of German ancestry and claimed conscientious objector status during World War Two.”

"He also volunteered as a noncombatant medic and was severely wounded while saving soldiers' lives. Now your Nazis aren't too bright. If they did their research properly, they'd have learned he's been wearing a brace for his back ever since they brought him out of Omaha Beach, praying for kids he left behind while damn near dying himself. It's part of his Silver Star citation.

Some Hitler goon!"

“Listen to me, Howard,” said Sorenson, leaning forward in his chair.

“I came to you because I thought you should know, not because I thought there was an iota of credence to the accusation. Surely, you realize that.”

“I would hope so, and considering what's happening all over this country, 'forewarned is forearmed' takes on new significance.”

“Not just here. In London and Paris they're crawling through cellars and peeking under beds, looking for Nazis.”

“Unfortunately they've found a few-unfortunate in the sense that even a very few inflame the nostrils of the hunters.” Keller reached for a newspaper on his desk; it was folded so a front-page article on the lower right could be read.

“Look at this,” the Vice President added.

“It's today's Houston paper.”

“Goddammit!” muttered Sorenson, taking the newspaper and reading, the short headline striking him instantly.

Nazis on Hospital Staff?

Patients' Complaints Cite Abusive Language

HouSTON, July 14 Based on statements, written and oral, the specific names withheld by the Board of Trustees, the Meridian

Hospital has begun an investigation of its staff. The complaints center around numerous remarks by doctors and nurses which were reported to be blatantly antiSemitic, as well as insulting to African Americans and Catholics. Meridian is a nonsectarian institution, but it is common knowledge that its clientele are predominately Protestant, a large percentage

Episcopalian. It is also no secret that among the wealthier country clubs the hospital is referred to as the “WASP watering hole,” a play on words, as the Meridian has an active and highly confidential alcoholic rehabilitation annex located twenty miles south of the city.

This newspaper has received copies of twelve letters sent by former patients to the hospital's administration office, but in fairness, and until the situation is clearer, we withhold publication to protect people whose names appear.

“At least they didn't identify anyone,” said Sorenson, slamming the folded paper down on the desk.

“How long do you think that'll last? They sell papers, remember?”

“It's sickening.”

“It's spreading, Wcs. In Milwaukee there was massive sabotage done to a brewery two days ago because the beer and the owner's name were German.”

“I read about it. I couldn't finish my breakfast.”

“How far did you read?”

“About what I did just now. Why?”

“The name was German, but the family's Jewish.”

“Revolting.”

“And in San Francisco a city councilman named Schwinn resigned because of threats to his family. Reason: He said in a speech that he had no objection to gays, many were his friends, but he felt they were having an impact on the public funding of the arts far beyond their representative numbers. His logic may be questionable-without gays the arts would be considerably diminished-but he had a political point and he was entitled to it.. . He was called a Nazi and his kids were harassed going to school.”

"Sweet Jesus, it's, happening all over again, isn't it, Howard?

just switch labels and the snarling dogs are barking at heels, any heels."

“Tell me about it,” said Keller.

“I've got a lot of enemies in this town, and they're not all in the opposing party. Say our two ncos are subpoenaed by the Senate and state with Germanic authority that, of course, I'm one of them, the Speaker of the House also. Do you think either of us will survive?”

I “They're outrageous liars. Certainly you will.”

“Ah, but the seeds are planted, Wcs. Our records will be scrutinized by hostile zealots, extracting out of context hundreds of remarks we've made that, put together, support the outrage.. .. You just mentioned the name Jesus. Did you know that the old KGB built an entire dossier on Christ, basing its conclusions solely on the New Testament, and concluding that he was the consummate Marxist, a true Communist?”

“I not only know it, I read it,” replied the director of Cons-Op, smiling.

“It was damned convincing, except I'd say it showed him to be more of a Socialist-reformer, hardly a Communist. There was never any reference to his advocating a single political authority.”

"

“Render unto Caesar,” Wcs?"

“It's a gray area, I'd have to go back and reread.” Both men laughed softly; Sorenson went on.

“But I see what you mean. Like statistics, anything can mean anything when it's selectively extracted from a body of work.”

“So what do we do?” asked the Vice President.

“I shoot the sons of bitches, what else?”

