THE APOCALYPSE WATCH [139-011-4.0]

By: ROBERT LUDLUM

Synopsis:

Neo Nazis and intelligence spooks populate this thriller from robert
Ludlum.


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TM APOCALYTSE WATCH

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Bantam hardcover edition published June 199S International edition /
February 1996 Bantam paperback edition / May 1996 All rights
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"Copyright (c) 1995 by Robert Ludlum.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-1860

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A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I've rarely written a dedication longer than two or three lines.  This
current one is different, the reason self-evident.

To my lovely and compassionate bride, Mary, of forty-plus years;

and our children, Michael, Jonathan, and Glynis, who displayed
strength, determination, and unfailing good humor (a mainstay of our
family) throughout everything.  They could not have been finer, nor
could I ever express my love and gratitude sufficiently.

"Your father's off the operating table and on the recovery floor."

"Who's going to pick him up?"

To the brilliant cardiologist Jeffrey Bender, M.D."  and the superb
cardiothoracic surgeon Dr.  John Elefteriades, as well as the surgical
crew and all those in the CT I.C.U of Yale-New Haven Hospital, whose
skills and concern passe th all understanding.  (Although it could be
argued that I was a glorious patient-unfortunately, not very
convincingly.)

To our nephew, Dr.  Kenneth M. Kearns, also an extraordinary surgeon,
who puts up with his less than saintly uncle with a tolerance known
only to martyrs.  And, Ken, thanks for the "Listerine."  And to brother
Donald Kearns, Ph.D.-Nuclear Medicine.

(How did I ever marry into such an accomplished family?) Thanks, Don,
for your daily calls and visits.  And to their medical associates
Doctors William Preskenis and David "the Duke" Grls@ of the pulmonary
team.  I hear you terrific guys, and I'm doing my damnedest to
behave.

To our cousins I. C. "Izzy" Ryducha and his wife, Janet, who were
always there when we needed them.

To Doctors Charles Augenbraun and Robert Greene of the Emergency Clinic
at Norwalk Hospital, Connecticut, and all those wonderful people who
made a pretty sick stranger feel as though he might see another
sunrise.  No mean feat.

Lastly, despite all efforts to keep the event under wraps, to those
scores of people, friends, and those I've never met but whom I
certainly consider friends, thanks for all the cards and notes
expressing your good wishes.  They were gratefully received and avidly
read.

Now, let's lighten up; there's always something funny even in the worst
of times.  During a perfectly normal sponge bath a day or so after
surgery, a kindly nurse turned me over and with great dignity, as well
as a glint in her eye, said: "Not to worry, Mr.  L."  I'll still
respect you in the morning."

Amen.  And to all once again, my deep thanks.  I'm ready to run in a
marathon.

To any sane person there has always been an unfathomable mystery about
the systematic evil the Nazi regime perpetrated.
Like a moral black hole, it seems to defy the laws of nature while
being part of that nature.

DAVID AN SEN

Newsweek, December 20, 1993

THE APOCALYPSE WATCH

PROLOGUE

The Alpine pass, high in the Austrian Hausruck, was swept by the winter
snow and assaulted by the cold Tnorth winds, while far below, a valley
sprouted crocuses and the jonquils of early spring.

This particular pass was neither a border checkpoint nor a transfer
post from one part of the mountain range to another.  In fact, it was
not on any map issued for public scrutiny.

There was a thick, sturdy bridge, barely wide enough for a single
vehicle, that spanned a seventy-foot gorge several hundred feet above a
rushing offshoot of the Salzach River.  Once crossed, and passing
through a tree-notched maze, there was a -hidden road cut out of the
mountain forest, a steep, twisting road that descended well over seven
thousand feet to the isolated valley where the crocuses and the
jonquils grew.  The much warmer flatland was dotted with green fields
and greener trees .. . and a complex of small buildings, the roofs
camouflaged by slashing diagonals of painted earth colors, undetectable
from the skies, merely a part of the mountainous,terrain.  It was the
headquarters of Die Briiderschaft der Wacht, The Brotherhood of the
Watch, the progenitors of Germany's Fourth Reich.

The two figures walking across the bridge were dressed in heavy parkas,
fur hats, and thick alpine boots; each turned his face away from the
blasts of wind and snow that buffeted him.

Unsteadily, they reached the other side and the traveler in front
spoke.

"That's not abridge I'd care to cross too often," said the American,
slapping the snow off his clothing and removing his gloves to massage
his face.

"But you will have to on your return, Herr Lassiter,"

countered the late-middle-aged German, smiling broadly under the
protection of a tree, as he, too, brushed off the snow.

"Not to be annoyed, mein Herr.  Before you know it, you will be where
the air is warm and there are actually flowers.  At this altitude it is
still winter, below it is springtime..  .. Come, our transportation has
arrived.  Follow me!"

There was the sound of a gunning engine in the distance; the two men,
Lassiter behind, walked rapidly, circuitously, through the trees to a
small clearing, where there stood a jeep-like vehicle, only much larger
and heavier, with balloon tires of very thick rubber, deeply treaded.

"That's some car," said the American.

"You should be proud, it is amerikanisch!  Built to our specifications
in your state of Michigan."

"What happened to Mercedes?"

"Too close, too dangerous," replied the German.

"If you care to build a hidden fortress among your own, you don't
employ the resources of your own.  What you will see shortly is the
combined efforts of numerous nations their more avaricious businessmen,
I grant you, merchants who will conceal clients and deliveries for
excessive profits Of course once the deliveries are made, the profits
become a loaded gun; the deliveries must continue, perhaps with more
esoteric merchandise.  It is the way of the world."

'41 bank on it," said Lassiter, smiling while he removed his fur hat to
relieve the hairline sweat.  He was a shade under six feet, a man of
middle years, his age attested to by streaks of gray at his temples and
crow's-feet at the edges of his deep-set eyes; the face itself was
narrow, sharp-featured.  He started toward the vehicle, several steps
behind his companion.  However, what neither his companion nor the
driver of the outsize vehicle saw was that he kept reaching into his
pocket, subtly withdrawing his hand and dropping metal pellets into the
snow-swept grass.  He had been doing so for the past hour, since they
had stepped out of a truck on an alpine road between two mountain
villages.  Each pellet had been subjected to radiation easily picked up
by handheld scanners.

At the point where the truck had stopped, he had removed an electronic
transponder from his belt, and feigning a fall, had shoved it between
two rocks.  The trail was now clear; the honing device of those
following would reach the top of its dial at that spot, accompanied by
sharp, piercing beeps.

For the man called Lassiter was in a high-risk profession.  He was a
multilingual deep-cover agent for American intelligence, and his name
was Harry Latham.  In the sacrosanct chambers of the Agency, his code
name was Sting.

The journey down into the valley mesmerized Latham.  He had climbed a
few mountains with his father and his younger brother, but they were
minor, undramatic New England peaks, nothing like this.  Here, as their
steep descent progressed, there was change, obvious change--different
colors, different smells, warmer breezes.

Sitting alone in the backseat of the large open truck, he emptied his
pocket of every hot pellet, preparing himself for the thorough search
he anticipated; he was clean.  He was also exhilarated, his excitement
under control from years of experience, but his mind was on fire.  It
was there!  He had found it!  Yet, as they reached ground level, even
Harry Latham was astonished at what he had really found.

The roughly three square miles of valley flatland was in reality a
military base, superbly camouflaged.  The roofs of the various one-story
structures were painted to blend in with the surroundings, and whole
sections of the fields were beneath a latticework of ropes fifteen feet
high, the open spaces between the ropes and poles filled with stretched,
translucent green screening--corridors leading from one area to another.
Gray motorcycles with sidecars sped through these concealed "alleyways,"
the drivers and their passengers in uniform, while groups of men and
women could be seen in training exercises, both physical and apparently
academic_ lecturers stood before black-boards in front of serrated ranks
of students.  Those performing gymnastics and hand-to-hand combat were
in minimal clothing-briefs and halters; those being lectured were in
forest-green fatigues.  What struck Harry Latham was the sense of
constant movement.  There was an in tensity about the valley that was
frightening, but then, so was the Briiderschaft, and this was its womb.

"It is spectacular, night wahr, Herr Lassiter?"  shouted the middleaged
German beside the driver as they reached the bottom road and entered a
corridor of roofed rope and green screening.

"Unglaublich," agreed the American.

"Thantastiscb!"

"I forget, you speak our language fluently."

"My heart is here.  It always has been."

"Natzirlicb, denn wi@ sind im Recht."

"Mehr als das, wir sind die Wabrbeit.  Hitler spoke the truths of all
truth."

"Yes, yes, of course," said the German, smiling with neutral eyes at
Alexander Lassiter, born Harry Latham of Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

"We'll go directly to the OberbefeWsbaber.  The Kommandant is eager to
meet you:)

Thirty-two months of grueling serpentine work were about to bear fruit,
thought Latham.  Nearly three years of building a life, living a life
that was not his, were about to come to an end.  The incessant,
maddening, exhausting travels throughout Europe and the Middle East,
synchronized down to hours, even minutes, so he would be at a specific
place at a given time, where others could swear on their lives that
they had seen him.  And the scum of the world he had dealt with-arms
merchants without conscience, whose extraordinary profits were measured
by super tankers of blood; drug lords, killing and crippling
generations of children everywhere;

compromised politicians, even statesmen, who bent and subverted laws
for the benefit of the manipulators-it was all finished.  There would
be no more frenzied funneling of gargantuan sums of money through
laundered Swiss accounts, secret numbers, and spectrograph signatures,
all part of the deadly games of international terrorism.  Harry
Latham's personal nightmare, as vital as it was, was over.

"We are here, Herr Lassiter," said Latham's German companion as the
mountain vehicle pulled up to a barrack door under the roped green
screening high above.

"It is much warmer now, much more pleasant, nicbt wabr?"

"It certainly is," answered the deep-cover intelligence officer,
stepping down from the rear seat.

"I'm actually sweating under these clothes."

"We'll take the outerwear off inside and have yours dried for your
return."

"I'd appreciate it.  I must be back in Munich by tonight."

"Yes, we understand.  Come, the Kommandant."  As the two men approached
the heavy black wooden door with the scarlet swastika emblazoned in the
center, there was a whooshing sound in the air.

Above, through the translucent green screening, the large white wings
of a glider swooped in descending circles into the valley.

"Another wonder, Herr Lassiter?  It is released from its mother
aircraft at an altitude of roughly thirteen hundred feet.  Natfirlich,
the pilot must be extremely well trained, for the winds are dangerous,
so unpredictable.  It is used only in emergencies."

"I can see how it comes down.  How does it get up?"

"The same winds, mein Herr, with the assistance of disposable booster
rockets.  In the thirties, we Germans developed the most advanced
glider aircraft."

"Why not use a conventional small plane?"

"Too easily monitored.  A glider can be pulled up from a field, a clear
pasture.  A plane must be fueled, be serviced, have maintenance, and
frequently, even a flight plan."

"Thantastisch," repeated the American.

"And-of course-the glider has few or no metal parts.  Plastic and sized
cloth are difficult for radar grids to pick up."

"Difficult," agreed the new-age Nazi.

"Not completely impossible, but extremely difficult."

"Amazing," said Herr Lassiter as his companion opened the door of the
valley's headquarters.

"You are all to be congratulated.  Your isolation is matched by your
security.  Superb!"  Feigning a casualness he did not feel, Latham
looked around the large room.

There was a profusion of sophisticated computerized equipment, banks of
consoles against each wall, starchy-uniformed operators in front of
each, seemingly an equal mix of men and women.... Men and
women-something was odd, at least not normal.

What was it?  And then he knew; to an individual, the operators were
young, generally in their twenties, mostly blond or light-haired, with
clear, suntanned skin.  As a group they were inordinately attractive,
like models corralled by an advertising agency to sit in front of a
client's computer products, conveying the message that potential
customers, too, would look like this if they bought the merchandise.

"Each is an expert, Mr.  Lassiter," said an unfamiliar, monotonic voice
behind Latham.  The American turned abruptly.  The newcomer was a man
about his own age, dressed in camouflage fatigues and wearing a
Wehrmacht officer's cap; he had silently emerged from an open doorway
on the left.

"General Ulrich von Schnabe, your enthusiastic host, mein Herr," he
continued, offering his hand.

"We meet a legend in his own time.  Such a privilege!"

"You're far too generous, General.  I'm merely an international
businessman, but one with definite ideological persuasions, if you
like."

"No doubt reached by years of international observation?"

"You could say that, and not be in error.  They claim that Africa was
the first continent, yet, while others have developed over several
thousand years, Afrika remains the Dark Continent, the black continent.
The northern shores are now havens for equally inferior people."

"Well said, Mr.  Lassiter.  Yet you've made millions, some say
billions, servicing the, dark and darker skins."

"Why not?  What better satisfaction can a man like me have than by
helping them slaughter each other?"

"Wunderbar!  Beautifully and perceptively stated..  .. You were
studying our group here, I watched you.  You can see for yourself that
these, every one, are of Aryan blood.  Pure Aryan blood.  As are those
everywhere in our valley.  Each has been carefully selected, their
bloodlines traced, their commitment absolute."

"The dream of the Lebensborn," said the American quietly,
reverentially.

"The breeding farms-estates actu- 7 ally, if I'm not mistaken, where
the finest SS officers were bred to strong Teutonic women-"

"Eichmann had studies done.  It was determined that the northern
Germanic female had not only the finest bone structure in Europe and
extraordinary strength, but a marked subservience to the male,"
interrupted the general.

"The true superior race," concluded Lassiter admiringly.

"Would that the dream had come true."

"In large measure it has," said Von Schnabe quietly.

"We believe that a great many here, if not a majority, are the children
of those children.  We stole lists from the Red Cross in Geneva, and
spent years tracing down each family where the Lebensbom infants had
been sent.  These, and others we shall recruit throughout Europe, are
the Sonnenkinder, the Children of the Sun.  The inheritors of the
Reich!"

"It's incredible."

"We're reaching out everywhere, and everywhere those selected respond
to us, for the circumstances are the same.  just as in the twenties,
when the stranglehold of the Versailles and Locarno,treaties led to the
economic collapse of the Weimar Republic and the influx of undesirables
throughout Germany, so has the collapse of the Berlin Wall led to
chaos.  We are a nation in conflagration, the lowborn non-Aryans
crossing our borders in unlimited numbers, taking our jobs, polluting
our morals, making whores of our women because where they come from
it's perfectly acceptable.  It's totally unacceptable and it must stop!
You agree, of course."

"Why else would I be here, General?  I have funneled millions into your
needs through the banks in Algiers by way of Marseilles.

My code has been Frere-Brzider-I trust it is familiar to you."

"Which is why I embrace you with all my heart, as does the entire
Brfiderschaft."

"So now let's conclude .  my final gift, General, final, for you will
never need me again..  ..

Forty-six cruise missiles appropriated from
Saddam Hussein's arsenal, buried by his officer corps, who felt he
would not survive.  Their warheads are capable of carrying massive
explosives as well as chemical payloads-gases that can immobilize whole
areas of cities.  These are included, of course, along with the
launchers.

I paid twenty-five million, American, for them.  Pay me, what you can,
and if it is less, I will accept my loss with honor."

"You are, indeed, a man of great honor, mein Herr."

Suddenly the front door opened and a man in pure white coveralls walked
into the room.  He glanced around, saw Von Schnabe, and marched
directly toward him, handing the general a sealed manila envelope.

"This is it," the man said in German.

"Danke," replied Von Schnabe, opening the envelope and extracting a
small plastic pouch.

"You are a fine Scbauspieter-a good impersonator-Herr Lassiter, but I
believe you lost something.

Our pilot just brought it to me."  The general shook the contents of
the plastic bag into his hand.  It was the transponder Harry Latham had
shoved between the rocks of a mountain road thousands of feet above the
valley.  The hunt was finished.  Harry swiftly raised his hand to his
right ear.

"Stop him!"  shouted Von Schnabe as the pilot grabbed Latham's arm,
yanking it.  back into a hammerlock.

"There'll be no cyanide for you, Harry Latham of Stockbridge,
Massachusetts, U.S.A. We have other plans for you, brilliant plans."

The early sun was blinding, causing the old man crawling through the
wild brush to blink repeatedly as he wiped his eyes with the back of
his trembling right hand.  He had reached the edge of the small
promontory on top of the hill, the "high ground," as they called it
years ago-years burned into his memory.  The grassy point overlooked an
elegant country estate in the Loire Valley.  A flagstone terrace was no
more than three hundred meters below, with a brick path bordered by
flowers leading to it.  Gripped in the old man's left hand, the
shoulder strap taut, was a powerful rifle, its sight calibrated for the
precise distance.  The weapon was ready to fire.  Soon his target-a man
older than himself-would appear in the telescopic crosshairs.  The
monster would be taking.  his morning stroll to the terrace, dressed in
his flowing morning robe' his reward his morning coffee laced with the
finest brandy, a reward he would never reach on this particular
morning.  Instead, he would die, collapsing among the flowers, an
appropriate irony: the death of consummate evil among surrounding
beauty.

Jean-Pierre Jodelle, seventy-eight years of age and once a fierce
provisional leader of the Resistance, had waited fifty years to fulfill
a promise, a commitment, he had made to himself and to his God.

He had failed with the lawyers and in the sacrosanct court chambers;
no, not failed, instead, been insulted by them, scorned by all of them,
and told to take his contemptible fantasies to a cell in a lunatic
asylum, where he belonged!  The great General Monluc was a true hero of
France, a close associate of le grand Charles Andre de Gaulle, that
most illustrious of all soldier, statesmen who had kept in constant
touch with

Monluc throughout the war over the underground radio frequencies
despite the prospect of torture and a firing squad should Monluc be
exposed.

It was all merde!  Monluc was a turncoat, a coward, and a traitor!

He gave lip service to the arrogant De Gaulle, fed him insignificant
intelligence, and lined his own pockets with Nazi gold and art objects
worth millions.  And then in the aftermath, le grand Charles, in
euphoric adulation, had pronounced Monluc un bel amide guerre, a man to
be honored.  It was no less than a command for all France.

Merde!  How little De Gaulle knew!  Monluc had ordered the execution of
Jodelle's wife and his first son, a child of five.  A second son, an
infant of six months, was spared, perhaps by the warped rationality of
the Wehrmacht officer who said, "He's not a Jew, maybe someone will
find him."

Someone did.  A fellow Resistance fighter, an actor from the Comedie
Franqaise.  He found the screaming baby amid the rubble of the
shattered house on the outskirts of Barbizon, where he had come for a
secret meeting the following morning.  The actor had brought the child
home to his wife, a celebrated actress whom the Germans adored their
affection not returned, for her performances were dictated, not offered
voluntarily.  And when the war ended, Jodelle was a skeleton of his
former self, physically unrecognizable and mentally beyond repair, and
he knew it.  Three years in a concentration camp, piling the bodies of
gassed Jews, Gypsies, and "undesirables," had reduced him to near
idiocy, with neck tics, erratic, blinking, spasms of throated cries,
and all that went with severe psychiatric damage.  He never revealed
himself to his surviving son or the "parents" who had reared him.
Instead, wandering through the bowels of Paris and changing his name
frequently, Jodelle observed from a distance as the child grew into
manhood and became one of the most popular actors in France.

That distance, that unendurable pain, had been caused by Monluc the
monster, who was now entering the circle of Jodelle's telescopic sight.
Only seconds now, and his commitment to God would be fulfilled.

Suddenly there was a terrible crack in the air and Jodelle's back was
on fire, causing him to drop the rifle.  He spun around, stunned to see
two men in shirtsleeves, one with a bullwhip, looking down at him.

"It would be a pleasure to kill you, you sick old idiot, but your
disappearance would only lead to complications," said the man with the
whip.

"You have a wine soaked mouth that never stops chattering craziness.
It's better that you go back to Paris and rejoin your army of drunken
vagrants.  Get out of here, or die!"

"How .. . ?  How did you know .. .

"You're a mental case, Jodelle, or whatever name you're using this
month," said the guard beside the whip master.

"Youthink we haven't spotted you these last two days, breaking the
foliage as you came to this very accessible place with your rifle?  You
were far better in the old days, I'm told."

"Then kill me, you-sons of bitches!  I'd rather die here, knowing I was
so close, than go on living!"

"Oh, no, the general wouldn't approve," added the whipper.

"You could have told others what you intended to do, and we don't want
people looking for you or your corpse on this property.  You're insane,
Jodelle, everyone knows that.  The courts made it clear."

"They're corrupt!  "

"You're paranoid."

"I know what I know!"

"You're also a drunk, well documented by a dozen cafes on the Rive
Gauche that've thrown you out.  Drink yourself into hell, Jodelle, but
get out of here before I send you there now.  Get up!

Run as fast as those spindly legs will carry you!"

The curtain rang down on the final scene of the play, a French
translation of Shakespeare's Coriolanus, revived by Jean-Pierre
Villier, the fifty-year-old actor who was the reigning king of the
Paris stage and the French screen as well as a nominee for an American
Academy Award as a result of his first film in the United States.  The
curtain rose and fell and rose again as the large, broad-shouldered
Villier acknowledged his audience by smiling and clapping his hands at
their acceptance.

It was all about to erupt into madness.

From the rear of the theater an old man in torn, shabby clothes lurched
down the center aisle, screaming at the top of his coarse voice.
Suddenly he pulled a rifle out of his loose trousers, held by
suspenders, causing those in the audience who saw him to panic, the
panic instantly spreading throughout the succeeding rows of seats as
men pushed women below the line of fire, the vocal chaos reverberating
off the walls of the theater.  Villier moved quickly, shoving back the
few actors and members of the technical crew who had come out
onstage.

"An angry critic I can accept, monsieur!"  he roared, confronting the
deranged old man approaching the stage in a familiar voice that could
command any crowd.

"But this is insane!  Put down your weapon and we will talk!"

"There is no talk left in me, my son!  My only son!  I have failed you
and your mother.  I'm useless, a nothing!  I only want you to know that
I tried..  .. I love you, my only son, and I tried, but I failed!"

With those words the old man spun his rifle around, the barrel in his
mouth, his right hand surging for the trigger.  He reached it and blew
the back of' his head apart, blood and sinew spraying over all who were
near him.

"Who the hell was he?"  cried a shaken Jean-Pierre Villier at his
dressing-room table, his parents at his side.

"He said such crazy things, then killed himself.  Why?"

The elder Villiers, now in their late seventies, looked at each other;
both nodded.

"We must talk," said Catherine Villier as she massaged the aching neck
of the man she had raised as her son.

"Perhaps with your wife too."

"That's not necessary," interrupted the father.

"He can handle that if he thinks he should."

"You're right, my husband.  It is his decision."

"What are you both talking about?"

"We have kept many things from you, my son, things that in the early
years might have harmed you-"

"Harmed me?"

"Through no fault of yours, Jean-Pierre.  We were an occupied country,
the enemy among us constantly searching for those who secretly,
violently, opposed the victors, in many cases torturing and imprisoning
whole families who were suspect."

"The Resistance, naturally," interrupted Villier.

"Naturally," agreed the father.

"You both were a part of it, you've told me that, although you've never
expounded on your contributions."

"They're best forgotten," said the mother.

"It was a horrible time-so many who were stigmatized and beaten as
collaborators were only protecting loved ones, including their
children."

I "But this man tonight, this crazy tramp!  He so identified with me
that he called me his son!  .. . I accept a degree of excessive
devotion-it goes with the profession, however foolish that may be but
to the point of killing himself in front of my eyes?  Madness!"

"He was mad, driven insane by what he had endured," said Catherine.

"You knew him?"

"Very well," replied the old actor, Julian Villier.

"His name was Jean-Pierre Jodelle, once a promising young baritone at
the opera, and we, your mother and I, tried desperately to find him
after the war.  There was no trace, and since we knew he had been found
out by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp, we assumed he was
dead, a non-entry, like thousands of others."

"Why did you try to find him?  Who was he to you?"

The only mother Jean-Pierre had ever known knelt beside his
dressing-room chair, her exquisite features bespeaking the great star
she had been; her blue-green eyes below her full, soft white hair were
locked with his.  She spoke softly.

"Not only to us, my son, but to you.  He was your natural father."

"Oh, my God!  .. . Then you, both of you-"

"Your natural mother," added Vilher pre, quietly interrupting, "was a
member of the Com@die-"

"A splendid talent," broke in Catherine, "caught in those trying years
between being an ingenue and being a woman, all of it made horrid by
the occupation.  She was'a dear girl, like a younger sister to me."

"Please!"  cried Jean-Pierre, leaping to his feet as the mother he knew
rose and stood by her husband.

"This is all coming so quickly, it is so astonishing, I .. . I can't
think!"

"So et' es it's best not to think for a while, my son," in 'in said the
elder Villier.

"Stay numb until the mind tells you it is ready to accept."

"You used to tell me that years ago," said the actor, smiling sadly,
warmly, at Julian, "when I had trouble with a scene or a monologue, and
the meaning was escaping me.  You'd say, "Just keep reading and
rereading the words without trying so hard.

Something will happen."

"It was good advice, my husband."

"I was always a better teacher than I ever was a performer."

"Agreed," said Jean-Pierre softly.

"I beg.  your pardon?  You agree?"

"I meant only, my father, that when you were onstage, you .. . you-"

"A part of you was always concentrating-on the others," jumped in
Catherine Villier, exchanging a knowing glance with her son-and not her
son.

"Ah, you both conspire again, has it not been so for years?  The two
great stars being gentle with the lesser player..  .. Good!  That's
over with..  .. For a few moments we all stopped thinking about
tonight.  Now, perhaps, we can talk."

Silence.

"For God's sake, tell me what happened!"  exclaimed Jean-Pierre
finally.

As he asked the question, there was a rapid knocking at the
dressing-room door; it was opened by the theater's old night
watchman.

"Sorry to intrude, but I thought you ought to know.

There are still reporters at the stage door.

 s

They won't believe the police or me.  We said you left earlier by the
front entrance, but they're nor convinced.  However, they cannot get
inside."

"Then we'll stay here for a while, if need be all night at least I
will.

There's a couch in the other room, and I've already called my wife.

She heard everything on the news."

"Very well, sir..  .. Madame Villier, and you also, monsieur, despite
the terrible circumstances it is glorious to see you both again.  You
are always remembered with great affection."

"Thank you, Charles," said Catherine.

"You look well, my friend."

"I'd look better still if you were back onstage, madame."  The watchman
nodded and closed the door.

"Go on, Father, what did happen?"

"We were all part of the Resistance," began Julian Villier, sitting
down on a small love seat across the room, t4artists drawn together
against an enemy that would destroy all art.  And we had certain
capabilities that served our cause.  Musicians passed codes by
inserting melodic phrases not in an original score; illustrators
produced the daily and weekly posters demanded by the Germans, subtly
employing colors and images that sent other messages.  And we in the
theater continuously corrupted texts, especially those of revivals and
well-known plays, often giving direct instructions to the saboteurs-"

"At times it was quite amusing," interrupted the regal Catherine,
joining her husband and taking his hand.

"Say there was a line like "I shall meet her at the Wtro in
Montparnasse."  We'd change it to "I shall meet her at the east railway
station-she should be there by eleven o'clock."  The play would finish,
the curtain fall, and all those Germans in their splendid uniforms
would be applauding while a R@sistance team left quickly to be in place
for the sabotage units at the Gare de VEst an hour before midnight."

"Yes, yes," said Jean-Pierre impatiently.

"I've heard the stories, but that's not what I'm asking.  I realize
it's as difficult for you as it is for me, but please, tell me what I
must know."

The white-haired couple looked intensely at each other; the wife nodded
as their hands gripped, the veins showing.  Her husband spoke.

"Jodelle was found out, revealed by a young runner who could not take
the torture.  The Gestapo surrounded his house, waiting for him to
return one night, but he couldn't, for he was in Le Havre, making
contact with British and American agents in the early planning stages
of the invasion.  By dawn, it was said that the leader of the Gestapo
unit became furious with frustration.  He stormed the house and
executed your mother and your older brother, a child of five years.
They picked up Jodelle several hours later; we managed to get word to
him that you had survived."

"Oh .. . my God!"  The celebrated actor grew pale, his eyes closed as
he sank down into his chair.

"Monsters!  .. No, wait, what did you just say?

"It was said that the leader of the Gestapo-' It was said?"  Not
confirmed?"

"You're very quick, Jean-Pierre," observed Catherine.

"You listen, that's why you're a great actor."

"To hell with that, Mother!  What did you mean, Father?"

"It was not the policy of the Germans to kill the families of
R@sistance fighters, real or suspected.  They had more practical uses
for them-torture them for information, or use them as bait for others,
and there was always forced labor, women for the Officers Corps, a
category in which your natural mother would certainly have fallen."

"Then why were they killed?  .. . No, first me.  How did I survive?"

"I went out to an early dawn meeting in the woods of Barbizon.

I passed your house, saw windows broken, the front door smashed, and
heard an infant crying.  You.  Everything was obvious and, of course,
there would be no meeting.  I brought you home, bicycling through the
back roads to Paris."

"It's a little late to thank you, but, again, why were my -my natural
mother and my brother shot?"

"Now you lost a word, my son," said the elder Villier.

"What?"

"In your shock, your listening wasn't as acute as it was a moment
before, when I described the events of that night."

"Stop it, Papa!  Say what you mean!"

"I said 'executed," you said 'shot."

"I don't understand..  .."

"Before Jodelle was found out by the Germans, one of his covers was as
a city messenger for the Ministry of Information-the Nazis could never
get our arrondissements straight, much less our short, curving streets.
We never learned the details, for as impressive as his voice was,
Jodelle was extremely quiet where rumors were concerned -they were
everywhere.  Falsehoods, half truths and truths raced through Paris
like gunfire at the slightest provocation.  We were a city gripped by
fear and suspic'on-"

"I understand that, my father," broke in the ever more impatient
Jean-Pierre.

"Please explain what I don't understand.  The details that you were
never given, what did they concern and how did they result in the
killings, the executions?"

"Jodelle said to a few of us that there was a man so high in the
R@sistance that he was a legend only whispered about, his identity the
most closely guarded secret of the movement.  Jodelle, however, claimed
he had learned who the man was, and if what he had pieced together was
accurate, that same man, that 'legend," was no great hero but instead a
traitor."

"Who was he?"  pressed Jean-Pierre.

"He never told us.  However, he did say that the man was a general in
our French army, of which there were dozens.  He said if he was right
and any of us revealed the man's name, we'd be shot by the Germans.  If
he was wrong and someone spoke of him in a defamatory way, our wing
would be called unstable and we would no longer be trusted."

"What was he going to do then)"

"If he was able to establish his proof, he would take the man out
himself.  He swore he was in a position to do so.

We assumed-correctly, we believe, to this day that whoever the traitor
was, he somehow learned of Jodelle's suspicions and gave the order to
execute him and his family.

"That was it?  Nothing else?"

"Try to understand what the times were like, my son," said Catherine
Villier.

"A wrong word, even a hostile stare or a gesture, could- result in
immediate detention, imprisonment, and even, not unheard of,
deportation.  The occupation forces, especially the ambitious
middle-level officers, were fanatically suspicious of everyone and
everything.  Each new Resistance accomplishment fueled the fires of
their anger.  Quite simply, no one was safe.

Kafka could not have invented such a hell."

"And you never saw him again until tonight?"

"If we had, we would not have recognized him," replied Villier pre.

"I barely did when I identified his body.  The years notwithstanding,
he was, as the English say, a , rackabones' of the man I remembered,
less than half the weight-and height of his former self, his face
mummified" a stretched, wrinkled version of what it once was."

"Perhaps it wasn't he, is that possible, my father?"

"No, it was Jodelle.  His eyes were wide in death, and still so blue,
so resoundingly blue, like a cloudless sky in the Mediterranean.......
Like yours, Jean-Pierre."

"Jean-Pierre..... ?"  said the actor softly.

"You gave me his name?"

"In truth, it was your brother's also," corrected the actress gently.

"That poor child had no use for, it and we felt you should have it for
jodelle's sake."

"That was caring of you-"

"We knew we could never replace your true parents," continued the
actress quickly, fialf pleadingly, "but we tried our best, my darling.
In our wills we make clear everything that happened, but until tonight
we hadn't the courage within ourselves to tell you.  We love you so."

"For God's sake, stop, Mother, or I'll burst out crying.  Who in this
world could ask for better parents than you two  I will never know what
I cannot know, but forever you are my father and mother, and you know
that."

The telephone rang, startling them all.

"The press doesn't have this number, does it?"  asked Julian.

"Not that I'm aware of," replied Jean-Pierre, turning to the phone on
the dressing table.

"Only you, Giselle, and my agent have it; not even my attorney or, God
forbid, the owners of the theater..  ..

Yes?"  he said gutturally.

"Jean-Pierre?"  asked his wife, Giselle, over the telephone.

"Of course, my dear."

"I wasn't sure-"

"I wasn't either, that's why I altered my voice.  Mother and Father are
here, and I'll be home as soon as the newspapers give up for the
night."

"I think you should find a way to come home now."

4 "What?"

"A man has come to see you-"

"At this hour?  Who is he?"

"An American, and he says he has to talk to you.  It's about
tonight."

"Tonight .. . here at the theater?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have let him in, Giselle."

"I'm afraid I didn't have a choice.  Henri Bressard is with him.

"

"Henri?  What does tonight have to do with the Quai d'Orsay?"

"As we speak, our dear friend Henri is all smiles and diplomatic charm
and will tell me nothing until you arrive..  .. Am I right, Henri?"

"Too true, my dearest Giselle" was the faint reply heard by Villier.

"I know little or nothing myself."

"Did you hear him, my darling?"

"Clearly enough.  What about the American?  Is he a boot?  just answer
yes or no."

"Quite the contrary.  Although, as you actors might say, his eyes have
a hot flame in them."

"What about Mother and Father?  Should they come with me?"

Giselle Villier addressed the two men in the room, repeating the
question.

"Later," said the man from the Quai d'Orsay, loud enough to be heard
over the telephone.

"We'll speak to them later, Jean-Pierre," he added even louder.

"Not tonight."

The actor and his parents left the theater by the front entrance, the
night watchman having told the press that Villier would appear shortly
at the stage door.

"Let us know what's happening," said Julian as he and his wife embraced
their son and walked to the first of the two taxis called from the
dressing-room phone.  Jean-Pierre climbed.  into the second, giving the
driver his address in the Pare Monceau.

The introductions were both brief and alarming.  Henri Bressard, First
Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France and a close
friend of the younger Villiers for a decade, spoke calmly, gesturing at
his American companion, a tall man in his mid-thirties with dark brown
hair and sharp features, albeit with clear gray eyes that were
disturbingly alive, perhaps in contrast to his gentle smile.

"This is Drew Latham, Jean-Pierre.  He is a special officer for a
branch of U.S. Intelligence known only as Consular Operations, a unit
our own sources have determined to be under the combined authority of
the American State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency..  ..
MY God, how the two can get together is beyond this diplomat!"

"It's not always easy, Mr.  Secretary," said Latham pleasantly, if
haltingly, in broken French, "but we manage."

"Perhaps we should speak English," offered Giselle Villier.

"We are all fluent."

"Thank you very much," the American responded in English.

"I

don't want to be misunderstood."

"You won't be," said Villier, "but please be aware that we-l-must
understand why you are here tonight, this terrible night.  I have heard
things this evening that I have never heard before-are you to add to
them, monsieur?"

"Jean-Pierre," broke in Giselle, "what are you talking about?"

"Let him answer," said Vilher, his large blue eyes riveted on the
Americari.

"Maybe, maybe not," replied the intelligence officer.

"I know you've talked to your parents, but I can't know what you talked
about."

"Naturally.  But it's possible you might assume a certain direction in
our conversation, no?"

"Frankly, yes, although I don't know how much you'd been told before.
The events of tonight suggest that you knew nothing about Jean-Pierre
jodelle."

"Quite true," said the actor.

"The Soret@, who also know nothing, questioned you at length and were
convinced you were telling the truth."

"Why not, Monsieur Latham?  I was telling the truth."

"is there another truth now, Mr.  Villier?"

"Yes, there is."

"Will you both stop talking in circles!"  cried the actor's wife.

"What is this truth?"  "Be calm, Giselle.  We are on the same
wavelength, as the Americans say."

"Shall we stop here?"  asked the Consular Operations officer.

"Would you rather we speak privately?"

"No, of course not.  My wife is entitled to know everything, and Henri
here is one of our closest friends, as well as a man trained to keep
his own counsel."  - "May we sit down," said Giselle firmly.

"This is too confusing to absorb standing up."  When'they had taken
their seats, hers next to her husband's, she added, "Please continue,
Monsieur Latham, and I beg you to be clearer."

I "I should like to know," broke in Bressard, every inch the government
official, "who is this Jodelle person, and why should Jean-Pierre know
anything at all about him?"

"Forgive me, Henri," interrupted the actor.

"Not that I mind, but I'd like to know why Monsieur Latham saw fit to
use you as a means to reach me."  .  "I knew you were friends."  The
American answered for himself.

"In fact, several weeks ago, when I mentioned to Henri that I was
unable to get tickets to your play, you were kind enough to leave a
pair at the box office for me."

"Ah, yes, I remember..  .. Your name seemed somehow familiar, but with
everything that's happened, I didn't make the connection.

"Two in the name of Latham I do recall."

"You were wonderful, sit-"

"You're very kind," interrupted Jean-Pierre, dismissing the compliment
and studying the U.S. intelligence officer, then looking at Bressard.

"Therefore," he continued, "I may assume that you and Henri are
acquainted."

"More officially than socially," said Bressard.

"I believe we've dined only once together; actually it was an extension
of a conference that was largely unresolved."

"Between your two governments," Giselle observed aloud.

"Yes," agreed Bressard.

"And what do you and Monsieur Latham confer about, Henri?"

pressed the wife.

"If,l may ask."

"Of course you may, my dear," replied Bressard.

"Generally speaking, sensitive situations, events that are taking place
or have taken place in the past that might harm or embarrass our
respective governments."

"Tonight falls into that category?"

"Drew must answer that, Giselle, I cannot, and I'm as eager as you are
to learn.  He roused me out of bed over an hour ago insisting that for
both our sakes I bring him to you immediately.

When I asked him why, he made it clear that only Jean-Pierre could
permit me to have the inforination-information that pertained to the
events of tonight."

"Which is why you suggested we speak privately, is that correct,
Monsieur Latham?"  asked Villier.

"It is, sir."

"Then your arrival here tonight, this terrible night, falls under the
blanket of official business, nest-ce pas?"

"I'm afraid it does," said the American.

"Even considering the lateness of the hour and the tragedy we alluded
to?"

"Again, yes," said Latham.

"Every hour is vital to us.  Especially to me, if you want to be
specific."

"I do care to be specific, monsieur."

"All right, I'll speak plainly.  My brother's a case officer with the
Central Intelligence Agency.  He was sent out under cover into the
Hausruck mountains in Austria.  It was a survey operation involving a
spreading neo-Nazi organization, and he hasn't been heard from in six
weeks."

"I can understand your concern, Drew," interrupted Henri Bressard, "but
what has it to do with this evening this terrible night, as Jean-Pierre
called it?"

The American looked at Villier in silence; the actor spoke.

"The deranged old man who killed himself in the theater was my father,"
he said quietly, "my natural father.  Years ago, in the war, he was a
Resistance fighter.  The Nazis found him and broke him, drove him
mad."

Giselle gasped; her hand shot to her left, gripping her husband's
arm.

"They're back," said Latham, "growing in numbers and influence beyond
anything anyone wants to believe or talk about."

"Say there's even a granule of truth in what you say," pressed
Bressard.

"What has it to do with the Quai d'Orsay?  You said 'for both our
sakes."  How, my friend?"

"You'll get a full briefing tomorrow at our embassy.  I insisted on
that two hours ago, and Washington agreed.  Until then I can tell you
only-and it's all I really know that the money trail through
Switzerland to Austria and the growing Nazi movement is secretly
funneled from people here in France.  Who, we don't know, but it's
immense, millions upon millions of dollars.  To fanatics who are
rebuilding Toe party-Hitler's party in exile-but still in Germany,
hidden in Germany."

"Which, if you're correct, means there's'another organization here, is
that what you're saying?"  asked Bressard.

"Jodelle's traitor"" whispered an astonished Jean-Pierre Villier,
leaning forward in the chair.

"The French general!"

"Or what he created," said Latham.

"For God's sake, what are you two talking about?"  exclaimed the
actor's wife.

"A newly discovered father,

the Resistance, Nazis, millions of dollars to fanatics in the
mountains!  It all sounds crazy-foul"

"Why don't you start at the beginning, Drew Latham," said the actor
softly.

"Perhaps I might.  fill in with things I knew nothing about before
tonight."

 ccording to the records in our possession," began Latham, "in June of
1946 a repatriated member of Athe French Resistance, alternately using
the names of jean Froisant and Pierre Jodelle, appeared repeatedly at
our embassy in various simple disguises and always at night.  He
claimed he was being silenced by the Paris courts regarding his
knowledge of the treasonous activities of a leader of the Resistance.
The traitor supposedly was a French general under privileged house
arrest accorded by the German High Command to your general officers who
remained in France.  The judgment of the OSI investigators was
negative, the determination being that Froisant/ Jodelle was mentally
unbalanced, as were hundreds, if not thousands, who had been
psychologically crippled in the concentration camps."

"The OSI is the Office of Special Investigations," explained Bressard,
seeing the bewildered expressions on the faces of both Villiers.

"It's the American department created to pursue war criminals."  - "I'm
sorry, I thought you knew," said Latham.

"It operated extensively here in France in conjunction with your
authorities."

"Of course," acknowledged Giselle.

"It was the formal name; I'm told we had others.  Collaborationist
hunters, pig seekers, so many names."

"Please continue," said Jean-Pierre, frowning, disturbed.

"Jodelle was dismissed as'a madman-just like that?"

"It wasn't arbitrary, if that's what you mean.  He was interrogated at
length, including three separate depositions taken independently of
one another to check for inconsistencies. It's standard procedure-"

"Then you have the information," interrupted the actor.

"Who was this general?"

"We don't know-"

"You don't know?"  cried Bressard.

"Mon Dieu, you didn't lose the material, did you?"

"No, we didn't lose it, Henri, it was stolen."

"But you said 'according to the records'!"  Giselle broke in.

"I said 'according to the records in our possession," corrected
Latham.

