The Loo Sanction

"It suffices to say that a general retreat into sexual excess has become a fact of life in all circles, save the working class, which has been protected from infection by virtue of its want of imagination. And it would seem that unnatural sexuality is a habit-forming vice. Once he embarks on its use, the thrill-seeker develops a tolerance for the more... ah... commonplace activities, and finds they no longer serve to relax him and to dim his mind. The nerves seem to develop calluses, as it were. And so the sybarite is pressed toward more... ah... unconventional... ah..."

"I see."

"I thought you might. For some years now this grass fire of the senses, if I may avail myself of metaphor, has been spreading amongst persons in the government and civil service. At first it was limited to the relatively safe and pallid practice of exchanging wives while on holiday. But in time, the fire demanded more occult fuels. And, as one might expect, certain organizations sprang up to supply these demands. Most of them are smutty little operations offering simple varieties of number, race, and posture, together with the dubious advantage of becoming famous through the efforts of spying newspaper photographers. A little higher on the scale were places that offered variants long popular on the Continent—particularly in France, of course. Girls dressed as nuns, girls in caskets—that sort of thing. Look there! Did you see them? Two hares bounded across that bit of meadow. The autumn hare! Memories of boyhood, eh?"

Jonathan turned up the collar of his jacket and stared ahead miserably.

"At the apex of this pyramid of vice—Oh, my, I do wax Victorian. At the apex is a small and terribly expensive operation that offers to elite clientele what might be described as sexual maxima. I shall not abuse you with the details of these events. Suffice it to say that the organization in question is also involved in the importation of Pakistanis—illegal immigrants who cannot find gainful employment and who are driven to extremes to stay alive. This organization finds particular use for Pakistani children of both sexes between the ages of nine and fifteen. And I must confess that it is not only men in government that frequent this establishment, but often their wives and daughters as well. And all this nastiness goes on to the accompaniment of excellent wines and lobster—in season."

"I assume the clientele is not limited to clerks and middle-management personnel."

"Sadly, it is not. I blush to admit that among the clients are certain Very Highly Placed Persons." He winked.

"Do the bed linens bear the stamp 'by appointment'?"

The Vicar flushed, angry. "Certainly not, sir!"

Jonathan held up one hand in a gesture of peace. "Just wanted to know what league I was playing in."

"I see." The Vicar was not mollified. He turned and continued trudging on, entering an overgrown wood, anger making him increase his stride and breast his way through the tangle. When his anger had burned out, he continued. "For a year or two, this activity went on. A deplorable business, but not one that endangered the security of the country, so far as we knew. But then something happened that required me to review my evaluation of The Cloisters—for that is the ironic name of the resort in which these excesses take place."

"It's in the country somewhere?"

"No. London. Hampstead, in fact. Look there! A rhododendron! Like you, a visitor to our shores."

"What happened with The Cloisters? Blackmail?"

"No. Not really. And that's the uncomfortable part of it. But I'll get to that in a moment.

"One afternoon—just after tea, as I recall—I received a confusing call from my opposite number in MI-5. He had a report, the content of which had galvanized that normally lethargic branch of the service into activity. As one might suspect, they had no idea what to do with the information, but they had the good sense to push it over onto my plate. A man had stopped by at their office, a civil servant in the middle ranks with the Defense Ministry, and had boldly revealed to them a number of astonishing facts. Getting a bit above himself, he had participated in the leisure activities offered at The Cloisters. I don't know whether his money ran out or his conscience prevailed, but after a time he discontinued his visits. Then one afternoon he was visited by a caller who, with all the trappings of civility, demanded that he come later that evening to The Cloisters. The poor wretch dared not refuse. When he arrived, he was taken to a private salon where he was treated to a private showing of motion pictures."

"And he was surprised to find himself the star of the film. Argh-ga!"

"You anticipate correctly. Good Lord! I knew it! I told Boggs a dozen times that stile was rotten and wanted mending. I knew it would give way just when someone was straddling the fence. You didn't by any chance—"

"No! I'm all right!"

"Could I give you a hand down?"

"I'll make it!"

"You're quite sure you're all right? You're walking a bit oddly."

Jonathan crashed angrily on through the pathless thicket.

"The strange thing," the Vicar continued, "was that there was no threat of blackmail. Indeed, no pressure was brought to bear on the official to continue frequenting The Cloisters. But it was made perfectly clear to him that any mention of their activities would be met by an immediate publication of the film. As you might suspect, he was distressed beyond telling, but he was assured that he was not alone in this uncomfortable position. They evidently had a large number of films implicating a wide spectrum of government personalities."

"Why do you assume they are collecting this evidence, if not blackmail?"

"We don't know. But it doesn't really matter in any substantive way. The very existence of this information constitutes a time bomb planted in the seat of government—ah, there's the kind of maladroit metaphor that used to set us to laughing in school—and we have no idea when it will go off, or who will be harmed in the explosion. One thing is certain: a revelation of this caliber would damage Her Majesty's government beyond repair."

For a time the Vicar seemed to be lost in gloomy contemplation of so terrible a fate. They walked along a footpath that had been pulverized by horses into a ribbon of gummy slime.

To get on with the thing, Jonathan asked, "Why did this man come to MI-5 with information that would certainly end his career?"

"I couldn't know, of course. Shame, one might conjecture. Or a sense of patriotism. As I said, he was a middle rank in the civil service. Mere clerks are seldom affected by patriotism, and the leadership is immune to shame. The entire question is academic, however, inasmuch as our first move had to be to assure ourselves of this chap's silence. Inner pressures had driven him to divulge all of us. Who could know what his next action might be? The popular newspapers? At all costs, this scandal had to be kept from public view. And that, you had better know, remains our primary concern."

"So you had him sanctioned?"

The Vicar did not respond at once. "Not exactly," he said in a distant voice.

The truth dawned on Jonathan. "Oh, I see. That is lovely. The poor bastard showed up on my toilet, having failed to pull his trousers down."

"Just so. And I must tell you how much I regret the bungling of that matter. There was no call to burden you with the poor fellow's last words, to say nothing of the disgusting olfactory effect of the misplaced bullet. I can assure you the man responsible has been reprimanded." He winked.

"I have a feeling he will be punished further."

"Oh? Then you know who it was?" The Vicar's voice carried genuine admiration. "You certainly have a flair for getting information quickly. I feel vindicated in my choice of you for this somewhat delicate mission."

"Which is?..."

The Vicar refused to abandon his sequential progression through events. "Directly we received this information, we began our investigation. One of our best men was set to the task—a man who, because of his Grecian penchant in matters sexual, would have a subtle entrée into the goings-on at The Cloisters. That man's name was Parnell-Greene."

"The fresh grave I saw yesterday evening?"

"I'm afraid so. But before they got onto him, he was able to pass on some valuable fragments of information. We know, for instance, the identity of the man in charge of The Cloisters. He is best known to us as Maximilian Strange. German, by birth. Born as Max Werde in October of 1922 in Munich. The Werde family had been in the business of flesh-selling for three generations. Posh dens of vice catering to the upper classes—well, to the rich, at least. Young Max seems to have taken to the family line with rare energy, for we find him in 1943 at the tender age of twenty-one catering to the rather vigorous sexual appetites of ranking German officers. In Berlin and in at least two provincial cities, he managed sumptuous pleasure establishments stocked with girls and boys he had hand-picked from the concentration camps. The activity was... ah... irregular. Indeed, there was one small house on the outskirts of Berlin that was called the Vivisectory because..."

"I get the picture."

"Good. Recounting it is painful."

"You're a man of delicate sensibilities," Jonathan said.

"Irony, if it is to be effective, should lightly etch a phrase. Not drip from each word. But rhetoric is not our study here. When next our researchers catch sight of Werde—or Strange, as he calls himself now—the war is over and he is purveying rather Roman entertainments in such places as Morocco, the Antibes, Samos—all the haunts of what you call the jet set. These amusements involve young people painted with gilt, participants from the audience daubed with grease, and activities between animals and humans—the favored beast being, for some obscure reason, the camel." He winked.

"It is at this time that we get our first description of the man. There are no photographs in existence. He is described as a handsome man in his early twenties. This is odd, because you realize that, by then, he was just over forty years old. We also discover that he has an inordinate interest in health, diet, exercise, and the general maintenance of his uncommonly youthful appearance. His linguistic attainments include a faultless command of English and French, along with Arabic, of course, as any man trafficking in his line of goods must have. Not much to go on by way of description, I fear."

"Not much."

"Again Mr. Strange disappears from sight. And two years ago, The Cloisters is launched in London, with Maximilian Strange at the helm of this fire ship. There you have him, Dr. Hemlock. Your adversary. Certainly a worthy opponent."

"His worthiness doesn't interest me. I'd much rather he was a fool. I'm neither a sportsman nor a hunter."

"Yes, I suppose there is a subtle difference between being a hunter and being a killer."

Jonathan let it pass. "Knowing what you do about Strange, you could certainly put a stop to his operation. I assume he is in the country illegally."

"I have tried to impress upon you the scope of the disaster that would derive from the slightest leakage of these films, or the activities they record. Neither the police nor any other agency of law enforcement must be brought in on this. Our police—like your own—are not distinguished by competence and discretion. And you may wonder why we don't just buy these films back, ransom them, so to speak. Well, Loo frankly doesn't have that kind of money in its war chest, and we must get the film back without alerting persons in the government who must not become involved in this delicate matter—that's part of why MI-5 commissioned us to act for them. We could, of course, dispatch some of our Loo actives to visit The Cloisters and leave no living beings behind them. But what if they failed to locate the films? What if Maximilian Strange has protected himself by leaving the films with someone who would publish them the moment something happened to him? No. No. This must be done delicately. And finally. And that is where you come in."

"Why me?"

"The late Parnell-Greene was able to pass on one further bit of information before his cover fell and he made his unfortunate visit to St. Martin's-In-The-Fields. He heard your name mentioned by Mr. Strange."

"My name?" Jonathan leapt over a ditch and scrambled up a muddy bank. "You certainly don't think I'm implicated in The Cloisters."

"Certainly not." The Vicar braced himself against the wind and pressed on, shouting over his shoulder, "If we thought that for an instant, we would be entertaining you at another of our facilities."

"The Feeding Station?" The wind tore the words from Jonathan's mouth and flung them at the Vicar, who stopped in his tracks, astonished at Jonathan's knowledge of their operation. But again he was pleased with this ability to secure information quickly.

He nodded to himself and strode on. "We ran a thorough check on you, including communication with our colleagues in Moscow, Paris, and Washington. After assuring ourselves that The Cloisters was not a front from your Mr. Dragon and CII mucking about in our affairs, as that aggressive organization is wont to do, we counted it a stroke of rare good luck that a trained professional such as yourself was somehow involved in all this. Oh goodness! I am sorry! But you really should be more careful where you tread in a cow pasture. Rather like Paris streets, in that respect. May I give you a hand up?" He winked uncontrollably.

"No!"

"Oh my, oh my. What a pity."

"Forget it. I'm not particularly fond of this jacket anyway."

"It does seem odd, if I may say so, that a man who was once a ranking mountain climber should find a little walk in the country so fraught with difficulty."

"Eagles don't become members of the Audubon Society."

"I beg your pardon?"

Jonathan was becoming angry with himself for allowing the droning civility of this vicar to erode his cool. "Listen. Exactly how did I get implicated in all this?"

"I haven't the foggiest. We only know what Parnell-Greene was able to pass on before his death. There are two threads connecting you to The Cloisters. We know that Maximilian Strange is very interested in you indeed."

"But—"

"We don't know why. Indeed, I had rather hoped you would be able to tell us. You have not, by chance, dealt with him at one time or another?"

"No idea."

"Pity. It might have been a starting point. The other thread linking you to The Cloisters is more direct. What you might call a friend-of-a-friend relationship. On two occasions Parnell-Greene met Miss Vanessa Dyke on the premises."

That stopped Jonathan.

"This might have been totally coincidental," the Vicar continued, "but it does constitute an intertangency between you and Mr. Strange. At all events, it is clear that your best path into The Cloisters is through Miss Dyke. Permit me to hold this barbed wire up for you. Oh, well. You said you were not particularly fond of that jacket. Let's take the shortcut back through the fields. Yes, Dr. Hemlock, I cannot adequately express my regret at having to ring you in on this business. We had no original intention to, you know, even after Parnell-Greene first reported that The Cloisters people were interested in you. He was doing an admirable job of penetrating their organization, and we had no immediate use for you, although we took the precaution of planting our Miss Coyne with your rather seedy friend, MacTaint. Just in case."

"And when they hit this Parnell-Greene, you decided to bring me in as his replacement."

"Precisely. Their manner of disposing of poor Parnell-Greene will give you some idea of the kind of men you are up against. He was found impaled on a wooden stake in the belfry of St. Martins's-In-The-Fields."

"Baroque."

"Baroque, yes. But very modern at the same time. A bit of advertising that any public-relations man would approve. When one considers the extra danger involved in setting up so spectacular an assassination, one must come to the view that they were doing more than simply removing a potential danger. They were giving public notice to any who might attempt to interfere with their affairs, notice that was both efficient and darkly creative."

"Creative?"

"Just so. And with a diabolic sense of irony. I have alluded to Parnell-Greene's sexual deviation. He was a pederast; specifically his tastes ran to the passive role. Ergo, a certain grisly flair involved in the choice of anal impalement as a method of execution, don't you think, Dr. Hemlock?"

Jonathan trudged on in heavy silence for several minutes until, breaking through a thorn hedge, they were once again in the Vicar's garden.

"You'll want some brisk hot tea to ward off the cold. Let's go into the den, and I'll have it brought."

The rain swept in over the vicarage with full vigor. After the tea tray had been delivered by one of the young men with flared suit and broad bright tie, Jonathan said, "Why don't you just tell me what you want me to do?"

"That must be obvious. We want the films. And we want them quickly, before they can do whatever they have in mind with them." He winked twice.

"And what about this Maximilian Strange and his people?"

"I assume their number will be reduced by those who have the misfortune of standing between you and the films."

"And that will be the end of The Cloisters?"

The Vicar pursed his lips. "Not really. After consideration, I have decided that closing The Cloisters would have no effect on the appetites that maintain it. They would simply seek elsewhere. So, when all this is over, The Cloisters will continue its services. But under new management."

"It will become a Loo operation?"

"I think that would be best, don't you? The possession of the films together with data we collect in the operation of the establishment will bring effective control of the government under an organization that has the best interests of the nation at heart, together with the background and education to know what those best interests are. More tea?"

"That would make Loo totally antonomous, wouldn't it?"

"Why yes." The Vicar's eyes opened wide with ingenuous frankness. "I believe it will. Just as the information your CII has collected concerning the fiscal and sexual irregularities of your political leaders has long rendered it independent. But I can assure you we shall never use our autonomy to undertake ill-conceived invasions of neighboring islands, or to cover up bungling attempts to spy on political headquarters. However..." His eyes softened as he envisioned the future. "...Such power might enable us to effect a final solution to the Irish Problem."

"You'll understand if I find little real difference between the Loo and The Cloisters."

"Ah, but so far as you are concerned, there is one most salient difference. We can put you into prison for thirty years for murder."

"They can kill me."

The Vicar shrugged. "Well, if it comes to that... but really! Our chat has taken an unnecessarily nasty turn." He winked.

"All right. For nuts and bolts, what kind of support can I expect in getting the films?"

"From the police, none. We cannot run the smallest risk of this affair becoming public. Loo will continue its researches, and you will be advised of any new developments through Yank, who will operate as your contact with us. We are also pursuing another line of entry into The Cloisters, partially in support of you, partially as a second line of defense, should some misfortune befall you. Do not be surprised should you meet Miss Coyne within the walls of that evil establishment. For the rest, you are on your own. You will, of course, have my earnest prayers to support you. And you must never underestimate the power of prayer, Dr. Hemlock."

Rain rattled against the windows of the snug little den with its damp wood fire releasing bluish flames that lapped lambently at the wrought-iron grate. The rainwater had stopped dripping from Jonathan's hair down his collar, and the room was becoming close and steamy with the drying of their clothes. Jonathan cleared his throat. "Listen. I want you to let Miss Coyne out of this. She's done her bit by ringing me in on it."

"Oh? Do I hear the sound of affection? A romance perhaps? How charming!"

"Never mind the crap. Just let her out of it."

"But, my dear man, where would she go? I have no doubt she told you her distressing story. Were it not for us, she would this moment be sitting in a Belfast prison. And were it not for our continuing protection, she might be picked up in the streets at any time. Where is she to go? Do you intend to become responsible for her?" He winked.

"No. I don't."

"Well, there you have it. In point of fact, she came to me this morning and asked to be allowed to help you. Perhaps she's feeling a little guilty, eh? May I offer you one of these biscuits? They're digestives, and I can particularly recommend them."

Jonathan shivered and drew his wet jacket around him. "I'd better be getting back to the inn."

"I do hope you haven't caught a cold. Nasty things at this time of year." He rose and accompanied Jonathan to the door. "You can work out particulars with Yank, who has been instructed to assist you in every way. This afternoon you will receive a little training from The Sergeant."

"Training? From The Sergeant?"

"Yes. You are with Loo now. Drawing the Queen's shilling, as it were. And there are certain regulations to which you will have to conform. From your CII records it appears you are a bit short of formal training in hand-to-hand combat. And The Sergeant—an expert in such matters—has offered to brush you up. In fact, he leaped at the opportunity."

"I'll bet."

"I shall not have a chance to see you again before you go, so let me leave this with you: Be very careful in your dealings with Maximilian Strange. He is a clever man. And be particularly wary of the man called 'The Mute.' "

"Who is that?"

"He works for Strange, he undertakes such physical punishments as Strange considers necessary. We're quite sure he was the one who did for Parnell-Greene. Evidently he does such things for pleasure. So do be careful, there's a good fellow."

"What on earth happened to you?" Maggie's surprise converted into laughter, which she suppressed as soon as Jonathan's eyes told her he had no intention of being a good sport about his condition. "Do leave your shoes outside. I'll ask one of the boys to clean them." The corners of her mouth curled. "If he can find them, that is."

Jonathan stopped cold in the act of prying his shoes off while trying to avoid the cakes of mud and grass. He drew a very deep sigh of self-control, then continued. His fingers slipped, and he came up with a handful of mud.

Maggie did not laugh. Pointedly. "Come along up. I'll draw you a nice hot bath."

He growled.

His eyes closed, his elbows floating loose, he soaked in the large old-fashioned tub, only his mouth and nose out of the steaming water. But it was some time before the heat penetrated to his frozen marrow. Maggie perched on the edge of the tub, attending to him with a blend of maternity and laughter in her gamin face.

"What shall we do with these trousers?" she asked, holding them at arm's length between thumb and forefinger before letting them drop to the floor with a squishing sound.

He heard the reverberating rumble of her speech from under the water, but he could not make out the words. "What?" he asked, lifting his ears above surface.

"I was just asking... oh, never mind."

"You seem to be taking my condition rather lightheartedly."

"No. No."

"People die of exposure, you know."

"I'll fetch you a towel."

"Exposure to the elements. Do you still think this is funny?"

She shook her head.

"Why have you turned your back to me? Can't you look me in the face and tell me you don't think this is funny?"

She shook her head again.

"All right, lady. You have a count of five, at the end of which in you come to join me."

"I'm all dressed!"

"Two."

"What happened to one?"

"Four."

"You wouldn't...!"

