The Lucy Ghosts

Ch. 1

Santa Claus leant against the sled and took a last deep draw on his cigarette before dropping it in the snow and stamping on it with his boot.

Next to him, the old reindeer waited patiently, trapped by the harness that attached to the heavy wooden sled that it would soon be urged to pull out from its crystal flaked hiding place in the trees.

The man in the red suit and padded stomach looked at his watch; it was time for another show. The snows were starting to fall again and he was impatient to get things done.

He stood up and took the white flowing beard from the sled and put it over his chin, hooking the wire strands behind his ears to hold it in place.

In the distance he heard the excited shrieks of the children, now waiting on the balcony of the wooden structured restaurant for him to make his appearance.

He sighed, already bored with the show that was to follow, dreading the rush of the shrieking youngsters towards the sled as soon as he appeared. It was his twentieth performance in ten days, part of an annual ritual for more than forty years that helped keep the Spirit of Christmas alive in that far northern area known as Lapland, the home of Santa Claus.

'And now, the moment we have all been waiting for…', a woman's voice boomed, metallic in its resonance over the loudspeakers hanging from the trees.

Santa moved alongside the reindeer, took the leather reins in his right hand as he held the animal by its wide antlers to keep it from moving forward and spoiling their staged entrance. He could sense the excitement and anticipation, knew the children would be straining over the balcony for the first glimpse of Santa.

The reindeer was also an old hand at the game. Patient, as the breed are, he waited for his handler to push him forward and into the path of the bright lights that had snapped on, illuminating the area as if it were day.

'…the moment that Santa and his elves work all the year round for, to bring toys and gifts to the children of the world.'

The reindeer felt Santa's hand slip from his antlers, felt the reins relax and fall free around his neck.

'Yes, the real reason you have all come here, all the way to Lapland, to Father Christmas' home…'

There was a thud as something fell heavily into the sled, but the reindeer ignored it, knew it was almost time to go.

'…from faraway places, here is Father Christmas, just to see you.'

The animal leant forward, strained to start moving, knew they must go forward in the silence that always followed the loud voice that came from nowhere.

But the reins were slack, the hand that always prodded the antlers missing.

The old reindeer stepped forward, it was an instinctive reaction, out into the brightness of the floodlights and away from the protection of the spruce trees.

A sharp eyed six year old boy from Ayr in Scotland saw the reindeer. It stepped from behind the trees and into the bright lit opening in front of the restaurant chalet.

'Mum. Mum, there's Santa! Look, Look, it's Santa,' he cried excitedly, pulling at his mother's arm as she stood protectively behind him.

'I can see, I can see,' she replied.

By now the rest of the group had seen the reindeer pulling the sled across the snow with the red and rounded Santa Claus sitting in the back, a sack of toys across his knees.

The children were shouting loudly, waving at Santa, calling for him to wave back.

Snow began to fall, glistening across the floodlights.

The reindeer reached the centre of the clearing, stopped instinctively without waiting for the tug on the reins that always came at this point. He and his master had done this short journey many times over the years.

'Children,' came the voice over the loudspeaker. ' You can go down in the snow and meet Father Christmas. Go on children, go and help Father Christmas come up to the restaurant.'

Some of the children broke from the group and ran down the gentle incline towards the sled. Others, nervous in their excitement, urged their parents to accompany them.

The six year old boy from Ayr was the first to reach it, his mother not far behind.

He climbed up with outstretched arms to hug the red coated figure who sat there, the sack of toys now fallen open across his knees.

The child's sharp and sudden movement sent Father Christmas sprawling sideways over the edge of the wooden sled.

As his head twisted backwards, the white beard fell to the snow. The boy's mother, realising Santa was dead, screamed.

Before she could grab the boy, the reindeer, frightened by her shrill cry, jerked forward and galloped through the crowd that now surrounded him. Behind him, the child held on, still not knowing what was wrong, still eager to be with Santa Claus.

As the reindeer rushed forward, the mother screamed even louder and longer, panicking the reindeer even further.

No one was hurt by the animal as it pushed through the small group, its swinging antlers well above the height of most of the children.

One of the men rushed behind the sled and took hold of the reins that were sliding through the snow. He pulled the animal to a halt some twenty yards further on. When the Christmas tableau had finally come to rest he turned and lifted the boy out of the sled.

'I saw Santa, I saw Santa,' said the excited boy to his mother. 'He took me for a ride.'

The officials from the Christmas party had now reached the group and were marshaling them, hurrying them back to the restaurant. One of them, an elderly man who was the car park attendant, stood in front of the reindeer and stroked its muzzle to calm it. As he did so, he looked over the animal's head into the sled, at the slumped figure of Father Christmas.

He saw the red coat had fallen open.

He saw the spread of blood.

He turned away, sickened.

When the police came half an hour later there was nothing for them. The deep footsteps that led away from the small wooded patch where the man and his reindeer had first waited had been covered by falling snow.

The only clue was the deep knife wound to the hear that had finally ended Christmas for Father Christmas.

Ch. 2

The phone that never rang suddenly shrilled across the European communications room.

The clerk on duty, startled by the unfamiliar alarm, leapt back from the computer terminal where he was indexing yesterday's Wall Street prices, and hurried across the big room.

In the far corner sat a myriad of over one hundred telephones that were linked directly to various towns, cities and embassies in Western and Eastern Europe.

They were emergency lines in the old days of the Cold War. Since then, even years before the Cold War had finally thawed and been overtaken by the Gulf Crisis and all the other troubles, communication by phone had been superseded by satellites, micro systems, faxes and more modern systems. But intelligence services were hoarders by instinct. The phones had only remained because the CIA had a jackdaw-like appetite for keeping all lines of communication open.

And when one rang, it meant someone was in trouble.

The clerk, an underpaid computer systems man who spent most of his time researching the secret information that the CIA collected on Wall Street companies so that he could play the markets with the few dollars he managed to save from his salary, searched the phones to see which one was ringing. It took time, over a minute, before he identified the correct one.

'Yes?' he said breathlessly into the receiver. He didn't know what else to say. Answering these phones was not part of his training.

'Washington?' came the hushed reply, a woman's voice, sing-songy and foreign.

'Yes.' He had no idea where the call came from.

'America?'

'Of course…' He tried not to show his irritation. 'Yes.'

'CIA?'

'Yes.' Who the hell was ringing if they didn't know they were connected to Langley? 'Who is this?'

'I was told to ring if anything happened,' the woman said. ‘He gave me an envelope, to open, if anything happened.'

'Where are you ringing from?'

'Riuvamani.'

'Where?'

'From Riuvamani. In the letter, it says if anything happens, I am to ring this telephone number and say 'Reindeer is dead'.'

'Reindeer is dead?'

'Yes. "Reindeer is dead".' That's all she knew, her husband’s life had been his own. She paused before she went on. 'Will I still get the money?'

His instinct was to hang up, but he knew these phones were connected to the past. It was time to pass the buck upstairs.

'Wait,' he said. 'I will get someone more senior to talk to you. Don't hang up. Don't go away.'

He put the receiver down and hurried back to his terminal. He switched the programme out of the Wall Street file before he dialed the senior night officer. There was no way he wanted to be fired from the service for insider dealing. The pay wasn't great, but it was steady.

'Phil Tucker,' came the immediate response from upstairs.

'Phil, it's Greg in the European room. I've got a call on one of those direct lines.'

'What direct lines?'

'The old ones. The ones we keep for back-up.'

There was a pause. 'You're kidding? Who?'

'I don't know. A woman. Foreign.'

'What's she want?'

'Says she's been told to report in.'

'Who by?'

'Don't know. Just says "Reindeer's dead.".

'Reindeer?'

'That's it'

'Is that an open code?'

'Haven't checked the book yet.' He didn't add he didn't know which Cypher manual to check.

'Fuck it, I'm coming down. Who the hell's Reindeer?'

Before the clerk could answer, the phone went dead in his hand. As he waited, he remembered it had been Kuwait's invasion by the Iraqis that had been triggered off by these phones. He hoped this wasn't going to be the start of another such crisis. Only this time it was Europe. It had to be the Russians. 'Damn it,' he thought. 'The Cold War's over.' Then he grinned. Crisis meant falling stocks. He decided to ring his broker first thing in the morning and sell before this leaked out and prices started to tumble.

Across the room, at the other end of the phone that had unexpectedly broken the silence at Langley, Mrs Santa Claus waited patiently to find out if the death of her husband a few hours earlier also meant the death of her housekeeping money.

Times were hard and she hoped those nice Americans would go on sending the dollars that her husband used to pick up in a plain envelope once a month at the local Post Office.

As she waited, she also wondered who Reindeer was.

Ch. 3

Hans Putiloff sipped his decaf and wondered how he was going to get into Room 17 before its occupant, a senior officer in the German Luftwaffe, returned from the Goose air base.

Ever since the Germans had built a new hangar for their NATO exercise aircraft at Goose, the Royal Inn Hotel had become the centre for their off duty pleasures. Visiting aircrews tended to stay there before they were billeted on the base. It was an ideal situation for someone who wanted to pick up loose talk amongst serviceman.

Goose Bay, a small township on the inhospitable east coast of Labrador, is one of the West's most strategic air bases. With two long runways, it is the centre for NATO exercises and houses large British, German and other NATO contingencies in addition to the Royal Canadian Air Force. Under snow for nearly five months of the year, it is also a safe haven and staging post for the many small private aircraft that are ferried across the North Atlantic on their way to and from Europe.

The town's economy is based on the airport and its three hotels are usually fully booked. Two of them, The Labrador Inn and the Royal Inn, are of a wooden structure with blockboard partitions between the rooms. Privacy is not one of the luxuries guests expect in these three star outback hotels.

But, as Hans Putiloff often said, one man's misery was another's reward. Now approaching his sixty ninth birthday, he had, to all intents and purposes, come to Canada as an immigrant from East Germany in 1956. Of German origin, he had adopted the identity of a dead Polish sailor called Lalek Widowski, and had thus, with the appropriate forged documents, escaped from East Germany and into Western Europe. In those days, before the Berlin Wall split the continent, it was an easy escape route for those who were prepared to take it. It hadn't taken him long to work his passage across to Canada, where he eventually applied for an immigrant's permit. Five years later he swore allegiance to the Canadian flag and became a citizen. He changed his name to Lou Widders and began work as a refueller for Shell Aviation Services at the civil terminal at Goose Bay Airport. In time, when his foreign accent had been replaced by Canadian clip talk, people forgot about his Polish background and his European ancestry.

To them Lou Widders was a Canadian. Which would have pleased his Russian masters in what had been the GRU and become in more recent years, the KGB. It had been there, in Moscow, at the KGB Headquarters in 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, that the young Hans had been exhaustively trained to prepare for his future role as a Canadian citizen. Hans Putiloff, who became Lalek Widowski, now residing as Lou Widders, was one of the great sea of unknown spies planted across the western world as 'sleepers', those who integrated into local communities and waited to be called one day to exercise their duties by Moscow.

It had been a long wait. And now, in this time of perestroika, it was unlikely that the call would ever be made.

But that didn't worry Lou Widders. He was one of a rare breed, a conscientious, workaholic spy. He did it because he loved it. Even the thought of returning to a unified Germany had not excited him after all these years. But then there was always that other past which had been wiped clean by his Russian masters all those years ago. Dachau. The little town near Munich. A place of death where birds still never sang. It had been Hans Putiloff's playing fields, a playground where he had exercised his pleasure on those unfortunate inmates who were placed under his care. When he saw the war coming to an end, he escaped to the east. His instincts told him the Russians would appreciate his talent for cruelty; what he hadn't expected was to be sent out to Canada and simply cease to exist.

He was over zealous in his duties. Rather than wait for his orders, commands he knew might never be made, he had, over the years set about building up the most comprehensive file on Goose Bay, its airport, visiting aircraft and crews, and improving weapons systems. These files, handwritten for the first thirty years, were now totally inscribed on two 180 megabyte hard discs that were linked to his Apple Mac 11 personal computer. It was a record that his Control in 2 Dzerzhinsky Square would dearly have loved to have, if only they had contacted him.

But the only contact was a member of the Russian diplomatic staff whose annual holiday always coincided with Hans' in Niagara Falls. The meetings were brief, the contact simply checked that Hans was well and out of trouble. The next was scheduled for the following Tuesday.

With this in mind, and eager for more information, Hans waited for the moment when he could go into Room 17 and see if the German officer had left anything that would be a valuable addition to his data base. He smiled as he sipped his decaf. The thin walls at the Royal Inn and the Labrador Inn were to his advantage. He had often slid into an empty room next to someone he was spying on and listened through the blockboard to secret conversations. There had been surprises over the years. The happily married station commander with a penchant for young men, the visiting diplomat who had waited to be beaten in his room by a black French airman, the cypher clerk who dealt in narcotics. These, and many more, were the daily paraphernalia that filled his computer life.

'Everything alright, Lou?' said the plump young girl behind the counter, her bulk shapeless under the large knitted sweater that would have kept two lumberjacks warm on a snow-driven night.

'Fine,' he said, nodding warmly back at her.

'Another coffee?'

'No. Time to go.'

'See ya, Lou.'

'See ya.'

He opened the door and stepped out into the night, the air bitter and cold, a minus 20 degree chill factor.

He looked towards Room 17, motel style with its door opening onto the wooden board-walk. There was no light, nor in Room 16 next to it. When he was satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he drew the master key he had stolen many years earlier and walked towards it.

He reached the door to Room 17 and listened, heard nothing. He knocked softly, waited until he was sure that no-one answered, that he had given ample time for a sleeping man to awaken, then put the master key in the lock and pushed the door open.

He was about to slide into the room when the stranger spoke.

'Excuse me?' said the man's voice.

Hans swung round, was surprised to see the tall man in the overcoat standing next to him, on the step of the now open door of Room 16.

'What d'ya want?' Hans asked, impatient, surprised, yet hushed so as not to attract any passing attention.

The man said nothing, simply held out a rolled up newspaper towards Hans.

'What d'ya want?' repeated Hans, made nervous by the man's surprise action.

'Have you read the news today?' came the muffled reply, East European in its dialect.

'What news?'

'Comrade, you made the news today. Hans Putiloff has passed away.'

Before Hans could react, the stranger pushed the rolled newspaper towards him, to within one foot of his nose, and jerked it sharply. There was a soft pop followed by the sound of tinkling, breaking glass.

Hans Putiloff, the conscientious spy, inhaled the deadly vapour of the Stashinksky gun and fell dead to the snow covered board-walk. Sharp and swift. No time to scream, no blood, no tell-tale mark of death.

His assassin, within a matter of seconds, had picked up his victim's now lifeless body and rolled it into Room 17. He closed the door and went to catch the airport bus at Royal Avenue in time for the Air Nova flight which would return him to Halifax, Nova Scotia. He threw the gun away. Who would concern themselves with a rolled up newspaper and a metal tube seven inches long?

It was just part of the everyday junk that filled the lives of the citizens of Happy Valley, Goose Bay.

Unaware of what had happened, some five thousand miles to the east, in Moscow, the Director of the KGB relaxed in the back of the Zil limousine that took him from his offices in Dzerzhinsky Square to his small home on the outskirts of Moscow.

The days when all top communist officials had country dachas was long gone, now that the Soviet Union was starving and the leadership struggling.

He looked forward to getting home. A few friends, old and trusted comrades, were coming to drink tea and vodka and play a game of vint. They met once a week, had done regularly for the last fifteen years, and it was the highlight of their joint friendship and shared lives.

He watched the slow line of Moscow traffic edge its way out of the city.

'Times are good,' he thought. 'Even if the enemy is now our friend.' He recalled his earlier meeting when he had been summoned to the Central Committee Security Plenary. It was a regular meeting and he was expected to say little, just listen to the committee members rambling on about how Russians must learn to work with the Americans, yet be watchful at all times. His American counterparts were probably having the same meeting.

The business of spying had crossed the borders into diplomacy. It made life difficult. Suddenly there were no obvious enemies, no loyal and trusted friends.

'Ah!' he sighed. 'Such is the way of the modern world.'

Little did he know, as he leant back and closed his eyes for the journey home, that the death of Hans Putiloff, all that distance away, was about to test the new spirit of co-operation between the Soviet Union and America.

Someone was trying to rock the boat, and there was little the KGB would be able to do about it in the coming days.

Ch. 4

Adam Nicholson couldn’t give a damn about the CIA or the KGB.

But he did care about the ineptitude of his superiors.

Twenty minutes after his face was splashed across the front page of the London Times, they pulled Adam Nicholson out of Northern Ireland.

The picture wasn't of Adam himself, but of a colleague and his family who had been the unintentional victims of a Belfast bombing. Adam, in military uniform and showing his rank as Captain, was clearly identifiable in the background. Which was just what an undercover member of the SAS 14th Intelligence Unit in Northern Ireland wanted.

After a short de-briefing, he was sent home on four weeks' leave to start immediately.

'We want you to stay out of sight.'

'I thought I was to take some leave.'

'We don't want you recognised. They'll be looking for you. Just because you're in London doesn't mean you're safe.'

'I wasn't intending walking up and down Kilburn High Street.' Kilburn was a haven for IRA members and supporters. 'London's a big place.'

'That's the way it is. Otherwise we'll transfer you to a safe house. I don't think you want that.'

Adam shrugged and got up to leave.

'I haven't finished yet!' barked the de-briefer.

Adam walked to the door before turning round. 'What else did you want to discuss?' he asked insolently.

The officer sighed. 'Understand one thing. Stay out of sight at all times.'

‘You’ve already said that. Do you think I’m deaf? Or just stupid.”

As Adam left the barracks in an armoured personnel carrier, the de-briefing officer heaved a sigh of relief. Even though Adam was one of the best covert operators the Army had, his attitude made him the most hated. The last thing his superiors wanted was that arrogant bastard wandering round the barracks with nothing to do, upsetting his colleagues, disregarding the officers, contemptuous of their tradition and discipline.

Lifted out by army helicopter, a small brown Maxfli sports holdall as his only luggage, Adam was back in his London apartment by three o' clock that same afternoon.

He was pleased to be home, although regretful because he knew he could never go back to Belfast again. He had been there for nearly three years, had enjoyed his tour of duty. The danger had always appealed to him and Northern Ireland had given him the best years of his life. Before that, there'd been the Gulf War, where his sojourn behind enemy lines had taught him that he could only rely on his own ability. It had been a lesson he learnt well, a lesson that was to save his life many times. Those had been good days, out there, on the edge of danger in the sands of the desert. Then there'd been a spell in Germany, undercover as a construction worker, on the lookout for IRA terrorists who were attacking servicemen and their families. It had not been a happy time; failure to root out a terrorist cell had left him frustrated and feeling useless. But he'd learnt to speak German, although that was of little use in the Irish provinces. It had been his introduction to army life.

At thirty-four, he now faced a future in uniform behind some desk. He knew it wouldn't last, that his service career was probably over. Adventure, his constant mistress, would have to be found in some other form.

Adam had recognised the disdain in the debriefer's eyes during their short meeting. He had relished that. He knew everybody hated him. It was the way he preferred it. It suited him, he owed no-one any debts, lived his life the way he wanted.

Over the years the image and the reality had become inseparable. In his own misguided way, Adam now saw himself as the perpetual outsider, the ultimate loner. He had simply become, in one colleague's terms, 'not a nice person, not a regular chap'.

Being rich helped. His parents had been killed in a motor accident whilst on holiday in Spain when he was only nine. A successful property developer, his father had set up a trust fund for his two sons that had accumulated over the years to give Adam the sort of unearned income some considered obscene. Adam's identical twin, the second to be born, Marcus, had also died in the car. Adam had been left at home to keep his ailing grandmother company, something his father had insisted on. He knew it would help the old lady, his own mother, and the children's only living grandparent. Indeed, she had been the only living relative outside the parents and the two boys.

At the funeral Adam had stood between his father's lawyer and accountant, both of them now trustees to the boy's future. Even at that age he knew they didn't really care about him, and only when he was much older would he discover how large a fee they charged to administer his inheritance and his upbringing.

He missed Marcus most of all. He often remembered the desolation as he watched the last coffin, the smallest, being lowered into the ground in a Woking cemetery. He'd stood there, refusing to cry because his father wouldn't have expected it of him, and watched the earth being scattered over the wooden coffins. The lawyer, the one he disliked most, had grabbed his hand and half dragged him away. The funeral was over and he probably had another meeting to get to. Adam remembered the other mourners staring at him, saw the pity in their eyes. 'Poor little boy. Fancy losing his parents at such a young age.' None of them had been close friends, mostly business associates.

Adam had straightened up, held his head high and walked out of the cemetery. He was his father's son.

He wanted to stay in the flat that night, to sleep in the bed next to where Marcus should have been. But he went to his grandmother's. He stayed there until she died. He was never allowed back to his parents' flat. After they had died, the flat was sold and Adam lived in a mixture of boarding schools and trustees' homes until he was eighteen. With a handsome income at that young age, he had to wait until he was twenty five before his parents' flat came up for sale. He didn't mind paying over the asking price, it was the only home he had ever wanted, the only place he felt he belonged. He was close to Marcus again, his twin had never died in his own mind. He had shared his school-days, his whole growing up with him. With Marcus so close, he knew he wasn't on his own.

He hated the emptiness of the flat when he had been away. To him, this home, where he had lived with his parents and twin until their sudden deaths all those years ago, was a living being. As all homes should be. Although regularly maintained by a live-out housekeeper, it needed the daily wear and tear of life to generate its character.

Lily, his elderly housekeeper, had not expected him, so the fire was unlit, the services off. He smiled, knew she would chide him for not contacting her. She could organise his life from tomorrow morning.

He dropped the brown holdall on the sofa and crossed through the lounge to the big Georgian window on the far side. He unlatched the security lock and swung it open, letting the cold December chill in and the sounds of London street life below.

The noise and the freshness pumped him up, swirled through the room and made him feel at home immediately. It was always good when the apartment came to life again.

He picked up his bag and entered the bedroom. He threw the bag onto the bed and inzipped it, took out his shaving gear and toothbrush. He was a dapper and meticulous man, always perfectly turned out, always looking his best. He went into the bathroom to freshen up. He took off his dirty workman's shirt, part of his undercover disguise, and stepped out of the torn blue jeans.

The badger hair shaving brush was soon being soaked under the tap and then whisked in the Geoffrey Trumper cream shaving mug. 'Luxuriant Shaving Cream from his celebrated establishment in Curzon Street, Mayfair — By Royal Appointment' read the lettering on the side. When he had lathered his face he picked up the sharpened cut throat razor and carefully shaved off the stubble that had been a necessary part of his appearance for the last few months.

The shaving complete, the face washed clean, he examined his features. He was annoyed with the white outline on his lower face where the stubble had been, so markedly different from his upper face which was weather worn. An hour under the sun lamp would soon sort that. The eyes, dark brown in colour, were clearer and brighter now, more dominant than they had been with his stubbled face. The face was no longer that of a workman, but of a young, alert and intelligent man. He smiled, enjoyed the sophistication of his features.

The hair was still straggly, still unwashed and partly matted. He would have to wait for the water to get hot before he could shampoo it.

He pulled the hair gel and apple shampoo out of the wall cabinet and put them beside the shower, ready for use in a short time.

With time to spare, he returned to the bedroom and opened his wardrobe. The suits waited like empty soldiers, racked in parade formation on their hangers, the ties and shirts in the shelves alongside. He ran his hands over the cloth, felt their expensive softness, looked forward to wearing the clothes he felt most comfortable in.

He grinned. It was good to be back.

When Adam stepped out of the lift into the underground garage, there was no comparison to the stubbled workman who had entered the flat an hour earlier.

This was urban man.

The suit he wore was faintly striped over a brown cloth, the shirt pastel blue, the tie hand painted. The trousers were held up by a slim, black leather belt, the monogram AN shaped into the buckle. The clean-shaven face was crowned with black gelled hair, short, slick and swept back at the top, long in a Pharaoh style down his neck. It was wavy as it ran back, sharp ridged and glossy. The end of the Pharaoh cut fell over his upturned coat collar, the lapels folded forward as was expected in the high fashion of the day. Black, highly polished, soft leather slip-on shoes completed the outfit.

He crossed the shared garage to his car bays and switched on the light. Seeing them after a tour of duty always gave him a burst of pleasure. Emma and Steed. Named after his favourite characters in the TV series 'The Avengers'.

Emma was a red 1955 Mercedes Gullwing 300 SLC sports car with a white interior. Capable of over 155 miles per hour, it was probably the finest sports car ever produced. Adam loved its shape, its sexuality, its sense of speed even when it was standing still. The Gullwing's sensuality simply gave him the horn.

Steed, the more masculine of the two, was a 1990 Ferrari F40, with a top speed of over 200 miles per hour with 0-60 in four seconds. Just as the Mercedes had been during its time, a racing car with a road going body.

These were Adam's children. These, and the apartment upstairs, the only things he considered of value to himself.

He decided to take the Ferrari.

And whatever his orders, Adam Nicholson wanted people to know he was back.