"You can index a name in a particular time frame, and the index will
summarize without specifics the substantiated case histories where
procedures were followed and final determinations were made.  Materials
such as interrogations and depositions are in separate classified files
to protect the privacy of the individuals from 'hostile inquiries..  ..
Those were the files that were removed.

Why, we don't know-or perhaps now we do."

"But you knew about me," interrupted Jean-Pierre.

"How?"

"As new information comes in, the index summaries are updated by the
OSI.  About three years ago, a drunken Jodelle accosted the American
ambassador outside the Lyceum Theater, where you were appearing in a
play" "je mappelle Aquilon!"  Bressard broke in enthusiastically.

"You were magnifique!"

"Oh, be quiet, Henri..  .. Go on, Drew Latham."

"Jodefle kept shouting what a great actor you were, and that you were
his son, and why wouldn't the Americans listen to him.

Naturally, the theater's attendants pulled him away as the doorman
escorted the ambassador to his limousine.  He explained that the old
drunken tramp was unbalanced, an obsessed fan who hung around the
theaters where you were playing."

"I never saw him.  Why is that?"

"Also explained b@ the doorman.  Whenever you appeared at the stage
door, he ran away."

"That doesn't make sense!"  said Giselle firmly.

"I'm afraid it does, my dear," countered Jean-Pierre,

looking sadly at his wife.

"At least according to what I learned tonight..  .. So, monsieur,"
continued the actor, "because of that odd yet not unusual event, my
name was included in the-how do you say it?-your non classified
intelligence files?"

"Only as part of a behavior pattern, not taken seriously."

"But you took it seriously, nest-ce pas?"

"Please understand me, sir," said Latham, leaning forward in the
chair.

"Five weeks and four days ago my brother was to make contact with his
Munich runner.  It was a specific arrangement, not an estimate, every
logistic was narrowed down to a time frame of twelve hours.  Three
years of a high-risk, deep-cover operation were finished, the end in
sight, his secure transportation to the States arranged.  When a week
passed and there was no word from him, I flew back to Washington and
pored over everything we had, everything there was, on Harry's
operation-that's my brother, Harry Latham..  .. For one reason or
another, probably because it was an odd reference, the Lyceum Theater
episode struck me, stayed with me.  As you implied, why was it even
there?  Famous actors and actresses are frequently bothered by fans who
are obsessed with them.  We read about that sort of thing all the
time."

"I believe I said as much," interrupted Villier.

"It's an occupational sickness and, for the most part, quite
harmless."

"That's what I thought, sir.  Why was it there?"

"Did you find an answer?"

"Not really, but enough to convince me to try and find jodelle.

Since I came back to Paris two weeks ago, I've looked everywhere, in
all the back alleys of Montparnasse, in all the run-down sections of
the city."

"Why?"  asked Giselle.

"What partial answer did you find?  Why was my husband's name forwarded
to Washington in the first place?"

"I asked myself the same question, Mrs.  Villier.  So while I was in
Washington I looked up the former ambassador-from the last
administration-and asked him.  You see, the information could not have
been forwarded to the intelligence community unless he authorized
it."

"What did my old friend the ambassador say?"  Bressard broke in, his
tone unmistakably critical.

"It was his wife-"

"Ah," said the Quai d'Orsay official, "then one should listen.  She
should have been the ambassadeur.  So much more intelligent, so much
more knowledgeable.  She's a physician, you know."

"Yes, I spoke with her.  She's also an avid theatergoer.  She always
insists on sitting in the first three rows."

"Hardly the best seats," said the actor softly.

"One loses the perspective for the immediate.  Forgive me, go on.  What
did she say?"

"It was your eyes, Mr.  Villier.  And those of Jodelle when he stopped
them on the pavement and shouted hysterically.

"Both their eyes were so intensely blue," she said, tyet the color was
extraordinarily light, extremely unusual for blue-eyed people."  So she
thought, delusions or not, that there might be substance to the old
man's ravings because the similarity of such unusual eyes could only be
genetically transmitted.  She admitted it was a speculative call, but
one she couldn't overlook.  And, as Henri mentioned, she is a
doctor."

"So your suspicions proved to be accurate," said Jean Pierre nodding
his head reflectively.

"When the news came over the television that an unidentified old man
had shot himself in the theater after screaming that you were his
son-well, I knew I'd found Jodelle."

"But you didn't, Drew Lathaim.  You found the son, not the father he
never knew.  So where are you now?  There's little I can add that you
don't already know, and that much I myself just found out tonight from
the only parents I've ever known.  They tell me Jodelle was a
Resistance fighter, a baritone at the Paris Opera, found out by the
Germans and sent to a concentration camp from which he supposedly never
returned.  Obviously he did, and apparently the poor soul recognized
his infirmities and never revealed himself" The actor paused, then
added sadly, pensively, "He gave me a privileged life and rejected any
worthwhile life for himself."

"He must have loved you very much, my darling," said Giselle.

"But what sorrow, what torment he had to live with."

"They looked for him.  They tried so hard to find him he could have
been given medical treatment.  God, what a tragic waste!"

Jean-Pierre looked over at the American.

"Again, monsieur, what can I say?  I can't help you any more than I can
help myself"

"Tell me exactly what happened.  I learned very little at the theater.
The police weren't there when it happened, and the witnesses who
remained-mainly ushers by trip time I arrived-weren't much help.  Most
claimed they heard the shouts, at first thinking they were part of the
'bravos," then saw an old man in disheveled clothes running down the
aisle, yelling that you were his son and carrying a rifle, which he
turned on himself and fired.  That was about it."

"No, there was more," said Villier, shaking his head.

"There was a brief hush in the audience, a momentary pause, that shock
of astonishment before the vocal reaction begins.  It was then that I
clearly heard several of his statements.

"I have failed you and your in other-I am useless, a nothing.  I only
want you to know I tried-I tried but failed."  That's all I recall,
then there was chaos.  I have no idea what he meant."

"It'has to be in the words, Mr.  Villier," said Latham rapidly,
emphatically, "and it had to be something so vital to him, so
catastrophic that he broke the silence of a lifetime and confronted
you.  A last gesture before killing himself; something had to trigger
it."

"Or the final deterioration of an unbalanced mind pushed over the edge
into utter madness," suggested the actor's wife.

"I don't think so," the American courteously disagreed.

"He was too focused.  He knew exactly what he was doing -what he was
going to do.  He somehow got into the theater with a concealed rifle,
no mean feat, and then waited until the performance was over and your
husband was accepting the praises of the crowd-he wasn't going to deny
him that.  A man gripped in the emotional frenzy of an insane act would
be prone to interrupting the play, pivoting the entire attention on
himself.  Jodelle didn't.  A part of him was too rational" too
rationally generous to permit it."

"Are you also a psychologist?"  asked Bressard.

"No more than you are, Henri.  The bottom line for both of us is
studying behavior, predicting it if we can, isn't that so?"

"So you're saying," interrupted Villier, "that my father.  the natural
father I never knew-rationally calculated the moves for his own death
because he was motivated by something that happened to him."  The actor
leaned back in his chair, frowning.

"Then we must find out what it was, mustn't we?"

"I don't know how, sir.  He's dead."

``"If an actor is analyzing a character he must bring to life- on the
stage or in a film, and that character is beyond the cliches of his
imagination, he has to study the reality, expand upon it, doesn't
he?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Many years ago I was called upon to play a murderous Bedouin sheikh, a
very unsympathetic man who ruthlessly kills his enemies because he
believes they are the enemies Of Allah.  It brought to mind all the
cliches one expects: the satanic brows; the sharp chin beard; the thin,
evil the messianic eyes-it was all so banal, I thought.  So I Tes@ to
Jidda, went into the desert-under luxurious conditions, I assure
you-and met with several Bedouin chieftains.

They were nothing of the sort.  They Were religious zealots, indeed,
but they were calm, very courteous, and truly, believed that what the
West called the Arab crimes of their grandfathers were entirely
justified, for those ancient enemies were the enemies of their God.

They even, explained that after each death, their ancestors would pray
to Allah for the safe deliverance of their enemies.  There was a true
sadness in what they felt was necessary slaughter.  Do you see what I
mean?"

"That was Le Carnage du Voile," said the Quai d'Orsay's Bressard.

"You were superb and stole the film from its two stars.  Paris's
leading-critic wrote that your, evil was so pure because you clothed it
in such quiet benevolence-"

"Please, Henri.  Enough."

"I still don't know what you're driving at, Mr.  Villier."

"If what you believe about Jodelle .. . if what you believe is true,
then a part of him was less mad than his actions would indicate.

Isn't that really what you are saying?"

I "Yes, it is.  I believe it.  That's why I've been trying to find
him."

"And such a man, regardless of his infirmities, is capable of
communicating with others, with his equally unfortunate peers, not
so?"

"Probably.  Sure."

"Then we must start with his reality, the environs in which he lived.
We'll do it, I'll do it."

'jean-Pierre!"  cried Giselle.

"What are you saying?"

"Our revival has no matinees.  Only an idiot would play Coriolanus
eight times a week.  My days are free."

"And?"  asked a disturbed Bressard, his eyebrows arched.

"As you have so generously implied, Henri, I am a passably adequate
actor and I have access to every costume establishment in Paris.  The
attire will be no problem, and extremist makeup has always been one of
my strengths.  Before he passed away, Monsieur Olivier and I agreed
that it was a dishonest artifice-the chameleon, he called it-but
nevertheless more than half the battle.

I will enter the world where Jodelle existed and perhaps I'll get
lucky.  He had to talk to someone, I'm convinced of that."

"Those environs," said Latham, "that 'world' of his is pretty sordid
and can be violent, Mr.  Villier.  If some of those characters think
you have twenty francs, they'll break your legs for it.  I carry a
weapon, and without exaggeration, I felt I had to display it on five
separate occasions during the past weeks.  Also, most of those people
are tight-lipped and don't like outsiders who ask questions;

in fact, they resent it strongly.  I didn't get anywhere.

"Ah, but you are not an actor, monsieur, and in all frankness, your
French could be improved upon.  No doubt you prowled those streets in
your normal clothes, your overall appearance not much different from
what we see now, West-ce pas?"

"Well .. . yes.  "

"Again, forgive me, but a clean-shaven man in rather decent attire and
asking a question in hesitant French would hardly inspire confidence
among jodelle's confreres in that world of his."

"Jean-Pierre, stop it!"  exclaimed the actor's wife.

"What you're suggesting is out of the question!  My feelings and your
safety aside, your run-of-the-play contract forbids you to undertake
physical risk.  My God, you're not permitted to ski or play polo or
even fly your plane!"

"But I won't be skiing or on a horse or flying my plane.  I'm merely
going across the city into various arrondissements to research
atmosphere.  It's far less than traveling to Saudi Arabia for a
secondary film role."

"Merde!"  cried Bressard.

"It's preposterous!"

"I didn't come here to ask such a thing of you, sir," said Latham.

"I came hoping you might know something that could help me.

You don't and I accept that.  My government can hire people to do what
you're suggesting."

"Then without false modesty I suggest that you wouldn't be getting the
best.  You do want the best, don3t you, Drew Latham, or have you
forgotten your brother so uickly?  Your anxiety tells me you haven't.
He must be a fine man, a splendid older brother who undoubtedly helped
you, guided you.  Naturally you feel you owe him whatever you can.
do."

"I'm concerned, yes, but that's-personal," interrupted the American
sharply, "I'm a professional.",

"So am I, monsieur.  And I owe the man we call jodelle every bit as
much as you owe your brother.  Perhaps more.  He lost his wife and his
first child fighting for all of us, then tragically consigned his own
existence to a hell we can't imagine so that I might thrive.  Oh, yes,
I owe him professionally and personally.  Also the woman, the young
actress who was my natural mother, and the child whose first name I
bear, the older brother who might have guided me.  My debt is heavy,
Drew Latham, and you will not stop me from paying something back.  None
of you will..  .. Be so kind as to come here tomorrow at noon.  I'll be
prepared and all the arrangements will be made."

Latham and Henri Bressard walked out of the imposing Villier house on
the Pare Monceau to the official's car.

"Need I tell you that I don't like any of this?"  said the Frenchman.

"Neither do I," agreed Drew.

"He may be a hell of an actor, but he's out of his depth."

I "Depth?  What depth?  I simply don't like his going into the bowels
of Paris where, if he's recognized, he could be assaulted for his money
or even kidnapped for a ransom.  You're saying something else' I
believe.  What is it?"

"I'm not sure, call it instinct.  Something did happen to Jodelle, and
it's a lot more than a deranged old man killing himself in front of the
son he never acknowledged.  The act itself was one of final
desperation; he knew he had been beaten, irrevocably beaten."

"Yes, I heard Jean-Pierre's words," said Bressard, rounding the trunk
to the driver's side as Latham opened the door at the curb.

"The old man shouted that he had failed; he had tried but failed."

"But what had he tried?  What did he fail to do?  What was it?"

"The end of his road, perhaps," replied Henri, starting the car and
heading into the street.

"The knowledge that at long last the enemy was beyond his reach."

"To know that, to really know it, he had to have found that enemy, and
then understood that he was helpless.  He knew.  he was considered a
madman; neither Paris nor Washington thought he was credible, and he'd
been rejected, hell, thrown out of the courts.  So he went out on his
own to find his enemy, and once he found it .. . him .. they, something
happened.  They stopped him cold."

"If that was the case, instead of merely stopping him, why didn't they
kill him?"

"The couldn't.  Because if they did, it would raise too y many
questions.  Kept alive until he died, and at his age and in his
condition, that wasn't far off, he was just another delusional drunk.

But if he was murdered, his crazy accusations might appear more
credible.  People like me might begin digging, and his enemy can't
afford that.  Alive he was a nothing, killed he's something else."

"I fail to see your point as it pertains to Jean-Pierre, my friend."

"Jodelle's enemies, the group here in France that I'm convinced is
linked to the Nazi movement in Germany, are way down deep, but they've
got eyes and ears above the ground.  If the old man made contact, the
least they'll do is follow up on his suicide.  They'll be on the
lookout for anyone asking questions about him.  If there's any truth in
what Jodelle claimed, again they can't afford not to..  . And that
leads me back to the missing OSI files in Washington.

They were stolen for a reason."

"I see what you mean," said Bressard, "and now I'm definitely against
Villier's involvement.  I'll do my best to stop him; Giselle will help.
She's as strong as he is, and he adores her."

"Maybe you weren't listening a while ago.  He said none of us could
stop him.  He wasn't acting, Henri, he meant it."

"I agree, but you've brought in another equation.  We'll sleep on it,
if any of us can sleep..  .. Do you still have your flat on the rue du
Bac?"

"Yes, but I want to stop at the embassy first.  There's someone in
Washington I have to call on a secure line.  Our transport will get me
home."

"As you wish."

Latham took the elevator down to the embassy basement complex and
walked through a white, neon-lit corridor to the communications center.
He inserted his plastic access card into the security receptacle; there
was a brief, sharp buzz, the heavy door opened, and he walked inside.
The large air-cooled, dust-filtered room, like the corridor, was
pristine white, the panoply of electronic equipment lining three
walls, the metal glistening, a swivel chair placed every six feet in
front of its own console.  Due to the hour, however, only one chair was
occupied; traffic was lightest between two and six o'clock in the
morning, Paris time.

"I see you've got the graveyard, Bobby," said Drew to the sole occupant
across the room.

"You holding up?"

"Actually, I -like it," replied Robert Durbane, a fifty three-year-old
communications specialist and senior officer of the embassy's comm
center.

"My people think I'm such a good guy when I assign the shift to
myself;, they're wrong, but don't tell them.  See what I have to work
on?"  Durbane held up a folded London Times, the page displaying the
infamous Times crossword puzzle and lethal double crostic.

44I'd say that's adding masochism to double duty," said Latham,
crossing to the chair to the right of the operator.

"I can't do either one, don't even try."

"You and the rest of the youngsters.  No comment, Mr.

Intelligence Man."

"I suspect there's gravel in that remark."

"Wear sandals on the driveway..  .. What can I. do for you?"

"I want to call Sorenson on scrambler."

"He didn't reach you about an hour ago?"

"I wasn't home."

"You'll find his message .. . that's funny, though, he spoke as if you
and he had been talking."  , "we did, but that was nearly three hours
ago."

"Use the red telephone in the cage."  Durbane turned and gestured
toward a built-in glass cubicle fronting the fourth wall, the glass
rising to the ceiling.  The "cage," as it was called, was a soundproof,
secure area where confidential conversations could be held without
being overheard.  The embassy personnel were grateful for it; what they
did not hear could not be extracted from them.

"You'll know when you're on scrambler," added the specialist.

"I would hope so," said Drew, referring to the discordant beeps that
preceded a harsh hum over the line, the signal that the scrambler was
in operation.  He rose from the chair, walked to the thick glass door
of the cage, and let himself in.  There was a large Formica table in
the center with the red telephone, pads, pencils, and an ashtray on
top.  In the corner of this uniqpe enclosure was a paper shredder whose
contents were burned every eight hours, more often if necessary.

Latham sat down in the desk chair, positioned so his back was to the
personnel operating the consoles; maximum security included the fear of
lip-reading, which was laughed at until a Soviet mole was discovered in
the embassy's communications during the height of the Cold War.  Drew
picked up the phone and waited; eighty-two seconds later the
beep-and-hum litany was played, then came the voice of Wesley T.
Sorenson, director of Consular Operations.

"Where the devil have you been?"  asked Sorenson'.

"After you cleared my contacting Henri Bressard with our promise of
disclosure, I went to the theater, then called Bressard.

He took me to the Villier house on Pare Monceau.  I just got here."

"Then your projections were right?"

"As right as simple arithmetic."  ' "Good Lord .. . !  The old man
really was Villier's father?

"Confirmed by Villier himself, who learned it from-as he put it-the
only parents he'd ever known."

"Considering the circumstances, what a hell of a shock!"

"That's what we have to talk about, Wcs.  The shock produced a mountain
of guilt in our famous actor.  He's determined to use his skills and go
underground to see if he can make contact with Jodelle's friends, try
to learn if the old man told anyone where he was going during the past
few days, who it was he wanted to find, and what he intended to do."

"Your scenario," interrupted Sorenson.

"Your scenario, if your projections proved accurate."

"It had to be-if I was right.  But that scenario called for using our
own assets, not Villier himself."

"And you were right.  Congratulations."

"I had help, Wcs, namely the former ambassador's wife."

"But you found her, no one else did."

"I don't think anyone else has a brother in a tight, no answer
situation."

"I understand.  So what's your problem?"

"Villier's determination.  I tried to talk him out of it, but I
couldn't, I can't, and I don't think anyone can."

"Why should you?  Perhaps he can learn something.  Why interfere?"

"Because whoever triggered jodelle's suicide must have faced him down.
Somehow they convinced him that he'd lost the whole ball of wax, he was
finished.  There was nothing left for the old man."

"Psychologically that makes sense.  His obsession had nowhere to go but
to destroy him.  So?"

"Whoever they are will certainly follow up on his suicl 'de.  As I told
Bressard, they can't afford not to.  If someone, no matter who it is,
shows up asking questions about jodelle-well, if his enemies are who I
think they are, that someone hasn't got much of a future."

"Did you tell this to Villier?"

"Not in so many words, but I made it clear that what he wanted to do
was extremely dangerous.  In essence, he told me to go to hell.  He
said he owed jodelle every bit as much, if not more, than I owe Harry.
I'm supposed to go to his place tomorrow at noon.  He says he'll be
ready."

"Spell it out for him then," ordered Sorenson.

"If he still insists, let him go."

"Do we want his potentially shortened future on our slate?"

"Tough decisions are called tough because they're not easy.

You want to find Harry, and I want to find a rotten cancer that's
growing in Germany."

"I'd like to find both," said Latham.

"Of course.  I would too.  So if your actor wants to perform, don't
stop him."

"I want him covered."

"You should, a dead actor can't tell us what he's learned.  Work it out
with the Deuxi@me, they're very good at that sort of thing.  In an hour
or so I'll call Claude Moreau.  He's head of the Bureau and will be in
his office by then.  We worked together in Istanbul; he was the best
field agent French intelligence ever had, world class, to be exact.

He'll give you what you need."

"Should I tell Villier?"

"I'm one of the old boys, Latham, maybe that's good and maybe that's
bad, but I believe that if you're going to mount an operation, you go
the whole nine yards.  Villier should also be wired; it's an added
risk, of course, and you should spell out everything to him.

Let him make a clean decision."

"I'm glad we're in sync.  Thank you for that."

"I came in from the cold, Drew, but I was once where you are now.  It's
a lousy chess game, specifically when the pawns can get killed.  Their
blips never leave you, take my word for it.  They're fodder for
nightmares."

"Everything everybody says about you is true, isn't it?  Including your
predilection for having us in the field call you by your first name."

"Most of what they say I did is totally exaggerated," said the director
of Consular Operations, "but when I was out there, if I could have
called my boss Bill or George or Stanford or just plain Casey, I think
I might have been a hell of a lot more candid.  That's what I want from
you people.

"Mr.  Director' is an impediment."

"You're so right."

"I know.  So do what you have to do;"

Latham walked out of the embassy on avenue Gabriel to the waiting
armor-plated diplomatic car that would take him to his flat on the rue
du Bac.  It was a Citron sedan, the rear seats far too shallow, so he
chose to sit in the front next to the marine driver.

"You know the address?"  he asked.

"Oh, yes, sir.  Surely I do, certainly."

An exhausted Drew looked briefly at the man; the accent was
unmistakably American, but the juxtaposition of words was odd.  Or was
it simply that he was so tired that his hearing was playing tricks on
him.  He closed his eyes, for how long he did not know, grateful for
the nothingness, the blank void that filled his inner screen.  For at
least several minutes his anxiety was put on hold.  He needed the
respite, he welcomed it.  Then suddenly he was aware of motion, the
jostling of his body in the seat.  He opened his eyes; the driver was
speeding across a bridge as though he were in a Le Mans race.  Latham
spoke.

"Hey, guy, I'm not rushing to a late date.

Cool it on the accelerator, pal."

"Tut mir --sorry, sir."

"What?"  They sped off the bridge and the marine swung the car into a
dark, unfamiliar street.  Then it was clear; they were nowhere near the
rue du Bac.  Drew shouted, "What the hell are you doing?"

"It is a shortened cut, sir."

"Bullshit!  Stop this fucking car!"

"Nein!"  yelled the man in the marine uniform.

"You go where I take you, buddy!"  The driver yanked an automatic from
his tunic and pointed it at Latham's chest.

"You give me no orders, I give you orders!"

"Christ, you're one of them.  You son of a bitch, you're one of
them!"

"You will meet others, and then you will be gone!"

"It's all true, isn't it?  You're all over Paris-"

"Und England, und die Verein@gten Swaten, und Europa!  .. .

Sieg Heil!"

"Sieg_ up your ass," said Drew quietly, leveling his left hand in the
rushing shadows beneath the weapon, his left foot inching across the
Citron's floorboard.

"How about a big surprise, blitzkrieg style?"  With those words Latham
jammed his left foot against the brake pedal while simultaneously
smashing his left hand up into the elbow of his would-be captor's right
arm.  The gun spun in the neo Nazi hand; Drew grabbed it and fired into
the driver's right kneecap as they crashed into the corner of a
building.

"You lose!"  said Latham breathlessly, opening the door and grabbing
the man by his tunic.  Stepping outside, he yanked him across the seat,
throwing him to the pavement.  They were in one of the industrial
sections of Paris, two- and three-story factories, deserted for the
night.  Beyond the dim street lamps' the only brightness came from the
damaged Citron's headlights.  It was enough.

"You're going to talk to me, buddy," he said to the false marine curled
up on the sidewalk, moaning and clutching his wounded leg, "or the next
bullet goes right through those two hands around your knee.  Shattered
hands never fully recover.  It's a hell of a way to live."

"Nein!  Nein!  Do not shoot!"

"Why not?  You were going to kill me, you told me so.  I'd 'be gone," I
distinctly remember.  I'm much kinder.  I won't kill you, I'll just
make your staying alive a mess.  After your hands, your feet will be
next..  .. Who are you and how did you get that uniform, that car? 
Tell me!"

"We have uniforms .. . amerikanische, franzdsische, englische."

"The car, the embassy car.  Where's the man whose place you took

"He was told not to come-"

"By whom?"

"I do not know!  The car was brought to the front.  The Schhisselthe
key, I mean-was in it.  I was ordered to drive you."

"Who ordered you?"

"My superiors."

"The people you were taking me to?"

"Ja.

@ 4Who are they?  Give me some names.  Now."

"I do not know any names!  We are reached by codes, by numbers and
letters."

"What's your name?"  Drew crouched by the impostor, the barrel of the
gun jammed against the nearest hand around the bleeding kneecap.

"Erich Hauer, I swear it!"

"Your code name, Erich.  Or forget about your hands and feet."

"C-Zwdif-twelve."

"You speak much better English when you're not scared shitless,
Erich-buddy..  .. Where were you taking me?"

"Five, six avenues from here.  I would know by the Scbeinwerfer-" "The
what?"

"Headlights.  From a narrow street on the left."

"Stay right where you are, Little Adolf," said Latham, rising and
sidestepping to the car door, his weapon on the German.

Awkwardly, he backed down into the front seat, his left hand thrusting
below the dashboard until he found the car phone with a direct line to
the embassy.  As the transmitting mechanism was in the trunk, the odds
were favorable that it would be operational.  It was.  Glancing
quickly, Drew pressed the zero button four times in rapid succession.
The signal for emergency.

"American Embassy," came Durbane's-voice over the speaker.

"Your status is Zero Four.  On tape, go ahead!"

"Bobby, it's Latham-"

"I know that, I've got you on the grids.  Why the big Four 0?"

"We were sandbagged.- I was on my way to a fast execution, courtesy of
our Nazi nightmare.  The marine driver was a phony;

somebody in the transport pool set me up.  Check that whole unit
out!"

"Christ, are you all right?"

"Just a tad shaken; we had an accident and the skinhead didn't fare too
well."

"Well, I've got you on the grids.  I'll send a patrol out-"

"You know exactly where we are?"

"Of course."

"Send two patrols, Bobby, one armed for assault."

"Are you crazy?  This is Paris; it's French!"

"I'll cover us.  This is an order from Cons-Op..  .. Five or six blocks
south, on the left, there's a car parked on a side street, its
headlights on.  We've got to take that car, take the people in it!"

"Who are they?"

"Among other things, my executioners..  .. There's no time, Bobby.  Do
it!"  Latham slammed the telephone back into its receptacle and lurched
out of the car to Erich Hauer, who could lead them to a hundred others
in Paris and beyond, whether he knew it or not.  The chemicals would
open the doors of his mind; it was vital.  Drew grabbed his legs as the
man screamed in pain.

"Tlease .. . !"

"Shut up, pig head  You're mine, you got that?  Start talking, it'll be
easier on you later."

"I do not know anything.  I am only C-Zwdlf, what more can I say?"

"That's not good enough!  I have a brother who went after you bastards;
it was the last leg of a rotten trip.  So you're going to give me more,
a lot more, before I'm finished with you.  Take my word for it,
Erich-buddy, you really don't want to deal with me."

Suddenly, out of the deserted dark street, a black sedan came
screeching around the corner.  It slowed down rapidly, briefly, as the
gunfire erupted, a deadly fusillade, slaughter for everything in its
path.  Latham tried to pull the Nazi behind the shell of the armor
plated diplomatic car; he could not do it and save himself.  As the
sedan raced away, he looked -over at his prisoner.  Erich Hauer, his
body riddled, blood covering his face, was dead.  The one man who could
supply at least a few answers was gone.  Where was somebody else, and
how long would it take to find him?

he night was over, the early light creasing the eastern sky as an
exhausted Latham took the small brass Televator to his flat on the
fifth floor in the rue du Bac.  Normally he would have used the stairs,
figuring it was physically good for something or other, but not now; he
could barely keep his eyes open.  The hours between shortly past two
and five-thirty had been filled with diplomatic necessities as well as
providing Drew with the opportunity of meeting the head of the powerful
and secretive Deuxieme Bureau, one Claude Moreau.  He had called back
Sorenson in Washington, asking him to reach the French intelligence
officer at that hour and persuade him to go immediately to the American
Embassy.  Moreau was a middle-aged, medium-size balding man who filled
out his suit as though he lifted weights for a good part of every day.
He had an insouciant Gallic humor that somehow kept things in
perspective when they were in danger of getting out of control.  The
potential loss of control first came about with the unexpected
appearance of a furious and frightened Henri Bressard, First Secretary
of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France.

"What the hell is going on?"  demanded Bressard, walking into 'the
ambassador's office, instantly surprised yet accepting Moreau's
presence.

"Allor Claude," he said, reverting to French.

"I'm not entirely stunned to see you here."

"En anglais, Henri..  .. Monsieur Latham understands us but the
ambassador is still with his Berlitz.  "Ali, American diplomatic
tact!"

"I did understand that, Bressard," said Ambassador Daniel Court1drid,
behind his desk in a bathrobe and slippers, "and I'm working on your
language.  Frankly, I wanted the post in Stockholm-1 speak fluent
Swedishbut others thought differently.

So you're stuck with me as I'm stuck with you."

"I apologize, Mr.  Ambassador.  It's been a difficult night..  .. I
tried calling you, Drew, and when all I got was your machine, I assumed
you were still here."

"I should have been home an hour ago.  Why are you here?  Why did you
have to see me?"

"Everything's in the Soret@ report.  I insisted the police call them
in-"

"What happened?"  interrupted Moreau.  He raised an eyebrow.

"Your former wife is not becoming hostile, surely.  Your divorce
was-ultimately amicable."

"I'm not sure I'd want it to be she.  Lucille may be a devious bitch,
but she's not stupid.  These people were."

"What people?"

"After I dropped off Drew here, I drove to my apartment on the
Montaigne.  As you know, one of the few privileges of my office is my
diplomatic parking space in front of the building.  To my surprise, it
was occupied and, adding to my irritation, there were several other
nearby open spaces.  Then I saw that there were two men seated in front
and the driver was on his car phone, not exactly a normal sight at two
o'clock'in the morning, especially when the driver was subject to a
five-hundred-franc fine for parking where he did without a government
plate or the Quai d'Orsay emblem on the front window."

"As always," said Moreau, nodding his head appreciatively, "your
diplomat's penchant for introducing an event with perception and
suspense is evident, but please, Henri, the personal insult to you
aside, what happened?"

"The bastards started shooting at me!"

"What?"  Latham leapt out of his chair.

"You heard me!  My vehicle is naturally protected against such
assaults, so I backed up quickly, then smashed into them, pinning their
car to the curb."

"Then what?"  cried Ambassador Courtland, now standing up.

"The two men got out the other side and raced away.

My heart pounding, I called the police on my car phone, demanding that
they alert the SfiretL"

"You're something else," said an astonished Drew softly.

"You rammed them while they were firing at you?"

"The bullets could not penetrate, even the glass."

"Believe me, some can-like full jackets."

"Really?"  Bressard's face grew pale.

"You were quite right, Henri," said Moreau, once more nodding his head,
"your former wife would have been much more efficient.

Now, shall we all calm down a bit and look at what our brave hero has
achieved for us?  We have the vehicle, a license plate, and no doubt
several dozen fingerprints which we will immediately deliver to
Interpol.  I salute.  you Henri Bressard."

"There are bullets that can penetrate bulletproof automobiles .  ?" The
connection to Jodelle's suicide and the subsequent meeting at the
Villier house on Pare Monceau was all too obvious.

Coupled with the attack on Latham, the situation demanded several
decisions: Both Bressard and Drew would be protected around the clock
by Deuxieme personnel-the Frenchman conspicuously, Latham less
obviously, at his own instructions.  Which was why the unmarked
Deuxi@me car would remain across the street from Drew's building until
relief -came to replace it or the American emerged in the morning,
whichever happened first.  Finally, under no conditions could
Jean-Pierre Villier, who would also be guarded, be permitted to prowl
the seamier sections of Paris in search of anyone.

"I myself will make that absolutely clear to him," said Claude Moreau,
chief of the Deuxi&me Bureau.

"Villier is a treasure of France!  .. . In addition, my wife would
either kill me or have numerous affairs in our own bed if I permitted
anything to happen to him."

The disturbing doubts about the embassy's transport pool were resolved
quickly.  The dispatcher was a substitute no one knew, but he had been
accepted for the night shift because of his credentials.

He had disappeared minutes after Latham's car drove off down the avenue
Gabriel.  A French-speaking American in Paris was part of the Nazi
movement.

The hours before dawn had been taken up with endless analyses of the
situation-the question of who and who not to include being a
priority-as well as lengthy conversations on open scrambler between
Moreau and Wesley Sorenson in Washington.  The two specialists in
deep-cover intelligence sounded like dual practitioners of the darkest
arts, creating a scenario of deep-cover pursuits.  Drew approved of
what he heard.  He was good, not as coldly intellectual as his brother
Harry, but surely superior when it came to quick decisions and
physicality.  Moreau and Sorenson, however, were the masters in
deception and penetration; they had survived the unpublicized slaughter
of spies during the bloody depths of the Cold War.  He could learn from
such men, even as they programmed him.

Latham walked sleepily out of the elevator and down the hall to his
flat.  As he started to insert his key, his eyes were suddenly riveted
on the lock.  It wasn't there!  Instead, there was a hollow circle. 
The entire lock had been surgically removed, either by a laser or a
high-powered miniature hand saw.  He touched the door;

it swung open, revealing the shambles within.  Drew yanked his
automatic out of its shoulder holster and cautiously slipped inside.

His apartment was ravaged; upholstery was knifed everywhere, cushions
torn apart, their stuffings scattered; drawers were pulled out, their
contents dumped on the floor.  It was the same in the two bedrooms, the
closets, the kitchen, the bathrooms, and especially his study, where
even the rugs were sliced.  His large desk had been literally hacked to
pieces, the assault team looking for hidden caches where secret papers
might be concealed.  The destruction was overwhelming; nothing was as
it had been.  And in his exhaustion Latham simply did not want to think
about it; he needed rest; he needed sleep.  He briefly considered the
waste and how illogical it was; confidential materials were kept in his
office safe on the second floor of the embassy.  Old jodelle's
enemies-now his enemies should have guessed that.

He rummaged in one of his closets, sardonically amused to find an
object that intruders would have taken or smashed had they recognized
what it was.  The twenty six-inch steel bar had large rubber caps at
either end, each cap holding an alarm mechanism.  When he traveled and
stayed in hotel rooms, he invariably braced it against the door and the
floor, activating the alarms by twisting the caps.  If whatever door he
shoved it against was opened from the outside, a series of
ear-shattering whistles went off that would shock the interloper into
racing away.  Drew carried it to the lockless door of his flat,
activated the alarms, and, anchoring it to the floor, braced it against
a lower panel.  He walked into his destroyed bedroom, threw a sheet
over the ripped mattress, removed his shoes, and la down.

Within minutes he was asleep, and within minutes after that his
telephone rang.  Disoriented, Latham lurched off the unbalanced surface
of the bed, grabbing the phone from the bedside table.

"Yes?  .. . Hello?"

"It's Courtland, Drew.  I'm sorry to call at this hour, but it's
necessary."

"What happened?",

"The German ambassador-"

"He knew about tonight?"

"Nothing at all.  Sorenson called him from Washington and apparently
raised hell.  Shortly thereafter Claude Moreau did the same."

"They're pros.  What's going down?"

"Ambassador Heinrich Kreitz will be here at nine o'clock this morning.
Sorenson and Moreau want you here too.  Not only to corroborate the
reports, but' obviously to protest vigorously the personal attack on
you."

"Those two old veteran spooks are mounting a pincer assault, aren't
they?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about."

"In the Second World War it was a German strategy.  Close in on both
sides, squeeze the enemy so he has to run north or south or east or
west.  If he chooses wrong, he's finished, which he will be because the
points are covered.

"I'm not military, Drew, but I really don't think Kreitz is an
enemy."

"No, he's not.  In fact, he's a man with a historical conscience.

But even he doesn't know who's in his ranks here in Paris.  He'll damn
well stir up the waters, and that's what Sorenson and Moreau want him
to do."

"Sometimes I think you people speak a different language.".

"Oh, we do, Mr.  Ambassador.  It's called obfuscation in the interests
of deniability.  You might say it's our lingua franca."

"You're babbling."

"I'm dead tired."

"How long does it take you to get from your place to the embassy?"

"First I have to go to the garage where I keep my car-"

"You're in a Deuxi&me vehicle now," Courtland interrupted.

"Sorry, I forgot..  .. Depending on the traffic, about fifteen
minutes."

"It's ten past six.  I'll have my secretary wake you at eight-thirty
and I'll see you at nine.  Get some rest."

"Maybe I should tell you what happened-" It was too late, the
ambassador had hung up the phone.  It was just as well, thought Latham.
Courtland would want details, prolonging the conversation.

Drew crawled up on the bed, managing at the last to replace his
telephone.  The only good thing to come out of the night was the fact
that he'd be spending a week, or however long it took to restore his
flat, at a very fine hotel, and Washington would pick up the bill.

The white glider swept down in the late afternoon crosscurrents into
the valley of the Brotherhood.  Upon landing, it was immediately hauled
under a covering of green screening.  The Plexiglas canopies of both
the forward and aft cockpits sprang open; the pilot in pure white
coveralls emerged from the former, his very much older passenger from
the latter.

"Komm," said the flyer, nodding toward a motorcycle with a sidecar
attached.

"Zum Krankenhaus."

"Yes, of course," replied the civilian in German, turning and lifting a
black leather medical bag out of the aircraft.

"I presume Dr.

Kroeger is here," he added, climbing into the sidecar as the pilot
mounted the seat and started the engine.

"I would not know, sir.  I'm only to bring you to the medical clinic. 
I do not know any names."

"Then forget I mentioned one."

"I heard nothing, sir."  The motorcycle raced into one of the screened
corridors and-, making several turns, sped across the valley to the
north end of the flatland.  There, again covered by the screening, was
the usual one-story structure, but somehow different.  Where the other
structures were basically solidly built of wood, this was heavier,
sturdier---cinder block layered with concrete with an enormous
generator complex on the south side, the continuous hum low,
powerful.

"I'm not permitted inside, Doctor," said the pilot, stopping the
motorcycle in front of the gray steel door.

"I'm aware of that, young man, and I've been told how to proceed.
Incidentally, I'm to leave in the morning, "at the earliest light.  I
trust you know that."

"Yes, I do, sit.  The winds then are the best."."

"They couldn't be any worse."  The doctor got out of the sidecar; the
flyer sped off as his passenger walked to the door, looked up at the
camera lens above, and pressed the round black button to the right of
the frame.

"Dr.  Hans Traupman by orders of General von Schnabe."

Thirty seconds later the door was opened by a man in his forties
dressed in white hospital attire.

"Herr Doktor Traupman, how good to see you again," he said
enthusiastically.

"It's been several years since the lectures in Nuremberg.  Welcome!"

"Danke, but I wish there were a less arduous way of getting here."

"You would dislike the mountain approach even more, I assure you.  One
walks for miles, and the snow gets heavier with every few hundred
meters.  Secrecy has its price..  .. Come, have some schnapps and relax
for a few minutes while we chat.  Then you'll see our progress.  I tell
you, it's remarkable!"

"Drinks later, and we'll chat as we observe," countered the visiting
physician.

"I have a lengthy meeting with von Schnabe-not a pleasant prospect-and
I want to learn as much as I can as quickly as I can.  He'll ask for
judgments and hold me accountable."

"Why am I excluded from this meeting?"  asked the younger doctor
resentfully as both sat down in the clinic's anteroom.

"He thinks you're too enthusiastic, Gerhardt.  He admires your
enthusiasm but he doesn't trust it."

"My God, who knows more about the process than I do?  I developed it!
With all respect, Traupman, this is my field of expertise, not
yours."

441 know that and you know that, but our nonmedical general can't
understand it.  I am a neurosurgeon and have a certain reputation in
cranial operations, therefore he' turns to that reputation, not to the
real expertise.  So convince me..  .. As I gather, according to you
it's theoretically possible to alter the thought process without drugs
or hypnosis-that theory somewhere in the ozones of para psychological
science fiction, but then so were heart and liver transplants not too
many years ago.  How is it actually done?"

4"You practically answered that yourself" Gerhardt Kroeger laughed, his
eyes bright.

"Take the 'trans' out of 'transplant' and insert the letters i and
m."

"Implant?"

"You implant steel plates, don't you?"

"Of course.  For protection."

"So have I..  .. You've performed lobotomies, not so?"

"Naturally.  To relieve electrical pressures."

"You've just said another magic word, Hans.

"Electrical," as in electrical impulses, the brain's electrical
impulses.  I simply micro calibrate and tap into them with an object so
infinitesimal compared to a plate that it would be a mere shadow on an
X ray."

"What in hell would that be?"

"A computer chip entirely compatible with an individual brain's
electrical impulses."

"A what .. . ?"

"Within years, psychological indoctrination will be a thing of the
past.  Brainwashing'will be history!"

"Come again?"

"Over the past twenty-nine months I've experimented with operated
upon-thirty-two patients, often with five or more in varying stages of
development-"

"So I've been given to understand," interrupted Traupinan.

"Patients provided by suppliers, from prisons and elsewhere."

"Scrutinized, Hans, all male and all with above-average intelligence
and education.  Those from the prisons were sentenced for such offenses
as embezzlement, or selling inside corporate information, or falsifying
official government reports for personal gain.  Crimes of subterfuge
requiring some degree of expertise and sophistication, not violence.
The violent mind as well as the less intelligent can too easily be
programmed.  I had to prove that my procedure could succeed above those
levels."

"Did you prove it?"

"

"Sufficient unto the day," as the Bible ays."

"Why do I hear a negative, Gerhardt?"

"Because there is one.  To date, the implant functions for not less
than nine days or more than twelve."

"What happens then?"

"The brain rejects it.  The patient rapidly develops a cranial
hemorrhage and dies."

"You , re saying the brain explodes."

"Yes.  Twenty-six of my patients so expired; however, the last seven
lasted progressively from nine to twelve days.  I'm convinced that with
further microsurgical techniques I can eventually overcome the time
factor.  Ultimately, and it may take years, it will function
permanently.  Politicians, generals, and statesmen everywhere can
disappear for a few days, and thereafter become our disciples."

"But for the present circumstances, with this American agent Latham,
you believe he's ready to be sent out, am I correct?"

"Without question.  You'll see for yourself.  He's in his fourth day,
leaving a minimum of five left and a maximum of eight.  As our
personnel in Paris, London, and Washington inform us that he is needed
for no more than forty to seventy-two hours, the risk is minimal.  By
then we'll know everything our enemies know about the Brotherhood with
the much more important benefit of Latham sending them all off in wrong
directions."

