Labyrinth

Chapter 5

Ross Dogan’s gaze shifted rapidly as he strolled in the Placedu Tertre trying to appear as much a tourist as possible. The Russian had wanted a public site for his defection, and Dogan had chosen this place because it was certainly public, but reasonably confined as well.

The tables of several sidewalk cafés sat on the ancient cobblestones of the square. Artists sold their work from makeshift stands. Some had arrived at sunrise to assure themselves of a choice spot near a tree or storefront. Others created on the premises, adding a new and unique tourist attraction. But the Place du Tertre was no modern outdoor mall. The charming demeanor of the shopkeepers and sidewalk vendors provided the quiet feeling of a place where people could linger over their food and drink, soaking up the sun and the air. No one hurried.

Dogan found Keyes seated at one of many tables covered with red tablecloths. He took a chair across from him.

“Everything set?” Dogan asked.

Keyes looked at him deferentially. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes, everything’s set.” Keyes touched the miniature walkie-talkie in his lapel pocket. “All units in place. I’ve stationed four men at both the front and rear of the street, so we should be covered from there. And I’ve spread another dozen out in the general vicinity of the meet.”

“Here,” said Dogan, glancing at the tables cluttered around him.

“Here,” acknowledged Keyes. Fifteen years Dogan’s junior, he represented the new breed of Company agents, the first full generation of field men who hadn’t used Southeast Asia as a training ground. Langley had tried to take up the slack with various entanglements in South America and Africa but the media was keener now, so efforts had to be curtailed. Field men were nonetheless cockier than ever. The CIA had become fashionable again.

Dogan ordered café au lait and surveyed Keyes. Six feet tall, perfectly built, able to kill efficiently with any weapon or his hands. What the Company’s new recruits lacked in experience was made up for in training. Or so they thought. Dogan had no patience for men like Keyes. The only way to understand the field was to give a little, but these new recruits seemed to have no give in them at all. Everything was black and white. And the desire to score points with the brass had become an overriding goal that clouded the true nature of the job. Keyes was like all the rest and Dogan despised them all.

Without Nam, it had fallen on senior field agents like Dogan to field-train under actual conditions recruits for the Company’s Division Six, the rather mundane equivalent to MI-6’s fictional double-0s. Extraordinarily few recruits were considered good enough for Division Six. Keyes was one of them. Dogan had his doubts. The kid had too many edges, from the way he wore his short-cropped black hair to the way his tautly coiled fingers flexed into fists and then opened again. Keyes’s vision was narrow. Dogan would have to break him of that.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Keyes asked him suddenly.

Dogan’s eyes stopped sweeping the end of the Place du Tertre where the defector would be making his approach. “Go ahead.”

“You know anything about this Russian?”

“Weapons division research chief, I heard. Bringing with him a microfilm of all sorts of drawings and schemes. I try not to listen much. Doesn’t help the job.”

“You don’t seem impressed.”

Dogan’s eyes bore into the younger agent’s. “Son, I’ve been at this a long time and seen us get hurt by defectors more than anything. We lose more than we turn. The Russians are just better at this sort of thing than we are. Use the photocopying machine over there without clearance and you lose a finger or two and end up with a one-way ticket to Siberia. Most of the defectors we get are plants.”

“This one?”

“Won’t know that until the debriefing.”

Keyes hesitated. “Can I ask you something else?”

Dogan glanced around him. “We’ve got time.”

“Your code name — Grendel — did you choose it yourself?”

“It was chosen for me.”

“Grendel was the monster who ate human flesh, right?”

“And terrorized countrysides,” Dogan elaborated. “People lived in fear of him. Nobody dared to cross him.”

“And that’s the way it is for you?” Keyes asked, mugging up to Dogan like a Little Leaguer would to Dave Winfield.

“That’s the way it’s got to be. Intimidation is everything. The opposition is afraid to send their guns after you because failure means you’ll send your guns after them, and that’s too high a price to pay. No one wants escalation, people killing each other over personal things. Above all, men like Vaslov and me, we’re professionals.”

“Vaslov,” Keyes muttered. “I’ve studied his file.”

“A fine gentlemen. My opposing and equal number for the Soviets.”

“You sound as if you like him.”

“Respect is closer to it. He’s been at this as long as I have, maybe longer. We’re both anachronisms. I’d bet he feels the same way about me.”

“Ever talk to him?”

Dogan looked Keyes over again. Big, strong, and smart. Yes, the Company was choosing well these days, but Dogan wasn’t ready to entrust the country’s safety to men like him. There was something missing in men like Keyes, a genuine regard for what they were doing and an understanding of the total picture — something like that. Dogan couldn’t put his finger on it.

Keyes’s walkie-talkie began to squawk.

“I’ll take it from here,” Dogan said, and the youth handed the box over reluctantly with an “I wanted to do it myself stare. Dogan lifted the plastic to his lips. “This is Grendel.”

“Grendel,” a voice boomed. People at neighboring tables looked over.

“Don’t talk so damn loud!” Dogan ordered in a whisper.

“Grendel,” the voice started, softer, “subject has entered Place du Tertre from Sacré-Coeur side.”

That would be the front from his vantage point, Dogan calculated. The speaker was thorough.

“Is he alone?” Dogan asked.

“Affirmative.”

“Clothing?”

“Black overcoat, unbuttoned. Tan suit.”

Damn! thought Dogan. It was eighty degrees and the Russian bastard was wearing an overcoat. Must have thought he was still in Moscow. That would make him stand out. A shield was in order.

“Detach two of your team to his rear. Understood?”

“Understood, Grendel. They’ll be in his shadow.”

“No! Not too close. If we spook him he’ll stand out even more. I don’t want him to know they’re there.”

Sweat slipped down Dogan’s back and stuck to his shirt. He felt sticky. Something was wrong about this, all wrong. His eyes swept the area around the Place du Tertre, the street bordering it across which lay a row of shops and stores. Everything looked routine.

“What’s the matter?” Keyes asked. “Do you see something?”

“Shut up!” Dogan barked. His eyes kept sweeping. Artists with paintbrushes in hand doodled across canvas as they talked nonstop to wide-eyed tourists hoping to turn them into buyers. A mailman bicycled down the street. A blind beggar stuck his cup in the faces of approaching tourists. A single car with an old woman driving crept down the neighboring street, stopped to let two men wheeling baby carriages pass, and then stalled. The woman fought to restart it. Behind her, horns honked.

“Where is he now?” Dogan asked into the walkie-talkie.

“Halfway down the street” came back the voice. “Should be in your view now.”

“Is anyone else following besides us?”

“Negative. Do you want me to move the rest of my team in?”

“Absolutely not!” Dogan ordered. “Stay where you are until you hear different from me. Keep your eyes and your men on the head of the street. We’re not home free yet.”

Dogan glanced down the place. The man in the black overcoat was shouldering his way through the crowd, the agents at his rear much too obvious in their attempt to keep up. The defector reached one of the artists’ booths and stopped.

The men with the baby carriages, dressed like butlers, had started toward the red-clothed tables.

“We move,” Dogan told Keyes.

The younger agent looked frazzled. “That wasn’t the plan.”

The baby carriages squealed closer.

“Take him!” Dogan shouted at Keyes and into the walkie-talkie at the same time, already propelling himself from the table.

The baby carriages were just behind him. The walkie-talkie squawked.

Dogan threw himself at his targets, the move perfectly timed. An instant later he had both men dressed as butlers pinned on the ground, holding them to make extracting a weapon impossible.

One of the baby carriages teetered on half its wheels, spilled over. A baby slipped out, crying more from surprise than hurt.

Dogan looked down at the butlers. Their eyes showed fear. They were babbling in French.

“Grendel, come in! Come in, Grendel! … I’m taking my team in. Repeat, I’m taking my team in!”

“NO!” Dogan screamed as if the man at the head of the street could hear him, lunging off the butlers back to his feet. Where was the damn walkie-talkie? How had he dropped it?

Dogan spotted it next to the closest red tablecloth. He jammed it to his lips, the plot suddenly clear to him.

“No! Do you hear me? Stay where you are! Repeat, stay where you are. We’ve been had. Stay where you are!”