Ch. 5

Nearly seven thousand miles away, in the early Californian morning, Billie Wood looked out from her La Jolla condominium at the mist that rolled in from the sea. Behind her, Christmas decorations spanned the big living room, the fairy lights still flickering on and off in unison.

It had been a hot night and the air conditioning had rattled incessantly on, not quite coping with the temperature. But it wasn't the heat that kept her awake, but her restlessness. She wondered where Peter was, her husband of nearly twenty years, now separated from her as he frantically chased his dream of a disappearing youth. Probably curled round some bimbo he had acquired in a disco the night before.

At forty one, after the last four years apart, she still missed him. She resented his womanising, his wasting of money on his latest flame, his fight to keep middle age at bay. For all that, she missed his companionship, his humour, his ability to lift her when she was down.

From the dark of the bedroom, she heard Gary move in his sleep. Her latest live-in companion, Gary was a health freak in his late twenties, the sort of exciting lover that most older women imagined they wanted. So different from Peter, with his flabby gut running to waste and his soft skin loose as he tried to shed weight.

So why did she still miss him?

Damn you, Peter. I deserved better.

It would soon be time to get ready for work. Another of life's disappointments. The daughter of a local doctor in Long Beach, California, she had worked hard as a student, all those years ago, and finally left Berkeley with a pass in law that awed the most judicious and prudent of employers. Any law firm or major corporation would have employed Billie without a moment's hesitation. Add to that her fluency in French, German and Spanish, she seemed destined for a life of achievement and reward.

But nothing turns out the way we plan it.

Although a child of the sixties and a strong proponent of flower power, she was suitably impressed when the CIA approached her, covertly through her tutor. With her exceptional qualifications in law and languages, was an ideal candidate for the Agency.

The CIA, primarily responsible for the clandestine collection of foreign intelligence, co-ordination of national intelligence and for conducting counter-intelligence abroad, gains many of its employees from the college campuses of America. Whereas the FBI, responsible for national security and operating like a police force, is far more open in its selection of candidates, the CIA can only operate in a secret and underground manner.

The recruitment of Billie Knutsford, as she was before her marriage, was conducted in such a way. Before she had completed her final day at Berkeley she was interviewed and accepted into the Agency. She was assigned to the Office of Collection and Dissemination and based on the West Coast where she continued to keep in touch with the college fraternity, seen as a breeding ground for insurgents and agitators. She went to work each day at the Mayfair Cab and Taxi Company and became assistant to the Vice President of Scheduling. The network of cabs that covered southern California was ideal for gathering information with some drivers working as operatives for the Agency. Then the department, responsible directly to the Executive Director of the 'Company', was restructured into the Office of Management, Planning and Services (Domestic). Overnight, Billie found herself at the bottom of the tree, now under control of the Deputy Director for Administration. They'd sent her on a computer course; they now had software programmes that collected and disseminated information for her; used its vast database not to help her make decisions, but make decisions for her. She regretted her decision to join the CIA, the perpetual snooping on people she considered no more than young rebels depressed her. Nevertheless she decided to stick it out and work her way to the top.

Love soon blunted her ambition.

Peter Wood, five years her senior and the son of the richest and most successful mortician in San Diego, met and married Billie Knutsford. Life changed and she got used to the wealth, she settled for comfort and a social life that was the dream and envy of all those who aspired to the life they read about in the glossies. She decided to keep working and retain her independence and individuality until she had children.

But she never did. Tests finally showed that Peter simply didn't have it in him. Her parents died and her marriage broke up after twelve years. It had been no-one's fault, it simply went sour. He turned to younger women and the life of an ageing playboy, she to the career that had never been. So she kept working, kept her head down, kept collecting and disseminating the information on the kids at college.

For all her promise, for all that bright glow of a future, Billie Wood was no more than a well-paid clerk in a cab company.

She suddenly remembered the memo on her desk. It had been addressed to her, had come from Langley. She was asked to prepare a report on her section. In truth, they wanted her to justify her existence. She'd seen it before. It was the first step in closing down the section, the latest in a long line of cost cutting exercises.

All she’d ever wanted to do was something important. Achieve something. Make an impact.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven.

Time to stop thinking.

Time to go to work.

The phone rang in the sitting room and startled her. She hurried over to it and snatched it up, not wanting the ringing to wake Gary.

'Hello.' she whispered into the receiver.

'Mrs Knutsford?' a woman's voice asked crisply

'Yes.'

'I have a call for you.'

There were clicks on the line as she was being transferred. She listened for any movement from the bedroom, but Gary remained sleeping. She was relieved. He was like a bear with a migraine if he woke from a deep sleep.

'Billie?' asked a voice that she had never heard before.

'Yes,' she replied cautiously. It sounded official, probably Langley.

'This is the DDA.' It was the Deputy Director of Administration himself. She'd only met him once before, many years earlier, just after his appointment when he'd visited California to see their operation for himself.

'Yes, sir.' She immediately hated her subservience.

'Whatever we say now goes no further. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Phil Tucker, from our European Communications Sector is on his way to San Diego. He'll be bringing some computer tapes with him. I want you to give him all the help you can. Do exactly as he asks.'

'Yes, sir.' She cursed herself as she said those words again. Pretty original, Billie. You're really impressing the guy.

'This is important to us. On a-need-to-know-only basis. Make sure you give it your best. My secretary will ring you with Tucker's flight times.'

'I'll make sure I…' Too late. The phone had gone dead. 'Yes, sir,' she snapped and slammed the phone down.

In the bedroom she heard Gary stir.

She knew it was going to be one of those days.

Ch. 6

'Sar'n'vinger?'

'Please.'

'Okay.'

Adam watched the old Chinaman behind the counter sprinkle the salt shaker over his chips, then follow it with vinegar.

When he had completely doused the chips, he handed them, wrapped in newspaper, to Adam.

'Great. Thanks.'

The old Chinaman in his white overall turned to his next customer as Adam left the Fish and Chip Take-away.

'Sorry. I'm on my way,' he shouted to the traffic warden who was inspecting Emma who was parked on a double yellow line.

'Never booked an old car like this before.'

Adam swung the door upwards. He turned to the warden and offered him a hot chip from his newspaper packet. 'I wouldn't call this bribery,' he joked.

The warden laughed and took one of the chips. 'They're not going to carpet me for this,' he replied. 'Some car?'

'A 1955 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing. Fourteen hundred made, about three hundred left.'

'Horny shape. For a car that old. How fast?'

'About a hundred and fifty.'

'Good brakes?'

'No. Drums, not discs. Which is why there's only about three hundred left.'

'Expensive, is it?'

'Yes.'

'How much?'

'A lot.'

'Go on. How much?'

'About a quarter of a million.'

'Pounds?'

'Pounds. But this car's not about money.'

'When you've got a quarter of a million in a car, you can afford to say that. Here, give us another chip.'

He leant towards Adam and helped himself. 'You're being watched, you know.'

'Watched?'

'Yeah. Don't look, but that grey Rover across the street. I saw it pull up just after you. When you went in the chippie, the passenger got out and came over, watched you through the window. Scarpered back just before you came out.'

'Thank you.'

'No sweat. You're not bent, are you?'

'No,' Adam laughed. 'And it isn't a stolen car.'

'Never thought it was. Anyway, they're not police. I know all the unmarked cars. '

'So why tell me?'

'Why not? Fellow shares his lunch with me, he deserves a favour. Even if he does drive a car that could pay my wages for the rest of my life.'

The warden moved off as Adam swung himself into the car. Climbing into a Gullwing was an acquired knack and he made it look easy. As he pulled the door down, he examined the Rover in his rear view mirror.

It was Army.

He knew what they wanted, knew they'd been trailing him ever since he got back.

He switched her engine on, the roar of the 3 litre exploding as it always did.

Emma was a car born on the racetrack. The strange method of entry, with the doors opening up instead of out, was necessary because of the side members of its, for then, advanced multi-tube frame. The engine, a 2996 c.c. straight six cylinder, with Bosch fuel injection, pulled 240 b.h.p. The four speed, fully synchromeshed gearbox was positive in its movement, unlike many other squashy boxes of the era, and powered the car from a standing start to 60 m.p.h. in just over seven seconds. The most remarkable feature was the engine, tilted at sixty degrees to its left, which allowed the hood to be lower than any other sports or racing car of its time.

Adam slipped the thin, upright gear stick into first and pulled out from the kerb.

The Rover hastily swung into the line of traffic behind him and caused an elderly driver to brake her Renault sharply.

'Bloody amateurs,' he chuckled as he heard the woman blare her horn at the Rover.

He half saluted the traffic warden who winked his acknowledgement as he ticketed his way down the street.

The Mercedes worked its way through Shepherd's Bush and onto Bayswater Road, towards Central London. It was early in the afternoon and the traffic light. The Rover kept its distance, not wanting to be noticed in the near empty road, an impossible task at the best of times. Five minutes later Adam passed Marble Arch and swung right into Park Lane. He kept the speed steady at twenty miles an hour, grinned when he saw the Rover being honked at by faster moving traffic. Staying in the bus lane, he passed the Grosvenor House and Dorchester before turning into the set back road at the front of the Hilton. He drove past the commissionaires at the entrance, the small crowd waiting for taxis gawking at the bright red sports car, and into the rear entrance where he pulled up under the canopy and parked.

Although it was a 'No Parking' zone, he knew the car was safe, Wardens and policemen were usually reluctant to ticket or clamp it. The advantages of being a legend.

Adam walked into the Hilton lobby, round to the lifts in the centre of the foyer. He took his time, knew they would be following him. The lobby was crowded, the lifts busy. It wasn't difficult to waste time, he was just one of the crowd.

One of his followers came around the corner and towards the lifts. He stopped sharply, surprised at seeing Adam still there. He was an earnest young man, probably a pen pusher.

Adam stepped forward towards the lifts and spoke to the man next to him.

'Hope these lifts don't stop on every floor.'

'Que?', asked the man, an Hispanic foreigner.

'Lifts. Very slow. You like London?'

'Si. Si. Very nice.'

'First time here?'

'Que?'

'Good. Very nice.'

'Si. Is very good.'

'You enjoy. Is a great city.'

Adam laughed and slapped the man gently on the back. He knew pen pusher would be confused, would think Adam knew the stranger well.

They both entered the lift, the follower also slipping in behind.

The foreigner pushed the button for Floor 16, Adam selected 17. Pen pusher, having elbowed himself to the back of the crowded lift, did nothing.

The Otis lift stopped on Floors 2, 7, 11 and 12 before reaching the 16th.

As the doors slid open, Adam once again patted the foreigner's shoulder.

'Well, have a good time.'

'Si. Thank you,' replied the surprised man, stepping out into the corridor.

'See you later. Won't be long,' shouted Adam through the closing door, waving a final farewell.

The stranger, now totally mystified, waved back as the door finally closed in his face.

There were only three people left in the lift, Adam, the pen pusher and a grey haired man in a Burberry raincoat.

The lift stopped on the 17th floor and Adam stepped out. Pen pusher didn't have the nerve to follow him, which is what Adam expected. He saw him lurch forward as the doors started to close, probably pushed the button for the 18th floor. Adam walked quickly to the housekeeper's closet by the emergency steps and went in, pulling the door to, but not shut, behind him.

A few moments later pen pusher appeared out of the emergency exit door, having climbed down from the floor above. Adam gave him five for resourcefulness.

Pen pusher disappeared down the corridor and turned left at the end.

Adam slipped out from the closet and went through the emergency exit. The concrete, uncarpeted stairs dropped away endlessly. Without hesitation he started to run down the stairs, two at a time.

Two hundred feet below, in the foyer, pen pusher's colleague had come in search of his partner. After a fruitless quest he went to the concierge's position to ask if there were any restaurants or coffee shops on other floors, just as Adam came out of the stairwell doorway and left by the front entrance. Neither saw each other in the throng of the lobby crowd.

Adam walked round the building and to the back entrance where he saw the Rover parked. The Gullwing had drawn a small crowd of admirers, two boys in jeans and their mother. Adam crossed the street quickly.

'Excuse me,' he said, putting the key in the lock and turning it to release the slim door handle.

'Your car, mister?' asked the elder of the two boys.

'Yes.'

'It's beautiful.'

'Thank you,' replied Adam, swinging the door up.

'Cor!' blurted the younger brother. 'It opens up.'

'Would you like to sit inside?'

'Could they?' said the mother.

'Of course.' Adam knew he should be moving, but also enjoyed sharing the car with these two young boys. He reached out and lifted the younger brother, no more than seven years old, and lowered him into the car.

'The steering wheel's broke,' said the elder of the two.

'No it's not,' answered Adam, leaning in and pulling the tilted wheel upright, locking it into place. 'It's meant to be like that. To make it easy to get in. Remember, this was a racing car. Not many would be able to get in, let alone drive it.'

He watched the young boy twist the wheel and pretend to drive the car.

'Careful, Alex,' said his mother.

'He's okay.'

'Let your brother have a go now.'

The disappointed boy climbed out and his brother lowered himself in. After Adam had answered his questions about what this knob did and what that switch was for, the grateful mother and her two excited sons disappeared into the hotel.

Adam slipped into the Mercedes, switched on the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Then he noticed the packet on the passenger seat and grinned, stopped the car.

He climbed out and went over to the Rover and left the packet jammed under its windscreen wiper.

Ten minutes later the pen pusher and his partner came out of the rear entrance and saw that the Gullwing was gone.

'Fuck it!' shouted pen pusher, dreading the report that he would have to file highlighting his failure. 'Fuck it!'

They opened up the Rover and climbed in.

'What's that?' asked pen pusher's colleague.

'Where?'

'Under the bloody wiper.'

There, as a final taunt to their dismal failure, was the remains of a bag of chips wrapped in the faded newsprint of yesterday's paper.

'Very clever,' said the official voice on the telephone. 'And very childish.'

'Why was I being followed?' asked Adam, the receiver resting on his shoulder as he looked out of the apartment window to the street below. The blonde he fancied in the jewellers would soon be going home, her day's work complete. He still hadn't angled out how he was going to introduce himself to her. Probably the F40. She was definitely a Ferrari type, the Gullwing being too noisy and too basic. He decided then that he would browse in the jeweller's tomorrow, leave the red coloured sports car at the kerb where she could definitely see it. Maybe ask her to show him something in the window.

'You were told to keep out of sight.'

'Nobody's going to recognise me.'

'As a soldier you obey orders.'

'I did. I’m strictly on leave. That doesn’t mean being trapped in my flat.'

'No, you were told to lie low, not draw attention to yourself. Those were your orders. In the three days since you've been back, you've done everything except stay at home. Nightclubs, casinos, trips to restaurants for lunch. Usually with companions who are, let's say, more than noticeable…,' the puerile envy in his voice made Adam smile ',…not exactly keeping a low profile, are we?'

‘Right.

'What?' demanded official voice.

'I don't need nursemaids.'

'What makes you so… The trouble with you, Nicholson, if your records are anything to go by, is that you don't give a damn. That you've got a bloody death wish. Now, some people say that makes you an exceptional soldier. I say that makes you a liability. I don't mind you getting killed. But I don't want half a dozen innocent bystanders gunned down with you in your blaze of glory. You're to stay in. That's an order.'

'For how long?'

'Until we tell you different.'

Adam heard the phone go dead. He returned the receiver to its base and went back to his vigil. In the background, from the kitchen, he heard Lily preparing his evening meal.

'What's for supper?' he shouted.

'Just you wait and see,' came her muffled reply.

It was a game they played, she never telling him what she was cooking, he always asking. In the six years she had been with him, he had never been disappointed. It was simple English cooking, so different from the haute cuisine he lived on in the restaurants. But it was the best food he knew.

He decided not to stay in. Even if he was recognised because of that picture, he would far prefer to be out in the open, in the freedom of his own space where he could defend himself without hindrance..

He dreaded whatever they his Command had in store for him. He regretted not going back to Northern Ireland; he had become an outsider.

The depression would come quickly; it always did when things were out of his control. It was his dark half, the part of his soul that plunged him into despair and solitude. He thought of his dead twin Marcus, of his other spirit that always shared his life and lived within his body.

In silence, as he waited for the girl across the road, he cursed the unknown security officer who had carelessly allowed his photo to be splashed across the front page of the Times.

Ch. 7

She'd been waiting for him at the airport; frustrated when the Tannoys had barked out that the United Airlines' flight from Washington would be late.

The frustration had remained bottled up, turning to anger as a second announcement informed her that there would be a further delay due to traffic problems over Denver.

'It's always Denver,' Billie thought. 'What's so special about Denver?'

Phil Tucker came through the gate thirty minutes later, more than ninety minutes late.

'Billie Knutsford?' he asked, approaching her cautiously.

'Yes.' Dammit, she nearly said 'sir' again.

'Hi' he smiled, offering his hand. 'Phil Tucker. Say, I've got a flight out of here in another fifty minutes. We aren't going to have time to get to the office.' There was no way he was going to stay overnight; not if he wanted a peaceful weekend at home with Jean, his wife. She always hated him going out of Washington. 'Can we find somewhere private here?'

'Sure. How about my car?'

'Great.'

She led him out into the car park, towards a bright yellow and red 1989 Jeep Renegade. Billie unlocked the central locking and they both climbed in.

'These discs're for you.' Tucker took a case of discs from his briefcase. 'They're just slices from our data base in Langley. I need you to run some checks on them.'

'What am I looking for?'

'You understand this is top secret. I mean, no-one.'

'Yes.'

'Good. Okay if I smoke?'

She nodded. She hated cigarettes and it would take days to get the smell out of the car. She watched him take out a Camel from the soft pack and light it with a Zippo. Then he told her about Reindeer. As he spoke, she opened a window. There was more smog in here than San Fran, she thought.

'But who was he?' she asked when Tucker had finished.

'A nobody. Someone we'd forgotten about.'

'Important enough for someone else to remember. Lapland's in Finland, isn't it?'

Tucker nodded. 'Reindeer was over sixty. Been drawing a pension for ten years. We’d retired him. I guess it wasn’t one of the elves. It was a professional hit. Clean, right on the button. Anyway, he left an envelope for his wife, to be opened if anything happened to him. She rang on the number he'd left.'

‘He was an asset?’

‘Sure’.

‘Sleeper?’

‘Not really. Just someone we’d call on if we needed local information.

‘Was he productive?’

‘We never used him. We just had him there in case.’

'How many others have we got out there like him?'

'A few. Not as many as we had. Not since we turned to satellite surveillance under the Carter Administration. But enough, in case we ever needed them. Anyway, a lot of them were just stuck out there in the field, they'd integrated into their communities, there was no way we could get them out. Mostly locals anyway.’

'One old guy gets killed. Doesn't mean the Russians, or anyone else, took him out. Could just be a local murder, an accident that we're taking the wrong way.'

'No. Too professional.'

'Was "Reindeer is dead" an open code?' asked Billie. This was CIA jargon for a code concealed within an innocuous message. The Japanese had established this technique successfully during the Second World War, just after their attack on Pearl Harbour. "East wind rain" had been the sentence, a grim warning to their embassy staff in Washington to destroy sensitive documents as the two countries were about to enter into war. Such codes were being used regularly by the activist groups on the Californian campus'.

'No.' Tucker wound his window down and flicked his spent cigarette out.

'What's the computer say?'

'Nothing.'

Billie sensed they had come to the heart of the problem. 'If he was an asset, he must've been in the computer. I remember when we transferred from paper to tape. I spent three boring years inputting some of that information.'

'Which is why this is so damned sensitive.' He lit another cigarette and didn't see her scowl. 'When we checked the database, we found all the information relating to sleeper networks before 1958…,' Tucker paused, as if disbelieving what he was about to tell her. '…I know this is crazy, but there's a virus in the system that knocked out all the information on our European networks before 1958.'

'You're kidding?'

'I haven't flown all the way here for a joke. No. The virus was activated yesterday.'

'How?'

'As soon as we punched in a question on Gunnar Yokob…'

'Who?'

'Reindeer. That was his name. Anyway, soon as we input his name, this virus just upped and knocked out the file. The words just disappeared on the screen, one by one. First the A's, then the B's, right through to Z. Just fucking destroyed the file. When we called up the rest of the European network, exactly the same happened. Within fifteen minutes it had wiped out ten percent of the information we had on the agents in Europe right up till 1958.'

'That's impossible.'

'So impossible it happened. We've sealed off the computer room, switched off the whole system. When we powered up again, it just continued where it left off. We tried to dump the information onto safe systems, but they wouldn't transfer. Just got a message up saying ''NO COPIES OF THIS CLASSIFIED INFORMATION CAN BE MADE.' So we isolated the pre 1958 section until we can get some answers.'

'Only on info before 1958?'

That's right.'

'What're these?' She held up the discs he had given her.

'A few files hadn't been corrupted. Expenses, simple memos, that sort of thing. Just thought there may be an answer in there. If you chase the binary. There’s also a report on Reindeer and a breakdown of the rest of our old asset base. You might just find something we missed.'

'How long's that virus been there?'

Tucker shrugged. 'We've only just found the damn thing. Everything was a lot less secure in those days.’

'Don't you check for viral infection?'

'Regularly.' The questioned irritated Tucker. It hadn't been his idea to involve the girl. 'As long as you know what you're looking for. Trouble is, these files are never opened. No need for it. The virus could've been introduced years ago. Even before we knew about viruses. It was just waiting for us to go into those old archives, waiting to be triggered off. It was Reindeer, and not knowing who he was, that made us backtrack into the files. Nobody's needed them for nearly fifteen years.'

‘So it could be someone in the Agency?’

‘Could be. Or outside. We’re running blind right now.’

‘So I’m in because I’m in the backroom and no-ne will be expecting me.’

‘One of the reasons. They say you’re pretty hot as well. This is your chance to show what you’re made of. With all these latest peace and trade negotiations, the last thing we need is to find the KGB are still up to their old tricks. And we have to protect our assets. Even if they are all sixty and senile.'

'That it?'

'Yes.' Tucker flicked his second cigarette out of the window. 'Gotta quit these soon. They're killing me.'

'I'll need an index. A list of everything that's been contaminated.'

'Okay. Anything else?'

Tucker turned the door handle and climbed out of the car. 'You go. I'll walk back and wait for my connection.' He closed the door, then leant in the window as she started the engine. 'I forgot. Before the computer went down, it came up with one fact on Reindeer. We recruited him after the war. He was German. We think he could've been part of the VT’s.'

'VT’s?'

'SS Special purpose troops. Waffen SS — Verfugungstruppe. The best. They were the guys who were really mean.'

'What were we using them for?'

'I don't know. Trained men, I guess. Ready for the OSS to plant in Europe. I don't know if it means anything. Except it's all we got out of the computer.' He stood back and smiled at her. 'See you, Billie Knutsford.'

'Bye, Phil.' She watched him walk towards the terminal.

Then she shifted into gear and drove out of the parking lot.

This was her big chance. Her crack at the major league.

Ch. 8

The Carlton Hotel is the Queen all the great hotels that span the Croisette in Cannes. It is where everyone who is anyone must be seen, where the rich and famous can be rich and famous and not be embarrassed by their excesses. Nobody asks if the jewels are real, it doesn't matter at the Carlton. To be there, to be seen, is all that matters.

The building, set back in its majesty and overlooking the blue azure of the Mediterranean, even this late in December, is crowned at each corner with two cupolas shaped like enormous, skyward pointing breasts, nipple perfect in their form. For that is what they are. Designed by an amorous architect to represent La Belle Otero, the most beautiful and most famous of French courtesans at the turn of the century. The left cupola is slightly larger than the right one, a further tribute to the architect's search for detail and historical accuracy.

It was the witching hour before lunch, the time when the experienced Canne'ite stroll out to the beach from their hotels, knowing the morning beach restaurant tables will be vacated by the families who have tired of their early morning sojourn and are heading for the shops and amusements that will keep their children occupied. It’s the time that the whores, and there is a plentiful supply of them in Cannes all year round, from housewives and students paying for their holidays to hardened Parisienne professionals on the look-out for Christmas money, emerge to pick up the early trade, to prepare themselves for their daily diet of wine, dirty intentioned glances and sex with strangers whom they love for a few brief moments. There are the hustlers, the pimps, the fancy boys, the workers, the retired, the taxi drivers, the beach workers, the restaurant waiters, the hopeful, all filling the streets, all swelling the crowd that made the Croisette one of the busiest and most interesting thoroughfares in Europe.

And then there were the watchers, the army of ordinary people who wanted to touch fame by seeing it pass by, as if viewing this extraordinary procession of life somehow made them a part of it. The crowds were building, the mass saturating the Croisette.

Heinrich Trimmler came out into this thronging world from the comparative sanity of the Carlton Hotel. An American by naturalisation, a German by birth, the sixty six year old, large framed Trimmler spent each Christmas period in Cannes, a month's holiday away from the 'cultural wasteland', as he described it, of America. He had lived in California for over forty years, yet his instincts were still European, the American lifestyle never blunting his attitudes. His wife Trudi, only a few months younger, walked beside him, an elegant blonde woman. He pointed across the bay, to where an American aircraft carrier had berthed overnight.

'Looks like the fleet's in town,' he said, his accent American, yet still heavy with Germanic traces.

'I hope they behave themselves,' Trudi replied.