"Let's go back, if you please," said'Traupman, shifting his legs in the
white plastic chair.

"Before we get to the procedure itself, what exactly does this implant
of yours do?"

"Are you familiar with computer chips, Hans?"

"As little as possible.  I leave that to my technicians, as I do the
application of anesthesia.  I have enough to be concerned about.

But I'm sure you'll tell me what I don't know."

"The newest microchips are barely three centimeters in length and less
than ten millimeters wide, and they can hold the equivalent of six
megabytes of software.  That's sufficient to contain all the works of
Goethe, Kant, and Schopenhauer.  By using an E-PROM Burner to insert
the information into the chip, we then activate the ROM Read-Only
Memory-and it reacts to the sonic instructions delivered to it in the
same way a computer search reacts to the codes a programmer enters into
a processor.  Granted, there is a slight delay as the brain, the
thought process, adjusts to the interception, the alternate wavelength,
but that in itself can only persuade the interrogator into believing
the subject is truly thinking, preparing a truthful response."

"You can prove this?"

"Come, I'll show you."  The two men got up and Kroeger pressed a red
button to the right of the heavy steel door.  Within seconds a
uniformed nurse appeared, a surgical mask in her hand.

"Greta, this is the famed Dr.  Hans Traupman."

"Yes, I know," said the nurse.

"A privilege to see you again, Doctor.  Please, your mask."

"Yes, of course I know youl" exclaimed Traupman warmly.

"Greta Frisch, one of the finest surgical nurses ever in my operating
room.  My dear girl, they said you had retired, and for one so young it
seemed not only regrettable, but quite unbelievable."

"I retired into marriage, Herr Doktor.  With this one."  Greta nodded
at Kroeger, who was grinning.

"I wasn't sure you'd remember her, Hans."

"Remember?  One doesn't forget a Nurse Frisch, who anticipates your
every demand.  To tell you the truth, Gerhardt, your credibility just
went up the scale..  .. But why the mask, Greta?  We're not
operating."

"My husband will answer you, sir.  These things are beyond me, no
matter how often he explains them."

"The ROM, Hans, the Read-Only Memory.  With this patient we don't care
to have too many images of identifiable faces, and yours could-fall
into that category."

"Way past me too, Nurse Frisch.  Very well, let us proceed."  The trio
walked through the doors, entering a long, wide, pale green corridor
with succeeding large, square glass windows on either side.  Beyond the
windows were pleasantly appointed rooms, each having a bed, a desk, a
couch, and such items as a television set, a radio, and a door that led
to a bathroom with shower.  Also, there were other windows on the
outside walls that looked over the meadows, profuse with weaving high
grass and springtime flowers.

"if these are the patients' hospital rooms," continued Traupman,
"they're among the most pleasant I've seen.  ""The radios and the
television sets are preprogrammed, naturally," said Gerhardt.

"It's all innocuous fare, except for the radios at night, when we
transmit information as it pertains to the individual patients."

"Tell me what I'm to expect," said the neurosurgeon from Nuremberg.

"You'll find an outwardly normal Harry Latham who still believes he's
fooled us.  He answers to his cover name, Alexander Lassiter, and he's
extremely grateful to us."

"Why?"  interrupted Traupman.

"Why is he grateful?"

"Because he believes he was in an accident and barely escaped with his
life.  We used one of our huge mountain vehicles and staged the event
most convincingly, overturning the truck, 'pinning' him under it and
employing surrounding bursts of fire..  .. Here I did permit the use of
drugs and hypnosis-immediately, so as to erase his first minutes here
in our valley."

"Are you sure they're erased?"  They stopped in the corridor, the
Nuremberger's gaze fixed on Kroeger.

"Completely.  The trauma of the 'accident," along with the violent
images, as well as the pain we induced, superseded any memories of his
arrival.  They're blocked out.  Naturally, we reemployed hypnosis to
make certain.  All he remembers are the screams, the excruciating pain,
and the fires he was dragged through while being rescued."

"The stimuli are psychologically consistent," noted the neurosurgeon,
nodding his head.

"What about the time factor?  If he's aware of it, how did you explain
the passage of time?"

"The least difficult.  When he awoke, his upper skull was heavily
bandaged, and while under mild sedation he was told-over and over
again-that he'd been severely injured, that he had gone through three
separate operations while in a prolonged coma during which he, remained
completely silent.  It was explained to him that had his vital signs
not remained remarkably strong, I would have given up on him."

"Well phrased.  I'm certain he's grateful..  .. Does he know where he
is?"

"Oh, yes, we withhold nothing from him."

"Then how can you send him out?  My God, he'll disclose the whereabouts
of the valley!  They'll send in planes; you'll be bombed out of
existence!"

"It will not matter, for as von Schnabe will undoubtedly tell you, we
won't exist."

"Please, Gerhardt, one thing at a time.  I will not take another step
until you explain yourself."

"Later, Hans.  Greet our patient first, then you'll understand."

"My dear Greta," said Traupman, turning to the wife.

"Is this husband of yours the same logical human being I knew
before?"

"Yes, Doctor.  This part, the part he will explain to you, I do
understand.  It's brilliant, sir, you'll see."

"But first see our patient; he's the next window, the next door on the
right.  Remember, his name is Lassiter, not Latham."

"What should I say to him?"

"Whatever you like.  I'd suggest congratulating him on his recovery.
Come along."

"I'll wait by the desk," said Greta Frisch Kroeger.

The two physicians walked into the room where Harry Latham, his head
bandaged around his temples, stood by the large outside window.  He
turned and smiled; he was dressed in shirtsleeves and gray flannel
trousers.

"Hi there, Gerhardt.  Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Have you been for a walk, Alex?"

"Not yet.  You can damage a businessman, but you can't take the
business out of the man.  I've been playing with figures; there are
fortunes to be made in the Chinese mainland.  I can't wait to fly
over."

"May I present Dr..  .. Schmidt from Berlin?"

"Glad to meet you, Doctor."  Latham walked over, his hand extended.

"Also glad to see another doctor in our amazing complex here, just in
case Gerhardt louses me up.

"I gather he hasn't so far," said Traupman, shaking hands.

"But then, I hear you're an exceptionally good patient."

"I don't think I had a choice."

"Forgive the mask, Herr .. . Lassiter.  I have a slight cold and the
resident surgeon is a stickler, as you Americans say."

"I can say it in German, if you like."

"Actually, I like to practice my English.  Congratulations on your
recovery."

"Well, I'll give Dr.  Kroeger some credit."

"I'm curious, from a medical point of view.  If it's not too difficult
for you, what do you recall when you reached the flatland of our
valley?"

"Oh."  Latham/Lassiter paused briefly while his eyes were momentarily
glazed, unfocused.

"You mean the accident..  .. Oh, Christ, it was terrible.  A lot of
it's a blur, but the first thing I remember is the shouting; it was
hysterical.  Then I realized that I was stuck under the side of that
truck, and a heavy piece of metal was pressed against my head-I've
never felt such pain.  And people were all around, trying to lift
whatever it was off me-finally freeing me, and dragging me across the
grass, where I screamed because I saw the fires, felt the heat, and
thought my whole face was going to be burned.  That's when I passed
out-for a hell of a long time, as it happened."

"A terrifying experience.  But you're on your way to full health, Mr.
Lassiter, that's all that matters."

"If in the new Germany you can find a way to get Gerhardt a mansion on
the Danube, I'll pay for it."  Latham's eyes were now totally clear,
completely focused.

"You've done enough for us, Alex," said Kroeger, nodding at Traupman.

"Dr.  Schmidt here merely wanted to "Say hello to our generous
benefactor, and to make sure I performed as he taught me to..  .. Take
your walk anytime you like-after you've finished figuring out how to
extract many more millions from Asia."

"It's not that difficult, believe me.  The Far East doesn't merely like
money, it worships it.  When you decide I'm ready to leave, Gerhardt,
the Brotherhood will be richer for it."

"You are forever in our Teutonic prayers, Alex."

"Forget the prayers, just bring about the Fourth Reich."

"We shall."

"Good day, Herr Lassiter."

Traupman and Kroeger left and walked up the corridor to the pristine
anteroom.

"You were right," said the doctor from Nuremberg, sitting down.

"It is remarkable!"

"You approve, then?"

"How could I not?  Even to the pause in his voice, his clouded eyes.
Perfect.  You have done it!"

"Remember, Hans, it is flawed, I cannot be dishonest about that.

Conditions remaining stable in their abnormality, I can guarantee but
five to eight days longer, no more than that."

"But you say London, Paris, and Washington insist it is sufficient,
no?"

"Yes.  ),

"Now, tell me about this nonexistence of the valley.  It's shock.
Why?"

"We're no longer needed.  We're dispersing.  Over the past years we've
indoctrinated-trained-more than twenty thousand disciples-"

"You like that word, don't you ?"  Traupman broke in.

"It fits.  They're not only true believers, they are also leaders, both
minor and potentially major..  .. They've been sent everywhere, mostly
throughout Germany, but those gifted in foreign languages and with
appropriate skills, to other countries, all financed, ready to take
their places in carefully selected professions and occupations."

"We've progressed so far?  I had no idea."

"Then in your haste you didn't notice that we have far fewer people
here now.  The evacuation began weeks ago, our two mountain vehicles
operating night and day to remove personnel and equipment.  It's been
like a colony of ants deserting one hill for another-our destination
and our destiny-the new Germany."

"About the American, this Harry Latham.  Beyond staying in contact to
learn what he learns, which probably could be accomplished with paid
informers, what's his' function?  Or is that it?  That and proving your
theory for future use."

"What we learn from him will have value, of course, and will require
the use of a miniaturized electronic computer at close range.  It can
be easily concealed in a small object.  But Harry Latham has a far
higher calling.  If you remember, I mentioned that he will send our
enemies scurrying off in different directions.  That, however, barely
scratches the surface."

"You're practically salivating, Gerhardt.  Tell me."

"Latham said he was working on figures, numbers as they pertain to his
making millions from the Chinese economic expansion, yes?"

"He's probably right."

"Wrong, Hans.  Those figures have nothing to do with finance.

They're codes he's devised so he'll forget nothing after he escapes."

"Escapes?"

"Naturally.  He has a 'job to do, and he's a professional.  Of course,
we'll let him."

"For God's sake, be clearer!"

"During his weeks here, in our sessions and over, lunches and dinners,
we've fed him hundreds of names French German, English, American."

"What names?"  Traupman interrupted impatiently.

"Those men and women in Germany and abroad who silently support us, who
contribute heavily to our causein essence, people of influence and
power who actually work for the Brotherhood."

"Are you mad?"

"Among this silent, unrevealed elite," continued Kroeget, overriding
Traupman's vehement interjection, "are American congressmen, senators,
and captains of industry and the media.  Also, members of the British
establishment, not unlike the Cliveden set that gave Hitler his
supporters in England, including clandestine policymakers in British
intelligence-"

"You've lost your mind-" "Please, Hans, let me finish..  .. In Paris we
have influential sympathizers in the Quai d'Orsay, the Chamber of
Deputies, even the secret Deuxi@me Bureau.  And finally in Germany
itself, a number of Bonn's most prestigious authorities.  They yearn
for the old days before the Fatherland was polluted by the screaming
weak who want everything but contribute nothing, the inferior
bloodlines that corrupt our nation.  Latham has all of this
information, all the names.  As a trained deep-cover intelligence
officer, he'll report the vast majority."

"You are certifiable, Kroeger!  I will not permit it!"

"Oh, but you must, Dr.  Traupman.  You see, except for a small number
of legitimate, supporter who are expend- 9

able for establishing credibility, everything that Harry Latham carries
out of our valley is false.  The names he has in his head and concealed
in his codes are, indeed, vital to us, but only in the sense that these
people be discredited, even destroyed.  For, in truth, they deeply
oppose us, many stridently vocal in their opposition.  Once their names
are flashed secretly to the global intelligence networks, the witch
hunts will begin.  As the most sincere among them fall through official
suspicion and manufactured innuendo, the resulting vacuums will be
filled by many of our own .. . yes, disciples, Hans.

Especially in America, the most powerful of our enemies, for it is also
the most susceptible.  One has only to recall the frenzied Redbaiting
of the forties and fifties.  It became a nation paralyzed by fear,
thousands upon thousands tainted with the Soviet brush, whole
industries caving in to the paranoia, the country weakened from within.
The Communists knew how to do it; Moscow, as we have learned, secretly
funneled both money and ersatz information to the zealots..  .. One man
can start this process for us.  Harry Latham, code name Sting."

"My God!"  Traupman sank back in the chair, his voice barely above a
whisper.

"It is brilliant.  For he's the only person who's penetrated the core,
found the valley.  They'll have to believe him everywhere

"He will escape tonight."

 einrich Kreitz, German ambassador to the Republic of France, was a
short, slender man of seventy years .Hwith a gaunt face, silk like
white hair, and sad hazel eyes, perpetually creased.  For years a
professor of European political development at the University of
Vienna, he had been plucked from academia and recruited into the
diplomatic corps, due mainly to his numerous papers detailing the
history of international relations during the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries.  These lengthy articles were combined into a book entitled,
quite naturally Discourse Between Nations, a staple for diplomats in
seventeen languages, as well as a foreign services text in universities
across the civilized world.

It was 9:25 in the morning and Kreitz, seated in front of the American
ambassador's desk, stared in silence at Drew Latham, who stood to the
left of Ambassador Courtland.  Against the wall, on a couch, sat the
Deuxieme's Moreau.

"My shame is my country's guilt," said Kreitz finally, in his voice a
sadness that matched his eyes, "the guilt of having permitted such
monsters, such criminals, ever to have ruled our nation.  We will
increase our efforts, if that's humanly possible, to root them out and
destroy whatever nucleus they have.  Please understand, gentlemen, my
government is dedicated to exposing them, to eliminating them, if it
means building a thousand new prisons to contain them.  We, above all,
cannot afford their existence, surely you know that."

"We know it, Monsieur lAmbassadeur," said Claude Moreau, from the
couch, "but it seems you have a strange way of going about it.

Your Polizei are aware of the leaders of these disrupting fanatics in
a dozen cities.  Why are they not incarcerated?"

"Where violence can be proved against them, they are.  Our courts are
filled with such indictments.  But where mere dissent is concerned, we
are also a democracy; we have the same freedom of speech that permits
you your peaceable strikes, the Americans their rights of assembly,
frequently producing marches on Washington, where men and women
harangue their followers from platforms and -how is it said?  oh,
yes-the 'soapboxes."  Many of both your countries' statutes allow such
displays of antigovernment displeasure.  Are we then to silence
everyone who disagrees with Bonn, including those who crowd the squares
against the neo Nazis

"No, goddammit!"  roared Latham.

"But you do silence them' We didn't create concentration camps, or gas
chambers, or the genocide of an entire people.  You bastards did that,
not us!"

"Again in our shame we permitted it .. . just as you permitted the
enslaving of an entire people and stood by while black men were hanged
from ten thousand trees in your Southern states, and the French did
much the same in Equatorial Africa and their Far East colonies.  There
is both horror and decency in all of us.  In all our histories."

"That's not only nonsense, Heinrich, it doesn't apply here, and you
know it," said Ambassador Courfland with surprising authority.

"I know it because I've read your book.  You called it 'the perspective
of historical realities."  What was perceived to be the truths of the
times.  You can't justify the Third Reich in such terms."

"I never did, Daniel," rejoined Kreitz.

"I strenuously condemned the Reich for creating false truths, all too
acceptable to a devastated nation.  The Teutonic mythology was a
narcotic that a weak, disillusioned, famished people plunged
irrationally into their veins.

Did I not write that?"

"Yes, you did," acknowledged the American ambassador, nodding.

"Let's say I just wanted to remind you."

"Your point is well taken.  However, as you must protect the interests
of Washington, I have my obligations to

Bonn..  .. So where are we?  We all want the same thing."

I suggest, Monsieur I'Ambassadeur," said Moreau, getting up from the
couch, "that you allow me to put under surveillance a number of the
upper-level attach&s at your embassy."

"Beyond the intrusion of a host government on a diplomatic level, what
can that serve?  I know them all.  They're decent, hardworking men and
women, well trained and trustworthy."

"You cannot really know that, monsieur.  The evidence is beyond debate:
There is an organization here in Paris dedicated to the new Nazi
movement.  All the signs indicate that it may well be the central
organization outside of Germany, conceivably as important as the one
inside your country, for it can operate beyond German laws, German
eyes.  Further, it has been all but confirmed, lacking only the
specifics of transfer, that millions upon millions are being funneled
to the movement by way of France, no doubt through the efforts of this
organization whose origins may go back fifty years.

So you see, Monsieur I'Ambassadeur, we have a situation that goes
beyond narrow diplomatic traditions."

"I'd need the approval of my government to give you that, of course."

""Of course," agreed Moreau.

"Information of a financial nature could be relayed over our secure
channels by someone on the embassy staff to those here in Paris who are
aiding these psychopaths," said Kreitz pensively.

"I

see what you mean, as disturbing as it is..  .. Very well, I'll give
you an answer later in the day."  Heinrich Kreitz turned to Drew
Latham.

"My.  government will, of course, absorb all costs for the damages you
sustained, Herr Latham."

"Just get us the cooperation we need, or your government will be
responsible for damages you could never pay for," said Drew.

"Again."

"He's not here!"  cried Giselle Villier over the telephone.

"Monsieur Moreau of the Deuxieme Bureau was here four hours ago and
told us about the horrible things that happened to you and Henri
Bressard last night, and -my husband appeared to accept his
instructions not to interfere.  maintenance, mon Dieu, you know actors!
They can convincingly say anything and your ears and your eyes believe
them even while they're thinking something entirely different.  "

"Do you know where he is?"  asked Drew.

"I know where he isn't, monsieur!  After Moreau left, he seemed
resigned, and told me he was going to the theater for an understudy
rehearsal.  He said-and he's said it many times before-that his
presence at such rehearsals lends enthusiasm to the minor players.

I never thought to doubt him, then Henri called from the Quai d'Orsay,
insisting that he talk with Jean-Pierre.  So I told him to call the
theater-"

"He wasn't there," interrupted Latham.

"Not only was he not there, the understudy rehearsal isn't today, but
tomorrow!"

"Youthink he went on with his own plans, as he described them last
night?"

"I'm sure of it, and I'm frightened to death."

"Maybe you don't have to be.  The Deuxi@me has him under protection.
They'll follow him everywhere."

"Again, our new friend, Drew Latham, and I hope you are a friend-"

"Completely.  Believe that."

"You really don't know talented actors.  They can walk into a building
looking like themselves, then reappear on the street as someone else. 
A shirt stuffed under their jackets, their trousers baggy, their walk
different, and God forbid there's a clothes shop inside."

"You believe he might have done something like that?"

"It's why I'm so frightened.  When we spoke last night, he was very
strong in his decision, and Jean-Pierre is a strong man."

"That's what I told Bressard when he drove me to the embassy."

"I know.  It's why Henri insisted on speaking to him, to lend his voice
against any involvement."

"I'll check with Moreau."

"You will call me back, of course."

"Of course."  Drew hung up the phone in his embassy office, checked his
index for the Deuxieme Bureau, and called its chief.

"It's Latham," he said.

"I was expecting your call, monsieur.  What can I say?  We lost the
acteur, he was too clever for us.  He went into Les Halles, a circus of
confusion to begin with.  All those stalls-meats, flowers, chickens,
ligumes-total chaos.  He passed through a butcher market and not one of
our people saw him come out either side!"

"They were looking for someone he wasn't.  What are you going to do
now?"

"I have units checking out the less desirable of our streets.  We must
find him."

"You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because he's the best actor in France.  But he's got to show up at the
theater tonight.  For Christ's sake, be there, and if you have to, put
him under house arrest tomorrow..  .. If he's still alive."

"Please, do not suggest .. ."

"I've been down in those streets, Moreau; I don't think you have.

You're too elite; your sophisticated strategies have nothing to do with
the sewers of Paris, where he probably is."

"Your insult is unwarranted; we know more about this city than anyone
on earth."

"Good.  Then go took."  Drew hung up the phone, wondering whom else he
could call, what else he might do.  His thoughts were interrupted by a
knock on his office door.

"Come in," he said impatiently.

An attractive dark-haired woman in her early thirties and wearing large
tortoiseshell glasses walked in, carrying a thick file folder.

"I

believe we've found the materials you asked for, monsieur."

"Excuse me, but who are you?"

"My name is Karin de Vries, sir.  I work in Documents and Research."

"A euphemism for everything from 'sensitive' to 'maximum classified."

"Not all of it, Monsieur Latham.  We also have road maps, as well as
schedules for airports and rail transport."

"You're French."

"Flemish, actually," corrected the woman, her accent soft but
unmistakable.

"However, I've spent a number of years in Paris, including studies for
my degrees at the Sorbonne."

"You speak excellent English-" "Also French and Dutch, including the
Flemish and Walloon dialects, of course, and German," interrupted De
Vries quietly, "with equal reading skills.?

"That's some talent."

"It's not at all unusual, except perhaps the in-depth reading, the
abstractions and the use of idioms."

4 CWhich is why you're in Documents and Research."

"It was a requirement, naturally."

"Naturally..  .. What did you find for me?"

"You asked us to research the laws of the Minist@re des Finances,
explore whatever cracks might exist with respect to foreign investment,
and bring the information to you."

"Let's have it."  The woman came around the desk, placed the file
folder in front of Drew, and opened it, revealing a sheaf of computer
printouts.

"That's a lot of data, Miss de Vries," said Latham.

"It'll take me a week to go through it, and I haven't got a week.  The
world of high finance isn't one of my strong suits."

"Oh, no, monsieur, most of this contains extracts from the laws
supporting our conclusions, and case histories of those caught
violating those laws.  Their names and short summaries of their
manipulations are on only six pages."

"Good Lord'it's far more than I asked for.  You did all this in five
hours?"

"The equipment is superb, sit, and the ministry was extremely
cooperative, even to the point of interceding our modems."

"They didn't object to our invasion?"

"I knew whom to contact.  He understood what you were after and why."

"Do you?"

"I'm neither blind nor deaf, monsieur.  Enormous funds are being
transferred through Switzerland into Germany to unknown illegitimate
individuals or accounts using the Swiss procedure of subjecting
handwritten numbers to spectrographs."

"And the identity of those numbers?"

"Wired instantly back to Zurich, Bern, or Geneva, where they are
inviolate.  Neither confirmed nor denied."

"You know a great deal about these procedures, don't you?"

"Allow me to explain, Monsieur Latham.  I worked for the Americans in
NATO.  I was cleared by the American authorities for the most highly
classified materials because I frequently saw things and heard things
that escaped the Americans.  Why do you ask?

Are you suggesting something else?"

"I don't know.  Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your efficiency you
responsible for this folder, aren't you?  I mean you alone, correct?  I
can ask others in D and R."

"Yes," said Karin de Vries, walking slowly around the desk and standing
in front of Latham.

"I saw your request -flagged red-in our department chief's file.  I
opened it and studied it.  I knew I was qualified to expedite it, and
so I removed it."

"Did you tell your superior?"

"No."  The woman paused, then added softly, "I understood immediately
that I could analyze and develop the information quicker than anyone
else in our section.  I've brought you the results-in only five
hours."

"You mean nobody else in D and R knew you were working on this query,
including your section chief?"

"He's in Calais for the day, and I saw no reason to go to his
deputy."

"Why not?  Didn't you need authorization?  This is a matter that
required special assignment.  The red flag spells that out."

"I told you, I was cleared by the American authorities in NATO and by
your own intelligence specialists here in

Paris.  I've brought you what you wanted, and my personal motives are
Irrelevant."

"I guess they are.  I've also got a few motives of my own, which means
I'm going to check and cross-check everything in this file."

"You'll find the entries accurate and confirmed."

"I hope so.  Thank you, Miss de Vries, that'll be all."

"If I may correct you, sir, it's not Miss but Mrs.  de Vries.  I'm a
widow.  My husband was killed in East Berlin by the Stasi a week before
the Wall came down-the Stasi, monsieur.  The name was changed but they
were as vicious as the most savage units of the Gestapo and the Waffen
SS.  My husband, Frederik de Vries, was working for the Americans.  You
may check and cross-check that also."  The woman turned and left the
room.

Stunned, Latham watched as the door was closed so sharply, one could
say it was slammed shut.  He picked up his phone and touched the
buttons on his console for the embassy's director of security.  Once
past an irritating secretary who kept practicing her college French,
which was less adequate than his own, thought Drew, the security head
was on the line.

"What's up, Cons-Op?"

"Who the hell is a Karin de Vries, Stanley?"

"A major blessing contributed by the NATO crowd," replied Stanley
Witkowski, a thirty-year-plus veteran of' Army Intelligence, a colonel
transferred to the State Department because of his extraordinary
success in G-2.  ""She's quick, bright, imaginative, and reads and
speaks five languages fluently.

Heaven-sent, my friend."

"That's what I want to know.  Who sent her?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Her work habits are a little strange.  I sent a sealed red flag down
to Research, and without authorization or assignment she removed it
from the file and processed it herself."

"A red flag?  That is strange; she knows better than that.  A flag has
to be signed off by the section chief and his deputy, the assignee
approved and registered."

"Tfiat's what I thought, and where this operation is concerned, I'm
paranoid about leaks and false information.  Who sent her here?"

"Forget that, Drew.  She requested Paris, and from the supreme
commander down she was golden."

"There's gold and there's fool's gold, Stan.  She inferred things that
went beyond her clearance in this matter, and I want to know how and
why."

"Can you give me a clue?"

"I'll go this far.  It concerns the new bad dudes marching around
Germany."

"That doesn't help me much."

"She said her husband was killed by the Stasi in East Berlin.

Can you confirm that?"

"Hell, yes, even personally.  I was stationed on our side of the Wall,
busting my balls around the clock making contact with our people on the
other side.  Freddie de Vries was a young, smart-asa-whip infiltrator.
The poor son of a bitch was caught just days before the Stasi became
history."

"Then she would legitimately have a serious, even obsessive interest in
events in Germany,"

"Sure she would.  You know where most of the Stasi went-when the Wall
came tumbling down?"

"Where?"

"Right into the welcoming arms of the skinheads, those godda@nned
Nazis..  .. Oh, speaking of Freddie de V, he 'worked with your brother
Harry.  I know because my G-Two coordinated with both of them.  Harry
wasn't just upset, he was mad as hell when he heard about Freddie.
Almost like he was a kid brother, like you maybe."

"Thanks, Stanley.  I think I just made an insulting mistake.

Regardless, there are a couple of gaps that have to be filled."

"What does that mean?"

"How did Mrs.  de Vries know about me?"

In the shadows of the afternoon sunlight, Jean-Pierre Villier, his face
unrecognizable, the nose twice its true size, his eyelids equally
bulbous, his clothes tatters and rags, stumbled down the dark alley in
Montparnasse.  There were drunken bodies intermittently sitting on the
cobblestones, their backs against the walls, most slumped, others
having collapsed into fetal positions.  He sang in an alcoholic,
singsong cadence, the words slurred.

"Ecoutez, icoutez-gardez-vous, mes amis!  I have heard from our dear
companion jodelle-is anyone interested, or am I wasting my old
breath?"

"Jodelle's crazy!"  came a voice on the left.

"He gets us in trouble!"  cried a voice from the right.

"Tell him to go to hell."

"I must find friends of his, he tells me it's important!"

"Go to the northern docks along the Seine, he sleeps better there,
steals better there."

Jean-Pierre wandered up to the Quai des Tuileries, stopping at every
darkened back street and alley he came across, plunging into each with
essentially the same results.

"Old jodelle is a pig!  He'doesn't share his wine!"

"He says he has friends in high places-where are they?"

"This great actor he says is his son-such shit!"

"I'm a drunk and I do not care any longer, but I don't burden my
friends with lies."

And then, as Villier reached the loading piers above the Pont de
I'Alma, he heard the first words of encouragement from a derelict old
woman.

"Jodelle is mad, of course, but he is always nice to me.  He brings me
flowers-stolen flowers, naturally-and calls me a great actress.  Can
you believe that?"

"Yes, madame, I believe he means it."

"Then you are as mad as he is."

"Perhaps I am, for you are a lovely woman."

"Aiyee!  .. . Your eyes!  They are blue clouds in the sky.  You are his
ghost!"

"He is dead?"

"Who knows?  Who are you?"

And finally, hours later, as the sun descended behind the tall
structures of the Trocaero, he heard other words, shouted in another
alley, far darker than any previous one.

"Who speaks of my friend, jodelle?"

"I do," yelled Villier, walking farther into the darkness of the narrow
enclosure.

"Are you his friend?"  he asked, kneeling beside the collapsed,
disheveled beggar.

"I must find jodelle," continued Jean-Pierre, "and I have money for
anyone who can help me!  Here, look!  Fifty francs."

"It's been a long time since I've seen fifty francs."

"See them now.  Where is Jodelle, where did he go?"

"Oh, he said it was a secret-"

"But he told you."

"Oh, yes, we were like brothers-"

"I am his son.  Tell me."

"The Loire Valley, a terrible man in the Loire Valley, that's all I
know," whispered the derelict.

"No one knows who he is."

A silhouetted figure suddenly came out of the bright shaft of sunlight
into the alley.  He was a man of Jean Pierre size when the actor stood
upright and was not hunched over as he was their.

"Why are you asking about old jodelle?"  said the intruder.

"I have 'to find him, sit," replied Villier, his voice wheezing and
tremulous.

"He owes me money, you see, and I've been looking for him for three
days now."

"I'm afraid you won't collect the debt.  Don't you read the
newspapers?"

"Why spend what money I have to read about things that do not concern
me?  I can laugh over the comics in yesterday's thrown away paper,
yesterday's or last week's."

"An old tramp identified as someone named Jodelle killed himself in a
theater last night."

"Oh, that bastard!  He owed me seven francs!"

"Who are you, old man?"  asked the intruder, approaching Jean Pierre
and studying him in the dim light of the alley.

"I am Auguste Renoir and I paint pictures.  Then sometimes I am
Monsieur Monet, and often the Dutchman Rembrandt.  And in springtime I
like to be Georges Seurat; in winter I'll be the cripple
Toulouse-Lautrec-all those warm bordellos.  Museums are wonderful
places when it rains and is cold."

"Ah, you are an old fool!"  The man turned and started walking toward
the street as Villier hobbled rapidly after him.

"Monsieur!"  cried the actor.

"What?"  The man stopped.

"Since you were the bearer of this terrible news, I think you should
pay me the seven francs."

"Why?  What kind of logic is that?"

"You've stolen my hope."

"I stole what .. . ?"

"My hope, my expectation.  I did not ask you about Jodelle, you
accosted me.  How did you know I was looking for him?"

"You shouted his name a few moments ago."

"And on that trivial excuse you enter my life and destroy my
anticipation?  Perhaps I should ask who you are, monsieur.  You're
dressed too richly to be acquainted with my friend Jodelle-that son of
a bitch!  What is Jodelle to you?  Why did you come in here?"

"You're a lunatic," said the man, reaching into his pocket.

"Here, here's a twenty-franc note, and I apologize for coming into your
life."

"Oh, thank you, sit, thank you!"  Jean-Pierre waited until the curious
stranger reached the sunlit pavement, then raced up the alley, peering
around the corner as the man approached a car parked at the curb twenty
meters up the street.  Again feigning a half-mad vagabond of Paris,
Villier lurched onto the sidewalk, prancing like a deformed court
jester, shouting at his benefactor.

"May God love you and may the holy Jesus embrace you, monsieur!

May the glories of heavenly paradise be-"

"Get the hell away from me, you drunken old tramp!"

Oh, I certainly will, thought Jean-Pierre, studying the license plate
of the departing Peugeot.

It was late afternoon when Latham took the elevator down to the embassy
basement complex for the second time in eighteen hours, not, however,
to head for Communications, but instead to the sacrosanct Documents
and

Research.  A marine guard sat at a desk to the right of the steel door;
he recognized Drew and smiled.

"How's the weather up there, Mr.  Latham?"

"Not as cool and clean as yours, Sergeant, but then, you've got the
most expensive air-conditioning."

"We're very delicate down here.  You want to enter our hall of secrets
and hard-core porn?"

"They showing dirty movies?"

"A hundred francs a seat, but I'll get you in for nothing.

"I could always count on the marines."

"Speaking of which, the fellas in the squad want to thank you for the
freebies you set up for us at that cafe in the Grenelle."

"My pleasure.  You never know when you might want to see a dirty
movie..  .. Actually, the people who own that place are old friends and
your presence had a calming effect on some unattractive regulars."

"Yeah, you told us.  We dressed to the nines, like we were in an
operetta or something."

"Sergeant," interrupted Drew, looking at the guard.

"Do you know a Karin de Vries in D and R?"

"Only to speak to' good morning, good night," that's about it.

She's a real good7looking girl, but it seems to me she tries to hide
it.  Like with those glasses that must weigh five pounds and those dark
clothes that definitely aren't Paris."

"Is she new here?"

"I'd say about four months, transferred from NATO.  Word is that she's
kinda quiet like and keeps to herself, y'know what I mean?"

"I think so..  .. All right, keeper of the mystic keys, get me into a
front seat."

"Actually, it's in the first row, third office on the right.  Her
name's on the door."

"You peeked?"

"Damn right.  When that door's locked, we patrol the place every night,
keep our hands on our sidearms in case there are uninvited
stragglers."

"Ah, the secret-missions types.  You should be in the movies, the
cleaner ones."

"You should talk.  A full-course dinner with all the wine we could
drink for thirteen gyrenes?  And a nervous owner who kept racing around
telling everybody we were his best friends and probably his American
relatives, who would be at his place with bazookas the minute he called
us, anytime he was in trouble?  That's a straight arrow, Hardy Boys
scenario?"

"A harmless, innocent invitation by an ardent admirer of the Corps."

"Your nose is growing longer, Mr.  Pinocchio."

"You've torn my ticket.  Let me in, please."

The marine pressed a button on his desk and a loud click was heard in
the steel door.

"Enter the Wizard's palace, Sir."

Latham walked inside, into the low, continuous hum of computer
equipment.  Documents and Research consisted of succeeding rows of
offices on both sides of a central aisle, and as in the communications
complex, everything was jwhite, antiseptic, with overhead neon tubes
crossing the low ceiling like columns of thick, bright circular stalks.
He walked to his right, to the third office door; in the center of the
upper panel was a black plastic strip with white lettering.  MADAME DE
VRIES.  Not Mademoiselle, but Madame, and the widow De Vries had
several questions to answer regarding one Harry Latham and his brother
Drew.  He knocked.

"Come in," said the voice inside.  Latham opened the door, greeted by
the startled face of Karin de Vries; she was seated at her desk on the
left wall.

"Monsieur, I hardly expected you," she said, in her voice the sound of
fear.

"I apologize for my rudeness.  I should not have left the way I did."

"You've got it wrong, lady.  I'm the one who should apologize.

I spoke to Witkowski-"

"Oh, yes, the colonel-"

"That's what we have to talk about."

"I @hould have known," interrupted the researcher.

"Yes, we'll talk, Monsieur Latham, but not here.  Elsewhere."

"Why?  I went through everything you gave me, and it wasn't just good,
it was outstanding.  I barely know a debit from an asset, but you made
so much so clear."

"Thank you.  But you're here for another reason, aren't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There is a cafe off the Gabriel, six blocks east of here, Le Sabre
d'Orleans.  It is small and not popular.  Be there in forty-five
minutes.  I'll be in a booth at the rear."

"I don't understand-"

"You will."

Precisely forty-seven minutes later Drew walked into the small, rundown
cafe off the avenue Gabriel, blinking at the lack of light, somewhat
surprised at the shabby environs in one of the more expensive real
estate sections of the city.  He found Karin de Vries, as she had said,
in the farthest booth of the establishment.

"This is some joint," he whispered, sitting down opposite her.

"L'obstination du Fran@ais," De Vries explained, "and there's no need
to speak so quietly.  No one of substance will hear us."

"Who's stubborn?"

"The owner.  He's @een offered a great deal of money for this property,
but he refuses to sell.  He's rich and it's been in his family for
years-long before he was rich.  He keeps it to employ relatives here
comes one now; don't be shocked."

An obviously drunken elderly waiter approached the table, his walk
unsteady.

"Do you care to order, we have no food?"  he asked in one breath.

"Scotch whisky, please," replied Latham in French.

"No Scotch today," said the waiter, belching.

"We have a fine selection of wines, and some Japanese junk they call
whisky."

"White wine, then.  Chablis, if you have it."

"It'll be white."

"I'll have the same," said Karin de Vries.  The waiter trudged away and
she continued.

"Now you can see why it's not popular."

"It shouldn't exist..  .. Let's talk.  Your husband worked with my
brother in East Berlin."

"Yes."

"That's all you can say?  just 'yes'?"

"The colonel told you.  I didn't know he was here in Paris when I
requested the trans r. When I -own out, I was astonished, and knew this
moment between us was inevitable."

"You wanted the transfer because of me?"

"Because you are the rot er o Harry Latham, a man both Frederik and I
considered a dear, dear friend."

"You know Harry that well?"

"Freddie worked for him, although the arrangement was off the books."

"There are no books in those areas."

"What I mean is that not even Harry's people, much less Colonel
Witkowski and his army G-Two, knew that Harry was my husband's control.
There could be no hint of their association in that 'area," as you call
it, not a scintilla."

"But Witkowski told me they worked together."

"On the same side, yes, but not as control and runner.  I don't think
anyone ever suspected that."

"It was so vital to keep it a secret, even among our own top people?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the kind of work Frederik did for Harry- willingly,
enthusiastically.  If certain events were traced back to the Americans,
there could have been terrible consequences."

"Neither side was particularly clean, and at times both were pretty
damned gruesome.  It was a negative quid pro quo, so what?"

"I think it was the killing, that's what I was led to believe."

"We both killed-"

"Perhaps it was the prominence of many who were assassinated," Karin
de Vries broke in, her eyes wide, almost pleading.

"As I understand, a number were in high positions, Germans favored by
Moscow, leaders who reported directly to the Kremlin.  A parallel might
be found if mayors of your large cities or the governors of New York
State or California were killed by Soviet agents, do you see what I
mean?"

"It couldn't have happened at all-, it's counterproductive.

Moscow would never have allowed it."

"It happened here and Moscow covered it up.  Wisely, I might add."

"Are you saying my brother, your husband's control, ordered him to
assassinate such men?  That's preposterous!  It would make the U-2
fiasco pale by comparison.  I don't believe you, lady.  Harry's too
smart, too knowledgeable to do anything like that; there could have
been mass reprisals in the States, everyone one step closer to nuclear
war, and nobody wanted that."

"I did not say your brother ordered my husband to commit such acts."

"Then what are you saying?"

"They were committed and Harry was Frederik's control."

"You mean your husband-"

"Yes," interrupted Karin de Vries softly.

"Freddie served your brother well, boring into the Stasi to the point
where they threw him parties as a diamond merchant from Amsterdam who
was making the apparatchiks rich.  Then a pattern developed; times and
locations coincided where powerful East Germans beholden to the Kremlin
were assassinated.  Separately and together, both Harry and I
confronted Frederik.  He denied everything, of course, and his innocent
charm and his quick tongue-the same qualities that made him an
extraordinary deep-cover operative-persuaded us both that it was
coincidence."

"There's no such thing as coincidence in this business."

"We found that out when Frederik was captured a week before the Berlin
Wall came down.  Under torture, compounded by the injected serums, my
husband admitted to the assassinations.  Harry was among the first
specialists to reach and tear apart the Stasi headquarters, and in his
anger over Freddie's death he knew exactly what to look for and when it
happened.  He found a copy of the transcript and kept it on his person,
bringing it to me later."

"Then your husband was a loose cannon, and neither you nor my brother
saw through him?"

"You would have to have known Freddie.  There was a reason behind his
intemperance.  He had a hatred toward the militant Germans, a deep
loathing that did not extend to the tolerant, even penitent citizens of
West Germany.  You see, his grandparents were executed in the town
square by a Waffen SS firing squad in front of the entire village.
Their crime: bringing food to the starving Jews held behind an open
barbed-wire enclosure in a field by the railroad yard.  However-and
this is most painful along with his grandfather and grandmother, seven
innocent males, all fathers, were shot as examples for a disobedient
citizenry.  In the hypocrisy of panic, the De Vries family was
stigmatized for a generation.  Frederik was brought up by relatives in
Brussels, permitted only on rare occasions to see his parents, who
eventually committed suicide together.  I'm convinced the terrible
memory of those years stayed with Freddie until the moment he died."

Silence.  And then the bewildered waiter returned with their glasses of
wine, spilling part of one on Drew's trousers.  He left, and Latham
said, "Let's get out of here.  There's a decent restaurant, a
brasserie, around the corner."

"I know it too, but I would prefer to finish our conversation here."

"Why?  This place is awful."

"I don't think it's right that we be noticed together."

"For God's sake, we work in the same place.  Incidentally, why haven't
I ever seen you at our embassy gettogethers?  I'm sure I'd have
remembered."

"Such parties are not a priority with me, Monsieur Latham.  I live a
very solitary and quite happy life."

"By yourself?"

"That is my choice."

Drew shrugged.

"Okay, then.  You saw my name on our roster sent to The Hague, and on
the basis of my being Harry's brother, you asked for your transfer.
Wh-?"

Y.

"I told you, I was cleared by NATO for maximum classified materials.
Six months ago I took a secure--channel memorandum from radio traffic
to the supreme commander, and being curious-as I was today-I looked at
it.  It said that one Drew Latham was being transferred to Paris with
full Quai d'Orsay credentials, to explore the "German problem."  It
took no imagination to know what that was, monsieur.  It was the
"German problem' that killed my husband, and I remembered all too
clearly your brother talking about you most affectionately.  How he
wished you had never tried to follow in his footsteps, for you were too
quick-tempered and had no facility with languages."

"Harry's jealous because Mother always liked me better."

"You're joking."

"I certainly am.  Actually, I have an idea she thought still thinks we
both a little strange."

"Because of your professions?"

"Hell no, she doesn't know what they are, and Dad's smart enough not to
tell her.  She's convinced we're somewhere in the ranks of the State
Department, traveling all over the world for months at a time, and why
aren't we both married so she can spoil her grandchildren."

"A natural concern, I'd say."

"Not for two sons in an unnatural, profession."