There was no response. The man had already moved his team in.

“Damn!”

Then Dogan was running, hurdling one table and slithering between tight groups of people. By the artist’s booth, Keyes and others were hustling the man in the black overcoat away.

“Follow me!” Dogan shouted as he passed him.

Keyes hesitated only slightly, then took off. He had almost caught up with Dogan when the man with the walkie-talkie sped by them and screeched to a halt.

“Assholes,” muttered Dogan, shoes clip-clopping atop the cobblestone.

The head of the Place du Tertre was in sight with the dome of the Sacré-Coeur basilica in the background. But so was a white-haired man who might have been a twin of the one agents were holding at the booth forty yards back, except he wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Dogan watched helplessly, still too far away to respond, as a well-dressed man grabbed him on either elbow and spirited him toward a waiting Peugeot. The real defector resisted only slightly before giving in. The car sped off.

Dogan’s eyes locked on the blind beggar who had somehow gotten fifteen yards ahead of him and apparently was no longer blind. The man tipped his cap.

Vaslov!

In spite of himself, Dogan made the semblance of a wave. He didn’t even consider going for the pistol in his belt.

Keyes roared to a halt just in front of him and digested the scene, eyes blazing.

“That’s Vaslov!” he screamed. “Vaslov!” The man dressed as a beggar was strolling away from the Place du Tertre, drifting into a crowd. “You’re letting him get away!”

Keyes rushed forward, drawing his pistol. A goddamn cannon, Dogan saw.

“Let him go!” Dogan ordered. “Let him go!”

Keyes was hearing none of that. He sped into the street and angled for a shot into the crowd the blind beggar had become a part of. The young bastard was violating a direct order and you just didn’t do that to Grendel. Sure, the kid was a pro; he had recognized Vaslov from file pictures, after all. He was good, far better than Dogan had estimated. But he was too green to understand.

Passersby saw Keyes’s cannon and started screaming. Dogan crashed into him and shoved him aside but the kid pushed back, still aiming the gun, ready to fire.

“I said let him go!” Dogan repeated, and something in him broke. He grabbed the younger agent’s wrist at its weakest point and twisted. There was a snap and Keyes howled in pain. He started to swing his free hand at Dogan.

Dogan’s defense was just as fast. He blocked the strike effortlessly and crashed a set of rigid fingers under the youth’s jaw. Keyes’s head snapped backward and he went down, eyes dimming. His jaw would probably never work right again and his days of bare-hand kills and quick draws were finished as well. All in ten seconds of Dogan’s wrath.

The rest of the agents had caught up with the scene by this time, two still holding the imposter Vaslov had planted. Passersby stopped, crowding together to observe two men huddled over an unconscious third.

“Get an ambulance,” Dogan ordered.

There’d be hell to pay for this, he knew. Keyes represented a substantial investment on the Company’s part and he had ruined it just like that. Probably did them a favor, but they wouldn’t see it that way.

He walked away from the crowd disgusted, wondering if Vaslov was still watching.

Chapter 6

Locke found himself unable to sleep during his flight. He was going back to England, his place of birth but never his home.

His memory of those days was sketchy. So as the 747 streaked across the Atlantic, he patched the story together for the thousandth time in his mind, taking what he remembered and mixing it with the bits he had been able to pry out of his father as the years wore on. The old man had died at eighty just the year before in a Virginia rest home.

It was in his last days that the old man became most lucid about their years in London and flight to America. He rambled on and on, jumping from year to year with the passing of a minute and making no connections. It was left to Locke’s scholar’s mind to string events together and put them in context.

Locke’s father was an English diplomat assigned to Germany in the mid-thirties. He knew in a matter of months what was coming, and his reports were listened to but not acted upon. He married a young German girl and spirited her back to his homeland when channels of diplomacy broke down and Hitler’s war machine started to roll.

Their son, Christopher, was born in London in 1942 amid the turbulence and despair of a battered country. By then his father had become an advisor to Churchill’s cabinet, disappearing for long days at a time without contact, always to return to the loving arms of his wife. Charles worshipped her and the feeling seemed mutual, for Chris’s mother, Rosa, was forever grateful for being saved from Hitler’s wrath. Chris could vaguely recall the lingering hugs his parents shared.

In his final ramblings, the man who became Charles Locke when he reached America told his son tearfully of the pain memories of those hugs evoked, because any love his wife ever showed him was part of her cruel disguise. For years Hitler had operated a remarkably successful spy network within England capable of betraying British plans to the Fatherland almost as soon as Churchill passed them on to his subordinates. All members of the British Cabinet and ministry were urged to take special precautions against the possibility of someone close to them being a turncoat.

Those last days in the nursing home had brought back to Charles Locke all the agony of his subsequent discovery in cruel, vivid strokes. He told his story to his son as if to purge himself. He talked of suspicions arising from the peculiar number of walks Rosa took late at night when she thought he was asleep. He spoke of waiting outside their house one night after pretending to rush out for an emergency Cabinet session and watching his wife emerge into the street dressed in dark clothes. He had followed her to a warehouse where he watched in horror as others arrived, all apparently subservient to her. The meeting was held in German, and although Charles Locke was too far away to pick up details, it was obvious that his beloved Rosa was the head of a subnetwork operating in London not two miles from their home!

Charles Locke returned home that night and loaded his gun, fully intending to use it first on his wife and then himself. It was the sight of his son sleeping peacefully in his crib that changed his mind. The boy could not grow up an orphan, especially amid war. Nor could he grow up in the shadow of a man who had killed his mother for whatever reason. Charles Locke doubted anyway that he could have shot his beloved Rosa. He still loved her too much, but he also loved his country. The choice was excruciatingly simple: Ignore what his wife was or turn her in. He couldn’t see himself living with either alternative, but a choice had to be made. When Rosa returned hours later, much surprised to find him waiting in his study, Locke told her he was going to call the proper authorities and would give her a two-hour headstart. There were no tears, no pleas. Just hushed whispers exchanged as Rosa packed one small suitcase. They were professionals, after all. Charles waited the promised two hours, made the call, then cried well past sunrise.

The worst thing of all, he told his son from his deathbed, was that Rosa hadn’t as much as kissed Chris good-bye. Her love for him was nothing more than a facade to better enable her to perform her role as spy. Charles had hoped nevertheless that the headstart would be sufficient for her to escape the country. The British authorities, though, responded quickly and apprehended Rosa even as a German submarine was approaching to pick her up. She was tried, sentenced, and hanged all in three days. Charles was the only one who attended her funeral, not bothering to argue over the lack of a headstone. She was above everything a spy who had betrayed his love and his country. He felt the pain of emptiness, of losing something he never truly had.

Through no fault of his own, Charles lost the trust and confidence of his peers and compatriots. Eventually higher powers arranged for new identities for him and his son and shipped them to America, where they might start afresh. But Charles had left too much behind. He was never able to adapt to his new life, nor did he seem inclined to. He withdrew inside himself, leaving his son to grow up without affection or security, apart from financial. He started swallowing Scotch and ultimately it swallowed him, stealing his liver and kidneys long before his heart failed. Charles Locke lived in pain the last ten years of his life but he seemed to prefer it. And only in those last days in the hospital did Chris feel anything but bitterness and alienation toward his father.

He had long before resolved to be a different kind of father to his children. He wanted them to trust him as he had never trusted his father. He wanted to be everything to his family that Charles Locke had never been to him, and in the process tried too hard and seemed to screw everything up. You don‘t get second chances had been a lesson from the Academy, and he had done a nice job of botching up the only chance he would get.

Chris felt himself thrown forward as the 747’s tires grazed the runway, bounced, then settled finally as the pilot applied the brakes. One last opportunity to grasp an impossible second chance — that’s what had made him accept Charney’s offer. The money was nice too but it wasn’t the major thing.

Locke started coming out of his daze as the stewardess went through yet another series of perfunctory instructions. It was early morning in London, near seven-thirty A.M. and Locke was bone tired. Still, there was Customs to negotiate and luggage to retrieve. The details seemed endless, as did the line at the British Customs station. Grimly he took his place in line.

“Mr. Locke?”