‘Ya, I’m sure they will' he smirked. He led her onto the thin strip of sandy beach that was the exclusive preserve of the Carlton Hotel and its guests.

The restaurant area was set back, partly under cover but most of it on the open board-walk that ran along to the long wooden jetty.

'A beautiful day. The way it should always be,' said the expansive maître d' as he recognised the Trimmlers and came forward to greet them.

'Very good, very good', purred Trimmler.

'Your guests have arrived,' the maître d' informed them, holding his arm up to show them the way as he led them to the far table nearest the water. 'Did you visit the Casino last night?'

''We did.'

'A profitable evening, I hope.'

'Profitable enough,' Trimmler lied. He looked at Trudi and smiled. The baccarat table had, in fact, cheated him of over three thousand dollars the night before. It was not something he was prepared to share with her.

Their friends, a couple similar in age and appearance, waited for them. They were a West German couple, Marta and Grob Mitzer. He was an industrialist, the main shareholder in one of Europe's largest aerospace suppliers. They had all been friends since the last days of Hitler's War; Trimmler the young brilliant scientist whilst Mitzer had helped organise the work forces at the rocket centres of Peenemünde and Nordhausen. They had escaped to the allies together and had never broken their friendship. They had met every year since 1957 for this Christmas vacation on the Cote d'Azur.

With them sat a young man, in his early forties, a native of East Germany before reunification. Willi Kushmann was now one of the country's leading corporate lawyers. The three of them were staying at the Martinez, further down the Croisette.

The two men stood up as the Trimmlers reached their table, Mitzer taking Trudi's hand and kissing it.

They welcomed each other in German, the maître d' holding out a chair for her. When they had all sat down, the maître d' signalled over a waiter to take their order and left to lead another group to the table.

'Give us five minutes,' said Mitzer. 'We will do that.' Then, as the waiter started to lift the champagne out of the bucket he snapped, 'Leave us! We will do it!'.

Kushmann leant over and took the bottle from the waiter who, confused and apologetic, bowed and walked away.

'Bloody French poodles,' Mitzer swore in German as Kushmann poured two extra glasses of champagne. When he had finished, he put the bottle back in the bucket and sat down.

'Where's Gloria?' he asked.

'Probably still in bed,' replied Trudi. Gloria was their nineteen year old daughter, an unexpected mistake that had been added to their three other children.

'To the future,' said Trimmler, raising his glass, changing the subject from his daughter who had not returned to her hotel room until five in the morning. God knows what she got up to.

'To the new future,' added Kushmann.

The five of them held their drinks aloft and shared their toast.

'Did you see the latest pictures of the Reichstag in Berlin? Did you see how it's looking on the inside? They're recreating it like it was before the Fire in 1933.'

'Which pictures?' asked Gloria.

'In Frankfurt Allegmaine. This morning's edition. And they're going to rebuild the dome as it was.'

'Which dome?' Marta asked as she sipped her champagne.

'Don't you girls know anything?' Mitzer joked. 'The one on top of the Reichstag. It was destroyed in the fire by the Communists. When Hitler had it rebuilt, he left off the dome. Big bloody thing. Almost covered the whole roof.'

'Anyway, they're going to rebuild it as it was in 1933,' said Kushmann.

'But they're already using it. For government,' interrupted Gloria.

'No problem. They'll build it round them. That's how they do it these days. But what a great centre for the government, eh? I tell you, Germany is becoming great once again. And to have such a grand building as its Parliament…,' he held up his glass. ' …to the new Reichstag and to our new Germany. It's been a long time waiting, but our time is finally near.'

They all toasted with Kushmann, the tinkle of their glasses sharp in its resonance across the wooden board-walk.

'And to the Heidi. For what it has become.' said Mitzer. The Heidi was a large expanse of land that Mitzer had started to develop in Dresden.

'A symbol to our future,' replied Kushmann. 'It is exhilarating to see so many members of the Stasi coming forward to join us there.' They were all Germans; there was no need to explain that the Stasi was the name commonly used to describe the previous German Democratic Republic's Ministry of State Security. 'Lost souls. Made to feel guilty about what they were trained to do.' He held up his glass. 'To them, and to other lost souls in Germany.'

'And one more toast,' jumped in Mitzer, when they had drunk. 'To one Germany and the end of the bad jokes about the GDR.'

They all laughed and joined in with him, once more clashing their glasses.

'But I have to tell you one. Just one,' Mitzer went on, ignoring the howl of good humoured protests that engulfed him. 'How do you double the value of a Travant motor car?'

'How? ' shouted Kushmann.

'I've already heard this,' said Marta, winking at Trudi.'

'Tell us how,' squealed Trudi.

'By filling the tank full of petrol,' finished Mitzer.

They all joined in the laughter, except for Trimmler, who brought his glass down sharply on the table, the loud dull sound surprising the others.

'You didn't like my small joke, Heinrich?' asked a smiling Mitzer.

'When is it to happen?' asked Trimmler 'When?'.

Kushmann leant forward confidentially. 'Be patient. Soon.'

Further along the thin strip of beach, eastwards towards the Martinez Hotel, an ebony black Senegalese peddler shuffled through the sand. As he walked towards the Carlton jetty, he saw the two men he was interested in still swimming at the end of the pier.

The Senegalese work the beaches with their wares, straw and leather hats, cheap sunglasses, wraps, thongs, leatherware. It is tourist trade that produces a living for these once proud warriors. Although a nuisance for most visitors, the peddlers, in their brightly coloured native dress, are part of the culture that is Cannes beach.

But that is in the high season. Most of them return to their homes in Africa during the winter months.

The peddler who worked his way along the beach in December was out of place, a lone black figure bedecked with his wares in an empty salesroom. His dress was also unusual, instead of the usual robe, he wore a green combat jacket over black jeans. The sunglasses he wore were as black as his skin, pock marked and scaly in its texture. His head was covered by a tartan beret. A man easily noticed. As he progressed towards the Carlton, he passed two young women sitting on a shared deckchair near the water's edge.

One of the women, a plump blonde, called to him, waved him over.

He paused, reluctant in his attitude, then crossed over to them.

'Show us what you've got,' the woman said in French.

He smiled, then took a six inch high rubber toy gorilla out of his pocket and held it towards the women.

They giggled, not knowing what to expect.

He grinned and squeezed the gaudy toy. A long rubber penis, bright red in colour with a black topped head, popped out of the gorilla. The toy's erection pointed straight at the women, who burst into surprised and embarrassed laughter. The peddler's grin grew bigger.

'That's not very big,' the second woman, a petite brunette, teased him. 'I'm used to bigger.'

He pushed the gorilla down and pressed the erection against her left breast. She jumped backwards and fell off the deckchair. Before the other woman could react, he rubbed the plastic gorilla on the inside of her leg, then stroked her thigh with his large coarse hand.

The girls, made fearful by his blatant sexuality, jumped up, collected their belongings and ran towards the Croisette.

He taunted them as they ran. 'I've something bigger if you want. Big big,' he shouted.

Then he turned back to his task, to watch the German group, at the last table before the jetty. He could hear them laughing, enjoying their champagne.

With some hundred metres to go, he pulled the thin steel tube, some seven inches long and no thicker than a finger, from the bag he carried round his waist. He connected the firing pin which would ignite a small charge, inserted a glass ampoule in the mouth of the tube, then wrapped the assembly into a copy of yesterday's 'Nice Matin'. To an onlooker, the Stashinsky gun was only a crumpled and harmless newspaper.

He slowed as he approached them; it was not in his interest to arrive too early. He walked towards the beach restaurant, under the sign over the jetty that read 'Carlton Hotel InterContinental'.

The peddler was now only a few metres from the Germans, their laughter accompanied by the soft music that drifted out from the shelter of the inner restaurant. Above the restaurant, on the wide boulevard Croisette, the crowds mingled and watched in the December sun.

Very few people bothered about the small group at the end of the jetty.

The Senegalese, after a quick look to ensure that he was not about to be discovered, pulled the newspaper from under his arm and moved rapidly towards them.

The laughter had stopped, frozen suddenly in the realisation by the group that danger was upon them.

Gloria screamed as she saw the peddler rushing towards them, a metal tube held out from under his newspaper, pointing directly at her.

'He's got a gun!' shouted Mitzer, trying to get to his feet.

The peddler turned to Kushmann and held the Stashinksky tube towards him. He pulled the trigger, released the deadly vapour from the prussic acid capsule.

Peddler

The peddler swung round and was surprised to see a young gendarme advancing towards him from the restaurant. Realizing he was trapped, he reached under his tunic and brought out a sawn-off shot gun. The gendarme, realizing the danger, fumbled with the clip on his holster in his panic, tugged frantically at his gun which refused to come out of its leather pouch.

The German group scattered, Trudi Trimmler screaming, as the black peddler bore down on them in his panic, the shotgun aimed directly at her.

The crowds on the Croisette, the other occupants of the restaurant, attracted by the screams, craned to watch the drama that was exploding in front of them.

The peddler suddenly turned to Trimmler and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The safety catch was still on and he clawed at it with his thumb, attempting to release it.

At that moment, the gendarme, his gun finally free, fired. He missed, but deflected the assassin from his target. The peddler turned and ran towards the gendarme. But it was an old shotgun, not maintained as well as it should have been, the sand trapped under the safety catch. The peddler frantically pulled at the trigger as he ran.

The second shot from the gendarme's pistol, more by accident than design, caught the Senegalese in his left eye and killed him instantly. The spasm of death jerked the black man's thumb and its force kicked the safety catch free. The same spasm tightened his finger and triggered off the shotgun. As he fell, the full blast of the released twelve bore cartridge shattered Willi Kushmann's chest and sent him spinning backwards across the wooden floor and onto the sand.

What no-one realised was that the young lawyer was dead before the pellets tore into him, the deadly cyanide already having done its work.

Ch. 9

Alexei Rostov was a devoutly religious man who also happened to be the Director of the KGB.

To him there was no conflict in this situation. He did what was right by his Christian God, but never allowed himself to forget that he was a Russian who had been blessed with certain responsibilities. Since the early days of perestroika and glasnost, the spread of religion had, at first, been tolerated, then encouraged. Political leaders soon understood that religion was a source of comfort to many, and at a time of dramatic social change they needed all the help they could get.

Rostov had always believed in a divine power beyond man himself. As a member of the Communist Party in his youth, he appreciated that the Party was created by man in man's image. If you believed in God, as he had been secretly brought up to by his parents, then God was bigger than the Communist Party. With that belief, Rostov had worked his way up through the Party and KGB ranks to the very top. Apart from a three-year sojourn as a military attache in Washington, where he both enjoyed the freedom to worship every day in a church and controlled one of the most efficient letterbox networks in the United States, he spent his entire career in Moscow where his exceptional organisational abilities were quickly recognised. Moving up the promotion ladder was easier than he thought. He was never frightened of tackling the toughest assignments, of resolving the most complicated tasks, however distasteful they appeared. He saw no hypocrisy in his actions, had no desire to become a martyr. Time, and God, would resolve the situation.

It actually turned out to be a politician named Mikhail Gorbachev who changed the climate, who made God officially acceptable, though not respectable, in the eyes of the Party. Then the Party too, disappeared, after an unsuccesful August coup in 1991, and Russia set out on the uncertain road to democracy. In a changing climate, the Church and the KGB stood for what Russia had been, and what Russia would become.

Rostov was quick to embrace his childhood faith and made a point of visiting at least one of the many churches that were opening up in Moscow. He would leave Dzerzhinsky Square at lunchtime and be driven in his official Zil car to his chosen place of worship. He allowed his Party membership to lapse and attended prayer meetings as Moscow churches started cautiously to open the doors to their congregations. His superiors, both in the KGB and in government, tolerated his actions. He was an exceptional officer and a loyal Russian. They needed him, both for his ability and as a symbol of their new policies. The result was that he was pushed even faster up the promotion ladder until he found himself, at the age of forty six, the Deputy Director of the gigantic organisation that was the KGB, or the TSSA as it was now known, a futile gesture by the government to appease those who hated the power of the KGB. In truth, very little had changed, apart from the name; to those who governed and worked in the department, it was still, and would always be, the KGB.

Today, after a busy morning dealing with administrative problems that had arisen since they had taken the decision to transfer the decades of typed secret archives to a new computer, he had decided to pray at the Church of the Resurrection in Kadashakh. It was in the area known as Zamoskvorechie, translated as 'area beyond the Moscow River'. The surrounding houses and the four great churches that still stood had been built built by the weavers who dominated the textile trade and made it the production centre for cloth over many centuries.

The Church of the Resurrection in Kadashakh, built by an unknown architect, is the most famous of the four. Unlike many of the Russian churches, this one had escaped the ravages of Stalin's reconstruction, had not been vandalised and turned into a working man's club as had its sister down the road, The Church of our Lady of Iberia.

Rostov sat on a bench at the back, his head bowed as he prayed. The church was half full and the Russian Othodox priest at the altar led the prayers. As he listened to the priest, he felt the peace that always came at such times envelop him. He took strength from such moments, an inner calm that allowed him to deal expeditiously with the many unsavoury events that landed on his desk each day.

Out of the corner of his eye, where his KGB bodyguard stood, he was startled to see the black shiny shoes of his assistant. He turned his head sideways and saw the two men talking. He looked forward again, anger bringing a flush to his forehead. It was an easily recognisable trait, one that warned those who were confronted by him that they were in for a rough ride.

His rule was simple. He was always available, except when he was at prayer. That rule was sacrosanct and had never been broken.

He felt his assistant slide onto the bench next to him.

'Why are you here?' he asked icily without looking up.

'To fetch you, sir,' came the nervous reply.

'You know the rule, don't you?'

'Rule, sir?'

'That I'm not to be disturbed when I come to pray.'

'Yes sir.'

'Then what's so important that it can't wait?'

'The Director would like to see you immediately.'

'You told him I was here?'

He heard the man gasp. 'Yes sir,' he replied when he had caught his breath.

'That was a mistake.'

The assistant knew he would soon be transferred. 'It is the Director. His orders,' he went on, grabbing at straws.

'Nothing is that important that it couldn't have waited for another twenty minutes.'

'Sorry, sir.' The assistant gave in; Rostov was not known for changing his mind.

'Wait for me. Outside.'

'Sir.'

The assistant withdrew and Rostov went back to his prayer. But the moment was gone, he could only think of what was so important that he was being recalled to Dzerzhinsky Square immediately.

The Director was impatient. They should have found Rostov by now. He leant down and switched on the intercom, changed his mind and switched it off.

Outside, in her office, his secretary shook her head at his impatience. He had already called and asked where his Deputy Director was five times in as many minutes.

The Director returned to the window and looked down on Dzerzhinsky Square, at the people scurrying round, rushing to the shops in their short lunch breaks. Who'd be a member of the human race? Who'd be common man? Not Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the Polish revolutionary who had founded the KGB, or the Cheka, as it had been. His gloomy, unwashed statue had stood in the centre of the Square, right there in the front of KGB Headquarters and had been pulled down unceremoniously by the citizens of Moscow in 1991. What would old Feliks have thought of it all now, or his discredited mentor, Stalin?

He thought of the report on his desk. It was a mess. The Americans were still not to be trusted. He'd hated the new openness, the desperate urge to forget the Cold War and pretend it had never been. While the Soviets sued for peace and support out of the economic shambles they had got themselves into, the Americans had insisted on putting East Germany under NATO, had tried to build bases all over the Middle East after the Iraq Gulf crisis. No, they were still the old enemy, still not be trusted.

He saw the Zil pull up at the pavement and Rostov get out.

'Bloody christian,' he thought. You never could completely trust a man with two masters. At least you could see proof of the State, how did these people see proof of their God?

'Sorry to drag you away from your prayers,' he said as Rostov walked in

Rostov shrugged. ‘It’s obviously important.’ There was little need fopr an explanation. Both men knew Rostov’s Rule, as it was known around the building.

The Director pushed a copy of the report across the desk towards his deputy. 'I only received this about an hour ago. It makes chilling reading. You can study the details later. I'll go through it with you first.' He reached over and took a cup, poured himself a tea from the samovar that was on the trolley beside the desk. 'Want one?'

'No thank you.'

'It's about our sleeper network in the West. Looking at the age of some of them, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't planted before the revolution.'

Rostov smiled at the weak attempt at a joke.

'One of them,' the Director went on, 'was in Canada, Goose Bay. The NATO airbase. Hans Putiloff. His record's in there.' He indicated the file. 'Like most of our people, as you know, we arrange for them to make contact with us once a year. Putiloff used to visit Niagara Falls for an annual holiday, always met one of our people. They never spoke, just verified that all was well. The meeting was scheduled for two weeks ago. Putiloff never appeared. Our agent, as was expected of him, went to Goose Bay to find out why Putiloff hadn't made it. He discovered that Putiloff had died, just outside a hotel where he'd finished a meal. There was no apparent reason for his death. No heart attack, no choking, no obvious cause. He just died.' The Director drank his tea, draining the cup totally. 'In Cannes, last week, a black man, a Senegalese peddler, accidently shot a German tourist. Killed him. The reason he shot him, according to the newspapers and the authorities, was that he was trying to rob him and was surprised by a passing gendarme. He panicked and, while trying to get away, opened fire and shot this Kraut in the confusion.'

The Director poured himself another tea, watched Rostov over the tilted samovar. His deputy revealed little, but the Director sensed his increased interest.

'Sure you won't have some?'

'I'm fine,' Rostov replied, reaching forward to pick up the file.

The Director turned sideways, opened a drawer and took out a steel tube, about nine inches long and as thick as an index finger. He laid it on the table. It was in three sections and he unscrewed them, separated them. The bottom section had a simple firing pin, like a pair of tweezers. From the drawer he took out a small powder charge and put it where the firing pin struck. When connected to the centre section, it caused a small metal lever to move. The Director took a small glass ampoule and slid it into the centre section. Then he screwed the three sections together, rose from his chair and went round the desk to where Rostov sat. He slowly brought the tube up, to no more than eighteen inches from his deputy's face.

'Maybe you'd prefer this?' he stated, pulling the simple trigger. There was an inaudible pop as the powder charge exploded, kicked the middle lever which burst the glass ampoule and released its contents through the end of the tube.

Rostov never moved.

'Stashinksky,' he said.

'Very good. Top of the class,' the Director replied. He was impressed with Rostov's iron self control. He couldn't have been completely sure that the ampoule contained air, instead of the customary and deadly prussic acid. He moved the tube away and returned to his desk.

'Is this what did in the sleeper?'

'Our man in Goose Bay searched the area where Putiloff was killed. He found such a tube. He's an old timer, knew all about Stashinsky. He took it back to Washington, to the embassy, and had it examined. There was no trace of cyanide, but there were marks where a trigger had been. We're convinced it was the method used.'

‘And the German tourist in Cannes. Was he one of ours?’

'No. But this…' he held up the tube he had fired at Rostov. '…was found wrapped in a newspaper near the Senalegese.. Nobody linked it with the death. No, it was only afterwards, when one of our French operative asked some questions, that we found out about the weapon. To the police it was just some rubbish left on the beach. Our man, fortunately, also remembered his early training and recalled Stashinksky.'

'KGB folklore. Sometimes I think it's all we have,' remarked Rostov.

; No true. Bogdan Stashinksky had been one of the KGB's most notorious assassins. He was nicknamed the 'Murder Machine.' A Ukrainian by birth, we used him to spy on other Ukranians. The main target of his observance was Lev Rebet, an exiled Ukranian. We asked Stashinksy to assassinate him. The weapon we chose was simple and effective. Easily concealed, it also left no trace as to the cause of death.’

'From what I remember, Stashinksky was a lucky amateur,' added Rostov.

The Director was of the old school, remembered Bogdan Stashinksky and the furore his defection to the West caused. It was as the Berlin Wall was going up in 1961, that Stashinksky caught the electric train in East Berlin at Schonhauser Allee station and got off at Gesundbrunnen station in West Berlin.

'I met him,' the Director recalled. 'In the OKR.' The Otdely Kontrrazvedki was the widely feared counter-espionage branch of the KGB that took over from SMERSH, or Smyert Shpionam which translates into "death to spies". 'He was a frightened sort of fellow. A misfit. I don't know how he ever got his reputation. Of course, the Americans never found out whether he was a plant or a genuine defector.' The Director laughed as Rostov opened the report and flicked through it, stopping at the file photograph of Stashinksky, a dark haired, attractive man.

'Is he dead?' Rostov asked.

'Probably. Changed his name so many times we lost track of him. Anyway, I can't see him doing all this. Bit old for that sort of fieldwork now, even if he is alive.'

'What about the German, Kushmann?'

'No link with us. Apart from the method used to kill him.'

'But he was shot.'

'But I think he was already dead. The blackie panicked when the gendarme came after him. That's when he drew his gun. I think he'd already killed the German with the Stashinksky tube. It had already been fired when we found it.' The Director watched for Rostov's response and was quietly pleased when he saw his deputy nod in agreement. 'There was also an American with the group. A top level scientist. The Yanks rushed him straight back to America immediately after the shooting. I presume they think he was the target.'

'Have research come up with any ideas?'

'Nothing. Even though I don't trust the Americans, I can't see what they'd get out of this.'

'And there're no links at all?'.

'Nothing obvious. Apart from the fact that they're all Germans.'

'Putiloff had quite a record. Dachau. War crimes.' Rostov held up the file he had been skimming through. 'He could've been turned.'

'He wasn't a serious operative. If he'd lived here he'd have been on a pension. At least his death will save some of our foreign currency budget.'.

Rostov smiled and stood up and placed the report under his arm. 'It's a starting point.'

'Whatever. But this has to be resolved. After all, if they're destroying our sleeper network, that means they've got access to our most confidential information.'

'It'll take priority over everything.'

'Good. At least we've something on our hands that smells interesting. Different from guarding food supplies and helping the police marshal crowds. Our leaders sometimes forget why the Cheka was first formed.'

'We live in strange times.'

'I may decide to go through our diplomatic people in Washington.'

'Just don't upset the Yanks.'

'Even if it's them?'

'We'll worry about that when we get there.'

In the distance, muted and faint, a fire warning bell started to wail.

'Bloody drills!' snapped the Director. 'Too many of them. If it is the real thing I think I'd rather sit here and fry.'

Rostov chuckled and turned to leave the office.

'Merry Christmas,' said the Director. Rostov was surprised as he turned back. 'Isn't that what you Christians say?'

'Yes. In two days' time.' He smiled, the Director was relaxing, becoming his old self. 'And merry Christmas to you, too.'

The two men looked at each other, an understanding and warmth between them.

'I'm sorry I pulled you away from your prayers,' said the Director. 'But this is important. I don't like the feel of it.'

Rostov nodded and left the room. As he walked along the corridor, there was a stream of people rushing in all directions as the alarm clanged on from a lower floor. He decided to ignore it and went to his office. His secretary was out, probably checking to see if there was a real fire or this was simply another interminable safety drill.

He went into his inner office and sat down, started to read the report. It said little more than the Director had, gave detailed information on Stashinksky and the two dead operatives. The German, originally from Dresden and now living in Berlin, was an important corporate lawyer who was on vacation with his friends. There was little else, nothing that hung it all together.

He leant back, the fire bell still wailing in the distance, and considered the matter. After a while, when the bell finally stopped, he called his secretary on the intercom. She still hadn't returned. He then dialed the switchboard and asked to be put through to Dimitri Sorge of the Russian Embassy in Washington. He told the operator to ring Sorge's home and ensure it was a clean line, was not tapped by any outside agency. He waited for five minutes before he was connected.

'Dimitri. Sorry to ring you so early.' He knew it was only three in the morning, but this was something that couldn't wait.

When he had finished talking he hung up and went back to the report, rechecked to see if there was anything he had missed the first time.

'Didn't realise you were back,' said his secretary, surprised to find him there as she returned to the office.

'I had to see the Director.'

'Tea?'

'Good idea.'

'I was out because of the fire bell.'

'Another drill?'

'No. It was real this time. An electrical fire.'

'What do you expect in an old building like this? Where?'

'On the fourth floor.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'No. But the room was destroyed before the firemen put it out. A small room. In the filing section.'

'What filing section?' Rostov was alarmed suddenly.

'The old ones. Nothing important. I checked because I knew you'd want to know. Nobody's been in there for years. Trouble is, it's the next batch of information that was to be processed onto the computer.'

'What files were destroyed?'

'All the post war ones. On agents and other counter-intelligence information from the end of the War up to 1956.'

Ch. 10

Nothing. Just blank after blank.

Billie stood at the window, her eyes smarting after hours of concentration in front of the computer screen. The bright sun, harsh in its winter clarity added to her discomfiture and she turned back into the small room that was her office.

There was nothing new she could add to what Langley already knew. Which was nothing. An absolute zero.

She'd worked her way through the indexes, run all the relevant facts through her programme and still come up with nothing. No links. Nothing between the few facts that tied Reindeer and a contaminated computer. Three days and nothing more than sore eyes.

She walked back to her desk and sat down again. The taste of a cigarette suddenly filled her throat and she wished she had one. After giving it up for all these years, and she still yearned for that dry bitter taste when the pressure was on.