“No, others will simply take their place. No, you make assholes out of them. You demand a Senate hearing, a fullfledged circus, and make them laughingstocks.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. It could be the remedy for the madness that's infected this country, the U.K.” and France-and God knows where else."

“Howard, that's crazy! Their appearance on television alone would fuel the fires of vigilantism!”

“Not if it's done correctly. As they have an agenda, so must we.”

“What sort of an agenda? You're beyond me.”

“You bring in the clowns,” said Keller.

“The clowns? What clowns?”

"It'll take a little digging, but you bring in both the pro and the con-witnesses who support the allegations and those who vehemently oppose them. The latter will be easy to find; the Speaker and I have basically honorable records and we'll have reasonable men and women to speak for us from the White House on down. But the

Ipros,“ our clowns, that'll be a bit more difficult, but they're the key.”

“Key to what?”

“To the door behind which lunacy thrives unfettered. You've got to find a fair number of crazies who at first appear perfectly sane and even courteous but underneath are fanatics. They should be unwavering zealots, devoted to their cause, but who, when stripped under cross-examination, break and reveal themselves.”

“That seems awfully dangerous,” said the director of Cons-Op, frowning.

“Suppose they don't break?”

“You're not a lawyer, Wcs, I am, and I assure you it's the oldest trick in trial law-in the hands of the right attorney. Good Lord, even plays and films have caught on to it because it's damn good melodrama.”

“I'm beginning to see. The Caine Mutiny and Captain Queeg-”

“And just about every Perry Mason show that was ever written,” completed Keller.

“But those were fictions, Howard. Entertainments. We're talking about reality, and the ncos exist!”

“So did the ”Commies' and the “Pinkos' and the 'fellow travelers,” and we damn near lost sight of the quiet professional Soviet spies because we were chasing illuminated ducks in a hundred galleries while Moscow laughed at us."

“I'd have to agree with you there but I'm not sure the analogy fits. The Cold War was real, I'm a product of it. How can lawyers deny what's happening now? Not the false ducks in a gallery, like you and the Speaker, but the real vultures like that scientist Metz, or the British assistant to the foreign secretary, Mosedale.. .. And there's another, but it's too soon to go into it.”

"I'm not suggesting for a minute that the hunt for the real vultures slow down. I'd just like to puncture the ballooning mania where everybody's a potential Nazi and nobody's a false duck.

Furthermore, I believe you agree with me."

“I do. I just don't know how a Senate hearing can do it. I see only a force-eighteen storm over the waters.”

"Let me explain from recent events, first stating that I. served in the military. If the attorney, that fellow Sullivan, who advised Oliver North, had, instead, been a lawyer for the Senate committee, Mr.

North would still be sitting in a stockade rather than be contemplating his next run for public office. Pure and simple, he was a liar who broke his oath as a soldier, a disgrace to his uniform and his country who coated his illegalities in self-serving, sanctimonious bromides that shifted his guilt to some higher power read that as God-who had nothing to do with what he did.

“You're saying a lawyer could have short-circuited him?”

"I just suggested one, and I can think of at least a dozen others.

During those days my colleagues and I would sit in one (if our offices, enjoying a few drinks while watching the hearings on television. The running joke was which of our legal brethren could bring the lying bastard to his knees-crying, of course-and we were a mix of both parties. We came up with a fiery senator from the Midwest, a former prosecutor who annoyed the hell out of us but who was a thundering advocate."

“Youthink he could have done it?”

“Without question. You see, he was also a marine and he'd won the Congressional Medal of Honor. We figured we'd have him in his dress blues with the purple ribbon and the gold medal around his neck and let him loose.”

“Would he have done it?”

"I remember his words.

“The little whiner isn't worth it. I'm working like hell to get industry into my state.” But: yes, I think he would have liked to."

“I'll do some quiet checking around in the files,” said Sorenson, standing up.

"I still have grave doubts, however. Pandora's boxes aren't attractive to me, it's a legacy from my years in the field.

Come to think of it, I'm about to open one in less than an hour."

“Care to tell me about it?”

“Not now, Howard, but maybe later. It's possible I'll need your intercession with the President, if only to keep our Secretary of State in line.”

“The trouble's in the diplomatic area, then?”

“To the top of an embassy.”