The sound of his own name shocked him and he swung to his right, to find himself facing a man in a perfectly tailored blue Customs uniform.

“Mr. Locke?” the man repeated.

Locke shook himself from his daze. “Yes?”

“The name’s Robert Trevor, sir,” the man said in a British accent, extending his hand. Then, lower. “I’ve been sent to expedite matters a bit.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Charney thought you’d appreciate the courtesy.”

“Of course,” Locke said, and allowed Trevor to lead him to the right, bypassing the long Customs entry procedure for a single, isolated room. The Englishman closed the door behind them.

“If you’d be good enough to show me your passport,” Trevor requested. Locke obliged. The Customs official stamped it twice. “I’m having your luggage brought in first and set aside. I’ve also hired a car to take you to the Dorchester.”

“How thoughtful …”

“You have Mr. Charney to thank again. He’s very thorough. The Dorchester has your suite all prepared.”

“Suite?”

Trevor nodded. “And there’s one last thing Mr. Charney asked me to provide you with. Quite irregular but understandable.” The man from Customs unlocked a drawer in the windowless office and slid it open. “I believe you are qualified with this,” he said, extracting a .45-caliber pistol, standard army issue.

“It’s been years,” Locke said, not reaching for it.

“But you’re qualified,” Trevor repeated.

“Yes,” he admitted, and reluctantly accepted the pistol. Charney had mentioned nothing about guns. What had changed?

“Simple precautions,” Trevor explained, seeming to read his mind. “Mr. Charney didn’t want to unjustly alarm you before. He wants you carrying a bit of protection until he arrives.”

“But carrying guns is illegal over here.”

“Officially, yes. But exceptions are made for men with legitimate needs. We have worked with Mr. Charney often in the past. His requests are always well founded and never refused. Please carry it until he advises otherwise.”

Locke stuck the .45 in his belt, made sure his jacket covered it. “Fits rather well,” he said, not quite comfortable with all this. Brian would not have issued him a gun unless a chance existed that he might have to use it. Something was wrong here; new factors were being tossed into the game. It was too late to turn back so Locke had to play along. Still, delivering a gun under these circumstances through a subordinate didn’t seem like Charney’s style. Then again, he was full of surprises, and Locke knew that if guns had been mentioned in the States, this mission would have ended before it began.

“Let’s collect your luggage and get you on your way,” Trevor said, handing him back his passport and ushering him toward the door.

They reached the claim area, and sure enough, a porter had already loaded his luggage on a pushcart. Trevor tipped him, then pointed Locke toward a waiting cab.

“I’ll be moving on now,” he said, grabbing Locke’s hand in a firm handshake.

“Thanks for everything.”

Trevor smiled, tipped his cap. “Enjoy your stay in London, sir.”

Locke started for the taxi.

The ride to the Dorchester from Heathrow took longer than he expected, and Locke passed it off to impatience and anxiety. He wanted to get to his room, get settled and refreshed, perhaps grab a short nap before contacting Alvaradejo at the Colombian Embassy.

At quarter-past eight he was ushered into a newly redecorated suite, the rooms lushly done in browns and apricots. There was a fully stocked dry bar in the living room’s far corner and beneath it a refrigerator packed with mixers. Locke pulled the blinds open to let in what little sun the morning had to offer. It was a dreary day, the temperature not yet fifty and promising to go little higher. The weather was typical for London in the springtime. All sun was a bonus.

Locke plopped down in a plush chair, feeling like a boy with a new toy. It was all very exciting to him, being treated like royalty in one of London’s finest hotels. He was too charged up to sleep and chose a shower instead, hoping that by the time he had redressed in a new suit of clothes, Charney would have arrived at the contact number.

He turned on the water as hot as he could take it and waited until the bathroom was filled with steam before stepping under the jets. He soaped up quickly and then stood with eyes closed under the warm stream, washing all the travel fatigue from his weary muscles, feeling himself come alive again. He switched off the water after twenty minutes, totally refreshed. He toweled himself dry and inspected his face to see if a shave was in order, found it was, and pulled his travel razor from the bottom of his suitcase.

The task of unpacking seemed monumental, and Locke had barely half finished when he grew bored and decided to put the rest off until later. He pulled Charney’s contact number from his memory and punched it out on the phone in the bedroom.

“Your message?” a male voice asked simply.

“I, er, Brian Charney please,” Locke stammered.

“Your name and number.” Stated flatly, mechanically.

“Christopher Locke.” And he proceeded to read off the Dorchester’s number along with that of his room.

“Mr. Charney is unavailable.”

“I’ll call back soon.”

Locke hung up the phone. Even though Charney hadn’t yet arrived in London, he felt more secure. The shadowy phone number made him feel less alone, as if he was part of something greater. Reassured that larger forces were backing him, he felt ready for his next move. Charney had been specific about not waiting for his arrival before calling Alvaradejo. It was almost nine o’clock now; the embassy would surely be open. The hotel operator put the call through for him.

“Colombian Embassy,” a receptionist answered in Spanish-laced English.

“Juan Alvaradejo, please.”

“Whom should I say is calling?”

“Christopher Locke. He won’t know me but I have important business with him.” Locke hesitated. “A friend said I should call.”

“One moment.”

A pause.

“This is Juan Alvaradejo speaking” came the diplomat’s voice. “What can I do for you, Mr., er—”

“Locke.” Chris recalled Charney’s instructions. Get right to the point. “I need to see you, Mr. Alvaradejo. It concerns your meeting with Alvin Lubeck.”

Silence filled the other end of the line, broken only by sporadic breathing — nervous breathing, Locke thought.

“Mr. Alvaradejo? Are you there?”

“Yes, señor. You wish to see me.”

“As soon as possible. I’ve traveled a long way.”

“And you were an associate of Lubeck?”

“A friend.”

“Where are you staying, señor?”

“The Dorchester.”

Another pause. “Are you familiar with London?”

“Somewhat.”

“Meet me by Achilles Statue in Hyde Park in one hour.”

“How will I know you?”

“Just stand by the statue, señor. I will know you.”

“One hour,” Locke repeated. “Thank you. I’ll be—”

But Alvaradejo had already hung up.

The Dorchester overlooked Hyde Park, the sprawling grounds that had once been used by Henry VIII for hunting boar. It was a short walk to the statue, fifteen minutes at most. That gave him forty-five minutes to kill, so he ordered a light breakfast from room service. It arrived just as he had finished dressing in fresh clothes. He gobbled up the croissants quickly and waited until the last possible minute to try the contact number again.

“Your message?” the same male voice droned.

“I’m calling Brian Charney.”

“Your name and number?”

Locke gave them.

“Mr. Charney is still unavailable.”

“When he comes in, tell him the meeting is set and I’ll report on it soon. Oh, and thank him for the … gift.”

“Acknowledged.”

The phone rang off.

Chapter 7

It was cold enough outside to warrant an overcoat, which made Locke’s .45 totally inconspicuous. In his mind, though, every person he passed knew he had the gun and he found himself glancing down regularly at his left hip to make sure the bulge wasn’t showing.

Of course it wouldn’t be. They had taught him how to tuck a pistol into his belt so it wouldn’t be seen even if he had only a sweater to cover it.

My God, how did I remember that?

Locke stood for a few seconds outside the Dorchester before inspecting the bleakness of the morning. Whatever hope there had been of the sun appearing was gone. A mist had risen, and Chris turned up his collar as he started across Park Lane for Hyde Park. Park Lane was actually composed of two different streets, running one way in opposite directions. Locke made it to the median strip separating them and had to wait for upward of a minute before a traffic light permitted him to dash across onto one of the many paths that crisscross Hyde Park.

He followed the path to Serpentine Road, the largest of all routes in the park, and swung left toward the Achilles Statue by the famed Carriage Road. Locke leaned against the base of the statue and checked his watch. He was right on time but there was no one else in sight. He rubbed his hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves, then stuck them in his pockets. The air was raw. The minutes passed.

Still no sign of Juan Alvaradejo.

Locke felt his nerve strings tugging at him. His life in academia revolved around order, precise and unvarying. Everything was scheduled. He had grown accustomed to minutes passing just as they should. Alvaradejo had chosen the time and the place, so where was he? Locke’s uneasiness grew.