The phone rang and she reached over for it.

'Yes.'.

'Billie?'

She recognised Tucker's voice. 'Hello, Phil.' They were on first name terms now.

'How you doing?'

'Not good.' She sensed the disappointment in her own voice.

'Just give it your best. We're not doing much better here.' He'd picked up her disappointment. 'Anyway, there's new developments. Could be a breakthrough.'

'What's happened?' The excitement caught at her.

'Reindeer's not alone any more.' He was being careful, knew that however closed a phone circuit was, there was always the possibility of someone overhearing. 'West Wing's joined him.'

'Where?'

'Hanover. In Germany. He worked as a baggage handler. Had just loaded a small commuter plane when he walked into one of its propellers. The plane was starting to taxi, it was a late flight, so no-one found him, or what was left, till the next morning.'

'Anything unusual?'

'Only that he was sixty five and about to retire.'

'Police say anything?'

'Our people are chasing that now. We've got to be careful. Can't use the usual channels. But, according to what we know, it's being treated as an accident. I think he had an alcohol problem. According to his wife.'

'You spoke to her?'

'She rang through. That's how we found out. She was also worried about her pension.'

Who isn't, thought Billie. 'Is that it?'

'For now. I'll get a full report, then modem it through to you.'

'Did the computer show anything?' she asked. She knew the answer before he replied.

'Didn't want to know. Just like before. Same pattern. Anyway, it just opens the door a little more. Gives you more to work with.'

'Was he German?' she asked, unsure about what had prompted the question.

'I don't know. Probably. Why?'

'Just looking for a connection. Not ex-SS by any chance?' It was a joke and she said it lightly.

'Yeah, maybe we finally found Adolf Hitler. Hell, I don't know. And we'll never know now.

'Thanks, Phil.' She knew he wouldn't miss the sarcasm in her voice.

Tucker laughed. 'Have a good day now.'

She sat still for a moment before replacing the receiver.

Two dead. While she sat here in front of this unblinking screen, people were dying out there. And they expected her to find the answer, to just snatch a solution out of thin air

She thought of West Wing, thought of him being sliced and splattered by the spinning propeller, just stamped out as if he'd never existed, not even a whole being to bury.

She shook her head, turned her mind away from the awfulness of it and started to enter what little information she had.

What she couldn't key in, because she didn't know, were those final moments of death. West Wing, turning away from the twin turboprop, nineteen seater Swearingam Metro aeroliner, saw two men approaching him. They both carried long poles and circled him. It was a quiet part of the airport, away from the main terminal and more busy areas. The plane had started to taxi, to swing round towards the runway, when the men had prodded him with their weapons, pushed him backwards towards the spinning blades. He'd cried out, but no-one heard above the roar of the turbo engines. Then, before he could duck away to escape the propeller, the first blade had sliced into his skull, sliced the back of his head off in a ball of matted bloody hair, bone and brain. The second blade ripped his body in half, tore the torso from his arms and legs and left a fleshy mess on the tarmac for the undercarriage wheels to taxi over as the plane headed for the runway.

The two men who had caused his death, returned to the distant terminal. They left the poles in a engineering shed where they had found them. Both men had short blond hair and walked in step, as soldiers would.

In California, Billie keyed West Wing into her computer.

It was only a small clue, but it gave her some small hope. Maybe, when they had modemed over more information on him, she would crack the problem. And then she'd be safe. Maybe then they'd keep her on.

She wondered what instinct had prompted her to ask if West Wing had a war record.

She laughed at herself. Instinct. Some instinct. It hadn't done her much good in her life.

She went back to her terminal.

Facts. That's where the answers lay.

Suck instinct. That was for the birds.

Ch. 11

Phil Tucker sat on the edge of a table and watched the two computer programmers at work.

They were both young, in their early twenties, and more than capable of solving most problems. They had spent over a week trying to find the virus that infected the Langley computer, but with no apparent success. The real problem was that every time they switched the system on, it simply continued to corrupt the information, continuing from where it left off when the computer was powered down.

All that the programmers had managed to identify was that the virus infected only part of the whole system. Most of the Langley database was untouched, the CIA's day to day operations continuing unabated.

The sections corrupted by the virus were mainly of an archival type. Data on the activities of the Office of Strategic Services were the most affected, including the files on OSS counter-intelligence in Europe at the end of the war and up to 1947, when it ceased to exist and became the CIA. But the virus continued, still destroying those files which were a continuation of similar activity until 1958. It was these files that contained information on the early days of the Cold War, of the networks installed throughout Europe by the Americans as the tension between East and West grew, of the many military and scientific secrets that were seized by the OSS from Nazi Germany at the end of the War. Although most of the information was now defunct, there was still the occasional need for it, as in the case of Reindeer. The paper documents had long since been shredded as part of Langley's drive to a paperless situation. All back-ups were also found to be corrupted with the virus.

He thought of the telephone call during the early hours of the morning. Only this time it wasn't 'Reindeer', but 'West Wing'. He'd known better than to dig into the computer, knew that the virus would eat away the information. So he'd kept the woman talking as he tried to find out who West Wing was. Karl Breitling, sixty years old and a baggage handler with the airport authority. She knew little else and yes, he would make sure she received her pension. He had passed the information to the DDA's office, but knew they were as much in the dark as he was without the computer. They'd told him to pass the information on to California.

'Okay, we're ready to give her another run,' said one of the programmers, breaking into his thoughts.

Tucker nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

The first programmer loaded an old floppy disk into the system, watched the icon come up on the screen to confirm it was loaded. Once satisfied, he switched to the Langley menu and punched in his authorisation code. When the menu was opened, he typed in the codes for the OSS files.

While he waited for the system to retrieve the information, he looked at his companion.

'If the antidote works, then it'll enter the system within ten seconds of the menu opening and stop the information from breaking up,' his companion said, speaking to Tucker, who had now swung himself off the table edge and stood behind them.

The three of them watched the screen.

'You know the difference between sex and computers?' asked the second programmer of Tucker as they waited.

'No.'

'In computers, the software goes into the hardware,' the programmer paused and waited for Tucker's reaction.

'Go on. I'm slow today.'

'In sex, the hardware goes into the soft…' the first programmer butted in.

'Why you always spoiling my gags?' snapped his companion.

Tucker laughed as the screen came alive.

The file, an archive on Russian troop movements in Poland in 1951, spilled its information onto the screen, green type on a black background. When the screen was full, it started to break up, the letter 'a's disappearing first, then the 'b's and so on.

'One.' The programmer started his count.

The breakup of words continued.

'Two.'

No change.

'Three.'

The 'c's started to disappear.

Tucker stood up and walked away. It was like waiting for a rocket launch. He looked out of the small, glass walled room into the main area where the Communications section went about their normal business. It was a quiet day, but then things had died down a lot since the dawn of perestroika. Occasionally, when a crisis like the Gulf War exploded, things got busy again. He turned back towards the programmers.

'Eight.'

The virus was busily destroying the 'g's.

'Nine.'

The 'h's started to fade.

'Ten.'

Nothing happened. The 'h's turned to 'i's turned to 'j's.

The programmer counted till twenty before they had reached the 'r's.

'Crash the programme,' said his companion.

The counter reached forward and switched off the power; the screen went to black.

'Shit!' cursed Tucker.

'Exactly.'

'What next?'

'No idea. That's the sixtieth antidote we've introduced. I can't think of any more. From now on we'll have to design our own. Only trouble is, I don't know what the key is, what they've used for their code. The only way we'll get that is by letting the virus run. By the time we've tested it, got into the binaries, we could've lost most of the data.'

'We can't risk that. I've got to get to a meeting.' It was one that had been hurriedly called and he had received no papers on it. That meant it was an emergency, a crisis brewing. He hoped he could get home to Jean and the kids tonight. 'You're just going to have to go on, try and find another way into the system.'

'How important is this?'

'Top priority. You know that. Why?'

'Tomorrow's Christmas Day.'

'You're lucky. I hear the commissary serves a good turkey brunch.'

He grinned as he left the room, the howls of protest ringing in his ears. Welcome to Langley, boys.

The Office of Communication comes under the responsibility of the Deputy Director for Administration. He is also responsible for Medical Services, Internal Security, Finance, Education, Training, Information Technology, Logistics, Information Services and Personnel.

The virus had now, also, become his responsibility.

He and the Deputy Director for Intelligence had met with the Executive Director to resolve the problem. The DDI's accountability was for European Analysis as well as his many other functions, which meant he was in charge of all counter-intelligence.

'It's not my fucking computer that's fucked up,' argued the DDI. He was a man known for his blunt manner, a brute who ruthlessly steam-rollered his way through any obstacle that stood in his path. Because of this single minded purpose, and a natural cunning that came from his years in the field, he was one of the most successful DDIs the Agency had ever had. 'If you ran internal security as efficiently as you run the fucking kitchens maybe we wouldn't be in this fuck up.' The DDI was also well known for his hatred of all administrators, especially the Deputy Director for Administration.

'Personal attacks are not going to resolve this situation,' answered the DDA.

'Tell that to the poor shits out in the field. Tell them how you're going to resolve the fucking situation. That's if they're still alive to be told.'

'Let's not exaggerate. We've lost one, possibly two, assets. In Lapland and in Germany. That's not …'

'We also had an attempt on one of our top scientists.'

'We don't know that for sure.'

'Come on. Guy runs up, pulls a gun out and peppers away at one of our top people. Don't fucking tell me that's not for sure.'

'That point has yet to be proved,' interjected the Executive Director. He was the senior executive, below only the Director of Central Intelligence and his Deputy. 'Is Trimmler home now?'

'Yeah. We flew him straight out once we'd heard what happened. He's in San Diego, safe at home.'

'And Reindeer?'

'Also nothing. He left no messages, nothing except a wife who's only worried about her pension.' He turned to the DDA. 'I hope you've resolved that issue.'

'Of course.'

'We haven't had time to get anything on West Wing. I've got people on it. But my gut tells me it'll be as fruitless as Reindeer. Damn it, these guys were sleepers. They were there only to be activated in the event of an emergency. They looked after themselves, were cut off from us. They just knew we'd look after them and their families if anything happened. Since the end of the Cold War, they've become an embarrassment. We don't know what to do with them. Can't pull them out because we might need them, can't leave them there because we could get found out and end up with egg on our face. We don't even know who, or where half of them are any more. Not without that fucking computer.'

'I can't see it being the Russians,' said the Executive Director.

'Why not?'

'Too much to lose.'

'Unless they're up to something.'

'Something so important that they're taking out everyone over sixty. I don't think so. Anyway, there's another point which we should resolve first. One much closer to home.'

His two deputies looked at him, waited for him to continue.

'The only way that virus could be introduced into the system was by someone at Langley. I accept that we're having trouble finding out how to control it. But I also think it's time we concerned ourselves with who put it in there, and also how deep that person, or persons, went into the data base. It could just be that we don't have any secrets left. Could just be that they were milked out a long time ago.'

Carter, the DDA's assistant, was alone in the meeting room when Phil Tucker walked in.

The two men had met a week previously when Tucker had made the first report on Reindeer and the computer virus.

'Hi!' greeted Tucker. He didn't like Carter, found him too aggressive in his manner, but appreciated they all had to live together and at least appear to be one big happy family at Langley. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'Anybody else coming?'

'The DDA.'

'Big guns.' Tucker became alert, he hadn't expected the Deputy Director of Administration to attend.

'And the DDI.'

'Heavy stuff.' Tucker was impressed. He had never attended a meeting with two Deputy Directors before.

'Did you take the call about West Wing?'

'Yeah. I was on duty.'

'That's two now. Him and Reindeer.'

Tucker realised why he didn't like Carter. A stater of the obvious. Hard headed, with not a lot between the ears. 'I heard there was an attempt to knock out one of our top scientists.' He decided to push for information.

'Jungle fucking drums. That's classified.'

'That he was on vacation in France.' Tucker pushed harder. 'Some guy just came along the beach and popped him.'

'Where'd you get this crap from?'

'Like you said. Jungle drums.'

'Who?'

'Someone. I overheard it when I was waiting in line at the commissary.'

'Don't bullshit me, Tucker.'

'I'm not going to tell you who said what. It's common knowledge anyway. I need to know. Especially if it's all related to Reindeer and West Wing.'

Carter thought for a moment and then sat down.

'What I tell you is for your ears only,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'I don't even want the DDA to know I said anything. If they want to tell you, that's up to them.'

'Okay with me.' Tucker smiled. Gossip was one thing you could get out of people at Langley. It was part of the 'I'm more important than you' process. There were no secrets in the Company.

''Heinrich Trimmler. One of our top rocket boys. At the Mirimar Air Base, out at La Jolla. All I know about the base is that it's top, top priority.'

'I presume he's American?'

'He is now. Came over after the war. Anyway, he was sitting on this beach in the South of France with some friends and this African, from Senegal, comes up and opens fire on the group. Missed Trimmler but killed a friend of his.'

'What did the African say afterwards?'

'Not a lot. A cop shot him dead.'

'What makes you so sure he was after Trimmler?'

'We ain't. Except that someone's after our assets and the African aimed his shooter at him and pulled the trigger. Only reason he's still around is because the gun jammed. Trimmler's pretty high powered. Been on the Canaveral and Houston teams, was one of Von Braun's main people.We sent a G4 to pick him up at Nice Airport as soon as we heard what happened.' When they got there, Trimmler and his wife were waiting at the airport, but there was no sign of their daughter. She's nineteen years old and, so they say, beautiful with it. So one of our people went back to the hotel to find her. He did that all right. In bed with two guys, both old enough to be her grandfathers. It was in her parents' bedroom, in the bed they'd just vacated. And the best of it was that she was being paid. Our guys got her dressed and dragged her out. And the clients were screaming after them that they wanted their money back.' Carter snorted as he laughed. 'I tell ya, that didn't go in any report. On the way back, she just sat there, demure as a kitten. And when she arrived in San Diego, she gave all the guys her business card. With her name and telephone number printed on. Said to call any time they wanted.'

Tucker watched Carter chuckling to himself, could imagine him at a bar with a beer in his hand, a constant source of smutty jokes. He'd dine on that one for a long time. He wondered if Carter had a daughter, wondered how she'd turn out.

The door opened and the two Deputy Directors walked in.

Tucker and Carter stood up.

'It's okay. Sit down.'

The two men sat again as the newcomers joined them at the table.

'How big are these computer files we're talking about?' the DDI asked Tucker, getting straight to the point..

'Very. Just to give you an idea, in the late 1950's Russia's State Security Committee, which presided over the whole of their Secret Service, employed nearly a million people inside and out of the Soviet Union. Now, we didn't have all those people on our data base, but we were receiving information daily from all over the world on their personnel. That came under the Office of Soviet Analysis, one of your departments, sir. Then there was the rest of Europe, South America, Asia and Africa. On top of that, just dealing with the Russian personnel, we also had covert investigations running on students and other possible activists here in the United States. And let's not forget McCarthy and everything he drummed up. I've got one section that deals with Hollywood and every actor, writer, director, producer, cameraman. Add to that the OSS records, the Nazi Spy rings, the Korean War…I could go on forever. And all that information probably covers no more than twenty five percent of what we're talking about.'

'Always did have too much fucking paperwork in this organisation,' said the DDI, looking accusingly at the DDA.

'And all this is at risk?' asked the DDA, ignoring his colleague's criticism.

'Could be, sir.'

'Explain.'

'We've identified that not all the files are contaminated. Asia seems untouched, as does Australia. Northern Africa too, but South Africa is almost wiped out.'

'South America?'

'Contaminated.'

The two DDs looked at each other, but Tucker went on, ending their sudden speculation.

'Funnily enough, the Cuban files are untouched.'

'Or been changed for when Castro dies,' said the DDI.

'No, sir. We would've identified that. Most of the South American cases are in the southern half of the continent, from Brazil down. But the heaviest contamination is in the European field. The whole of that database, from 1943 onwards, anything to do with counter-intelligence or OSS activities, is under threat.'

'Are you any closer to tracing this virus?'

'No sir.'

'Why not?'

'Because we don't know its code. It'll have its own logic, be designed to be activated at a certain time, or when certain information is called up. And it'll be trained to attack specific data, corrupt select fields. We don't know what that logic is. And it's so advanced that it just reactivates every time we power up the computer to go into those files. It won't allow copies to be made, no data to be transferred. We've run over sixty tests, introduced as many antidotes, and we're no nearer solving it than when we started.'

'From now on, you are to work directly to the two of us. I don't want it discussed with anyone, it's the only way we'll get to the bottom of this. Nobody is to be trusted. Understood?'

'Yes sir.' Tucker decided to cover his back. 'We've already brought a dissemination expert in from California. She knows as much as I do.'

'She cleared,' interrupted the DDA. 'Any progress there?'

'No, not yet.'

'Okay. The following information is for your ears only.' The DDI then proceeded to tell Tucker about the attempt on Trimmler's life, about his importance and how he was to be protected. Tucker nodded, as if hearing it for the first time. Over his shoulder he could feel Carter's eyes piercing into the back of his head. When the DDI had finished, and had not mentioned the episode with Trimmler's daughter, Tucker spoke.

'You think this is all tied up?'

'We don't know. But we sure as hell aren't taking any fucking chances.'

'Our first task is to identify and wipe out the virus,' said the DDA.

'We're pushing ahead with that,' replied Tucker. 'But there's no guarantees.'

'Understood. We also need to consider three other factors. I would like your ideas, on paper, by tomorrow.'

'Bang goes Christmas,' thought Tucker.

''First, we need to protect Trimmler. Just in case he is a target. He's at Mirimar right now. Living in the officers' quarters. He's not too happy about that. We need someone to liaise with him. No high fliers, just someone who can respond quickly. Can California take it?'

'I'm sure she can.' responded Tucker.

'Any field experience?' interjected the DDI.

'No, sir.'

'We need someone with field experience. Gotta have that.'

'Everyone with field experience is on the computer.'

'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.' returned the DDA. He brought them back to his own priorities. 'Second, we need to identify and then protect our asset base. Third, we need to come up with any ideas as to why this is going on. We don't have much to go on, but let's make a start on it.' He stood up, the DDI following. 'Tomorrow evening, seven o' clock sharp. At my house.' At least the DDA wasn't going to miss Christmas.

'If something comes up, who do I report to?' asked Tucker, hoping it wasn't Carter.

'To me,' snapped the DDA. 'Communications comes under my brief. If you can't contact me, then go directly to the DDI. Mr Carter is along to represent Internal Security.'

When they had left, Tucker spoke. 'You didn't have a lot to say.'

'Damn right,' replied Carter. 'This one's for the losers. It's your fucking computer. You sort it out.'

After he had gone, Tucker sat still, nervously working out what he was going to tell Jean and the children. Sorry kids, but it's only Santa and the CIA who work on Christmas Day. Even the President gets the day off.

Ch. 12

The girl with the large black attache case walked through the lobby, her striking dark looks attracting envious glances.

She was oblivious to the attention, it was something she was used to, as most really beautiful women are. In her mid twenties, Mary Monicker wasn't just your every day hooker. She worked for the most exclusive escort agency in Washington, her clientele carefully screened and consisting of the most powerful diplomats and government officials, elected or otherwise, in that capital city.

Dressed in a smart, dark grey, business suit over a high collared cream blouse, Mary looked like any other personal assistant or junior executive on her way to an important meeting. Her carriage, conservative and poised, was not one which encouraged men to approach her. Neither did the large, brutish gentleman in a black suit who walked beside her. It was her driver, her minder, the man who got the papers signed.

Upstairs, in a corner suite on the ninth floor, Philip Nowak, Special Assistant to the Secretary of State with responsibilities for European Security, poured himself a drink. Behind him, looking out of the window, already with a scotch and soda in his hand, Dimitri Sorge, Deputy Military Attache at the Russian Embassy, looked out on the street below.

'A lot of traffic for Christmas Eve, don't you think?'

'Busy time in Washington. All those bachelor boys and girls with no homes to go to. Party time for middle management.' Nowak joined Sorge at the window. 'What's so important, Dimi, that's got me away from my family on Christmas Eve?'

'I must apologise for my timing,' replied Sorge, turning away from the window and coming deeper into the room. 'But as you know, when our masters call, we must react immediately.'

Nowak nodded and grinned. He knew Sorge's orders came directly from the top echelons of the KGB, just as Sorge knew that Nowak reported directly to the Executive Director of the CIA. Knowing where the other stood made life easier for both of them. They were the direct link between the two security agencies, the failsafe contact that allowed the Directors of each agency to communicate with one another when all else failed. Nowak and Sorge had known each other for over ten years, had seen the Cold War thaw, the Berlin Wall crumble and the rich promises of perestroika start to be fulfilled. Their loyalties lay with their individual agencies, but their friendship was as firm as could be expected under the circumstances.

‘Your people are in one the loop alreadt?' asked Sorge.

'Of course.' Nowak had reported back to the CIA Executive Director and been surprised when he was summoned immediately to Langley for a meeting. After the briefing he was told to listen to what Sorge said and then only to engage in further discussion if the content of the Russian's interchange was similar to his own.

'You know why I want this meeting?'

Nowak chuckled to himself. It was typical of Dimi to call a meeting and then play dumb in an attempt to find out how much the American knew. No wonder they made great chess players.

'No,' he replied.

'My people want to know if you are about to renew hostilities between our two countries.'

'What on earth for?' Nowak was genuinely surprised by the question.

'That is what we would like to know.'

'Come on, Dimi. Nobody wants to go back to how it was. You must have a reason for saying that.'

There was a knock on the door.

'Ah!' said Sorge. 'The evening's entertainment, I hope.'

He crossed the living area to the door and opened it. Mary Monicker stood there, her escort beside her. 'Good. You've arrived.' He stood back as they entered the room, closed the door behind them.

'Not on Christmas Eve?' exclaimed Nowak, a big grin spreading across his face.

'What better time. I thought it's when you Christians give presents.'

'Are you Mister Sorge?' asked the escort.

'Yes.'

'I need your signature,' the escort continued, taking a carbonised sheet of printed paper out of his top pocket. 'Under the laws of this state, prostitution is illegal and carries heavy fines and a possible jail sentence. Our escorts are here simply to keep you company. No suggestion of sex, either for money or not, is to be made by you. The charge for this service is $150 an hour. There will be an additional charge of $150 per hour, or part of, for any extension of your companion's time. To make sure everything's to your satisfaction, and to ours, your escort will be required to ring in on the hour. As well as cash, payment can be made with American Express, Visa, Master Card or Diner's Club. If you agree to these terms, just sign this contract for an evening's companionship.'

'No sex?'

'No sex.' The escort ignored the grin on Sorge's face and took a pen from his top pocket. 'That's a fact.'

Sorge shrugged and reached over, signed the paper where indicated.

'Thank you,' said the escort, handing Sorge a copy of the agreement and pocketing the original. 'Have a nice day. Merry Christmas.' He turned and left the suite.

'Hello, Mary,' said Sorge.

'Dimi,' she acknowledged, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.

'This is a friend of mine. Philip Nowak.'

'Hi, Phil.'

'Mary,' Nowak replied.

'The usual terms?' Mary turned her attention back to Sorge.

'Of course.'

'Well, you guys finish your little talk. I'll just go and freshen up.'

The two men watched her walk into the bedroom before Sorge went and poured himself another drink. Nowak sat in the armchair facing the bedroom and watched Mary put her attache case on the bed before opening it. Sorge came and sat opposite him on the sofa.

'Is she safe?'

'These girls hear more classified information than the KGB and CIA together. They earn too much to risk talking about what they pick up. Their jobs depend on them being safe.'

'So why the meeting?'

'As we both know, perestroika has left many loose ends. It's no secret that we both have sleeper agents, all over the world. We have more than you, but that is only because you decided under President Carter to concentrate on satellite and aerial surveillance. Even if you've stopped spying on us, the satellites remain in position. It only takes a second to switch a camera back on. Our spies are on the ground. Europe, Africa, we have representation in most areas. Like you, we don't use them, but they're there…in case.'

‘Even used it to our mutual advantage.' They both knew Nowak referred to the Iraq Gulf Crisis.

'One of our sleepers has been taken out. In the last few weeks.'

'What?' Nowak unwittingly showed his surprise. It was not what he had expected, not what Langley had briefed him on.

'That's right. I won't say where, but it was definitely assassination.'

'How do you know?'

'The methods used were KGB style killing from the 1950's.'

'What method is that?'

'It's not relevant.'

'And you want to know if we're involved?'

'Obviously. 'Are you?'

'No. Not that I know of.'

'Will you help us?'

'I would think so. But that isn't my decision. Are you asking for assistance?'

'Not my decision either. I was simply told to open a dialogue between us.'

'Okay. I'll pass that on. Come on, Dimi. There's more, isn't there.'

'Of course. Your people rushed one of your scientists out of Cannes the other day. A black peddler started shooting at a group he was with.'

'That's right. We thought he might be in danger.' Nowak leant back and looked into the bedroom. The lights had gone out and there was a light flickering on the bedroom wall. There was no sign of the girl, but he heard a tap running. She must be in the bathroom.

He decided to cross the line.