"However, Harry did allow that you were very strong and quite
intelligent."

"Quite intelligent?  .. . jealousy again.  I got extra money on my
college scholarship because of my prep school hockey-he fell on his ass
on a pair of skates."

"You're joking again."

"No, not that part, it's real.  "I

"You had scholarships?"

"We had to.  Our father was a Ph.D. in archeology, and all it brought
him were digs from Arizona to the old Iraq.

The National Geographic Society and the Explorers' Club id for the
travels but not for the wife and kids.  When pal I those movies came
out, Harry and I used to laugh and say to hell with the "Lost Ark,"
where were the kids of Indiana Jones?"

"The frame of reference is beyond me, although I recognize the academic
aspect."

"Our father had tenure, so we weren't broke, but we certainly weren't
rich, barely middle-class well-off.  We had to get scholarships..  ..
Now, you've heard my life story, and I've heard more than I care to
hear about your husband .. . what about you?

Where are you coming from-out of the woodwork, Mrs.  de Vries?"

"It's not relevant-"

"Yes, you said that before and I don't buy it.  Before you go much
further in the embassy, especially in D and R, you'd better make it
clear."

"You don't believe a word I've told you

"I believe the surface, what Witkowski confirmed, but beyond that I'm
not sure."

"Then you can go to the devil, monsieur."  Karin de Vries started
sliding across the booth to get up, when the inebriated waiter
approached.

"Is there anyone here named Latham?"  he asked.

"Latham?  Yes, that's me."

"There is a call for you on our telephone.  That will add thirty francs
to your bill."  The waiter wandered away.

"Stay here," said Drew.

"I told Communications where I'd be.  "

"Why should I?"

"Because I want you to I really want you to  Latham got up and walked
rapidly to the antiquated telephone at the end of the distressed bar.
He picked up the receiver, which was lying in a pool of stale wine, and
spoke.

"This is Latham."

"Durbane here," said the voice on the line.

"I'm patching you through on scrambler to Director Sorenson in
Washington.  You're clear at both ends.  Go ahead."

"Drew?"

"Yes, sir-"

"It happened!  We just got word about Harry.  He's alive!"

"Where?"

"As near as we can determine, somewhere in the Hausruck Alps.

A call came through from the anti-ncos in Obernberg saying they were
engineering his escape, and to keep our secure lines open from Passau
to Burghausen.  They refused to identify themselves, but they have to
be real."

"Thank God!"  cried Latham in relief.

"Don't be too confident.  They say he's got to get through damn near
twelve miles of snow in the mountains before they can reach him."

"You don't know Harry.  He'll get there.  I may be stronger, but he was
always tougher."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind.  I'll go back to the embassy and wait."

Latham rep laced the phone and returned to the, table

Karin de Vries was not there.

 he column of figures trudged through the snow ag the long shadows of
evening spread across the Tmountain range, the only illumination the
headlights of the two huge vehicles and the flashlights of the guards.
Harry Latham leapt off the truck, the ache in his head subsiding the
nearer they came to the bridge over the gorge above the offshoot of the
Salzach River.  He could make it!

Once over the narrow bridge, he would find his way; he had memorized
the reverse route and the markings he had made, recalling it all a
thousand times during his so-called hospitalization, otherwise known as
being held hostage.  But he could not remain in the alpine truck, where
he had hidden himself, for the vehicles were searched, each piece of
equipment matched to an invoice.

Instead, he had to join the column of Sormenkinder, blindly marching
off to their uncertain futures throughout Germany and all Europe,
singing their songs of blood purity, Aryan righteousness, and death to
the ill born.  Harry sang with the loudest of them, his fervor
acknowledged by grins and bright eyes as they crossed over the bridge.
Only moments now.

The moment came!  The column marched to the right in the snow-swept
night, and Harry ducked away, crouching, and scurried to his left
during a particularly brief, heavy snowfall.  An observant guard saw
him and raised his pistol.

"Nein!"  said the Reichsfzihrer of the detail, gripping the soldier's
arm and lowering it.

"Verboten.  Ist sc bon gut!"

The man known in covert-operations as Sting trudged through the knee-
ep snow un tramp e prece feet, breathlessly hoping he would see the
first of the marks he had made weeks before-years ago in his mind -when
he was first escorted to the hidden valley.  There it was!  Two broken
limbs of a sapling that would not rejuvenate until spring.  The small
tree had been on the left, the next marking was on the right, a
descending, diagonal right..  .. Three hundred yards later, his face
hot and flushed, his' legs freezing, he saw it!  The branch of an
alpine spruce he had snapped; it was still angled downward, its remnant
dried, devoid of sap.  The mountain road between the two alpine
villages was less than five miles away, most of it downhill.  He would
make it.  He had to!

Finally, his feet in ice-cold agony, his body bent over in pain, he
did.  He sat down and massaged his legs, his hands scraped by his
half-frozen trousers, when a truck appeared on the left.  He propelled
himself to his feet, staggered into the road, and violently waved his
arms in the beams of the headlights.  The truck stopped.

"Hilfe!".  he yelled in German.

"My car went off the road!"

"No explanations, please," said the bearded driver in accented
English.

"I've been waiting for you.  I've driven up and down this road for the
past three days, hour after hour."

"Who are you?"  asked Harry, climbing into the seat.

"Your deliverance, as the British say," replied the driver,
chuckling.

"You knew I was coming out?"

"We have a spy in the hidden valley, although we have no idea where it
is.  She, like everyone else, was taken there blindfolded."

"How did she know?"

"She's a nurse in the hospital down there, a nurse when she isn't
ordered to copulate with another Aryan Brader so to produce a new
Sonnenkind.  She watched you, saw you folding pieces of paper and
sewing them into your clothes-"

"But how?"  interrupted Latham/Lassiter.

"Your rooms have hidden cameras."

"How did she get word to you?"

"All the Sonnenkinder are permitted, even ordered, to reach parents or
relatives to explain their absences with pleasant fictitious stories.
Without those explanations, the Oberfrihrer fear exposure, as with your
American cults, who barricade themselves in other mountains and
valleys.  She reached her 'parents," and with precise codes told us the
American would be leaving, the precise day or time she couldn't know,
but you were definitely going to escape imminently."

"The evacuation-and it is just that-was my way out."

"Whatever, you're here and on your way to Burghausen.  From our humble
headquarters there you may reach whomever you like.

You see, we are the Antinayous."

"The who?"

"The opposite of the one who, under the nom de plume of CaracARA,
slaughtered twenty thousand Romans who opposed his despotic rule,
according to the historian Dio

Cassius."  I

"I've heard of Caracalla, Dio Cassius as well, but I'm afraid I don't
understand you."

"Then you are not a serious student of Roman history.  " "No, I'm
not."

"So we'll bring it up-to-date, in another context, in another reversal,
ja?"

"Whatever you say."

"Anglicized, we are anti-Nyoss, ja?"

"Okay."

"Substitute 'ncos' for 'nyoss," h'okay?"

"Sure."

"Then what have you got?  Anti-ncos, night wabr?  Antineo-Nazis.

That's who we are!"

"Why do you have to hide under an obscure name?"

"Why do they hide under the secret name of the Broderschaft?"

"What has one got to do with the other?"

"Secrecy must match secrecy!"

"Why?  You're legitimate."

"We battle our enemy both above the ground and underneath the dirt."

"I've been there," said Harry Latham, falling back into the seat.

"And I still don't understand you."

"Why did you leave?"  asked Drew, having gotten Karin de Vries's
telephone number from security.

"There wasn't anything more to say," replied the D and R researcher.

"There was a hell of a lot more to say, and you know it."

"Please check my clearance files, and if anything upsets you, report
it."

"Forget that crap!  Harry's alive!  After three years under cover, he
escaped and he@s on his way back!"

"Mon Dieu.  I cannot tell you how happy, how relieved I am!

"You knew all 'along what my brother was doing, didn't you?"

"Not on the telephone, Drew Latham.  Come to my flat on the rue
Madeleine.  It is twenty-six, apartment five."

Drew gave the number to Durbane in Communications, grabbed his jacket,
and raced out to the Deuxieme car, which was now his constant
companion.

"Rue Madeleine," he said.

"Number twenty six

"A nice neighborhood," said the driver, starting the unmarked
vehicle.

The apartment on rue Madeleine added another dimension to the enigma
that was Karin de Vries.  Not only was it large, it was tastefully,
expensively appointed; the furniture, the drapes, and the paintings
were far beyond the salary of an embassy employee.

"My husband was not a poor man," said the widow, noting Drew's
reactions to the decor.

"He not only played the part of a diamond merchant, he actively
participated, and with his usual 61an."

"He must have been some kind of fellow."

"And then something beyond that," added De Vries without a comment in
her voice.

"Please, sit down, Monsieur Latham.  May I offer you a drink?"

"Considering the sour wine at the cafe of your choice, I gratefully
accept."

"I do have Scotch whisky."

"Then I more than accept, I beg."

"No need to," said De Vries, laughing softly and walking to a mirrored
bar.

"Freddie taught me to always keep four libations on hand," she
continued, opening an ice bucket, a bottle, and pouring a drink.

"Red wine at room temperature, white wine chilled-one full bodied, the
other dry, and both of good quality-as well as Scotch whisky for the
English and bourbon for the Americans."

"What about the Germans?"

"Beer, the quality unimportant, for he said they'd drink anything.

But then, as I told you, he was extremely bigoted."

"He must have known other Germans."

"Natiirfich.  He insisted they had a fetish for imitating the
British.

"Whisky'-which is Scotch-without ice, and although they prefer ice,
they deny it."  She brought Drew his glass and, gesturing at a chair,
said, "Sit down, Monsieur Latham, we have several things to discuss."

"Actually, that's my line," said Drew, sitting in a soft leather
armchair across from the light-green velveteen couch preferred by Karin
de Vries.

"You won't join me?"  he asked, partially raising his glass.

"Perhaps later-if there is a later."

"You're one hell of a puzzle, lady."

"From where you sit I'm sure I appear so.  However, looking over at
you, I am simplicity itself.  It's you who are the puzzle.  You and the
American intelligence community."

"I think that remark requires an explanation, Mrs.  de Vries."

"Of course it does, and you shall have it.  You send a man out under
the deepest cover, an extraordinarily talented operative fluent in five
or six languages, and you keep his existence so secret here in Europe,
so secret, he has no protection, no one he can reach as a control, for
no one has the authority, much less the responsibility, to advise
him."

"Harry always had the option to pull out," protested Latham.

"He traveled all over Europe and the Middle East.  He could have
stopped anywhere, picked up a phone, called Washington, and said, "This
is it, I'm finished."  He wouldn't have been the first deep cover to
have done that."

"Then you don't know your own brother."

"What do you mean?  For Christ's sake, I grew up with him."

"Professionally?"

"No, not that way.  We're in separate branches."

"Then you truly have no idea what a bloodhound he is."

"Bloodhound .. . ?"

"As fanatic in his pursuits as the fanatics he was pursuing."

"He didn't like Nazis, who does?"

"That's not my point, monsieur.  When Harry was a control, he had
assets in East Germany, paid by the Americans, who fed him information
that dictated his orders to his runners, runners like my husband.  Your
brother had no such advantage this last time.  He was alone."

"He had to be.  It was the nature of the operation, total isolation.

There couldn't be the slightest possible trace.  Even I didn't know his
cover name.  What is your point?"

"Harry had no assets over here, but his enemy has assets in
Washington."

"What the hell are you saying?"

"You rightly assumed that I knew about your brother's assignment.
Incidentally, his cover name was Lassiter, Alexander Lassiter."

"What?"  Astonished, Latham shot forward in the chair.

"Where did you get that information?"

"Since even you didn't know the name he was using, where else?  The
enemy, of course, a member of the Brotherhood-that's the name they
use."

"This is getting awfully sticky, lady.  Another explanation, please.

"

"Only partial.  Some things you'll have to accept on faith.  For my own
protection."

"I haven't got much faith, even less now, so let's start with the
partial.  Then I'll tell you whether you still have a .  job or not."

"Considering my contributions, that's hardly fair-"

"Give it a try," interrupted Drew sharply.

"Freddie and I kept a flat in Amsterdam, in his name, naturally, an
apartment commensurate with his wealth as a young entrepreneur in the
diamond trade.  Whenever our schedules permitted, we'd be together
there, but I was always, shall we say, a far different woman from the
one they saw at NATO .. . from the one you see here at the embassy.  I
dressed fashionably, even extravagantly, and wore a blond wig and a
great deal of jewelry-"

"You were living a double life," interrupted Latham again, nodding,
again impatient.

"It was obviously necessary."

"Conceded.  And?"

"We entertained-not frequently, and only with Freddie's most vital
contacts-but I was in evidence as his wife..  .. I must stop here and
explain something to you, even though you undoubtedly know it. 
Whenever powerful government policing agencies are duped by externals,
they will, of course, get rid of the penetrators by execution or by
inverted compromise, thus causing them to be killed by their own people
as double agents, do you agree?"

"I've heard about it, that's as far as I'll go."

But the one thing they will not suffer is embarrassment, the admission
that they were penetrated; those occasions were kept intensely private,
even within their own organizations."

"I've heard about that too."

"It happened in the Stasi.  After Frederik was killed and the Wall came
down, a number of his important East German contacts continuously left
messages on our telephone answering machine, pleading for meetings with
Freddie.  I accepted several, in my role as his wife.  TWO men, the
first being the fourth highest ranking officer in the Stasi, and the
other, a code breaker as well as a convicted rapist exonerated by his
superiors, had been recruited by the Brotherhood.  They came to see
Frederik to reconvert their diamonds into currency.  As with others, I
dined them and filled them with alcohol-laced with powders Freddie
always insisted I have in a sugar bowl-and as these two tried to make
love to me, each telling me how important he was, they both drunkenly
revealed why they were so important."

"My brother Harry," said Drew in a monotone.

"Yes.  Under my prodding, each spoke of an American agent called
Lassiter, whom the Brotherhood knew about and were prepared for."

"How did you know it was Harry?"

"The clearest way possible.  My first questions were innocuous, but I
grew more specific with time-Freddie always claimed that was the best
way, especially with alcohol and the powders.  Eventually, each man
said essentially the same words.  They were as follows:

"His real name is Harry Latham, Central Intelligence, Clandestine
Operations, Project Time-two years plus, Code Sting, all information
deleted from computers at Level AA-Zero."

"

"Jesus!  That had to come from the top, the very top!  AA-Zero doesn't
go far down the hall from the director's office..  .. That's pretty
outrageous, Mrs.  de Vries."

"Since I had, and have, no idea what AA-Zero means, I submit it is the
truth.  Those were the words I heard, the reason I requested the
transfer to Paris.  Do I still have my job, monsieur?"

"It's solid as a rock.  Only there's a new wrinkle."

"Wrinkle?  I understand the word, but how do you apply it?"

"You'll remain in D and R, but you're now part of Consular
Operations."

tiWhy?"

"Among other things, you'll have to sign a sworn a. davit that says you
won't divulge the information you've just given me, and it also spells
out thirty years in an American prison if you do."

"And if I refuse to sign such a document?"

"Then you're the enemy."

"Good!  I like that.  It is precise."

"Let's be more precise," said Latham, his eyes locked with Karin de
Vries's.

"If you turn or you are turned, there's no appeal.  Do you
understand?"

"With all my intellect and with all my heart, monsieur."

"Now it's my turn to ask.  Why?"

"It's really quite simple.  For several years my marriage was a gift
from God, a man I adored loved me as I loved him.  Then I saw that man
crippled by hatred, not blind hatred, but hate seen clearly with
wide-open eyes, focused on a reemerging enemy that had destroyed his
family-his parents and their parents before them.

That glorious, ebullient young man I married deserved far better than
was meted out to him.  It's now my turn to fight his enemy, the enemy
of all of us."

"That's good enough for me, Mrs.  de Vries.  Welcome to our side."

"Then I shall join you in a drink, monsieur.  There is a 'later' after
all."

The American F-16 jet landed at the airport in Althem.  The pilot, an
air force colonel cleared by the CIA, requested immediate departure
once his "package" was on board.  Harry Latham was driven across the
field, assisted into the second cockpit; the canopy was closed, and
within minutes the plane was airborne back to England.  Three hours
after his arrival in the U.K."  the exhausted deep-cover agent was
driven under guard to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square, his
reception committee consisting of three high-ranking members of the
Central Intelligence Agency, British MI-6, and France's equivalent, the
French Service d'Etranger.

"Hey, it's great to have you back, Harry!"  said the American.

"Damn fine show," said the Englishman.

"Magnifique!"  added the Frenchman.

"Thank you, gentlemen, but can't we postpone the debriefing until I get
some sleep?"

"The valley," said the American, "where the hell is it?  That can't
wait, Harry."

"The valley doesn't matter anymore.  It's gone, the fires were started
two days ago.  Everything's destroyed, and everyone's out of there."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  persisted the man from Central
Intelligence.

"It's our key."

"My American colleague's quite right, old chap," pressed the MISixer.

"Absolument," said the man from the Deuxi@me.

"We must destroy it!"

"Hold on, just hold on!"  countered Harry, looking wearily at the
intelligence tribunal.

"It may be the key, but the lock isn't there anymore.  However, it
doesn't matter."  To the astonishment of the others around the table,
Latham began ripping apart the lining of his jacket, then proceeded to
get up and remove his trousers, turning them inside out, and doing the
same with the interior linings of his pockets.  Standing in his jacket
and shorts, he slowly, carefully, removed dozens of handwritten scraps
of paper and piled them across the conference table.

"I brought out everything we need.

Names, positions, agencies, and departments, the whole ball of wax, as
my brother' Would phrase it.  Incidentally, I'd appreciate-"

"It's been done," interrupted the CIA station chief, anticipating the
request.

"Sorenson at Cons-Op told him you came out.  He's in Paris."

"Thank you..  .. If you have a totally secure secretarial pool among
you, get all of these typed up using relays-no one person should be
aware of what the others are doing.  Regarding the coded pieces, I'll
put them together later."

"What are they?"  asked the Englishman, staring at the scattered pieces
of paper, many torn.

"An influential army behind the Briiderschaft, powerful men and women
in each of our countries who either for greed or warped beliefs support
the ncos.  I warn you, there are a number of surprises, both in our
governments and the private sectors..  ..

Now, if someone will find me A decent hotel and buy me some clothes,
I'd like to sleep for a day or two."

"Harry," said the man from Central Intelligence, "put on your trousers
before you walk out of here.  "

"Good point, Jack.  You always were observant."

Harry Latham lay in bed, the quasi-insulting and therefore caring
telephone call from his brother, Drew, over with.  They would meet in
Paris by the end of the week, or as soon as Harry completed his
debriefing, including the deciphering of the information he brought out
of Germany.  The older brother did not describe his immediate agenda,
nor did he have to, the younger sibling understood the unspoken.  The
only pieces of information the latter offered were the following.

"With you back as a whole person, we can really move into high gear.
We've got the ident of a car driven by a couple of scum buckets  ..
Incidentally, reach me at my office or the Meurice hotel on the rue de
Rivoli."

"What happened to your flat?  The management throw you out for indecent
behavior?"

"No, but someone else's indecent behavior makes it currently
unlivable."

"Really?  The Meurice is pretty high living, little brother."

"Bonn's paying for it."

"My goodness, I can't wait to hear.  I'll call you when I'm flying
over.  By the way, I'm at' the Gloucester under the name of Moss,
Wendell Moss."

"Very classy..  .. Glad you're back, bro."

""So am I, bro."  Harry had closed his eyes, sleep rapidly enveloping
him when there was a soft, steady knocking on his hotel door.  Shaking
his head in irritation, he flipped off the covers, unsteadily climbed
out of the bed, and reached for the hotel provided bathrobe draped over
a chair.  He walked, half lurching, to the door.

"Who is it?"  he called out.

"It's Catbird from Langley," came the quiet reply.

"I have to talk to you, Sting."

"Oh?"  Bewildered, but knowing the maximum secrecy attached to his
field code, Harry opened the door.  In the corridor stood a relatively
short man with a pleasant, rather pale, forgettable face, dressed in a
dark business suit and wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

"What's a catbird?"  asked Latham, gesturing for the emissary from
Central Intelligence to come inside.

"Our codes changed, yours never did," replied the stranger, entering
the room and offering his hand.  Harry took it, still confused.

"I can't tell you how pleased we are that you made it back from a very
cold region."

"What is this, a replay from John le Carr6?  If it is, he did it better
Sting I can understand," but Catbird's a trifle banal, don't you think?
And why weren't you at the embassy?  I'm one exhausted deep c, Mr.
Catbird.  I really need my sleep."

"Yes, I know, and I sincerely apologize.  However, there's a level
above the embassy, I'm sure you're aware of that."

"Sure.  There's the DCI, the Secretary of State, and the President. 
So, to repeat, what's a catbird?"

"I'll take up but a few minutes of your time," said the pleasant faced
man, dismissing Harry's question and removing a pocket watch from his
vest.

"This is a family heirloom, and with fading eyes, I find it easier to
read.  Two minutes, Mr.  Latham, and I'll be gone."

"And before you go any further, you'd better show me some very damned
authentic identification."  I

"Naturally."  The intruder held up the pocket watch in front of Harry's
face and spoke clearly, precisely, while pressin the crown.

"Hello, Alexander Lassiter.  It's your friend, Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger,
and we must talk."

Harry's eyes suddenly became unfocused, the pupils dilated;

briefly, he was staring at nothing.

"Hi, Gerhardt," he said, "how's my favorite sawbones?"

"Fine, Alex.  How are you, and have you taken your stroll today through
our meadows?"

"Hey, come on, Doc, it's night.  You want me to walk into a pack of
Dobermans?  Where's your head?"

"Sorry, Alexander, I've been operating most of the day, and you're
quite right, I'm as tired as you..  .. But tell me, Alex, when in your
thoughts you met with those people at the American Embassy, what
happened?"

"Nothing really.  I gave them everything I brought out and for the next
few days we'll go over it all."

"That's good.  Anything else?"

"My brother called from Paris.  They're tracing a car under suspicion.
My kid brother's a nice fellow, you'd like him, Gerhardt."

"I'm sure I would.  He's the one who works for Consular Operations,
isn't he?"

"That's right..  .. Why are you asking me these questions?"

Instantly, the pale-faced stranger in the hotel room again held up the
pocket watch, pressing the crown twice as Harry Latham's eyes became
clear, his focus direct.

"You really do need sleep, Harry," said the man who called himself
Catbird.

"I'm just not getting through to you.  Tell you what, I'll try you
tomorrow, okay?"

"What .. . P9

"I'll be in touch tomorrow."

"Why?  @5

"Don't you remember?  Good Lord, you are exhausted.  The DCI, the
Secretary of State .. . the President, Harry.  That's who I've been
cleared by, that's what you wanted, right?"

"Sure .. . okay.  That's what I wanted."

"Get some sleep, Sting.  You deserve it."  Catbird left hurriedly,
closing the door behind him as Harry Latham robotically walked back to
the bed and fell into it.

"Who's Catbird?"  asked Harry.  It was morning and the, three
intelligence officers were seated around the conference table, as they
had been the previous day.

"I got your call two hours ago," said the American station chief.

"I woke up the DCI himself and he never heard of a Catbird.  He also
thought it was a pretty stupid name-just like you did, Latham."

"But he was there!  I saw him, spoke with him.  He was there!

"What did you talk about, monsieur?"  asked the man from French
intelligence.

"I'm not sure-I don't really know, actually.  He seemed perfectly
normal, asked me a few innocuous questions, and then .. . I just don't
remember."

"May I suggest, Field Officer Latham," the brigadier from Britain's
MI-6 broke in, "that you have undergone a most stressful-oh, the devil
take it-an unendurable three years.  Isn't it possible, and I say this
with respect for your outstanding intellect, that you could be subject
to illusionary moments?  My God, man, I've had operatives working dual
personas fantasize and break, having gone through only half your
stress."

"I don't break, General.  I don't break and I don't fantasize."

"Let's go back, Monsieur Latham," said the Frenchman.

"When you first arrived at the Briiderschaft valley, what happened?"

"oh, " Harry's eyes glanced downward; he felt disoriented for several
moments, then everything was clear.

"You mean the accident.  Christ, it was terrible.  A lot of it's a
blur, but the first thing I remember is the shouting, it was
hysterical.  Then I realized that I was stuck under the truck, a heavy
piece of metal pressed against my headI've never felt such pain..  .."
Latham played out the litany programmed by Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger, and
when he was finished, he raised his head, his eyes clear.

"I've told you the rest, gentlemen."

The tribunal looked at one another, each shaking his head very briefly
in obvious confusion.  Then the American spoke.

"Look, Harry," he said softly, "for the next few days we'll go over
everything you've brought us, okay?  After that, you've earned a long
period of rest, okay?"

"I'd like to fly to Paris and see my brother-"

"Sure, no sweat, even if he's with Cons-Op, not my favorite branch."

"I understand he's pretty good at what he does."

"Hell," agreed the CIA station chief, "he was damn good when he played
hockey for the Islanders farm team in Manitoba.  I was stationed in
Canada then, and I tell you, that hulk body-checked much bigger hulks
into the walls more often than anyone I ever saw.  He could have made
it big in New York."

"Fortunately," said Harry Latham, "I talked him out of such a violent
profession."

Drew Latham woke up in the overstuffed bed in his suite at the Meurice
on the rue de Rivoli.  Blinking his eyes, he looked at the bedside
telephone and pressed the buttons for room service.  As long as Germany
was paying for it, he decided to have a porterhouse steak topped with
two poached eggs, and porridge with heavy cream on the side; he was
told his order would be delivered in thirty minutes.  He stretched in
the bed, his left arm annoyed by the automatic beneath the pillow, then
closed his eyes for a few last minutes of rest.

A scratch, a metallic slice in the door.  Not natural-not at all
natural!  Suddenly there were loud staccato bursts from a jackhammer
six stories below in the street, a repair crew starting unusually early
in the morning..  .. Unusual-not normal!  It was barely light!  Drew
grabbed his weapon and slid off the left side of the bed; he rolled
over and over until he was flush with the corner molding of a far wall.
The door opened and an explosive fusillade of bullets ripped apart the
bed, shattering the mattress and pillows alike, in concert with the
deafening noise from outside the windows.

Latham raised his gun and fired five successive rounds into the
black-encased figure in the doorframe.  The man fell forward; Drew rose
as the jackhammer stopped in the street, and he raced to his would be
killer.  He was dead, but as the assassin had clutched at his upper
body, he had torn down his skintight black sweater.  On his chest were
tattooed three small lightning bolts.  Blitzkrieg.  The
Briiderschaft.

can-Pierre Villier stoically accepted the criticism leveled at him by
the Deuxieme Bureau's Claude Moreau.

"It was, indeed, a brave gesture on your part, monsieur, and be assured
we are tracing the automobile in question, but please understand,
should any harm have come to you, all France would have revolted
against us."

"I think that's rather overstated," said the actor.

"However, I'm glad I was able to contribute in some small way."

"In a very considerable way, but we now understand each other, isn't
that so?  There'll be no more contributions, correct?"

"As you wish, although it was a simple role to play, and there could be
further information I might unearth-"

"Jean-Pierre!"  exclaimed Giselle Villier.

"You will do no such thing, I won't permit it!"

"The Deuxieme Bureau will not permit it, madame," interrupted Moreau.

"You'll no doubt learn of it later in the day, so I might as well tell
you now.  Three hours ago a second assassination attempt was made on
the American Drew Latham."

"My God .. .

"Is he all right?"  asked Villier, leaning forward.

"He's fortunate to be alive.  To say the least, he's a very observant
man and has learned a few of our less advertised rules of Paris."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Everything was timed to the extremely loud and offensive noise of a
street repair crew who started working at an hour when the majority of
our visitors had barely gone to bed after experiencing the joys of our
city, especially those to be found in the more expensive hotels."

"It's summer," said Giselle, shaking her head.  we have enough trouble
because of our manners.  The Ministry of Tourism would cut off
heads."

"Our friend Latham somehow instinctively knew that.  There was no
repair crew, only a single man with a concrete hammer machine below his
windows.  Perhaps akin to the title of one of your films, Monsieur
Villier, Prelude to a Fatal Kiss, if I'm not mistaken.  It's one of my
wife's favorites."

"It should be banned from television," said the actor succinctly.

"The kiss was from a vacuous actress who was more concerned with her
camera angles than with her lines, which she rarely got right."

"That's why she was perfect," rejoined his wife.

"Her insecurity was so apparent, it made your obsession terribly
believable-the bewildered male driven mad because he couldn't penetrate
the mystery of the woman he thought he loved.  You were really very
good, my darling."

"If I was even tolerable, it was because I was trying to get the bitch
to act."

"I don't think Monsieur Moreau is here to listen to an actor's
complaints, dear."

"I'm not complaining, merely telling the truth."

"Nor in an actor's ego-"

"Oh, but I'm fascinated, madame.  My wife will hang on every word!"

"Aren't police interrogations confidential beyond official circles?"

asked Giselle.

"Naturally-of course, I mis spoke

"Go ahead and speak, Moreau," said Jean-Pierre, grinning, "at least to
your wife.  You see, my wife is a retired attorney, if you haven't
already guessed, and the actress in question has long since left the
profession, having married an oil baron in the American state of Texas
or Oklahoma, I forget which."

"May we return to the issue at hand, if you please?"

"Of course, madame."

"If Drew Latham escaped being killed, do you have any information on
the failed assassin?"

"Indeed we do.  He's dead, shot by Monsieur Latham."

"Identification?"

"None.  Except three very small tattoo marks above his right breast.
Lightning bolts, the symbol of the Nazi blitzkrieg.  Latham rightly
assumed the origins, but he does not know what they stand for.  We do..
.. Those marks are very selectively issued, and only to a highly
trained elite group within the neo-Nazis' larger organization.  They
number, by our estimate, no more than two hundred here in Europe, South
America, and the United States.

They're called the Blitzkrieger-they're assassins, trained killers
skilled in multiple means of death, chosen for their dedication, their
physical prowess, and, above all, their willingness-even their need-to
kill."

"Psychopaths," said the former woman attorney.

"Psychopaths recruited by psychopaths."

"Precisely."

"Who could well have been recruited by any number of fanatical
organizations, or cults, because such groups would permit them to
exercise their natural tendencies for violence."

"I'd have to agree with you, madame."

"And you haven't told the Americans or the British or God knows who
else about this-how would you call it?  this battalion of killers?"

"The highest officials have been informed, of course.  None below those
levels."

"Why not?  Why not a Drew Latham?"

"We have our reasons.  There are leaks in the lower ranks."

"Then why tell us?"

"You are French and you are famous.  Celebrity is vulnerable; if word
leaked out, well, we'd know-"

"And?"

"We appeal to your patriotism."

"That's famous, unless it's an avenue to destroy my husband!"

"Now, just a minute, Giselle-"

"Be quiet, Jean-Pierre, this man from the Deuxieme is here for another
reason."

"What?"

"You must have been an extraordinary attorney, Madame Villier."

"Your line of direct inquiry, mixed with obfuscated indirect, is also
extraordinarily obvious, monsieur.  You demand that my husband be
prohibited from doing one thing--even by my lights and knowing his
talents, not actually life-threatening-yet in the next breath you
reveal highly secret-extraordinarily secret-information which if he
revealed it might cost him his career and his life.

"As I said," said Moreau, "a brilliant attorney."

"I don't understand a goddamned word either of you are saying!"

cried the actor.

"You're not supposed to, darling, leave it to me."  Giselle.glared at
Moreau.

"Youtook us from one step down to another, didn't you?"

"I cannot deny it."

"And now that he's vulnerable, knowing what he knows, what do you want
us to do?  Isn't that the basic question?"

"I imagine it is."

"Then what is it?"

"Close the play, close Coriolanus, stating a part of the truth.

Your husband has learned so much about this Jodelle that he can't go
on, he's filled with remorse, and especially with loathing toward the
people who did this to the old man.  You'll be protected around the
clock."

"What about my mother and father?"  shouted Villier.

"How could I do this to them?"

"I spoke with both of them an hour ago, Monsieur Villier.  I told them
as much as I could, including the rise of the Nazi movement in Germany.
They said it would have to be your decision, but they also hoped that
you would honor your natural mother and father.

What more can I say?"

"So I close the show, and by what I have not said in public, I am the
man in their gun sights, my dear wife as well.  Is that what you're
asking?"

"To repeat, you'll never, ever, be out of our protection.  Streets,
rooftops, armored limousines, agents in restaurants, police in
resorts-beyond anything you would ever require for your safety.  All we
need is a live Blitzkrieger so we can learn where they get their
orders.  There are drugs as well as other methods that will convince a
killer to tell US."

"You've never captured one?"  said Giselle.

"Oh, yes.  Several months ago we trapped two, but they hanged
themselves in their cells before we could put them under chemicals.

Such is the dedication of psychopathic zealots.  Death is their
profession, even their own."

In Washington, Wesley Sorenson, director of Consular Operations,
studied the secure facsimiles wired from London.

"I can't believe this," he said.

"It's incredible!"  .. "That's what I thought," agreed Sorenson's young
chief of staff, standing at the left of the desk.

"But we can hardly dismiss it.  Those names came from Sting' the only
deep cover, ever to have penetrated the Briiderschaft.  It's what he
was sent out to do and he did it."

"But, my God, man, so many of these people are beyond reproach, and
this isn't even the complete list---certain names have been selectively
withheld!  Two senators, six congressmen, CEOs of four major
corporations, as well as a half dozen prominent men and women in the
media, faces and voices we see and hear and read every day on
television, radio, and the newspapers..  .. Here, look, two anchormen
and a'woman co-host, and three talk show bullies-"

"The fat one I'd say is a possible,".  interrupted the head staffer.

"He attacks anything he thinks is left of Attila the Hun."

"Not at all, he's too obvious.  A third-rate mind, minimally educated
and filled with hate, yes, but not a bona fide Nazi.  He's just a
buffoon with a glib tongue."

"The names came from the Brotherhood valley, sit.  Nowhere else."

"Jesus, here's a member of the President's Cabinet!"

"That one blew me away, I'll grant you," said the

Cons-Op chief of staff.

"He's down-home corn silk, hardly a political bone in his body..  .. On
the other hand, such people are accomplished at deception.  There were
Nazis in Congress during the late thirties, and Communists all over the
place in the fifties, if you believe the loyalty investigations."

"The vast majority were pure bunk, young man," said Sorenson
emphatically.

"I realize that, sir, but there were successful prosecutions."

"How many?  If I remember the statistics, and I do, the number of
people specifically named by that son-of-abitch Hoover and that fraud
McCarthy came to nineteen thousand seven hundred.  And after the
screaming was over, there were exactly' four convictions!

Four out of damned near twenty thousand!  That comes to point zero zero
zero two plus, and a lot of congressional wind, as well as a great deal
of wasted taxpayers' money.  Don't bring back those good old days to
me, please.  I was around your age then-not as bright, God knows-but I
lost a lot of friends to that insanity."

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Sorenson, I didn't mean to-"

"I know, I know," the director of Cons-Op broke in, "there's no way you
can understand the pain those times caused.  And that's what worries
me."

"I don't understand, sit."

"Could we be starting our own helter-skelter persecutions?  Harry
Latham is probably the only real genius the CIA has in the field, a
super brain who can't be tricked but this stuff is from another
planet..  .. Or is it?  Christ, it's crazy!  "

"What is, Mr.  Sorenson?"

"The ages of all these people, they're pretty much the same-late
forties, early fifties, a number in their sixties."

"So ?9)

"Years ago, when I first joined the Agency, there were rumors out of
Bremerhaven-actually from an old submarine base in the Heligoland
Bight-that told of a last-ditch strategy designed by fanatics of the
Third Reich who knew they had lost the war.  It was called Operation
Son-nenkinder, selected children sent out secretly all over Europe and
America to families who welcomed them and would bring them up to fill
positions of financial power and political influence.  Their final
objectives were to create a climate that was conducive to .. . the
Fourth Reich."

"That's wild, sir!"

"It was also totally disproven.  We had a couple of hundred agents,
along with Army Intelligence and British MlSix, who tracked down every
lead over a period of two years.  It all came to nothing.

If there ever was such an operation, it was aborted at the start.

There wasn't a shred of evidence that it was ever put in motion."

"But you're wondering now, aren't you, Mr.  Sorenson?"

"Reluctantly, Paul.  Doing my goddamnedest to restrain an imagination
that kept me alive in the field.  But I'm not in the field, I'm not in
a situation where I have to anticipate the movements of someone in the
next dark street, or over a hill at night.  I have to look at the whole
landscape in clear daylight, and there's no way I can accept the
Sonnenkinder operation."

"So why don't you reject the premise and put the list of names on a
back burner?"

"Because I can't.  Because Harry Latham brought it out..  .. Set up a
meeting toMorrow with the Secretary of State and the DCI over at State
or Langley.  Since I'm the stepchild, I'll meet wherever they say."

Drew Latham sat at his desk on the second floor of the American
Embassy, swallowing the dregs of his third cup of coffee.  The single
knock on his office door was followed by its being opened, an anxious
Karin de Vries walking inside.

"I heard what happened!"  she exclaimed.

"It had to be you!"

"Good morning," said Drew, "or is it noon?  And if you brought your
Scotch, you're very welcome."

"It's all over the papers," cried the researcher from D and R, crossing
to the desk and throwing down the noon edition of L'Expr@ss.

"A burglar attempted to rob a guest at the Meurice, shot up the room,
and was killed by a floor guard!"

"Boy, their public relations people work quickly, don't they?

That's real security; it can't-get much better."

"Stop it, Drew!  You were at the Meurice, you told me so.  And when I
called the arrondissement police, they said -very awkwardly that no
information was available."

"Wow, everybody in Paris protects the influx of tourist cash.

Actually, they should.  This sort of thing never happens except to
people like me."

"Then it was you."

"You said that already.  Yes, it was me."

"Are you all right?"

"I think that's been asked before, but, yes, I am.  I'm still scared to
death-strike the last two words-but I'm here, breathing, warm, and
ambulatory.  Do you want to go to lunch, anyplace you want except the
last joint you recommended?"

"I have at least forty-five minutes worth of work to do.

"I can wait that long.  I just got finished with Ambassador Courtland
and his diplomatic crony, Ambassador Kreitz of Germany.

They're probably still talking, but my stomach couldn't take their
interacting, exculpatory bullshit any longer."

"In some ways, you are like your brother.  He dislikes authority."

- "Correction, please," said Latham.

"We both dislike authority when it doesn't know what it's talking
about, that's all.  Incidentally, he's flying over from London tomorrow
or the next day.  Would you like to see him?"

"With all my heart.  I adore Harry!"

"Strike two against my brother."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's a nerd."

"I don't understand."

"His intellect, it's so far up in the sky, you can't reach it, can't
talk to it."

"Oh, yes, I recall so well.  We had such wonderful conversations about
the incremental explosions of religiosity from Egypt to Athens to Rome
and into the Middle Ages."

"Strike three against Harry.  Where for lunch?"

"Where you suggested yesterday.  The brasserie across the Gabriel from
the cafe where we talked."

"We're likely to be seen together."

"It doesn't matter now.  I spoke to the colonel.  He understands
completely.  As he said, "No sweat."

"What else did

Witkowski say?"

"Well"-De Vries lowered her head and spoke softly" he said you weren't
your brother

"In what way wasn't P"

"It's not important, Drew."

"Maybe it is.  In what way?"

"Let's say, you aren't the scholar he is."

"Harry just struck out on fouls..  .. Lunch in an hour, okay?"

"I'll make the reservation, they know me."  Karin de Vries walked out
of the office, closing the door far more quietly than she had before.

Latham's telephone rang.  It was Ambassador Courtland.

"Yes, sir, what is it?"

"Kreitz just left, Drew, and I'm sorry you weren't here to listen to
the rest of what he had to say.  Your brother hasn't just disturbed a
hornet's nest, he's smashed hell out of it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Kreitz couldn't have said it in front of you anyway, actually, as a
matter of security.  It's so maximum classified, even I had to get
clearance to confirm it."

"You?"

"Given the fact that Heinrich had broken Bonn's seal and insofar as
Harry's your brother and is flying here tomorrow, I guess the
intelligence hats felt it was useless to keep me out of the circle."

"What did Harry do, find Hitler and Martin Bormann in a South American
gay bar?"

"I wish it were so insignificant.  Your brother brought out lists from
his German operation, names of neo-Nazi

 S

supporters in the Bonn government and industry, as well as the same in
the U.S."  France, and England."

"Good old bright Harry!"  exclaimed Latham.

"He never ever did things halfway, did he?  Damn, I'm proud of that
elderly gentleman!"

"You don't understand, Drew.  Some-no, many of those names are among
the most prominent people in our respective countries, men and women of
high profiles and fine reputations.  It's all so extraordinary."

"If Harry brought it out, it's also goddamned authentic.  No one on
earth could turn my brother."

"Yes, that's what I've been told."

"So what's the problem?  Go after the bastards!  Deep cover isn't
simply a matter of weeks or months or even years.  It could just as
easily be decades, the dream of strategists in every intelligence think
tank you can name."

"It's all so difficult to comprehend-"

"Don't comprehend.  Go to work!"

"Heinrich Kreitz totally rejects four people on the Bonn list, three
men and a woman."

"What makes him an-all-knowing God here?"

"They have Jewish blood; they lost relatives in the camps, I
Specifically Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen."

"How does he know that?"

"They're in their sixties now, but each was an early student of his
when he first taught in grammar school, each he protected-from the
Ministry of Aryan Investigation at the risk of his own life."

"It's possible he was conned.  From the two meetings we've had, he
strikes me as being very conn able

"That's the academic in him.  As with so many, he's both hesitant and
loquacious, but neither weakness contradicts his brilliance.  He's a
perceptive man of enormous experience."

"The last part could also describe Harry.  There's no way he'd bring
out false information."

"I'm told there are some extraordinary names on the Washington list.
Unbelievable was the word Sorenson used."

"So was Lindbergh; the Spirit of St.  Louis was on Goering's side
until young Charlie figured out that they were the evil people and then
fought like hell for us."

"I don't think that kind of comparison is even called for."

"Probably not.  I'm only trying to illustrate a point."

"Suppose your brother's right?  Even half right, or a quarter right, or
even half of that-or even far less than that?"

"He brought out the names, Mr.  Ambassador.  No one else did or could,
so I suggest you proceed as if they were bona fides until proven
otherwise."

"What you're saying, if I read you, is that they're all guilty until
proven innocent."