“I knew you’d come, señor.” Alvaradejo’s voice came from the right side of the statue, the Carriage Road side. “I knew they’d send someone.”

Locke turned with a start, the sudden appearance surprising him. “Mr. Alvaradejo, I’d like to—” Locke stopped when he saw the pistol in the Colombian’s hand.

“¡Carniceros!”he screamed. “Butchers! Animals! You will pay! You will all pay! The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged!”

Alvaradejo started to raise the pistol.

In that drawn-out instant, a thousand thoughts ran through Locke’s mind but none pushed forward. Instinct born of long-ago training took over. Drills, incessant and repetitive, came back to him.

Move and keep moving! An elusive target creates a panicked shooter….

The Colombian’s pistol spit once, twice, bullets splintering cement where Locke’s head had been only an instant before. He hit the ground hard and rolled twice, trying to use the statue’s base for cover.

More cement showered over him.

“Bastards!” Alvaradejo ranted. “Killers! ¡Asesinos!”

Locke ripped the .45 free of his belt. At that moment, survival was all that mattered. There was no time to consider what he was doing.

He rolled away from another blast onto the grass. Alvaradejo charged at him, still bellowing.

“¡Ases—”

Locke pulled the trigger. The gun went off with surprising ease, the kickback easily controlled. He fired three shots in rapid succession, the motions of his finger automatic. The first bullet pounded into the Colombian’s stomach, the second blew his chest apart, and the third missed him altogether as he was hurled backward.

Locke struggled back to his feet, every inch of his flesh trembling. He moved as in a dream to the Colombian whose feet and hands were twitching in death throes. The whole scene seemed unreal to Locke, impossible in its implications.

A man had tried to kill him and he had killed the man….

Impossible!

Locke tried to shake himself awake.

Alvaradejo stayed dead, the ragged chasm in his chest pouring scarlet, mouth open wide and spilling blood.

Locke looked up suddenly, senses alive again. Footsteps pounded the pavement toward him. Alvaradejo had tried to kill him. What if he hadn’t come alone?

Reflexively, Locke jammed the .45 into his overcoat pocket and started running away from the footsteps toward the Carriage Road. He crossed it quickly, glancing back only once, heart lurching in his chest. He cut a diagonal path toward the traffic sounds of Park Lane. There was safety in numbers, camouflage anyway. Another lesson.

An unoccupied taxi stood at a stand.

Locke glanced back again. If there were others, he couldn’t see them. He had to get back to the Dorchester fast, had to get out of view, had to call Charney.

He sprinted for the taxi, lunged into the backseat out of breath.

“You all right, mate?” the cabbie asked him.

“Just drive.”

The cabbie started the meter. “Where to?”

“Just drive!”

The cabbie did just that.

Locke tried to control his thoughts in order to steady his panic. His breath still eluded him. He was hyperventilating. It had all been too much and now the reality was beginning to hit him, the cloak of shock starting to dissipate.

The gun was still in his pocket, still hot. He had killed a man! No training could have prevented the sick feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach. But the Colombian had tried to kill him; he had to remember that. His own life had been at stake.

Madness!

Charney would get him out of this. Thank God his friend had sent him the gun. Otherwise …

“Take me to the Dorchester,” Locke instructed the cabbie.

“We just passed it, mate.”

Locke flipped him a five-pound note. “Go back.”

The man grabbed the bill. “Cheers, mate.”

Something about the cabbie’s voice disturbed him, a distant ring of familiarity, but what?

Cheers, mate.

The accent was not quite British, it was laced with something more like …

Locke went cold. The man’s accent was Spanish!

Chris leaned forward and searched for a cabdriver identification form, found none. This wasn’t New York or Washington, after all. He had no way of knowing if such cards were required in London, where even the damn steering wheel was on the wrong side. Maybe he was letting his imagination run wild. The shock had been too much for him. A Spanish-speaking man had tried to kill him and now he was hearing Spanish accents everywhere. He tried to settle back but couldn’t.

The cabbie inched up the Hyde Park side of Park Lane away from the hotel. His eyes flirted with the rearview mirror. Locke sensed them watching him. He looked up and the eyes moved back to the road.

Stop it! Locke commanded himself, but something just wasn’t right. His defenses had snapped on. He felt for the .45 in his pocket.

The cab came to a halt at a red light. Locke glanced behind him and made out the Dorchester’s sign clearly four blocks back. Jump out, that was it, jump out while the cab was still stopped.

Chris tried the door. It was locked!

He searched for the knob. It had been cut off. He was trapped!

Locke felt the engine idling. He looked up. The cabbie held the steering wheel with only his right hand, his left was by his side.

The light turned green. Locke saw the cabbie’s shoulder shift suddenly and sensed what was happening. He threw himself forward over the seat, crashing his forearm into the back of the cabbie’s head. The man’s face snapped into the steering wheel. The car lurched crazily through the intersection and started to spin.

Locke saw the pistol in the cabbie’s hand, struggled to reach his wrist. He felt a set of rigid fingers smash the bridge of his nose. Pain exploded through his head. His eyes watered and blurred. He lost sight of the gun, forgot his own, grasped desperately about.

The pistol was coming toward him. Locke projected his entire frame into the front seat, trying to pin down the gun-wielding hand.

“Killer!” the cabbie screamed. “¡Carcinero! ¡Asesino!”

The same words Alvaradejo had used.

The car continued to spin, hopelessly out of control now. It slammed into a bus, bounced off, and crashed into a light pole. Locke was tossed forward into the windshield, his back striking first. The cabbie’s head snapped hard against the dashboard, recoiled crushed and bloodied. The door had blasted open on impact. Locke pushed himself toward it. The horn was blaring. Chris rolled out of the car onto the sidewalk where people were starting to approach.

Then he was being helped to his feet, his legs unsteady, his knees wobbly. It seemed his feet weren’t receiving signals from his brain. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his head and neck but, miraculously, no agonized sharpness indicating something had been broken or torn.

“There he is! There he is!”

The words were shouted in Spanish, and he could hear footsteps approaching from where he had just come. How many of them were there? First Alvaradejo, then the cabbie, now …

With a motion as desperate as it was sudden, Locke broke free of the men supporting him and rushed down the street. Behind him he heard orders being shouted in Spanish and men taking off after him. Pain racked his head and shoulders. His feet thumped against the sidewalk, sending jolts of agony through his entire spine. He was dizzy but knew he couldn’t stop. He didn’t dare look back, nor was there reason to, for he knew what would be there: men following, undoubtedly with guns. Alvaradejo had had a gun, the cabbie too. Chris could only hope the crowded street and abundance of witnesses would stop them from firing. He crashed through pedestrians, certain all eyes were upon him.

He sprinted down the sidewalk back toward the Dorchester. There would still be several streets to cross, and he would be an easy target all the way. He knew he had to keep moving in spite of the raging pain that made him want to give up. He thought of reaching for the pistol and making a stand here.

The .45 was gone! It must have fallen out during his struggle with the cabbie.

Locke heard more shouts in Spanish and swung back to see men — three, he thought — following in his path. He sped past the Dorchester, wind giving out and legs cramping.

Then he saw the red double-decker bus squealing to a halt at the corner of Park Lane and Curzon Street. He rushed toward it, nimbly dodging through fast-moving traffic. He prayed the small line of passengers would linger long enough for him to make it.

For an instant, it seemed they wouldn’t. Then a woman dropped her handbag and bent to retrieve it as the driver waited to close the doors. Locke reached the bus just as the woman lifted her handbag from the steps. He leaped in, the doors hissed closed, and the driver pulled the double-decker away.

Locke rode the bus for almost an hour. The exact time eluded him because his watch had been broken when he smashed into the windshield. The time allowed him to calm down and collect himself, letting his muscles loosen and the pain subside. So far as he could tell, all his injuries were minor, limited to a few cuts and bruises, the worst of which lay over the bridge of his nose where the cabbie’s fingers had landed.