'I was called to a meeting at Langley before I came here,' he said. 'Just me and the Exec. Director. We've also lost two of our operatives. Like you, in the last two weeks. One of them was only yesterday.'

‘We know.’

‘What?'

‘But we aren’t responsible.'

‘Prove it.'

'You had one of your scientists nearly killed in Cannes.’

‘So. We haven’t lay that at your door. Yet. Should I be getting concerned?’

‘We know the same method was used in Cannes as that which took out our sleeper. We’re not sure who the target was' Sorge stated flatly.'

'No shit?' Nowak blurted out disbelievingly.

'Why should I lie?'

'Fuck it, Dimi. The guy used a shotgun..

'He didn't. The Kraut was already dead. Before he was shot. The French pathologist didn’t check beyond the shotgun wounds. But we found a weapon nearby that we believe caused cyanide poison to cause death,'

'It doesn't make sense. Except that our people are convinced that they were after the scientist. You sure he was dead before he got hit?'

'As I said, it was a tried and tested KGB procedure.'

'So why tell us?'

'Because our hands are clean. Because someone's taking us both on.’

'Hi, boys,' Mary appeared at the bedroom door. 'Look what Santa's brought you.

They both looked in her direction, saw her standing there in a red, fur lined top that barely covered her firm breasts, pushed out by the white lace bra that clasped together at the front. She wore no panties or G string, only a Father Christmas false white beard that covered her most private part. Long suspender straps stretched down her thighs and fastened to sheer dark tan stockings.

It was definitely a conversation stopper.

'So. Do you boys want to fuck or do you want to make love?' she went on.

'What's the difference?' asked Nowak.

'Three hundred dollars or five hundred dollars.'

The two men laughed at her bawdiness and Sorge stood up.

'Let's talk in the bedroom,' he said.

The girl turned on her five inch red stiletto heels and went into the bedroom, the two men following her.

The lights were off and five slim candles in small red glass containers now flickered, lighting the room. The attache case stood open on the floor, empty, its contents laid regimentally on the dressing table.

There were two whips, one with delicate leather thongs no more than ten inches long, the other much more brutal which Indiana Jones would have been proud to own. Next to these were a selection of dildos. The smallest was narrow, no more than three inches long, hard plastic and rough surfaced. The largest was what could only be described as an implement, smooth and pliable rubber over fourteen inches long and with a large penis shaped head at each end. The three that lay between them were of various shapes and sizes, it was a selection to satisfy all demands. There was also a variety of rubber underwear, men's leather briefs and a selection of pornographic photographs.

Mary swirled round, letting them enjoy her body, and envisage what was coming. She was in her element, a long way from the demure professional executive who had walked through the hotel lobby some fifteen minutes earlier.

Nowak walked over, picked up the smallest flesh coloured dildo and held it up towards her. ' Bit out of its league, isn't it?'

Mary laughed and took it from him.

'Sit down, boys,' she purred. 'Show time.'

The two men sat, Sorge on the only chair in the room, Nowak on the edge of the dressing table. He picked up the photographs and started to leaf through them as she climbed onto the bed, rolling over onto her back so that she faced them, her legs splayed, visions of depravity opening before them. She slipped the beard off and then started to slowly rub her opening, turning her warmth and dryness to wetness. They heard the sound of her fingers caressing her juices, saw her smiling face taunting them.

Once she had moistened herself, she slipped the little dildo into herself, probed her inner flesh with short sharp jabs. Then, she pulled it out and licked it, rolling it with her lips. Finally she put it between her legs and slipped it into her other entrance, the hell to her frontal heaven.

Sorge unzipped his trousers and, pulling his hardness out of the shelter of his clothing, started to stroke himself. Nowak said nothing, just looked at her as he put the photos back on the table.

'Look at it, boys. Look at it,' she commanded, enjoying the power she knew she excited in them, urging them on as she rotated her hips invitingly at them.

'You ever do it for nothing, honey?' asked Nowak, his eyes transfixed by heaven and hell splayed before him.

She laughed, safe in the knowledge that these two tricks were good for the price. 'Once had a boy, no more than eighteen, who got me into his hotel room. Keep looking, you bastard,' she swore at Sorge, who had looked away from her openness to her face as she spoke. He went back to watch her seduce her own flesh. 'You just keep your eyes down there, baby, you keep your eyes on the action. That boy only had twenty dollars. Twenty fucking dollars, that's all. I told him I'd have the twenty, but only stroke him for it. But when he took his pants off, wow, when I saw what he had. He was big, something else. Well, I just had to have that thing in me, boys. Just had to. And did he go. Eighteen years old and the biggest cock I ever saw. After that, I just couldn't bring myself to…he saved himself twenty bucks. Boys, if you want my best, it's going to be worth every penny. Now just keep looking, just keep your heads thinking.'

Nowak stood up suddenly and climbed onto the bed, lying flat, his head between her open legs, only inches from her.

'Keep looking, boy. Keep looking.'

Sorge leant forward in his chair, saw Nowak's head move sharply forward, saw it bob up and down as he manipulated his tongue into her; first by sliding it in long deep strokes up and down her valley, then rubbing his nose and full mouth into her wetness, washing his face with her juices, licking at her until she started to respond as he wanted, not as a $500 dollar an hour hooker, but as a woman. No eighteen year old boy was going to outdo Nowak. She moved sharply, bringing her legs upwards as she released the small dildo that she had inserted into her rear, grabbing the top of his head with her hands and pulling his face deeper into her. He stopped licking as he sensed her urgency, now jabbed at her small mound of heaven, probed that pointed peak that was hard and sharp under his tongue.

'Don't stop,' she ordered Nowak, her voice low and deep in her hunger. 'For fuck's sake, don't stop. Don't stop.'

Sorge watched them, watched his friend's head bobbing up and down between Mary's wide stretched legs, watched her arched body as this sudden unexpected passion absorbed her, saw the whore scream and release all over his friend's mouth and tongue. As her body suddenly went limp, as her legs straightened and collapsed back on the bed, Nowak looked up at her, then turned and grinned at Sorge.

'Yankee know how,' he said, pushing himself up so he was now kneeling between her legs.

'The Najinsky of cunningulus,' Sorge joked back.

'Wow!' said Mary, turning her head to Sorge. 'What's he like when he takes his clothes off?'

'What evidence?' asked Nowak, taking his jacket off, followed by his tie and shirt. 'Your people in Cannes. What evidence did they find?'

'Something you wouldn't be looking for.' Sorge stood up and started to undress.

'The police, and our people, combed the whole beach. They found nothing. What sort of weapon is that good that…' Nowak had kicked off his shoes and was now unzipping his trousers.

Mary watched him, her legs still open as he knelt between them.

'Trust me,' interrupted Sorge.

'Too much coincidence.'

'No. Not enough coincidence.'

'Langley is worried about our asset base. It's something neither side has turned their attention to.'

'So who's going to be the first to call in their sleepers?'

Nowak shrugged as he slid his trousers off, his hardness not affected by the discussion with Sorge. The American kept his eyes on Mary's face, not wanting to lose the heat that drove him.

'Is it time to bring our people in from the cold?' asked Sorge, now almost completely undressed.'

'That's not our decision.'

'But we need to know what your people want.'

'That's what I was asked to find out. What you want. It's a fucking stalemate. I mean, who's going to be the first to make that decision. And how do we monitor it? Who's going to believe the other's pulled all his sleepers in? ' Nowak stood up on the bed, straddling over the whore. 'You want to go first?' he asked.

'No, no. After you. This one's on me.'

'Ever the diplomat, Dimi. Ever the diplomat.' Nowak lowered himself over Mary's face, knelt over her and pushed his penis into her mouth. 'We need to know what's going on out there, Dimi. We need to know.' His voice was urgent and breathless, not because of the content of his words but because the whore sucked him hard into her.

'It must be stopped. Before it gets out of hand,' muttered the Russian to a disinterested audience.

Sorge climbed onto the bed, behind Nowak and hoisted the whore's hips up with his arms, positioned her so he could enter her as she occupied herself elsewhere. He looked at the American's moving back, admired the firm muscles and wished the girl wasn't there. With Mary's legs now firmly wrapped round him, trapped by his bulk, he put his arms round Nowak, knew the American would think he was only holding him for support. Then he pushed with his hips and grinned as he heard her squeal as he claimed the hell hole for his own. She tried to yelp with the sharp pain, but there was little she could do, jammed to the bed by the weight of the two big men, both pumping at her as they worked towards their release.

Outside the candle lit window, the first snows were starting to fall on the streets of Washington. People rushed by, cars were driven impatiently, the last few jets took off over the Potomac from Washington National Airport as travellers looked forward eagerly to the warmth and comfort of their suburban homes.

Hosanna. It was going to be a white Christmas.

Ch. 13

There was no snow that Christmas in San Diego.

There never was, apart from what was sprinkled on the trees in the windows of the downtown department stores.

Billie Wood had never seen a white Christmas, except on television. She had once spent Christmas in Atlantic City. There had been no snow, only wind and rain and a bone chilling cold that made her yearn for her native California. Her companion, an early lover after she had split with her husband, was as wet as the weather and spent most of his time at the dice table. She had left him there, spending the fortune he never had and was trying to win, and caught the only flight available back to San Diego. It was Boxing Day and she spent a lonely holiday by the TV set wondering where Peter was. And who he was with.

'You want some grapefruit juice for breakfast?' Billie called from the kitchen as she poured a herbal tea into the pot.

'What d'ya say?' Gary shouted back at her from the exercise room.

'Do you want grapefruit juice?' she replied, louder so that he could hear.

'Yeah,' came the muffled reply.

She poured two grapefruit juices into the tumblers and put them on the large tray, next to the pot of tea, the two cups and the Swiss muesli that was all ready milked in the two bowls. She picked up the tray and left the kitchen, walked through the sitting area and bedroom and into the exercise area that opened onto the balcony.

'Hi, babe,' panted Gary, a gleaming muscle machine, strapped to an exercise bench with weights above his shoulders as he pumped iron, the weights sliding up and down in the iron frame as he pushed himself beyond the limit.

She smiled warmly at him and put the tray on the table by the sliding doors. She turned to watch, admired his twenty five year old body that was his pride and joy. His short jogging shorts were glued to his body by the perspiration he generated, his muscles straining as he lifted his inner self beyond pain and physical limits. She compared him to Peter, he of the burnt out and wasted muscles, the bloated waistline and the thinning hair.

He'd be in his 'I want to be younger, designer clothes' now. The girl on his arm his latest accessory. Designer woman to go with his designer clothes.

Go away, Peter. This day has nothing to do with you.

She walked over to Gary, letting her short housecoat fall open and reveal her nakedness, apart from a white G-string panty. She knelt by his head, pulled her stomach in and fondled his blonde locks, ran her fingers through his hair. California blond. It's how she liked her men. Except for Peter, damn him.

'You okay, babe?' she whispered in his ear, gently blowing into it.

'Easy, baby. I gotta finish.' He was in his own world, trying to crash his own barriers, irritated by her interruption.

But she wasn't prepared to be dissuaded. It was Christmas. Even if there wasn't any snow.

She slipped off her housecoat and moved further down the bench, watched the sweat running off his chest and stomach muscles. She loved the smell of his body juices and she rubbed her face over his skin, tasted its salty wetness with her tongue. He ignored her, concentrated on his task. She moved lower, her tongue still probing as she neared the top band of his shorts.

'I gotta finish,' he gasped as he pushed the weight upward once again.

'Later, baby. Do it later.' She reached down and slid his shorts down to his ankles. It wasn't true what they said about body builders. They were as big, if not bigger than most others. She reached towards it, tentatively and full of wonder. It always surprised her how this small tube of flesh grew and developed into the hard manhood that she craved for. It was a magic moment, that short instance between limp futility and hardened ecstasy. She leant forward, her mouth about to absorb his softness.

'For Chris'sake, Billie!' he shouted, the weight banging down on its stops as he let it go. He sat up suddenly, his anger obvious. 'I gotta finish my programme. You know I gotta do that every day.'

'You killed the passion!' she yelled back, picking up her robe as she stood up. 'It's Christmas, damn it. What's wrong with that. Fuck your programme. Just for one stinking day. Can't you do that for me.'

She wrapped her robe round herself and rushed to the door. She turned and looked at him, the hurt and humiliation wrenching at her.

'You look fucking ridiculous,' she derided him. 'Lying there, working out on your body, your pants round your fucking ankles.'

He swung his legs off the exercise bench and attempted to pull up his shorts, but they had twisted in their dampness and he struggled, tripping over them and crashed to the floor. He swore loudly as the pain stabbed at his knee and he gripped it tightly, the entangled shorts now forgotten.

She was suddenly concerned for him and she rushed forward to help, but he pushed her away.

'Fuck off!' he shouted. 'Don't treat me like shit. Just 'cos you pay all the bills. Don't…'

'I'm sorry, Gary baby.' She despised her own pleading, but couldn't stop herself. 'I didn't mean it. I just wanted you. I just…'

'I could've busted my knee. Damn it, I could've been hospitalised.'

'I'm sorry. I just wanted to share something with you. It's Christmas.'

'You should've waited.'

'I just wanted to be with you.'

'You just wanted to fuck. That's all you think I'm worth. Just someone to fuck.'

'No, that's not true. That's not…'

'That's it. That's all it ever was.'

He stood up and pushed her away, knocking her to the floor. He managed to pull his shorts up and left her in her misery. In time, when she had composed herself, she rose and went to the window and looked out on the Californian coast.

She hated her loneliness, knew he was right. But it wasn't just the sex; like most women she could live without that. It was the loneliness. It was the emptiness that comes from going home and having no-one to share the day's gossip with.

She wished she could go to work. If only there was something worthwhile to go to work for. She'd got no further with the task Langley had set her, and now Tucker had called to say she was expected to nursemaid a scientist. She wondered if they knew what they were doing.

The dread of that awful memo on her desk, still not answered, sent her into a deeper depression. It wasn't right, taking away her job after all these years. Damn it.

It was a miserable Christmas.

In Washington the DDA put the phone down.

He was surprised the Exec Director had agreed so readily to his plan of action. He knew the DDI would be against it, which is why he'd gone directly to his superior.

The Exec Director had told him he would ring London direct.

The DDA hoped there'd be an answer by Christmas evening. He wanted to see the look on the DDI's face. He grinned as he imagined his colleague's discomfort and angry reaction.

He heard his wife calling. The first of their many guests were arriving.

Then he went through into the dining room to carve the Christmas turkey, to slice it as cleanly as he hoped his news would slice the DDI.

Ch. 14

They buried Willi Kushmann in the city of his birth on the day after Christmas. It was a cold, bitter morning, still dark at six a.m., with storm clouds threatening a rain that never seemed to come.

The cemetery was on the southern outskirts of the old city, an overgrown place that had been little tended over the years. Many of the gravestones had been broken and lay littered over the three acre site. Its appearance was of a disused and forgotten spot, not something amiss in an East Germany that was busily being re-unified.

Dresden, like East Berlin and Leipzig and most of what was East Germany, is a city where time has stood still. Its architecture, that which was left standing after one of the most devastating bombing raids of the last war, is a mixture of 1950's drab and fine German baroque

The strength of the city and its people was their link with the past. Not so much in what Germany had once been, but what it could once again become. Their past was their hope. If they had achieved greatness before, then they could achieve it once again. The shining example of West Germany was their torch, the memory of pre-war days their ambition.

Unlike the West, without the freedom of a democratic society, many of them had secretly clung to their heritage. To them, the war had finally finished when the Wall came down and the Russian troops had evacuated their land. There was now an urgency to redress what was lost, a need to wear their nationalistic badge proudly once again.

Because of this stubborn conviction, there were now many separate nationalistic groups, embryo political parties who wanted a slice of power for themselves and felt they deserved a bigger say in a united Germany's future. Not all of them believed in the Western system of democracy. Some of these groups were secretive in their intent and their membership. Unlike their fellow countrymen in the West, who they saw as softened by the extravagances of a modern society, the new freedom was the first step to their rightful place as the world's most powerful nation.

Old habits die hard. Especially when they've been suppressed for nearly fifty years.

Willi Kushmann had belonged to such a group and been one of its most influential members. A lawyer by profession, he had concentrated on corporate legislation as soon as he realised that the two Germanys were to be united. He realised, unlike his own experiences in the communist environment, that economic power was supreme. The major corporations had a major say, if not controlled, the prosperity and destination of the more powerful states.

West Germany was one of those powerful states.

In his view, East Germany must join ranks with her sister country and become the most powerful state. His destiny lay in the West, so he concentrated all his efforts to that end. Within a surprisingly short time he had joined a major law firm in Frankfurt and was put in charge of a department that dealt solely with the legalities of corporate reunification. Mergers and takeovers became his speciality, he was the expert everyone turned to.

His list of contacts increased and he was seen at all the right functions, all the correct social gatherings. He became part of the establishment and no-one questioned why he had climbed the ladder to success so rapidly. But he knew, and more important, understood the significance of his link with the past. It was a chain that must never be broken.

Reunification wasn't just about the East Germans swopping their Trabants and Wartburgs for Mercedes and BMWs. It was about a dream that had been stifled fifty years earlier. A dream that passed through the generations, lost for some but deeply yearned for by others. A secret shared over the years between many powerful people both in East and West Germany.

The dream had been kept alive by the older ones, kept alive through their shame and disgrace of the Russian jackboot. It had been handed down to those like Willi Kushmann, passed down, not as a memory or a footnote in history, but as a flame to be kept burning as strong as ever.

Willi Kushmann had been the bright hope who would turn that dream into reality.

Except that now he was being laid to rest in a neglected graveyard in the city of his birth. And that at a time in the morning when few people were about, when the funeral would pass relatively unnoticed.

For such a seemingly unimportant funeral in such a forgotten place there were many more mourners than should be expected.

On the pot holed road that skirted the mortuary, there was a line of cars, an eclectic mixture of black Mercedes, Travants and Wartburgs.

At the entrance to the graveyard, where a large wooden gate had once stood between the stone wall, three men waited, one of them sitting on the wall, his legs idly swinging beneath him. The other two stood on the path that led to the graveyard and the mourners hidden by the trees that masked the graveyard. They were big men, short cropped hair, skinheaded and brutish in appearance. They all wore dark grey overcoats, but that was so as not to draw attention to themselves. Underneath the topcoats, they were dressed in identical mustard brown shirts with military insignia in the shape of a cross with the ends linked up and with an eagle's head at its centre. The breeches were of a darker brown shade, tucked into knee length black leather boots.

The graveyard was in the public domain, but no member of the public would be allowed to attend this funeral without the permission of those on the gate.

There were seven other guards scattered over the area, most of them hidden in the trees. Unlike those on the gate and in spite of the cold, they displayed their uniform proudly, their topcoats on the ground beside them. You could see they carried no weapons, apart from the short police batons that were strapped to the back of their belts. Each guard also had a scout's hunting knife tucked in the top of his right boot with the same military insignia stamped in gold on its black handle.

The funeral was over, Kushmann's coffin had been lowered into the earth and was being covered by the grave diggers. The mourners, some forty of them, wandered around the graves in small groups, looking for forgotten names amongst the headstones. For many it had been the first time they had returned to the East, to this part of Germany that reminded them of their youth. Most of the mourners were in their sixties; some expensively dressed, the others in simple suits that had seen better days. Most surprising of all was that there were no women present.

Grob Mitzer was amongst the mourners. The wealthy industrialist finished speaking to the priest before he moved away to a small huddled group who still lingered by Kushmann's grave.

'A tragedy,' said one of the mourners, a bald headed stooped man in a threadbare suit.

'It's over now. We must move on,' replied Mitzer.

'Always it happens. Always so close and something happens.'

'Nothing comes easy. It only needs more effort, one more push,' urged the wire haired man to Mitzer's left.

'He's right,' added Mitzer. 'Now is not the time to lose heart.'

'Who will replace Willi?' asked the bald headed man.

'Whoever.'

'Frick is the only one.'

'That's up to the Council.'

'It must be soon.'

'It will be.'

'We will have to have meetings. That'll draw attention to ourselves.'

'Not if we're careful.' Mitzer's anger suddenly flared and he turned his fury on the bald headed man. 'Now is not the time to panic. We will replace Willi. We will succeed. Our enemies will not find out about us. Not if we keep our mouths shut.'

The others were silent, cowed by Mitzer's outburst. He suddenly took a deep breath, brought his temper under control.

'We are amongst old friends here,' he went on, calmer in his tone. 'Those who are alive and those who died, many in our cause. Let us not be disrespectful to them. '

He turned to lead the group towards the headstones when the bald headed man spoke.

'Und die Lucie Geists?'

Mitzer swung round sharply, his venom obvious but hushed so that no-one else near the group would hear him.

'Die Lucie Geists. I have told you. Never mention them in public. It is more than your life is worth.'

Ch. 15

As the mourners left the Dresden cemetery, The Deputy Director of Administration sat down to his meeting with the DDI, Phil Tucker and Carter. Due to the time differences it was still Christmas evening on the East Coast, and the festivities were in full swing.

Unlike Dresden, Washington is the most modern of cities and Georgetown its cultural and residential jewel.

Just north of Foggy Bottom, it is the oldest part of the city, having started its life as a tobacco port in 1751. Along its picturesque commercial centre there is a diverse and exciting selection of restaurants and shops designed to entice the many cultured habitants of the area. Mainly those who spend their working hours in the embassies and government agencies.

The DDA lived near Massachusetts Avenue, the thoroughfare that houses most of the embassies in Washington. Unlike most of his colleagues who lived outside the city, the DDA was never slow to flaunt his position and usually had a house full of guests, many of them diplomats from the foreign missions.

Christmas Day had been no different. Ostensibly a day for children, the DDA saw it as an opportunity to entertain and impress, an opportunity to pander to the whims of Washington society. Not much had been seen of his children all day. He didn't know they had gone to his wife's mother after lunch and wouldn't be returning until the following morning.

He had received Nowak's report at eight o' clock that morning. It had stunned him.

He opened the meeting with that information. There was little said. He knew they wanted time to absorb it before they responded. All except the DDI, who was furious that his colleague hadn't rung him earlier and passed the report on.

'Anything new on West Wing?' the DDA asked Tucker.

'Nothing concrete. He got married fifteen years ago, sort'a late in life. Had no kids. Liked his liquor and disappeared on the occasional bender. No idea where he came from, how we got him his identity. That's all locked up in the computer. We searched his home. Found nothing. Except he'd been a Corporal in the Waffen SS during the War. Still had his identity papers. Stashed away in his bedside drawer. We checked back, but there was no war crimes stuff.'

'Reindeer was in the SS, wasn't he?'

'Different outfit. We couldn't find any link between them.'

'That's all?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Anything on that virus?'

'No.'

'I think we should be addressing the point about why someone's knocking out our asset base…as well as the Russians?' interrupted the DDI, changing tack on the discussion.

'If you believe what they say?' answered the DDA.

'They always were tricky bastards.'

'Still can't see what they hope to achieve.'

'Unless they're after Trimmler.'

'What for?' asked the DDA sharply.

'Who knows. But they could've been after him. Christ, he could be a double?'

' He's a scientist, not a…I doubt that. We got anything on that Kraut who was shot, whatsisname, uh, Kushmann?' The DDA swung round to Carter.

'Nothing,' answered the security man. 'Another East German lawyer who moved to Frankfurt. He was important, in a corporate way. But not that important, not enough to be taken out.'

'And the other guy?'

'Mitzer. Big industrialist. In defence. Aerospace. Big supporter of us in Germany. He could've been a target for kidnapping by a terrorist faction. But they wouldn't have gone after him in such a public place.'

Tucker suddenly understood that the security man had been given his own responsibilities, independent and classified from Tucker. He would have to be more careful in future as he realised all his thoughts and actions would be reported back to his superiors. He watched Carter lean back when he had finished and knew he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

'Go back on it. Dig deeper into each one. Including the women. And Trimmler. There could be something there, something we missed,' ordered the DDA.

'Can we get some help on it? I've only two guys here in Langley. There's a lot of legwork that…'

'Shit no,' interjected the DDI. 'Even the President doesn't know what's happening.' He realised he had gone further than he should in front of the two subordinates. 'Look, you two better understand where we're coming from. This whole thing is just conjecture. It makes us look bad if we run to the White House with every rumour we come across. All we know for certain is that our computer's partly fucked, which is being dealt with; that we lost two agents, which is now under investigation; and that someone may have tried to take out one of our top scientists. Which is also being investigated. And while we're doing that we're also going to protect him. That's all there is to go on. We don't report this to anyone until we get some more facts. Okay?'

'There is also one other slight problem,' added the DDA. 'We don't know who planted that virus. Which means we don't know how much they've infiltrated our intelligence system. If we start sharing this information with anyone else, including any special advisers to the President, can you guarantee it won't get out?'

'Anyway, who can we go to? The Puzzle Palace is out.' The DDI referred to America's National Security Agency, the most secret agency within the US government. The NSA has a budget estimated to be far greater than the CIA and has a complex of electronic eavesdropping stations and satellites that cover both America and the globe. Its Director is probably the most powerful executive in the American intelligence community.