The sere, middle-aged cleaning woman looked up from her sweeping and gasped. Approaching her down the hall were Jonathan and Maggie wrapped in towels, she with her dripping clothes over her arm, and he his torn and muddy ones. For the benefit of their round-eyed spectator, he shook Maggie's hand and thanked her for a delightful time. She asked if he would care to drop into her room for a while before lunch, and he said yes, he thought that might be fun. Then he turned to the chambermaid. "Would you care to join us?"

Horrified, speechless, she backed against the wall and held the broom handle protectively before her chest. It was perfectly adequate coverage. He shrugged, said something about ships passing in the night, and followed Maggie to her room.

"How are you going to dress?" Maggie asked as soon as the door was closed.

"I'll go to my own room as soon as I think the maid has left. I wouldn't want to spoil her orgy of outrage." He lay on her bed and stretched his body to get the kinks out. "Were you able to find out anything about the Feeding Station?"

"Hm-m, yes. Rather more than I'd care to know, really. It's a ghastly business."

"Tell me."

"Well... that man—the one in your bathroom the other night. He was a product of the Feeding Station. Yank told me all about it. He didn't want to at first, but once he started, it came gushing out, like something he needed to be rid of."

He leaned up on one elbow. Her tone told him she was finding it difficult to talk about it.

She slipped into a bathrobe and sat on the bed beside him. "Evidently the concept of the Feeding Station is a result of the two problems faced by MI-5 and 6 and Loo. The first is the problem of defection and treachery within their ranks. These aren't very common, but they are dealt with vigorously. In fact, the defectors are assassinated. You do the same in the United States, I believe."

"Yes. The assassinations are called 'sanctions' if the target is someone outside the CII, and 'maximum demotes' if the target is one of their own men."

"Well, it seems that these assassinations were often difficult and awkward. There were bodies to dispose of; the police nosing about; and the Loo man who performed the assassination had to surface to award the punishment, maybe thereby stripping his cover for some more important task. So this was the first problem: the difficulty of performing assassinations."

"The second problem?"

"Corpses. Recently dead bodies are at a premium. They are used by the various branches of intelligence for setups, like the one you were victim of. And it seems they also use them as the ultimate deep cover for an active who has to go underground. Rather than simply disappear, the agent dies, or seems to. And there is no better cover than being dead and buried. They also use corpses to leak misguiding information to the other side—whoever that may be at the moment."

"How do they do that?"

"Evidently, a man is found in his hotel room dead of a heart attack, or perhaps he dies in a fatal traffic accident. And he has certain information on him that identifies him as a courier, together with some false data Loo wants implanted. In Lisbon or Athens—wherever the police are for sale—the other side ends up with the false information. They never imagine that a man would give his life just to fob off a bit of rot on them, so they always take it at face value."

"I see. So the Vicar put one and one together and decided to use the bodies of men written off for assassination to fulfill the Loo's need for fresh corpses. I assume they kidnap them and bring them to the Feeding Station to hold until they're needed."

"I don't know. I suppose so. I do know that bodies from the Feeding Station are always in short supply in relation to the needs of the services. The fact that the Vicar used one to rope you in gives you some idea of the importance of this affair, and of your importance to its success."

"I'm flattered. But why is the establishment called the 'Feeding Station'?"

"Well..." She rose and lit a cigarette. "That's the really grisly part of the matter—the part that upsets Yank so. It seems they are kept all doped up at a small farm back in the country near here. And they are fed... oh, lord."

"Go on."

"...and they are fed on special diets. You see, Loo discovered that the first thing the Russians do when they have a corpse in want of identification is to pump its stomach and check the contents. And it wouldn't do for a supposed Greek to produce the remnants of steak-and-kidney pie. So, along with matters of proper clothing, the right dust in the trouser cuffs, and all that sort of business, they have to be sure the right food is..." She shrugged.

"Thus: the Feeding Station. They're quite a bunch, these Loo people."

"I feel sorry for Yank, though. His reaction to the whole thing is so violent, you forget for a moment that he's part of it."

"Yeah, he's an odd one to find in this business. Of course, they're all odd ones in this business, come to think of it."

"But we're involved in this. We're not odd."

"No! Christ, no. Come over here."

Jonathan was resting in his room after lunch when Yank knocked and entered. "Greetings, Gate. I've just come from the Guv. He laid everything out for me. How do you feel about our working together on this gig?" He sat in the overstuffed chair and put his feet up on the dresser.

Jonathan had been shielding his eyes from the light, his arm thrown across his face, and Yank's potpourri of slang gleaned from a span of thirty years evoked the image of a bearded and sandaled man wearing a zoot suit and a porkpie hat. Jonathan lifted his arm and squinted at Yank. "I can dig it," he said, getting into the spirit of the thing.

"First thing, of course, you'll need a gun." Yank's tone was heavily serious. He'd been around. He knew about these things.

Jonathan dropped his arm back over his eyes and sighed. It was just like working again for CII. A kind of inefficient, rural CII. Each event had a lived-in feeling. "Right. Of course. The gun. I don't want to carry it. But it should be in my flat when I return."

"Gotcha. The Mayfair flat, or the one on Baker Street?"

"Baker Street. And I'll need two guns. One in the bottom of my shirt drawer, covered by three or four shirts and surrounded by rolled-up socks. The second above it, covered by only one shirt."

"Whatever you say, man. You snap the whip; we'll make the trip. But why two guns hidden in the same place?" Then it dawned. "Oh, I get it! If they search the room, they'll find the top gun and not look further for the other one. Now that is what cool is all about!"

Jonathan lifted his arm and looked at Yank to ascertain if he was real.

"What kind of guns will you be wanting? Our MI-6 lads run to Italian automatics."

"I know they do. They're deadly as far as you can throw them. I want American-made .45 revolvers—five cartridges in, and the hammer down on an empty."

"Not an automatic?"

"No. If there's a misfire, I want something coming up."

"They're awfully bulky, you know." Yank blushed involuntarily. "But then, of course, you know."

Jonathan sighed and sat up. "Listen, when I bring the guns along, I won't be going to a party. And I won't care if the handles match my cummerbund. I am not MI-6."

"Yes. Of course. Sorry." The American accent had disappeared again.

Jonathan lay back and rubbed his temples. "Another thing. Have someone who knows his business dumdum the bullets."

Yank's sporting sense was offended.

"Tell whoever does it that I want to be able to spin a man around if I only hit him in the hand. Lead slugs without jackets. Points both scooped out and crosshatched."

"Yes," Yank said coldly. "I quite understand."

Jonathan smiled to himself. Yank really had no stomach for his job. The romance and peekaboo of being a government agent doubtless appealed to him, but, as his reaction to the Feeding Station had shown, the grisly "wet work" of the business upset him.

But he recovered quickly. "When you get back to your pad, you'll find everything A-okay. I suppose you'll want a box of cartridges? Taped under the toilet top, maybe," he added helpfully.

Jonathan laughed aloud. If he couldn't do it with ten shots, it would be because he was too dead.

"OK. So much for the gun. After tea, you'll be having a little brushup with The Sergeant. He's a top man in both judo and karate. Marine champion in his day. You could learn a lot from him."

Jonathan nodded absently.

Yank swung his feet down from the dresser. "Right. See you later, alligator."

As he left, Jonathan returned to rubbing his temples. "After a while...," he mumbled.

Jonathan and Maggie took tea together in a corner of the phony Tudor dining room beneath a window. She was quiet and distant, and he assumed she was thinking about her role as an inside person at The Cloisters. He was willing to let the silence lie over them. They no longer needed to touch or to talk.

Briefly, a warm sun penetrated the hanging clouds and touched her cupric hair. The light was vagrant and indirect, seeming to come from within the hair, as gloamings seem to rise from the ground. She was looking down, and her eyes were half hidden by her soft lashes.

"You're a beautiful woman, Maggie Coyne," he said matter-of-factly.

She looked up at him, the bottle green eyes caught in a triangle of sunlight.

The light dimmed out as the sun disappeared into a wrap of misty clouds.

Then Yank arrived. "We gotta get to gettin'," he said brightly. "The Sergeant's waiting on you in the exercise room."

Jonathan smiled good-bye to Maggie and followed Yank out of the dining room. As they passed through the lounge, he picked up a back copy of Punch and started thumbing through it idly as they mounted the stairs.

From within the exercise room came the sound of guttural grunts, a shouted open vowel, then, as they entered, the splatting thud of a man being slammed down on the mats.

The room was a converted library with its paneled walls incongruously covered with hanging tumbling mats, as was the parqueted floor. It was directly above the pub, and there was a faint odor of stale beer rising from the floor and mixing with the saline smell of sweat. Henry was just rising from the mats slowly and painfully while another Loo man was kicking at a mat-wrapped beam, his toes curled to take the impact on the balls of his feet. He shouted with each blow as he shifted his practice from a front attack to a lateral one.

In the center of the room, large and hulking in his loosely bound judo jacket, was The Sergeant, his heavy frame oddly graceful as he shuffled toward Henry who was crouched in a defensive posture. Jonathan knew that The Sergeant had seen them enter and would do something to impress him, and he mildly pitied Henry.

Yank leaned against the padded wall and watched in silent admiration as The Sergeant stalked his prey, not bothering to feint and grunt. He carried his hands a bit too high. Bait for the trap, Jonathan thought. Henry feinted at The Sergeant, then went in to take advantage of the high guard. A clutch at the jacket, a sweeping kick, and Henry was in the air. He was not able to lay out fully and achieve the flat, wide distribution fall that would absorb most of the impact, and he came down on one shoulder with a liquid nasal grunt.

Stepping over Henry, and pretending to see them for the first time, The Sergeant said, "Well, bless me if it isn't the American doctor." He was confident and at his ease, for this was his ground.

Jonathan's face was bland. "That was amazing," he said, and The Sergeant thought he detected a hint of nervousness in the way he fingered the magazine.

"Just training, mate. Well, let's get to it. What's your pleasure? Judo? Karate?"

Jonathan looked around helplessly at the other men in the room, who were watching him with much interest and some amusement. The Sergeant had been talking about this encounter all day. "Well, actually, neither one. I suppose you've read my records from CII." He laughed hollowly. "Everyone else seems to have."

The Sergeant closed the distance between them and stood looking down at Jonathan from a three-inch height advantage, his thumbs hooked in his loosely tied black belt. "I looked over the part the Guv give me. But I couldn't make no sense of it. Where it should read 'level of competence,' it said something odd."

"Yes." Jonathan walked past The Sergeant and sat down at a little library table in a protected alcove, set back out of the way of the combatants. The chair he selected left the only vacant one in the corner of the room. "I believe the records said 'not qualified, but passed.'"

"Right. That was it. Now, what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jonathan shrugged and looked up at him with diffident, wide eyes. "Well, it's a peculiar thing. It means that I've never qualified myself in any hand-to-hand sport. Boxing, judo, karate—none of them. But the instructors—men like you—saw fit to pass me anyway."

The Sergeant crossed and stood over him. "Well, you'll not find anything slipshod like that in Loo. If I pass you, you're damned right qualified."

"I suppose you know what's best. But I'd like to explain something to you." Jonathan searched hard for the right words, and as he did so, he stared absentmindedly at The Sergeant's crotch. Growing uncomfortable, The Sergeant shuffled for a moment, then sat down in the corner chair opposite Jonathan.

Jonathan's demeanor was uncertain. "Well, if I explain this weird thing to you, perhaps you can give me some pointers that will help me improve my tactics."

"That's what I'm here for, mate."

"You see. Although I have never learned much about formal methods of fighting, I almost always win. Isn't that odd?"

The Sergeant regarded the slim body across from him. "I'd say you were bloody jammy."

"Perhaps," Jonathan admitted openly. "But there's more to it than that. You see, when I was a boy, I knocked around on the streets. And I was fairly lightweight then too. But I had to find some way to stay in one piece when it came to Fist City." He smiled wanly. "As it did from time to time."

Yank made mental note of the term "Fist City." He would use it someday.

"And how did you manage that?" The Sergeant asked, obviously bored with this talk and eager to get on with it.

"Well, for one thing, I seem to be able to lull the other man into a sense of security. Then, too, I learned that no fight has to last more than five seconds, and the man who lands the first two blows inevitably wins, if he is not bound to conventions of sportsmanship, or to the effete nonsense of any given technique."

The Sergeant wasn't sure, but he felt that there was a knock at his trade in that somewhere. His shoulders squared perceptibly.

Jonathan treated him to the gentle clouded smile that other men had recalled in retrospect. "You see, there's a period of warming up in any fight. The bowing and shuffling of judo; the angry words before a barroom brawl. And I learned that I could do best by attacking with whatever weapon was handy while the other fellow was still pumping himself up for the fight."

The Sergeant snorted, "That's all very well and good, if there's a weapon handy."

Jonathan shrugged. "Oh, there's always a weapon handy. A brick, a belt, a pencil—"

"A pencil!" The Sergeant roared with laughter, then addressed the small audience. "You 'ear this? The yank here toughs up his opponents by tappin' 'em on the head with a pencil! Must take a while!"

Jonathan recalled an incident in Yokohama in which his assailant had ended with a Ticonderoga #3 driven in four inches between his ribs. But he grinned sheepishly at The Sergeant's derision.

For his part The Sergeant no longer felt anger toward Jonathan. It was now scorn. He had seen this kind before. All lip and sass until it came down to the mats.

"No, now really, Sergeant. There must be a dozen useful weapons in this room," Jonathan protested through the light laughter of the lookers-on.

"Like what, for instance?"

Jonathan looked around almost helplessly. "Well, like... I don't know... like this magazine, for instance."

The Sergeant looked disdainfully at the Punch on the table between them. "And what would you do with that? Read him the jokes and make him laugh himself to death?" He was pleased with himself for getting off a good one.

"Well, you could... well, look. If I rolled it up tight, like this. See? Now, wait. You have to get it tight. And when it's compact it weighs more than a stick of wood of the same size. And you know how sharp the edges of paper are. The end here could really cut a fellow up."

"Could it just? Well—"

Eight seconds later he was on his back in a litter of table and chairs, and Jonathan stood over him, the back of an inverted chair crushing hard against his larynx. Blood oozed from The Sergeant's eye socket, where the end of the magazine had been jabbed home with a cutting, twisting motion. The thrust into his stomach had brought The Sergeant's hands down and had left his nose undefended for the crunching upward smash of the magazine that broke it with pain that eddied to his gut and the back of his throat. The flat-handed cymbals slap on his ears had punctured the eardrums with air implosion, so he could barely hear what Jonathan growled at him from between clenched teeth.

"What are you going to do now, Sergeant?"

The Sergeant couldn't answer. He was gagging under the pressure of the chair in his throat, and his temples throbbed with the pulse of blocked blood.

"What are you going to do now?" Jonathan's voice was guttural and subhuman. He was in the white fury necessary to key himself to put bigger men away so totally that they never thought of coming back after him.

The Sergeant managed a strangled sound. He couldn't see well through the blood, but he caught a terrifying glimpse of Jonathan's glassy, gray green eyes.

Jonathan closed his eyes for a second and breathed deeply, calming himself from within. The adrenaline rush was still a lump in his stomach.

He spoke quietly. "I could have done that with half the punishment. But I figured the apologetic little man in my bathroom owed you something."

He released the pressure and set the chair aside. As he pulled down his cuffs so that the proper one-half inch protruded from his jacket, he said, "I'll bet I know the words you're looking for, Sergeant: not qualified, but passed. Right?"

Jonathan was sitting alone in the hotel bar, sipping a double Laphroaig when Yank joined him.

"Oh, brother! You really whipped his pudding for him. Had it coming, I reckon."

Jonathan finished his drink. "You reckon that, do you?"

Yank slid onto the barstool next to him. "I guess you'll be going back to London in the morning. When you get to your flat, you'll find a list of telephone numbers there—one for each day. You can use them to keep me informed of your progress, and I'll pass the good word on to the Guv. Any questions?"

None small enough for Yank to handle.

"Oh, yeah," Yank said. "About this Vanessa Dyke. I suppose you'll be getting in contact with her to get an angle on entree into The Cloisters. Do you want me to have her watched until you get there?"

"Christ, no."

"But the Guv said that she—"

"She probably met your Parnell-Greene by coincidence."

"Maybe. But she was the last person he reported having met before we found him dead. Of course, you could be right. Maybe it was just a case of two queers getting together to compare notes. Right?"

Jonathan tilted his head back and looked at him coldly. "Miss Dyke is an old friend."

"Sure, but—"

"Get out of here."

"Now, wait a minute. I have—"

"Out. Out."

Yank shuffled nervously for a moment, then he cleared his throat and tried to make an exit without loss of face. "OK, then. I'll be getting back to the city." He made a slow fanning gesture with the fingers of one hand. "Later, sweet patater."

Yank had gone back to London, and Henry had taken The Sergeant to a doctor in the village to attend to his nose and eye, and to see if anything could be done about his hearing, so Jonathan and Maggie had the dining room to themselves. A heavy rain had descended with the evening, enveloping the inn in the white noise of frying bacon. A draft fluttered the candle between them, and she rubbed her upper arms as though she were cold. She wore the muted green paisley gown she had worn on their first evening together—only three nights ago, was it?

Despite moments of laughter and animation, their contact was uncertain and frail, and several times he realized that they had been silent for rather a long time, each in his own thoughts. With a little effort he would pick it up again, but the chat invariably thinned into silence again.

"...they tend to be blue this time of year, don't they?"

He had been staring at the rain streaks on the window. "What? Pardon me?"

"Tangerines."

"Oh. Yes." He looked out the window again, then he frowned and looked back to her. "Blue?"

She laughed. "You were miles away."

"True. I'm sorry."

"You're leaving in the morning?"

"Hm-m."

"Going to take up this line of contact through your friend... ah?"

"Vanessa Dyke. Yes, I suppose so. It seems the only angle we've got on getting me into The Cloisters. I can't believe she really has anything to do with all this, though."

"I hope not. I mean, if she's a friend of yours, I hope not."

"Me too." He tilted back his head and looked at her for a moment. "The Vicar told me you were to be placed inside The Cloisters."

She nodded, then she examined the cheese board with sudden discretionary interest. He realized that she was trying to pass over the thing, make it seem less important than it was. "Yes," she said. "They've found a way to locate me inside by tomorrow night. Would you like a little of this Brie? It's Brie de Meaux, I think."

"Brie de Melun, actually. It'll be dangerous inside there, you know."

"You know, I'm as bad at cheese as I am at wine."

"The Vicar said you volunteered to work inside."

"Did he?" Her arched eyebrows and playful green eyes slowly dissolved to a calmer, less protected gaze, then she lowered her lashes and looked at the cheese knife, which she aimlessly pushed back and forth with her finger. "I guess I lack great moral strength. I can't carry such burdens as guilt and shame very far. By helping you now, I hope I'll be able to convince myself that I've made up for getting you into this thing. Because..." She looked up at him and smiled. "Because... I've grown a little fond of you, sir." The saccharinity of this last was diluted by her broad comic brogue.

Her hand was available for pressing, but that was hardly the kind of thing Jonathan would do.

They got through coffee and cognac without any need for conversation. The rain had stopped, and the enveloping sound that had gone unnoticed was palpable in its absence. The new, denser silence contributed to the emptiness of the drafty dining room and the dimming of candle flames drowning in melted wax to produce a voided, autumnal ambience.

"They've put a car at my disposal," Jonathan said, voicing the last step of a thought pattern. "I suppose I could go into London tonight. Get my mind sorted out against tomorrow."

"Yes. You could."

"Then I'd be able to call on Vanessa first thing in the morning."

"Shall I come help you pack?"

"Do you think that's wise?"

"No."

"Come help me pack."