Finally Chris saw a red call box up ahead and rose tentatively, reaching for the hand signal. His muscles responded sluggishly but without pain. He climbed out the middle set of doors and stumbled when his beaten legs reached cement. He staggered to the box and settled himself. Luckily he found the proper change in his pocket.

The number! What was the damn number?

Locke searched his scholar’s mind and found it.

“What is your message?” The drab male voice was more welcome than any he’d ever heard.

“Charney,” Locke muttered. “I need to reach Brian Charney.”

“What is your name and number?”

“Christopher Locke.” He read the man the call box’s number.

“Wait by the phone.”

The line clicked off. Chris replaced the receiver immediately.

It rang seconds later. Trembling, he jammed the plastic to his ear.

“Brian!”

“Chris, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been and what’s this about—”

Locke found his voice. “I killed Alvaradejo.”

“You what?”

“Brian, he tried to kill me! I let him set up the meeting just like you said and he tried to shoot me. If it wasn’t for the gun you left for me, I’d—”

“Wait a minute, what gun?”

“A man from Customs issued me one at the airport. On your orders, he said.”

“I never sent you a gun.”

“Then how—”

“That was the gift you mentioned in your message,” Charney realized. “Oh, God, and you shot Alvaradejo with it….”

“Because he tried to shoot me!”

“Take it easy, old buddy, I believe you. I’m just trying to put this thing together. Someone set you up.”

“I need help, Brian. You’ve gotta get me out of here. There was another man with a gun too, a cabdriver, and others chasing me, all screaming in Spanish.”

“Do you remember anything they said?”

“It was all pretty much the same. They kept repeating the words ‘butcher,’ ‘killer,’ and ‘animal’—singular and plural. And Alvaradejo said something like the souls of San Sebastian would be avenged.”

Silence filled the other end of the line.

“You there, Brian?”

“Yes, Chris. You’re sure he said San Sebastian?”

“Of course I’m sure. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It might.”

Locke looked around, feeling uncomfortable at staying in one place for so long. His shoes kicked nervously against the sidewalk.

“What do we do from here, Brian? They’ll still be looking for me. I might be able to make it back to the hotel if—”

“No!” Charney instructed. “It’s the first place they’d expect you to go. They’ll have a man waiting. Stay clear of it, do you hear me? I’ll meet you someplace else.”

“Where? When?”

“It’ll be a while. I’ve got to make some calls, sort things out. Say five P.M.”

“That’s five hours from now!”

“Four and a half. Believe me, it’s necessary. I’ve dealt with these situations before.” Charney paused. “Do you know St. James’s Park?”

“I’ve been there.”

“The bridge that cuts across the Chinese-style lakes?”

“I know it.”

“Be in the center of it at five P.M. That’ll give me the time I need.”

“To do what?”

“Call in the cavalry.”

The tall man saw his target swing away from the call box and stand there frozen against it, either relieved or exhausted. They had missed him in the park, missed him again in the streets. Those failures were about to be corrected.

The tall man quickened his pace. His hand felt for the butt of the revolver hidden under his jacket.

He had killed before, often and mostly well. This kill would be simple, and especially satisfying since others had failed.

The target moved from the call box.

The tall man started to pull the gun out. He would brush up against him, fire one neat shot that would be muffled against the target’s body, then escape. As simple as that. The tall man drew closer.

A woman with long blond hair smacked into him from behind, spilling the contents of her shopping bag. Annoyed, the tall man had begun to shove her aside when he felt her fingers grasp his elbow, pinning his gun hand to his side.

Then he saw her knife. It whipped up and across so fast that the tall man thought, incredibly, she had missed. Until he felt the warm blood spilling from the tear in his throat where her knife had found its mark. He crumpled to the sidewalk, dead an instant after he struck it.

The woman with long blond hair left him there amid her spilled shopping and walked away.

Chapter 8

Locke hung up the phone still nervous, but not as frightened. Charney had gotten him into this mess and Charney would get him out. For now, though, he had time to kill.

He moved away from the call box and joined the sparse flow of pedestrian traffic, forcing himself to walk along. He was on Vauxhall Bridge near the Thames River. He wanted to get back to the commercial district where crowds abounded and he would stick out less. Walking was out of the question and he’d had his fill of taxis for the day. That left only one safe alternative by Locke’s count. He saw an entrance to the London Underground up ahead and moved toward it, taking the steps slowly.

It took him awhile to figure out the way the lines ran, but he was in no rush and the crowds comforted him. He grabbed the northern line and climbed to street level at the Soho Square station. The mist had given way to a raw drizzle and Chris found himself shivering. Killing four hours in the outdoors was unthinkable. The minutes were already taking forever to pass.

He walked past the collection of shops and restaurants, finding himself on Oxford Street with his head pounding, and saw a large marquee not far away that provided his solution. Just before Oxford gave way to New Oxford Street, there was a row of cinemas. Locke knew at once how he would spend the next four hours before his meeting with Charney: two movies would do the job nicely. He purchased tickets to the movies in advance to avoid having to stand in line again. The titles of the films were meaningless; he wouldn’t be paying much attention to them.

Sitting down in the darkened, nearly empty cinema, Chris felt his breathing return to normal. He stretched his legs and massaged them, then tried to do the same with his neck and shoulders. Finally he leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. Fatigue swept over him. He found himself dozing, snapping back awake occasionally with a jolt forward. Between shows he purchased a pair of Cokes for want of coffee, hoping the caffeine might recharge him. As he revived, he found himself ravenously hungry, so he left to buy three portions of prepackaged popcorn. A short time later, he checked the damage to his face in a men’s room mirror, afraid his injuries might make him too recognizable. Fortunately the swelling was minor and a cup of ice obtained from the refreshment stand took much of it down.

By four thirty he felt reasonably alive again. It was time to head for his meeting with Charney. Soon all this would be over. Chris had known from the start there was some risk involved, but never did he imagine his life might actually be threatened, that he would have to become a killer to survive. The possibility, even probability, of that had been dealt with in the training. They tried to desensitize you. Guilt was the real enemy, they had said, not bullets. Guilt made you slow, hesitant. But Locke hadn’t accepted the desensitizing process. In fact, it was around that time he had quit.

The memories were uncomfortable, so Locke turned his mind toward piecing together all that had happened. He found himself with only questions. If Alvaradejo had helped Lubeck, why had the Colombian tried to kill Locke when all he had done was raise his dead friend’s name? It didn’t make sense. And if Charney hadn’t provided the gun, who had? More madness.

And what of San Sebastian? What in hell was it and where did it fit in? Most of all, who were the men that were trying to kill him?

Locke would leave the questions for Charney. He rode the underground to the St. James’s Park station and arrived at four fifty, according to a clock in the terminal. He took his time departing from the station and found the bridge with little trouble. He strolled around briefly before moving to its center at precisely five o’clock.

Charney was nowhere in sight.

Locke’s heart started pounding again. Panic rose in him. The steady drizzle soaked his jacket and his hair. The mist had developed into a fog and St. James’s Park seemed totally deserted.

Then he heard the footsteps coming from the northern side. He turned swiftly, letting go of the wooden railing.

Brian Charney approached routinely, a man out for an afternoon stroll, no spark of recognition in his eyes. Locke was about to say something, then thought better of it. Contact was up to Charney. He would take no chances.

Charney leaned over to tie his shoe when he reached Locke.

“Start walking,” the man from State instructed. “Keep your pace steady. I’ll stay about six feet behind you.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say. Walk leisurely and don’t look back. You hear me, don’t look back! I’ve been made.”

Locke started walking, hand gliding across the wooden railing to convince anyone watching of the leisureliness of his pace. His fingers trembled.

“I lied to you, Chris,” Charney said softly, almost too soft, pulling to within six feet of him. “I lied to you from the beginning. You were meant to be a decoy, a sacrifice. We — I—never expected you to make it back.”

Fury flared in Locke’s cheeks. “How could—”

“Turn around, goddammit! Don’t look at me. I’m trying to save your ass … and mine. It’s bad, real bad, a thousand times worse than I ever imagined.”

“What is?”

“The massacre was the key. I should have seen that before.”

“What massacre?”

“San Sebastian.”