'Why?'

'Because they could be involved up to their fucking necks and maybe just happened to forget to tell us.'

'Even they won't be knocking off our own people.'

'Oh yeah. They're as dangerous as the Russians. They play their own weird games. Yeah, and, just think how easy it would be for them to get access to the computer.'

There was a silence round the room. At last the DDA spoke.

'We keep this thing in-house. Carter, you just keep digging as instructed. The DDI and me, we'll follow up on the Russians through our contacts. While that's going on we need to protect Trimmler. Just in case he is a target. As well as chasing this computer thing, I want you to look after that, Tucker.'

'I've never been in the field, sir.'

'Just do as we tell you,' countered the DDI. 'I'll bring some of my people across. All you have to do is…'

'No,' interrupted the DDA. 'Your people are out.'

'Who says?'

'The Exec Director.'

'We were going to keep this in-house.'

'Except for this.'

'Why? What's wrong with my people?'

'All their records are in the computer. Put them in the field and whoever's set this up will know we're protecting Trimmler. We want to use Trimmler as bait. We've already got a tap on his phone. If they're after him, let them think they've got a free run.'

'So who do we use?'

'Someone outside the intelligence community.'

'Cops? You gotta be joking. They've got the biggest mouths in town. They're not used to working alone. We need someone who is.'

'We appreciate that. And it's not the police.'

'Who then?'

'Two people. A professional field man and a partner who's used to sifting information, looking for something that everyone else's missed.'

'And they're in place?' The DDI's question was harsh, he knew he had been outmanoeuvred in front of the Executive Director by his counterpart. He cursed silently and regretted not moving with his own plan earlier.

'Not yet. I'd like to clear it with you first.' He lied smoothly to the DDI.

'So who's being brought in?'

'Both these people are outside the mainstream of intelligence. They're definitely out of the computer. The first is our woman in San Diego. You already know about her. Recruited by the Agency in the early seventies, when we had regional centres. But things changed, we closed down the centres and most of the staff came to Washington. But because of the nature of the Californian campuses, because of the drugs and protest movement, we kept a small unit going in San Diego.'

'She's a desk jockey.'

'Collection and Dissemination. She's been doing that ever since.'

'What's her cover?'

'She's an IT operative in Mayfair Cab and Taxi. Her office is on the second floor of the cab company.'

‘What grade is she?'

'Clerical.' The DDA didn't add that her section was to be closed down in the near future. 'She's experienced in the operation of computers and she's been looking at our problem with Tucker.'

'Who else?'

‘Someone used to working alone and looking after himself. A soldier.'

'Special Forces?' The DDI referred to members of the armed forces who were trained for covert and dangerous missions.

'We wanted someone who no-one could identify. We decided to go outside our normal sphere of operation. We decided…' the DDA knew his colleague was about to explode. Now was as good a time as ever. '…on someone who would be classed as a mercenary. A British soldier. A member of their S.A.S.'

'You're fucking joking?'

'One of their best. Used to working underground and part of their intelligence arm. Just finished a tour of duty in Northern Ireland.'

'You're not fucking joking.'

'The Exec Director's already spoken to London. They're playing ball. He speaks German. Served some time out there. Could help with Trimmler.'

'I should've been brought in on this earlier.'

'Well, that's how it is.' The DDA turned to Phil Tucker. 'He'll be over in the next few days. Adam Nicholson. That's his name. I suggest he flies straight to San Diego. You'll need to be there to brief him. And the girl.'

'This computer's going to need a lot of my time.'

'Delegate someone. Everyone knows there's a virus. Put pressure on but I don’t want anyone opening a drawer and working out how serious this problem is.'

'I need to know my responsibilities. And how to progress the situation.' Tucker thought of Jean and the pressure he would be under at home. She had been married to an army officer before they met and hated the life, the constant separation. After nine years of marriage, he still hadn't spent a night away from home. He suddenly dreaded going home, remembered the foul mood she had been in when he left to come to this meeting. To return and tell her he was going to San Diego and God knows where else for an undetermined period would cause havoc in the household. At least they had tomorrow, he would take them all out for the day.

'We'll meet in the morning and work out the logistics on this thing. Eight a.m. My office.' The DDA's words were like a death sentence and Tucker groaned silently.

'How much information do we give this guy?' demanded the DDI, now aware that he had lost control of the situation. It wasn't his baby any longer. 'Fuck Administration!' he thought.

'As little as we can get away with. Leave it till tomorrow.' The DDA slid his chair back and stood up. 'I suggest you all get back and enjoy what's left of Christmas. See you in the morning.'

Two minutes later they were out on the street, standing below the period lamp stand that splayed its yellow light down onto the snow covered sidewalk.

'Wanna lift?' the DDI asked Carter, signalling across to the chauffeur driven government car that was parked across the road.

'Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate that,' answered Carter keeping his eyes away from Tucker.

'Good. See you tomorrow, Tucker. Sorry I can't give you a lift but we're going the other way.'

'No sweat. See you tomorrow.' Tucker stood back as the car pulled up at the kerb. Carter opened the door for the DDI, and after he had climbed in, followed him and shut the door.

Tucker watched the car drive off towards Massachusetts Avenue. The more he knew Carter, the more he disliked him. He was probably selling his soul to the DDI right now, in the back of the Company car. He would always go to the highest bidder. Another fucking pension-sucking whore.

He started to walk towards the main street, wished he had brought the car. Jean had kept the station wagon in case she took the kids out. He sure as hell wasn't going to find a cab easily at this time of night on Christmas Day. He couldn't even ring Jean, she'd have the kids in bed by now.

'Christ, I'm a fucking communications executive, not a fucking secret agent,' he shouted to the cold night.

Nobody heard. Nobody cared.

Ch. 16

'Thank you, Dimitri Dimitrovitch. This has put a new slant on the situation. You must keep alert and concentrate your efforts on this matter. If there is any change, contact me immediately.'

Rostov put down the phone and looked out of the window. The snow was thick outside, the street blocked off with the latest heavy fall. The late afternoon sun shone brightly as he looked up, the glare from the window reflection making him squint. He tried to remember a document he had seen, a glimmer of everyday information that hadn't seemed important at the time but could tie in with what Dimitri Sorge had told him on the phone.

He heard one of the children, probably his youngest daughter, laugh from the living room. Then came the stronger tones of his wife admonishing her. Someone was being naughty. It warmed him, he loved the family, loved the days away from the office. He looked down at the phone. Not true, he was always at the office.

They may have driven the Jews out of Russia, but they and their religion had some good points. The Sabbath. They always switched off their phones on a Sabbath. It was a day of rest. He wished he could switch off the phone.

He picked up the receiver and dialled 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. When the operator answered he asked to be put through to the Director. He knew he'd be there.

He grinned as he waited.

He was certain the Director didn't believe in Santa Claus.

Ch. 17

They white police car, its red and blue lights busily flashing, spotted him in the heavy traffic and chased him for nearly two miles before pulling him into the soft shoulder.

'In a rush, are we?' was the sarcastic policeman's comment as Adam climbed out of the Ferrari F40. He added, 'Sir,' with the customary arrogance that is traditional in such situations.

'Not really,' smiled Adam.

'You were doing nearly a hundred.'

'Was I?' Adam knew that a hundred miles an hour normally meant a ban in most traffic courts. Which is why he'd held it ninety miles an hour.

'The limit's seventy.'

'I know the highway code.'

'Then you should stick to it.' Once more the sneering, 'Sir. Would you follow me, please?'

Adam followed the officer to the patrol car where the second policeman was waiting.

'Mr Nicholson?' asked the second officer.

'Yes.'

'Would you get in the front, please.' He opened the door for Adam to slide into the passenger seat, then walked round and climbed into the driver's side. He leant over and picked up the radio telephone. 'I've got him here.' he said, then handed over the telephone to Adam.

'Nicholson,' said Adam.

'Where've you been this time in your little toy?' came the official voice that Adam recognised as his contact officer.

Adam put his hand over the receiver and turned to the policeman. 'Would you excuse me?' he asked politely. 'Official secrets and all that.' The policeman shrugged and climbed out, annoyed at being asked to leave his own car. 'What do you want?' he asked into the receiver once the door had been closed.

'I wish you'd follow orders.'

Adam didn't reply. He'd spent the day at the Ferrari Owners Association at Castle Donington Racetrack in Leicestershire. He'd come second in the unlimited class race and was still savouring the enjoyment of the speed and precision of the racing circuit.

'Anyway, we need you down here. Immediately.' went on the voice.

'Is this an operation?' Adam asked, suddenly excited with the possibility of action.

'So it would appear.'

'Where?'

'We'll tell you that when you get down here.'

'In my toy.'

The radio phone went dead. Adam put it down and stepped out of the police car. 'Thank you.' He walked towards the F40.

'Watch your speed, will you? Sir.'

Adam nodded and climbed into the Ferrari.

The police car followed him till the next turnoff and he cheekily kept the speed at eighty five. He knew they wouldn't stop him, not when they knew he was important enough to be stopped on the motorway and given a message.

When they'd gone, he gunned her up to a hundred and twenty and drove his little red toy into London.

Ch. 18

The big British Airways 747 is the only scheduled jumbo that lands at San Diego's Lindbergh Field.

Flight BA 285 flies direct from London Gatwick to Los Angles, and then, once it has discharged the majority of its passengers and burnt up most of its fuel, carries on for the short hop into San Diego. Lindbergh's 09 eastbound runway is only 9,400 feet long and the lightly loaded Boeing jumbo can be landed safely because of its lack of weight.

The approach to runway 09 is over the mountains that leap up to the west of the city. It is an exacting approach for any pilot, leading down to the runway which is close-by to the downtown area. It juts out into the most spectacular bay and to watchers on the other side it appears that aircraft descend into the heart of the city, into the heart of the corporate skyscrapers that are clustered together as a beacon of a modern and prosperous San Diego.

Adam was one of fifteen passengers left on flight BA 285, and the only one still in First Class. He had fought the usual bureaucratic battle with the Admin boys who had insisted he use a travel warrant that only entitled him to an economy class seat. In the end he had simply agreed because he realised he was wasting his time arguing with the form fillers who were blindly carrying out their orders. As soon as he left them he called British Airways and bought a first class ticket on his American Express card. It was his usual way; he simply reported that he had lost his travel warrant and claimed the economy fare back from the form fillers on his return. There would be the usual caustic remark about 'Lose your head next time' or some similar comment that the form fillers always seemed to dredge up from the safety of their filing cabinets and wooden government issue desks.

The briefing in London had been short. He wondered how much his people really knew, or whether the Americans had simply passed on as little information as they needed to.

'The Yanks believe Mr. Trimmler is in danger, that an attempt may be made on his life. They've asked for our help because they want to keep it out of their own sphere. Apparently there is some concern that security is not as tight as it should be…,' the briefing officer, Captain Coy by name but not by nature, allowed himself the hint of a smirk, '…and that the danger to this scientist chap could come from inside their own organisation. That's why we're involved.'

'So I'm the bodyguard.'

'I wouldn't class it as that. You're to protect where necessary, but your first responsibility will be to help find if there is a plot against Trimmler.'

'Wouldn't a policeman be better?'

'They asked for someone with field experience. Someone who could look after himself if things took a nasty turn.'

'Will I be armed?'

'Yes. Nothing too extravagant, mind you. We don't want you getting off the plane with a sub machine gun and grenades strapped to you, do we? This isn't Ulster we're talking about.'

'Have you ever been to Ulster?'

'Hardly the point, is it?' answered Coy tetchily. Adam knew he'd scored a point, could tell the man had never visited the province. Bloody desk soldiers. 'You can pick up a firearm in America. No need to get caught going through airport security and blowing the job before you've even arrived. You'll be dealing with two Americans. Both are, I believe, from the CIA. A Mr Phil Tucker and a Billie Wood. As this is an American operation, you will be directly responsible to them. Should something arise which causes you concern, then contact the British Embassy Military Attache and ask him to contact us here.'

'That's it?'

'That's all I was told.' Coy pushed a small folder across the desk. 'There's a small bio of Mr. Trimmler in that, including a picture, your voucher for a travel warrant to San Diego and another voucher for any petty cash you might need. The Americans have some credit cards in your name which you can pick up in San Diego. That'll be for additional and necessary… ' he emphasised the word 'necessary', '..expenditure. Hire cars, things like that if you need them. That's all.'

Adam took the folder and put it on his lap. He would check it later. 'Who chose me?' he asked.

'No idea. You were available and, as far as I can tell, still causing everyone here a headache.'

'So cure the headache. Cut off the head.'

'You have rather an inflated view of yourself, don't you think?'

Adam laughed and stood up.

'Remember, even if this isn't under our direct control, that you are a member of the Armed Forces and still a representative of Her Majesty's Government,' warned the briefing officer. 'But you are on your own. Use your initiative as you see fit. That doesn't mean that we will support all your actions. Understood?'

Adam understood. He shook his head, refused to salute the senior officer and left the office. He was looking forward to the exercise. He enjoyed America and sensed the whiff of oncoming danger. It was good to be back at work, even if he didn't know why he was going and what was expected of him.

The file on Trimmler wasn't very expansive. He’d worked on V1 and V2 rockets and was now one of the most senior scientists in America, one of the world's greatest authorities on guidance systems and electronic navigational hardware. He was a valuable asset to the Americans.

There were also some notes on Trimmler's family and highlighted the fact that he was a wealthy man who lived in La Jolla, an exclusive and wealthy town on the outskirts of San Diego. Of his German past there was little, except to say that he had not been a member of the Nazi party and was born in Leipzig. He was first and foremost a scientist. Adam wondered why someone would want to kill him.

He had returned home to Lily's last meal before leaving for America. He rang her from the car phone in the Gullwing and the meal was ready for him by the time he let himself into the flat. It was steak and kidney pudding, cooked as only she knew how, and she fussed round him as he ate.

'I'm off to America tomorrow,' he said.

'Will you have time for breakfast?' she asked. He sensed the disappointment in her voice, recalled that she led as lonely an existence as he did.

'No. I'll get it on the plane.'

'I'll get your pudding,' she said, scurrying off to the kitchen. Damn, he could've handled it differently. Then he remembered the Christmas present he had given her. A Sony CD Walkman with her favourite collection of fifties songs. She'd had it strapped to her head ever since. It was an oddball sight, the old white haired lady cleaning and cooking while she bopped her head to Max Bygraves and Bing Crosby. He smiled and knew she would be alright. He would be back soon.

When he had finished and she had put the dishes in the dishwasher, he had escorted her downstairs to wait for the taxi. He kissed her on the cheek and she was pleased. For all their closeness and dependability on each other there was little show of emotion between them.

He had driven to Woking, out into the Surrey countryside. He drove automatically, his mind locked into the past and the memories of where he was going. It took nearly an hour to reach the cemetery from the centre of London. The gates were locked, as he knew they would be, so he parked some distance from the cemetery and walked to the twisted and open railing he had discovered many years ago. He slipped through the opening and made his way towards the gravestones on the west hill.

He sensed others around him, didn't need to see them to know they were there. Mostly kids, experimenting with drugs and sex, or tramps destroyed by experimenting with them. They were all harmless, but he hadn't once thought so, when he had first come here all those years ago. The hidden voices and movements had frightened him, filled the twelve year old boy with fear and visions of ghosts and ghouls and bodysnatchers. He laughed to himself as he remembered chasing a ghoul through the undergrowth to find a naked boy running away, as frightened as he was. A girl was shrieking somewhere behind, interrupted in the act of losing her virginity.

The three graves, side by side in their loneliness, were well kept as usual. He leant over his mother's and touched the flowers. They were fresh, as he always insisted. He stood between the two headstones and touched them both, his two hands joining them again. It was a ritual he always attended to.

Then he went to the grave on the other side of his mother's.

'Marcus James Nicholson. Aged Nine. Beloved son of Henry and Margaret and beloved brother of Adam.' Underneath, much smaller in its print was the inscription 'The Gods Love Those Who Die Young'

He knelt beside the grave, reached forward and touched the earth.

'Hi. I'm going away again, Marcus. To America. California. You'd have liked California. Crazy people who've inherited the earth…I think I upset Lily earlier on. I was thoughtless. I forget she's old and she needs me around. When you're that age, moments count, time runs out, eh? I raced at Donington yesterday. Had a great ride, the best time I ever recorded. I don't know why they're sending me to America. The whole thing smells. I mean, I can understand Ireland and living rough, taking on an enemy you know is there. But this California thing, it's not something I'm trained to do. I still can't work out why they're sending me there. Still, it's action…Gives me something to do, eh?…I'm lonely, Marcus. Can't stop this feeling that I'm not all there, that so much is still with you, with mum and dad…I sometimes wonder if I get into danger just so someone'll put a gun to my head and take me out. I don't belong here, Marcus. I'm so fucking lonely. So fucking alone.'

Adam had left the cemetery five minutes later, driven the Gullwing back to London, went to Tramps and picked up the first attractive girl he fancied, took her back to the flat and fucked her in his loneliness until morning broke and it was time to leave for Gatwick and southern California.

The flight had been uneventful, apart from the interlude of the young beautiful Englishwoman flying to meet her husband in Los Angeles. She had her two children with her, the youngest a toddler who was full of beans. A Californian yuppie had sat next to her and turned his bronzed charms on her. Adam heard the immortal line 'I just love children' as he moved in on his prey. An hour later into the flight he didn't love them quite as much. The toddler had crawled over him, first crumpling then wetting his new Italian suit. The second child, no more than four had then knocked her mother's gin and tonic over the man, who frantically looked round for another seat. But all the first class berths were taken. He suffered silently until the children finally went to sleep. With twenty minutes to run into Los Angeles, he had shifted to go to the toilet. The toddler, now fast asleep against his arm, had been in the way and the mother reached over to move the child. 'No!' snapped the young man nervously. 'No. I'm all right. Don't wake him.' He finished the journey with his legs crossed. He was first off the plane, rudely pushing his way past the other passengers.

Adam helped the mother lift her hand luggage down from the overhead lockers.

'When I get married,' he remarked, 'I shall make sure my wife travels everywhere fully armed with at least two young children.'

'Works every time,' she said and they both laughed. Then she went off to meet her husband, out there waiting for her in the crowd. He settled back in his deep British Airways seat for the rest of the journey, only fifteen minutes down the coast.

The jumbo slurped its wheels onto the tarmac and rolled to a stop seven thousand feet down the runway, where it rumbled to the right and taxied to the terminal.

She hadn't expected him to be quite so short. She knew he was a field officer in the SAS and had expected the usual Californian tall, broad shouldered illusion of a fighting man. His hair was too long at the back, too gelled and too crimped. Maybe she'd expected too much, after all these years waiting to become a real CIA operative.

'Hi,' she greeted him as he stood waiting, a cigarette in his hand, the only passenger left, for his contact in the small terminal arrival hall. 'Are you Adam Nicholson?'

'Yes,' Adam answered cautiously.

'I'm Billie Wood. Welcome to San Diego. This is a No Smoking area.'

'I didn't expect a woman.'

His brusqueness shocked her.

'Well, that's what I am,' she replied defensively.

'Billie's a man's name.'

'Never heard of Billie Holliday?'

He shook his head. 'Only Billy Graham. But he was a fella. Nobody said I'd be working with a woman.'

'What's the difference?'

'There isn't one. As long as you're good at your job.'

'My car's outside,' she answered, furious with his whole macho approach. Bloody English. They thought they still owned the world. She turned and walked out into the car park. He followed at a short distance behind, the cigarette now dangling from his lips.

The car, Billie's brightly coloured Renegade, was parked by the pay booths.

'Could you…?' she indicated the cigarette.

'Are we meant to be undercover on this thing?' Adam asked, tossing the cigarette onto the pavement and stepping on it.

'Yeah. Why?'

'I wouldn't exactly call this jam jar low profile.'

'Jam jar?'

'Car.'

'Then we'll change it. Okay?' She turned and unlocked the car. He was getting worse, this was not at all what she had expected.

He walked round to the passenger side and put his Louis Vitton suit carrier on the back seat. He climbed in the front and waited for her to start the engine.

'Where am I staying?' he asked.

'With me. It's okay. My fella thinks you're over here on a business visit from our British associate company. Anything else?'

'How old are you?'

The harsh directness of his question flummoxed her. The flush grew deeper in colour, her discomfort obvious. She stared at him in defensive silence, said nothing. Then she turned and slipped the car into Drive. She kept her chin up, with him for his youthful, male arrogance, even more furious with herself for keeping her chin up so as to hide the age wrinkles that formed round her neck. She silently cursed her own vanity.

'Nothing personal,' he went on. 'I want to know if you can handle it.'

'I can handle it.'

'Look. I'm told this is a dangerous assignment. I don't know much more. I'm used to working on my own. If I'm part of a team, under someone else's orders, then I have to know my back's covered. So how old are you?'

'Forty one.' There was little point in her lying. She knew he would eventually look up a file on her.

'Have you ever been in the field before?'

'No.'

'Shit.'

'Can we go now?'

'Why not? It can't get any worse, can it?'

'What charm school did you go to?' she snapped, almost adding the expletive 'shithead' to the sentence. She released the brake and stamped on the accelerator. The Renegade squeeled and jerked out of the parking slot.

They drove all the way to La Jolla, a forty minute drive along Route 5, in absolute and stony silence.

Welcome to sunny California.

Ch. 19

'The Americans are either lying or telling the truth. The trick is to determine which,' said the Director as he poured himself another cup of tea from the samovar.

'We could always toss a coin,' suggested Rostov.

'I accept your religion, but I didn't appreciate how deep down the road to capitalism you had gone. Gambling? What next?'

The two men laughed, a joke shared at a time of crisis.

'There were two other, quite small things. Quite unimportant on their own, but possibly worthwhile, especially when you consider we have very little to go on,' went on Rostov.

'You're right. At this stage everything is important, however tenuous the link.'

'I was going through the travel lists a few weeks ago.' Rostov referred to the weekly reports that were screened through the KGB as to which people of note and special interest were requesting visas for foreign trips. It was a legacy from the old days, but one which still was useful to the spymasters. 'I recalled that there was a group of scientists due to visit America. For a space convention. One dealing specifically with rockets. A very high powered convention. Our best people as well as theirs. It was the name Trimmler I remembered. He is leading the American delegation.'

'The same one?'

'The same.'

'Interesting.'

'That's all there was. Just a coincidence.'

'But still a link.'

'And the other?'

'Mitzer. The industrialist who was in Cannes. He's very big in electronics. Built a vast empire in West Germany. He worked with the rocket scientists at Peenumünde during the War.'

'So why didn't he come here, or to the Americans?

'He was only an administrator. We only wanted scientists.'

'And he used his knowledge to build his business?'

'Yes.'

'He would've needed money. To become that big.' Then he posed the question, 'The Lucy Ghosts?'.

Rostov shrugged. 'I don't know.'.

The two men sat in silence for a long moment.

'We need the names of the other delegates, I wonder if any of the other people at the funeral are going to the convention. It was a good decision to put a full surveillance crew on the funeral.' said the Director.

'It’s being prepared.'

'Both sides.'

'That's what I've asked for.'

'Maybe we should tell the Americans. This is not a time to turn against each other.'

'I disagree. Not until we know they're not up to their old tricks.'.

'The Kremlin want us to open our files to the Yanks. To show them our list of sleepers in return for theirs.'

'That would be very foolish at this stage.'

'I agree. Let's keep this to ourselves for now.'

'I'll bring you the list as soon as I get it.'

'Keep in touch with Dimitri Sorge. He is our only contact out there. He might just stumble on to something.'

'I'll follow that up.' Rostov had already done that, but it wasn't his intention to appear more enterprising than the Director.

The old man smiled. He knew Rostov had already contacted Sorge. He appreciated his tact and consideration.

Russia needed people like him. He would get to the top, even if he was a Christian.

Ch. 20

The Muscle gripped Adam's hand tight and squeezed it in a show of strength.

Adam had known what was coming and winced accordingly; there was little to be gained by retaliating.

'This is Gary,' said Billie, her mood still black.

'Nice to meet you. I'm Adam,' he replied, the wince turning to a smile as the Muscle pumped his arm up and down.

'Nice to meetch'ya, too,' Gary replied, a satisfied grin across his face. He relaxed his grip and let go. This weak little wimp was no threat to him. He grabbed Billie and gave her a big kiss, held her pinned with his mouth. When he'd finished claiming his property for Adam's benefit, he said, 'Hi babe. That guy Tucker's here.'

Adam saw that the girl was slightly embarrassed by this obvious show of emotion. 'I'd like to go to my room and freshen up, please?' he asked.

'This way.' She led him past the Muscle to a spare room. She opened the door and he slipped past her into the spare bedroom. 'I'd prefer it if you didn't smoke in the house.'

'Certainly,' he said, but the door was already closing behind him. He shrugged and threw the case on the bed. He zipped it open and took out a brown suit and some shirts.

It was a chintzy dressing room, very Californian chic and obviously designed for women friends. He decided to leave the rest of his unpacking till later and took out his matching Vitton toilet bag. He walked into the en suite bathroom, once again very feminine in its fashion, and plugged in his Braun electric razor. He far preferred to shave with lather and brush, but the Braun was always on standby when he was in a rush.