It was early dawn when he loaded his suitcase into the yellow Lotus, pressing the boot closed so as not to disturb the misty silence. His hands came up wet from the coating of dew that smoked the car. A bird sounded a tentative note, as though seeking avian support for his suspicion that this grudging gray might be morning. No confirmation was forthcoming. There was no sky.

"Yes," he muttered to himself, "but what about the early worm?"

The interior of the car was coldly humid, and it smelled new. He turned on the wipers to clear the windscreen of condensation, then he looked up toward the window of her room before pressing the stiff gearbox into reverse and easing back over the crunching gravel.

He had untangled himself from her carefully and eased out of bed so as not to disturb her. Her position had not changed when he returned from the bathroom, dressed and shaven. He had looked up at her with a wince when the locks of his suitcase snapped too loudly, but she didn't move. As he eased the door open, she said in a voice so clear he knew she had been awake for some time.

"Keep well."

"You too, Maggie."

Putney

The Lotus was tight and the roads were clear that early in the morning, so Jonathan pulled into the parking area of the Baker Street Hotel far too early to telephone Vanessa, who was a constitutionally nocturnal animal. He bought a few newspapers in the lobby and ordered breakfast sent up to his penthouse flat, and an hour later he was sitting before an untidy tray, newspapers littered around him. Time passed torpidly, and he found himself staring through the page of print, his mind on the unknown persona of Maximilian Strange. With sudden decision, he rose and located Sir Wilfred Pyles's number in his rotary file. After a sequence of guardian secretaries at the U.K. Cultural Commission, Sir Wilfred's hearty and gruffly civil voice said, "Jon! How good of you to call so early in the morning."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that."

"Quite all right. Coincidentally, I just opened a letter from that academic wallah—whatshisname, the Welshman?"

"fforbes-Ffitch?"

"That's the one. Seems he has a plot to send you off to Sweden on some kind of lecture series. Asked me to use my good offices to persuade you to go."

"He doesn't give up easily."

"Hm-m. National trait of the Welsh. They call it laudable determination; others see it as obtuse bull-headedness. Still, one becomes used to it. Teachers and baritones constitute the major exports of Wales, and one can't blame them for trying to be rid of both. But look here, if you are determined to scatter gems of insight on the saline soil of the Vikings, you can count on the commission's support."

"That's not what I called you about."

"Ah-ha."

"I need a bit of information."

"If it's within my power."

"How are your contacts at MI-5?"

"Oh." There was a prolonged pause at the other end of the line. "That kind of information, is it? As I told you, I've been on the beach for several years."

"But surely your contacts haven't dried up."

"Oh, I suppose I still have some of that influence that accompanies the loss of power. But before we go further, Jon... you're not up to any nastiness, are you?"

"Fred!"

"Hm-m. I warn you, Jon—"

"Just a background check—maybe with an Interpol input."

"I see." Sir Wilfred was capable of subarctic tones.

"I want you to run down a name for me. Will you do it?"

"You are absolutely sure you're not engaged in anything that will bring discomfort to the government."

"I could mention times when we were working together and you were strung out."

"Please spare me. All right. The name?"

"Maximilian Strange. Any bells?"

"A faint tinkle. But it's been years since I've been involved in all that. Very well. I'll call you later this afternoon."

"I'd better call you. I can't be sure of my schedule."

"I'll need a little time. About five?"

"About five."

"Now I have your word, haven't I, that you're not up to anything detrimental to our side? Because if you are, Jon, I shall be actively against you."

"Don't worry. I'm working for the White Hats. And if anything were to blow, you could rely on 'maximum deniability.' "

Sir Wilfred laughed. They had always made fun of the advertising agency argot that riddled CII communications.

"If any questions come up, Fred, just pass the buck to me."

"Precisely what I had intended to do, old man."

"You're a good person."

"I've always felt that. Ciao, Jon."

"Tchüss."

After waiting another long half hour, Jonathan dialed Vanessa Dyke's number. He arranged to drop over for a cup of tea and a chat. She seemed a little reluctant to meet him, but their friendship of years turned the trick. After he hung up, he spent a few minutes looking out his window over Regent's Park, sorting himself out. Two things had bothered him about the conversation with Van. Her speech had been blurred, as though she had been drinking. And the first question she had asked was: "Are you all right, Jon?"

He had never visited Vanessa in London, and the minute he stepped from the Underground station, he felt that this part of Putney was an odd setting for her vivacious, pungent personality. The high street was typical of the urban concentrations south of the river, its modest Victorian charm scabbed over by false fronts of enameled aluminum and glass brick; short rows of derelict town houses stared blind through uncurtained and broken windows, awaiting destruction and replacement by shopping centers; the visual richness of decay was diluted here and there by the mute cube of a modern bank; and there were several cheap cafes featuring yawning waitresses and permanent table decorations of crumbs and spills.

Clouds and smoke hung in umber compound close above the housetops, and a dirty drizzle made the pavements oily. Every woman pushed a pram containing a shopping bag, a laundry bag, and, presumably, a baby; and every man shuffled along with his head down.

Monserrat Street was a double row of shabby brick row houses, built with a certain architectural nostalgia for Victorian comfort and permanence, but with the cheaper materials and sloppier craftsmanship of the 1920s. The shallow gardens were tarnished and scruffy, the occasional autumn flower dulled by soot, and all looking as though they were maintained by the aged and the indifferent. An abnormal number of houses were vacant and placarded for sale, an indication that West Indians were approaching the neighborhood.

The garden at #46 was a pleasant contrast to the rest. Even this late in the season, and even in this color-sucking weather, there was an arresting balance and control that used the limited space comfortably. The hydrangeas were particularly consonant with the district and the mood of the climate; moist and subtle in mauve, blue, and tarnished white.

"Tragedy struck the life of noted art critic and scholar when his swinging, ballsy image was abruptly shattered yesterday afternoon." Van stood at her door, leaning against the bright green frame, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in the same hand.

"Hello, Van."

"...Bystanders report having observed this internationally notorious purveyor of manly charm engaged in the mundane and middle-class activity of admiring hydrangeas."

"OK. OK."

"...Reports differ as to the exact hue of the flowers under question. Dr. Hemlock refuses comment, but his reticence is taken by many to be a tacit admission that he is becoming older, mellower, and—so far as this reporter can see—wetter with each minute he stands out there. Why don't you come in?"

He followed her into a dark overfurnished parlor, its Victorian fittings, beaded lampshades, antimacassars, and velvet drapes the antithesis of the black-and-white enamel, ultramodern apartment that had been hers when first they met in New York fifteen years earlier. Only the Swiss typewriter on a spool table by the window and a tousled stack of notes on the sill gave evidence of her profession. It was difficult to imagine that her regular flow of journalistic art criticism, with its insight and acid, had its source in this quaint and comfortable room.

"Want a drink, Jon?"

"No, thank you."

"Why not? Somewhere on the high seas at this moment, the sun is over the yardarm."

"No, thanks."

She dropped into a wing chair. "So? To what do I owe the honor?"

Jonathan toyed with a vase of cut hydrangeas on the court cupboard. "Why are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable, Van?"

She ignored his question. "I hate hydrangeas. You know that? They smell like women's swimming caps. Similarly, I hate flowery oriental teas. They smell like actresses' handbags. You'll notice I didn't say 'purses.' That's because I abhor sexual imagery. It's also because I eschew olfactory inaccuracy." She leaned back against the wing of the chair and looked at him for a second. "You're right. I'm feeling nasty, and I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable. 'Cause we're old friends, pal-buddy-pal. You know what? You are the only straight in the world with soul."

Jonathan sat opposite her in a floral armchair, not because he felt like sitting, but because it seemed unfair to stand over her when she was so obviously distressed and off-balance. He had never heard her throw up so thick a haze of words to hide in. Her back was to the window, and its wet, diffused light illuminated her face with unkind surgical accuracy. The short black hair, seme with gray, looked lifeless, and the lines etched in her thin face constituted a hieroglyphic biography of wit and bitterness, laughter and intelligence—accomplishment without fulfillment.

"How are the Christians treating you, madam?" he asked, recalling the opening cue of a habitual pattern of banter from the old days.

She didn't pick up the cue. "Oh, Jon, Jon. We grow old, Father Jonathan, lude sing goddamn. Well, to hell with them all, darling. A pestilence on their shanties—wattles, clay, and all. And the lues take their virgin daughters." She lit a cigarette from the stub of the last. "Let's get to your business. I suppose it's about that guy I introduced you to at Tomlinson's? The guy with the Marini Horse?"

"No. Matter of fact, I'd forgotten all about him."

"He hasn't contacted you again since that evening?"

"No."

He could see the tension drain from her face. "I'm glad, Jon. He's a good person to avoid. A real bad actor."

"He pays well, though."

"Faust could have said that. Well then! If it's not the Marini Horse, what impels you to break in on my matronly solitude?"

He paused and collected himself before launching into what was sure to be an imposition on an old friendship. "I'm in some trouble, Van."

She laughed. "Don't worry about it. These days, it's no worse than a bad cold."

"I have to get into The Cloisters."

For a moment, she was suspended in mid-gesture, reaching for her glass. Then she looked him flat in the eyes, shifting her glance from one pupil to the other, her eyes narrowed in her attempt to analyze his intent. She sat back deep in her chair and sipped her drink in cold silence.

After a time she said, "Why The Cloisters? That isn't your kind of action. Too baroque."

"We grow old, Mother Vanessa. We need help."

"Oh, bullshit!"

"OK. I told you I was in trouble. Explaining will deepen my trouble. And it might give you some. I'm mixed up with some nasty people, and they'll do old Jonathan in, unless he can get into The Cloisters and accomplish something for them."

"And you came here to cash in old debts of friendship."

"Yes."

"Dirty bastard."

"Yes."

She stood up and wiped the haze off a pane of the window, and for a while she stared out past the garden and rain to the dull brick façades across the street. She ran her fingers through her cropped hair and tugged hard at a handful. Then she turned to him. "Now I insist you have a drink with me."

"Done."

She poured out a good tot of Laphroaig and passed him the glass. Then she perched herself up on the wide windowsill and spoke while looking out on the rain, squinting one eye against the smoke that curled up from the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. "I'd better tell you first off that you're in more trouble than you know. I mean... Jon, I don't know how much pressure these people can bring to bear on you to force you to try to get into The Cloisters, but it better be pretty big league. Because The Cloisters people are maximal bad asses. They could kill you, Jon. Honest to God."

"I know."

"Do you? I wonder. You remember reading about this Parnell-Greene? The one in the tower of St. Martin's? The Cloisters people did that. And think of how they did it, Jon. That wasn't just a killing. That was an advertisement. A warning in good ol' Chicago gangland style."

"I've been filled in on Maximilian Strange's response to intruders."

She drew a very long oral breath. "Maximilian Strange. Jon, you're in worse trouble than I thought. I wish I could tell you. But if I did, I'd run a fair risk of being killed. I know that I've often described my life as a pile of shit." She smiled wanly. "But it's the only pile of shit I've got."

Jonathan leaned forward and took her hand. "Van, I'm very sorry you're in this thing at all. I'm not asking you to get me into The Cloisters yourself, because I know they could trace it back to you. Just put me onto someone who can. You know it's important, or I wouldn't ask."

She stood and set her glass aside. "Let me think about it while I make us a pot of tea. We'll drink tea and watch the rain."

"Sounds fine. I'd like that."

As he glanced over the titles of some of her books, she made tea in the kitchen, talking to him all the while in a heightened voice. "You know, scruffy and middle class though it is, I really love this house, Jonathan. I bought it, and fixed it up, and painted it, and swore at the plumbing—all by myself. And I love it. Especially at night when I'm working by the window and I can watch nameless people shuffle by in the rain. Or on days like this, drinking tea."

"It's a great place, Van."

"Yeah. You're about the only person from the old New York bunch who would understand that. The little row house, the antimacassars, the mauve hydrangeas—all pretty far from the image I used to cut."

"True. Even the other evening at Tomlinson's you were still playing it for superbutch."

"I know it's silly. I just feel impelled to be the first to say it. You know what I mean?"

"I know.

"What?"

"I know!"

"Still. This is the real me. Little lady peeking through lace curtains. Cup of tea in hand. Brilliant statement taking form on my typewriter. Gas fire hissing in hearth. Christ, I'll be glad when I get so old I'm never horny. Being on the hunt makes you act such a fool." She came in with a small pot under a cozy and two Spode cups, and pulled her chair up close to his and poured. "I used to fear the thought of becoming an ugly old woman. But now that I'm there, I can tell you this: It beats hell out of being an ugly young girl."

Jonathan raised his cup. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Jon."

They drank in silence as the rain stiffened against the window.

"Grace," she said at last.

"Madam?"

"The person who can get you into The Cloisters. A really beautiful black woman who owns a club in Chelsea. She's very close to Strange."

"Her name is Grace?"

"Yes. Amazing Grace. Kind of a stage name, I suppose. A nom de guerre. Her club is superposh with expensive drinks and cute little black hookers with tiny waists and fine wide asses. But she's the real attraction herself."

"Beautiful?"

"Oh Christ yes!"

"Amazing Grace. Great name."

"Great chick. Her place is called the Cellar d'Or. It doesn't open until midnight."

Jonathan finished his tea and put down the cup. "I better get a lot of sleep before I go over there. It may be a long night."

Vanessa walked him to the door. "Listen, old friend and aging stud, you'll take real care of yourself, won't you?"

"I will. Now, let's think about you. Is there somewhere you could go for a few days? Somewhere well away from here?"

"I see your point. There's a woman I know in Devon. She writes mysteries."

"...and she lives in a cottage, keeps a Siamese cat, and drinks red wine."

Her eyebrows lifted.

"No, I don't know her, Van. It's just that people love to play out their stereotypes."

"Even you?"

"Probably. But it's hard to recognize. I'm a typical example of a species of which there is only one living specimen."

"Blowhard bastard."

"Right family, but what's the genus?"

"Wiseass?"

"I didn't know you were up on animal taxonomy. But seriously, Van. You will get out of town, won't you?"

"Yes, I will."

"This afternoon?"

"I have a little work to do. I'll get through it as soon as I can."

"Make sure you do."

She smiled. "For a cold-blooded bastard, you're not a bad guy. Come, give us a big hug."

They embraced firmly.

Halfway down the walk, he stopped to smell the wet hydrangeas again. "I've got a problem," he told Vanessa who was leaning against the bright green door, the Gauloise dangling from her lips. "I can't remember what bathing caps smell like."

"Like hydrangeas," Van said.

Back in the gaudy Baker Street flat, he stretched full length on the bed he and Maggie had used a few days before. Beyond the windows, a cold wet evening had already descended, and he lay in the growing gloom, alone and unmoving, putting himself together for whatever lay ahead at the Cellar d'Or.

Amazing Grace. Outlandish name, but somehow consonant with this whole bizarre business. This was not at all like his sanction experiences with CII. Those had been simple mechanical affairs. He had taken an assignment only when he really needed the money, and had gone to Berne or Montreal or Rome, met a Search agent who had already done all the background work, and received the complete tout on the target: his habits, the layout of his home or office, his daily routine. And after working it out, he had walked in, performed the sanction, and walked away. They were never real people; only faceless beings, most of them examples of the humanoid fungus that populates the world of espionage—scabs and pus pots the world was better rid of.

And there had been very little personal danger for him. He traveled freely under his professional role of art historian. He had no motive, no personal relation to the target. He didn't even have fingerprints. CII had seen to that. When he became a sanction active, his fingerprints disappeared from all government, police, and army files.

But this Loo business was different. He hated this job, and he was afraid of it. He had quit working for Search and Sanction because his nerves had become frayed, and because his tolerance for working with well-meaning patriotic monsters had worn thin. And now he was older, and the task was more complicated. And there was Maggie to look after. The ingredients of disaster.

Shit!

But they had him. Loo and that damned vicar had him against the wall. And he wasn't going to prison for murder, even if it meant killing a dozen Maximilian Stranges.

He ran a shallow meditation unit and got some rest that way, slightly under the surface of the still pond he projected on the back of his eyelids.

He snapped out of it. It was time to call Sir Wilfred Pyles.

"Don't speak," Sir Wilfred said directly they were connected. "Fifteen minutes. This number." He gave Jonathan a number, then hung up.

During the fifteen minutes before he dialed, Jonathan sat hunched over the instrument, realizing that something had tumbled. Sir Wilfred obviously couldn't use his own phone for fear of a tap and he had doubtless moved to a public phone to await the call.

The phone was picked up on the first ring. "Jon?"

"Yes."

"I assume you have the picture?"

"Yes."

"Rather like old times, eh?"

"I'm afraid so. I take it something tumbled."

"Indeed it did! You're into something very hot, Jon. I rang up an old chum in MI-5 and asked him to run a little check for me. They often do it for old boys who want to sort out a business acquaintance, or a call girl. He said he'd be delighted to. It seemed a piece of cake. But when I mentioned the name of your Maximilian Strange, he froze up and asked me to hold the line. Next thing you know, one of those intense young spy wallahs was talking to me, demanding to know details. Well, I fobbed him off as best I could, but I'm sure he saw right through me."

"So you weren't able to find out anything."

"Well, nothing directly. But their reactions speak volumes. If that constitutionally lethargic lot in MI-5 were stirred to action by the mere mention of your fellow's name, he must be top drawer. You haven't gotten to Bormann by any chance?"

"No, nothing like that."

"I'm afraid I've done you a disservice, Jon. MI-5 is on to you."

"You told them my name?"

"Of course. Surely you haven't forgotten the code of our line of work: every man for himself."

"...and fuck the hindmost."

"You must be thinking of the Greek secret service. Well, tchüss, Jon."

"Ciao, buddy."

Jonathan raked his fingers through his hair, and took several deep oral breaths before lying back on the bed.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

He lay there for hours, forcing himself to doze occasionally. Eventually, he swung out of bed and prowled around the house for something to eat. He was not really hungry; he had taken care of that before coming up to his flat, eating a large meal of slow-burning protein; treating his body, as he used to in his mountain-climbing days, as a machine requiring the right fuel, the proper amount of rest, the correct exercise. He had eaten correctly. If there was any action tonight, it would come between midnight and three o'clock. The protein would be in mid-burn by then, and he would have consumed two or three drinks—just the right amount of fast-burning alcohol.

A goddamn machine!

It was only to fill the time and distract his mind that he looked around for food. As usual, wherever he lived, the only food in the place was a chaotic tesserae of exotic bits. He had always had a fascination for rare foods, and he enjoyed wandering about in the gourmet sections of large department stores, picking up whatever struck his fancy. His search of the kitchen produced a small jar of macadamia nuts, a tin of truffles in brine, preserved ginger, and a half bottle of Greek raisin wine. He ate the lot.

As he wandered through his flat, turning off lights behind him, it occurred to him to check the guns he had asked Yank to stash for him. His directions for concealment had been followed exactly. He took one out and examined it. The bulky blue steel .45 revolver felt heavy and cold in his hand as he snapped out the cylinder and checked the load. The slugs were scooped and a deep cross had been cut into the head of each. No range. No accuracy to speak of. The bullet would begin to tumble five yards from the barrel. But when it hit, it would splat as wide and thin as a piece of tinfoil, and a nick in the forearm would slam the victim down as though he had been struck by a train. Good professional job of dumdumming.

He considered taking one of the guns with him to Chelsea. Then he decided against it. It was impossible to conceal a howitzer like this, and a pat down would tip him before he had come within striking distance of The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange. He'd just have to be careful.

He flicked the cylinder back and replaced the gun.