“You didn’t tell me anything about—”

“Turn your goddamn head around and keep it that way or I’ll save our friends the trouble and blow it off your shoulders.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. Close, though. I couldn’t lose them.”

“What about the cavalry?”

“There is none. Not for us. At least not here. I don’t know whom to trust, how deep it goes.”

Locke made out the panic in his friend’s voice. He felt his own trembling increase. “Brian—”

“I can’t talk anymore. Go back to your hotel and wait for me there.”

“But you said it wasn’t safe.”

“Nothing’s safe. It’s the best we can do. They’re after you and they’re after me and there’s no one in the middle.”

“Who‘s after us?”

“Not now. Get back to your room. Wait for me inside. Don’t turn the lights on. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. I’ll try to lose them and meet you there. Be ready to leave in a hurry.”

“Just say the word.”

They had reached the end of the bridge.

“I’ll veer to the right here. You stay straight. Find a crowd, lose yourself in it, then get back to the hotel.”

Locke started to twist his shoulders.

“Keep your fucking eyes forward. I’m trying to save your life! Just do as I say and don’t ask questions!”

Charney veered away. Locke didn’t stop to think, just kept moving at the same unaffected pace onto the mall heading straight into Piccadilly. It was all a nightmare and it was getting worse. Charney had spoken in shadowy, desperate phrases that told him nothing. His life was clearly still in danger.

The drizzle had given way to a steady rain. Locke might have been the only person walking without an umbrella. That made him stand out. He swung onto a smaller, less crowded street and aimed for the Dorchester. He reached it in fifteen minutes, being as sure as he could that no one had followed him.

He stood under the marquee to the right of the hotel’s entrance for a few minutes, getting a fix on the lobby.

Two men stood just inside the revolving doors, surveying every man who came through. Just the men. Locke couldn’t make out their features but their intentions were clear enough: They were looking for someone and it was probably he.

Wasting no time, Locke followed the arrows to the hotel’s parking garage and walked down the ramp, ignoring the old sign prohibiting entry on foot. A car screeched up at him, headlights shimmering and tires screaming. Chris spun out of the way and pressed hard against the wall. The attendant behind the wheel shouted something at him. Locke started down the ramp again.

A minute later he had found the elevator and was inside. Forty seconds after that he was stepping out watchfully on the eighth floor.

The hallways were vacant. Locke started for his room, flinching each time he reached a break in the wall or a partition sufficient to hide the frame of a man. Finally he was at his room, pushing a now-steady hand into his pocket in search of his key. He jammed it into the lock and turned the knob without hesitating.

His suite was a shambles. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the mattress from the bedroom was upturned and torn, drawers had been ripped out and emptied of whatever contents he had managed to unpack. His suitcase was torn to shreds, all the lining ripped out in search of hidden compartments.

What had they been looking for?

Locke swung the door closed, pulled his hand away from the light switch just before he hit it. Terror gripped him as he stepped about the room, kicking aside remnants of his clothes and possessions. They had spared nothing. Even the bathroom had been ripped apart. In the corner of the living room, the desk had been pushed on its side. Chris rushed toward it.

His passport and extra money were gone!

Outside the drenching rain battered the windows. Night descended on London. Locke pressed his shoulders against the wall, afraid someone might be watching him through the glass, someone with a rifle perhaps.

The phone rang, maddeningly loud, insistently repeating its double ring.

Locke lowered himself and crept toward it, again pulling his fingers back at the last instant. Charney had told him not to answer it. But what if something had gone wrong and Brian was trying to call to alert him? No way to be sure. The original instructions had to be observed, the limits adhered to.

The phone stopped ringing.

Locke stayed huddled on the floor, lost in panic. His muscles cramped up and he stretched them out slowly, as if any sudden motion might betray him to whoever had ransacked his suite. The men in the lobby watching the entrance perhaps, or their fellows.

Who were they?

Animals! … ¡Carniceros!

Accusing words screamed at him by Alvaradejo fluttered through Chris’s mind. What did the Colombian think he had done?

The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged!

What was the connection?

Locke stayed frozen. Minutes passed. Time ceased to have meaning.

Brian, where are you?

Outside the window, night was firmly settled in the London sky. The darkness of the room was broken only by lights from the city’s skyline dancing madly across the walls.

There was a barely audible knock on the door. Locke crept across the carpet, his movements painfully slow. He raised his eye to the peephole.

Brian Charney stood outside, body pressed against the door frame. His knock came again. Locke opened the door.

Charney collapsed against him, breathing in heaves. Locke eased his friend down and managed to get the door closed.

Then he saw the blood. It was all over him, all over Charney. His friend had been shot, several times by the look of it. His lips were parched, trembling. Blood dribbled from the sides of his mouth. His face was ghastly pale, his eyes were darting. Charney was dying.

Locke took his friend’s head in his lap.

“I’m sorry, Chris” came the raspy mutter. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t talk.” Locke could think of nothing else to say.

“I know how … bad I’m hurt. There are more important things now. Lubeck knew. It’s why they killed him.” Suddenly Charney grabbed Locke’s lapel. His eyes blazed. “They must be stopped!”

“Who?”

“They’re everywhere, everything. Lubeck saw. Lubeck knew. The world will be theirs if they’re not stopped.”

“Who?”

Charney’s eyes drifted. His grasp slipped from Locke’s coat, his fingers dangled in the air. “I set you up, old buddy, and then someone else did. Alvaradejo had to die, the other … links too.” Charney coughed up a stream of blood. “Oh, God, my kids! What about my kids?”

“I’ll go the American Embassy and tell them everything. I’ll tell them everything!” Locke promised.

But Charney’s eyes flashed alive and his grasp tugged tight again. “No. Mustn’t. Trust no one. Don’t … know … how deep this goes. They murdered a whole town so no one would know.”

“Know what?”

It was obvious Charney was incoherent and rambling. What was giving him the strength to go on, Locke couldn’t imagine.

“Liechtenstein,” he muttered, breath failing. “Felderberg was Lubeck’s next stop, Felderberg the broker. Find him, find him!” Charney shifted slightly. “My pocket …”

Locke pulled a bloodstained sheet of paper from his dying friend’s jacket. He could make out writing.

“Go to Cornwall. Find Burgess. He’ll … get … you—”

That was it. Charney died. The last of his breath poured out in a wisp, as if a vacuum had sucked him dry. His eyes locked open and sightless. Locke eased his head onto the carpet. He wanted to collapse and cry for himself as well as his friend, give up and just sit for a while. But he couldn’t. Whoever had killed Charney was close, in the hotel by now almost surely, coming to the room perhaps. Locke had to act fast but his mind wouldn’t cooperate.

It was too much. Memories of the horrible accident twenty-two years before filled his head, of watching helplessly as the doctors lifted an unconscious Lubeck onto a stretcher and tore away the field dressing to reveal the mangled remains of his hand. It was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from and now the nightmare had returned. He had seen one friend crippled and another killed. Both were dead, and he was so goddamn alone….

But he had to act! Survival called out to him, Brian Charney called out to him, the training from long before called out to him.

They‘re everywhere, everything….

Who had Charney been talking about?

Locke’s mind craved release. He focused on escape, on survival. He had no passport, little money. All he had was an address.

He looked at the tattered, bloodied sheet of paper Charney had given him and read it quickly: Colin Burgess, Bruggar House, Cadgwith Cove, Cornwall.

Chris struggled to recall his knowledge of English geography. Cadgwith Cove was located on a stretch of land called the Lizard at England’s southwesternmost tip. Accessible easily by train. First he would need a cab to get him to the station.

He was getting ahead of himself, though. His clothes were bloodied and demanded changing before he set out. He stripped off the ruined ones he had on, grabbed a fresh set from the floor and changed quickly, tucking all his remaining money in a pocket along with Charney’s paper. He started for the door, glancing at his friend’s corpse one last time. There should have been something else he could do for him. Letting him lie there didn’t seem right, but he had no choice.

Locke stepped into the corridor and advanced slowly. He reached an intersection and stopped, wary of proceeding. He could turn right or keep straight. Which way? He hesitated, but not for long because up ahead two men had just turned onto the hallway. The men from the lobby! Locke ducked to the right and starting running down the adjacent hallway. He had no idea if the men had seen him. Either way, there would be others around.