Phil Tucker was on the balcony when Billie came through. The Muscle, having maintained his position as pack leader, disappeared into his exercise area.

'Hi Phil,' she welcomed him. They had already met the night before and had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe in La Jolla Village. Tucker had taken her through the events that led up to their meeting, but had deliberately avoided any reference to the computer and its problems. They had agreed that the Englishman was there because of his field experience, he would be useful if things turned violent. 'One of their heavies,' Tucker had remarked during the evening. 'To be used as required.'

'Hi. Our guest arrived okay?'

'Yes. Not at all what I expected.'

He looked quizzically at her, but decided not to push her as he sensed her antagonism. 'This sure is a nice place to live. Some views. Makes waking up that much easier, huh?'

'It does.' She looked out over the coastline, looked at the surf breaking.

'It's snowing in Washington. We had three feet of it before I left.'

'Well, you certainly came prepared for California,' she joked, remembering how she had met him at the airport, he with an overcoat over his arm, a high necked sweater under his suit and a scarf draped round his neck.

'I still don't believe it's seventy degrees. Seems wrong at Christmas time. Where's he gone?'

'Having a quick wash. He knows you're here.'

They stayed on the balcony until Adam joined them ten minutes later. He'd decided to change and the tailored jeans and blazer had been replaced by a monogrammed, button down pink shirt, black tailored Bermuda shorts with turn ups and knife edge creases, and tanned legs disappearing into black slip on calf leather shoes. His gold Ebel watch dangled on his right arm, below the cuffs which were rolled halfway up his elbow,

European beach chic was not what the Americans expected of the SAS, even in southern California.

'You're Adam?' said a surprised Tucker, moving forward with his arm outstretched in welcome.

'Mr Tucker?'

'Call me Phil. Everyone else does.' They shook hands and Adam liked the American immediately, felt the confidence and warmth in the handshake. 'Flight okay?'

'No problems.'

'Good. Guess you're pretty tired.'

'Not really.' There was no need to add that four hours sleep was a luxury, that he had often gone days without resting in the course of his duties.

'That's great. Means we can get straight down to business.' Tucker pulled up a chair at the table and sat down, the other two following him. 'So what did London tell you? '

Adam repeated what the briefing officer had briefed and about the contents of the folder he had read afterwards.

'That all?'

'That's all.'

Tucker thought for a moment; the Englishman knew less than he had expected. 'We think there's a leak inside the Agency. If someone's trying to get to Trimmler, we don't want to warn them about our plans.'

'Who do I see about weapons?'

'Weapons?'

'I was told I was to be armed.'

'What do you need?'

'A standard 9mm Browning High Power semi automatic for starts.'

'Okay. What else?'

'A Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun.'

'That's powerful shit. Why? '

'I like to play safe. And because it's the shortest barrel available. In this case, we might just need something that's good at close quarters.'

'What unit were you with?'

'CRW.'

'CRW?'

'Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing. Don't worry. I know how to handle the hardware.' Adam's answer mocked Tucker, but the American ignored it. 'What's next?'

'Get some rest. Tomorrow we go to a wedding.'

'Wedding?'

'Trimmler's a guest. At the Torrey Pines Sheraton. Just down the road from here. It's the sort of public place they might decide to hit him. We'll keep an eye out and then meet him later on. He's at the Mirimar Air Base at present. At least we know he's safe there. But, after tomorrow, we might just arrange for him to go home. Maybe even get you to stay there. Well, that's it for tonight.'

'I suppose you'll both want something to eat?' said Billie, standing up.

'Hey, thanks. That sounds good.'

'Not for me, thank you.' The last thing Adam wanted was a pleasant evening at home with Muscle and his companions. 'I'll go into La Jolla. Have a look round. Seems a nice place.' He stood up from the table. 'Can I call a taxi or get a hire car someplace?'

'Use mine,' snapped Billie.

'Thank you.'

'No sweat. I'm sure they'll all see you coming.' Her sarcasm was lost on Tucker, who didn't know of their earlier conversation. She stood up. 'I'll get the key. Are you going to be late?'

'I don't know. Probably not.'

'I'll give you a front door key as well.'

'Something I missed?' asked Tucker when she left.

'No.'

'You two seem pretty cool towards each other.'

'We get on just fine,' said Adam and left to follow the woman.

It was the last thing Tucker wanted. His first field assignment and two operatives who couldn't get on. Shit, life really was a bitch.

It was nearly four in the morning when Billie heard the key being twisted in the front door lock, heard the door open and close quietly.

She lay next to Gary whose snoring was akin to a rumbling express train going through a long dark tunnel. It didn't normally keep her awake, she had got used to it over the months. But the Englishman had irritated her with his rudeness. She had prepared a meal for him and Tucker, but he had disappeared before she had had a chance to tell him.

But it wasn't that which got under her skin, after all he could be excused for not knowing about the meal.

What really upset her was the way he was using her home as a hotel.

If this assignment hadn't been as important as it was, she would have had his bags packed and waiting by the front door.

She pushed Gary's arm away and slid out of the bed, picking up her robe from the end and wrapping it around herself.

Adam was about to enter his room when she came into the hallway.

'You're back,' she said softly, instantly feeling like an irate parent scolding a naughty child as she spoke.

'Yes,' he replied. 'Great place. Great action. Been to the Singing Canary.' It was a night club on the outskirts of La Jolla.

He held his hand out and she saw he held a mixture of yellow and red roses.

'They're pretty,' she said, softening immediately as she imagined the offering was for her.

'Aren't they? I've never had a girl give me roses before. Very Californian. Goodnight.'

His door had closed on her before she could answer. She felt foolish. Why the hell did she think that rude bastard would bring her roses?

Ch. 21

Adam waited for Billie and Phil Tucker outside Cornes, the big Rolls Royce and Ferrari dealership on the Mirimar Road.

The Mirimar Road runs from the downtown area of La Jolla town, not to be confused with La Jolla itself which is the beach front village to the west, and through the commercial area and out past the Mirimar Air Base to the east. This stretch of modern tower office blocks, billboards and single storey shops, showrooms and eating houses, is over four miles long. Like all American commercial centres, it is a mixture of urban sprawl, disorganised architecture, modern shopping malls and a thousand billboards and signs blasting their own visions of the American Dream.

They had gone to the Hertz Rent-a-Car outlet in the commercial area to hire a less conspicuous car than Billie's Renegade. Adam, knowing he had time to kill, had wandered past the Porsche and Jaguar dealerships to Cornes. His passionate interest in cars led him to the Ferraris that filled the showroom window and he was soon in conversation with an attentive salesman about the merits of the various models.

The other two found him twenty minutes later at the wheel of the red Testarossa that was parked in the forecourt, the salesman next to him, as they enthusiastically discussed the merits and faults of various models, both old and new.

Tucker had hired a brown Ford Granada and he pulled up next to the Testarossa and bipped the horn at Adam. Adam said his goodbyes to the salesman and slid into the back of the Granada.

'Where now?' he asked.

'To get Trimmler,' answered Tucker, 'and take him to his wedding.'

'Sounds good. Anything else happen?'

'No.' Tucker had already decided not to tell Adam too much. After all, he was here as muscle to protect Trimmler. Nothing else concerned him.

They drove to the Mirimar Air Base in silence, the journey taking little more than five minutes. Tucker swung the car into the Base entrance and presented his identity to the armed guard on duty. They were expecting him, and the guard waved Tucker through after lifting the steel barrier and giving him directions to the officers' quarters.

Adam reflected that this was the home of the best American jet fighter pilots in America, the home of the Top Guns. He ruefully wished he had joined the Royal Air Force instead of the Army. At least he wouldn't have been stuck here with these two amateurs.

Trimmler was waiting at the entrance to one of the largest houses on the base. He was dressed in a grey morning suit, a top hat in his left hand. They could tell from his demeanour that he was agitated. He had bounded down the steps from the house and was pulling open Tucker's door before the car had come to a stop.

'You're late!' Trimmler snapped.

'Sorry, sir,' said Tucker, scrambling out of the car. 'We needed a new car. Is your wife coming?'

'Who are these people?' asked Trimmler, ignoring Tucker's question as he pointed at Billie and Adam.

'Your escort.'

'All of you. This is stupid. Three people?'

'Those are my instructions.'

'And you expect me to get in with all of you, with these clothes on?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You want us to arrive looking like gangsters? You think I'm Al Capone, or something? No! I will not go with all of you.'

'My orders are…'

''I don't care about orders. Get me another car. If they want to come, they can follow.'

'That'll make us late for the wedding.'

'Stupid. This is stupid. We must leave them here.'

'I can't do that, sir.'

Trimmler slammed the door shut in frustration, nearly trapping Tucker's hands in the process. The two men stared at each other, a war of nerves and frustration.

'All right!' shouted Trimmler. 'But I sit in the front. The woman…in the back,' he ordered.

'Billie. Please?' said Tucker.

Billie climbed out of the passenger seat and slipped into the back as Trimmler stormed round and angrily sat in the front, slamming the door shut once he was in. Tucker climbed into the driving position and swung the car round and drove back to the entrance.

The trip took an uncomfortable and silent thirty minutes in the busy traffic. The only time anyone spoke was when Trimmler demanded the air conditioning be turned down. Tucker leant across and adjusted the dial accordingly.

'Is that better?' he asked after a few minutes.

Trimmler nodded, his top hat now balanced on his knee.

In the back, Adam and Billie studiously avoided each other, their gazes determined not to meet, their bodies apart and obvious in their language. Billie kept her chin up for the whole journey.

The Torrey Pines Sheraton is one of those low level, sprawling hotels that Californians insist on building so as not to intrude on the environment. It overlooks the Torrey Pines Golf Course, a municipal track that is world class in design and has hosted many great golf classics. The hotel is shaped in a wide W, with the three wings reaching out towards the golf course. Between the outer wings and the centre index of the W there were two outdoor terraced areas which were used for weddings and other similar functions. Although the hotel had only been completed in 1988, it was now seen as one of the fashionable venues for wedding services in the La Jolla area.

The wedding Trimmler was attending was of one of his younger colleague's, a Jewish subordinate who worked on his team.

Tucker pulled the car up outside the canopied lobby entrance. Trimmler was out and on his way into the hotel before the parking attendant had reached them.

'How y'a doing?' He greeted Tucker through the open window. 'Want me to park it?'

'No thanks,' said Tucker. 'I'll do it.'

He swung the car round the centre island and drove to one of the empty spots next to the hotel. When he had parked, the three of them climbed out of the car. They were surrounded by Bentleys, Rolls Royces, Mercedes, BMWs and other expensive, mostly European, cars. Adam realised it was a top society wedding. It would be difficult to keep an eye on Trimmler with all those people milling about.

'Now what?' asked Adam.

'Just stay out of the way and keep an eye on him,' replied the CIA man.

'I need to get in the boot.'

'The what?'

'He means the trunk,' interrupted Billie.

'It's open.'

Adam went to the rear of the car and pushed the button that released the lock and allowed the boot lid to spring open. Tucker and Billie followed him round.

In the bottom there was, wrapped under a blanket, a Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun and a standard 9mm Browning High Power semi automatic. Adam unravelled the blanket as the other two watched.

'Do we have to take those in?' asked a startled Tucker.

'If we're here to protect the guy, yes.'

'Come on…Not the machine gun as well, are…?'

'Don't be daft,' replied Adam curtly. He slipped off his jacket and looked round the car park to make sure he wasn't being observed. Satisfied that all was well, he then reached down and lifted out a shoulder holster and strapped it on. Once he had checked that it fitted snugly, tight enough to stay firm under his left shoulder yet loose enough not to impair his breathing, he took the 9mm Browning and slipped it into the holster. Then he closed the boot lid and put his jacket back on.

'Okay,' he said. 'You'd better make sure the alarm's on. We don't want that little number going MIA, do we?' he went on, indicating the machine gun.

As Tucker turned to switch on the alarm, Adam walked away from them and into the hotel. Billie and the CIA man followed at a distance.

'Lopian — Robbins Wedding on the Golf View Terrace' said the legend on the signboard in the lobby entrance. Underneath it, in bolder red print on a white background shouted the words 'The Torrey Pines Sheraton welcomes all Phil and Janey's wedding guests.'

'Excuse me,' Adam asked one of the receptionists, a pretty redhead with 'Debbie Hanniff — Receptionist' printed on the badge perched above her left breast. 'Debbie?'

'How can I help you?' she smiled back.

'The Golf View Terrace, please?'

'Down there,' she pointed to the right corridor. 'Just keep following the hallway and you'll come to some big glass doors. Opens right up onto the terrace. You here for the Lopian Robbins wedding?'

'Yes. Thank you, Debbie.'

'Have a good day, sir.'

Adam turned and walked down the marble floored hallway with his two companions following. When he reached the big glass doors he found his way barred by an usher in a grey morning suit.

'Hi,' welcomed the usher.

'Hello,' replied Adam, moving towards the open terrace.

'You got your invitation?' asked the usher, stepping forward and blocking Adam's way.

'Not on me.'

'Well, this is a private wedding. Invited guests only.'

'That's good. I just wanted to see how you do these things over here.'

'You from England?'

'Damn accent always gives me away,' Adam joked.

'I'm sorry but it is a private wedding.'

'I appreciate that. But I really would love to watch the wedding. My friends here…' he indicated Billie and Tucker who were now standing behind him. '…they'll tell you I'm from Tatler. A big magazine at home. The biggest. We carry society weddings. Our readers love it. I just wanted to see what it's like over here. You never know, it might even make our pages.'

The usher looked over Adam's shoulder at Tucker, who nodded his agreement. 'Okay. There's some spare seats at the back. And you'd better wear these.' He handed Adam and Tucker two skull caps, satin white yarmulkes with 'Torrey Pines Sheraton' emblazoned across the back of them.

'That's fantastic!' exhuded Adam. 'And maybe I could meet the lucky couple afterwards?'

'I'm sure they'll love to. I tell ya, this is one of La Jolla's biggest.'

Adam could see that most of the guests had arrived, some two hundred of them. The path from the glass doors led down to a large balconied terrace. Rows of white slatted wooden chairs spread out on each side of the path, most of them filled with immaculately suited men and expensively dressed fashionable women. At the end of the path a four poster canopy, the Chuppah, had been erected, the Star of David proudly embroidered on the top. The rabbi and cantor stood next to the Chuppah, talking between themselves as Adam and the two American agents took their seats at the back. By the time Adam had sat down, he had identified where Trimmler sat, half way down on the right hand side of the path. He leant across the other two and told them where the scientist was.

'Wow! An accomplished liar as well,' said Billie sarcastically, referring to his exchange with the usher.

Adam grinned and said nothing, went back to surveying the area and its surrounds. If there was to be an attempt, then it would come from one of the many hotel room balconies that ran the full length of the terrace. There were already many people on these balconies, no doubt hotel guests who had been drawn from their rooms to watch the ceremony below.

The music, piped, surged up as the first pair of ushers and bridesmaids walked down the terrace from the glass doors to the Chuppah. They came in single pairs, the usher on the left, the white short skirted bridesmaid on the right carrying a posy of fresh cut flowers. When the first couple reached the canopy, they split, the usher to his left, the bridesmaid to her right. They waited there for the next couple to walk down the seventy foot long path.

There were ten pairs in all, ten couples dressed identically and separating as they reached the Chuppah. When they had finished, and formed themselves in a gently curved row facing the audience in the way of the Jewish faith where men and women are separated at their place of worship, the close relatives of both families walked down towards the canopy and took their place at the spare seats on the front row.

Then came the groom, escorted by two men, his father and his future father-in-law. They left him at the canopy, next to the Rabbi. Everyone turned expectantly. The bride would soon be making her appearance. Adam watched Trimmler, then kept his vigil. If someone was to strike, it would be when everyone's attention was diverted elsewhere.

He saw nothing to alarm him.

The bride came through the glass doors, accompanied by her mother and future mother-in-law, all three of them carrying lighted candles. She was a plump girl, in her mid thirties. Adam noted the small bump on her stomach, too big for the white wedding dress to hide. He watched them walk down to the groom and the waiting ceremony.

When they reached the canopy, the two elder women went to their seats at the front whilst their respective spouses came forward to escort the bride on her last short journey. As the cantor started to sing 'Mi Adier', they led her round the groom and canopy seven times in the orthodox manner. They completed the last circle at the front of the Chuppah, where the bride joined her husband-to-be in front of the rabbi. The couple held hands as the rabbi recited his blessing over the cup of wine he held in his hand.

The movement was slight, but unusual enough to catch Adam's eye.

It was to his right, up on a third floor balcony at the rear of the hotel.

The closed curtain had moved, not in the haphazard way that one would expect as a result of a sea breeze, but in a deliberate manner, as if someone was holding the curtain edge stiffly so as they could see but not be seen.

It was then he saw the black shiny barrel slide out from the curtain. It was only out for a few seconds before being withdrawn.

By the time Adam had left his seat and was through the big glass doors he had worked out which room the sniper was in. Behind him, surprised by his sudden movement, Billie and Tucker decided to follow him.

The rabbi continued his blessing.

The guests and Heinrich Trimmler sat still and excitedly watched the ceremony unfold.

Adam didn't take the lift, but found the service stairs and climbed them, two at a time. When he had reached the third level he stopped at the steel door and waited. He heard the other two rushing up behind him.

'Quietly!' he shouted down the open stairwell. 'Quietly.'

He heard them slow down as he pulled the Browning 9mm from his shoulder holster. He didn't want their noise warning whoever might be on the other side of that door, any look-out who was in the hallway. When they had reached him, he motioned them to be quiet, then slowly turned the round knob and pushed against the door.

The hallway was empty.

He came along the hallway towards the room he believed the sniper to be in.

'What the hell's going on?' asked Tucker quietly as he followed Adam.

'I saw something. In one of these rooms.'

'What?'

'I don't know. Maybe a rifle barrel.'

'Shit. You sure?'

Adam had stopped outside the room door, his hand-gun ready for any quick response. He listened, and when he was satisfied that there was no movement from inside the room, he tried the handle. It was locked, as he had expected.

'Let me get a passkey,' whispered Tucker behind him.

'No time,' answered Adam as he stepped back and fired the hand-gun at the lock, smashing it from the wood of the door and out of its latch. He lashed at the door with his foot and kicked it open, fell into the room rolling across the soft carpet with the Browning cocked and ready to fire. The room was empty but the balcony glass door was open, the curtain stretched across it and flapping outwards. As Adam came to his feet, a man stepped through the curtain, a long nosed black cylinder in his hand. He was wearing a morning suit and Adam recognised him as the usher who had let them into the wedding.

'He's got a gun,' screamed Billie behind him.

The shriek startled the usher who stepped back out onto the balcony as Adam lunged across the room and dragged him down, ripping the tube from his hands and holding the Browning muzzle to his head.

The usher screamed and started to sob uncontrollably.

The wedding ceremony came to an abrupt end as the rabbi, the couple and all the guests looked up to where the scream had come from.

That was when Adam realised the usher had been holding a long lensed camera, a Nikon F4 with a 300 mm lens, in his hand.

He'd been taking pictures for the family album from the vantage of the balcony.

Shit.

Adam put the gun into his holster and stepped away from the sobbing man.

'It's a fucking camera,' said Phil Tucker as he looked through the curtain.

Adam looked down on the assembled guests, saw them all looking up at him. He shook his head and turned away, stepped through the curtain and back into the darkness of the room.

'A camera. That's all it was.'

'Great trick, tough guy,' said Billie. 'What's next? Take out the groom?'

Behind him, from the other side of the curtain, he heard Tucker trying to calm the hysterical usher. He looked at Billie and grinned. She'd forgotten to keep her chin forward.

'Wimping bloody Californians,' muttered Adam as he walked past Billie and went down to wait for the others in the car park.

Nice one, Marcus. Welcome to the American Dream.

The ride back to the Mirimar Air Base was in equal silence to the one they had made to the wedding. This time Trimmler didn't ask Tucker to turn down the air conditioning.

The police had arrived at the hotel, but Tucker had taken control of the situation and explained they were there on agency business. The wedding had continued, albeit without the usher who had retired to his room in a state of shock, and Trimmler had left immediately after the ceremony.

'I will contact your superiors,' Trimmler barked when he climbed out of the car at the Mirimar Air Base. 'I will not be put in such an embarrassing position again.'

The trio watched him storm off to his temporary quarters before returning to Billie's apartment.

'You'd better stay here,' said Tucker, 'until someone tells me what to do with you.'

'House arrest, eh?' said Adam.

'Look, just cut out the humour. Okay. Damn it, you could've killed that guy.'

'But I didn't.'

'What's that mean?'

'Think about it,' answered Adam and he went to his bedroom.

'But I didn't.' Tucker mimicked Adam. 'The guy talks in riddles,' he slammed at Billie.

'He's just telling you he was always in control.'

'Some fucking control. Jeeze, what a mess. They'll love this at the Agency. Send Tucker out into the big wide world and he shoots up a wedding. That'll look great on my record sheet.'

'It could've been a rifle.'

'It wasn't.'

'But it could've been. And that's what you've got to tell Washington.'

Tucker considered her advice, it made sense. 'Okay. So we support him. But if he blows again…Damn it, he's not stable.'

'He's another breed. Not like us. He's a professional. Just did as he was trained. We're in his office, in his space. We're the amateurs, Phil. And that's a fact.'

Ch. 22

The Deputy Director of Administration read the faxed report that Tucker had personally sent the next morning. Next to him, the DDI, not a man known for detailed study of written matter, sat back in his chair and waited for his colleague to finish. He had already skimmed the report and sensed events were turning to his advantage.

Phil Tucker, was in on the meeting, linked through a conference phone linked to the local office in Southern California, placed at the end of the table. They sensed his nervousness as he waited for the ordeal to begin. Tucker knew someone was going to nail him to the cross.

'Not good,' said the DDA, finally looking up from the typed sheets in front of him.

'Damn right it's not good,' came in the DDI, his patience snapping as he moved in for the kill. 'Who the hell okayed his hardware?'

'I did,' replied the DDA calmly.

'That wasn't very clever, was it?'

'The British wanted their man armed. We had to agree to that.'

'We?'

'The Exec Director and myself.'

'Hell, I should'a been consulted.'

'Bring that up with the Exec Director.'

'Some professional. Shooting up a damn photographer.'

'Nobody fired a shot.'

'But everyone saw him. Jeeze, calling the damn British in.'

'Come on. We have to keep this thing under wraps. We still have a rogue computer out there.' The DDA turned to the intercom phone. 'Phil, have we got any further on that?'

'Not yet.' Tucker had already checked with the two programmers before calling on the conference line. 'There's a consensus that we should put it out to some private specialists. In Silicon Valley.'

'That's great. Bring in the whole world,' snapped the DDI.

'Why?' asked the DDA of Tucker.

'There're people out there we trust,' replied Tucker's metallic voice. 'Good programmers. Some of the best in the world. And they've done confidential work for us before. Government specialists. It won't get out.'

'Okay. But make sure they understand the confidentiality of this one. Otherwise they lose all government contracts. Make sure they understand that.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Set that in motion now. I'll contact you if there's any change.'

'What about Trimmler?'

'Continue as before. Just…uh..tell the Brit to make sure he keeps his hands in his pocket a bit longer before jerking off next time.'

'Yes, sir.' They heard Tucker click off the line.

'Clerks should be pushing pens. Not running field operations as important as this.' The DDI referred to Tucker.

'It's what we decided.'

'We?'

'The Exec Dir…'

'Why are you having these meetings without me there?'

'Don't ask me, ask the Exec.' The DDA knew his colleague wouldn't, nor was he prepared to admit that he waited early each morning for the Exec Director to get in so that he could give him the daily reports personally and ingratiate himself with his superior. It was a simple tactic, but effective as it convinced the other heads of departments that he had a special relationship with the Exec. It was a relationship the Exec also fostered; he had always been a firm believer in partnerships of tension between his subordinates. It helped keep them on their toes and protected his own position.

'Time to push the Brits out,' said the DDI. 'And put our own people in.'

'Can't do that.'

'For Christ's sake, he pulled a gun in public.'

'We'd look stupid. You can't ask for help in the first place, then send him packing because he was trying to protect Trimmler.'

'What about New Orleans?'

'They'll have to go. Including the Brit. Maybe when that's over, maybe then we'll have a clearer idea of what's going on. Maybe then we can send him home.'

'Shit. Nothing's going for us. Nothing.'

The DDA felt a glow of satisfaction. His colleague was right. Nothing was going right for him. But for the DDA, things were certainly looking rosier by the minute.

'Well,' he shrugged. 'We just need time. Things'll come right. They always do in the end.'

Ch. 23

Adam was sitting on the balcony minding his own business when he heard the doorbell ring.

'Billie, it's for you,' he heard Muscle call.

'Coming,' he heard her reply from the kitchen.

A minute later he heard her shouting, screaming obscenities, then slamming the front door.

'What the hell's going on?' he heard Muscle yell.

'That bastard!' she screamed. 'That bastard's served a writ on me. For a fucking divorce and no settlement.'