The phone rang.

"What's up, Doc?"

"Why are you calling, Yank?"

"Oh, I got a couple of things up my sleeve. My arm, for one. No laugh? Oh, well. Then tell me this: How did things go with Miss Dyke?"

"I had a pleasant visit."

"And?"

"And I got a possible lead to The Cloisters."

"Oh? What was it?"

"I'll tell you about it if it works out."

"No, you'd better tell me about it now. The Vicar wants to know what you're up to at every moment. He wouldn't want to have to start back at square one if something were to happen to you. Or if you were to do something foolish."

"Like?"

"Like try to run off. Or sell out. Or something like that. Not that I really think you would. Having met the Vicar, I think you have a pretty good idea of what he would do to anyone who tried to do the dirty on him."

"Ship me off to the Feeding Station?" Jonathan brought that up on purpose.

After a swallow: "Something like that. So tell me. What is your lead to The Cloisters?"

"A woman named Grace. Amazing Grace. She runs a place called the Cellar d'Or. Mean anything to you?"

"Are you sure it's a woman?"

"What do you mean?"

"Amazing Grace is a hymn, after all. Get it?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

"Sorry. No, I never heard of the woman. But I'll check through the Loo files for you. Anything else?"

"Yes. Do you have a tail on me?"

"Pardon?"

"A man's been following me all day. Out to Vanessa's and back. Is he one of yours?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Medium build, blue raincoat, one hundred and sixty pounds, glasses, left-handed, rubbers over his shoes. He's probably standing down in the street right now, wondering how to appear to be reading his newspaper in the dark. If he's not yours, he's MI-5's. Too fucking amateur to be anything else."

"How could he be MI-5? They're not in on this."

"They are now. I made a mistake."

"The Vicar's not going to like that."

"Hard shit. Can you get in contact with MI-5 and pull this guy off? There are probably three of them, the other two out on the flanks. That's normal shadow procedure for your people."

"It could be they're only trying to help."

"Help from MI-5 is like military advice from the Egyptian army. If you don't get rid of them, I'll do it myself, and that will hurt them. I don't want them blowing my scant cover. Remember, I'm the only man you've got in the game."

"Not quite. We've managed to situate Miss Coyne."

"Oh?"

Yank was instantly aware that he had breached security. "More about that later, when we get together with the Vicar for a final briefing. Meanwhile, good hunting tonight. See you in the funny papers."

Jonathan hung up and crossed to the window to look down on the man who had followed him from Vanessa's. Christ, he was getting sick of British espionage. Sick of this whole thing. He indulged his anger for a while, then brought it under control by taking shallow breaths. Calm. Calm. You make mistakes when you're angry. Calm.

Chelsea

As Jonathan stepped from the Underground train at Sloane Square, he was still being followed by the fool in the blue raincoat who had been with him since Vanessa's. Presumably, Yank had not been able to get through to MI-5 and give them the word to discontinue surveillance. Jonathan decided to let him hover out there on his flank. At least he could keep an eye on him until the time came to shake him off, should the shadowing seem to endanger his cover.

Halfway up the tiled exit tunnel he passed an American girl sitting on a parka. Flotsam of the flower tide. She abused a cheap guitar and whined a Guthrie lament, having chosen a spot where the echo would enrich her thin voice with bathroom resonances and allow her to slide off miscalculated notes under the cover of reverberation. She was barefoot, and there was a large rip in the stomach of her tugged and shapeless khaki sweater. The surface of the parka was salted with small coins to invite passersby to contribute to maintenance.

Jonathan dropped no coin, nor did the man following in the blue raincoat.

Once away from the square, he closed into himself as he walked along seeking the address Vanessa had given him. He had no desire to come into contact with the jostling crowds of street people. It had been fifteen years since last he had been in Chelsea. In those days, a few of the young people who chatted in pubs or made single cups of cappuccino last two hours eventually went home to paint or write. But not these youngsters. They neither produced nor supported. Chelsea had always been self-consciously artsy, but now it had become younger, less attractive, more American. Head shops crowded up against the Safeway, and jeans were to be had in a thousand varieties. Discotheques. Whiskey a go-gos. Boutiques with scented candles and merchandise of green stamp quality. Shops vied for obscure names. Tall girls with hunched shoulders clopped along the pavement, and peacock boys swaggered in flared suits of plum velvet, cuffs flapping with dysfunctional bells. Rancorous music bled from doorways. People in satchel-assed jeans stared sullenly at him, an obvious representative of "the establishment," that despised class that oppressed them and paid their doles.

He had hoped the young would spare Chelsea the humiliation they had inflicted on San Francisco, Greenwich Village, the Left Bank. And he was angry that they had not.

But after all, he mused, one had to be fair-minded. These youngsters had their virtues. They were doubtless more content than his generation, hooked as it was on the compulsion to achieve. And these young people were more at peace with life; more alert to ecological dangers; more disgusted by war; more socially conscious.

Useless snots.

He turned off into a side street, past a couple of antique shops, and continued along a row of private houses behind black iron fences. Each had a steep stone stairway leading down to a basement. And one of these descending caves was illuminated by a dim red light. This was the Cellar d'Or.

He sat watching the action from his nook at the back of one of the artificial plaster grottoes that constituted the Cellar d'Or's decor. The light was dim and the carpets jet black, and the uninitiated had to be careful of their footing. The fake stone grottoes were inset with chunks of fool's gold, and all the other surfaces, the tables, the bar, were clear plastic in which bits of sequins and gold metal were entrapped. The glow lighting came from within these plastic surfaces, illuminating faces from beneath. And the air between objects was black.

He sipped at his second, very wet Laphroaig served, as were all the drinks in the club, in a small gold metal chalice. The most insistent feature of the club's bizarre interior was a large photographic transparency that revolved in the center of the room. It was lit from within, and every eye was drawn frequently to the woman who smiled from the full-length photograph. She stood beside what appeared to be a very high marble fireplace, her steady, mildly mischievous gaze directed at the camera and, therefore, at each man in the room, no matter where he sat. She was nude, and her body was extraordinary. A mulatto with café au lait skin, her breasts were conical and impertinent, her waist slight, her hips wide, and perfectly molded legs drew the eye to small, well-formed feet, the toes of which were slightly splayed, like those of a yawning cat. The black triangle of her écu appeared cotton soft, but it was something about the muscles and those splayed toes that held Jonathan's attention. Stomach, arm, leg, and hip, there was a look of lean, hard muscle under the powdery brown skin—steel cable under silk.

That would be Amazing Grace.

The Cellar d'Or was essentially a whorehouse. And a rather good one. All the help—the chippies, the barmen, the waiters—were West Indian, and the music, its volume so low it seemed to fade when one's attention strayed from it, was also West Indian. Despite the general air of ease and rest, the place was moving a fair amount of traffic. Men would arrive, and during their first drink they would be joined by one of the girls who sat in twos and threes at the most distant tables. Another drink or two and some light chat, and the couple would disappear. The girl would return, usually alone, within a half hour. And all this action was presided over by a smiling giant of a majordomo who stood by the door or at the end of the bar and watched over the patrons and the whores with a broad benevolent smile, his jet black head shaved and glistening with reflections of gold. Nothing in his manner, save the feline control of his walk, gave him the look of the professional bouncer, but Jonathan could imagine the cooling effect he would have on the occasional troublemaker, descending on him like a smiling machine of fate and disposing of him with a single rapid gesture that most insouciant lookers-on would mistake for a friendly pat on the shoulder. The giant wore a close-fitting white turtlenecked jersey that displayed a pattern of muscles so marked that, even at rest, he appeared to be wearing a Roman breastplate under his shirt. In age, he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.

One of the girls detached herself from a co-worker and approached Jonathan's table. She was the second to do so, and she looked very nice indeed as she crossed the floor: full-busted, long-legged, and an ass that moved hydraulically.

"You would care to buy me a drink?" she asked, her accent and phrasing revealing that she was a recent immigrant.

Jonathan smiled good-naturedly. "I'd be delighted to buy you a drink. But I'd rather you drank it back at your own table."

"You don't like me?"

"Of course I like you. I've liked you ever since we first met. It's just that..." He took her hand and assumed his most tragic expression. "It's just... you see, I had this nasty accident while I was driving golf balls in my shower and..." He turned his head aside and looked down.

"You are joking me," she said, not completely sure.

"In fact, I am. But I do have some serious advice for you. Did you see that fellow who came in here after I did? The one with the blue raincoat?"

She looked over toward the far corner, then wrinkled her nose.

"Oh, I know," Jonathan said, "he's not as pretty as I am. But he's loaded with money, and he came here because he's shy with women. When you first approach him, he'll pretend he doesn't want anything to do with you. But that's just a front. Just a game he plays. You keep at him, and by morning you'll have enough money to buy your man a suit."

She gave him a sidelong glance of doubt.

"Why would I lie to you?" Jonathan said, offering his palms.

"You sure?"

He closed his eyes and nodded his head, tucking down the corners of his mouth.

She left him and, after a compulsory pause at the bar so as not to seem to be flitting from one fish to another, she patted her hair down and made her way to the far corner. Jonathan smiled to himself in congratulation, sipped at his Laphroaig, and let his eyes wander over the photograph of Amazing Grace. Lovely girl. But time was passing, and he would have to make some kind of move soon if he was going to meet her.

Oh-oh. Maybe not. Here he comes.

Like everything else about the giant, his smile was large. "May I buy you a drink, sir?" Quiet though it was, his voice had a basso rumble you could feel through the table.

"That's very good of you," Jonathan said.

The giant made a gesture to the waiter, then sat down, not across from Jonathan as though to engage him in conversation, but beside him, so they were looking out on the scene together, like old friends. "This is the first time you have visited us, is it not, sir?"

"Yes. Nice place you've got here."

"It is pleasant. I am called P'tit Noel." The giant offered a hand so large that Jonathan felt like a child shaking it.

"Jonathan Hemlock. But you're not West Indian."

P'tit Noel laughed, a warm chocolate sound. "What am I then?"

"Haitian, from your accent. Although your education has spoiled some of that."

"Very good, sir! You are observant. Actually, my mother was Haitian; my father Jamaican. She was a whore, and he a thief. Later, he went into politics and she into the hotel business."

"You might say they swapped professions."

He laughed again. "You might at that, sir. Although I was schooled in this country, I suppose something of the patois will always be with me. Now, you know everything about me. Tell me everything about yourself."

Jonathan had to smile at the disregard for subtlety. "Ah, here come the drinks."

The waiter had not needed an order. He knew what Jonathan was drinking, and evidently P'tit Noel always drank the same thing, a chalice of neat rum.

Jonathan raised his glass to the large transparency of Amazing Grace. "To the lady."

"Oh, yes. I am always glad to drink to her." He drew off the rum in two swallows and set the goblet down on the gold table.

"Beautiful woman," Jonathan said.

P'tit Noel nodded. "I am happy to know you are interested in women, sir. I was beginning to doubt. But if you are holding out for her, you waste your time. She does not go with patrons." He looked again at the photograph. "But yes. She is a beautiful woman. Actually, she is the most beautiful woman in the world." He said this last with the hint of a shrug, as though it were obvious to anyone.

"I'd like to meet her," Jonathan said as casually as possible.

"Oh, sir?" There was an almost imperceptible tensing of the pectoral muscles.

"Yes, I would. Does she ever come in?"

"Two or three times each evening. Her apartments are above."

"And when she comes, is she dressed like that?" he indicated the transparency.

"Exactly like that, sir. She is proud of her body."

"As she should be."

P'tit Noel's smile returned. "It is very good for business, of course. She comes. She takes a drink at the bar. She wanders among the tables and greets the patrons. And you would be surprised how business picks up for the girls the moment she leaves."

"I wouldn't be surprised at all, P'tit Noel."

"Ah. You pronounce my name correctly. It is obvious you are not English."

"I'm an American. I'm surprised you couldn't tell from my accent."

P'tit Noel shrugged. "All pinks sound alike."

They both laughed. But Jonathan only shallowly. "I want to meet her," he said while P'tit Noel's laugh was still playing itself out.

It stopped instantly.

"You have the eyes of a sage man, sir. Why seek pain?" He smiled, and with a sense of comradeship Jonathan noticed that the smile did not come from within. It was a coiled, defensive crinkle in the corners of the eyes. Precisely the gentle combat smile that Jonathan assumed to put the victim off pace.

"Why are you so tight?" Jonathan asked. "Surely many men come in here and express interest in the lady there."

"True, sir. But such men have only love on their minds."

"How do you know I'm not sperm-blind?"

P'tit Noel shook his head. "I feel it. We Haitians have a sense for these things. We are a superstitious people, sir. The moment you came in, I sensed that you were trouble for Mam'selle Grace."

"And you intend to protect her."

"Oh yes, sir. With my life, if need be. Or with yours, should it sadly come to that."

"No doubt about how it would go, is there?" Jonathan said, skipping unnecessary steps in the conversation.

"Actually, none at all, sir."

"There's an expression in the hill country of the United States."

"How does it go, sir?"

"While you're gettin' dinner, I'll get a sandwich."

"Ah! The idiom is clear. And I believe you, sir. But the fact remains that you would lose any battle between us."

"Probably. But you would not escape pain."

"Probably."

"I'll make you a deal."

"Ah! Now I recognize you to be an American."

"Just tell the lady that I want to talk to her."

"She knows you then?"

"No. Tell her I want to talk about The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange." Jonathan looked for the effect of the words upon P'tit Noel. There was none.

"And if she will not see you?"

"Then I'll leave."

"Oh, I know that, sir. I am asking if you will leave without disturbance."

Jonathan had to smile. "Without disturbance."

P'tit Noel nodded and left the table.

Five minutes later he returned. "Mam'selle Grace will see you. But not now. In one hour. You may sit and drink if you wish. I shall tell the girls that you are not a fish." His formal and clipped tone revealed that he was not pleased that Amazing Grace had deigned to receive the visitor.

Jonathan decided not to wait in the club. He told P'tit Noel that he would take a walk and return in an hour.

"As you wish, sir. But be careful on the streets. It is late, and there are apache about." There was as much threat in this as warning.

Jonathan walked through the tangle of back streets slowly, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. Fog churned lazily around the streetlamps of the deserted lanes. He had made a pawn gambit, and it had been passed. He had lost nothing, but his position had become passive. They now made the moves and he reacted. An hour was a long time. Time enough for Amazing Grace to contact The Cloisters. Time enough for Strange to decide. Time enough to send men. Perhaps he had made an error in not bringing a gun.

On the other hand, the Vicar had said The Cloisters people were seeking him out for some reason, and they had been doing so even before Loo had involved him in this thing. If Strange needed him, why would he seek to harm him? Unless they knew he was working for Loo. And how would they know that?

It was a goddamn merry-go-round.

Near a corner, he found a telephone kiosk. His primary reason for leaving the Cellar d'Or had been to phone Vanessa and make sure she was off in Devon and out of the line of fire. As the unanswered phone double-buzzed, his eyes wandered over hastily penned and scratched messages: doodles, telephone numbers, an announcement that one Betty Kerney was devoted to an exotic protein diet. There was a sad graffito penned in a precise, cramped hand: "Mature person seeks company of young man. Strolls in the country and fishing. Mostly friendship." No meeting time; no telephone number. Just a need shared with a wall. After the phone had rung many times, Jonathan hung up. He was relieved to know that Vanessa was out of it.

It was nearly time to return to the Cellar d'Or, and he had seen nothing of the man in the blue raincoat since he had left him trying to disentangle himself from the coyly persistent Jamaican whore, pay for his drink, and collect his raincoat. All this without arousing undue attention. They were an incompetent bunch. Just like the CII.

During his quiet stroll through the fog, he had decided how he would play this thing with Amazing Grace. There were two possibilities. On the one hand, Strange might only have her try to sound him out—discover his reason for seeking him. In that case Jonathan would let Grace know that he was aware of the activities at The Cloisters and of the fact that Maximilian Strange wanted to contact him for some reason. He would tell her he was interested in anything that might prove profitable, if it was safe enough. On the other hand, Strange might have decided to send men to pick Jonathan up and bring him to The Cloisters. In this case it would be important not to seem eager to get inside. He would have to put up some resistance, enough to make it look good. He would have to hurt some of them, while he tried to avoid hurt to himself. Once inside The Cloisters, he would have to play it by ear. It would be a narrow thing.

Damn. If only he knew why Strange was trying to contact him.

He paused for a second beneath a streetlight to get his bearings back to the Cellar d'Or. The blind alley leading to the side entrance was only a block or two from here. There was a shuffling sound down the street, and he turned in time to see a figure jump from the pool of light two streetlamps away.

The blue raincoat. The last thing he needed was this MI-5 ass tagging along. It would make him appear to be bait, and he'd never talk his way out of that.

There was a second of elastic silence, then Jonathan heard another sound, borne on the fog from across the street. There were two more of them.

He ran.

He had only twenty-five yards on them as he broke into the blind mews behind the club and banged loudly at the back door. The noise echoed through the brick cavern, but there was no response. From the dustbins and garbage cans that littered the alley, he found a champagne bottle, which he clutched by the neck, thankful for the weight of the dimpled bottom as he pressed back into a shadowy niche behind a projecting corner of damp brick. The three figures appeared, strung out across the entrance of the alley. Backlit by a streetlight, their long shadows falling before them on the wet cobblestones, they looked like extras from a Carol Reed film. Jonathan could see their featureless silhouettes, mat black in a nimbus of silver phosphorescent fog. He remained motionless, his heart beating in his temples from the effort of his run and from anger at being endangered by these bungling government serfs.

They stopped halfway down the alley and exchanged some muttered words. One seemed to want to go away, another thought they should enter the Cellar d'Or and investigate. After a moment of vacillation, they decided to enter the club. Jonathan pressed back against the wall as they neared. Getting all three was going to be difficult. As they came abreast him, he brought the bottle down on the head of one with a satisfyingly solid crack. The other two jumped away, then rushed at him with well-schooled reactions. Hands clutched at him, a fist hit him on the shoulder; a shoe cracked into his shin. He jerked away with a broad backhand sweep with the bottle that made them dodge back for an instant. One grabbed up a bottle from a dustbin and hurled it. He ducked as it exploded into fragments behind him.

A shaft of light fell upon the scene as the door behind Jonathan opened and the dominating bulk of P'tit Noel filled the frame.

"Thank God," Jonathan said.

Together they waded into the hooligans, and it was over in five seconds. Jonathan used his bottle on one; P'tit Noel struck the other with the flat palms of his open hands, loud concussing blows that splatted against his head and slammed him against the wall.

One of the men was still conscious, sitting against the brick wall, blood streaming from his nose and mouth where P'tit Noel's palm had flattened them. Another was moaning in semiconsciousness. The last was a silent heap among the garbage cans.

P'tit Noel dragged each up in turn by his lapels and held him against the wall with one hand while he opened the man's eyelids with his fingers, professionally checking the set and dilation of the pupils. "They'll live," he said, as a matter of information.

"Pity."

P'tit Noel wiped his palms on the shirt of one of the downed men. "Why don't you step in and brush yourself off, sir," he said over his shoulder. "Mam'selle Grace will see you now."

"What about these yahoos?"

"Oh, I think they will be gone by morning."

P'tit Noel conducted Jonathan to his small living quarters behind the club and offered him the use of his bathroom to clean up. He wasn't really hurt. There was some stiffness in one shoulder, his trousers stuck to his shin where the kick had brought blood, and he was experiencing the mild nausea of adrenaline recession, but he would be fine. As he stepped from the bathroom, P'tit Noel greeted him with a glass of rum, hot and soothing going down.