A diversion, he needed a diversion. Confusion had to be created into which he could disappear. But how?

The answer lay before him at eye level on the wall. Locke hit the lever hard and yanked.

The fire alarm began to blare instantly. At this relatively early hour of the evening, most guests were in their rooms preparing for dinner. In seconds the corridor was lined with milling bodies moving unsurely but rapidly, searching for someone to follow as they tested the air for smoke.

The elevators had shut off automatically. Eight flights of stairs had to be descended, and the unnerved guests clustered toward the nearest exit. Locke let himself be swept up in their momentum, slowed at each descending level as they caught up with more figures and more clutter. By the fifth floor he realized there was no one shoving toward him from the rear. He was breathing easier when he reached the lobby to find people gathered everywhere, the overflow spilling into the street.

Locke joined the spillover, staying among the crowd as he searched for a cab, breaking away only when he was certain the chaos had him totally shielded.

Trust no one….

Locke wanted to go straight to the American Embassy and dump his story on the ambassador’s desk, but Charney’s command prevented him. Who knew how deep this mess went? In Washington, Charney had said there was an army supporting him, reinforcements only a phone call away. Then where were they when he had needed them? Why hadn’t then responded? No, his friend had encountered forces he had not expected and was ill equipped to deal with. And if that were so, what chance would Locke stand against them?

Trembling, he walked further into the night.

Chapter 9

Dogan had been expecting a call from the Commander all day, so when it came he was more relieved than surprised. Best to get things over with. Operatives of Division Six seldom fucked up, and when they did there was hell to pay. And Dogan had fucked up big time.

The Commander requested a nine P.M. meeting at his favorite outdoor café on the Champs-Élysées. Dogan was ready for a typical chewing-out session. He would grit his teeth and nod his way through it.

The Commander was waiting for him at an isolated table for two in the sidewalk café’s rear corner. He looked more French than American with thinning hair, rimless glasses, and a thick mustache sliced off well before it reached the edges of his mouth. As always he was reading a newspaper. His tone would be indifferent; his eyes would seldom leave the print. Funny thing about the Commander, he could chastise you without ever meeting your stare, as if you didn’t even merit the recognition. How he had risen to the position of chief of Division Six’s affairs in Europe was beyond Dogan. Then again, much had been beyond him lately.

“Good evening, Grendel,” the Commander said, not looking up from his newspaper. “Please sit down.” Dogan did as he was told. “A most unfortunate day.”

“I’ve had better.”

“And not many worse, I should hope. I’ve just received the medical report on Keyes. He’ll be manning a desk for the balance of his career, thanks to his wrist.”

“It’s the best place for him.”

“We invested a lot of money believing otherwise.”

“You were wrong.”

“A report would have more than sufficed. An assault was totally uncalled for.”

Dogan felt his anger rising. “I gave him a direct order. He disobeyed it.”

“Yes, Grendel,” the Commander responded. “I’ve read the boy’s report on that. You ordered him to let Vaslov go, correct?”

“Correct.”

“The most wanted number from the KGB and you ordered him let go. Keyes claims he had the Russian dead on target.”

“The shot wasn’t clear. People were everywhere. If I had let that kid start blasting, innocent bystanders would have been dropping everywhere.”

“Along with Vaslov perhaps?”

“Possibly, but the risk was not acceptable,” Dogan explained, trying to justify his actions, though the truth was much simpler: Vaslov had beaten him and deserved to walk. “Shootouts are a thing of the past, Commander, you’ve told me that yourself on more than one occasion.”

The Commander glanced up briefly. “That’s not the point and please don’t talk to me about procedure. You didn’t just stop Keyes from firing into a crowd, you shattered his wrist and made holding a telephone painful for him for the rest of his life. He’s not happy and neither is the department.”

“You’re not expecting me to deny this, I hope.”

“There would be no sense in that. You violated a major rule of the field this morning: You let anger get the better of you.”

“Not anger, Commander, frustration. You gave me a bunch of wet-eared kids who couldn’t follow orders on a simple pickup operation.”

“The operation was yours, Grendel. So is the responsibility for bungling it.”

“And I’m not trying to pass that off. Except the operation wasn’t bungled. It was clean and well conceived.”

“The results seem to indicate otherwise….”

“Because Vaslov and the Russians beat us. They played a better game. They’re superior to us because their agents know nothing about ego gratifications. They have a job to do and it gets done. Simple.”

“So they planted a fake defector and you took the bait.”

“Yes, Vaslov planted a fake defector but he also planted a half-dozen other diversions to throw us off the track. A stalled car, a pair of baby carriages, a blind man — all his work.”

The Commander flipped the page of his newspaper. “Tell me about the setup.”

“The defector reached us through his contact with the place and the time. He was impatient. He’d been holed up in Paris for almost two weeks waiting for his chance.”

“Then I must assume Vaslov knew something of the plan himself.”

“Probably only shadows but they proved enough. The defector’s contact must’ve had a big mouth. So Vaslov planted a fake defector to draw us off. When we lunged at the bait, his men were the only ones around to pick up the real defector. We got beat, just like I said before.”

A cool night breeze ruffled the Commander’s paper. His eyes grasped Dogan’s for the first time. “I don’t see it as that simple. Perhaps, Grendel, you are becoming too predictable.”

“Given the limitations of what I have to work with, I do the best I can. The men who beat us today were strictly professional.” A pause. “The way we used to be.”

“I see,” the Commander noted, flipping to the back section.

Dogan grasped him Firmly at the elbow. The older man flinched but didn’t bother trying to pull away. Annoyance swam in his eyes.

“No, I don’t think you do, sir,” Dogan charged. “Let me try to explain. Men like Keyes can’t read between the lines, can’t estimate their opponent’s next move based on simple instinct. Everything has to be cut and dried for them. In the field, though, it’s anything but that, which means losing to the Russians is something we better get used to.”

“An interesting depiction of your failure this morning.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Now I would kindly ask you to remove your hand from my arm.” Dogan complied. The Commander straightened his sleeve. “And as long as you’re explaining things, take as your next subject, Grendel, the reason why you chose to take out a fellow Division operative instead of Vaslov.”

“We lost. There was no need to press the matter further. Besides, at least I know what I can expect from Vaslov. That’s not always true anymore about those on my own side.”

The Commander lowered his newspaper, actually lowered it. “That’s one hell of an accusation.”

“Take it for what it’s worth. Just make sure you understand something else along with it. If I had let Keyes take Vaslov out today, the Russians would have replaced him and I’d have to deal with a new, unfamiliar network. Considering the bureaucratic overtones, Division would have been set back by such an action more than the KGB. I know Vaslov. Finding out the means and methods of some KGB replacement is a chore I can do without.”

“Knowing Vaslov didn’t help you this morning.” The Commander sat motionless on the other side of the table, making no effort to still his newspaper in the breeze. “This morning’s fiasco has escalated far beyond an embarrassment. It’s won the qualification of incident. Congratulations, Grendel.”

Dogan said nothing.

“I’d like to say I’m bringing you up before the review board,” the Commander went on, cold eyes digging into Dogan and startling him with their stare. “But of course, we have no such board or any precise procedures to follow. You have accused the Company and the Division of losing their professionalism. Perhaps you have lost yours. Times have changed. The days of the lone wolf are over. You’re not a team player, Grendel. You just don’t fit anymore.” The Commander hesitated. “Pick a country, something warm and tropical perhaps.”

“Carrying a gold watch in your hip pocket, Commander?”

“You know the procedure, Grendel. A most generous one, I might add.”

Dogan felt the rage building within him. The Commander’s right hand disappeared under the table, for a gun perhaps. No matter. Limits were everything and Dogan knew he could tear the man’s throat out before he could pull the trigger. The thought comforted him, and the knowledge was in his eyes. The Commander’s hand came back up and started to dog-ear the pages of his newspaper.

“Uh-uh,” Dogan said simply. “I’m not ready for the country yet.”

“I wasn’t offering you a choice.”