'What the hell else did you expect of the shit.'

She stormed out onto the balcony waving the legal sheaf in her hand and went to the balustrade, leant over to catch a view of the process server. Muscle came out after her.

Then she saw him.

'You shit,' she screamed over the railings at the bright yellow Bentley Mulsanne parked there, the driver's face grinning up at her. 'Too yellow to do your own dirty work.'

It was Peter. Her husband.

'Get up here, just come up here,' Muscle joined in over her shoulder.

Peter waved, arrogant and mischievous, enjoying her discomfort.

'You said you'd wait,' she continued shrilly. 'That you wouldn't leave me high and dry. You lying shit.'

The process server climbed into the passenger seat as Peter switched on the engine.

'I'll fight you for every cent. You promised me a fair share. Every fucking cent I can get.' Her words were lost as he waved a final indolent farewell and drove out of the car park.

She swung round, wild fury still in her eyes. Then she saw Adam, saw that he had seen her at her weakest moment.

'What're you staring at?' she hissed at him.

'Nothing,' he replied warily. Now was not the time to get involved in a domestic squabble. Over her shoulder, Muscle challenged him, dared him to respond. He saw the car pull into the front out of the corner of his eye. 'I think Tucker's back.'

She turned and saw the Granada pull into the lot. Tucker got out, waved at the group on the balcony, unaware of the drama that had just taken place, and entered the condominium.

'Let him in, Gary,' she told Muscle who left to open the front door. 'Don't laugh at me, mister,' she warned Adam.

'I'm not laughing,' he replied. 'We all have our problems.'

'And I don't need your bullshit.'

'You're not getting it,' he said as he got up from the chair. 'If Tucker wants me, I'll be in my room.'

'Hey.' Her tone suddenly changed. 'Don't go,' she appealed to him. 'I'm sorry. I just don't like…people seeing me with my guard down. Hell, I never expected that from him.'

'How about if I made you a coffee?'

She laughed. 'No. this is still my place. Why don't I make it?'

'Why don't we both make it?'

'Deal.'

He held out his hand and she took it, shaking it in mock welcome.

'Good to see you both on the same side for once,' said Tucker, walking onto the balcony.

'Where's Gary?' Billie said, pulling her hand away from Adam.

'Said he was going to the gym. I told him we had business to discuss.' Tucker pulled up a chair and sat down, Billie joining him at the table. 'Dammed if I can get used to this heat at Christmas. Seems wrong somehow.' He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Then he looked up at Adam, who now leant against the balustrade. 'You have caused big problems,' he stated flatly.

Adam said nothing, just waited for Tucker to continue.

'Even so, we have a task to finish,' Tucker went on. 'Important enough for us to stay together on this thing as a team. I have to say this…because I've been told to…that you're to take it easy on the gunplay.'

'There wasn't any,' replied Adam.

'You know what I mean. Hell, I've done nothing but sort out police and agency people since you pulled that little stunt. Not to mention calming down two hundred wedding guests, the bride and groom, and the whole damn Sheraton management. Shit, there's only the Rabbi and the State of Israel left.' Tucker laughed at his own joke as he saw Adam smile. 'Look, you're on foreign territory, on official business. Just take it easy in future. Okay?'

'The situation was always under control.'

'All right. It was under control. You can even have the last word. This time. But just take it easier next time.'

'I thought I was going to have the last word.'

'Touché,' said Billie.

'Hey. Don't gang up on me, you two.' Tucker shook his head. 'Anyway, we're still on the case, as they say.'

'What next?'

'New Orleans.'

'New Orleans?'

'Louisiana. Trimmler's off to a big convention with Russian and other Eastern scientists.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow.'

'I can't go.'

'Orders.'

'Something's come up. I've got to deal with it.' Billie looked at Adam as she spoke and he knew she referred to the divorce writ that had been served before Tucker arrived.

'It'll have to wait. Job comes first.'

She stood up angrily. 'You'll have to carry on without me for now. I've got calls to make.' She stamped off the balcony, the papers in her hand.

'What was all that about?' asked Tucker.

'Divorce.'

'You're kidding.'

'No. I'd leave her alone for a while. You know what they say. Never come between man and wife.'

'This isn't what I expected. Field operations. Damn it. It's like amateur night out, kindergarten stuff. Some fucking operation. I need to use the phone when she's finished. Ring Jean and tell her what's happening.' Tucker dreaded the call, knew his wife was going to bitch about his trip to New Orleans and his extended stay away from home. Especially with the New Year holiday looming the next day.

From the sitting room they heard Billie switch off the television news programme and go on the phone to her lawyer. It wasn't a news item they were concerned with. It was about Berlin and the riots that had erupted and were now tearing that city apart.

An unimportant matter in the great scheme of world events.

Ch. 24

Grob Mitzer wasn't used to being kept waiting, particularly on New Year's Day.

He was on the second floor, in the sitting area of Suite 217, of the Belleview Hotel on the Kopckesttrasse which runs along the banks of the River Elbe.

Dresden. City of smashed dreams, the recipient of Churchill's last blow at Hitler's Third Reich in 1945 when British bombers virtually razed the city to the ground and wiped out 35,000 civilians in one night. That terrible night became known as Churchill's Revenge.

Dresden. Since the end of the Second World War, the centre of National Socialist activity in the oppressive new world of Russian invasion. The movement built secretly and slowly, a covert political doctrine that was carried through the early days of defeat and occupation, through the new order of communism and the GDR, and into the final freedom of a reunified Germany. It was a word of mouth movement, a repressed dream shared between those who remembered what the Third Reich could have achieved, and they now passed that dream down through the generations of occupied Germany. The dream had been easy to perpetuate and nurture under the Russians. For many, the dream, as submerged as it was, was the gateway to the future.

And when communism was defeated by the simple removal of a concrete wall, National Socialism remained a dirty word, a memory of baby killers and mass murderers. It may have been that to the rest of the world, but to the dreamers it was the path back to greatness, to what Germany should have become. So they kept their brutal secrets, but in their darkness they became organised. They turned on the Poles and Turks and other foreigners who worked in the east, smashed them with their lead pipes and baseball bats, and sent them back where they had come from.

Germany, the Fatherland, for the Germans.

It became a familiar and popular chant during this time of unemployment and listless wandering for an identity. There were many factions, all competing for power. The Deutsche Alternative, led by Frank Hubner, was one of the faces of modern extremism, designer Nazis with well cut clothes and impeccable manners whose slogan was 'racial mixing will be the death of the German people.'

In Hamburg, the National List was headed by another young model German, Christian Worch, who brandishes his copy of Mein Kampf during his rallies and had served four years in jail for terrorist attacks and anti-semitism.

These are just some of leaders who set out to imitate Hitler, not ashamed to hide their beliefs from the public eye at a time when Germany is seen to be faltering.

But there are also those who campaign secretly for a similar future. Businessmen and lawyers and community leaders who are not yet prepared to show their true selves to the world. They are the dreamers who came together when word of mouth was supplanted by fax messages, meetings, big business financial support and a realisation of destiny. All they had to do now was wait for the chaos that would surely come, the very chaos out of which they would one day lead Germany. Just as Adolf Hitler had done before in the 1930's.

Willi Kushmann had been the chosen architect and leader who would take such a secret organisation forward on the day that the National Socialists decided to show their hand. But Willi Kushmann was dead and the council of twelve, of which Mitzer was one, had chosen their new leader.

Richard Frick was, like the late Willi Kushmann, a lawyer from Dresden. He had been, at thirty six, Kushmann's organiser and private secretary, Iago to Kushmann's Othello. The man of steel behind the dreamer.

But Kushmann had been Mitzer's man. Frick wanted his own loyalties and his own programme for the future, was tired of the older men who only had dreams and talked of what had been. But he needed their money and their contacts. They were his credibility. He would play the game for as long as was necessary. He would keep Mitzer and the others on their toes, keep them edgy while he put his plans into place.

Which is why he kept the great industrialist, Grob Mitzer, waiting in the ante-room while he carried on the pretence of having an important meeting which could not be disturbed.

Across the river, in the Theatre Platz which was ringed by the Zwinger, the Hofkirche Cathedral and the Semper Opera, Mitzer could see the tourists milling around. It was a cold day, but clear and bathed in sunshine. A good day to see the sights, a good day to be alive.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Grob,' said Frick from behind him, startling Mitzer. Frick came towards him, his arm half outstretched in the old newsreel familiar fashion, the palm of his hand turned upward.

'Richard,' Mitzer replied, holding his own arm up, but feeling strange with the unfamiliar gesture.

Frick, his welcoming smile topped with a wide blond moustache, walked up to Mitzer, adjusting his arm down to the more familiar handshake. Mitzer returned the greeting. Frick was, as usual, wearing a business suit, a grey woollen outfit that topped off the image of the successful lawyer. Behind him, standing in the doorway, were the now familiar skinheaded Stermabeitalung, the brown shirts who would one day take their rightful place as the storm troopers of the new movement.

'A Happy New Year to you. And hopefully, this will be the start of a momentous year for our movement,' said Frick. Mitzer noticed he didn't apologise for calling a meeting on a public holiday, summoning the industrialist across Germany in his private jet. 'What were you looking at, with so much interest, out there?' asked Frick, walking to the window.

'At The Zwinger and the tourists. It's good to see the crowds again.'

'It is. And that they should come to the Zwinger.' Frick looked across at one of Germany's finest baroque buildings, the seven connected pavilions that are Dresden's most famous landmark. 'It stood through all the bombs. It stood when all else had been burnt to the ground. Our past and our future. A great time, Grob. An historic time.' Frick turned back to his guest. 'Come through into the other room,' he said, taking Mitzer's arm.

The two Stermabeitalung stayed guarding the door that Frick closed. The bedroom had been turned into a small office, a simple table and armchairs the only furniture.

'You know Helmut, of course,' said Frick. 'I have asked him to be present for this meeting. Just in case we need anything actioned.'

Mitzer nodded at Helmut Kragan, the bull necked, rottweiler of a Prussian who was Frick's personal assistant. Kragan smiled back, his grey eyes as dead as the dusty embers of a fire that had long gone out. Mitzer sensed there was a difference about the assistant, but couldn't immediately place it.

'I thought it wiser we meet here,' Frick continued, his German more orthodox than Mitzer's, as is the manner of the East Germans. 'Unfortunately, anonymity is necessary. But maybe not for long.' He signalled Mitzer to sit in one of the armchairs and lowered himself into the one next to his guest. 'I know you didn't vote for me during the leadership campaign. I understand your reason, the need for someone more…' he paused, '…mature. I hope my future actions will give you confidence in my ability.'

'That was yesterday. I pledge you my total support. I will be proud to serve your leadership.'

‘And I shall not let you down. And I shall always come to you for advice when I need it.'

The two men sat in silence for a while, the formalities complete.

'Would you like a drink, or anything?' asked Frick eventually.

Mitzer shook his head.

'You saw the news from Berlin today?' Frick continued.

'Yes.'

'It's good for us. All these television pictures of riot police being attacked by thugs. Scares the hell out of the public, eh?'

'The New Forum people,' spat Kragan, standing behind his leader. Mitzer now realised what was different about Kragan. The man had treated his close cropped mousey hair with blond streaks. He remembered Martin Boorman had once done that to resemble a true blond haired Aryan.

'The New nothing,' snapped back Frick angrily. 'Communists. Zionists. Anarchists. With their Mohican haircuts, their ridiculous dress. Leather jackets and jeans and, what do the British call it, bovver boots. The more they attack the police, the more the people will look for proper law and order.'

'Over 3,000 police.'

'With bulldozers and armoured personnel carriers. Batons and tear gas. Ninety police were injured, you know. And many of those arrested were militants from France and Italy and the Netherlands. They've crossed the old border, the old Wall to bring their radical political agenda into the rest of Germany. One day, this Europe they so desperately want will destroy them. Heh? When Germany says it will not pay for those other Europeans. Then we can blame rising unemployment and a collapse of local and federal authority. Familiar stuff, eh?'

'Just like 1933.'

'Precisely. Chaos followed by order. Then it was the Fuhrer. This time it will be us.' Frick laughed, a high pitched gurgle, excited and girlish. 'You know the old joke. Give a German a rifle and he'll head for France.'

'I hope I can be of service to the party now, before all that happens,' said Mitzer.

Frick stopped laughing. 'You are a cornerstone of that future. A leader of business. A veritable captain of industry.' He played to Mitzer's ego.. Why, the bastard was positively preening himself. 'When the National Socialists came to power in 1933, it was with the support of big business. Successful industry needs an ordered society. That's why they supported us in 1933. And that's why they will, and must, support us now.. And this time, we will not have to use military power to achieve our ends. With the single monetary policy of Europe, with the powers of the Bundesbanke governing the financial institutions of Europe, we can do it all without firing a shot. Even the bloody British will lose their sovereignty. But to do that we must be in government. For that we need chaos.'

'West German businessmen have been used to these groups before. Bader Meinhoff, the Red Brigade. It has been a part of our life for thirty years now. It still continues with Rohwedder and the others.'

'You knew him?'

'He was a friend.' A good friend recollected Mitzer. He remembered the shock he had felt when Detlev Rohwedder, the politician responsible for much of the privatisation of state industries in East Germany had been shot dead at his home in Dusseldorf in 1991.

'Yes. The Reds.' Frick wasted no opportunity in reminding Mitzer that the Red Army Faction had claimed responsibility for the attack. 'Your colleagues must be shown that only we can lead them out of this mess. That we are the only alternative to anarchy and disorder. That is our joint destiny. And I count on you, my dear Grob, to show them the way to our door. To their salvation. To Germany's salvation.'

The force of the man engulfed Mitzer. In that brief moment he saw the power and charisma that Willi Kushmann never had. It was a time for radical action, and Frick had the magnetism that such a leadership would need.

'I…you have my loyalty…all my efforts.' Mitzer stated, not comfortable in calling Frick by his first name any longer. The leader of the party deserved more respect.

'No more than I expected, Grob. And I'll give you the means with which to achieve our aims. I won't concern you with those plans at this stage. But, when the time is right, they will give you all the ammunition you need to convince your colleagues. In the meantime, we must let the communists and Zionists fight our cause for us. Shit to them all. Bloody Croatians and Serbs and Rumanians, even the Russians are coming across our borders looking for jobs. Our jobs. Taken away from our people.' The hatred built in his tone. 'Even the Jews are claiming their property back in what was East Germany. The shits. They bled us dry before 1930 and now they want to do it again. Our people will love that. Their homes, their land, was taken from them by the communists, and now, when they have learnt to work their own property again, the Jews are using the courts, the German courts, to take back that property. Why? Because they say it was stolen from them before the War. Stolen from them? They are the thieves of history. How the fuck can you steal from a thief?'

Frick fell back in his chair, his anger suddenly released from his body. Mitzer watched him, saw his leader sit still while he gathered himself.

'We must never let them back,' said Frick quietly. 'Never.' He suddenly stood up. 'Time for you to go. We both have work to do.'

Mitzer levered himself out of the armchair and followed Frick to the door. Frick swung round and faced the industrialist.

'One more thing. The Lucy Ghosts.'

'That's going according to plan,' said Mitzer.

'Yes. But impractical. Wasted effort.'

'They're key people.'

'Past people.'

'With vital knowledge.'

'Twenty years ago. Not now.'

'We promised that…'

'We don't have the resources. We must concentrate our efforts here, in the Fatherland.'

'It'll be impossible to stop it.'

'I leave it in your hands. Deal with. It has to stop.'

'It's their money that's made all this possible.' Mitzer regretted the words as he spoke them. He saw the fury in Frick's eyes. He changed tack quickly. 'There have been accidents.'

'Accidents?'

'Deaths.'

'What do you expect? They're old now.'

'Violent deaths. Murdered. Friends who wanted to come home.'

'Friends. No. People who were forcing us to bring them home before we were ready.'

The horror of Frick's words stunned Mitzer.

''Not us, Grob. We were not responsible,' Kragan interjected quickly.

'I'm sorry. It has been a great shock. Especially poor Willi's death.'

'What the Fuhrer meant was that we have other priorities. If we don't stamp our authority soon, one of the other parties will. They are all scrabbling for power. What we have planned will ensure we dominate German politics in the future. We can have our thousand year Reich. But we must do it on our terms.'

'How many of the old guard have died?' asked Frick, changing the subject.

'Nearly twenty.'

'That many?'

Mitzer nodded. 'Unfortunately, three of them were agents. Two for the Americans and one for the KGB.'

'So?'

'It would be a tragedy if the truth was to get out.'

It won’t,’ said Kragan. ‘The Americans and Russians don’t understand the knew game. They have no idea what to look for. No, as the Fuhrer says, we need to concentrate on more important matters. You must talk to them, tell them to be patient.'

Mitzer knew there was no redress. 'I'll arrange things.'

'I know you will,' said Frick. 'Remember, The Lucy Ghosts died with Boorman. There are no more ghosts, Grob. Only the memories of old men. Revolution requires a society of extremes. It's there for us, now, as it was in 1933.'

Frick opened the door into the ante room and signaled the Stermabeitalung to escort Mitzer from the room.

'Thank you for your time. Remember, out of chaos comes order. But to achieve order, we must have chaos. Goodbye, my old friend.' Frick bade Mitzer farewell. He didn't shake his hand, simply gave him the Nazi salute.

Before Mitzer could return it, Frick had closed the door and left him with the two Stermabeitalung, who escorted him out of the room and into the corridor.

The interview was over.

Nobody said Happy New Year.

The promise was broken and Mitzer the envoy sent to break it.

Inside the suite, Kragan watched Frick looking out of the window.

He knew better than to interrupt. His leader's sudden change in mood was well known.

'He must never find out.' Frick said at last. 'He'd be a dangerous enemy.'

'Only a handful of our people know.'

'In Cannes. He wasn't one of ours.'

'We hired him. So nobody could trace it back to…'

'I know why. But I don't want any black bastards, or any foreigners, used again. From now on we only use our own Stermabeitalung.'

'It could lay us open to risk.'

'Why? Our people are the best. They wouldn't have made a mistake. Not like the African.'

'He panicked.'

'Precisely. If he hadn't, if he'd carried out his orders, it wouldn't just be Willi we'd be mourning.'

'If the CIA and KGB are involved…'

'They won't find anything. Not until it's too late.'

I suggest we should hold back on any more action on the Lucy Ghosts.'

'It's not my fault. Bastards shouldn't have been pushing to come back. The last thing we want…Shit to the Lucy Ghosts. I will not live in the past. They've served their purpose. Germany needs us to look to the future.'

Ch. 25

'Is this all that was saved?' Alexei Rostov asked the Head of Archives as they entered the large meeting room where the remains of the fire from the fourth floor had been moved.

'Yes, sir. And it's more than half the information we had filed.'

Rostov walked along the long line of charred and scorched filing cabinets, the bitter smell of burning lingering heavily in the room.

'Many of the filing cabinets were wooden,' continued the man from Archives. 'We lost all those. But the metals one, like these, resisted the heat for much longer. We saved most. The emergency fire crew arrived quickly. Thank God.' The man caught his breath. God was still a foreign agent as far as the KGB were concerned. He continued quickly. 'Without all these drills we've been having, we could've lost everything.'

'And the transfer onto computer?' Rostov smiled and blithely ignored the religious comment.

'Back on schedule. I don't think we've lost anything of great importance.'

Rostov stopped along one of the rows and wiped the soot away from the front of a cabinet, revealing the insignia that was the symbol of the Nazi party, the eagle straddled over the swastika.

'What's this?' asked Rostov.

'War booty. After the war, we confiscated…,' Rostov grinned at the explanation for stealing. '…as many useful items as we could from the Germans. Filing cabinets, typewriters…'

'Tanks, rockets, scientists. I know,' Rostov joked. 'I hope they never present us with an inventory of all that was taken and demand them back. What caused the fire?'

'We think it was deliberate.'

'We?'

'The Head of Administration and myself. And the chief of internal security who came to us in the first place. Nobody else is involved yet.'

'Explain.'

'The room where the fire took place was rarely visited. But, due to the sensitive nature of some of the archives, those from the end of the War until 1956 dealing with counter-intelligence information, the area was sealed off with high security locks and alarms. All the keys and alarm codes were kept in a safe in my office. There were also duplicates kept securely in the Administration Section. When the fire was discovered, fortunately by chance when a cypher clerk had to visit a nearby room for some information, our people reacted quickly in gaining access to the room and quelling the fire. Afterwards, when things returned to normal, they attempted to determine what the cause was. It was an electric heater, of the open kind with filament bars running across, which had shorted and caught fire.'

'Why is that suspicious?'

'Because it wasn't a room we normally heated, certainly not with a single electric fire.'

'Had someone been working there, wanted to keep warm?'

'Nobody has asked for a key to that room for over two months.'

‘Sabotage?’

'The consensus is that someone left the fire on and draped a wet cloth over it. That would have given them time to re-lock the doors, set the alarms and leave the area before the cloth caught fire. It was an old method we used to…'

'I know the methods we used,' growled Rostov. 'But even that would have only given whoever it was ten minutes at the most. Did the cypher clerk see or hear anything unusual?'

'No.'

'Is he above suspicion?'

'She, sir. We think so. She's an old lady, in her sixties. Due to retire soon. She was an intelligence officer at the end of the war, a language expert who went with our troops into Germany. Was part of our occupation until 1975. Anyway, if she had started the fire, then she would have let it burn, not reported it before it got going.'

'Investigate her. The cabinets near the heater. I presume they were the ones that were destroyed. Do we know what was in them?'

'Some were totally destroyed. But others, of German manufacture, were designed to be fireproof. We managed to salvage most of their contents. They're at the back, over here, sir.'

He led Rostov to the rear of the room, where were some twenty scorched metal cabinets had been gathered.

'Much of the contents are singed, sir. The flames got through the metal joints and hinges. And of course, the water and fire spray got everywhere. Ruined most of it.'

'I need a list of all those documents. And what they referred to.'

'It's being prepared now.'

'How long?'

'A week, sir.'

'Too long.'

'A lot of the paper is stuck together. We have to let them dry naturally, we can't force that process.'

'Then get me an index of what you have already identified. Within the hour.'

As Rostov returned to his office, an Aeroflot Ilyushin 62M with four Soloviev D 30KU jet engines strapped to the rear fuselage took off from Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport.

On board were a group of Russian space scientists, some forty of them. They would change planes at Kennedy to an American Airlines Boeing 757 which would transport them to the first joint manned space conference between the USA and the USSR.

The final destination of the Boeing was New Orleans.

Ch. 26

The DDA went through the list that had just been placed in front of him, an index of the files that had been contaminated by the computer virus.

The list, ninety three pages in all, gave little away. It was no more than a list of single line headings that related to events and personnel that the counter-intelligence agencies had been involved in in the European theatre from 1945 to 1958. There were one hundred and twenty lines to the page, over eleven thousand subjects to choose from. Each heading could have between one hundred and five thousand files dealing with that subject. That meant there were between thirty and forty million single items on that segment of the computer being systematically wiped out every time someone switched on the machine.

He put the list down. He'd been through the list four times in the last few days with no idea of what he was looking for.

It was time to open up the game.

He decided not to tell the DDI. He'd object anyway.

He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to get him Phil Nowak on the phone.

'I want to open up to the Russians,' he told Nowak. 'How far will they go?'

'I think they want this resolved as much as we do.'

'Okay, I'm convinced that there is a direct link between the problem on the computers and this attack on our asset base. The fact that Russian agents are also getting hit means we're on the same side. Unless they're pulling a fast one on us.'

'I can't see what they'd gain.'

'Neither can I. I have a list here. Headings of the various files that have been contaminated on the computer. I think we should show them that list.' He heard Nowak draw his breath. 'I know, but I don't think we've an alternative. I would like that list to go through you and your contact. There may just be something that is common to us both, something we can't see without the other half of the puzzle.'

'Is this cleared with the Agency?' Nowak meant the Executive Director.

'Yes.' The DDA didn't add that the Exec had told him he was on his own on this one. But then, if it produced the goods, the DDA wouldn’t give a damn.

'Okay. I'll arrange that.'

'I'll get it sent over. Tell your man, Sorge, what you're going to show him. Give him time to contact Moscow and see if they've got anything to share with us. I want to see how open they are before we're committed.'

'I'll get on to it now.'

The phone went dead and the DDA put his own receiver down, gently placing it on the cradle. Before he had removed his hand it rang sharply. He picked it up once again.

'Yes,' he said.

'Any news?' asked the DDI.

'Nothing,' he lied.

'Where's Dirty Harry?' It was his nickname for the Englishman.

'About to leave for New Orleans.'

'Call me if anything breaks.'

'Of course.'

He put the phone down again. He picked up the list and flicked through the pages.

The answer was in the computer. He suddenly regretted sending Tucker to look after Trimmler. Tucker was a computer man, would have the nose to dig into this thing and get an answer. But it was too late now. What they needed now was a sliver of luck.

Maybe the Russians would provide that.

Or maybe they could just blow the whole thing up in his face.

The phone rang again. It was the Executive Director.

'You better come on up,' said his superior's voice. 'We've got to discuss the President's trip. The one to Berlin.'