"You took your time answering the door."

"Actually, I did not hear you knock, sir."

"Then how come you turned up? For which, by the way, much thanks."

"Intuition. Premonition. As I told you, I am Haitian."

"Voodoo and all?"

"You know voodoo, sir?"

"Not really. No."

P'tit Noel smiled. "It exists. I passed some time studying the legal implications of crime committed under its influence. Because of the limits of my British education, I was prone to scoff at first."

"Which limitations are those?"

"The limitations of logic and evidence. Of European sequential thought."

"You were a student in Jamaica?"

"No, I was a lawyer, sir."

Jonathan admired the cool way he laid that on him. "You know, P'tit Noel, you've developed a magnificent way of saying 'sir.' When you use the word, it sounds like an arrogant insult."

"Yes, I know, sir."

P'tit Noel led him up a narrow staircase to the first floor where the ambience was that of the well-appointed town house—totally alien to the gaudy glitter of the club. They passed down a hallway and stopped before a double door of dark oak. P'tit Noel tapped lightly.

"I shall leave you now, sir. You may go in."

Jonathan thanked him again for his intervention, opened the door, and stepped into a lavishly furnished room of crimson damask and Italian marble.

Grace was indeed amazing.

She stood in the middle of the room, wearing a transparent peignoir of a white diaphanous material. Poised, her fine body was even more seductive when covered with a mist of fabric through which the circles of her brown nipples and the triangle of her écu were a dim freehand geometry. But it was her stature that gave Jonathan pause. Little wonder the marble mantel in the photograph had seemed uncommonly high. Amazing Grace was only four feet six inches tall.

"Good evening, Grace," he said, settling his smiling gaze on her large oriental eyes.

Her nose wrinkled up and she laughed hoarsely. "Well, you handled that just fine, Dr. Hemlock."

"I'm unflappable. Particularly when I'm stunned."

"Is that so." She turned away and walked over the thick red carpet toward a little grouping of furniture before the fireplace. The splayed toes of her bare feet seemed to grip the rug. "Don't just stand there, boy. Come on over here and have a drink with me." She lifted a decanter of clear liquid and filled two sherry glasses, then she arranged herself on a small chaise longue, taking up all the space in an unprovocative way that denied the possibility of his joining her on it.

He took his glass and sat across from her and near the crackling wood fire.

"Happy times," she said, lifting her glass and draining it.

"Cheers." He swallowed—then he swallowed again several times to get it down. His eyes were damp and his voice thin when he spoke. "You drink neat Everclear?"

"Honey bun, I don't drink for flavor."

"I see." Jonathan had been surprised by her accent from the first. He had assumed that she, like her staff, was West Indian. But she was American.

"Omaha," she explained.

"You're kidding."

"Sweety, people don't kid about coming from Omaha. That's like bragging about having syphilis. Pour yourself another."

"No. No—thank you. It's good. But no thank you."

She laughed again, a rich brawling sound that was infectious. "Hey, tell me. No shit now. How can a swinging type like you be a doctor? You don't look like you'd waste time jamming nurses behind screens."

"I'm not that kind of doctor. What about yourself? How did you end up in the flesh trade?"

"Oh, just answered an advertisement. 'Positions wanted.' " She hooted a laugh. "But seriously, I did a couple years in Vegas working at a joint that specialized in uncommon meat. My being tiny makes tiny men feel big. Then I decided that management was more fun than labor, so I saved up my money and..." She made an inclusive sweep of her hand.

"It looks like you're doing very well."

"I'll probably make it through the winter." Instantly the shine in her eyes dimmed. "Is that enough?"

"Enough?"

"Small talk, honey bun."

Jonathan smiled. "Almost. One more question. P'tit Noel. Is he your lover? I only ask out of a sense of self-preservation."

"Are you kidding, man? I mean, he's nuts about me and all, that goes without saying. I imagine he'd eat half a mile of my shit just to see where it came from. But we don't fuck. I'm a little girl, and he is a big man. He'd puncture my lungs."

The flood of earthy imagery made Jonathan laugh.

"Besides," she continued, refilling her glass, "I don't use men anymore. When I need it, I have a girl in. Women know where the bits are and what they want. They're more efficient."

"Like the Everclear."

"Right."

He shook his head. "You're amazing, Grace."

She drank off half the glass. "So? What did you want to see me about?"

"I want to see Maximilian Strange."

"Why?"

"I believe he wants to see me."

"Why?"

"I'll ask him when I see him."

"What brought you here?"

Jonathan sighed. "Please, lady. That will slow us down a lot."

"All right. No peekaboo. Tell me why you want to see Max. We're partners. Or didn't you know that?"

Jonathan's eyebrows raised. "Partners? Equal partners?"

She finished her drink and poured another. "No, Max doesn't have any equals. He's one of a kind. The most beautiful man; the most cruel man. He holds all the patents on excitement."

"It sounds like you feel about Strange the way P'tit Noel feels about you."

"That's not far wrong."

Jonathan rose and looked around. "Grace? There's something I want to do. And you can help me."

"Yeah?"

"I've got this problem. How can I tell you this without offending you? Honey, I've got to piss."

"Nut!" She laughed. "It's back there. Through the bedroom."

When he returned she had taken off her peignoir and was standing with her back to the fire, rubbing her bare buttocks and stretching to her tiptoes in the warmth.

"Do you know that you're nude, madam?"

"I like to walk around bare-assed. I feel free. And it turns men on, and I get a kick out of that. 'Cause they ain't going to get nothin'." She said this last in a low-down Ras accent.

"Well, you keep flashing that fine body around, you'll get yourself raped one of these days."

"By you?" she asked with taunting scorn.

"No, I've given up rape. The pillow talk is too limited."

She frowned seriously. "You know, if some stud decided to rape me, I don't think I'd fight it. I'd let him in. Then I'd tighten up the old sphincter and cut it right off."

"What a lesson that would be for him." But her taut, cabled muscles under smooth skin gave the image credibility, and he couldn't help a quick local wince.

His trip to the bathroom had been profitable. There was a window giving out onto a flat metal roof. He had left it open. If they came for him, he'd be able to give them a chase that would prevent anyone from thinking he was overeager to get into The Cloisters.

"Tell me, Grace. When you talked to Strange on the phone, did he give you any idea when he'd like to meet me?"

"What makes you think I called him?"

"You called me Dr. Hemlock. P'tit Noel didn't know my title."

Her feline composure faded perceptibly. "I guess I screwed up, right?"

"A little. But I won't mention it to Strange."

She was relieved, and he realized that Maximilian Strange did not tolerate error—even from partners. "When does he want to meet me?"

"They'll be here any minute now to pick you up."

"Uh-huh. Well, I don't think I can make it tonight. Let's set something up for tomorrow."

She smiled at the thought of anyone thinking about changing Max's plans. "No. He said tonight. He'll be pissed if you're not here."

"He may have to live with that."

At that moment there was the sound of footfalls outside the door. Several men.

She smiled at him and lifted her arms in an exaggerated shrug. "Too late, honey bun."

"Maybe not. You just stand there warming your ass, and don't try to stop me. I'm a real terror against girls of your size." He ran to the bathroom and scrambled out the window onto the metal roof. As he did, he could hear her opening the door and talking rapidly to the men. There were barked orders, and one of the men rushed through the flat toward the bathroom, as the others ran back down the stairs.

Jonathan flattened out against the brick wall beside the bathroom window. A big head came poking out, and he hit it with his fist just behind the ear. The face slapped down against the stone sill with the click of breaking teeth, and the head slid back inside with a moan and a sigh.

His eyes not yet accustomed to the dark, Jonathan crept along the top of the roof on all fours. He came blank up against a brick wall and felt his way along it to a corner. By then his eyes had dilated and he could see dimly. Below him was a narrow gap, a cut of black between two windowless brick buildings. It didn't seem to lead anywhere, so he decided to climb upward, toward the dirty, city-glow smear of fog. The gap was only about four feet wide. He slipped off his shoes and, falling back on his mountain experience, eased out over the void and jammed himself between the two brick walls, his back against one, his feet flat against the other. He executed a scrambling chimney climb, holding himself into the fissure by the pressure of his feet against the opposite wall and inching up at the expense of his suit jacket and a quantity of palm skin. The building before him went up beyond his vision, but the one at his back was only three stories tall. When he got to the lip of the flat roof, he shot himself over with a final thrust with his legs, and he lay panting on the wet seamed metal. He crawled across the roof and looked down. Below was a cobblestone alley strewn with garbage cans, and it appeared to give out onto a street. There was light from a distant streetlamp, and he could see to negotiate a heavy, cast-iron drainpipe that led from the roof to the floor of the alley. From afar, he could hear a call and an answering shout, but he couldn't make out the direction. The descent was fairly easy, but when he landed a piece of broken glass went through his sock into the sole of his foot.

Jesus Christ! The same fucking alley!

He pulled the triangle of glass out and gingerly made his way through the shattered bottles.

It occurred to him how ironic it would be if, in attempting to avoid appearing anxious to get into The Cloisters, he had evaded them altogether.

But no worry on that score. There was a shout. Footfalls. And there they were, two of them in the gap, blocking his exit, their forms punctuating the glowing nimbus of fog. They moved toward him slowly.

"All right, gentlemen. I give up. You win."

But they didn't answer, and by their slow inexorable advance he took it that they wanted some revenge for their toughed-up mate above.

Just then a door opened behind him and he was caught in a shaft of light. It was P'tit Noel.

"Thank God," Jonathan said. He heard the explosive sound of P'tit Noel's openhanded slap to the back of his head, but he didn't feel it. He seemed to float away horizontally, and later he remembered hoping he wouldn't land in the broken glass.

Hampstead

Before opening his eyes or moving, he waited until full consciousness had gradually replaced the spinning nightmare vertigo. He was aware of the rocking motion of the automobile and the harsh drag of the floor carpeting against his cheek each time they turned a corner. He was cramped and stiff, but there was no pain in his head, as there ought to have been. The sick dream of it all was intensified by the dark, so he opened his eyes, and he found himself looking strabismally at the glossy tips of a pair of patent leather shoes not four inches from his nose. Light came and went in raking flashes as they passed by lights.

It was as he tried to sit up that the pain came—a vast swooning lump of it, as though someone were forcing a sharp fragment of ice through the arteries of his brain. His eyes teared involuntarily with the pain, but when it passed, it passed completely, not even leaving behind the throb of a headache. He struggled to a sitting position. They were in a taxi. The three men with him watched his efforts dully, without speaking or offering help. He got to his knees, pulled down the jump seat, and sat on it heavily. There were two men across from him on the back seat, and a third beside him on the other jump seat. The streaked drops of rain on the windows glittered with each passing streetlamp.

He looked down. There was no registration number for the cab in the usual frame between the jump seats. They had evidently taken a leaf from the Chicago gangs, using a private taxi for basic transportation because its vehicular anonymity allowed it to prowl the streets at any hour of the night without arousing undue attention.

The driver, unmoving on his side of the glass partition, was undoubtedly one of them. There were neither door nor window handles on the inside of the passenger compartment. Very professional. Unaided, the driver could deliver a man without additional guard.

Jonathan took stock of the men with him. He could forget the driver. Drivers are never leaders. The man on the jump seat lifted his hand to his swollen, discolored mouth from time to time, gingerly touching the split upper lip. That must be the one who had the misfortune to stick his head out the bathroom window. He inadvertently inhaled orally, and winced with pain as the cold air touched the exposed nerves of his broken front teeth. Jonathan was glad he wasn't alone with this one. The owner of the patent leather shoes who sat facing him was a furtive little man with nervous eyes and a tentative moustache. A diagonal scar, more like a brand than a cut, ran in a glairy groove from the right cheek to the left point of his chin, intersecting his lips and moustache, and giving him the appearance of having two mouths. He sat well over against his armrest to make room for the third man, whose great bulk was arranged in an expansive sprawl. That would be the leader of this little squad. Jonathan addressed him.

"I assume we're going to The Cloisters?" Viscously, the big man brought his heavy-lidded eyes to rest on Jonathan's face where they settled without recognition, not even shifting from eye to eye. The broad face was dominated by an overhanging brow, and his slab cheeks flanked an oval mouth, the thick, kidney-colored lips of which were always moist. So extreme was the droop of his eyelids that he tilted back his head to see, exposing only the bottom half of his pupils. Jonathan recognized the psychological type. He had met them occasionally when working for CII. They were used in low priority sanctions because they were effective, cheap, and expendable. Often they would do "wet work" without pay. Violence was a pleasurable outlet for them.

Attempts at conversation were not going to be fruitful, so Jonathan set to examining his condition. He explored the base of his skull with his fingers and found it only a little tender. The nose was clear, and he could focus his eyes rapidly, so there hadn't been any concussion. The openhanded slap to the back of the neck with which P'tit Noel had put him away is one of the premiere blows in the repertory of violence. It can kill without a bruise and is undetectable without an autopsy to reveal blood clots and ruptured capillaries in the brain. But to use the blow in its middle ranges requires a fine touch. Jonathan had to admire P'tit Noel's skill. Not bad... for a lawyer.

Despite the Haitian's professional art, Jonathan was a mess. His trousers were torn and filthy, his jacket was scuffed from the chimney climb up the brick wall, and he had no shoes. For his meeting with Maximilian Strange, he would lack the social poise and sartorial one-upmanship he usually enjoyed. Even among these goons, he felt awkward.

"Sorry about those teeth of yours, pal," he said unkindly. "You're really going to make a haul when the Tooth Fairy comes around."

The man on the jump seat produced a compound of growl and sneer, which he instantly regretted as the in-suck of air made him twist his head in pain.

The taxi was easing down a steep cobble street, past what appeared through the streaked windows to be large villas of the late eighteenth century. But then they passed an anachronous modern shopping plaza that looked like a project by a first-year design student in a polytechnic. It seemed carved in soap, and the dissonance it obtruded into the fashionable district spoke eloquently of the truism that the modern Englishman deserves his architectural heritage as much as the modern Italian merits the Roman heritage of efficiency and military prowess. Then they turned and reentered an area of fine old houses. Jonathan recognized the district as Hampstead: Tory homes amid Labour inconveniences.

The taxi turned up through open iron gates and into a driveway that curved past the front entrance. They continued around and to the back of the sprawling stone house and pulled up at the rear. The driver stepped out and opened the door for them.

Directed by small unnecessary nudges from behind, Jonathan was conducted into a dimly lit waiting room where two of them stood guard over him while the kidney-lipped hulk passed on upstairs, ostensibly to announce their arrival. Jonathan used this time to sort himself out. Alone, unarmed, rumpled, and off pace, he had to ready himself for whatever turns and twists this evening might take. He stood with his back against a wall and his knees locked to support his weight. Closing his eyes, he ignored his guards as he touched his palms together, the thumbs beneath his chin, the forefingers pressed against his lips. He exhaled completely and breathed very shallowly, using only the bottom of his lungs, sharply reducing his intake of oxygen. Holding the image of the still pool in his mind, he brought his face ever closer to its surface, until he was under.

"All right! You! Let's go!" The dapper little man with two mouths touched Jonathan's shoulder. "Let's go!"

Jonathan opened his eyes slowly. Ten or fifteen minutes had passed, but he was refreshed and his mind was quiet and controlled.

They led him up a narrow staircase and through a door.

He winced and held up his hand to screen away the painfully bright light.

"Here," Two-mouths said, "put these on." He passed Jonathan a pair of round dark glasses that cupped into the eye sockets and had an elastic cord to go around the head.

Six sunlamps on stands were the source of the painful ultraviolet light, and on one of the low exercise tables between the banks of lamps was a man, nude save for a scanty posing pouch, doing sit-ups as a flabby masseur held his ankles for leverage.

Everyone in the room wore the dark green eyecups. Looking around, Jonathan was put in mind of photographs he had seen of Biafran victims with their eyes shot out.

"Welcome..." The exerciser grunted with his sit-up, and he swung forward to touch his forehead to his knees, then lay back again. "Welcome to the Emerald City, Dr. Hemlock. How many is that, Claudio?"

"Seventy-two, sir."

Jonathan recognized the voice just an instant before he recalled the face behind the green eyecups. It was the classically beautiful Renaissance man he had met with Vanessa Dyke at Tomlinson's Galleries. The man with the Marini Horse.

"I assume you're Maximilian Strange?" Jonathan said.

"All right, Claudio. That will be enough." Strange sat on the edge of the padded exercise table and pulled off the eye guards as the ultraviolet lamps were turned off. Taking his glasses off, Jonathan found the normal light in the room oddly cold and feeble in contrast to the glare of the lamps in the hotter end of the spectrum. "I regret your having to wait downstairs while I finished my exercise, Dr. Hemlock. But routine is routine." Strange lay down on the table, and Claudio started to cover him with a thick, cream-colored grease, beginning with the face and neck and working downward. "There is a popular myth, Dr. Hemlock, that exposure to the sun ages one's skin and causes wrinkles. Actually, it's the loss of skin oils that sins against the complexion. An immediate treatment with pure lanolin will replace them adequately. You said you assumed I was Maximilian Strange. Didn't you really know?"

"No. How could I?"

"How indeed? Do you take good care of your body?"

"No particular care. I try to keep it from being stabbed and clubbed and suchlike. But that's all."

"You make a common mistake there. Men tend to consider indifference to their appearance to be a mark of rugged virility. Personally, I celebrate beauty, and therefore, of course, I celebrate artifice. Growing old is neither attractive nor inevitable. The mind is always young. The challenge resides in keeping the body also young." There it was again: that slight jamming of sentence structure that hinted of Strange's German origins. The only other clue was his pronunciation, neither exactly British nor exactly American. A kind of midatlantic sound that one found only on the American stage. "Exercise, sun, diet, and taking one's excesses in moderation," he continued. "That is all that is required to keep the face and body. How old do you think I am?"

"I can only guess. I'd say you were about... fifty-one."

Strange stopped the masseur's hand and turned to look at Jonathan closely for the first time. "Well, now. That is remarkable. For a guess."

"I'd go on to guess that you were born in Munich in 1922." It was showing off, but it was the right thing to do. Jonathan was pleased with the way it was going so far. He was giving the appearance of holding nothing back, not even the fact that he had background knowledge about Strange.

Strange looked at him flatly for a moment. "Very good. I see you intend to be frank." Then he broke into a deep laugh. "Good God, man! What happened to your clothes?"

"I fell down the side of a brick wall."

"How exhibitionistic. Did you have trouble with Leonard?"

"Is Leonard this droopy-eyed ass here?"

"The very man. But your taunts will go unanswered. Poor Leonard is incapable of banter. He is a mute."

Leonard watched Jonathan glassily from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. His meaty face seemed incapable of subtle expression, its heavy-hanging muscles responding only to broad, basic emotions.

Strange climbed from the exercise table and picked up a thick towel. "Will you join me in a steam bath, Dr. Hemlock?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, of course not. And you could use a wash anyway." He led the way. "Few people know the proper way to use lanolin, Dr. Hemlock. It must be applied thickly just after your sunbath. Then you allow the steam to melt off the excess. The pores of the skin retain what is necessary for moisture." He stopped and turned to make his next point. "Soap should never be used on the face."

"You'll forgive me, Mr. Strange, if I find this concern for beauty and youth a little grotesque in a man of your age."

"Certainly not. Why should I forgive you?"

Leonard accompanied the two of them to the tiled dressing room that separated the steam bath from the exercise area. As Jonathan stripped down and wrapped a towel around his waist, Strange informed him that his stay at The Cloisters might be a prolonged one, so they had taken the precaution of having his room broken into and some of his clothes brought back.