“But you’ve left yourself one, haven’t you, Commander? How many men are watching us now? What weapons are they holding on me? They’re waiting for a signal from you, of course, which you’ll give if I don’t agree to your reassignment and go quietly.” Dogan leaned back. “Give the signal, Commander. You know there’s no way they can kill me before I kill you. Think of it, we’ll pass into eternity together, but in different directions, I suspect.”

The Commander swallowed hard.

“Of course, you could let me go and have them deal with me later. Who knows, they might even succeed. I’m not too worried, though. They’re all like Keyes and I’d slice a limb off you for each one of them you forced me to kill. There’s not a dozen of them who could get me before I got you and you know it.”

The Commander removed his rimless glasses and wiped the lenses. “I withdraw my offer. You’re out, Grendel, plain and simple.”

“Without a going-away party? My, what’s the world coming to?”

The Commander was shaking his head. “You could have had it easy, Grendel. All you had to do was accept the desk we offered you. A man should know when his run is over.”

Dogan stood up. “I’ll know,” he said simply and walked away, leaving a huge chunk of his life behind. He had known he’d face this day sometime; it had been inevitable. But he came away wondering if there was something he might have said to make the Commander change his mind. The field was everything to him. Without it there’d be no purpose. Free-lancing was always possible and quite lucrative. But such mercenary work denied your identity, and Dogan had been around too long to lose his now.

He knew the Commander would have him followed and took immediate steps to lose his tails. He never saw them but knew they were there all the same. He probably had trained many of them, but a good teacher never passes on all of his lessons. Losing them proved effortless. Dogan toyed with the notion of leaving one bound and gagged in the Commander’s bed that evening.

He wandered about until he reached the Place de la Concorde, stopping at the spot where Louis XVI was publicly guillotined. The large fountain shot majestic bursts into the air. The water was colored by the night lights of Paris, a kaleidoscope of vitality, awesome in its beauty. But Dogan didn’t care much about beauty tonight. His life was the Division and now the Division had been taken from him. And there was no one above the Commander he could plead his case to, even if he had a case to plead. The old man was the only one he was answerable to. To other Company men, he was simply a name on a restricted file card. Dogan glanced up at the naked marble figures basking in the fountain’s spill and wondered how Louis felt the moment the cold steel spit his head into a wicker basket. He thought he might know. He sat down on a bench and focused on the symmetrical perfection of the layered brick surface of the Place de la Concorde. An anachronism of construction, just as he was.

“Mind if I join you, comrade?”

Dogan looked up to find Vaslov standing before him. Somehow he had been expecting this.

“Be my guest.”

Vaslov sat down next to him on the bench. He was wearing an elegantly tailored French suit that emphasized his finely chiseled frame. His hair was neatly styled, also western, and his eyes were bright and alive.

“How’d you find me?” Dogan wondered.

“I followed you, of course. Marvelous job of losing your tails, by the way.”

“I didn’t lose you.”

The Russian shrugged.

“You witnessed my meeting with the Commander, no doubt,” Dogan assumed.

Vaslov nodded. “And it wasn’t hard to judge from your physical responses — body language, I believe you Americans call it — that things were not going well. I’m not surprised. You should have let that young man kill me this morning.”

“Not in my book.”

“Any regrets?”

“Only that I didn’t crush the prick’s vocal chords.”

Vaslov leaned back and laughed easily. “Look now at how we find ourselves, two cold warriors sharing the fine French landscape. If only I had brought wine …”

“We could toast the success of your mission today. You had a clean escape coming to you.”

“You used a similar ruse against me in Prague with similar success. When was that, seventy-seven, seventy-eight maybe?”

“Seventy-nine. Winter.”

“You remember?”

“I remember the cold.” A pause. “You spared my life then just as I spared yours today.”

“And with good reason, comrade. When the nobility is gone from our profession, we become nothing more than simple assassins instead of knights jousting for our country’s pride.”

“How romantic….”

“Indulge me, comrade. I look forward to the rivalry between us because it forces me to challenge myself, to reach for perfection. I could have had that defector collected and returned to Moscow yesterday or even the day before, but that would have prevented another match in our ongoing tournament.”

“You took quite a risk.”

“But well worth it. In the end, what do we have besides each other? Today I won. Tomorrow may be different.”

“For sure. Tomorrow you’ll be the only one playing.”

Vaslov sighed. “They pulled you, comrade?”

“I forced the issue.”

“This morning?”

“And tonight.”

“They are fools, comrade, little different from my superiors in the Kremlin. Only sometimes I think those in the Kremlin know they are fools so they leave me to run things as I wish.”

“You’re lucky, my friend.” Strangely, addressing Vaslov as “friend” didn’t come at all hard for Dogan. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had, but through the years they’d shared things far more important than words.

“Of course, I knew the sanction you would face, comrade,” Vaslov said in a more somber tone. “I knew you would have plenty of time on your hands, and I have a project that might command some of it.”

“Working for you?”

“Not exactly. What if we had a common enemy, an enemy that could devastate all the ideals we fight for along with our countries?”

The breeze toyed with Dogan’s thick brown hair. “You’re on to something?”

“Just talk now, random pieces of information that together make no sense. Something is in the air, that’s all I know. Our countries are strong, but vulnerable to another who knew what to look for.”

“Another country?”

“I don’t think so.” Vaslov hesitated, crossed his legs. “Have you ever heard of the Committee?”

“Just rumors. No one’s sure they really exist.”

“Which is their greatest strength. No one believes in them, so no one bothers to stand in their way.”

“We thought their existence was tied to disinformation on your part.”

“Just as we thought about you, comrade. With both of us chasing our own tails, they could operate unhindered right before our eyes. True enough?”

“I suppose.”

“Then tell me what you have heard of the Committee.”

“The best I’ve been able to gather is that it’s an international organization dedicated to bringing control of the world to the private sector through economic manipulation.”

Vaslov nodded. “Their own sector, actually. It all comes down to vulnerability again. If they understood ours sufficiently, they could use it against us with greater results than any bomb.”

“That would certainly fit the pattern. The Committee, some say, has bankrolled terrorist and other subversive activities in the hope of destabilizing governments and weakening their economic structure. Then they move in and take over the marketplace. Eventually they control the entire country.”

“And the rest will tumble, one at a time. Like dominoes, comrade?”

“Doubtful. Assuming the Committee really exists, they would have found the process too long and unfulfilling. You can’t take over the world a little piece at a time because the little pieces don’t mean shit.”

“Ah, but what of the big pieces? What if the Committee had discovered a means to successfully cripple the countries it needs to the most?”

“The United States and the Soviet Union?”

“Precisely, comrade. The Committee is patient but you’re right, dominoes do take a long time to tumble. The world is changing fast these days. Something might fall in the path of the dominoes and block them. So the Committee had to find a way to strike at our nations directly.”

“You just switched to the past tense.”

“Because I believe they have already found this way.”

“Why?”

“There is talk. People have been disappearing conveniently. Funds, massive funds, have been mobilized. Money is changing hands in amounts too vast to contemplate. And all of this I think has to do with a simultaneous strike against both our nations.”

The breeze caught part of the fountain’s spray and whipped it out at the two men. Dogan didn’t bother to wipe his brow.

“Nuclear?” he posed.

“To provoke a war between us, Grendel? No, a war-ravaged world would not be what the business-minded people who make up the Committee would want. Their ideals have been shaped in the marketplace. They seek to control the world by controlling its resources. That is where the weapon will come from.”

“Which doesn’t tell us a whole hell of a lot.”

Vaslov thought briefly, choosing his words carefully now. “Whatever strike they are about to initiate will be against something we hold in common, something that can damage us both equally. The two superpowers are what truly stand in their way. If they are to obtain global domination, our power must be neutralized. We are not vulnerable militarily, either of us. The way to strike is economically, where our shortsighted leaders have opened the door to any number of strategies.”

Dogan found the inside of his mouth was dry. “Hell of a scenario. But everything’s too vague.”

“That is how the Committee works, comrade. This time, though, they may have left one of their stones turned up. It will lead us to them. Our weapon will be exposure. Once in the open, they cannot function.”

“Where is this stone?”

“Colombia. A town called San Sebastian.”