"We're not talking law, sir, we're talking about the reemergence of the
worst goddamned plague this world has ever seen, including the bubonic!
There's no time for legal claptrap.  We have to stop them now."

"We once said that about the Communists, and the reputed Communists,
and the vast majority in our own country proved to be nothing of the
sort."

"This is different!  These ncos aren't boring within like the Nazis did
in the thirties; they've had the power; they remember how they got it.
Fear.  Armed gangs roaming through the streets in blue jeans, streaked
faces, and chopped hair; then come the uniform seven the shovels and
the boots of the Schultse (ein, the first of Hitter's thugs -and
everything goes berserk!  We have to stop them!"

"With only the names we have?"  asked Courtland softly.

"Men and women of such high regard that no one would ever suspect them
of being remotely part of this insanity.  How do we proceed?

How do any of us proceed?"

"With people like me, Mr.  Ambassador.  Men and women trained to break
through the shells and get to the truth."

"That has a distinctly unattractive ring to it, Latham.  Whose truth?
"

"The truth, Courtland!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forgive me-Mr.  Courtland, or Mr.  Ambassador.  The time for
diplomatic-even ethical-niceties are over!  I could have been a riddled
corpse in my bed at the Meurice.  These bastards play hardball, and the
balls are made of concrete exploded from weapons."

"I think I understand where you're coming from-"

"Try living it, sir.  Try picturing your ambassadorial bed blown apart
while you're crouched against the wall, wondering if one of those
bursts will find your face or your throat or your chest.  This is
war-undercover war, I grant you, but war nevertheless."

"Where would you begin?"

"I've got a place to start, but I want Harry's list of names here in
France while Moreau and I go after the one we have."

"The Deuxieme's not yet cleared for any conceivable French
collaborators."

"What?"

"You heard me.  Again, where would you start?"

"With the name of the man who rented the car that our famous, if crazy
out-of-his-head, actor identified north of the Pont Neuf."

"Moreau gave it to you?"

"Of course he did.  The car on the Montaigne that Bressard smashed into
was a bust.  It was from Marseilles, but the rental is so convoluted,
it would take weeks to process.  This man we've got;

he goes on at his desk at four o'clock this afternoon.  We'll break him
if we have to put his testicles in a vise."

"You can't work with Moreau."

"What are you talking about?  Why not?"

"He's on Harry's list.1'

tunned, Drew walked out of his office, down the circular staircase to
the embassy's lobby, and out the S bronze entrance onto the avenue
Gabriel.  He turned right and headed for the brasserie where he and
Karin de Vries had agreed to have lunch.  He was not only stunned, he
was furious!  Courtland had refused even to discuss the astonishing
revelation that Claude Moreau, head of the Deuxi@me Bureau, was on
"Harry's list."  He just left the extraordinary statement hanging in
mid-breath, overriding Latham's protestations with the words "There's
nothing more to say.  Play along with Moreau but don't give him a damn
thing.  Call me tomorrow and tell me what happened."  With those
precise instructions, the ambassador had hung up the phone.

Moreau a neo?  It was about as credible as saying De Gaulle had been a
German sympathizer in World War II!  Drew was not a fool;

he fully understood and accepted the reality of moles and double
agents, but to consign a man with Moreau's record to either category
without examination was sheer sophistry.  For a field officer to rise
in the ranks through years of clandestine operations to head up a
branch so specialized as the Deuxieme, he would have to pass under the
scrutiny of a thousand pairs of eyes, both admiring and envious, the
latter determined to derail him with all the damaging input at their
command.  Yet Moreau had survived that gauntlet, not only survived it
but emerged with the epithet of "world class," a phrase Latham doubted
another world-class practitioner, one Wesley Sorenson, would use
casually.

"Monsieur!"  shouted the voice from a car in the street;

the Deuxi&me vehicle was obviously keeping pace with him.

"Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait!"

"I'm only walking a couple of blocks," shouted Drew, dodging the
pedestrians as he made his way to the curb.

"Like yesterday, remember?"  he added in his simplified French.

"I did not like yesterday and I do not like today.  Please come
inside!"  The Deuxi@me car stopped as Latham reluctantly opened the
door and lurched into the front seat.

"You're overreacting, Rene-or are you Marc?  I get confused."

"I am Franqois, monsieur, and I don't care for confusion.  I have my
job."

Suddenly, with ear- hAttering explosions, bullets pelted the thick
outer safety glass of the side windows and then the windshield as a
black sedan raced ahead, weaving through the traffic.

"Christ!"

roared Drew, hugging the front seat, his head below the dashboard.

"You saw that coming, didn't you?"

"Only the possibility, monsieur," replied the driver, breathing
heavily, his body arched back in the seat.  He had stopped the car, the
windshield so pockmarked that vision was nil.

"An automobile drove away from the curb when you emerged from the
embassy.

One doesn't give up a parking space on the Gabriel without a good
reason, and the men in that car were very angry when I cut them off and
yelled for you."

"I owe you, Franqois," said Latham rapidly, awkwardly rising, turning,
and planting his feet on the floor as people in the street cautiously
approached the Deuxieme vehicle.

"What now?"

"The police will come any moment, someone will call -them-"

"I can't talk to the police."

"I understand.  Where were you going?"

"To a brasserie in the next block, on the other side of the street."

"I know it.  Go there now.  Walk with the crowds and be one of them.
Look very excited, as everyone else does, when you get outside, then
make your way to the brasserie as inconspicuously as you can.  Stay
there until we come for you or reach you on the phone."

"What name?"

"You're American-Jones will do.  Tell the maitre d' that you expect a
call.  Do you have a weapon?"

"Of course."

"Be careful.  It's unlikely, but be prepared for the unlikely."

"You don't have to spell it out.  What about you?"

"We know what to do.  Hurry!"

Drew opened the door, closing it quickly and instantly lowering his
body, then rising, feigning the panic of those surrounding him.

In moments he was indeed one with the crowd.  Altering his height
frequently, he scurried to the other side of the avenue Gabriel and
while glancing around, his eyes darting in every.  direction he once
again headed for the brasserie and Karin de Vries.

He was far too early.  He realized that when he saw the half empty
restaurant, but he had to stay away from his office, away from the
embassy.  Suddenly both took on images he did not care to think about,
not after what had happened less than four hundred feet up the street.
Still he had to think about them, think hard and deep.

"Reservation in the name of De Vries," he said in English to the
tuxedoed man at the lectern.

"Yes, of course, sir..  .. You're a bit early, monsieur."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not at all.  Come, I'll take you to your table.  The madame prefers
the rear section."

"My name's Jones.  I may be getting a telephone call."

"I'll bring it to the table-"

"To the table?"

"These days everyone has a telephone, no?  How people can drive and
walk across the streets in traffic while on the phone amazes me.  Mon
Dieu, no wonder our accident rate is so high!"

"Tell me," said Latham, thinking quickly as he sat down.

"Could you bring me a telephone now?"

"Certainement.  Local'or long distance, monsieur?"

"Long distance," replied Drew, frowning in thought.

 ill

"The telephone is numbered, and the charges will be listed on your
bill."

"It must be a pain in the neck for you," said Latham.

"It could be, but we don't tell everyone or advertise the convenience.
So many carry around their own phones-"

"Youtold me," Drew interrupted, looking at the man.

"Well, of course.  You are with the ambassade amiricaine, nestce pas?
You've come in here a number of times, Mr.  Jones."

"I guess I have," agreed Latham, handing the malt re d' his telephone
credit card.

"I just never made a reservation."

"Merci.  May I order you a drink or a bottle of wine?"

"Whisky.  Scotch, if you please."  The manager left, the whisky
arrived, and Drew settled back in the booth, a tremble developing in
his hands, his face flushed..

My God, but for an experienced, observant driver he would have been
killed on the Gabriel!  Three attempts on his life had been made within
a day and a half, the first the night before last, the second that
morning at dawn, and now only minutes earlier!  He was marked, and the
posthumous honor of having died in the line of duty held no appeal for
him whatsoever.  There was no question that the Nazi cancer was
spreading throughout Germany and beyond.  Where else, who knew?  How
effective, who could estimate?  Harry's list would seem to portend the
worst scenario for the NATO countries, and Karin de Vries's disclosure
that the Brotherhood had invaded the Agency's top-secret computers for
information.  about Operation Sting certainly supported the Washington
penetration.  Christ, he had told Villier that the regenerated Nazis
were expanding everywhere, but it was hyperbole, a hook to enlist the
actor's interest because he suspected Villier's background, the jodelle
connection and all it represented, not the least of which were the
missing interrogation files.  When Villier confirmed his suspicions, he
was both elated and horrified, elated that he had zeroed in on a truth,
frightened because it was the truth.

And now he was a maximum target because he had found the truth.  In
line with his theory that dead intelligence officers served no useful
purpose, he would rescind his previous instructions and seek whatever
further protection the Deuxi@me could offer.

Th e Deuxi@me-Moreau?  Was it possible?  By asking Moreau for
additional personal security, was he signing his own death warrant?

Despite all his instincts, and regardless of his convictions about the
man, was Harry's list that accurate?  He,could not believe it-it was
crazy!  Or was it?

The'maitre d' returned to the table carrying the portable phone.

It was barely seven A.M. in Washington, and before the director of
Consular Operations began his morning, one Drew Latham needed
guidance.

"Press the button marked Parlez and dial, monsieur," said the maitre
d'.  "Should you require additional calls, touch Finis, then again
press Parlez and dial."  He handed Drew the phone and walked away.
Latham touched the button marked Parlez, dialed,.

and within moments an alert voice answered.

"Yes ?@5

"Paris calling-"

"I thought you might," Sorenson broke in.

"Has Harry arrived?

You can talk, we're on scrambler."

"He's not due until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Dammit!"

"Then you know?  About the information he brought out, I mean."

"I do, but I'm surprised you do.  Brother or no, Harry's not the type
who's free with classified data, and I do mean classified to the
maximum."

"Harry didn't tell me anything.  It was Courtland

"The ambassador?  I find that incredible.  He's a good man, but he's
not in this loop."

"He had to be included.  Bonn's ambassador broke the seals, pretty
angrily as I understand it, over four possibles in his own
government."

"What the hell is going on?"  shouted Sorenson.

"This is all supposed to be kept in a deep tank until decisions are
made!"

"Somebody jumped the gun," said Drew.

"The sprinters began running before the starter's pistol was fired."

"Have you any idea what you're saying?"

"Oh, yes, I certainly do."

"Then, goddammit, tell me!  I have a meeting at ten o'clock with the
Secretary of State and the DCI-"

"Be careful what you say," interrupted Latham rapidly.

"What in God's name does that mean?"

"The Agency's AA-Zero computers were compromised.  The
Briiderschaft-that's the name the ncos call themselves-knew all about
Harry's operation.  Code Sting, objectives, even the projected time of
his mission-two years plus.  It was all picked up from Langley."

"This is shit-kicking nuts!"  roared the director of Con sOp

"How did you find out?"

"From a woman named De Vries, whose husband was Harry's runner in the
old East Berlin.  He was killed by the Stasi, and she's on our side.
She works at the embassy now, and says she has a few scores to
terminate.  I believe her."

"Can you be certain?"

"Nothing's in cement, but I think so."

"What does Moreau think?"

"Moreau?"

"Yes, of course.  Claude Moreau, the Deuxi&me."

"I thought you had Harry's list."

4"So ?"

"He's on it.  I was ordered not to tell him anything."

Following a short gasp, the silence from Washington was electrifying.
Finally, Sorenson spoke quietly, ominously.

"Who gave you that order?  Courtland?"

"Presumably relayed from on high..  .. Wait a minute.  You have Harry's
list-"

"I have a list that was sent to me."

"Then you've got Moreau's name.  Did you miss it?"

"No, because it's not there.  "what .. . ?"

"It was understood that for maximum security, certain names were
'selectively withheld."

"From you?"

"Those were the words."

"They're bullshit!

"Yes, I know."

"Can you think of a reason-any reason?"

"I'm trying to, believe me..  .. Among the upper echelons it's common
knowledge that Moreau and I worked closely together-"

"Yes, you mentioned Istanbul-"

"That was our last posting; there were others.  We were a good team and
whenever it was feasible, the analysts in Washington and Paris paired
us."

"Would that be reason enough to exclude -him from your list?"

"Possibly," replied the director of Cons-Op, now barely audible.

"The argument could be made, but not convincingly.  You see, he saved
my life in Istanbul."

"We all try to do that kind of thing if we're in a position to, usually
on the assumption that the favor might be returned someday."

"That's why it's not a convincing argument.  Still, a bond is indelibly
formed isn't it?"

"Within limits and depending on the circumstances.", "Well said."

"It's axiomatic..  .. I'm to reach Moreau this afternoon.  There's a
lead on -a rental car our actor picked up 'playing secret agent.

What should I do?"

"Normally," began Sorenson, "even abnormally, I'd consider Claude's
name on that list to be ludicrous."

"Agreed," interrupted Latham.

"Yet Harry brought it out.  The fact that he's your brother
notwithstanding-"

"Again axiomatic," Drew broke in curtly.

"I find it extremely difficult to believe Harry could be fooled, and
turned is out of the question."

"Again-agreed," mumbled Latham.

"So where are we?  If your woman friend is genuine, the Agency's been
penetrated, and there's obviously someone in either French intelligence
or our own who spotted Moreau's name and by extension doesn't trust
me."

"That's ludicrous!"  said Drew, raising his voice and instantly
lowering it as heads turned at several tables in front of his booth.

"It's a hell of a shock, I'll say that much."

"I'm going to call Harry in London.  Tell him our thoughts."

"He's sequestered."

"Not to me.  When he was fourteen and I was eight, to get away from me
and read one of his goddamned books, he climbed a tree and got stuck. 
I said I'd rescue him if he promised never to avoid me again-he was
kind of a wimp about climbing down, you know what I mean?"

"On such oaths are the secrets of the world nullified.  If you reach
him, for God's sake, call me back.  If you can't -and it sticks in my
craw to say it-follow the ambassador's order.  Cooperate with Claude,
but keep silent."

Drew pressed the button marked Finis, touched the Parlez, and dialed.
The operator at the Gloucester hotel in London, after repeated rings,
observed that Mr.  Wendell Moss was not in his room.  Latham left a
simple message.

"Call Paris.  Keep calling."

And Karin de Vries arrived, practically racing between the tables.

1, Thank God you're here!"  she cried, sitting down quickly, her words
whispered, intense.

"It's all over the street and the embassy's in an uproar.  A French
government car was attacked by terrorists below us in the Gabriel!"
Karin abruptly stopped, aware of the blank look in Drew's eyes.  She
frowned in silence, her lips forming the word you.  He nodded; she
continued.

"You've got to get out of Paris, out of France!  Go back to
Washington."

"Take my word for it-better yet, take your own-I'm no less a target
over there than I am here.  Maybe an easier one."

"But three times they've tried to kill you in the space of two days!"

"Try thirty-five hours, I've been counting."

"You can't stay here, they know you."

"They know me better in Washington.  I might even have a welcoming
committee I'd rather not meet.  Besides, Harry's going to call me and
I've got to see him, talk to him.  I have to."

"He's the reason you have the phone?"

"He and someone else.  Someone in D.C. I trust-I have to trust.

My boss, in fact."  A waiter arrived and De Vries ordered a Chardonnay.
The aproned man nodded and was about to leave, when Latham held up the
portable phone for him.

"Not yet," interrupted Karin, reaching over and touching Drew's
outstretched arm.  The waiter shrugged and left.

"Forgive me, but you may have overlooked a problem or two."

"That's entirely possible.  As you've pointed out, I've been shot at
three times in less than two days.  Discounting strenuous field
training, where they used dyed pellets, that's roughly one half of all
the weapons fired at me in my entire career.  What did I forget?  I
still remember my name.  Ralph, isn't it?"

"Don't try to be funny."

"What the hell's left?  For, your edification, my automatic is on my
lap, and if my eyes stray now and then, it's because I'm prepared to
use it."

"There are police all over the Gabriel; no terrorist would chance a
kill under the circumstances."

"You're well versed in the language."

"I was married to a man who was both shot at and shot more times than
he could remember."

"And I forgot.  The Stasi.  Sorry.  What was your point?"

"Where is Harry calling you?"

"My office or the Meurice."

"I submit that it would be foolish for you to return to either,"

"You may have half a point."

"Grant me a full one.  I'm right and you know it."

"Granted," said Latham reluctantly.

"There are crowds in the streets, a weapon could be inches from me and
I'd never know it.

And if the CIA's been penetrated, the embassy's child's play.  So?"

"Your superior in, Washington.  How did you explain the attack in the
Gabriel?  What protection did he advise?"

"He didn't because I didn't tell him.  It's one of those things you
talk about later..  .. He's got a bigger problem, much bigger than any
event I survived."

"Are you really so charitable, Monsieur Latham?"  asked Karin.

"Not at all, Madame de Vries.  Things are coming so fast, and the
problem we both face so great, I didn't want his head overburdened."

"Can you tell me about this problem?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because you asked."

Karin de Vries leaned back against the banquette and raised the wine to
her lips.

"You still don't trust me, do you?"  she said softly.

"We're talking about my life, lady, and a spreading lethal fungus that
scares the hell out of me.  It should scare the hell out of the whole
civilized world."

"You're speaking from a distance, Drew.  I'm speaking from the
immediate, 'close up' as you Americans say."

"It's war!"  whispered Latham, the whisper guttural, his eyes on
fire.

"Don't give me abstractions!"

"I gave you my husband in this war!"  said Karin, bolting forward.

"What more do you want from me?  What more for your trust?"

"Why do you want it so badly?"

"For the simplest reason of all, the one I explained to you last night.
I watched a beautiful man destroyed by a hatred he could not control.
It consumed him and for months, even years, I couldn't understand, and
then I did.  He was right!  A putrid cloud of horror was rising over
Germany, the East more than the West actually-'one evil monolith for
another; they thirst for screeching leaders for they'll never change'
was the way Freddie expressed it.  And he was right!"  Emotionally
spent, her closed eyes forming tears, De Vries lowered her whisper.

"He was tortured and killed because he had found the truth," she
finished in a monotone.

Found the truth.  Drew studied the woman across the table, remembering
how elated he had been when he had found the truth about Villier's
father, old Jodelle.  And then how frightened he was because it was the
truth.  The parallel lines of his and Karin's response, to revealed
facts could not be falsified.  They were beyond lying to themselves,
certainly beyond concealing the anger each felt, for it was too
genuine.

"Okay, okay," Latham said, briefly covering her clenched hands with his
free left one.

"I'll tell you what I can without specific names, which may come later
.. . depending on the circumstances."

"I accept that.  It's part of the drill, isn't it?  Beware the
chemicals."

"Yes."  Drew's eyes wandered rapidly, widely, toward the entrance and
the surrounding tables, his right hand out of sight.

"The key is Villier's father, his natural father-"

"Villier the actor?  The newspaper stories .. . the old man who killed
himself in the theater?"

"I'll fill you in later, but for now assume the worst.  The old man was
Villier's father, a Resistance fighter found out by the Germans and
driven insane in the camps years ago."

"There was a notice in the early afternoon papers!"  said De Vries,
unclenching her hAnds and grabbing his left.

"He's closing the play, the revival of Coriolanus."

"That's stupid!"  spat out Latham.

"Did they say why?"

"Something about that old man and how disturbed Villier was-"

"More than stupid," broke in Latham.

"It's goddamned grotesque!  He's as big a target as I am now!"

"I don't understand."

"There's no way you could, and in a crazy way it's all tied in with my
brother."

"With Harry?"

"Intelligence files about Jodelle-that's Villier's father -were removed
from the Agency's archives-"

"As in the AA-Zero computers?"  asked Karin, interrupting.

"Every bit as secure, believe me.  In those files was the name of a
French general who wasn't simply turned by the

Nazis, he became one of them, a fanatically devoted convert consumed by
the cause of the master race."

"What can he matter now?  A general so many years ago-he's undoubtedly
dead."

"He may be, or he may not be, it's irrelevant.  It's what he set in
motion, what's going on now.  An organization here in France that's
brokering millions from all over the world into the ncos in Germany.

The same thing that brought you to Paris, Karin."

De Vries again leaned back in the booth, removing her hand from his,
her eyes wide, staring at him in bewilderment.

"What has any of this to do with Harry?"  she asked.

"My brother brought out a list of names, how many I don't know, of neo
sympathizers here in France, the U.K."  and in my own country.  I
gather it's explosive, men and women of influence, even political
power, that no one would ever suspect of such leanings."

"How did Harry get these names?"

"I haven't a clue, that's why I've got to see him, talk to him!"

"Why?  You sound so disturbed."

"Because one of those names is a man I'm working with, a man in whose
hands I'd put my life without thinking twice.  How do you like them
apples?"

"Disregarding the grammar, I don't understand you."

"It's idiosyncratic, Madame Linguist.  I'm told it stems from an old
trick apple growers used, placing their best specimens on top of a
barrel they were selling, while underneath there were rotten ones."

"It still eludes me."

"Why not?  It's probably apocryphal."

"You sound like your brother, without his clarity."

"Clarity is what I need from him now."

"Regarding this man you're working with, of course."

"Yes.  I can't believe it, but if Harry's right and I meet with him
later this afternoon, which I'm to do, could be the dumbest decision I
could make.  Fatally dumb.

"Put him off.  Tell him something important has come up."

"He'll ask what it is, and at the moment he has every right to know.
Among other not-so-incidentals, an alert employee of his saved my life
barely a half hour ago on the Gabriel."

"Perhaps it was meant to appear that way."

"Yes, that's another possible equation.  I can see you've been around,
lady."

"I've been around," conceded Karin de Vries.

"It's Moreau, Claude Moreau of the Deuxi@me Bureau, isn't it?"

"Why do you suggest that?"

"D and R gets the logs of entry and departure for every twenty four
hours.  Moreau's name was listed twice, the night before last, when the
first attack was made on you, and then the next morning, when the
German ambassador arrived.  The pattern was obvious.

Several colleagues remarked that they could not remember when any
member, much less the head, of the Deuxieme had ever come to the
embassy."

"I won't confirm your suggestion, naturally."

"You don't have to, and I agree with you completely.  To associate
Moreau in any way with the ncos strikes me as ludicrous."

"The exact word I heard from Washington less than ten minutes ago.
Still, Harry brought it out.  You know my brother.  Could he have been
fooled?"

"The word ludicrous again comes to mind."

"Turned?"

"Never!"

"So, as my extremely experienced boss, who worked with Moreau in the
bad days, and who also agrees with us, said, "Where the hell are we?"

"

"There has to be an explanation."

"That's why I have to talk to Harry..  .. Whoa, hold it.  You're pretty
opinionated about Moreau.  Do you know him?"

"I know that East German intelligence was frightened to death of him,
as subsequently were the ncos, for he recognized the links between the
Stasi and the Nazis before anyone else, except possibly your brother.
Freddie met him once, a debriefing in Munich, and came back exuberant,
claiming Moreau was a genius."

"So to recap, where are we really?"

"You have an expression in the United States that's uniquely American,"
said Karin.  "

"Between a rock and a hard place."  I think it fits, at least until you
can talk to Harry, which, for your own safety, you cannot do from
either the Meurice or the embassy."

"They're the only numbers he has," protested Drew.

"I should like to ask for your trust once more.  I have friends here in
Paris from the old days in Amsterdam, friends you can trust.

If you wish, I'll go further and give their names to the colonel."

"What for?  Why?"

"They can hide you, yet you can still operate here in Paris;

they're less than forty-five minutes from the city.  And I myself can
reach Moreau with the most plausible explanation there is-the truth,
Drew."

"Then you do know Moreau."

"Not personally, no, but two Deuxieme staff interviewed me before I
came to the embassy.  The name De Vries will accord me the courtesy of
speaking to him personally, believe that."

"I do.  But what's the truth, that he himself is under suspicion?"

"Another truth.  Three attempts have been made on your life, and your
natural concern aside-"

"Call it by its rightful name," Latham broke in.

"The word is fear.

I was almost killed each time and my nerves are a lot frayed-like in
afraid."

"Very well, that's honest; he'll accept it..  .. Your fear for your own
life aside, you must meet with your brother who's flying over from
London-day and time unknown -and you can't risk his life, either, by
being in the open.  You're going under for a few days and will contact
him when you come out.  Naturally, I have no idea where you are."

"There's a large gap.  Namely, why are you my conduit?"

"Yet another truth that overrides the lie and will be substantiated by
Colonel Witkowski, an intelligence rock whom everyone respects.  He'll
confirm that my husband worked with your brother.  Moreau assumes you
knew that, and therefore easily understands why you came to me to act
as your intermediary."

"Two more gaps," Drew pressed quietly, once again nervously glancing
around the now-crowded brasserie.

"One, I didn't knowWitkowski had to tell me; and two, why didn't I use
him?"

"Old-timers like Stanley Witkowski, smart, even brilliant veterans of
the 'bad days," as you called them, know the pecking order better than
any of us.  To get things done, really accomplished, he has to operate
from his niche.  He's in a position now to confirm things, not to
initiate them.  Can you understand that?"

"It's one of the things I've always objected to, but, yes, I can.

We put some of our best minds into a pasture-hold mode because either
their retirements are coming up or they never quite made enough of a
name for themselves to go for the next level of retirement.  It's so
goddamned dumb, especially in our business, because the quiet ones
invariably make it possible for the 'names' to succeed.  How many
deep-cover legends became legends because they were guided by the quiet
ones..  .. Sorry, again I'm rambling; it takes my mind off the
possibility that someone in this very Parisian brasserie may get up and
take a shot at me."

"It's quite unlikely," said De Vries.

"We're close to the embassy' and you've no idea how sensitive the
French are to their lack of control over terrorism."

"So are the British, but people get killed outside of Harrods."

"Not often, and the English have isolated their primary enemy, the
IRA."  may they rot in hell.  The French are targets for so many
others.  Whole arrondissements are populated with warring factions from
abroad.  In the Scandinavian countries, too, the protests grow more
violent, say nothing of the Netherlands-the most peaceful of people,
where the Right and the Left clash incessantly."

"Add Italy, the Mafia corruption of Rome tearing people apart, men
fighting in Parliament, bombs going off.  And take Spain, where the
Catalonians and the Basques bear more than arms, they bear generations
of resentment.  And there's the Middle East, where Palestinians kill
Jews and Jews kill Palestinians, each blaming the other, while in
Bosnia-Herzegovina full-fledged massacres take place between people who
used to live together, and nobody appears to want to do anything.  It's
everywhere.

Discontent, suspicion, name-calling .. . violence.  It's as though some
terrible grand design is being shaped."

"What are you saying?"  asked De Vries, staring at him.

"They're all meat for the new Nazi grinders, can't you see that?"

"I hadn't considered things on such a large scale.  It's rather
melodramatically far-reaching, isn't it?"

"Think about it.  If Harry's list is right, even half right, how long
have the discontents everywhere been approached and told that their
grievances can be addressed, the grievers crushed once the great new
order is in place?"

"That's not the 'new order' you Americans have talked about, Drew.
Yours is a far more benevolent agenda."

"Suppose again.  Suppose it's all a code for something else, a 'new
order' going back fifty years.  The New Order of the Reich to last a
thousand years."

"That's preposterous!"

"Yes, it is," agreed Latham, leaning back in the booth and breathing
hard.

"I took it to its zenith, because you're right, it couldn't happen. 
But a large part of it could happen, right here in Europe, the Balkans,
and the Middle East.  Then what's the next step?  After the multiple
uprisings of people against people, religion against religion, new
nations breaking away from the old?"

"I'm trying to follow you, and I'm not stupid.  As Harry might say,
where is the clarity?"

"Nuclear weapons!  Bought and sold on the international markets, and
perhaps, with their millions, too many in the hands of the Brotherhood,
the new religion, the cure, and maybe, eventually, the refuge for all
the discontents the world over, drawn to them, convinced of their
invincibility.  It happened in the thirties, and not a hell of a lot
has changed in terms of those circumstances."

"You're way beyond me," said Karin, drinking her wine.

"I fight a spreading disease, as you called it, that killed Freddie.
You see an imminent apocalypse I cannot accept.  We've passed that
stage in civilization."

"I hope we have, and I hope I'm wrong, and I wish to God I could stop
thinking the way I do."

"You have an extraordinary imagination, very much like Harry's, except
his was-is-sang-fro id  Nothing is until analyzed without emotion."

"It's funny you say that; it's the difference between us.  My brother
was always so cold, so without feeling, I thought, until a young cousin
of ours, a girl of sixteen, died of some kind of cancer.

We were kids, and I found him bawling his eyes out behind the garage.
When I tried to help him as best I could, he yelled at me and said,
"Don't you ever tell anybody I cried or I'll put a double hex on you!"
Kid stuff, of course."

"Did you?"

"Of course not, he was my brother."

"There's "Something you're not telling me."

"Good Christ, is this a confessional?"

"Not at all.  I simply want, to know you better.  That's no crime."

"Okay.  I worshiped the guy.  He was so smart, so kind to me, running
me through exam questions and helping me with my term papers, then in
college, even selecting my courses, always telling me I was better than
I thought I was, if I would only concentrate.

Our dad was always away on one of his digs, so who came up to see me at
college, who yelled loudest at the hockey games-Harry, that's who."

"You love him, don't you?"

"I'd be nothing without him.  That's why I damn near threatened him
with a. hammerlock if he didn't get me into this business.  He didn't
like it, but there was a bastard organization called Consular
Operations being formed that apparently wanted jocks who could think. 
I fit the description and made it."

"The colonel said you were a terrific hockey player in Canada.

He said you should have gone to New York."

"It was an interlude, a farm team, and I was pretty well paid, but
Harry flew to Manitoba and said I had to grow up.  So I did; the rest
is what I am.  The questions over with?"

"Why are you so hostile?"

"I'm not really.  I'm good at what I do, lady, but as you've pointed
out ad nauseam, I'm not Harry."

"You have your own attributes."

"Oh, hell, yes.  Basic martial arts, but no expert, believe me.  All
those courses in enemy interrogation and manipulation, psychological
and chemical; survival techniques and how to determine which flora and
fauna are edible all that's ingrained."

"Then what bothers you so?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I don't even know myself.  I think it's
the absence of authority.  There's a rigid chain of command and I can't
go around it-not even sure I want to.  It's what I said before, the
'quiet ones' know more than I do .. . and now I can't trust them."

"Give me your phone, please

"It's set for long distance."

"By pressing F zero one eight you can revert it to Paris and its
environs."  De Vries touched the numbers she knew by rote, waited
several moments, and spoke.

"I'm arrondissement six, please run a check."  She covered the
mouthpiece and looked at Drew.

"A

simple intercept run, nothing out of the ordinary."  Suddenly Karin's
gaze shot downward to the floor, her face frozen, her chin jammed into
her throat.  She stood up and screamed.

"Get out!  Everyone get out of here!"  She grabbed Latham's arm,
yanking him out of the booth, and kept yelling.

"Everyone!"  she roared in French.

"Leave your tables and go outside!  Les terroristes!"  The mass exodus
was chaotic; several windows were smashed as diners fled, clashing with
waiters and busboys, racing to find whatever egresses they could as
bewildered, furious management personnel tried to stem the stampede,
then reluctantly followed.  Out on the avenue Gabriel all watched in
horror as the rear section of the brasserie was blown apart, the impact
of the explosion shattering what was left of the windows, sending
fragments of glass flying into the street, imbedding themselves into
the flesh of faces and through the fabric of clothing into arms,
chests, and legs.  Pandemonium filled the street as Latham fell over
the body of Karin de Vries.

"What did you learn?"  shouted Drew, shoving the gun into his belt.

"How did you know?"

"There's no time!  Get up.  Follow me!"

hey raced down the Gabriel until they reached a deep, shadowed
storefront, a joadfier whose expenTsive gems shone more brightly in the
relative darkness.  Karin yanked him into it; breathless, they both
gulped in air before Latham spoke.

"Goddammit, lady, what happened?  You said that whoever you called was
running an intercept check, then you started yelling and all hell broke
loose!  I want an answer."

"The check was never made," replied De Vries, still gasping for
breath.

"Instead, someone else.  came on the phone and yelled, "Three men in
dark clothes, they're running up and down the street from place to
place.  They want your friend out!"  Before I could ask any questions,
I saw two baguettes rolling on the floor toward our booth."

"Baguettes?  Loaves of bread?"

"Shiny small loaves, Drew.  Artificial bread.  Plastic explosives ten
times more powerful than grenades."

"Oh, my God .. ."

"There's a taxi stand at the next corner.  Quickly!"  Still breathless,
they settled into the backseat of a cab as Karin gave the driver an
address in the Marais district.

"In an hour I'll return to the embassy-"

"Are you crazy?"  Latham broke in, snapping his head toward her.

"You've been seen with me, you said so yourself.  They'll kill you!"

"Not if I return within a reasonable amount of time and behave as if
I've had a terrible shock-reasonably hysterical, although not out of
control."

"Words," said Drew sharply, disparagingly.

"No, basic common sense in a tenuous situation that demands my getting
back to my normal routine as soon as can."

"I repeat, you're a lunatic.  Not only were you with me, you were the
one who shouted the warning!  You started the stampede."

"So would anyone else who'd come in off the Gabriel, seeing all those
policemen and the patrol cars, and hearing how terrorists had shot up
an automobile.  Good Lord, Drew, two loaves of bread-even if they were
real-rolling into a booth as a man in a dark sweater and a black
visored cap raced out, colliding with a waiter, really!"

"You didn't tell me about any man racing outside-"

"In a heavy sweater on a warm spring day, his face hidden and nearly
upsetting a waiter carrying a tray!"

"Or about any waiter."

"Incidentally, no waiter in a Paris brasserie would treat loaves of
bread as if they were bocci balls."

"Okay, okay, you can explain away that part, but not the fact that you
were with me."

"I'll take care of it in a way any Frenchman, terrorist or not, will
understand.  I'll make several phone calls establishing the fact."

"What phone calls?  About what and to whom?"

"To people at the embassy, D and R first, of course, then the entry
desk, and a few others who are known gossips, including Courtland's
chief aide and the first attache's secretary.  I'll tell them I was
with you at the restaurant that was bombed, that we got out, you
disappeared, and I'm frantic."

"You're simply pointing up the fact that we were together!  "

"For quite a different reason that has nothing to do with your work,
which I know nothing about because I haven't known you that long."

"What reason?"

"We met the other day, were attracted to each other, and obviously are
heading toward an affair."

"That's the nicest thing you've said."

"Don't take it literally, Monsieur Latham, it's emphatically a cover.
The point is that since we can assume the embassy's been penetrated,
the word will circulate rapidly."

"Do you think Paris's branch of the ncos will buy it?"

"They have no choice on two levels.  If it's a lie, they'll watch me,
assuming you'll reach me and they can track you down; if it's the
truth, well, I'm really not worth their time.  In either case, I'm in a
position to help you where I am."

"For Freddie's sake, I understand," said Drew, smiling gently as the
driver entered the Marais, "but I still think you're taking a hell of a
risk, lady."

"May I.say something about your language, please?"

"Be my guest."

"Your erratic but inveterate use of the word lady has a distinctly
condescending connotation."

"It's not meant that way."

"Probably not.  Even so, it's an unconscious cultural contradiction.
"

"I beg your pardon?"

"By employing the word lady, you're actually using it in the pejorative
sense, as in girl, or, worse, broad."

"I apologize."  Latham smiled, again gently.

"I've used that term more times than I can remember with my mother, and
I assure you it was never-what did you call it?-pejorative."

"A mother can accept it as an en famille endearment.  I'm not your
mother."

"Hell, no.  She's a lot prettier and doesn't caterwaul so much."

"Caterwaul .. . ?"  De Vries studied the American's face, seeing the
humor in his eyes.  She laughed and touched his arm.

"You have the point you conceded to me at the table back in the
brasserie.  Sometimes I take things too seriously."

"No sweat.  I can see why you and Harry got along.  You analyze, then
reevaluate, then analyze again.  It all gets to be a bunch of circles,
doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't, because somewhere among those circles there's a
tangent that breaks off and leads to something else.  Invariably the
truth."

"Would you believe I understand that?"

"Of course you do.  Your brother was right years ago, you're much
better than you think you are..  .. But then, you don't need me to say
these things."

"No, I don't.  Right now I want to know where we're going, where I'm
going."

"To what you Americans call a sterile house, an intermediate place
where your credentials are confirmed before you're sent on to
sanctuary."

"The people you were calling at the restaurant, the brasserie?"

"Yes, but in your case you'll be sent immediately.  I'll be your
confirmation."

"Who are these people?"

"It's enough to say that they're on our side, yours and mine."

"It's not enough for me, lady-sorry, Mrs.  de Vries."

"Then you can stop the taxi' get out, be on your own, and be hunted
like an animal until they have you in their gun sights."

"Not necessarily.  I may not be Harry, but I've got certain skills that
have served me through a scrape or two.  Shall I tell the driver to
pull over, or will you tell me exactly where we're going and who we're
going to see?"

"You need protection right now and you admit you don't know whom you
can trust-"

"And you're saying I should trust people I don't know?"

interrupted Latham.

"You're certifiable."  He leaned forward, speaking to the driver.

"Monsieur, s'il vous plait, arritez le taxi-"

"Non!"  Karin intruded firmly.

"It's not necessary," she continued in French to the driver, who
shrugged and took his foot off the brake.

"All right," she went on, looking at Drew, "what do you want to do,
where do you want to go?  Or would you rather I get out so I have no
idea?  You can always reach me at the embassy-I'd suggest a pay phone,
but I don't have to tell you that.  You can't have much money on you,
and you shouldn't go to your bank any more than to the office, your
flat, or the Meurice, they'll all be covered.  I'll give you what I
have and we can make further arrangements later..  .. For God's sake,
decide.  I have to start my own strategy soon-in minutes for it to be
credible!"

"You mean it, don't you?  You'd give me money, get out, and let me
fade, not knowing where I am."

"Naturally I mean it.  It's not preferable, and I think you're a damn
fool, but you're stubborn and there's nothing I can do about that. 
It's far more important that you stay alive, see Harry, and get on with
the business at hand.  Every day the new Nazi leadership survives, the
deeper they entrench themselves."

"Then you don't insist on taking me to your old friends from
Amsterdam."  Latham did not ask a question.

"How can I?  You won't listen to me, so of course not."

"Then take me to, them  You're right, I really don't know who to
trust."

"You're impossible, you realize that, I presume!"

"No, I'm not, I'm just very cautious.  Did I mention that I've been
shot at three times in less than thirty-six hours, and ten minutes ago
someone tried to bomb me to the moon?  Oh, yes, lady, I'm very
cautious."

"You've made the right decision, believe me."

"I have to.  Now, who are these people?"

"Germans, mostly.  Men and women who loathe the ncos more than any of
us do-they see their country being soiled by the socalled inheritors of
the Third Reich."

"They're here in Paris .. . ?"

"And in the U.K."  the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the Balkanswherever
they believe the Briiderschaft is operating' Each cell is small in
number, fifteen to twenty people, but they operate with renowned German
efficiency" secretly funded by a group of German industrial leaders and
financiers who not only despise the ncos but fear what they could do to
the nation's image and thus its economy."

"They sound like the flip side of the Brotherhood."

"What do you think is tearing the country apart?  That's exactly what
they are, it has to be.  Bonn is political; business is practical.

The government must appeal for votes from a diverse electorate;

the financial establishment must, above all, guard against isolation
from world markets because of the specter of a Nazi revival."

"These people, your friends-these 'cells'-do they have a name, a
symbol, something like that?"

"Yes.  They call themselves the Antinayous."

"What kind of name is that?"

""I really don't know, but your brother laughed when Freddie told him.
He said it had something to do with ancient Rome and a historian called
Dio Cassius, I believe.  Harry said it fit the circumstances."

"Harry's a piece of work," mumbled Drew.

"Remind me to replace my encyclopedia..  .. Okay, let's meet your
friends."

"They're only two streets away."

Wesley Sorenson had made up his mind.  He had not spent an adult
lifetime in the service of his country to be frozen out of essential
information by an intelligence bureaucrat who drew an erroneous,
insulting conclusion.  In short, Wcs Sorenson was an angry man and he
saw no reason to conceal that anger.  He had not sought the
directorship of Consular Operations, he had been summoned by a thinking
President who saw the need to coordinate the intelligence services so
that one branch or another did not frustrate post-Cold War State
Department objectives.  He had answered the call out of a pleasant
retirement, in which, thanks to an affluent family, there was no need
of a pension.  Still, he had earned it many times over, as, indeed, he
had earned the respect and trust of the entire intelligence community.
He would make his feelings known at the conference he was about to
attend.

He was ushered into the enormous office, where Secretary of State Adam
Bollinger sat behind his desk.  In front of the Secretary, in one of
two captain's chairs, his body turned in greeting, was a large,
heavyset black man in his early sixties.  His name was Knox Talbot, the
director of Central Intelligence, a former ranking intelligence officer
in the Vietnam action, and a giant intellect who had made several
fortunes in the back-stabbing worlds of commodities and arbitrage.
Sorenson liked Talbot, and was constantly bemused by the way he masked
his brilliance with selfdeprecating humor and a show of wide-eyed
innocence.  Secretary Bollinger, on the other hand, was a problem for
the Cons-Op director.  Sorenson acknowledged the Secretary of State's
political acumen, even his international stature, but there was a
hollowness in the man that disturbed him.  It was as if everything he
said and did was calculated, contrived, devoid of passionate
commitmenta cold man with a bright smile that held surface charm but
little warmth.

"Good morning, Wcs," said Bollinger, his smile perfunctory, for this
was a meeting of dire consequence, no time for amenities, and he wanted
his subordinates to know it.

"Hello there, ye spook of spooks," added Knox Talbot, smiling.

"It seems we neophytes need a touch of input here."

"Nothing on our agenda is remotely amusing, Knox," noted the Secretary,
his neutral eyes glancing up from the papers on his desk, directed at
Talbot.

"Neither will it help to be uptight, Adam," rejoined the director of
the Central Intelligence Agency.

"Our problems may be immense, but a, number might be dismissed with a
chuckle."

"I find that statement close to irresponsible."

"Find it however you like, but I submit that a lot of what we have from
Operation Sting is, to be blunt, really irresponsible."

"Join us, Wesley," said Bollinger as Sorenson crossed to the chair on
Talbot's right and sat down.

"I'll not deny," continued the Secretary of State, "that Field Officer
Latham's list is appalling, but we must consider the source.  I ask
you, Knox, is there a more experienced undercover agent in the CIA than
Harry Latham?"