“Bollinger's a pain in the ass, but they like him in Europe. They think he's an intellectual. They don't realize that his thoughtful pauses are filled more with how-can we-spin-this-to-our-advantage than with real solutions.”

“I'd have to say I agree. I've always found him to be lacking in deep commitments.”

"You're wrong, Wcs. He's got one really deep commitment:

himself. And fortunately for us, another to the President, which naturally reverberates back to himself."

“Does the President know this?”

“Of course he does, he's a very bright man, even brilliant. It's a quid pro quo. I think it's fair to say that our man in the Oval Office has needed a master spin doctor every now and then.”

“No question about it, but as you say, he's bright, he's learning.”

“If I could only get him to kick more ass around this town, he'd learn faster. It's much easier that way.”

“Thanks for your time, Howard-Mr. Vice President, I'll be in touch.”

“Don't be a stranger, Mr. Director. We dinosaurs have to guide the young two-legged creatures stumbling out of the water.”

“I wonder if we're capable.”

C'if not us, who, then? The Adam Bollingers of this world? The witch hunters?"

“Talk to you soon, Howard.”

Three thousand miles away in Paris it was midafternoon, the sun warm and bright, the sky clear, a perfect day for strolling along the boulevards, or walking through the Tuileries Gardens, or catching the breezes from the Seine, watching the boats glide over the water and under the myriad bridges. Paris in summer was an unmatched blessing.

For Janine Clunes Courtland the day itself was not only a blessing, but a symbol of triumph. She was free for a day or two, free from the middle-class morality of a boring husband who still mooned over another wife, repeating her name frequently in his sleep. For a moment or two she considered how lovely, how fulfilling it would be to have an assignation with someone, a lover who could satisfy her as had the many virile young students in Chicago, carefully selected, and the reason she lived an hour away from the university. There was an attache at the German Embassy, an attractive man in his early thirties who had flirted with her somewhat obviously; she could phone him and he would come running to wherever she suggested, she knew that.

But it could not be, as delightful and as tempting the thought was;

her free time had to be put to more immediate, less selfish, interests. She had excused herself from D and R for the length of time her husband, the ambassador, would be away, for there were domestic chores far more easily accomplished in his absence. No one argued, naturally, and, naturally, she let Daniel's chief aide know she was scouting the shops for various new fabrics for their quarters.. .. No, she could not accept an embassy limousine; it was an exercise in personal taste and should not be charged to the State Department.

How easily the words came. Then, why shouldn't they? She had been trained since she was nine years old for her life's work. She did, however, permit the aide to call her a taxi.

Janine had been given the address and the contact code for a member of the Brotherhood before she left Washington. It was a boot maker shop in the Champstlys6es, the name “Andre” to be used twice in a brief conversation, such as “Andre says you're the best boot maker in Paris, and Andre is almost never wrong.” She gave the taxi driver the address and sat back, contemplating what information she would send to Germany.. .. The truth, of course, but phrased in such a way that the leadership would not only admire her extraordinary accomplishments but see the wisdom of bringing her to Bonn. After all, the ambassadorship to France was one of the most important diplomatic posts in Europe, at the moment so sensitive that the State Department had reached into its corps of experienced professionals rather than accept a raw political appointee. And she was that professional's wife. She had been told that the recently divorced foreign service officer was soon to emerge as a star of the department. The rest was easy;

Daniel Courtland was lonely and depressed, in search of the comfort she provided.

The taxi arrived at the boot maker shop, yet it was more than a shop, rather, a small leather emporium. Glistening boots, saddles, and various riding accoutrements filled the tasteful front windows. Janine Clunitz got out and dismissed the taxi.

Thirty yards behind the departing cab, the Deuxi@me vehicle pulled into a no-parking space. The driver picked up the ultra highfrequency phone and was immediately connected to Moreau's office.

“Yes,” said Moreau himself, as no secretary had been chosen to replace the murdered Monique d'Agoste, whose death was kept secret under the pretext of illness.

“Madame Courtland just entered the Saddle and Bootery in the Champstlys6es.”

“Purveyor to wealthy equestrians,” said the Deuxi@me chief.

“Strange, there was nothing in the ambassadors dossier that mentioned a fondness for horses.”

“The store is also