"And while you were searching for my clothes, you had a chance to take a more general look around."

"Just so."

"And you found?"

"Just clothes. You use a very good tailor, Dr. Hemlock. How do you manage that on a professor's salary?"

"I take bag lunches."

"I see. Ah, but of course, you are doing well on your books—popular art criticism for the masses. How dreary that must be for you."

The three men passed into the steam room, Leonard looking grotesquely comic with only a towel to hide his powerful but inelegant primate body. Not once, not even while undressing, had his hooded eyes left Jonathan, and when they sat on the scrubbed pine benches of the steam room, he positioned himself in the corner, protectively between Jonathan and Strange.

The jets had been open for some time, and now the room was filled with swirling steam that eddied and echoed their movements; the temperature was in the mid-nineties. But Jonathan found no relaxation in the heat and steam. During the introductory badinage, he had recovered from his surprise at discovering that Strange and the Renaissance man were one, and now he had begun to model a cover story for himself. It covered the ground thinly, but he had no time to test it for fissures.

Strange closed his eyes and rested back, soaking up the steam, his confidence in Leonard's protection absolute. "You realize, of course, that this Dantesque room may be your last living memory."

Jonathan did in fact realize this.

Strange continued, his voice a lazy drone. "You sought to impress me just now by dropping information concerning my past. What more do you know?"

"Not much. I've been trying to track you down, and in the course of it I discovered that you were in the whorehouse business—if I may simplify."

Strange waved an indifferent hand.

"I also discovered you are in the country illegally, and that you have been in one aspect or another of the flesh trade as far back as my sources go."

"What are these sources?"

"That's my affair."

"I think I can guess at them. You were in CII. You were an assassin—or, to be polite, a counterassassin. It is my opinion that you found out what you wanted to know about me from old contacts in that service."

"I'm impressed you know that much about me."

"I'm an impressive man, Dr. Hemlock. So tell me. Why were you seeking me out?"

"The Marini Horse."

"What is that to you? I know something of your financial condition. Surely you don't expect to be able to buy the Horse."

"I don't even particularly care for Marini, nor for any of the moderns for that matter."

"Then what is your interest?"

"I need money. And I thought I might turn a buck out of it."

"How?"

"You have to admit there were some bizarre aspects to our meeting at Tomlinson's. You intend to sell the Horse, and evidently for more money than one would have considered possible. I naturally began to think about that and wonder what I might do to turn it to my fiscal advantage."

"Go on." Strange did not open his eyes.

"Well, my public evaluation of the statue could increase its value by a great deal. Just at this barren moment in art criticism, things tend to be worth whatever I say they're worth."

"Yes, I'm aware of your singular position. A one-eyed man among the blind, if you ask me."

"I thought you might be willing to share some of the excess profit with me."

"Not an unreasonable thought." Strange rose and crossed through the thickening steam to a large earthenware jar of cold water. He poured several dipperfuls over his head and rubbed his chest vigorously. "Good for toning the skin. Care for some?"

"No, thanks. I don't want to be refreshed. I want to relax and get some sleep."

"Later perhaps. If all goes well, we shall take supper together, after which you may wish to sample our amenities here, the most modest of which is a comfortable bed. What would you say if I told you that, while you were seeking to contact me about the Marini Horse, I was bending every effort to contact you?"

"Frankly, I would doubt you. Coincidences make me uncomfortable."

"Hm-m. They make me uncomfortable too, Dr. Hemlock. It seems we have that in common. And yet there are coincidences here. And discomfort. Could it be that it is not particularly coincidental for two such men as we to see profit in the same thing?"

"That could be." This was the narrow bit. The only story Jonathan had been able to put together quickly was Strange's own. He knew he'd be driving up the same street Strange was driving down, and he knew the coincidence of it would loom large, but at least he had been able to mention it first. He rose to get some cold water after all, and with his first movement, Leonard sprang to his feet with surprising alacrity for a man of his bulk and interposed his body between Jonathan and Strange. "Oh, relax, dummy!"

"Sit down, Leonard. I think Dr. Hemlock is aware of the impossibility of his getting out of here without my permission. And I think he realizes how quickly and vigorously an attempt to do me harm would be punished. You must forgive Leonard his passion for duty, Dr. Hemlock. He has been at my side for—oh, fifteen years now, it must be. I'm really very fond of him. His canine devotion and extraordinary strength make him useful. And he has other gifts. For instance, he has an enormous tolerance for pain. Not his own, of course. When it is necessary to discipline one of the young people working for me here, I simply award him or her to Leonard for a night of pleasure. For a few days afterward, the poor thing is of little use in my business, and occasionally he requires medical attention for hemorrhage or some such, but it is amazing how sincerely he regrets his misdeeds and how rigidly he subsequently conforms to our rules of performance." Strange looked at Jonathan, his pale eyes without expression. "I tell you this, of course, by way of threat. But it is perfectly true, I assure you."

"I don't doubt it for a moment. Does he also do your killing for you?"

Strange returned to the pine bench, sat down, and closed his eyes. "When that is necessary. And only when he's been especially good and deserving of reward. When did you leave CII? And why?"

"Four years ago," Jonathan said, as immediately as possible. So that was to be Strange's interrogation style, was it? The rapid question following non sequitur upon less direct chat. Jonathan would have to field the balls quickly and offhandedly. It was a most one-down way to play the game.

"And why?"

"I'd had enough. I had grown up. At least, I'd gotten older." That would be the best way to stay even. Tell trivial truths.

"Four years ago, you say. Good. Good. That tallies with the information I have concerning you. When first it occurred to me that you might be of use in my little project for selling the Marini Horse, I took the trouble to look into your affairs. I have friends... debtors, really... at Interpol/Vienna, and they did a bit of research on you. I cannot tell you how my confidence increased when I discovered that you had been a thief, or at least a receiver, of stolen paintings. But my friends in Vienna said that you had not purchased a painting for four years. That would seem to coincide with the time you left the lucrative company of CII. Why did you work for them?"

"Money."

"No slight tug of patriotism?"

"My sin was greed, not stupidity."

"Good. Good. I approve of that."

Jonathan noticed that Strange never raised an eyebrow, or smiled, or frowned. He had trained his face to remain an expressionless mask. Doubtless to prevent the development of wrinkles.

"I think that is enough steam, don't you?" Strange said, rising and leading the way back to the exercise room where the man with two mouths was waiting with a glass of cold goat's milk, which Strange drank down before he and Jonathan lay out on exercise tables to be rubbed down. The masseur scrubbed Jonathan with a rough warm towel before beginning to knead his shoulders and back, while Leonard performed the same service for Strange.

Strange turned his head toward Jonathan, his cheek on the back of his hands, and looked at him casually when he asked, "Who is it you visit in Covent Garden?"

Jonathan laughed while he thought quickly. "How long have I been under surveillance?"

"From the evening we met at Tomlinson's. My man lost track of you for a while there. Traffic jam. He waited for you at your apartment."

"Which apartment?"

"Ah, precisely. At that time we didn't know about the Baker Street residence. You use it very seldom. My people waited for some time at your Mayfair flat before further inquiry revealed the existence of the Baker Street penthouse. By the time we arrived there, you had left, but the flat was not empty. There was a man in your bathroom. A dead man. But you had disappeared."

"Hey! Watch it!" Jonathan shouted.

"What's wrong?"

"This steel-clawed son of a bitch is pulling my tendons out."

"Be gentle with the doctor, Claudio. He's a guest. Yes, we quite lost sight of you until, a couple of hours ago, I received a call from Grace. Dear Grace is a colleague of mine. A close and honored friend."

"So?"

"So I would like some explanation that puts these odd bits together. And I do hope it's convincing. I would enjoy an evening of civilized chat."

"Well, I told you I was trying to gain entrée to your place here. I had no idea you were also looking for me, so I tried through Amazing Grace."

"Yes, but how did you know about Grace?"

"You said it yourself. I still have some CII connections. Hey! Take it easy, you ham-handed bastard!" Jonathan sat up and pushed the masseur away.

"Oh, very well," Strange said with some irritation. "I'd rather cut my massage short than listen to you complain about yours. But you should really establish a routine for keeping fit. Look at me. I'm ten years older than you, and I look ten years younger."

"We have different life priorities."

Strange led the way into a lavish dressing room, the walls of which were covered with mirrors set in bronze. The reflections of the three men echoed in infinite redundancy, and Jonathan found himself a principal in a finely synchronized sartorial ballet performed by scores of Hemlocks and scores of Stranges, while scores of droopy-lidded Leonards looked on, their faces impassive, their heads tilted back on thick necks.

When he saw his clothes laid out, Jonathan felt a pulse of relief. He had wondered why Strange had not mentioned finding at least one of the revolvers when his men had picked up his clothes. But these came from his Mayfair flat, not the Baker Street one. Luck was with him. But still he was walking a razor's edge, reactive and imbalanced from the start, never sure how much truth he had to surrender to neutralize the facts already in Strange's possession. He had done well enough so far, but he had had to turn the flow of inquisition away from time to time, with inconsequential small talk or complaining about the masseur, to give himself time to collect his balance and pick a direction. So far, he had been plausible, if not overwhelmingly convincing. But there were big holes—like the dead man on his toilet—that Strange would surely probe. And one link was still open. To close it might expose Vanessa Dyke.

"...but it is a terrible mistake not to give the body the work and diet necessary to keep it young and attractive," Strange was saying. "I know the routines are strenuous and the restrictions irritating, but nothing worth having is ever cheap."

"That's funny. I clearly remember being assured by a song of the Depression that the best things in life were free."

"Opiate hogwash. Self-delusions with which the congenital have-nots seek to excuse their life failures and make less of the accomplishments of others. As I recall, that insipid song suggests that Love, in particular, is free. My dear sir, my life's work is founded on the knowledge that love—technically competent and interesting love—is extraordinarily expensive."

"Perhaps the song was using the word differently."

"Oh, I know the kind of love it meant. Fictions of the fourteenth-century jongleur. Friendship run riot. Pointless nestlings; sharings of tacky dreams and tawdry aspirations; promises of emotional dependency that pass for constancy; fumbling manipulations in the backs of cars; the sweat of the connubial bed. That kind of love may be thought free, and considered dear at the price. But in fact it is not free at all. One pays endlessly for the shabby amateurism of romantic love. One enters into eternal contractual obligations under the terms of which the partners pledge to erode one another forever with their infinite dullness. Still, I suppose they lack the merit to deserve more, and probably the imagination to desire more. Should I open the doors of The Cloisters to one of this ilk for a night, he would blunder about, asinus ad lyram, until he found, down in the kitchens, some sweating cook or stringy scullery maid who could be a soul mate and who would understand and care for him for all time. There we are! Dressed and civilized. Shall we take a little refreshment?"

"If you wish."

"Good. There are one or two points that want clarifying."

"Personally, I'd like to get around to the topic of the sale of the Marini Horse. Focusing our attention particularly on what profit I can expect from it."

Strange laughed. "In due course. After all, we're still not absolutely sure that you are going to survive this interrogation, are we? Come along."

The center mirror hinged open like a door, swilling the scores of reflected images around the room in a blurred rush. They passed into a small sitting room about the size and shape of a projection booth, dimly lit, its walls made of glass. Three sides looked out onto the principal salon of The Cloisters: a large, brilliantly illuminated room in the Art Deco style. Glass beads, mechanical foliage, repetitious angular motifs, rainbow and sunrise patterns pressed into buffed aluminum wall panels.

The patrons were dressed in extravagant costumes provided by the management; and shepherdesses, devils, inquisitors, cavaliers, and Mickey Mouses lounged about, chatting, drinking, laughing. But all this panoply was in pantomime; the glass walls were soundproof.

Moving among the patrons were half a dozen hostesses dressed in flapper style: long loops of beads, cloche-bobbed hair, bound breasts under silk frocks, rolled-down hose exposing rouged and dimpled knees. With their artificial lashes of the stiff "surprise" style, their beauty spots, and their bee-stung lips, they looked like mannequins in back issues of high fashion magazines as they served drinks and exotic canapé's, or bent over patrons in teasing, flirtatious conversation.

One of the patrons, a Catherine de Medici of uncertain years, with face skin tight from cosmetic surgery that had not included her wattle, approached the glass wall and stared in unabashedly. She moistened the tip of her little finger with the tip of her tongue and made a minute adjustment in her eye liner, then she patted the back of her hair, turned and took a long appreciative sideways glance into the room before pivoting away to greet an approaching highwayman with the boneless face, whimpering smile, and lank hair of his class.

"One-way mirrors," Strange said unnecessarily as he settled into a deep leather chair after carefully hitching up the crease of his trousers. "The decor was Grace's idea. There is something fundamentally evil about the New People of the 1920s that seems to liberate our customers."

Jonathan stood near the one-way glass wall and looked out, his arms folded on his chest. "Art Deco was a monstrous moment in art. When the flamboyant decay of Art Nouveau percolated down to the masses, through the intermediary of machine reproduction, it was unavoidable that the half-trained, ungifted, self-indulgent artists would proclaim the resultant hodgepodge a new art form. After all, here was something even they could do. In my view, the recent revival of interest in Art Deco indicts the modern artist and the modern critic—people who communicate and communicate, yet remain inarticulate."

"Oh, I am terribly sorry that our taste doesn't please you. But, de gustibus..."

"Nonsense. It's the only thing really worth disputing."

Strange laughed shallowly. Laughter was his substitute for smiling, preferred because it did not necessitate creasing the cheeks. And there were as many tones to his laughter as there are nuances in other people's smiles. "At all events, I enjoy this little chamber here. We call it the Aquarium. But it's an aquarium in reverse. The fish are out there in the salon, and the amused observers here in the bowl. And it is charming to realize that that room out there contains a good fifty percent of the real governmental power in Britain."

"All gathered here to find respite from the heavy burdens of leadership by losing themselves in the ecstasy of your contrived orgies?"

"You shouldn't sneer at the exoticism of our offerings. Quite naturally, our patrons expect something out of the ordinary: prenubile girls, catamites, fellatio—that sort of thing. One cannot blame them. Coming here for common garden variety sex would be like ordering sausage, chips, and two veg at Maxim's. But what is really amusing is that half the silly asses out there don't even know what goes on in our splendid cloaca. They believe The Cloisters is only a fashionable, bizarre, and exclusive club with excellent food and wine and charming hostesses."

"Oh? The flapper types aren't hookers?"

"Oh, no. Young models, aspiring actresses, university girls—just window dressing. The costuming goes with the decor. The more enterprising and promising graduate to the more lucrative activities upstairs, but most of them stay with us only a month or so, then pass on to duller activities: careers, marriages, such like. We're constantly replacing hostesses. But I am forgetting my duties as host. I have promised you refreshment. May I suggest brewer's yeast in fresh tangerine juice?"

"It's tempting. But I think I'll have scotch. Do you have Laphroaig?"

Strange turned the question to the dapper, two-mouthed minion who stood behind them, having accompanied them into the Aquarium while Leonard was dressing.

"I'll see, sir." But he did not depart until Leonard came in to relieve him.

"I'm afraid I'm not up on the finer points of scotch," Strange said. "I never drink alcohol. By the way, tell me about the man we found dead in your bathroom. Who was he?"

"I don't know," Jonathan said as smoothly as possible. He had been anticipating this tactic of the sudden question.

"Who killed him?"

"I did."

Strange looked at Jonathan with frank admiration at the immediacy of the answer. "Go on," he said, after a nod of approval.

"It was because of that man that I came looking for you. You've discovered that I used to work for CII in counterassassination. The work was not so dangerous as one might think. Since my targets were men who had assassinated CII agents, they typically came from a level of society neither lamented nor avenged—not by the various law enforcement agencies, at any rate. And, because I took random assignments, I could never be tied to the death by motive. Typically, I never met the mark before the moment of the hit. But... but because society is not yet prepared to counter the problem of overpopulation by sterilizing and terminating rotten and unproductive genetic stock, my targets were not without relatives.

"From the few babbled words he got out before I shot him, it appears that he was the brother of some forgotten mark. He had come to retrieve the family honor, such as it was."

"But you shot him first."

"Just so."

"And left him in your bathroom?"

"I didn't pick the meeting ground. Bathrooms have tile floors that are easily cleaned up."

Strange nodded appreciatively. "I see."

Leonard entered from behind and replaced Two-mouths, who went off to fetch the drinks.

"You certainly got rid of the body quickly. Our men returned to your rooms a few hours after first discovering the corpse, and it was gone. How did you manage that?"

"I'll make you a deal. I won't ask you how to run a whorehouse, and you don't ask me about assassination."

"That seems fair enough. You mentioned that this business in your bathroom was linked in some way to your desire to penetrate The Cloisters. Would you amplify that a bit?"

"While that poor ass was babbling about how he had been on my trail for years, he let slip the name of the person who had fingered me. He was waving a gun in my face, and I suppose he imagined I would not live to benefit from the information."

"By the way, how did you kill this man?"

"With his own gun."

"How did you get it from him?"

"How do you keep your girls from getting clap?"

Strange laughed. "All right, all right. Go on."

"The informant was a man highly placed in CII. A man who never liked me because I could not pass up opportunities to point out the more blatant stupidities of that asinine and bungling organization. I have every reason to believe that he will continue putting the finger on me. And someday, someone may get lucky."

"Why don't you kill this man?"

"He knows me. I'd never get close enough to him. So I have to hire the job done. And for that, I need a lot of money. And that is why the deal with the Marini Horse attracted me."

"And so you began to seek me out?"

"And so I began to seek you out." That was it. His story was improvised and thin, just covering the major events with little of that extraneous fabric that fills out the good lie. There was nothing to do now but sit and see how it went down.

Strange was silent for a time, his pale eyes looking phlegmatically out onto the salon scene playing mutely before him. Then he nodded slowly. "It is possible. Both your recent actions and my research into your past would seem to bear your story out. The only thing that disturbs me is the coincidence of it all. But then... I suppose coincidence exists." He turned to Jonathan and rested his pale eyes on him. "Why don't you take supper with Grace and me this evening. We can talk over the details of the Marini sale. Assuming all goes well, you might care to sample our exotic entertainments later. By way of a nightcap."

"I've had a hard day."

Strange laughed. "If it weren't so late and the streets weren't empty, I would tempt your fatigued appetite by sending a couple of my men out in a van to pick up something from the streets for you—fresh from the garden, you might say. A schoolgirl on her way home, perhaps, or a nun just back from confessional?"

"Don't you have some trouble with cooperation from those you abduct?"

"Oh... not if they're properly prepared. We use a concoction of hallucinogens and cantharis that seems to be effective—Oh, my dear Dr. Hemlock! I wish you could have seen the cloud of disgust that just swept over your face! I would have thought you had a more leathery conscience than that."

"It's not conscience. Just taste."

"In this business only the bizarre is profitable. The basic components of sex are so mundane: a little heat, a little friction, a little lubrication. One must dress up such cheap raw materials considerably if he hopes to vend them at high profit. Packaging is everything. But, ah... here we are at last."

Two-mouths entered through the mirror door bearing a tray with two glasses. Jonathan could not repress a surge of repulsion when he looked at Strange's glass, the gray-tan yeast powder already settling in the tangerine juice and collecting at the bottom. Strange sipped off some of the liquid, then swirled the remainder to carry the yeast back into temporary suspension while he drank it.

"Looks ghastly," Jonathan commented.

"You get used to it. In fact, one comes to rather like it."