"To my knowledge, there isn't," replied the DCI, "but that doesn't
preclude his being fed disinformation."

"That assumes his cover was blown to the ncos' leadership."

"I have no knowledge of that," said Talbot.

"It was," said Sorenson flatly.

"What?"

"What?"

"I spoke with Harry's brother," said Sorenson.

"He's one of my men, and he learned it through a woman in Paris, the
widow of Latham's runner in East Berlin.  The ncos knew all about
Sting.

Name, objective, even the presumed length of his mission."

"That's impossible!"  cried Knox Talbot, his sizable frame lurching
forward in the chair, his large head turned toward Sorenson, his black
eyes glaring.

"That information is so deep, it couldn't be unearthed."

"Try your AA-Zero computers."

"Inviolate!"

"Not so, Knox.  You've got somebody in the secret chicken coop who's
actually a fox."

"I don't believe you."

"I just gave you chapter and verse, what more do you need?"

"Who the hell could it be?"

"How many people operate the AA-Zeros?"

"Five, with three alternates, each one researched to the day he or she
was born.  Each cleared total white, which, despite my obvious
objection to the phrase, I completely accept.  For Christ's sake, they'
really among our top brass in high technology!"

"One of them is tarnished, Knox.  One of them slipped through your
impenetrable nets."

"I'll put them all under total surveillance."

"You'll do more than that, Mr.  Director," said Adam Bollinger.

"You'll put everyone on Harry Latham's list under surveillance.  My
God, we could have a global conspiracy on our hands."

"Please, Mr.  Secretary, we're nowhere near that.  Not yet.  But I have
to ask you, Knox, who deleted Claude Moreau's name from the list that
was sent to me?"

His astonishment apparent, Talbot winced, then rapidly composed
himself.

"I'm sorry, Wcs," he said quietly, "it came from a reliable source, a
senior case officer who worked with you both in Istanbul.  He said you
two were close, that Moreau saved your life in the Dardanelles while on
assignment in Marmara.  Our man wasn't sure you could be objective,
it's as simple as that.  How did you find out?"

"Somebody cleared a list for Ambassador Courtland-"

"We had to," interrupted Talbot.

"The Germans leaked it and Courtland was put on a diplomatic spit..  ..
Moreau's name was on it?"

"So much for the Agency's oversight."

"An error, human error, what more can I say?  There are too goddamned
many machines that spew out data too fast..  .. The justification in
your case, however, was understandable.  A man saves your life, you're
damned quick to come to his defense.

Perhaps unwittingly, just by sympathetically probing, you could even
tip him off that he's under a microscope."

"Not if you're a professional, Knox," said the head of Consular
Operations curtly, "and I believe I've attained that status.  "

"Christ, you certainly have," agreed Talbot, nodding his head.

"You'd be sitting in my chair if you'd been willing to accept it."

"I never wanted it."

"Again, I apologize.  But while we're on the subject, 9 what do you
think about Moreau's inclusion?"

"I think it's crazy."

"So are about twenty or twenty-five others in this country alone, and
when you consider their staffs and associates, well over a couple of
hundred in high places.  There's another seventy or so in the U.K. and
France and they could be multiplied tenfold.  Among them are men and
women we regard as true patriots, and regardless of political
affiliations we may not like, people we honor.

Is Harry Latham, one of the best and the brightest, a cuckoo bird, a
deep cover who lost his marbles?"

"That's hard to imagine-"

"Which is why every man and woman on his list will be back grounded
from the moment they could walk and talk," announced the Secretary of
State emphatically, his thin lips now a straight line.

"Turn over every rock, bring me dossiers that make the Federal Bureau's
checks took like a hungry salesman's credit search."

"Adam," protested Knox Talbot, "it's the Bureau's territory, not ours.
That's clearly spelled out in the forty seven charter,"

"To hell with the charter.  If there are Nazis roaming the corridors of
government, industry, and the so-called arts, we have to find them,
expose them!"

"With what authority?"  asked Sorenson, studying the face of the
Secretary of State.

"With my authority, if you like.  I'll be responsible."

"Congress might object," pressed the director of Con sOp

"Screw the Congress, just keep it quiet.  Good God, you can at least do
that, can't you?  You're both part of the administration, aren't you?
It's called the Executive Branch, gentlemen, and if the Executive, the
presidency itself, can root out the Nazi influence in this country, the
nation will forever be thankful.  Now, go to work, coordinate, and
bring me results.  Our conference is over.  I have an appointment with
one of those Sunday morning talk show producers.  I'm going to announce
the President's new policy on the Caribbean."

Outside in the State Department corridor, Knox Talbot turned to Wesley
Sorenson.

"Beyond finding out who's compromising our AA-Zero computers, I have no
stomach for any of this."

"I'll resign first," said the Cons-Op head.

"That's not the way, Wcs," countered the DCL "If you go and I go, he'll
find a couple of others he can really control.  I say we both stay and
'coordinate' quietly with the Bureau."

"Bollinger ruled that out."

"No, he specifically objected to and overrode the charter of
'forty-seven that prohibits you and me from operating domestically.

We filtered his words and came to the conclusion that he didn't
actually want us to act unconstitutionally.  He'll probably thank us
later.  Hell, the acolytes around Reagan did this all the time."

"Is Bollinger worth it, Knox?"

"No, he's not, but our organizations are.  I've worked with the
Bureau's chief.  He's not obsessed with his turf he no Hoover.

He's a decent guy, a former judge who was considered fair, and he has
plenty of street smarts.  I'll convince him it's all got to be silent
and deep but conclusive.  And, let's face it, Harry Latham can't be
ignored."

"I still think Moreau's a mistake, a terrible error."

"There may be others too, but there could also be other others who
aren't.  I hate to say it, but Bollinger's right about that.  I'll make
contact with the Bureau, you keep Harry Latham alive."

"I see another problem, Knox," said Sorenson, frowning.

"Remember the garbage of the fifties, the McCarthy bullshit?"

"Please," answered the black DCL "I was a freshman in college and my
father was a civil rights lawyer.  They called him a Communist, and we
had to move from Wilmington, to Chicago so my two sisters and I could
walk to school.  Hell, yes, I remember."

"Make sure the FBI understands the conceivable similarity.  We don't
want reputations, even careers, ruined by irre=ible charges-or worse,
rumors that won't die.  We want federal gunslingers; we have to have
discreet professionals."

"I lived through the gunslingers, Wcs.  It's a priority that they be
cut off at the pass.  Strictly professional, strictly quiet, that's the
mantra."

"I wish us all good luck," said the director of Consular Operations,
"but half of my brain, if I have one, tells me we're in dangerous
waters."

The Antinayous' sterile house in Paris's Marais district was staffed by
two women and a man ensconced in a comfortable flat above a fashionable
dress shop on the rue Delacort.  The introductions were quick, Karin de
Vries doing most of the talking, making the case for Drew Latham not
only immediate but emphatic.  The grayhaired woman in charge conferred
briefly with her colleagues.

"We'll send him to the Maison Rouge in Carrefour.

You'll have everything you need, monsieur.  Karin and her departed
husband were always with us.  Godspeed, Mr.  Latham.  The Briiderschaft
must be destroyed."

The old stone edifice referred to as the Maison Rouge was initially a
small economy-class hotel converted into a small economy-class office
building.  According to the shabby tenant directory, it housed such
businesses as an employment agency for manual labor, a plumbing firm, a
printer, a private detective agency specializing in "divorce
procedures," as well as a smattering of bookkeepers, typists,
janitorial services, and offices for rent, of which there were none. 
In reality, only the employment agency and the printer were legitimate;
the rest were not in the Paris telephone book, ostensibly either out of
business or closed for specific dates (altered successively on door
signs).  In their places were single and double rooms and a number of
mini-suites, all complete with unlisted telephones, fax machines,
typewriters, television sets, and desktop computers.  The building was
unattached, and two narrow alleyways led to the rear, where there was a
concealed sliding door disguised as a tall, rectangular panoply of
basement windowpanes.  It was never to be used during daylight hours.

Each guest of the Antinayous was given a concise briefing as to what
was expected of him or her, including clothing (wardrobe provided, if
necessary), behavior (not haut Parisien), communication between
residents (absolutely verboten unless cleared by the "management"), and
the precise scheduling of entries and departures (again cleared by
management).  Failure to adhere to the regulations would result in
immediate expulsion, no appeal possible.  The rules were admittedly
harsh, but they were for everyone's benefit.

Latham was assigned to a mini-suite on the third floor; he was as
impressed by the technical appointments as he was by what Karin had
described as "German efficiency."  After having been thoroughly tutored
in the workings of the equipment by a member of the management, he went
into the bedroom and lay down, glanced at his watch, and estimated that
he could call Karin de Vries at the embassy in a little over an hour.
He wished it were sooner; the waiting to find out whether or not her
strategy was successful was nerve-racking, although the lie she had
concocted was exotic, even humorous considering the circumstances.  Her
tactic was simple: She had been with him at the bombed-out brasserie;
he had disappeared and she was frantic.  Why?  Because she found him
delightful and they were "heading toward an affair."  It was an
appealing prospect and equally out of the question-on second thought,
perhaps not terribly appealing, thought Drew.  She was a strange woman,
justifiably filled with anger and painful memories, her attractiveness
diminished by both.  She was a child of European angst, the national
and racial upheavals that were poisoning the entire continent, and
Latham was not prepared to join her crowd.  He was uncomfortable when
he observed her sharp yet oddly soft, lovely features turn glacial, her
wide, stunning eyes become two orbs of ice, when her past consumed her.
No, he had enough problems of his own.

Then why was he thinking so about her?  She had saved his life, of
course..... but then, she had saved her own as well.  His life.....
what was the phrase she had used?

"Perhaps it was meant to appear that way."  No!  He was sick of the
circles within circles, where none broke off in tangents that led to
the irrefutable truth.

Where was the truth?  Harry's list?  Karin's concern?  Moreau?
Sorenson?  .. . He had nearly been killed four times and that was
enough!

He had to rest, then think, but rest first.  Rest was a weapon, often
more potent than firepower, an old trainer had once told him.  So with
the exhaustion born of fear and anxiety, Drew closed his eyes.

Sleep, fitful as it was, came quickly.

The harsfi bell of the Paris phone awakened him; bolting upright, he
grabbed it.

"Yes?"

"It is I," said Karin.

"I'm speaking on the colonel's telephone."

"It."s swept," interrupted Latham, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with
his left hand.

"Is Witkowski there?"

"I thought you might ask that.  Here he is."

"Hello, Drew."

"The attempts on my life are multiplying, Stosh."

"So it would appear," agreed the G-2 veteran.

"You stay deep until things are clearer."

"How clear do they have to be?  They want me out, Stanley!"

"Then we have to convince them that temporarily it would not be to
their advantage.  You have to buy time."

"How the hell do we do that?"

"I'd have to know more than I do to give you an answer, but basically
to make them believe you're more valuable alive than dead."

"What do you need to know?"

"Everything.  Sorenson's your boss, your ultimate control.  I know
Wesley, not well, but we're acquainted, so reach him, clear me, and
bring me up to speed."

"I don't have to reach him.  It's my life and I'm making an on scene
decision.  Take notes, then burn them, Colonel."  Latham started from
the beginning, with Harry's disappearance in the Hausruck Alps, his
capture and escape from the Brotherhood, then the missing files in
Washington that dealt with an unknown French general, followed by the
Jodelle connection, his suicide at the theater, and his son,
Jean-Pierre Villier.  At this juncture Stanley Witkowski sharply
interrupted.

"The actor?"

"That's the one.  He was enough of a jackass to go out on his own
playing a street bum, and come up with information that could be
valuable."

"Then the old man really was his father?"

"Confirmed and reconfirmed.  He was a member of the REsistance,
captured by the Germans, and sent to the camps, where he was driven
insane-damn near completely."

"

"Damn near'?  What's that mean?  Either you are or you're not."

"A small part of him wasn't.  He knew who he was .. what he was .. .
and for nearly fifty years he never tried to make contact with his
son."

"Didn't anyone try to make contact with him?"

"Like thousands of others who never returned, he was presumed dead."

"But he wasn't," said Witkowski'thoughtfully, "just mentally crippled
and no doubt physically a wreck."

"Barely recognizable, I'm told.  Still, he couldn't stop going after a
turncoat general who had ordered his family executed and whose name
disappeared with-the files.  Villier confirmed that; he learned it was
someone in the Loire Valley, in and around which some forty or fifty
retired generals live, usually in modest country houses or larger
places owned by others.  That was his information, that and a license
plate' number of a capo who rousted him for asking questions."

"About the general?"

"One of four or even five dozen down there.  A soldier with the rank of
general fifty years ago would have to be somewhere in his middle to
late nineties if he's still alive."

"Actuarially, that's pretty remote," agreed the colonel.

"Old soldiers, especially those who've weathered combat, rarely last
beyond their early eighties-something to do with past traumas catching
up with them.  The Pentagon did a study a few years ago relative to
secure consultancies."

"That's pretty ghoulish."

"And necessary where confidential information is imparted and mental
stability's on a collision course with declining health.  Those old
gaffers usually stay by themselves, fading quietly away, as the Big Mac
put it.  If they don't want to be found, you won't find them."

"Now you're overdoing it, Stosh."

"I'm thinking, goddammit..  .. Jodelle found out something, then killed
himself in front of the son he had never acknowledged while screaming
that he was his son.  Why?"

"I figure it's because whatever he learned was too big for him to
fight.  just before he shoved the barrel in his mouth and blew his head
off, he also screamed that he had failed-both his son and his wife. 
His defeat was total."

"I read in the papers that Villier closed Coriolanus, no specific
reason except how affected he was by the old man's suicide.  The
article wasn't clear at all; actually it sounded as though he knew
things he didn't care to talk about.  Naturally, like me, everyone's
wondering if Jodelle was telling the truth.  Nobody wants to believe
it, because Villier's mother was a great star and his father one of the
most respected members of the Com@die Fran@aisc, and they're both still
alive.  Of course, they can't be reached by the press; they're
supposedly on a private island in the Mediterranean.  The gossip
columns are the Super Bowls of Paris."

"All of which makes Villier as big a target as I am, a fact I made
clear to our employee, Mrs.  de Vries."

"It's crazy, Villier should have been controlled, stopped."

"I've been thinking about that, Stanley.  I called Villier a jackass,
and to do what he did, he was, but he's not a blind jackass.  I have no
doubt he'd risk his own life, confident of his actor's disguises and
techniques.  However, I don't believe for a minute he'd risk the lives
of his wife or parents by making himself so public a mark for the
neosto repeat, a target."  "Are you saying he was programmed?"

"I don't want to even think it because the Deuxi&me's Moreau was the
last knowledgeable official to confront Villier before it was announced
that the play was closing."

"I don't understand," said Witkowski hesitantly.

"Claude Moreau's the best there is.  I really don't follow you,
Drew."

"Fasten your seat belt, Colonel.  Harry brought out a list of names."
Latham proceeded to describe the profoundly disturbing information his
brother had learned while being held captive by the regenerated Nazis.
How alarming and bewildering were the identities of so many powerful
people, who were apparently not only sympathetic to the aims of the neo
master race, but who were actively working for them.

"It wouldn't be the first time since the pharaohs' legions that nations
have been infested by lice in the upper ranks," Witkowski broke "If
Harry Latham brought it out, you can take it to the bank.  He's on that
rare plateau with Claude Moreau: brains, instinct, talent, and tenacity
all coming together.  There's nobody in this business better than those
two."

"Moreau's on Harry's list, Stanley," said Drew quietly.  The silence
from the swept embassy phone was as electric as it had been with
Sorenson when Latham delivered the same information.

"I trust you're still there, Colonel."

"I wish I weren't," mumbled Witkowski.

"I can't think of anything to say."

"How about bullshit?"

"That's my first reaction, but there's a secondary one and it's just as
strong.  His name is Harry Latham."

"I know that-for all the reasons you mentioned and several dozen you
didn't.  But even my brother can make a mistake, or accept
disinformation until he analyzes it.  That's why I have to talk to
him."

"Mrs.  de Vries explained that he's due here in Paris within a day or
two, that you left word for him to keep calling you, which now he
obviously won't be able to do."

"I can't even give him a number, it's not on the phone here.  But you
have it."

"That number is buried in the underground telephone lines, at least the
address is, and it's undoubtedly a false one.

"So what do we do?"

"It's a leap of faith neither Sorenson nor I would normally approve of,
but tell Mrs.  de Vries where Harry is in London.  We'll take it from
there and arrange your getting together.  Here she is."

"Drew?"  said Karin, now on the phone.

"Is everything at the Maison Rouge all right?"

"Only outstanding, lady-excuse me, how about 'my benevolent female
friend'?"

"Stop trying to be clever, it doesn't help.  The Antmayous can be quite
hostile, even with their proven allies."

"Oh, they're fine, except that everything they say seems to end with an
exclamation mark."

"It's the language, dismiss it.  You heard the colonel, how can I reach
Harry?"

"He's at the Gloucester, under the name of Wendell Moss."

"I'll make the arrangements.  Stay where you are and try to remain
calm."

"That's not terribly easy.  I'm in this mess but I'm also outside of
it.  I can't call the shots, and that bothers me."

"You're not in a position to 'call any shots," my dear.  The colonel
and I are, and we will act in your best interests, in all our best
interests, believe me."

"Again, I have to, and thanks for the 'my dear."  A touch of warmth is
appreciated right now.  It's cold out here."

"I give it freely.  As you do with the word lady that you applied to
your mother, who is prettier and less cotter whatever than I am.

We are now en famille, for few families could be closer than we are,
whether we like it or not."

"You know, I kind of wish you were here."

"You shouldn't.  I'd be a dreadful disappointment, Officer Latham."

Far below in the embassy's pristine white cellars, a white coated
member of Team C, the afternoon shift, snapped off the override switch
that taped everything spoken over every telephone in the embassy; the
scramblers did not affect the in-house calls, a fact even the
ambassador was not aware of-orders from Washington.

The interceptor looked at the clock on the wall; it was seven minutes
to four o'clock, seven minutes to the end of his shift, seven minutes
to retrieve the tape and surreptitiously replace it with a blank.  He
could do it.  He had to do it.  Sieg Heil!



Patient No.  28

Undercover.

Code Name: Sting

"Escape."

Current Status: Day 6, post procedure.

Estimated time span remaining: 3 days minimum, 6 days maximum.

Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger studied the computer screen in his new offices on
the outskirts of Mettmach.  A complete clinic was being built deep in
the forests of Vaclabruck; until it was finished he could continue his
research but, unfortunately, without human experimentation.  Still,
there was enough to do in terms of unexplored microsurgery enhanced by
the newest laser techniques to occupy him, but currently the progress
of Patient No.  28, one Harry Latham, was as vital as anything else.
The initial report from London was exhilarating.  The subject had
responded to interrogation under computerized electronic impulses.
Excellent!

Harry Latham replaced the phone in his room at London's Gloucester
hotel.  A rush of warmth spread over him, sweet memories of things
past, hours of comfort and delight in a world that had gone mad.  He
was a confirmed bachelor, realizing that it was too late to share or
impose his likes and dislikes with, or on, another person.  But if ever
there was a woman who could negate this conclusion,

Harry J. Latham, American.  CIA Case Officer.

Operation Terminated: May 14, 5:30 P.M.

it was Frederik de Vries's wife, Karin.  Freddie de V had been the
finest runner under his control in the Cold War years, but Harry had
spotted his flaw, the flaw that made him extraordinary.  Simply put, it
was hatred-unmitigated, passionate hatred.  Latham had tried constantly
to impose a cold neutrality on De Vries's emotions, warning over and
over again that his inner self would explode one day and betray him. 
It was a useless plea, for Freddie was a demonic romantic, riding the
blinding white crest of the wave, not understanding the power beneath,
preferring the shining armor of a surfing Siegfried to the force of an
unseen Neptune below.

His wife, Karin, understood.  How often would she and Harry talk in
Amsterdam, alone, while Freddie went out playing the outrageous role of
a diamond merchant, gulling players of the darkest arts of espionage
until they opened up to him .. . temporarily.  That very image
ultimately destroyed him, for his hatred led him to one more kill he
shouldn't have made.

It was the end of the minor legend that was Freddie de V. Harry had
tried to comfort Karin, but she was beyond consolation.  She knew too
well what had led to his death, and she swore she would operate
differently.

"Forget it!"  Harry had yelled.

"You're not going to make any difference, can't you understand that?"

"No, .1 can't," she had replied.

"To do nothing is to admit that Freddie meant nothing.  Can't you.
understand that, my dear Harry?"

He had no answer then.  His only impulse was to take this woman, this
intellectual companion he felt so deeply for, into his arms and love
her.  But it was not the time, nor, perhaps, would it ever be.  She had
lived with her dead Freddie, loved her dead Freddie.  Harry Latham had
been that man's superior, but he was not his equal.

And now, nearly five years later, she had come back into his life from
Paris.  Even more remarkably, as the guardian of his brother, Drew, who
was marked for execution!  Jesus Christ .. . no, he had to impose his
legendary control on himself.  Maybe it was the ache in his head that
seemed to grow stronger, that allowed his frustration to surface when
normally it wouldn't.  Regardless, he would fly to Paris in the morning
on a diplomatic jet to a private field at De Gaulle Airport, and be met
by Karin de Vries in an unmarked embassy vehicle.

He wondered what he would say to her.  Would he be foolish enough, when
he saw her, to say things he shouldn't say?  It didn't much matter.. 
.. The ache in his head was pulsating.  He walked into the bathroom,
turned on the tap, and took two more aspirin.

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he abruptly looked a second time.

A pale rash was developing above his left temple, partially obscured by
his hairline.  His nervous system was making its mark literally.

It would go away with a mild antibiotic or a few days of diminished
tension; perhaps the sight of Karin de Vries would hasten its
disappearance.

There was a knock on the suite's door, probably a maid or a steward
looking after his needs; it was early evening, and such were the
courtesies of the better London hotels.  Early evening, he mused,
walking out into the sitting room.  Where had the day gone?

Gone?  Wasted was the better word, for he had spent ten hours being
interrogated by his tribunal.  Ad nauseum, they had questioned him
about the information he had brought out of the Brbderschaft valley
rather than accepting it and setting the machinery in motion.  To make
matters even more aggravating, the three-man panel was augmented by
several senior intelligence officers from the U.K."  the U.S."  and
France, all querulous, argumentative, and arrogant.  Wasn't it
conceivable that he had been fed disinformation, erroneous data that
could easily be denied on the outside possibility that Alexander
Lassiter was a double agent?  Of course it was conceivable!  he had
said.  Disinformation, misinformation, human or computer error, wishful
thinking, fantasizing-anything was possible!  It was their job to
confirm' or deny, not his.  His work was finished; he had delivered the
material, it was their function to evaluate it.

Harry reached the door and spoke.

"Who is it?"

"A new old friend, Sting," came the reply from the corridor.

Catbird!  thought Latham, instantly freezing his reaction.  The Catbird
no one at the Agency had ever heard of Harry
welcomed this strange intruder; he had been too worn out, too wasted to
think clearly last night when the CIA impostor had paid him a visit.

"Just a moment," he said in a louder voice.

"I'm dripping wet from a shower, I'll go put on a robe."  Latham ran
first to the bathroom, threw handfuls of water over his hair and face,
then dashed into the bedroom, removing his trousers, shoes, socks, and
shirt, and grabbed the hotel bathrobe from the closet.  He stopped
briefly, looking down at the bedside table; he opened the top drawer
and pulled out the small automatic supplied by the embassy and shoved
it into the terry-cloth pocket.  He returned to the door and opened
it.

"Catbird, if I -remember correctly," he said, admitting the pale,
gray-faced man wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

"Oh, that," remarked the visitor, smiling pleasantly.

"It was a harmless ruse."

"A trick?  What do you mean?  What for?"

"Washington told me you were probably exhausted, more out of the
picture than in it, so I decided to cover myself in case you were hyper
and felt the need to make phone calls.  D.C. doesn't want my
participation known at this point.  Later, of course, but not now."

"So you're not Catbird-"

"I knew that if I used the code name Sting, you'd let me in," the man
interrupted.

"May I sit down?  I'll only be a few minutes."

"Certainly," replied a bewildered Harry, gesturing ainileisly toward
the couch and several chairs.  The visitor chose the center of the
couch as Latham sat in an armchair directly across, a coffee table
between them.

"Why doesn't Washington want your presence your participation known

"You I re certainly much more alert than you were last evening," said
the stranger, again pleasantly.

"Heaven knows you weren't traumatic, but you definitely weren't
yourself."

"I was pretty tired-"

"Tired?"  The visitor raised both his voice and his eyebrows.

"My dear fellow, you practically passed out as we talked.  At one point
I had to grab your arm to keep you from failing.

Don't you remember, I said I'd come back when you were rested?"

"Yes, I vaguely remember, but please answer my question, and while
you're at it, show me some identification.  Why does Washington want
you to be a ghost?  I'd think the opposite would be the case."

"Quite simply, because we don't know who's really secure and who
isn't."  The man removed first his pocket watch, placing it on the
table, and then a black plastic ID case; he kept it closed and handed
it across the coffee table to Latham.

"I'm timing myself so not to wear you out.  Orders again."

Fingering the small case, Harry had difficulty opening it.

"Where's the clasp?"  he asked as his visitor held up the pocket watch
and pressed the crown.

"I can't find the-" Latham stopped.

His eyes grew unfocused, the pupils dilated; he blinked briefly but
repeatedly, then his face sagged, the tense muscles turning flaccid.

, "Hello, Alex," said the visitor sharply.

"It's your old sawbones, Gerhardt.  How are you, my friend?"

"Fine, Dr.  Straightface, it's good to hear from you."

"Our telephone connection's better this evening, isn't it?"

"Telephone?  I guess so."

"Did everything go well today at the embassy?"

"Hell, no!  Those idiots kept asking questions they should find the
answers for, not me."  '

"Yes, I understand.  Men in that other business of yours -the one we
never mention-protect themselves at all costs, don't they?"

"It's in every question they ask, every word they say.  Frankly, it's
deplorable."

"I'm sure it is.  So what are your plans, what have the idiots allowed
you to do?"

"I'm flying to Paris in the morning.  I'll see my brother, and also
someone I'm very fond of, Gerhardt.  The widow of a man I worked with
covering East Berlin.  I'm quite excited about seeing her again.

She'll meet me at the airport, the diplomatic complex, in an embassy
car."

"Your brother can't meet you, Alex?"

"No..  .. Wait!  Alex's brother?"

"Never mind," said the gray-faced visitor quickly.

"The brother you speak of, where is he?"

"It's off the books.  They tried to kill him."

"Who tried to kill him?"

"You know.  They did .. . we did."

"Tomorrow morning, the diplomatic complex.  That's De Gaulle airport,
right?"

"Yes.  Our ETA is ten o'clock."

"Fine, Alex.  Have a splendid reunion with your brother and the woman
you find so attractive.  ""Oh it's more than her looks, Gerhardt. She's
extraordinarily intelligent, a scholar actually."

"I'm sure she is, for my friend Lassiter is a deep man with many
facets.  We'll talk again, Alex."

"Where are you going, where are you?"

"They're beeping me for the OR.  I have to operate."

"Yes, of course.  You'll call again?"

"Certainly."  The visitor wearing steel-rimmed glasses leaned forward
over the edge of the coffee table; he continued quietly, firmly,
staring into Latham's neutral eyes.

"Remember, old friend, respect the wishes of your guest from
Washington.  He's under orders.  Forget his name, which you just read
on his identification.

It's authentic, that's all you really care about."

"Sure.  Orders are orders, even when they're stupid."

Half rising, the "guest" reached over and took the ID case out of
Harry's limp-Left hand.  He opened it, sat back down on the couch, and
picked up the pocket watch from the small, low table.  He pressed the
crown, holding it in place until he saw Latham's eyes coming back into
focus, saw him blinking, suddenly aware of his surroundings, his face
again firm, the muscles of his chin taut.

"There," said the visitor, loudly snapping the ID case shut, "so now
that you know I'm legitimate, photograph and all, just call me Peter.

"

"Yes .. . authentic.  I still don't understand .. . Peter.  All right,
you're a ghost, but why?  Who's not secure on the tribunal?"

"Mine not to wonder why or who, I'm just the unseen presence that talks
to you..  .. My word, I think that's a rhyme."

"A bad one, but never mind.  How could any of them be questioned?"

"Maybe they're not, individually, but others were brought in, weren't
they?"

"A gaggle of clowns, yes.  They didn't want to examine the names I
brought out.  They just wanted to clear a lot of them before the
microscopes are activated-less work and less chance of stepping on the
toes of big feet."

"What do you think of the names?"

"What I think doesn't matter, Peter.  Naturally, a number of them
strike me as preposterous, but I was at the source, a trusted confidant
until I escaped.  I was a major contributor, a believer in their cause,
so why would they feed me dirt?"

"The rumor is that the Nazis, the new Nazis, may have known who you
were from the beginning."

"That's not a 'rumor," that'll be their credo.  What the hell would we
do, and how often did we do it, when we found a mole or a turnaround
who fled to Mother Russia after looting us?  Of course we proclaimed
how smart we were, how deep-efficient, and how useless was the
information stolen from us-when it wasn't."

"It's a conundrum, isn't it?"

"What isn't in this business?  Right now, for my own sanity, if you
like, I have to purge Alexander Lassiter from my psyche.  I have to be
Harry Latham again; my job is finished.  Let others take over."

"I agree with you, Harry.  Also my time's up.  Please, remember my
orders.  We didn't meet tonight..  .. Don't blame me, blame
Washington."

The visitor walked up the hallway to the elevators.  He took the first
one available and descended a single floor, then went down the corridor
to his own suite, directly below Latham's.  Inside, on the desk, was an
arrangement of electronic equipment.  He crossed to it, pressed several
buttons rewinding a tape, and confirmed its accuracy.  He picked up the
telephone and dialed Mettmach, Germany.

"Wolf's Lair," said the quiet voice over the line.

"It's Catbird."

"Introduce your impediment, please."

"At once."  The man who called himself Peter delicately pulled a thin
wire out of his equipment, its tip attached to a razor-sharp alligator
clamp, and rotated it around the telephone cord until there was a
momentary burst of static on the line.

"The metro meter indicates clearance, how so there?"

"Clear.  Go ahead."

"Catbird, if I remember correctly," began the tape recording.  The
resident below Harry Latham's suite played it to the finish.

"I agree with you, Harry..  .. Don't blame me, blame Washington."

"What's your assessment?"  asked Latham's visitor.

"It's dangerous," said Gerhardt Kroeger in Germany.

"Like most deep-cover operatives, he's subconsciously crossing over
from one identity to another.  It's in his own words: "I have to purge
Alexander Lassiter from my psyche."  He was Lassiter too long, and he's
fighting back to be himself.  It's not an uncommon occurrence, the dual
persona becoming a dual personality."

"He's accomplished what you wanted him to do in a matter of two days.
The list itself was sufficient to put our enemies into a collective
state of shock.  They don't want to believe his information, they're
very vocal about that, but they're also frightened to deny it.  I can
take him out with a single shot in the hallway.

Shall I?"

"It would lend credence to the list of names, but no, not yet.  His
brother is closing in on the trail of that senile tramp, jodelle, and
it could be catastrophic for us.  As much as it tortures me not to
follow up on my patient's progress, the movement comes first and I must
make the sacrifice.  Alexander Lassiter will lead us to the other
interfering Latham.  Kill them both."

"It won't be difficult.  We have Lassiter's itinerary."

"Follow it, follow them, and leave nothing but corpses.  jodelle's
resurrected son, the actor, will be next, then all traces to the Loire
Valley will be dust, as it is with the Hausruck."

Harry Latham and Karin de Vries held each other as close brothers and
sisters do after having been parted for a very long time.  Their
chatter, at first, was garbled, each excitedly telling the other how
marvelous it was to be together again.  Karin then clutched his arm,
steering them both toward the diplomatic lounge, where Harry was
processed rapidly, then out to the restricted parking area thick with
uniformed guards, a number holding the leashes of various dogs trained
to ferret out such items as narcotics and explosive devices.

The car was a nondescript black Renault, indistinguishable from several
thousand others on the streets of Paris.  De Vries climbed behind the
wheel while Harry got into the passenger seat.

"We don't rate a driver?"  asked Latham.

"Let's say we're not permitted, to have one," replied Karin.

"Your brother is under the protection of the Antinayous, remember
them?"

"Most emphatically-from the other night to be precise; they were
waiting for me.  I pretended not to understand a word my contact said
in the truck because it would have involved an explanation that could
lead to Freddie, and by extension, you."

"You needn't have feared.  I've been working with them since my last
year in The Hague."

"It's so good to see you," said Harry, his voice filled with emotion,
"to hear you."

"I feel the same way, old friend.  Since I learned the Briiderschaft
knew about you, I've been so terribly worried-"

"They knew about me?"  Latham interrupted sharply, his eyes wide,
bulging in astonishment.

"You're not serious!"

"Nobody's told you?"

"How could they?  It's not true."

"It is, Harry.  I explained to Drew how I found out."

"You?"

"I assumed your brother had passed on the information."

"Christ, I can't think!"  Latham brought both his hands to his temples,
pressing harshly, his eyes tightly closed, the crow's-feet
emphasized.

"What is it, Harry?"

"I don't know, there's a dreadful pain-"

"You've been through so much, so long.  We'll get you to a doctor.  "

"No.  I'm Alexander Lassiter-I was Alexander Lassiter, that's all I was
to them."

"I'm afraid not, my-dear."  Karin glanced at her old friend, suddenly
alarmed.  There was a dark red circle on his left temple;

it seemed to throb.

"I brought your favorite brandy so we could celebrate, Harry.  It's in
the glove compartment.  Open it and have some.  It'll calm you down."

"They couldn't have known," choked Latham, with trembling fingers
opening the glove compartment and pulling out the pint of brandy.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Perhaps I was wrong," said De Vries, now frightened.

"Have a drink and relax.

"We're meeting Drew at an old country inn on the outskirts of
Villejuif.  The Antinayous wouldn't permit us to meet at the safe
house.  Calm down, Harry."

"Yes, yes, I will, because, my dear-my dearest Karinyou are wrong.  My
brother will tell you, Gerhardt Kroeger wi "II tell you, I'm Alex
Lassiter, I was Alex Lassiter!"

"Gerhardt Kroeger?"  asked a bewildered De Vries.

"Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?"

"A goddamned Nazi .. . also a superb doctor."

"In fifteen or twenty minutes we'll be at the inn where your brother is
waiting for us..  .. Let's talk about the old days in Amsterdam, my old
friend.  Do you remember the night Freddie came home half soused and
insisted on playing your American game of Monopoly?"

"Good God, yes.  He threw out a handful of diamonds and said we should
use them instead of the paper money."

"And the time you and I drank wine and listened to Mozart until it was
almost dawn."

"Do I?"  cried Latham, swallowing brandy and laughing, his eyes,
however, not bright with laughter, but dark, glaring.

"Freddie came out of your bedroom and made it plain that he preferred
Elvis Presley.  We threw pillows at him."

"And that morning in the cafe on the Herengracht when you and I told
Freddie he could not jump into the canal to make a point about
pollution?"

"He was going to do it, my dear-my dearest Karin.  I swear he was."

The harmless badinage covered the remaining minutes until De Vries
turned into the graveled parking area of the rundown country inn,
country but barely out of the city, flanked by overgrown fields,
isolated, and not really inviting.  The meeting between the brothers
was as warm, although warmer on the younger's part, as the welcoming
embrace between Harry and Karin.  The difference was in the older
brother; there was surface ebullience, but a chill underneath.  It was
unexpected, not natural.

"Hey, big bro, how did you do it?"  exclaimed Drew as the three of them
sat in a booth, De Vries on Har 's side..ry "I've got a legend for a
brother!"

"Because Alexander Lassiter was a person.  It's the only way it could
be done."

"Well, you sure.  pulled it off-at least up to a point, enough to get
you there."

"You're talking about what Karin told you?"

"Well, yes-"

"Untrue.  Totally false!"

"Harry, I said I could be wrong."

"You are wrong."

"Okay, Harry, okay."  Drew held up both hands, palms forward.

"So she's wrong, it happens to be what she heard."

"Bastard sources, illegitimate, no confirmation."

"We're on your side, bro, you know that."  The younger brother looked
at De Vries, his expression questioning, disturbed.

"Alexander Lassiter was real," said Harry emphatically, wincing as he
raised his left hand to his temple, rubbing it in circles.

"Ask Gerhardt Kroeger, he'll tell you."

"Who is-"

"Never mind," Karin broke in, shaking her head, "he's a fine doctor,
your brother explained that to me."

"How about to me, bro?  Who's this Kroeger?"

"You'd really like to know, wouldn't you?"

"Is it a secret, Harry?"

"Lassiter can tell you, I don't think I should."

"For Christ's sake, what the hell are you talking about?  You're
Lassiter, Harry Latham is Lassiter.  Cut the bullshit, Harry."

"I hurt, oh, God, I hurt.  Something's wrong with me."

"What is it, dear Harry?"

""Dear Harry'?  Do you know how much that means to me?  Have you any
idea how much I love you, adore you, Karin?"

"And I adore you, Harry," said De Vries, suddenly finding the older
Latham crying and falling into her chest.

"You know I do."

"I love you so much, so very much!"  went on the semi hysterical
babbling Harry as Karin cradled him in her arms.

"But I hurt so-"

"Oh, my God," said Drew softly, watching the astonishing sight across
the table.

"We have to get him to a doctor," said De Vries, whispering.

"He began this in the car."

"You're damned right," agreed Drew.

"A head doctor.  He was in deep cover too long.  Jesus!"

"Call the em bass get an ambulance.  I'll stay with y him."

The younger Latham got up from the booth just as two men carrying
weapons came rushing through the entrance, both in stocking masks.  The
target and the kill were apparent.

"Get down!"

he shouted, pulling his gun from his hip holster and firing before the
assassins had adjusted to the dim light.  He took out the first killer
and lunged behind the freestanding bar as the second man raced forward,
his automatic weapon on rapid fire.  Drew stood up,

squeezing the trigger repeatedly, emptying his magazine.  The second
assassin fell as the few scattered customers ran hysterically out the
front door.  Latham rushed from behind his worthless barrier.  Karin de
Vries was on the floor, her left hand still gripping his brother's arm;
she had tried to drag him with her.  She was alive, her right hand
bloodied, but she was alive!  But Harry Latham was dead, his head blown
apart, a horrible mass of blood and white tissue, what was left of his
brain in fragments, half out of his skull.

Drew, his mouth stretched in dread, shut his eyes in terror, then
forced them open as he plunged his hands into his dead brother's
pockets, pulling out his billfold and all other papers that could lead
to his identity.  Why?  He was not sure, he just knew he had to do
it.

He then pulled the sobbing Karin out from under the booth and, wrapping
her hand in a cloth napkin, propelled her away from the terrible scene.
He shouted to the management, who had fled into the kitchen, to call
the police.  He would make the proper inquiries later.  It was no time
to mourn the brother he loved, nor any moment to stare in remembrance
at his corpse.  He had to get Karin de Vries to a doctor, and then go
back to work.  The Brotherhood had to be destroyed, they had to be, if
it took him the rest of his life, or if it took his life.  It was a
commitment he swore before any and all the gods there might be.

"You can't go to your office, don't you understand that?"  said Karin,
sitting on a gurney in the surgical annex of the doctor on the
embassy's secure listing.

"The word will go out and you're a dead man!"

"Then my office has to be moved to wherever I am," said Drew, his voice
low, insistent.

"I need all the resources we have, everywhere, and I'm not settling for
anything less.  The key is a man named Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger, and
I'll find the son of a bitch, I've got to!  Who is he?  Where is he?"

"He's a doctor, we know that, and he must be German."  De Vries studied
the younger Latham brother as she slowly raised and lowered her
bandaged right hand following the doctor's instructions.

"For God's sake, Drew, let it out."

"What?"  asked Latham sharply, standing beside her and taking his eyes
off her wounded hand.

"You're trying to make believe it didn't happen, and that doesn't make
sense.  You grieve for Harry as I do undoubtedly more so-but you're
holding it inside, and it's shattering you.  Stop pretending to be so
coldly effi-cent.  That was Harry, not you."

"When I saw what they did to him, I told myself that mourning would
come later.  It's on hold and that's the way it's going to stay."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"I think so.  Your rage can't be contained.  You want revenge, and that
comes first."

"You used a phrase about Harry before, about the way he approached
problems, or crises.  You called it sangfroid, which I understand means
calmly or dispassionately

"It does."

"My French is limited, a fact I'm reminded of a lot, but there's a
variation of that phrase-"

"De sang-fro id-in cold blood," said Karin, her eyes locked with his.

"Exactly.  That's what Harry was really good at.  He approached
everything in life, not just calmly or coolly, but coldly-ice cold.  I
was the only exception; when he looked at me there was a warmth in
those looks I rarely saw otherwise..  .. No, there was one other, our
cousin, the one I told you about who died of cancer.  She was also
special to him, very special.  Speaking in the gender sense, could be
she was his "Rosebud' until you came along."

"You refer to Welles's Citizen Kane, o course."

"Sure, it's part of our lexicon now.  A symbol from the past that has
more meaning for the present than a person realizes."

"I had no idea he had such feelings toward me."

"Neither did Kane.  In his mind's eye he just saw a thing he loved as a
child, and he never found anything else to take its place.  That left
only his accomplishments."

"Harry was like that as a child?"

"Child, young man', and man.  A straights student with an IQ that was
off the charts.  Bachelor's degree, master's, and Ph.D. before he was
twenty-three.  He was always driven to be the best there was, and along
the way he became fluent in five, or is it six, languages.  As I
mentioned, he was a piece of work."

"What an extraordinary life."

"Hell, I suppose the Freudians would say he was a gifted kid reacting
to a distant father-distant geographically as well as emotionally-and a
sweet, intuitively bright but nonintellectual mother who was maritally
mismatched and decided that being attractive, loving, and gracious was
her role in life, so why get into debates she couldn't win,"

"And you?"

"I guess I inherited a few more of my mother's genes than Harry did.
Beth's a large woman and was a damn good athlete when she was young.
She captained the girls' track team in college, and if she hadn't met
my father, she might have tried out for the Olympics."

"You have a very interesting family," said Karin, once again studying
Drew's face, "and you're telling me all this for another reason beyond
my curiosity, aren't you?"

"You're quick, lady-sorry, I'll try to stop saying that."

"Don't bother, I'm beginning to find it rather nice..  What's the
reason?"

"I want you to know me, where I am and where I came from.  At least
part of your curiosity should be satisfied."

"Considering your penchant for reticence, that's an odd thing to
say."

"I realize that.  I'm only just putting it together..  .. Back at the
inn, when the firing stopped and the horrible thing was over, I found
myself in a panic, rummaging through Harry's pockets, inches from what
was left of his skull, his destroyed face, every second hating myself,
as though I were committing some despicable act.  The strange thing
was, I didn't know why, I just knew I had to do it.  I was being
ordered to and I had -to obey that order despite the fact that I knew
it wouldn't make any difference, wouldn't bring him back."

"You were protecting your brother in death as you would in life," said
De Vries.

"There's nothing strange in that.  You were shielding his name-"

"I think I told myself that," Latham interrupted, "but it doesn't hold
water.  With today's pathology, his identity would be known in a matter
of hours .. . unless his body were taken, quarantined."

"After you got the name of the doctor from the embassy-"

"From the colonel, in fact," Drew clarified.

"You called back, asking the doctor for a private telephone.  It was a
long conversation."

"Again with Witkowski.  He knows whom to reach and how to do these
things."

"What things?"

"Like removing a body and holding it in isolation."

"Harry?"

"Yes.  No one at the scene could have learned who he was after we left.
That's when I put it together, somewhere between our getting out of
there and my second call to the colonel.  Harry was giving me those
orders, he was telling me what to do."

"Please be clearer."

"I'm to become him, I'm taking his place.  I'm Harry Latham."

Colonel Stanley Witkowski moved quickly, calling in old debts from the
Cold War years.  He reached a C deputy chief of the Paris Sfiret@, a
former intelli-I gence officer who had headed up the French garrison in
Berlin, and with whom a frustrated Witkowski, then a major in the U.S.
Army G-2, had seen fit to go around regulations and exchange
information.  ("I thought we were on the same side, Senator!") As a
result, the colonel had under his sole control not only the body of the
slain Harry Latham, but also those of the two assassins.  All three
were stored under fictitious names in the morgue on the rue Fontenay.
Further, in the interest of both countries, a fact readily accepted by
the Sfiret6 deputy, a blackout was put on the terrorist act in the
pursuit of additional information.

For Witkowski understood what Drew Latham only half perceived.  The
removal of his brother's body would create partial confusion, but along
with the blackout, the disappearance of the killers made it total.

In a hotel room at Orly, prepared to take the three-thirty P.m. flight
to Munich, the man in the steel-rimmed glasses paced nervously in front
of a window, erratically distracted by the planes departing from and
arriving at the field.  The muted thunder of the jets served only to
heighten his anxiety.  He kept glaring at the telephone, furious that
it did not ring,.  delivering him the news that would justify his
return to Munich, his mission completed.  That the assignment could
fail was unthinkable.  He had reached the Paris branch of the
Blitzkrieger, the elite killers of the Briiderschaft, so highly trained
and skilled, so superior in the deadly crafts, they numbered less than
two hundred instantly mobile predators operating in Europe, South
America, and the United States.  Catbird had been officially informed
that in the four years since they had been sent to their posts, only
three had been taken, two preferring their own deaths to interrogation
and one killed in Paris in the line of duty.  No details were ever
revealed;

regarding the Blitzkrieger, secrecy was absolute.  Even Catbird had to
appeal to the second highest leader of the Brotherhood, the tempestuous
General von Schnabe, to be permitted to enlist these elite assassins.

So why didn't the phone ring?  Why the delay?  The lethal surveillance
had been in operation since the arrival of Harry Latham at 10:28 in the
morning at De Gaulle airport and his departure by car at eleven
o'clock.  It was now past one-thirty in the afternoon!

Catbird couldn't stand the lack Of communication; he crossed to the
bedside telephone and dialed the Blitzkrieger number.

"Avignon Warehouses," said the female voice on the line in French.

"How may I direct your call?"

"Frozen foods division, if you please.  Monsieur "Giroux."

"I'm afraid his line is busy."

"I'll wait precisely thirty seconds, and if he's not free, I'll cancel
my order."

"I see..  .. That won't be necessary, sir, I can ring him now."

"Catbird?"  asked a male voice.

"At least I used the right words.  What the hell is going on?  Why
haven't you called?"

"Because there's nothing to report."

"That's ridiculous!  It's been over three hours!"

"We're as disturbed as you are, so don't raise your voice to me.

Our last contact was an hour and twelve minutes ago; everything was on
schedule.  Our two men were following Latham in a Renault driven by a
woman.  Their last words were "Everything's under control, the mission
will be carried out shortly."

"That was it?  An hour ago?"

"Yes.

"Nothing else?"

"No.  That was the last transmission."

"Well, where are they?"

"We wish we knew."

"Where were they going?"

"North out of Paris, specifics weren't mentioned."

"Why not?"

"With frequency traffic, it would be stupid.  Besides, those two are a
prime unit, they've never failed."

"Is it possible they failed today?"

"It's extremely unlikely."

"Extremely unlikely is hardly an unequivocal answer.  Have you any idea
how vital this assignment is?"

"All our assignments are vital, or else they would not be directed to
us.  May I remind you, we are the solution of last resorts."

"What can I say to Von Schnabe?"

"Please, Catbird, at this point, what can we say to him?"  said the
leader of the Paris branch of the Blitzkneger, hanging up the phone.

Thirty minutes passed and the man called Catbird could contain himself
no longer.  He dialed a number deep in the forests of Vaclabruck,
Germany.

"This is information I do not care to hear," said General Ulrich von
Schnabe, the words delivered through a frozen mist.

"The targets were to be eliminated at the earliest opportunity.  I
approved Dr.

Kroeger's orders, for, you, yourself, told the doctor that there would
be no difficulty, as you had the itinerary.  On that-basis alone I
permitted you to contact the Blitzkrieger."

"What can I say, Herr General?  There is simply no word, no
communication.  Nothing."

"Check with our man at the American Embassy.  He may have heard
something."

"I have, sir, from public phones, of course.  His last intercept simply
confirmed that the Latham brother was under the protection of the
Antinayous."

"Those black-loving, Jew-kissing scum.  No location, naturally."

"Naturally."

"Stay in Paris.  Stay in touch with our killer unit and keep me
informed of any developments."

"Now you're the one who's crazy!"  cried Karin de Vries.

"They've seen you, they know you, you can't possibly be Harry!"

"Sure I can, if they don't see me again, and they won't," said Drew.

"I'll operate in absentia, from one place to another, keeping in touch
with you and the colonel because I don't dare show up at the embassy.
As a matter of fact, since we know the embassy's penetrated hell we
knew it when Little Adolf showed up as my driver the other night-we
might be able to find out who it is, or who they are."

"Just how?"

"A railroad trap."

"A what?"

"Like in a row of railroad cars filled with passengers, only one of
them holds wild dogs."

"Tlease-"

"I'll call you as Harry three or four times asking for papers from my
dead brother Drew's files, naming one of Witkowski's couriers to meet
me at a given time and place -a crowded place.  You process the
requests and I'll be wherever it is, but not where anybody can see me.
If a legitimate courier shows up-I know them all-and he's not followed,
fine..  I'll throw away whatever you send.

Then later I'll call again, with another request, telling you
it's.urgent, I'm on to something.  That's your cue to hang up and say
nothing, relay nothing."

"And if anyone shows up, you'll know he's a neo, and that my phone was
tapped from inside," Karin interrupted.

"Exactly.  If the circumstances are right, maybe I'll be able to take
him and turn him over to our chemists."

"Suppose there's more than one?"

"I said if.  I'm not about to challenge a crowd of swastikas."

"To use your own technique, I see a very large 'gap," as you called it.
Why would Harry Latham remain here in Paris?"

"Because he is Harry Latham.  Tenacious to a fault, unrelenting in his
pursuits, all the things that Harry was with the added intensely
personal burden of his younger brother having been murdered here in
Paris."

"Certainly a convincing motive," agreed De Vries.

"Yours actually..  .. But how will you get the news out?  Isn't that a
problem?"

"It's touchy," said Drew, nodding his head and frowning.

"Primarily because the Agency will throw up its collective hands and
cry foul.  However, be too late if we're off and running, and I have an
idea the colonel might come up with something.  I'm meeting him later
at a cafe in Montmartre."

"You're meeting with him?  What about me?  I believe I'm somewhat
intrinsic to this strategy."

"You've been shot, lady.  I can't ask you-"

"You don't ask, monsieur," Karin broke in.

"I'll tell you.  I'm going with you.  Frederik de Vries's wife is going
with you.  You lost a brother most horribly, Drew, and I lost a husband
.. . most horribly.  You will not exclude me."

The door of the outpatient surgery room opened, and the doctor cleared
by the embassy walked in.

"I have reasonably favorable news for you, madame," said the physician
in French, an awkward smile on his face.

"I've studied the postoperative X rays, and with therapy you should
regain at least eighty percent of the use of your right hand.  However,
the tip of the middle finger will be lost.  Of course, a permanent
replacement can be attached."

"Thank you, Doctor, it is a small price and I'm grateful.  I'll come to
see you in five days, as you instructed."

"Pardon, monsieur-your name is Lat'am?"

"It's as close as you people get.  Yes."

"You're to telephone a Monsieur S 'in Washington when it's convenient.
You may use the phone here.  All expenses are billed, naturally."

"Naturally, but it's not convenient at the moment.  If he calls again,
please tell him I left before you could give me the message."

"is that proper, monsieur?,)

"He'll thank you for not adding to his problems and personally approve
your charges."

"I understand," said the doctor, his smile now appreciative.

"I don't," said Karin, her first words as they walked through the
entrance of the medical building and up the concrete pavement toward
the parking area.

"Don't what?"

"Understand.  Why didn't you want to talk to Sorenson?  I'd think you'd
want his advice; you said you trusted him."

"I do.  I also know that he basically trusts the system, he's lived
with it for decades."

"So?)@

"So he'd have trouble with what I'm going to do.  He'd say it's the
Agency's turf, the Agency's decision as to what happens next, not mine.
Of course, he'd be right."

"If he's right, why are you doing it?  .. . Sorry, don't bother to
answer, it was a stupid question."

"Thank you."  Latham looked at his watch.

"It's nearly six o'clock.

How's your hand?""I can't say it's terribly pleasant.  The local
anesthesia is wearing off, and thank God I couldn't see anything with
my hand in that little cloth tent."

"An hour under the knife means a lot of cutting .  Are 9 you sure you
want to go with me to meet Witkowski?"

"My damn hand can fall off and you still won't stop me."

"But why?  You're one exhausted lady and you hurt.  I wouldn't keep
anything from you, you should know that by now."  :, They stopped at
the car as Drew opened the "I do.

door; their eyes met.

"I know you won't keep anything from me, and I appreciate that.  But
perhaps I can add something, once I understand what you're really
trying to do.  Why don't you explain it to me?"

"All right, I'll try."  Latham shut the door, walked around the
Renault, and climbed into the driver's seat.  He started the engine,
maneuvered the car into the exit lane, and continued, aware that she
was staring at him.

"Who's Gerhardt Kroeger and what hold did he have over Harry?"

"Hold?  What hold?  He's obviously a Nazi doctor, a skilled one
apparently, whom your brother knew in the Hausruck.  He probably
treated Harry for some sort of severe trauma.  One can appreciate even
the enemy if he helps you, especially if it's medical."

"This Kroeger goes beyond normal gratitude," said Drew, studying the
road signs for the one that would lead them to Paris's Montmartre.

"When I asked Harry who Kroeger was, he answered me with these words;
they're exact and I don't think I'll ever forget them.

"Lassiter can tell you.  I don't think I should."  That's frightening,
lady."

"Yes, it is-it was.  But it was also consistent with his behavior.

The sudden display of emotion, the weeping, the cries for help.

That wasn't the Harry we both knew and described to each other, not the
cool, analytical man, the dispassionate man we talked about."

"I disagree," said Latham quietly.

"Isolate those words, repeat them, and you'll hear the Harry we knew
speaking, pondering an option, not prepared to make a decision until he
thought it through.

"Lassiter can tell you.  I don't think I should."  Drew shuddered as he
turned the Renault into the main highway toward the center of Paris..
"Gerhardt Kroeger is more than just a doctor he met in the
Brfiderschaft valley.  I called him a son of a bitch before, but maybe
I'm wrong.  Maybe he's the one who helped my brother to escape.

Whoever he is, he can tell us what happened to Harry when he was there,
how he got his hands on that list of names."

"You're saying that Kroeger may be an ally, not a neo, and that Harry
in his psychological confusion is actually protecting him?"

"I just don't know, but I do know that he's more than a doctor who
treated him for a bad cold, or the arthritis Harry was beginning to
complain about.  Gerhardt Kroeget was too important to my brother, I
sense it; I'm convinced of it.  That's why he's the key, and that's
why I have to find him."

"But how?"

"Again, I don't know.  Witkowski may have some ideas.  Maybe we can
enlist the Antinayous, they can spread the word that Harry's still
alive.  I simply don't know.  I'm flying blind, but our.  combined
antennas will pick up things..  .. Sorry, Madame Linguist, I should
have said 'antennae," except it sounds silly."

"I concur.  I'm also intrigued by your constant apologies over the
things you say and think, backtracking, as though I'm a tutor of
sorts."

"I guess it's because you were closer to Harry than I was in those
areas.  He was constantly correcting me, mostly in a nice way, but he
never stopped."

"He loved you-"

"Yeah," Drew interrupted wearily.

"Let's change the subject, okay?"

"Okay.  What do you think the colonel will come up with, as you put
it?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea, but if he's anything like his dossier,
it'll be pretty fine-tuned."

THE INTERNA-noN AL HERALD TRIBUNE

Paris Edition Terrorist Attack on U.S. Embassy Personnel

The United States Embassy has revealed that yesterday terrorists in
stocking masks assaulted a restaurant in the

Villejuif area, where two Americans were having lunch.  Mr.

Drew Latham, an attache at the American Embassy, was killed.

His brother, Mr.  Harry Latham, a liaison at the embassy, survived and
is currently in hiding on orders of his government.

The assassins escaped and neither the identity nor the cause of the
assailants are clear, for they disappeared.  They are described as two
men, medium height, and wearing dark business suits.  The surviving Mr.
Latham described both assailants as being severely wounded as a result
of his brother's alertness.  Mr.

Drew Latham was armed and fired his weapon repeatedly until he was
killed.  French authorities, under enormous pressure from the American
Embassy, are looking into the matter.

Speculations center upon both Iraqi and Syrian" For

Christ's sake, what's going on over there?"  yelled the

Secretary of State, Adam Bollinger, over the phone to the ambassador to
France, Daniel Courtland.

"If I knew, I'd tell you.  Do you want to replace me?  If so, go right
ahead, Adam.  You bastards put me into a raging fire and I don't know
enough French to call for help.  I'm career State, Mr.

Secretary, not one of your fucking political appointments-come to think
of it, none of your contributors speak the language anyway, most barely
speak English."

"It's no time to be vitriolic, Daniel."

"It's time to have a chain of command, Bollinger!  Drew Latham, one of
the very few spooks with an open-minded head on his shoulders, is
killed after four previous attempts on his life, and I don't have any
answers!"

"His brother's alive," said the Secretary of State lamely.

"That's just terrific!  Where the hell is he?"

"I've got open lines to the Agency.  As soon as I know, you'll know."

"You're something else," said Courtland derisively, letting his breath
out.

"Do you really think deep-cover Agency personnel will tell you a
goddamned thing?  You're sitting behind a desk, but they have to
survive.  Hell, I learned that when I was posted to Finland, and the
KGB was right next door.  We're zeros -in situations like this, Adam.
We're told what they want to tell us."

"That's hardly proper.  We are the ultimate authority, your chain of
command, if you like."

"Tell that to Drew Latham, who got blown away because we couldn't
support him.  Even our own embassy is penetrated.  "

"I simply can't understand you people."

"You'd better begin to, Mr.  Secretary.  The Nazis are back."

Director Wesley Sorenson of Cons-Op sat at his desk, his head forward,
resting on his fingers.  His sorrow was such that tears slowly emerged
from his eyes, the loss so tragic, so unnecessary, that he questioned
the essence of his own life.  Drew Latham taken out-as he might have
been so many times-and for what?  What changes could the life of a
single intelligence officer make when the hoo-haws of international
negotiations came together at their fancy hotels and their banquets,
their flag-strewn parades in convention halls signifying nothing but
ceremonial hypocrisy?

Sorenson felt that it was the end for him.  He had nothing more to
give; he had seen too much death in the shadows of those parades.  If
there was a spark of light, it did not come:

And then it did!

"Wcs, I trust we're on scrambler," said the familiar voice on the
line.

"Drew?  My God, is that you?"  Sorenson lurched forward over his desk,
the blood drained from his face.

"You're alive?"

"I also trust you're alone.  I asked your secretary and she gave me an
affirmative."

"Yes, of course..  .. Let me catch my breath; this is incredible-I
don't know what to say, what to think.  This is you?"

"Last time I checked my pulse it was."

Silence.  The quiet before the storm.

"Then I believe you have some serious explaining to do, young man!
Goddammit, I wrote a sympathy note to your parents."

"Mother's a tough lady, she can handle it; and Dad, if he's around,
will probably try to figure out which one of us caught the bullets."

"You're distastefully cavalier-"

"It's better than being the other way, Mr.  Director," Latham
interrupted.

"There's no time for that now."

"There'd better be time for an explanation.  Then Harry is-he's the one
who was killed?"

"Yes.  I'm taking his place."

"You're doing what?"

"I just told you."

"For Christ's sake, why?  I never cleared anything like this, I
wouldn't!"

"I knew that.  It's why I went around you and did it myself.  If I make
any progress, you can take the credit.  If I don't, well, it won't
matter, will it?"

"To hell with credit, I want to know what you think you're doing.

This an intolerable breach of field conduct, and you know it!"

"Not entirely, sir.  We all have the leeway of on-scene decisions, you
gave us that."

"Only in the event that proper channels of authority can't be reached
in times of crisis.  I'm here and you can reach me, whether I'm at the
office, at home, on a golf course, or in a goddamned whorehouse-if I
had any use for one!  Why didn't you?"

"I just told you.  You'd turn me down, and it'd be wrong because you
aren't here, and there's no way I can make you understand because I
don't really understand it myself, but I know I'm right.

And, if I may, sir, knowing something of your service record, I believe
you've taken such unilateral actions yourself in the past."

"Cut the crap, Latham," said a weary, frustrated Sorenson.

"What've you got and how are you approaching it?  Why are you playing
Harry?"

Painfully, reluctantly, Drew described the last minutes of his
brother's life, the uncharacteristic outbursts of emotion, the tears,
the apparent confusion he had in differentiating between his cover and
his real identity, and finally, his refusal to amplify on a name, a
doctor, that he brought up several times with Karin de Vries and then
with Drew himself.

"He mentioned him," explained Latham, "as if the man were some sort of
secretive figure, to be either exposed or protected."

"A sinner and a saint?"  Sorenson asked.

"Yes, I guess you could say that."

"It's the Stockholm syndrome, Drew.  The captive identifies with the
captor.  His feelings are a mixed bag of resentment, yet he's still
currying favor, until finally, he episodically imagines himself to be
the one with power.  Quite simply, Harry was burned out; he lived over
the edge too long."

"I understand all that, Wcs, including the all-too-familiar Stockholm
theory which covers too many bases for me, at least as it applies to
Harry.  His well-known cold rationality was still there.

This Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger, that's his name, was somehow important to
my brother, sinner or saint notwithstanding.  He knows what happened to
Harry, maybe even how he got that list of names.  It's possible this
Kroeger is on our side and slipped them to him."

"I suppose anything's possible, and right now those names are a
national catastrophe waiting to happen.  At the moment, the Bureau is
mounting a dozen covert operations to microscope everyone on the list
over here."

"Things have gone that far already?"

"In the words of our ubiquitous Secretary of State, who has both ears
of the President, if this administration 'can root out the Nazi
influence in the country, the nation will be forever grateful."  It's
'damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead."

"

"My God, that's scary."

"I agree, but I can also understand why it's happening.  Harry Latham
was considered the finest, most experienced undercover man in the
Agency.  It's not easy to dismiss his findings."

"Not was," corrected Drew.

"Is, Wcs.  Harry's alive; he's got to remain alive until I can smoke
out this Gerhardt Kroeger."

"If he's alive, he's got to reach the Agency, you damn fool!"

"He can't, because he knows, as I told you, that Langley is
penetrated, as high up as the AA-Zero computers, and that's practically
as close as you can get to Director Talbot."

"I relayed that information to Knox.  He can't believe it.  "

"He'd better, it's on the mark."

"He's working on it, I convinced him," said Sorenson.

"But your flying solo won't wash, young man.  You do that, you become a
rogue-agent no one will trust."

"My flying solo is restricted because I have a conduit to Langley."

"Not me.  I won't compromise Consular Operations by going around the
Agency.  There's enough turf-sniping in this town as it is, and I
admire Knox Talbot, I respect him.  I will not be a party to it."

"I knew you wouldn't, so I found someone else.  Remember Witkowski,
Colonel Stanley Witkowski?"

"Certainly.  G-Two Berlin.  Met him a number of times, a bright
mAn-that's right, he's posted at the embassy now."

"Chief of Security.  He's got all the credentials he needs to satisfy
the DCI.  Harry worked with Witkowski in Berlin, and he's the natural
conduit because my brother trusted him-hell, he had to, the colonel fed
him enough G-Two input to prolong his station and probably his life.
Stanley will figure out a way to reach Talbot on a sub-rosa channel and
ask him to run an in-depth trace on this Kroeger."

"It makes sense, Witkowski makes sense.  What do you want me to do?"

"Absolutely nothing; we can't risk any cross-checks that might be
picked up by neo.  moles.  However, I'd appreciate your standing by
when and if I think I'm in over my head and could use some advice."

"I'm not sure I'm capable of that.  It's been a long time."

"I'll take what you even vaguely remember as gospel, Mr.

Director..  .. Here we go.  Harry Latham's alive and well and going out
in search of a doctor-saint or sinner or both.  Be in touch."

The line went dead and Wesley Sorenson held the phone in his hand, as
if in a daze.  The younger Latham's actions were dangerously unorthodox
and should be aborted, the Cons-Op director knew that, knew that he
should call Knox Talbot and come clean, saying whatever he could say to
explain and protect his man, but it wasn't in him to do it.  Drew had
been right; how often had Case Officer Sorenson worked outside of
sanction because he understood that his decisions would be struck down,
yet knew that his course of action was the only one to take.  Not only
knew it, but passionately believed it.  He heard his younger self
talking as he listened to Drew Latham's words.  Slowly, he replaced the
phone, the chant of a prayer forming silently on his lips.

Jean-Pierre and Giselle Villier stepped out of the limousine at the
hotel L'Hermitage in Monte Carlo; they had flown there from Paris by
private jet.  The reason for the trip, as described by the press, was
to give the celebrated actor some rest after six arduous months
performing in Coriolanus, culminating in the emotionally draining event
that caused him to close the play.  This information, however, was all
that the media was given, all it would be given, as there would be no
further statements and certainly no interviews.  And after a few days
of pleasant distraction at the Casino de Paris, it was understood that
the couple would fly to an undisclosed island in the Mediterranean,
perhaps to 'join his parents.

What the press did not know was that two military Mirage jets flew
above and below the private plane from Paris, escorting it to its
destination.  Further, one of the two uniformed doormen, the assistant
manager at the front desk, and assorted minor hotel functionaries were
all Deuxi&me personnel, each cleared by the Bain de Mer, the select
organization that ran the affairs of Monte Carlo and was the diplomatic
liaison to the royal family of Monaco.

In addition, whenever Monsieur and Madame Villier left the hotel for
the slow three-block ride to the casino, the bulletproof limousine was
flanked by armed men in expensive, well-tailored suits- until the
luxurious vehicle arrived at the steps of the majestic gambling
establishment, where their counterparts took over.

Upon their arrival, the couple was joined in their suite by the chief
of the Deuxi@me Bureau, Claude Moreau.

"As you can see, my friends, everything is covered, including the
rooftops, where we have expert marksmen; and below in cars, all windows
are constantly under roving telescopes.  You have nothing to fear."

"We are not your 'friends," monsieur," said Giselle Villier coolly.

"And as to these precautions, a single gunshot destroys the facade."

"Only if a gunshot is permitted, madame, and none will be."

"What about the casino itself, how can you possibly control the crowds
who may recognize me?"  asked the actor.

"Actually, they're part of the protection, but only a peripheral part.
We know the games you enjoy and at each such table we will have men and
women who follow you, surround you, and block your bodies with theirs.
No assassin, and certainly no Blitzkrieger, will attempt to fire unless
his shot is clean.  Such killers can't afford to."

"Suppose your assassin is someone at a table?"  Giselle interrupted.

"How can you protect my husband?"

"Another astute question, which I fully.  expect from you, madame,"
replied Moreau, "and I trust my answer will satisfy you.

At each table you will observe a man and a woman going around, pausing
at each player-curious bystanders trying to decide whether or not to
enter the gambling fray.  Actually, they will carry in their palms
metallic scanners which will pick up the solid steel of even the
smallest-caliber weapon."

"You are thorough," conceded Giselle.

"We are, I promised you that," agreed Moreau.

"Please remember, I'll settle for just one Blitzkrieger who tries to
assault you.  My goal is to take him alive.  If it does not happen
here, with all the publicity we've issued, you're free to fly out and
join your husband's parents."

"On that mythical island?"

"No, monsieur, it's quite real.  They're enjoying a lovely vacation on
an estate in Corsica."

"In a way, then," said Jean-Pierre, "I hope the hell it does happen
here.  I never appreciated how lovely it was to be free."

It did happen, but not in any way Claude Moreau had anticipated.

he music from the salon floated in diminishing strains the farther one
walked from the marble enTrance of the Casino de Paris into the
interior of the majestic gaming establishment.  It was so easy to
imagine the glorious early decades of the century, when magnificently
adorned horse-drawn carriages, and then enormous motorcars, drew up to
the glistening steps and disgorged royalty and the wealthy of Europe in
all their finery.  The times had changed, the clientele hardly as
rarefied now, but the core of opulence remained, defined by the
restored elegance of bygone eras.

Jean-Pierre and Giselle walked between the myriad tables toward the
exclusive Baccarat Room, the entrance to which required an initial
deposit of fifty thousand francs, said fee instantly waived for the
celebrated actor and his wife.  As they made their way, heads turned,
audible gasps were heard, and not a few cries of "C'est lui!"  overrode
the general hum as various guests recognized Villier.  The actor smiled
and continuously nodded his head in appreciation, but with a distant
modesty that conveyed a desire for privacy.  While he did so, his
entourage of finely dressed couples flanked Jean-Pierre and his wife,
permitting only glimpses of the couple.  Moreau's theory that no
assassin would dare fire a weapon at such an elusive target was being
borne out.

Once in the large, restricted room replete with silver stanchions
connected by thick red velvet cords around the tables, champagne was
ordered.  The entourage was filled with ebullient laughter as
Jean-Pierre and Giselle sat down, two large stacks of expensive chips
placed in front of each, a cont rOle unobtrusively slipping a receipt
for the actor to sign.  The game proceeded, far better for Giselle than
for Jean-Pierre, who mocked tragedy with every turn of the boot.  Their
accompanying "friends" subtly, slowly, silently moved around the table,
each with one hand out of sight, in shadow.  Moreau again;

palm-held metal scanners were at work detecting weapons.

Obviously, there were none and the game continued until the actor cried
in great good humor.

"C'est finis pour moil  Un autre table, s'il vous plait!"

They moved to another table, champagne glasses refilled for everyone,
including the Villiers' gambling companions at the previous table,
everything put on the actor's account.  They settled in for another
series of rounds and boots, now tilting to Jean Pierre favor.  As the
laughter grew, fueled by the chilled Cristal Brut, several members of
the entourage sat in the seats of discontinued players.  The actor
pulled a double neuf, and, consistent with his excitable, theatrical
reactions, he roared with approval.

Suddenly, at the table they had left, there was a prolonged scream, a
hysterical cry of pain.  All heads turned; the room erupted with
consternation as the men at Jean Pierre table rose as one, their
attention on the man who was collapsing off his chair, breaking down
the velvet cord as he plunged to the floor.

Then there came another sound, more than a scream, far louder than a
cry.  It was the roar of alarm, shouted by a female voice, as a
fashionably dressed woman lunged across the table at another woman
sitting beside the actor, a killer with an ice pick she was about to
plunge into the dark side of Jean-Pierre's left ribcage, only inches
away.  The tip drew blood, a complete thrust would have penetrated
Villier's heart, but Moreau's agent gripped the assassin's wrist,
twisting it counterclockwise.  Paralyzing her at the throat, she
slammed the would-be killer to the floor.

"Are you all right, monsieur?"  yelled the Deuxi@me agent, looking up
at the actor as she lay across the immobile assailant.

"A small puncture, mademoiselle-how can I thank you?"

"Jean-Pierre-"

"Easy, my dearest, I'm all right," replied the actor, holding his left
side and sitting down, "but we owe this courageous woman so much.  She
saved my life!"

"Are you hurt, young lady?"  shouted Giselle, leaning over her
husband's legs and grabbing Moreau's agent's arm.

"I'm fine, Madame Villier.  Quite a bit better when you call me a young
lady.  I'm well beyond that."  Breathlessly, she smiled.

"Aren't we all, my dear.  I must get my husband to a doctor."

44MY associates are taking care of that, madame, believe me.  5@

Claude Moreau, appearing as if from nowhere, walked into the Baccarat
Room, his expression one of both concern and muted exhilaration.

"We have done it, monsieur and madame-you have done it!  We have our
Blitzkrieger.

"My husband has been wounded, you idiot!"  shouted Giselle Villier.

"For which I apologize, madame, but it is not serious, and his
contribution has been enormous."

"You promised he'd be safe!"

"In my business, guarantees are not always absolute.  However, if I may
say it, he has greatly enhanced the quest of his natural father and
performed an act for which the Republic of France is eternally
grateful."

"That's gratuitous nonsense!"

"No, it isn't, madame.  Whether you accept it or not, the unholy Nazis
are coming out of the mud, out of 'the filth of their own creation.
Each rock we can turn over brings us all closer to stamping out the
snakes underneath.  But your part in this is over.

Enjoy your vacation on Corsica.  After you see a doctor, our plane is
waiting for you in Nice, everything paid for by the Quai d'Orsay."

"I can do without your money, monsieur," said Jean Pierre

"But I should like to reopen Coriolanus."

"Good heavens, why?  You've proved your triumph.

You certainly do not need the employment, so why go back to such a
grueling schedule?"

"Because like you, Moreau, I'm pretty good at what I 40."

"We shall discuss it, monsieur.  One night's success does not mean the
battle is over."

Gray-haired, sixty-three-year-o@d Senator Lawrence Roote of Colorado
hung up the phon@ in his Washington office, a disturbed man. 
Disturbed, bewildered, and angry.  Why was he the subject of an FBI
investigation he knew nothing about?  What did it concern and who
called for it? Again, why?  His assets, admittedly considerable, were
in a blind trust by his own choice s3 as to avoid even a scintilla of
legislative compromise; his second marriage was solid, his first wife
having been tragically killed in a plane crash; his two sons, one a
banker, the other a university dean, were upstanding citizens of their
communities, so much so that Roote thought they were at, times
insufferable; he had served in Korea without incident but with a silver
star; and his drinking consisted of two or three martinis before
dinner.  What was there to investigate?

His conservative views were well known and frequently attacked by the
liberal press, which consistently took his words out of context, making
him appear like a rabid proselytizer of the far right, which he
definitely was not.  Among his colleagues on both sides of the aisle,
it was common knowledge that he was fair and listened to the opposition
without rancor.  He simply believed firmly that when government did too
much for the people, they did too little for themselves.

Further, his wealth did not come from any inheritance; his family had,
been dirt poor.  Roote had climbed that elusive ladder to success,
frequently slipping on the rungs, by holding three jobs through a
small, obscure college and the Wharton School of Finance, where several
members of the faculty recommended him to corporate recruiters.  He
chose a young, profitable firm; there was room and time to grow in the
executive ranks.  However, the smaller company was taken over by a
larger corporation, which was in turn absorbed by a conglomerate, whose
board of directors recognized Roote's talents and audacity.  By the
time he was thirty five the sign on the door to his suite of offices
read Chief Executive Officer.  At forty it proclaimed President and
CEO.  Before fifty, his mergers, acquisitions, and stock options had
made him a multimillionaire.  At which point, tired of the limiting
pursuit of an ever-increasing profit margin and bothered by the
direction the country was taking, he turned to politics.

As he sat at his desk, ruminating over his past, he tried to coldly
objectify, searching areas where his actions might call into question
his ethics or morality.  In the early days, overworked and vulnerable,
he had had several affairs, but they were discreet and only with women
who were his peers, as eager as he was to maintain the discretion.  He
was a tough negotiator in business, always using the tools of advantage
by researching, even creating what his adversaries wanted, but his
integrity had never been doubted..  .. What in hell was the Bureau
doing?

It had begun only minutes ago when his secretary buzzed him.

"Yes?"

"A Mr.  Roger Brooks from Telluride, Colorado, on the line, sir," said
his secretary.

-Who?"

"A Mr.  Brooks.  He said he went to high school with you in
Cedaredge."

"My God, Brooksie!  I haven't thought of him in years.  I heard he owns
a ski resort somewhere."

"They ski in Telluride" Senator."

"That was it.  Thank you, all-knowing one."

"Shall I put him through?"

"Sure..  .. Hello, Roger, how are you?"

"Fine, Larry, it's been a long time."

"At least thirty years-"

"Well, not quite," Brooks contradicted gently.

"I headed up your campaign here eight years ago.  The last election-you
didn't really need one."

"Christ, I'm sorry!  Of course, I remember now.  Forgive me."

"No forgiveness required, Larry, you're a busy guy."

"How about you?"

"Built four additional runs since then, so you could say I'm surviving
pretty well.  And the summer backpackers are growing faster than we can
cut new trails.

"Course the ones from the East want to know why we don't have room
service in the woods."

"That's good, Rog!  I'll use it the next time I'm debating one of my
distinguished colleagues from New York.  They want room service for
everyone on welfare."

"Larry," said Roger Brooks, his tone of voice altered, serious.

"The reason I'm calling is probably because we went to school together
and I ran that campaign down here."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, but I knew I had to call you in spite of the fact that
I swore I wouldn't.  Frankly, I didn't like the son of a bitch; he
talked quietly, like he was my best friend and was telling me the
secrets of King Tut's tomb, all the while saying it was for your own
good."

"Who?"

"Some guy from the FBI.  I made him show me his ID and it was for real.
I came damn near throwing him the hell out of here, then I figured I'd
better learn what his grief was, if only to let you know."

"What was it, Roger?"

"Nuts, that's what it was.  You know how some of the press paiin you,
like they did old Barry G. in Arizona?  The nuclear freak who'd blow us
to hell, the downtrodder of the downtrodden, all that crazy stuff?"

"Yes, I do.  He survived it with honor and so will I. What did the
Bureau man want?"

"He wanted to know if I'd ever heard you express sympathy forget
this-"Fascist causes."  If maybe at one time or another you might have
indicated that you thought Nazi Germany had certain justifications for
what they did that led to the war..  .."  I tell you, Larry, by then my
blood was boiling hot, but I kept cool and just told him that he was
way off base.  I brought up the fact that you were decorated in Korea,
and you know what the bastard said?"

"No, I don't, Roger.  What did he say?"

"He said, and he said it with kind of a smirk: "But that was against
the Communists, wasn't it?"  Shit, Larry, he was trying to build a case
without a case!"

"The Communists being an anathema to Nazi Germany, is that what you
gathered?"

"Hell, yes.  And that kid wasn't aid enough to know where Korea is, but
he was smooth-Jesus, was he wrapped tight, and spoke like a benevolent
angel.  All innocence and sww talk."

"They're using their best men," said Roote softly, staring down at his
desk.

"How did the conversation end?"

"Oh, upbeat, let me tell you.  He made it clear that his confidential
information was obviously wrong, very wrong, and the investigation
would stop then and there."

"Which means it's just begun."  Lawrence Roote picked up a pencil and
cracked it with his left hand.

"Thanks, Brooksie, thank you more than I can say."

"What's going on, Larry?"

"I don't know, I really don't know.  When I find out, I'll call you."

Franklyn Wagner, anchorman for MBC News, the most watched evening news
program in the country, sat in his dressing room rewriting much of the
copy he would recite in front of the cameras in forty-five minutes.
There was a knock on his door and he casually called out, "Come in."

"Hi there, Mr.  Sincere," said Emmanuel Chernov, chief producer of
network news, walking inside and shutting the door; he crossed to a
chair and sat down.

"You got problems with the words again?

I hate to repeat myself, but it's probably too late to change the
TelePrompTers."

"And to repeat myself, that won't be necessary.  None of this would be
necessary if you hired writers who could spell the word journalism, or
even knew its basic precepts."

"You print-types, or should I say, you refugees from print who can now
afford joints in the Hamptons with swimming pools, always complain."

"I went to the Hamptons once, Manny," said the handsome, silver-haired
Wagner while continuing to edit the sheets of copy, "and I'll tell you
why I won't go there again.  Do you want to hear?"

"Sure."

"The beaches are filled with people of both sexes, either very thin or
very fat, who walk up and down the sand carrying galleys to -prove that
they're writers.  Then at night they gather together in candlelit cafes
to extol their unprintable scribblings and exercise their egos at the
expense of unwashed publishers."

"That's pretty heavy, Frank."

"It's pretty damned accurate.  I grew up on a farm in Vancouver where,
if the Pacific winds brought in sand, it meant the crops wouldn't
grow."

"That's kind of a leap, isn't it?"

"Perhaps, but I can't stand writers, on television or otherwise, who
let the sand pile up between the words..  .. There I'm finished.  If
there aren't any news breaks we'll have a relatively literate
broadcast."

4 4Nobody can say you're humble, Mr.  Sincere."

"I don't pretend to be.  And, speaking of humility, to which you're
uniquely entitled, why are you here, Manny?  I thought you delegated
all criticisms and network objections to our executive producer."

"This goes beyond that, Frank," said Chernov, his eyes heavy lidded
sad.

"I had a visitor today, this afternoon, a fellow from the FBI, who, God
knows, I couldn't ignore, am I right?"

"So far.  What did he want?"

"Your head, I think."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're Canadian, right?"

"I am, indeed, and proud of it."

"When you were in that university, the .. . the

"University of British Columbia."

"Yeah, that one.  Did you protest the Vietnam War?"

"It was a United Nations 'action," and, yes, I opposed it
vociferously."

"You refused to serve?"

"We, were not obligated to serve, Manny."

"But you didn't go."

"I wasn't asked to and if I had been, I wouldn't have."

"You were a member of the Universal Peace Movement, is that correct?"

"Yes, I was.  Most of us, not all, of course, were."

"Did you know that Germany was one of the sponsors?"

"The young people of Germany, student organizations, certainly not the
government.  Bonn is prohibited from engaging in armed conflicts or
even parliamentary discussions of the issues.  Their surrender codified
neutrality.  Good God, despite your title, don't you know anything?"

"I know that a lot of Germans were part of the Universal Peace
Movement, and you were a member in pretty obvious good standing.

"Universal Peace' could have another meaning, like Hitler's "Peace
Through Universal Might and Moral Strength."

"Are you playing paranoid Hebrew, Manny?  If so, I should remind you
that my wife's mother was Jewish, which is apparently more important
than if her father were.  Therefore, my children, by extension, are
hardly Aryan.  Beyond that irrefutable fact, which disqualifies me from
being part of the Wehrmacht, the German government had nothing to do
with the U.P.M."

"Still, the German influence was pretty damned apparent."

"Guilt, Manny, profound guilt was the reason.  What the hell are you
trying to say?"

"This FBI man, he wanted to know if you had any ties with the new
political movements in Germany.  After all, Wagner is a German name."

"I don't believe this!"

Clarence "Clarr" Ogilvie, retired chairman of the board of Global
Electronics, drove his restored Duesenberg off the Merritt Parkway at
the Greenwich, Connecticut, exit nearest his home, or estate, as the
press sarcastically called it.  In his family's wealthier days, before
the '29 crash, three acres of land with a normal-size pool and no
tennis court or stables would have hardly constituted an estate.

However, because he had I come from money," he was somehow an object of
scorn, as if he had chosen to be born rich, and his accomplishments
were therefore deemed meaningless, merely the products of high-priced
public relations which he obviously could afford.

Forgotten, or, to be less charitable, purposefully overlooked, were the
years he had spent, twelve to fifteen hours a day, turning an only
marginally profitable family company into one of the most successful
electronics firms in the country.  He had graduated from M.I.T. in the
late forties, an advocate of the new technologies, and when he came
into the family business, he had instantly recognized that it was a
decade behind the times.  He let go virtually the entire executive
hierarchy, providing all with pensions he hoped he could afford, and
replaced them with like minded computer-oriented young bulls-and
cows-for he hired by talent, not gender.

By the middle fifties the technological advances his teams of
long-haired, jean-clad, pot-smoking innovators came up with had caught
the attention of the Pentagonwith a shock and a thud.  The patience of
the sharply pressed "uniforms" was sorely tried by the despised, ill
kempt "beards" and "miniskirts" who casually placed their feet on
polished tables or buffed their fingernails during conferences while
they patiently explained the new technology.  But their products were
irresistible and the nation's armed might was substantially increased;
the y family business went global.

All that was yesterday, thought Clarr Ogilvie as he threaded through
the backcountry roads that led to his house.  Today was a day he never
in his wildest nightmares had thought could come to pass.  He realized
that he had never been the most popular player in the so-called
military-industrial complex but this was beyond the pale.

In short words, he had been labeled a potential enemy of his country, a
closet zealot who supported the aims of a growing Fascist-Nazi-movement
in Germany!

He had driven into New York to see his attorney and good friend, John
Saxe, who said over the phone that it was an emergency.

"Did you supply a German firm called Oberfeld with electronic equipment
that involved satellite transmissions?"

"Yes, we did.  Cleared by F.T.C."  the export boys, and the State
Department.  No end-user contract was necessary."

"Did you know who Oberfeld was, Clarr?"

"Only that they paid their bills promptly.  I just told you, they were
cleared."