Jonathan turned away in gastronomic self-defense. Out in the salon, one of the flapper hostesses caught his eye. As she chatted with a costumed customer, she brushed aside a vagrant wisp of amber hair with the back of her hand. She was only a few feet from the wall of one-way mirrors, and he could see the bottle green of her eyes.

"What interests you so much out there?" Strange asked, joining him at the glass wall.

"Your clients," Jonathan said, indicating a group of men chatting with supercilious gravity, blithely ignorant of the risible effect of their outlandish costumes.

"Hm-m. Silly asses. Look at them, playing out their dumb show of authority and power. Pompously going through the motions of statecraft. They are finished as a people, the English, but they haven't sense to know it. There was a time when Darwinian laws applied to nations as well as to individuals—when the weak and incapable disappeared. If it hadn't been for the sentiment of other nations—yours particularly, Dr. Hemlock—1950 would have marked the end of this effete social organism. I enjoy making them dress up like that, and they take great delight in doing it. It's a national trait—pageantry, make-believe. A nation of people who thirst to be what they are not. That probably accounts for their production of so many gifted actors."

"You despise the British, then?"

"More scorn, I should say."

"But I thought the Germans rather admired and imitated them."

"Oh, we have much in common. Our weaknesses, to be specific. Our army organizations were modeled after theirs. It was the British, you know, who first experimented with the concentration camp as a vehicle for the final solution to genetic problems."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes. In the Boer War. Twenty-six thousand women and children died of disease, malnutrition, and neglect. Vitriol in their sugar; small metal hooks implanted in their meat—that sort of business. Oh yes, the British have been world leaders in many things. But no longer. Now they inflict themselves on the Common Market and become the economic sick man of Europe. In fifteen years only Spain and Portugal will boast a lower standard of living. And it's their own fault. With myopic management and the laziest, least competent workmen in Europe, they suffer from congenital inefficiency. Not the placid, happy inefficiency of the Latins, with their mañana mentalities and hedonistic lassitude. No, the British brand of incompetence is involute and labored. It's a bustling, nervous inefficiency that fails to make up in charm and quality of life what it sacrifices in productivity. The Briton has become a compromise between the Continental, whom he used to despise out of contempt, and the American, whom he now despises out of envy. His is a land of Old World technology and New World beauty. And that's all there is to say about the British."

Jonathan was going to protest against this gratuitous attack on their hosts when Strange continued, "You know, during the war there used to be a riddle in contempt of the Belgian army. One used to ask, 'What would you do if a Belgian soldier threw a hand grenade at you?' And the answer was, 'Pull out the pin, and throw it back.' If the question were asked of the British soldier, it would be totally academic because the hand grenades would arrive six months after the promised date of delivery, the workmanship would be faulty, and the army would be on strike anyway."

"If they disgust you so, why are you here?"

"The police, old man! It is a popular myth that British criminals are Europe's most clever, just barely kept in rein by the brain-children of Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming. These people glory in their train robbers and confidence men, their Robin Hoods from Stepney Green. It is typical of their blinkered Weltanschauung that it never occurs to them that it is not the dash and cleverness of their petty hoodlums that win the day, it is the monumental incompetence of their police. For a man in my profession, the British police are the most comfortable in Europe, just as the Dutch are the least. Of course, if you were interested in civil liberties, it would be quite the other way around. Surely the table is laid for supper by now. You must be looking forward to meeting Amazing Grace again."

Conversation in the small paneled dining room was light and oblique, never touching on the matter of the Marini Horse, nor indeed on the events that had led to this peculiar early morning supper. Amazing Grace conducted the chat with the skill of a geisha, giving both men opportunities to display wit, and leavening all with her personal touch of ribald earthiness. As was her preference in social moments, she was nude, and so the room was kept warm and cozy by a gas fire set in a fireplace of curiously wrought iron. While she and Jonathan dined on rack of lamb, Strange went through a series of dishes featuring pallid substances with mealy aromas. In place of the wine they enjoyed, he drank goat's milk. It was only with the fruit and cheese that his diet and theirs converged. The cheese board bore many cheeses, yet only one. There was Danish blue, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and Stilton. Strange explained that, next to yogurt, the blue-veined cheeses were best for digestion. The fruits were all organically grown and free from insecticides, and there were no bananas which, it seemed, were eatable only in the tropics where they were allowed to ripen naturally.

Jonathan admired the way in which Amazing Grace excelled as hostess, enthroned on her special elevated chair, and he remarked in passing that she had all the social graces of a parson's daughter, together with some of the traditionally suspected appetites.

"But I was a parson's daughter," she said with a rich laugh. "Not that all that many people have heard of The First Evangelical Synagogue of the Blessed Lord and All His Works."

Two-mouths brought in the brandy and coffee on a tray, then joined Leonard against the wall in silent vigil.

"There's a certain social advantage to eating in the destructive way you two seem to enjoy," Strange said. "The arrival of brandy is the accepted signal for talk of business. And, as I have none of my own, may I use yours for that purpose?"

"Well, if things are going to get serious," Grace said, "I'll slip into a robe. I wouldn't want my bobbing little boobies distracting anyone."

Jonathan said that was a thoughtful gesture.

"All right," Strange began, flicking an imaginary bit of lint from his sleeve. "As you know, I intend to turn the Marini Horse into liquid money. The other evening, when I broached that possibility to you, you said that the five million pounds I was expecting to get would cause some comment in art circles."

"More like a riot, I'd say."

"Even if the figure were arrived at in public auction at Sotheby's?"

"Particularly then. Marini is still alive; his work lacks the fiscal kudos of his death. And after all, the man is a Modern."

"Yes, I am aware of your reactionary preferences in art. I've read a couple of your books by way of trying to understand your personality. But the abstract artistic value of the casting is not to the point here. What I am interested in is getting the price I want without undue public notice. More specifically, Dr. Hemlock, I want forty-eight hours from the time of the sale before there is any official reaction. Can you arrange that?"

"At a price."

"That's my kind of man!" Grace interjected.

"What price?" Strange asked.

"Well, naturally, I would like to get whatever the market will bear. But I'm afraid my native greed will have to give way to a very real interest in survival. I told you that I have to hire a man to put that CII official away before he fingers me again. I estimate that that will cost me about fifty thousand dollars."

"So much?"

"He's a deep man, hard to get at."

"Very well, fifty thousand then."

"A little more, I'm afraid. To pull this off, I shall need baksheesh to spread around among the local critics and newspaper people—mostly indirect baksheesh, of course."

"Give me a total," Strange said curtly.

"Thirty thousand pounds."

Strange and Grace exchanged glances. "Your services are dear," Strange said.

"Oh, please. If you're pulling in five million, then—"

"Yes. All right. Thirty thousand then. But let me impress on you, as a gesture of friendship, how foolish it would be for you to try to double-cross me on this."

"You would sic the dummy there on me, right?"

"Indeed I would. And I have a feeling that Leonard is none too fond of you as it is, after the dental damage you inflicted on his mate."

"If you're through flexing your muscles, there are some things I have to know if I'm to do this business for you."

"Such as?"

"Is the Marini legally yours?"

"Oh yes. Bill of sale and all."

"I assume you will deliver it to Sotheby's for the auction?"

"The morning of that day, yes."

"Where is it now?"

Strange turned to him slowly, like a casemate gun swinging onto a target. "That is none of your business. It is perfectly safe, and it can be produced quite quickly, at my volition. Anything more?"

"One thing. How much time do I have to prepare the way?"

"The auction is Wednesday morning."

"Four days? I only have four days?"

"That will have to be enough. Grace and I cannot afford to linger about. And, anyway, my affection for the British is not without limits. I shall be glad to see the last of this narrow little island."

Grace stood and stretched, her fingers stiff and reflexed in the air, her abbreviated peignoir rising above the taut buttocks, her splayed toes gripping the carpet. "I think I'll go into the Aquarium for a nightcap. Maybe a look at the customers will turn me on." She smiled and left the room, the purling of her tense body under its gossamer gown arresting conversation until she had disappeared.

"Nice little bonbon there," Jonathan commented.

"Oh, yes. I enjoy bringing her pleasure. I arrange complicated little events for her. She's so daring and inventive, it's great fun to plan for her."

"You're a selfless man."

Strange laughed. "My dear man! I never indulge in sexual activity myself."

"Never?"

"Not since I was a boy. I passed my youth in establishments of this kind. As you may know, it is the practice of candy manufacturers to allow their workers to eat to their heart's content when first they are employed. Within a few months, the workers become so cloyed that they make no further inroads on the merchandise."

"And you never—"

"Never. Too draining. Too hard on the body. But I have my own vice. Unfortunately, it's the most expensive vice in the world."

Jonathan pictured Amazing Grace's body. "Wasteful," he couldn't help commenting.

"I have other uses for Grace. A devoted ally, and a decoration without equal. I delight in the effect we create together. She, petite, proud, beautiful, sensuous. And I..." He paused and shrugged. "And I am graceful and classically handsome. There is not a jaw that does not tighten with envy when we make an entrance."

He had admitted being handsome so matter-of-factly as to make it almost acceptable. And indeed, he was classically handsome, the most handsome man Jonathan had ever seen outside Greek sculpture.

But he was not attractive. His features were so regular, so smooth, so anticipated that the eye slipped over them, finding nothing to engage it. The face lacked the arresting traction of biographic imprint: there were no creases of concern, no grooves of concentration, no crinkles of laughter. Even the pallid, round eyes kept clear and sparkling with tinted eyedrops were devoid of narrative. The fall of light and shadow over his smoothly tanned features had the uninspired, geometric quality of the novice artist's solution to a problem of chiaroscuro—very accurate, very dull.

"Shall we join Grace for a nightcap?" Jonathan asked, eager to end this evening while he was still ahead.

"By all means. Oh, there is one more thing, come to think of it. How did you get on to Grace and the Cellar d'Or establishment?"

For the first time, Jonathan was taken off balance by Strange's technique of the sudden question dropped non sequitur.

Strange laughed. "Miss Dyke must be very fond of you indeed to impart such delicate information."

"I put a little pressure on her," Jonathan said simply. Since they already knew, he confessed offhandedly to glean what advantage seeming honesty had. He was glad she was off with her writer friend with the cats and red wine.

Strange nodded. "It's comforting to know where your loyalties lie."

"With myself, as always."

"The trademark of the successful man." Strange rose. "Do let's join Grace."

When they arrived in the Aquarium, Grace was curled up in the deep leather chair, sipping at a tumbler of Everclear. "May I offer you some?"

"No," Jonathan said quickly. He crossed over and looked out into the salon, as Strange took up a perch on the arm of Grace's chair and, with an absentminded proprietorial gesture, began to roll the nipple of one breast between thumb and forefinger.

"Is everything settled?" she asked.

"I think so. Dr. Hemlock and I share qualities of selfishness and greed that augur well for a profitable cooperation."

In the salon outside, a handful of rather spent clients sat about. Two portly old gentlemen in caps and bells descended the wide Art Deco stairs, looking drained and fragile. They collected their waiting mates and left. Only two hostesses were still on duty, and one of these was leaning against the aluminum wall, her face lax and puffy. "You say the hostesses aren't hookers?" Jonathan asked.

"Do I detect a tone of carnal interest?" Strange said.

"Yes, you do. Tired though I am, I feel a bit like celebrating our agreement."

"Which one turns you on?" Grace asked.

"Looks like there's only two to pick from. I really don't care. You're the licensed meat inspector here. Which one would you suggest? The blonde?"

Grace sat up and looked over the choices. "I wouldn't say so. That other one—she's got the right muscle arrangement for it. She's an Irish girl. Our model agency sent her over this morning and I interviewed her. She's not really cute, with that ragamuffin face of hers, but there's something about those big green eyes and that hair that I felt was perfect for the flapper look." Grace's professional eye scanned the girl's legs and buttocks. "Yeah," she said sitting back, "she'll give you the better ride."

"If she is willing," Jonathan said.

"Don't worry about that," Strange said. "I'll arrange it for you—a gift to seal our bargain in the Arabic way. A little shot of dream juice, and she will be yours—moist and panting. But you're sure you wouldn't prefer something a bit more—occult?"

"No. She'll do fine. But no cantharis."

"Why not?"

"I'm tired. If I can't make it, I don't want her groaning about and groping at me all night."

Strange laughed. "As you wish. We have a little something that will render her perfectly pliable. She will know what is going on, but she will be without will. But I'm afraid she may babble a bit."

"Better a babbler than a groper."

"Pity the options are so limited." Strange rose. "I'll bid you good night, if I may. It's already seventeen minutes after my bedtime, and, as you may have noted, I am a man of routine. I'll attend to the Irish bit on my way. We'll take breakfast together and discuss details. Is noon too early for you?"

He left without awaiting an answer to this rhetorical question.

Amazing Grace poured herself another drink and sat again in the deep chair, her knees drawn up and her feet on the seat, her furry écu revealed between her heels. "Well, what do you think of Max? Isn't he a beautiful person?"

"I suppose," he said, pressing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in an effort to relax the tension in his temples. "But there's something hokey and childish in the way he plays it for Mephistopheles. A kind of campish eviler-than-thou."

Out in the salon, Jonathan saw Two-mouths approach Maggie and speak to her. She frowned and followed him toward a back door. Jonathan hoped she wouldn't put up too much of a fight when they put the needle in her.

"You're not trying to tell me that Max didn't impress you, are you, honey bun?"

"Oh, no. He impressed me all right. In fact, he scares the shit out of me."

She laughed. "I really like you, Hemlock. You must have been some kind of bad actor in your day. Only really tough men admit to being scared. Cheers." She emptied her glass, and he could not help swallowing twice sympathetically in a vicarious effort to help her get it down. "But," she continued, "he's a rare and beautiful animal. He's really evil, you know. Black mass sort of thing. Not just nasty or naughty or crotch-happy, like most men who think they're bad. But really evil. And there's nothing sexier than that. You have to get past sin, past sacrilege before things get really delicious."

"What does P'tit Noel think about all this?"

"He doesn't even know about The Cloisters. And if he did, it wouldn't matter. He'd do anything in the world for me. Like a puppy dog—like a real big, real fierce puppy dog, that is."

"Hey, would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me nervous."

She laughed and pulled down her peignoir.

"And you don't feel sorry for P'tit Noel?"

"Hell no. I know his type. He likes getting hurt. Big gesture; romantic crash. Like winos who drink because it's so goddamn tragic and attractive to be a wino. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, madam, I do." He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the back of it to suppress his fatigue. "May I ask you something, Grace?"

"Shoot."

"I can't understand how Van Dyke got mixed up with you people. I've known her for years, and I can't imagine what Strange could have paid her that would bring her into this."

"He didn't pay her," she said, tickling her lips with the rim of her empty glass and smiling at him. "I did."

Jonathan looked down. "I see."

Two-mouths conducted him through the exercise room into the now empty salon, its Art Deco sconces still ablaze. Jonathan looked toward the wall of mirrors behind which he assumed Amazing Grace was sitting, finishing a last Everclear. He waved good night to her, feeling a little foolish as he saw only his reflection wave back.

Up the wide staircase with its aluminum walls buffed in patterns of swirls, and down the long corridor, Two-mouths kept up a patter of talk to which Jonathan attended only vaguely.

"You could of knocked me over with a feather, you could, sir, when Mr. Strange told me to fix up that hostess for you. I thought you'd be done for sure, what with how you give such a beating to Lolly—he's the one what's teeth you cracked off, Lolly is. She didn't half put up a fight, that little Mick. Took two of us to get the needle in. Good thing for her Leonard wasn't there. He'd have done it right enough, and no fuss either. She wouldn't of been able to walk for a week, if Leonard had done it. He doesn't half rip 'em when he gets a chance. Well, here we are, sir. Pleasant dreams."

Jonathan entered the dark bedroom, and the door clicked locked behind him. The city glow beyond the window gave dim illumination, and he could see a bundled figure on the bed. She turned in her delirium and moaned softly, then she laughed to herself.

It was in rooms like this that the compromising films of government officials had been taken, and possibly some of them had been taken in the dark. Jonathan removed his jacket and checked his shirt sleeve. The starch gave off none of the phosphorescent glow that would indicate infrared light, so at least this room was not equipped with cameras and sniper scope lenses. But it was doubtless bugged and, under the drugs, she might say something that would give him away. He had to keep that in mind.

He undressed quickly and approached the bed. Maggie had been tossed onto it, still dressed in her flapper frock. One shoe was off and the other dangled from a toe, and a rope of beads had fallen across her face. In the dim light she opened her eyes and stared up at him, frowning. She was confused, trying hard to understand what was happening to her. As the needle had entered her, she had reminded herself that she must do nothing to endanger Jonathan's cover, and that thought had gone swirling down with her into the churn and chaos of distorted reality. She had clung to it for a time, then she had forgotten what it was she was clinging to. But it was important. She remembered that much.

"What?... What..." She looked at him, her eyes pleading for help. Then she laughed again.

"My name is Jonathan Hemlock," he told her immediately, really speaking for the microphones. It would not do for her to name him out of the blue.

"Jonathan? Jonathan?"

"That's right. But you can call me 'honey.' Come on, let's get your clothes off."

"Are my clothes still on?" She spoke with the clumsy diction of someone whose lip is rubbery from dentist's Novocain. "Isn't that funny?"

"A knee-slapper. Come on. Turn over."

He undressed her as quickly as possible, but with her limp and uncooperative body, it was not easy. Indeed, some bits would have been comic under less dangerous circumstances. She, at least, found it funny.

"Say," she said with the sudden seriousness of a drunk. "Do you really think we should be doing this?"

"Why not? We live in a permissive society."

"But... here? Isn't it... isn't it dangerous?"

"I'll be careful."

"What? What? I don't understand, Jonathan."

"You see? You remember my name."

"Yes, of course. Of course I know your name. You're—"

He kissed her. She hummed and drew him down to her.

He was painfully tired, but sleep was evasive. The open microphone was like a living thing in the dark, straining to catch their words, and the presence of it was palpable and uncomfortable. Maggie slept. The drugs had been good for her in one way. They had liberated her even beyond her usual abandoned and inventive lovemaking, and climax had been a total and body-shuddering thing for her, as though the sensation had begun in the small of her back and gushed outward. She had worked hard at it, and then she had slept, curled up on her side, sitting in his lap, his arms around her, completely and safely wrapped up by him.

He did not know she had awakened when she spoke softly. "Jonathan?"

He instantly thought of the bug—probably in the headboard to catch guests' quietest words. "Go to sleep, honey," he said rather harshly.

"I love you, Jonathan." It was a declarative sentence. A matter of fact. She might have said it was Tuesday, or raining.

"Well, that's just great, honey. You're a warm, wonderful, loving person. Now please let me get some sleep, will you?" But the microphone could not transmit the message in the way he hugged her in and buried his cheek in her hair.

He wondered if he would ever get to sleep, get the rest his body demanded. He was still wondering this when he awoke to find it was full day and there was a brilliant bar of sunlight across the bed. He opened his eyes and looked up. Maggie was there, sitting on the edge of the bed. She had been awake for some time, looking at his sleeping face, occasionally touching his hair gently, fearful of disturbing him, but desiring the possessive contact.

"Good morning," he said feebly, and he took her hand, only to find that his grip was too weak to squeeze it. The efforts of the past two days had caught up with him, and he had slept at coma depth.

"Good morning," she said, the brogue dealing carelessly with the vowels. She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the headboard, where a small core of metal shone dully in the center of a carved decoration.

He nodded and brought her with him as he turned around in the bed, lying with their heads at the footboard. They kissed good morning, and he brought his lips into contact with her ear and whispered to her soundlessly. "Play it out. Good girl wakes up in bed with strange man."

"Don't!" she said aloud. "Please don't."

He made a wry face at her histrionics. She shrugged; she had never pretended to be an actress.

"Do you remember last night?" he asked aloud. Then whispering he added, "You were fantastic." The danger of this double-talk was mischievously exciting, and they were in a docilely playful mood.

"Yes, I remember," she said aloud, as though ashamed. "I remember your name and... what we did. But how did I get here?"

"You don't recall that?"

"Something... a needle. I can't remember all of it." She whispered, "The Vicar wants to see you this evening at his place. Something important has come up."

"Well, don't worry about it, honey," he told the microphone. "I'm sure they'll pay you for your trouble. And it really wasn't all that bad, was it?"

"Was I... was I good?" Her voice carried that tone of nuzzling coyness Jonathan associated with sticky mornings after, once the phase of self-recrimination had been passed. He was sorry she knew it.

"Don't worry about it," he said aloud. "You're probably a fine cook."

By way of punishment, she ran the tip of her tongue into his ear.

"Hey!"

"What is it?" she asked aloud, all innocence.

"I just remembered the time. It's late and I have worlds to conquer." He rose from bed and went into the bathroom to bathe and shave.

"Will I see you again?" she asked, enjoying the game of acting for the microphone.

"What?" he shouted from the next room over the rush of water.

"Will I see you again?"

"Certainly. Certainly. I'll look you up!"

"You don't even know my name!"

"That's all right. I'm not nosy!"

"Bastard," she muttered quietly, feeling clever about introducing just the right note of the girl whose innocence has been around.

He arrived for breakfast in the paneled dining room to find that Strange and Grace had finished and were having a last cup of tea—Earl Grey for her, rose hip for him.

"Good morning," Jonathan said cheerily. "Sorry I'm late. Slept like a hammered steer."

"Doubtless the effect of a clear conscience," Strange observed, as he broke off a bit of dry toast and put it into his mouth, rubbing his fingers together lightly to flick off crumbs that might otherwise have dropped onto his spotless white flannels.

Jonathan lifted the covers of serving dishes on the sideboard and found some eggs with chives. "And how are you this morning—or early afternoon?" He addressed Amazing Grace, who was sitting nude in a broad shaft of sunlight, her body stretched out to receive the warmth, her eyes almost closed with feline pleasure. Her tea saucer was balanced on her écu, and from Jonathan's angle it seemed that her crotch was steaming into the sunlight. He crossed to her and cupped one of her conical breasts in his palm. "I'm going to get you one of these days," he warned.

She opened her eyes. "God, you're a horny one. Didn't that Irish bit drain you off a little?"

"She's an hors d'oeuvre type; you, on the other hand, are meat and potatoes."

"You sure got a sweet way with words, honey bun."

Jonathan sat across from Strange and began to eat his eggs with appetite.

"You are in high spirits today, Dr. Hemlock."

"There's been a big load lifted from me."

"You speak of the official in Washington you intend to silence?"

"What else?" He poured himself some coffee. "Say, that girl was an odd one. Do you know what she said to me, right off the bat?"

"That she loved you?" Strange asked, unable to pass up the opportunity to show off.

Jonathan set his cup down and looked up in surprise, "Yes. How did you...?" Then he laughed. "The room was bugged. Of course."

"They all are. I listened to your tapes this morning as I went over my accounts. A kind of Muzak to lighten my labors."

"I'll be damned. That should have occurred to me. How do you think the girl will take being jabbed full of junk, then drilled by a stranger?"

"The process differs from romantic love only in degree and efficiency. She's a modern young lady. I judge she'll be satisfied with a handsome bonus. By the way, she called you a bastard while you were in the shower."

"Is that right? And I thought I had her by the heart. Just goes to show how vulnerable the congenital romantic can be. Would you pass the toast?"

Breakfast progressed with small talk of the kind designed to cover meaning. It was not until Grace left to dress and return to the Cellar d'Or that Strange got down to business.

"I assume you have thought about the task before you, Dr. Hemlock?"

"I have some ideas. If things work out just right, we should be able to get your asking price for the Horse without government inquiry. But I'll have to play it largely by ear, and I'll need your permission to use a free hand in making the arrangements."

Strange glanced at him. "What kind of arrangements?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I'll have to do something bold—some grand gesture that will blind them with its obviousness. By the way, I'll need some of that money for grease and baksheesh."

"How much?"

"All of it?"

Strange laughed. "Really, Dr. Hemlock!"

"Just thought I'd try. I suppose ten thousand pounds would do it."

Strange's pale eyes evaluated Jonathan for a long moment. "Very well. The money will be ready for you when you leave."

"Good."

"Ah-h, Dr. Hemlock... Don't think of doing anything foolhardy. Please remember that unfortunate fellow who was found impaled in the belfry of St. Martin's-In-The-Fields."

"I get the picture. Is there more coffee?"

"Certainly. Leonard did that business at my request, not that the impulsive devil didn't get pleasure from it on his own. The informer was drugged and brought to the church, where the stake had earlier been set in place. They lifted the fellow to just above it, the point lightly touching his anus. Then Leonard jumped down and swung his weight from his ankles, driving him well on. Gravity did the rest. But with that unhurried pace characteristic of natural forces." Strange laid his hand on Jonathan's arm and squeezed it paternally. "I hope you understand why I am burdening you with the lurid details."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Good." He patted the arm and withdrew his hand.

Jonathan's eyes were clouded with his gentle combat smile when he said, "Tell me. Would you mind passing the marmalade?"

Covent Garden/Brook Street/The Vicarage

The lone painter who worked with tunnel concentration before a vast canvas in MacTaint's converted fruit warehouse was the ragged, furious man with long skinny arms who had come to assume over the years that the space, the stove, and the tea were his by squatter's right. He snapped his head around angrily as Jonathan pushed open the corrugated metal door, allowing a gust of wind to enter with him. The painter continued to fix Jonathan with a wild stare until the door had been slid to, guillotining the offending shaft of blue daylight that had intruded on the yellow pool of tungsten light from the naked bulb hanging from a long frayed cord.

Jonathan's light greeting was parried by a rasping growl as the painter used the interruption as an opportunity to heap another shovelful of coal into the large potbellied stove. As a final gesture of impatience, he kicked the stove door closed violently, almost immediately regretting that he was not wearing shoes.

Receiving no answer to his light knock on the inner door, but hearing a voice from within, Jonathan pushed the door open and looked in. Lilla was sprawled in a deep wing chair before the television, a half-empty glass of gin dangling from her pudgy hand and the crumbs of some earlier feast decorating the front of her feathered dressing gown. In a self-satisfied drone of BBC English, a commentator was summing up the industrial situation which, it appeared, was not so bad as it might be. True, the gas workers were on strike, as were the train drivers, the teachers, the hospital workers, the automotive workers, and the truckers; but the dockers might soon return to work, and there was a chance that the threatened strikes of the civil servants, the electricians, the printers, the construction workers, and the miners might be delayed if the government conceded to their demands.

"Hello?"

She turned her head and peered in his general direction, her eyes watery and uncertain. "Now, don't tell me, young man. I never forget a face."

"Is MacTaint around?"

"He's gone beyond. To relieve his bladder, as we used to say in the theatre. Come in. Entrez. I was just havin' my mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Care to join me?" She gestured toward the bar with her half-full glass of gin, slopping the contents in a discrete arc.

"No, thank you, Lilla. I just wanted to see—"

"You know my name! So we have met before. I told you I never forget a face. It was in the theatre, of course. Now let me see..."

Just then MacTaint came shuffling in, wearing his long overcoat and mumbling to himself. "Ah, Jonathan! Good to see you!"

"The gentleman and I was just havin' a chat about the old days in the business, if you don't mind."

"What business was that?"

"The theatre, as you know perfectly well."

"Oh yes, I remember now. You used to sell chocolates in the aisle and your ass in the alley out back. The chocolates went better, as I recall."

"Here! That will be enough of that, you stinking old fart." She turned her wobbling head to Jonathan. "Do excuse the diction."

"Right, now get along with you. We have business to talk over."

"Don't exercise that tone of voice in my presence, you dinky-cocked son of a bitch!"

"Slam a bung in it, you ha'penny flop, and get your dripping hole upstairs!"

"Really!" Lilla drew herself up, fixed MacTaint's general area with a stare of quivering disdain, and swept to her exit.

MacTaint scratched at his scruffy beard, his lower teeth bared in painful pleasure. "Sorry about her, lad. Of late she's been nervy as a cat shitting razor blades. But she's a good old bitch, even if she does take a sip now and then."

"I could use a drink, if there's any left."

"Done." Eddies of ancient sweat were almost overcoming as MacTaint brushed past on his way to the bar, moving with his characteristic shambling half trot. He returned with two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Jonathan, then he sprawled heavily in a fainting couch of rosewood, one ragged boot up on the damask upholstery, his chin buried in the collar of his amorphic overcoat. "Well, here's to sin." He swilled it off with a great smacking of lips. "Now! I suppose you're needing your two hundred quid."

"No. You keep it. For your trouble."

"That's very good of you. But holding it's been no trouble."

"I'm talking about future trouble."

"I was afraid you might be." The old man's eyes glittered beneath his antennal eyebrows. "What future trouble?"

"I'm still not in the clear, Mac."

"Sorry to hear that."

"I need help."

MacTaint pursued an itch from his cheek to his shoulder, then down his back inside the greatcoat, but it seemed just out of reach to his fingertips. "What kind of help?" he asked after scratching his back against the chair.

Jonathan sipped his whiskey. "The theft of the Chardin. Is it still on?"

Instantly Mac's voice was flat and tentative, and the leprechaun façade fell away. "It is, yes."

"And it's still scheduled for Tuesday night?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I want to go with you." Jonathan placed his glass carefully on the parqueted side table.

MacTaint examined a new tear in his canvas trousers with close interest. "Why?"

"Can't tell you, Mac. But it's tied up with the trouble I'm in."

"I see. Why didn't you lie and make up some convincing story?"

"I would never do that, Mac."

"Because we're such great friends?"

"No. Because you'd see through it."

MacTaint enjoyed a good laugh, then a short choke, then a long racking cough that ended with his spitting on the carpet. "You're a proper villain, Jonathan Hemlock. That's why I like you. You con a man by admitting you're conning a man. That's very fine." He wiped his eyes with his fist and changed tone. "Tell me this. Will taking you along screw up my work?"

"I don't see why. You only need a couple of minutes, using your technique."

"Ah, then you know what my technique is?"

"I've had a couple of days to figure it out. Only one possibility. You get a good fake. You mutilate it, break in, and swap it for the original. Everyone assumes there's been an act of vandalism—not a theft. The fake is repaired with care, and if anyone ever notices a blemish, it's put down to the repair job."

"Precisely, my son! And, though I say it who shouldn't, there's a touch of genius in it. I nicked my share of paintings in the past ten years this way."

"And that accounts for the rash of vandalism in British museums."

"Not quite. In one case a real vandal broke in and damaged a painting, the heartless son of a bitch!"

Jonathan waited a moment before asking, "Well? Can I go with you?"

MacTaint clawed meditatively at the scruff on his scalp. "I suppose so. But mind you, if there's trouble, it's devil take the hindmost. I love you like a son, Jon. But I wouldn't do porridge even for a son."

"Great. What time do I meet you on Tuesday night?"

"About ten, I suppose. That will give us time for a few short ones before we go."

"You're a good man, MacTaint."

"True enough. True enough."

Because it was handier, Jonathan went to his Mayfair flat to make a pattern of calls to selected art reviews and critics who create British taste. His approach differed slightly, but only slightly, as he covered the range from The Guardian to Time and Tide. In each case he introduced himself, and there was the inevitable catch in the conversation as the person on the other end of the line realized to whom he was speaking. Jonathan began by assuming the critic had heard that a Marini Horse was in the country and was going up for auction within a week. He smiled as the critic inevitably responded that he had indeed heard something of this. What he was seeking, Jonathan said, was reliable verification of the rumor that the Horse would bring between three and five million in the bidding. After a pause, the critic said he wouldn't be surprised—not a bit surprised. Their initial flush of pleasure at being consulted by Jonathan Hemlock inevitably gave way to the public school whine of superior knowledge. Jonathan knew the type and expected their self-esteem to expand to fill any space he left for it.

He made a point of mentioning each time that the mossbacks of the National Gallery had pulled off quite a coup in securing the Marini Horse for a one-day exhibition just before it went off to the auction room, but he assumed the critic already knew all about that. The critic knew all about that, and several of them intimated that they had had some modest part in the arrangements. Each conversation ended with pleasantries and regrets for not having got together for lunch—a social hiatus Jonathan intended to fill in at the first opportunity.

As he dialed each new number, Jonathan pictured the last man hastily thumbing through reference volumes, taking rapid notes and frowning importantly.

In his mind Jonathan could see the prototypical article, some version of which would appear in a score of major and minor papers the day after tomorrow. "It has long been the opinion of this writer that the innovative work of Marini has suffered from a lack of study and recognition in England. But it is to be hoped that this gap will be closed by a forthcoming landmark event that I have been following closely: the public auction of one of Marini's characteristic bronze Horses. Unless I miss my guess, the Horse will bring something in the neighborhood of five million, and although this figure may surprise the reader (and some of my colleagues, I am sorry to say), it is no surprise at all to the few who have followed the work of this modern sculptor whose genius is only now coming into full recognition.

"It is particularly telling that the National Gallery, not distinguished by its innovative imagination, has arranged to place the Marini Horse on display for one day before it is sold and—who knows—possibly lost to England forever. Etc. Etc."

Jonathan's finger was tender with dialing by the time he had finished his list of two-step opinion leaders. But he made one further call, this one to fforbes-Ffitch at the Royal College of Art.

"Jonathan! How good of you to call! Just a moment. Let me clear the decks here, so I can talk to you." fforbes-Ffitch held the telephone away from his mouth to tell his secretary that he would continue his dictation later.

"Now then, Jonathan! Good Lord! I'm up to my ears. No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"Nor for the poorly organized."

"What? Oh. Oh, yes." He laughed heavily at the jest, to prove he had gotten it. "One thing is certain: The men higher up certainly cleave to the adage that the only way to get a job done is to give it to a busy man. My desk's awash with things that have to be done yesterday. Oh, say! So sorry I didn't see you after that lecture here the other day. A smashing success. Sorry about the mix-up in topics. But I think you landed on your feet. And I have to admit that it was a bit of a feather in the cap to get you there. Never hurts to know who to know, right?"

"It was about feathers and caps that I wanted to talk."

"Oh?"

"You've been after me to do that series of lectures in Stockholm."

"I have indeed! Don't tell me you're weakening?"

"Yes. That is the quid. And there's a quo. You're a trustee of the National Gallery, aren't you?"

"Yes. Youngest ever. Something to do with the government attempting to project a 'with-it' image. Does what you want have something to do with the Gallery?"

"Let's get together and talk about it this afternoon."

"Lord, Jonathan. Don't know that I can. Calendar bulging, you know. Here, let's see what I can do." Holding the phone only a little away from his mouth, fforbes-Ffitch clicked on his intercom. "Miss Plimsol? What do I look like for this afternoon? Over."

A voice told him he had a conference coming up in ten minutes, then he had arranged to take a business drink with Sir Wilfred Pyles at the club.

"A drink with Sir Wilfred?" fforbes-Ffitch repeated, in case Jonathan had not heard. "What time is that? Over."

"Four o'clock, sir."

"Sixteen hundred hours, eh? Right. Over and out Jonathan? What do you say to a drink at my club at sixteen forty-five hours?"

"Fine."

"You know the club, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it."

"Right, then. See you there. Been grand chatting with you. Let's hope everyone benefits. Ta-ta."

Just as Jonathan set the phone back on its cradle, it rang under his hand, and the effect of the coincidence was a little rattling.

"Jonathan Hemlock."

"Hey, long time no see, man. Until Miss Coyne checked in with me a couple of hours ago, we didn't know what had happened to you."

"I'm fine, Yank. Why are you calling?"

"I've been trying to get you for two hours. But your line was always busy. What's up, doc?"

"You can tell the Vicar that things are moving along."

"Great. But you can tell him yourself. Tonight. Things are coming to a head. He wants to have a little confab with you. Can do?"

"Miss Coyne mentioned that to me. Where?"

"At the Vicarage."

"All right. I'll drive out. Probably get there six or seven in the evening."

"Roger-dodger. Oh, by the way. Sorry I wasn't able to get through to those MI-5 guys in time."

"That's all right. I took care of them."

"Yes, I know. The man at MI-5 had me on the carpet. Two of the guys are still in hospital."

"They probably need the rest."

"I thought it would be best if we didn't mention this to the Vicar. No use getting his bowels in an uproar. You dig?"

"Whatever."

"Okeydoke. Hang in there."

Jonathan hung up. Talking to Yank always filled him with bone-deep fatigue—like the prospect of going shopping with a woman.

Then one oblique consolation to all this occurred to him. Whatever happened, he had ten thousand pounds from Strange—about twenty-five thousand dollars made at the cost of a few hours of telephoning. The trick was, living to spend it.

fforbes-Ffitch's club was only a short walk up from Claridge's, not far from Jonathan's Mayfair flat. It was typically clubby: a good address for taking lunch; a large and comfortable dining room with stiff linen and conversation, where one was served by nanny waitresses with skins the color and texture of the Yorkshire puddings they foisted upon you; the carafe wine was decent; and there were heavy comfortable leather chairs in the lounge for taking coffee and brandy, and for being seen chatting with people who wanted to be seen chatting with you. As an institution, it shared the catholic British problem of not being what it used to be. There simply wasn't the money floating about to support such monuments to gentle leisure since British socialism, failing in its efforts to share the wealth, had devoted itself to sharing the poverty.

The ostensible criteria for club membership were relations with the world of art and letters, but there were more critics than painters, more publishers than writers, more teachers than practitioners. Typically correct in bulk and shoddy in detail, it was the kind of place that prided itself on an excellent Stilton soaked in port, but served white pepper. The members wore suits, the fine material and careless fitting of which bespoke London's better tailors, but they wore short socks that displayed rather a lot of shiny, pallid shin as they sat sprawled in the lounge.

fforbes-Ffitch was just saying good-bye to Sir Wilfred when the part-French hostess conducted Jonathan into their company.

"Ah! There you are, Jonathan. Sir Wilfred, may I present Jonathan Hemlock? He's the man I was just mentioning—"

"Hello, Jon."

"Fred."

"Damned if it doesn't seem that everybody in London is devoted to the task of introducing us. Makes me wonder if there was something faulty in our first acquaintance."

"Oh." fforbes-Ffitch was crestfallen. "You've met, then."

"Rather often, really," Sir Wilfred said. "We've just been chatting, fforbes-Ffitch and I, about your going to Stockholm to do that series of lectures for him. You will have my commission's fiscal support. Delighted you have decided to do it, Jon."

"It isn't settled yet."

"Oh?" Sir Wilfred raised his eyebrows at fforbes-Ffitch. "I'd rather got the impression it was."

"I'm sure we'll be able to work it out," f-F said quickly, with an offhand gesture.

"Say, may I have a word with you, Jon? You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Not at all," fforbes-Ffitch said. He stood smiling politely at the silent men, then with a sudden catch he said, "Oh! Oh, I see. Yes. Well, I'll order a couple of drinks then." He departed for the bar.

Sir Wilfred drew Jonathan toward the deep-set windows that overlooked the street. "Tell me, Jon. Are you quite all right? I am speaking of this Maximilian Strange business, of course."