"You never examined their, let's say, their industrial base, their
business objectives?"

"We understood their desire to expand electronically, their
specifications.  Anything else was up to Washington's export
controls."

"That's our out, naturally."

'What are you talking about, John?"

"They're Nazis, Clarr, the new generation of Nazis."

"How the hell would we know that if Washington didn't?"

"That's our defense, of course."

"Defense against what?"

"Some may claim that you knew what Washington didn't know.

That you willfully, knowingly, supplied a bunch of Nazi revolutionaries
with the latest technological communications equipment."

"That's insane!"

"It may be the case we have to fight."

"For Christ's sake, why?"

"Because you're on a list, Clarr, that's what I've been told.  Also,
you're not universally loved.  Frankly, I'd get rid of that Duesenberg
of yours."

"What?  It's a classic!"

"It's a German car."

"The bell it is!  The Duesenbergs were American, built mostly in
Virginia!"

"Well, the name, you understand."

"No, I don't understand a goddamned thing!"

Clarence "Clarr" Ogilvie pulled into his driveway, wondering what he
could possibly say to his wife.

The elderly man with the shaved head and the thick tortoiseshell
glasses that magnified his eyes stood thirty feet from the line of
passengers validating their departures on Lufthansa Flight 7000 to
Stuttgart, Germany.  As each produced his or her passport, along with
an airline ticket, the only pause in the procedure came when the clerks
checked passports against an unseen computer screen on the left side of
the counter.  The bald man had been processed, his boarding pass in his
pocket.  He watched anxiously as a grayhaired woman approached a clerk
and presented her credentials.

Moments later he sighed audibly in relief; his wife walked away from
the counter.  They met three minutes later at a newspaper stand, both
studying the displays of magazines, but neither acknowledging the
other, except in whispers.

"That's over with," said the man in German.

"We board in twenty minutes.  I'll be among the last, you be there
among the first."

"Aren't you being overly cautious, Rudi?  Our passports and the
photographs show two people completely different from our true selves,
if, indeed, anybody is remotely interested in us."

"I prefer excessive caution to indifference in these matters.  I'll be
missed in the morning at the laboratory-I may have been missed already
if one of my colleagues has tried to reach me.  We are approaching
breakneck speed refining the fiber optics that will intercept
international satellite transmissions regardless of frequencies."

"You know I don't understand such talk-"

"Not talk, dear wife, but hard, solid research.  We're working in
shifts, twenty-four hours a day, and at any moment an associate may
wish to check the research in our computers."

"So let them, dear husband."

"You are an unscientific fool!  I have the software, and I've spread a
virus throughout the system."

"You know, your bald head is far less attractive than your waves of
full white hair, Rudi.  And if I ever permit this much gray in my hair,
I'll forgive you if you seek a mistress."

"You are also impossible, my adorable young wife."

"Acb so why do we go through this nonsense?"

"I've told you time and time again.  The Briiderschaft, there is only
the Brtiderschaft!"

"Politics so bore me."

"We'll see each other in Stuttgart.  By the way, I bought you, the
diamond necklace you saw at Tiffany's."

"You're a darling!  I shall be the envy of every woman in Munich!"

"Vaclabruck, my dear.  Munich only on weekends."

"Boring!"

Arnold Argossy, radio and television impresario of the hysteria prone
ultraconservative wing of American political thought, squeezed his
enormous frame into the inadequate chair at the studio table.  He put
on his earphones and looked over at the tinted glass panel, beyond
which were his producer and the various technicians who caused the
familiar high-pitched, grating voice, so beloved of his constituency,
to be heard across the land.  The once staggering number of his
listeners had begun to fall off, insulted perhaps, by his singularly
vicious attacks on anything and everything he considered liberal!
without his offering any coherent alternatives to the programs he
attacked.  The gradual decline in his ratings had done nothing to
diminish his ego; instead, he held on to his decreasing audience by
ever-increasing assaults on LibboCommies, Female-Fascists,
Embryo-Killers, Homeless Suckers and assorted labels that eventually
had to turn off even the vast "patient, stable majority" who began to
question his diatribes.

The red light flashed.  ON AIR.

"Hello, America, you true red blooded sons and daughters of giants who
carved a nation out of a land of savages and made it sweet.

It's AA.  talking, and this afternoon I want to hear from you!  The
honest, hardworking people of this great land that's been soiled and
spoiled by the sex-ridden, religion-bashing, morality-blasting, sick
sycophants who run our government while running away with your money.
Hear the latest, my friends!  There's a bill before Congress that would
permit our taxes to pay for obligatory sex education, specifically
targeting innercity youths.

Can you believe Our cold cash squandered away on a hot topic, our
dollars to fund, at the least, a million condoms a day so the rootless
offspring of the lazy and the indolent can fornicate at the drop of
a-no, I can't say it, for this is a family program.  We spread the
morality of our God; we do not pander to the base, savage hungers of
Lucifer, the archangel of hell..  .. What is the solution to this
promiscuous madness?  It's so obvious, I can hear you shouting the
answer, Sterilization, my friends!  Benign denial of procreation by
lust, for lust is not married love.  Lust is the nonselective appetite
of animals, and no amount of so-called sexual education can cure it, it
can only cause it to proliferate!  .. . Now, you know and I know who
we're talking about, don't we?  Oh, yes?  I can hear the liberal chorus
shouting racism!  But I ask you, my friends, is it racist to inaugurate
programs that without the slightest doubt can benefit the very people
who are being debased by their promiscuity?  I think not.  What do you
think?"

"Whippo!"  cried the first caller.

"I got nuthin' against nobody, but I betcha if we paid every black
person on welfare twenty-five thousand bucks to go back to Africa and
start his own tribe, they'd grab it in a shot.  I even figured it out.
It'd be cheaper, right?"

"We cannot condone migration through bribery, sir, it's
unconstitutional.  But in a word, yowsah!  Next, please."

"I'm calling from New York City, AA."  lower West Side, and let me tell
you, the Cuban-Spic cooking's stinking up the whole apartment house,
and I can't read the signs on the stores no more.

Can't we get rid of Castro and send 'em back where they belong?"

"We also can't condone ethnic slurs, sir, but disregarding the
unfortunate epithet you attached to a nationality, you do have a point.
Write your senators and congressmen and ask why we haven't sent in a
hit team to assassinate the Commie dictator.  What else is left?"

"Double whippo, AA.!  The senators and congressmen, they gotta listen
to us, don't they?"

"They certainly do, my friend."

"Great!  .. . Who are they?"

"The post office has that information.  Next caller for the Argossy
Argonaut, please."

"Good evening, mein Herr, I'm calling from Munich, Germany, where it is
evening.  We listen to you on the Religion of the World Broadcast, and
we thank God they bring you to us.  Also, we thank you for everything
you've done for us!

"Who the hell is this?"  said A covering the mirgossy, crop hone and
looking over at the tinted glass panel.

"The RWB is a hell of a good market for us, Arnie," answered the
producer over the earphones.

"We're reaching into Europe on shortwave.  Be nice and listen to the
guy, it's his nickel and it's a lot of nickels."

"So -how are things in Munich, my new friend?"

"Much better- for hearing your voice, Herr Argossy."

"That's nice to know.  I went to your fair city about a year ago and
had the best sausage and sauerkraut I ever tasted.  They mixed it all
together with mashed potatoes and mustard.  Terrific."

"It is you who are terrific, mein Herr' You are obviously one of us,
one of the new Germany."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean-"

"Nanirlich, of course you do!  We will build the new Reich, the Fourth
Reich, and you will be our Minister of Propaganda.  You will be far
more effective than Goebbels ever was.  You are far more persuasive!"

"Who the fuck is this?"  roared Arnold Argossy.

"Cut the mikes and stop the tape!"  yelled the producer.

"Christ, how many stations did this go over live?"

"Two hundred and twelve," replied an uninterested technician.

"Holy shit," said the producer, falling into a chair.

THE WASHINGTON POST

Quiet Investigations Alarming Hill FBI Agents Roaming

Around Asking Questions

WASHINGTON, D.C."  Friday The Post has learned that agents of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation have been traveling across the country
seeking information about prominent figures of the Senate and the House
of Representatives, as well as members of the administration.  The
nature of these inquiries is not clear and justice will not elaborate
on or even confirm the existence of such interrogations.  The rumors,
however, persist, given substance by an angry Senator

Lawrence Roote of Colorado, whose staff admitted he had demanded an
immediate meeting with the Attorney General.

After their conference, Roote, too, refused to comment, stating only
that there had been a misunderstanding.

Hints that other "misunderstandings" have spread beyond the nation's
capital came last night when the popular and respected anchor of MBC's
evening news program, Franklyn

Wagner, set aside two minutes for what he called a "personal essay." 
In his normally well-modulated tones there was an obvious bitterness,
if not a controlled fury.  He struck out at what he termed "the hyenas
of vigilantism who pounce on long-past but totally legitimate political
positions, even names and their origins, to smear the objects of their
disaffections."

He recalled the "mass hysteria of the McCarthy years, when decent men
and women were ruined by innuendo and baseless guilt by association,"
ending his essay by saying he was "a grateful guest in this magnificent
country"-Wagner is Canadianbut would grab the next plane back to
Toronto should he and his family "be pilloried."

Bombarded later by questions, he also refused comment, saying only that
the instigators knew who they were, and "that was enough."  MBC stated
that their switchboards were.  overloaded estimating that the calls
were well into the thousands, over eighty percent supporting Mr.
Wagner.

The only clue this reporter has been able to unearth is that the
inquiries are somehow related to recent events in

Germany, where right-wing factions have made significant inroads
throughout the Bonn government.

In his still unfinished medical complex, Gerhardt Kroeger paced
aimlessly, impetuously, in front of his wife, Greta, who sat in a chair
in their quarters deep in the forests of Vaclabruck.

"He's still alive, that we know," said the surgeon excitedly.

"He's passed the first crisis, and that's a good sign for my procedure
but not healthy for the cause."

"Why so, Gerhardt?"  asked the surgical nurse.

"Because we can't find him!"

"So?  He will die shortly, no?"

"Yes, of course, but if he has a cranial hemorrhage and dies among the
enemy, their doctors will perform an autopsy.  They will find my
implant, and that we cannot permit!  "

"There's not much you can do about it, so why aggravate yourself?"

"Because he must be found.  I must find him."

"How?"

"There will come a time in his.  last days, his last hours, when he'll
have to make contact with me.  His confusion will be such that he
demands instructions, demands them."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I know.  I don't know the answer."  The telephone rang on the table
beside the wife's chair.  She picked it up.

"Yes?  .. . Yes, of course, Herr Doktor."  Greta placed her hand over
the phone.

"It's Hans Traupman.  He says it's an emergency."

"I would think so, he rarely calls."  Kroeger took the telephone from
his wife.

"This must be an emergency, Doctor.  I can't remember when you called
me last."

"General von Schnabe was arrested an hour ago in Munich."

"Good heavens, what for?"

"Subversive activities, inciting to riot, crimes against the state, all
the usual legal garbage our forebears refined in a far more conducive
environment."

"But bow?"

"Apparently your Harry Latham-Lassiter was not the only infiltrator in
our valley."

"Inconceivable!  Each and every one of our followers was put through
the most rigorous examinations, even to the point of electronic brain
scans that would reveal lying, doubts, the smallest hesitation.  I
myself devised the procedures; they're foolproof."

"Perhaps one of them had a change of heart after he or she left the
valley.  Regardless, von Schnabe was picked up by the police and
identified in a lineup where the accuser could not be seen.

According to what little we've learned, it may have been a woman, as
there apparently were references to sexual abuse.  A middle-level
police officer was heard laughing about it with his colleagues in the
Munich station."

"I told the general constantly, warned him repeatedly, about his
liaisons with female personnel.  He always answered, "With all your
learning, Kroeger, you don't understand.  A general connotes power, and
power is the essence of sex.  They want me."

"And he wasn't even.  a general," said Traupman over the phone.

"Much less a von."

"Really?  I thought-"

"Youthought what you were meant to think, Gerhardt," interrupted the
doctor from Nureniberg.

"Schnabe is a brilliant student of military operations, a devoted
partisan of our cause-few among us could have found, created, and
managed our valley-those were his enormous strengths.  Actually, in
medical terms, he was, is, a sociopath of the highest intelligence, the
sort of person such movements as ours demand, especially in the initial
stages.  Afterward, of course, they are replaced.  That was the error
of the Third Reich; they believed their false titles, lived them out,
and overrode the real generals, the Junkers who might have won the war
with a properly timed invasion of England.  We will not make those
mistakes."

"What do we do now, Herr Doktor?"

"We've arranged for Schnabe to be shot in his cell tonight.  The
assassin will use a silenced pistol.  It's not difficult; unemployment
is high even among the criminal classes.  It must be done before his
interrogation begins, specifically the Amytals."

"And Vaclabruck?"

"It's yours to run for now.  What concerns us, what concerns our leader
in Bonn, is your computerized robot in Paris.  When will he die, for
God's sake?"

"One day, three days at the outside, he can't last more than that."

"Good."

"Excuse me, Herr Traupman, but it is all too possible that he will
experience a virtual explosion in his occipital lobe."

"Where your implant resides?"

"Yes.

"We must find him before that happens.  If they discover one robot,
they'll believe there are a thousand others!  "

"I said as much to my wife."

"Greta, of course.  What does she suggest?"

"She agrees with me," replied Kroeger as his wife stood up and shook
her head violently.

"I must fly to Paris and meet with our people.  First with the
Blitzkrieger; they're missing something.  Then with our plant at the
American Embassy; we must refine what he knows about the Antinayous. 
Finally, our man at the Deuxi@me Bureau.  He vacillates."

"Be careful with Moreau.  He's one of us in his stomach, but he's a
Frenchman.  We really don't know which side he's on."

 Andrew Latham, now his brother Harry, waited in the shadows of the
Trocadero, behind the statue of DKing Henry the Innocent, his eyes
peering through night-vision binoculars.  Nearly a hundred yards across
the vast concrete pavement were the equally dark spaces between the
statues of Louis the Fourteenth and Napoleon the First.

It was the rendezvous point of his last request to Karin de Vries that
day.  The delivery of selected confidential papers he needed from his
"dead brother's" office.  It was almost eleven o'clock, the Paris night
illuminated by a summer moon, a professional white hunter's moon in the
African veldt, and Drew Latham found comfort in that fact.

"Two men emerged from a black sedan parked in the long, curbed entrance
to the great facade of monuments.  They wore dark business suits and
walked toward the rendezvous, each carrying a briefcase ostensibly
holding the papers he had "urgently requested" from his "brother's"
desk.  They were ncos, for that last request, as coded, had not been
transmitted by Karin de Vries.  It was proof that her telephone was
tapped within the embassy.

Drew ambled into the scattered groups of strollers, many Parisians, the
majority foreign tourists holding cameras.  Erratic flashes popped
everywhere.  The lapels of Drew's jacket were turned up, and a black
visored cap partially covered his face as he made his way through the
crowds, constantly remaining in the company of one group after another
until he was within fifty feet of the rendezvous.  He studied the two
men between the two imposing statues; they were calm, as immobile as
the monuments, the immobility only slightly marred by their slowly
turning heads.  Latham moved with his current group of tourists,
instantly, alarmingly, noting that they were Asian and uniformly much
shorter than he.  Another small crowd of Westerners was coming from the
opposite direction; he joined it, ironically realizing by the language
that these sightseers were German.  Perhaps it was a favorable omen;
then it became practically optimistic.  As one, the group closed in on
the monument to Napoleon, conqueror of conquerors, and by the stridency
of the comments there was a certain unmistakable association.  S@cg
Nappy!  thought Drew as he kept his eyes on the two false couriers, now
less than ten feet away.  It was the moment to do something, but Latham
was not sure what it was.  Then it came to him.  Les rues de
Montparnasse.

Pickpockets!  The scourge of the seventh ariondissement.

He chose the thinnest, least imposing woman nearest him and suddenly
grabbed her shoulder bag.  She screamed, "Ein Dieb!"  In the
semidarkness, Drew threw the purse to an unsuspecting man closest to
the first false messenger from the embassy, and pummeled a couple into
him, then another man and then another, while shouting unintelligible
words in ersatz German.  In seconds, a minor riot was taking place in
front of Napoleon's statue, the screams reaching a rapid crescendo as
everyone in the crowd tried to locate the thief and his stolen property
in the shadows.  The first illegitimate courier was caught up in the
melee; he awkwardly struggled against the encompassing crowd, when
suddenly -Latham stood in front Of him.

"Heil Hitler," said Drew quietly in counterpoint to the surrounding
hysterical voices as he punched the man in the throat with all his
strength.  As the neo collapsed, Latham dragged him away, pulling him
into the darkness behind the row of statues that overlooked the Eiffel
Tower, its majestic spires bathed in floodlights.

He had to get the man out of the Troca&ro!  Get him out but avoid the
second courier and whatever backups there were in the black sedan.  He
had come prepared to this rendezvous as he had to the others, with
equipment willingly provided by the Antinayous.

A medical spray of

Arcane that would numb the vocal chords, a wire garrote that served to
immobilize wrists, and a cellular phone with an untraceable number.  He
exercised the first two, taking a moment off to render his awakening
captive back into unconsciousness, then pulled out the phone from his
inside pocket.  He dialed the colonel's unlisted home number.

"Yes?"  came the soft voice over the line.

"Witkowski, it's me.  I've got one."

"Where are you?"

"The Trocadero, north side, last statue."

"The situation?"

"I'm not sure.  There's another man, and a car, a black four-door
parked above.  Who's in it, I don't know."

"Is the place crowded?"

"Half and half."

"How did you grab your target?"

"Have we got time for this?"

"If I'm to operate effectively, we make time.  How?"

"A crowd of tourists near the marks.  I stole a purse and started a
riot!

"That's good.  We'll escalate.  I'll call the police and say we believe
an American may have been murdered for his money."

"They were German."

"That's hardly relevant.  The sirens will be' there in a few minutes.
Get to the south side and work your way to the street.  I'll be there
soon."

"Jesus, Stanley, the guy's dead weight!"

"You out of shape?"

"Hell, no, but what do I say if I'm stopped?"

"He's a drunken American.  Everyone in Paris loves to hear that.

Should I repeat -it in French-actually it doesn't matter, you'll do
better your way-more believable.  Get going!"

True to the colonel's words, ninety seconds later the clamorous
hee-haws of the Paris police filled the vast complex of the Trocadero
as five, patrol cars converged on the entrance.  The crowds raced
toward the street and the excitement as Latham, his arms supporting a
dragging figure, hurried across the concrete to the south side.  Once
behind the statuary, he lifted the neo over his shoulder in a fireman's
carry and raced up the darkness to the street.  The Nazi's body slumped
beside him, Drew knelt waiting for Witkowski's signal.  It came when an
embassy car swerved into the curb, its lights flashing on and off
twice, the basic signal to evacuate.

THE NEw YORK TIMES

Top-Secret Gov't Laboratory Robbed Rudolph Metz, Scientist,

Disappears.

Data Missing

BALTIMORE, Saturday In the hills of outer Rockland, a little known and
highly classified scientific compound housing topsecret experiments. 
in micro-communications called in the authorities this morning,
initially because the staff could not reach Dr.  Rudolph Metz, the
internationally renowned fiber optics scientist, on his telephone or on
his beeper.  Visits to his residence produced no response.  The police,
under warrant, broke in and found nothing irregular except for a
minimal amount of clothing in the closets of a couple as well off as
Dr.  Metz and his wife.  Later, the laboratory's technicians reported
that the past year's entire research had been deleted from the
computers, leaving in its stead a series of "frostbites" connoting a
virus.

Dr.  Metz, a seventy-three-year-old former wunderkind of

German science and a man who continuously extolled and "thanked the
heavenly Father" for his American citizenship, was "a strange person,"
as was his fourth wife, according to neighbors in Rockland.

"They always kept to themselves, except when his wife would suddenly
throw grand parties, showing off her jewelry, but nobody really knew
them," said Mrs.  Bess Thurgold, who lives next door.

"I

couldn't relate to him," added Ben Marshall, an attorney who lives
across the street.

"He'd clam up whenever I mentioned anything political, you know what I
mean?  I mean, here we were, a bunch of people who'd made it-hell, we
couldn't afford to live here if we hadn't-but he never had an opinion.
Not even about taxes!"

Unattributed speculation, at this juncture, centers on psychiatric
distress induced by overwork, marital problems as a result of the
disparity of age between his current wife and the oft-married Metz, and
even kidnapping by terrorist organizations who could benefit by
extracting his knowledge.

Latham and Stanley Witkowski drove the unconscious body of the false
courier, directly to the colonel's apartment on the rue Diane.  Using
the delivery entrance, they took the neo up the freight elevator to
Witkowski's floor and dragged him into the colonel's suite of rooms.

"This way we're not official, and that's bardzo dobrze," said Witkowski
as they splayed the figure of the would-be killer on the couch.

"What?"

"It means that's 'good."  Harry would have understood; he spoke
Polish."

"Sorry about that."

"It's okay.  You did all right tonight..  .. Now, we just have to get
this cat awake and scare the shit out of him until he talks."

"How do we do that?"

"Do you smoke?"

"Actually, I'm trying to cut down."

"I'm not your conscience or someone from your support group.

Have you got a butt?"

"Well, I carry a few---emergencies, you know."

"Light one' and give it to me."  The colonel began slapping the cheeks
of the neo; the killer's eyes began to blink as Witkowski took the
lighted cigarette from Latham.

"There's a bottle of Evian on my bar over there.  Bring it to me."

"Here it is."

"Hey, Junge!  " cried Witkowski, pouring the water over the face of
their captive, whose eyes sprung wide.

"Keep those baby-blues open, fella, because I'm going to burn your
eyeballs out, okay?"  The colonel placed the burning cigarette a
quarter of an inch above the neo's left eye.

"Ah-baal"  screamed the Nazi.

"Please, nein!"

"Are you telling me you're not so tough after all?  Hell, you burned
people, eyes and all, bodies and all.  Are you saying you can't take
one eyeball-then, of course, maybe the next?"  The lighted cigarette
touched the outer jell of the neo's eye.

"Ahhyaa-ayahh!"  The colonel slowly pulled the cigarette away.

"The sight may come back in that one, but only with proper treatment.
Now, if I perform the same operation with your other, it will be
different.  I'll burn through the retina and, God knows, even I
couldn't stand the pain, forget about the blindness."  Witkowski moved
the cigarette to the right eye, an ash falling into it.

"Here we go, -Wehrmacht, see how it feels."

I "Nein-nein!  Ask me what you will, but do not do this!"

Moments later, the colonel continued while the neo held an ice pack
over his left eye.

"Now you know what I'm capable of, Herman, or whatever your name is.
just as you bastards were fifty years ago, when I lost a couple of
grandparents in Auschwitz.  As far as I'm concerned, I'll put you back
on those pillows and not only burn your eyes out, but cut off your
balls.  Then I'll set you free and see how you handle the streets!"

"Cool it, Stosh," said Latham, gripping Witkowski's shoulder.

"Don't you tell me to cool anything, youngster!  My people hid Jews and
they were gassed for it!"

"Okay, okay, but right now we need information."

"Right .. . right."  The colonel breathed deeply, then spoke quietly.

"I got carried away .. . you don't know how I hate these bastards."

"I've got a good idea, Stanley.  They killed -my brother.  The
interrogation, please."

"Right.  Who are you, where do you come from, and whom do you
represent?"

"I am a prisoner of war and I am not required-"

Witkowski struck the neo's mouth with the back of his free hand, the
blow savage, his gold army ring drawing blood.

"There's a war, all right, you scum, but it's not declared, and you're
not entitled to a damn thing except what I can dream up for you.  And
let me assure you, it won't be pleasant."  The colonel looked up at
Latham.

"There's an old carbine bayonet of mine on the desk over there, I use
it to open envelopes'.  Be a good lad and bring it to me, will you?
We'll see how it opens throats, that's really what it was designed for,
you know."

Drew crossed to the desk and returned with the snub handled blade as
Witkowski probed the flesh around the terrified false courier's neck.

"Here you are, Doctor."

"Funny you should say that," said the far older G-2 veteran.

"I

was thinking of my mother only last night; she always wanted me to
become a doctor, a surgeon, to be exact.  If she said it once, she said
it a thousand times.

"You got big strong hands, Stachu.  Be a doctor who operates; they make
good money."  .. . Let's see if I can get the hang of it."  The colonel
jabbed his finger into the soft flesh just above the German's
breastbone.

"This feels like, a good place to start," he continued, lowering the
point of the blade.

"It's kind of Jell-O-like, and you know how that spreads so easily when
you put the edge of a spoon into it.  Hell, it ought to be a cinch with
a knife, and believe me, this is a real knife.  Okay, let's start the
first incision-how do you like that?

"Incision."

"

"Nein!"  shrieked the struggling neo as a trickle of blood rolled down
across his neck.

"What do you want from me?  I know nothing, I do only as I'm
ordered!"

"Who gives you the orders?"

"I don't know!  I receive a telephone call-a man, sometimes a
woman-they use my code number and I inuist obey."

"That's not good enough, scum bucket-"

"He's telling the truth, Stosh," Latham broke in quickly, stopping
Witkowski from cutting further.

"The other night, that driver told me the same thing, practically word
for word."

"What were your orders tonight?"  pressed the colonel as the Nazi
screamed under the increased pressure of the blade.

"Tonight!"  roared Witkowski.

"To kill him, jato kill the traitor, but to make sure we take the body
far away and burn it."

"Burn it?"  interrupted Drew.

"Ja, and to cut off the head, burning it also, but in another place,
far away from the body."

""Far away' .. . ?"  Drew stared at the trembling, horror-stricken
neo.

"I swear it, that's all I know!"

"The hell it is!"  shouted the colonel, drawing more blood.

"I've interrogated hundreds like you, slug ball and I know.  It's
always in your eyes, something you haven't said, haven't told us!  .. .
A kill's no big deal, the rest of it's a little tougher, maybe a lot
more dangerous, carrying around a dead body, cutting off a head, and
burning everything.  That's even a little weird for you psychopaths.

What haven't you told us?  Talk, or it's the last breath of air in your
throat!"  I .

"Nein, please!  He will die shortly, but he cannot die among the enemy!
We must reach him first!"

"He's going to die?"

"Ja, it cannot be stopped.  Three days, four days, that's all he has,
all we know.  We were to take him tonight, kill him before morning, far
away, where he will not be found."

Latham walked away from the couch, half in a daze, trying to understand
the enigma presented by the Nazi revolutionary.

Nothing made sense, except one apparently incontrovertible
projection.

"I'm sending this rat face over to French Intelligencewith our entire
testimony, every word he said here, which,

actually, we've got, thanks to that little machine on my desk," said
Witkowski.

"You know, Stosh," countered Drew, turning around and looking at the
colonel, "maybe you should put him on a diplomatic jet to Washington,
to Langley, no information available, except to the receivers at the

CIA."

"Good Christ, why?  This is a French problem."

"Maybe it's more than that, Stanley.  Harry's list.  Perhaps we should
see who at the Agency tries to protect this man, or, conversely, who
tries to kill him."

"You're beyond me, youngster."

"I'm beyond myself, Colonel.  I'm Harry now, and someone expects me to
die."

 t was three o'clock in the morning in Monte Carlo, the narrow, dimly
lit streets beyond the casino deserted except for stragglers from the
still-active gambling palace; a few were despondently drunk, several
elated, most weary.  Claude Moreau made his way down an alley that led
to a stone wall overlooking the harbor.  He reached the wall, his eyes
scanning the scene below; it was a haven for the world's rich,
memorialized by the lights of the huge, luxurious yachts and ca
cruisers at their moorings.  He felt no sense of envy whatsoever; he
was merely an observer appreciating the surface beauty of it all.  His
civil.  servant's lack of jealousy came easily, for his job required
that he spend infrequent time among the owners of these opulent craft,
watching their lifestyles, often delving deeper.  It was enough.  If
one could categorize, in many ways they were a desperate people,
forever seeking out new interests, new experiences, new thrills.  The
constant seeking became their reality, the search without end, leading
only to still another search.  They had their comforts; they needed
them, for the rest was boredom, looking for the next stimulation that
would occupy them.  What now?  What's new?  @

"Allor, monsieur," said the voice out of the darkness as a figure
approached from the shadows.

"Are you the friend of the Brotherhood?"

"Your cause is futile," said Moreau without turning.

"I've told you people that a hundred times, but if you continue to
better my impoverished circumstances, I'll do as you ask."

"Our Blitzkrieger, the woman at the table in the casino..  Youtook her
away.  What happened?"

"She took her own life, as the other two did in prison months ago.  We
are French; we did not, upon her arrest, examine her private areas.  If
we had, we would have found cyanide capsules encased in plastic."

"Sehr gut.  She told you nothing?"

"How could she?  She never came out of the ladies' room alive."

"Then we are clear?"

"For now.  And I shall expect the usual payment in Zurich for my
considerable cooperation.  Tomorrow."

"It will be done."

The figure walked away in the darkness as Moreau reached into his
breast pocket and turned off his recorder.  Unwritten contracts meant
nothing, unless their violations were recorded.

Basil Marchand, member of the House of Lords, slammed the brass
paperweight down on his desk with such force that the glass cover
shattered, sending fragments across the room.  The man facing him took
a step backward while briefly turning his face away.

"How dare you?"  shouted the elderly gentleman, his hands trembling
with rage.

"The men of this family go back to the Crimea and all the wars since,
including the Boer, where a newspaper boy named Churchill extolled
their bravery under fire.  How can you think to imply such .a thing to
me?"

"Forgive me, Lord Marchand," said the MI-5 officer calmly,
unflinchingly, "your family has deservedly received recognition for its
military contributions throughout this century, but there was an
exception, wasn't there?  I refer, of course, to your older brother,
who was among the founders of the Cliveden set, which held Adolf Hitler
in rather high regard."

"Drummed out of the family!"  Marchand broke in furiously as he yanked
open a drawer and pulled out a silver-framed -scroll.

"Here, you insolent bugger!  This is a citation from the King himself
for my boat at Dunkirk.  I was a lad of sixteen and brought out
thirty-eight men who would have been slaughtered or captured.  And that
was before I was awarded the Military Cross for my service in the Royal
Navy!"

"We're aware of your outstanding heroism, Lord Marchand-"

"So don't ascribe to me the warped delusions of an older brother I
barely knew.  and didn't like what I did know," continued the outraged
member of the House of Lords.

"If you've done your research, you should know that he left England in
1940 and never returned, no doubt drank himself to death hiding in one
of those South Pacific islands."

"Not quite accurate, I'm afraid," said the MI-5 visitor.

"Your brother ended up in Berlin with another name, and worked
throughout the war in the Reich's Ministry of Information.  He married
a German woman and, like you, he had three sons-"

"What .. . ?"  The old man fell slowly back in his chair, his mouth
agape, barely breathing.

"We were never told," he added so quietly he could hardly be heard.

"There was no point, sir.  After the war he disappeared with his entire
family, presumably to South America, one of those German enclaves in
Brazil or Argentina  Since he was not officially listed as a war
criminal, no search was instituted, and considering the losses the
Marchands sustained-"

"Yes," Lord Marchand interrupted softly, "my other two brothers and my
sister-two pilots and a nurse."  "Precisely.  Our offices decided to
bury the whole nasty business."

"That was kind of you, very kind.  I'm sorry I treated you so
shabbily."

"Not to be concerned.  As you said, you couldn't know what you'd never
been told."

"Yes, yes, of course..  .. But here, now, this afternoon, you damn near
accused me-and by extension, the family-of being part of some Fascist
movement in Germany.  Why?"

"It's a rather clumsy technique few of us are comfortable with, but
it's effective.  I didn't specifically accuse you, sir; if you recall,
I phrased my allusion in terms of 'how offended the Crown would be to
learn' etcetera, etcetera.  The immediate answer is always outrage, but
there is false outrage and then there is true outrage.  It's not
difficult to discern which is which, not if you've been around for a
while, and I have."

"What did I do right?"

"I believe, if you were younger, you would have physically assaulted
me, thrown me bodily out of your house."

"Quite true, I would have."

"It was a genuine reaction on your part, not false at all."

"Again, I ask why?"

"The names of two of your sons are on a list, a highly confidential
list of people who silently support the neo Nazi revolutionaries in
Germany."

"Good God, how?"

"Marchands Limited is a textile complex, is that correct?"

"Yes, of course, everyone knows that.  With our factories in Scotland,
we're the second largest in the U.K. Two of my sons run it since I
retired; the third, may- the Lord have mercy on his soul, is a
musician.  So what have they done to warrant such an accusation?"

I "They've dealt with a firm called Oberfeld, shipped thousands upon
thousands of rolls of fabric for identical shirts, blouses, trousers,
and slacks to their warehouses in Mannheim."

"Yes, I've studied the accounts, which I insist on doing.

Oberfeld pays its charges on due-date time and is a splendid customer.
So?"

I "Oberfeld doesn't exist, it's a front for the neo-Nazi movement.

As of seven days ago, the name and the warehouse in Mannheim are gone,
disappeared, as your brother disappeared fifty years ago."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'll put this as gently as possible, Lord Marchand.  Is it possible
that the sons of your brother have come back, and with terrible irony
have involved your own unwitting sons in a conspiracy to accelerate the
Nazi resurgence by supplying uniforms?"

"Uniforms?"

"It's the next step, Lord Marchand.  Historically, it's standard."

Knox Talbot disliked playing God, for too many had played God over his
race for too long.  He was uncomfortable assuming the position, feeling
not a little hypocritical, but he had no choice.  The Agency's
all-powerful top-secret computers had been compromised, software
containing the secrets of the globe invaded, including the most
sensitive operations the CIA had mounted across the world, among them
Harry Latham's torturous three-year odyssey.  Harry Latham-Alexander
Lassiter .. . code name, Sting.

Under the pretext of rotation assignments, he had requested over three
dozen personnel records but only eight demanded his attention.  The men
and women responsible for the AA-Zero computers, for they alone had the
keys, the codes, to learn the secrets that could end the lives of
deep-cover agents and informers, or conversely render the operations
useless.  Someone had-no, more than someone, some two, for the locked
disks required two people to punch in different codes, freeing the
software and permitting screen transmission.  But which two, and what
had they really accomplished?  Harry Latham had escaped, at the
terrible price of his brother's life, but he was alive and in hiding in
Paris.

Not only alive, but he had brought out an incriminating list of names
that was already alarming the country, or at least the media, which did
its damnedest to alarm the country whenever possible.

According to the murdered Drew Latham, the -Nazis knew about Sting, but
when did they know?  Before or after Harry had uncovered the names?  If
before, the entire list was suspect, but even that judgment did not
wash with the disappearance of Rudolph Metz, a neo-fanatic if there
ever was one.  The Rockland laboratories had established that Metz had
arrogantly used his own ciphers to extract and delete an entire year's
research, and the FBI had traced Metz and his wife's escape to
Stuttgart, using false passports, via Dulles International Airport and
Lufthansa Flight 7000.  How many other Metzes were there?  Or to
reverse the question, how many other innocent Senator Rootes were
there?  Everything was spiraling out of control, or soon would be, as
the investigations continued.

Two out of eight totally "white," completely cleared specialists in the
most demanding of computer operations were moles.  How was it possible?
Or even was it?  There was nothing in their personnel records that gave
the slightest hint..  .. Then suddenly sections of Harry Latham's
London debriefing came back to Talbot.  He opened a drawer and pulled
out the transcript.  He found the page.

Q (MI-5): The rumor is that the Nazis, the new Nazis, may have known
who you were from the beginning.

HL: That's not a rumor, that will be their credo.  How often did we do
the same thing when we found a mole who fled back to

Mother Russia after looting us.  Of course we proclaimed bow smart we
were, and bow useless was the information stolen from us-when it
wasn't.

Q (DEUXIgME): Isn't it conceivable that you were fed disinformation?

HL: I was a trusted confidant until I escaped, a major contributor and
a believer in their cause.  Why would they feed me dirt?  But to answer
your question, yes, of course it's conceivable.  Disinformation,
misinformation, human or computer error, wishful thinking,
fantasizing-anything's possible.  It's your job to confirm or deny.
I've brought you the material, "now it's your function to evaluate
it.

Knox Talbot studied the agent's statements.  It could be argued that
Harry Latham himself left the door wide open.  Everything was crazy,
crazy with probable confirmations and possible contradictions, except
the existence of a spreading Nazi virus in Germany.  The CIA director
put the transcript away and stared at the eight separated records
spread in an arc over his desk.  He reread the words but found no
hints, nothing of substance.  He would take each one and try with all
his concentration to read between the lines until his eyes were
bloodshot.  Then, thankfully, his telephone buzzed.  He touched the
button on his console; his secretary spoke.

"Mr.  Sorenson on line three, sir."

"Who's on one and two?"

"Two network producers.  They want you to appear on programs discussing
the Bureau's domestic interrogations."

"I'm out to lunch for a month."

"I understood that, sir.  Line three, unless you want me to tell him
the same."

"No, I'll take it..  .. Hello, Wcs, please don't add to my
aggravation."

"Let's have lunch," said Wesley Sorenson.

"We have to talk.  By ourselves."

"I'm kind of obvious, old boy, if you hadn't noticed.  Unless you want
to go to a restaurant in the darker part of town, where you'd be more
obvious than me by a couple of nine yards."

"Then let's eliminate any yards.  The zoo in Rock Creek Park.

The bird sanctuary; there's a hot dog stand I was introduced to by my
grandchildren.  Not 4ad; it has chili."

"When?"

"This is priority.  Can you make it in twenty minutes?"

"I guess

I have to."

Oliver Mosedale, a fifty-year-old scholar attached to the Foreign
Office and a prominent adviser to Britain's Foreign Secretary, poured
himself a brandy as his young housekeeper filled his pipe, packed it
down, and brought it to him.

"Thank you, my child," he said, crossing to a large leather armchair
facing a television set.

The pipe securely in his mouth, he sat down with a sigh, placed his
drink on a side table, reached into his pocket, and fired his pipe with
a gold Dunhill lighter.

"The evening was nothing short of an exhausting bore," Mosedale
continued.

"The chef was undoubtedly drunk-I'm sure the canard 4 Vorange was
soaked in Gatorade-and those idiots from Treasury would cut our budgets
to the point where we couldn't represent Liechtenstein, much less
what's left of the British Empire.  It's really all quite mad as well
as most irritating."

"You poor ducks," said the buxom twentyish housekeeper, more than a
trace of cockney in her voice.

"You work too' hard, that's what you do."

"Please don't mention ducks, my dear."

"Wot?

"It's what I presumably had for dinner."

"Sorry..  .. Here, let me massage your neck, that always relaxes you."
The girl walked behind the chair and leaned over her employer, her
generous breasts, made obvious by her decolletage, touching the back of
his head, while her hands moved about his neck and shoulders.

"Marvelous," moaned the foreign service officer, drawing out the word
as he reached for his brandy, taking sips between draws on his pipe.

"You do that so well, but then, you do everything well, don't you?"

"I try, Ollie darling.  As I may have mentioned, I was brought up to
respect men of quality, to do their bidding out of admiration.  I'm not
one of those scruffs who shout all the time about privileged classes,
I'm not.  My mum always said, "If the good Lord wanted you to live in a
castle, you'd have been born in one."  And my mum's a wise old bird,
she is.  She also says 'that we should take Christian pride in serving
our betters, 'cause somewhere in the Bible it says it's better to give
than to get, or sompin' like that.

"Course my pa works on the docks and doesn't have mum's refinements-"

"It really isn't necessary that you talk dear child," Mosedale
interrupted, his brows arched in controlled frustration.

"As a matter of fact, it's time for the BBC news, isn't it?"  He
glanced at his watch.

"Indeed, it is!  I think that's enough of a massage, my sweet.  Why not
turn on the telly, then go up and bathe.  I'll join you in a while, so
wait for me, my angel."

"Sure, Ollie.  And I'll wear that nightie you like so much.  God knows
it's easy to put on, what there is of it."  The
housekeeper-cum-concubine went to the television set, snapped it on,
and waited for the proper channel to be in focus.  She blew Mosedale a
kiss and walked provocatively through the arch to the staircase.

The BBC news reader his voice and expression neutral, began with the
recent events in the Balkans, shifted to the news out of South Africa,
briefly touched on the accomplishments of the Royal Academy of Science,
then paused and continued with words that caused Oliver Mosedale to sit
up and stare at the figure on the screen.

"Reports out of Whitehall have a number of members of Parliament and
other government officials in high dudgeon due to what appear to be
ongoing inquiries by British intelligence into their private lives.
Jeffrey Billows, MP from Manchester, rose on the floor to denounce what
be called 'police state' tactics, claiming that his neighbors had been
questioned about him, including his vicar.

Another MP, Angus Ferguson, shouted that not only had his neighbors
-been interrogated, but that his garbage had been rummaged, and the
bookstore be frequents asked what books be purchases.

Apparently, even the Foreign Office is not immune, as several high
officials have declared they will resign before -being subjected to
such 'utter nonsense," as one put it.  Their names are being withheld
at the request of the Foreign Secretary.

These events would seem to mirror the news from the United States,
where prominent figures in and out of government are experiencing
similar invasions of privacy.  A story in the Chicago Tribune headlined
the question, "Is the Hunt for Unreconstructed Communists or for
Reconstructed Fascists?"  We here at BBC will keep you informed as the
story develops.

Now to the painful, all-too-familiar antics of the Royal family..  ..
"

Mosedale shot out of his chair, turned off the television, and lurched
for the telephone on a Queen Anne table against the wall.

Frantically, he dialed.

"What the hell is going on?"  screamed the adviser to the Foreign
Secretary.

"You have time, Rute," said the female voice on the line.

"We were going to call you early in the morning, suggesting you not go
to Whitehall.  They haven't reached your section yet, but they're
close.  You have a reservation on British Air for Munich tomorrow at
noon, the ticket's in your name.  Everything's been cleared."

"That's not good enough.  I want out tonight!"

"Plea'se hold, I'll check the computers."  The interim silence was
torture for Mosedale.  Finally the voice came back.

"There's a Lufthansa flight to Berlin at eleven twenty  Can you make
it?"

"You're damned right I can."  Oliver Mosedale hung up the phone, walked
into the foyer, and shouted at the base of the staircase.

"Angel, start packing a bag for me!  just a simple change of clothes
like you've done before.  Quickly!"

A naked "Angel" appeared at the railing above.

"Where are you going, luv?  I'm about to put on the nightie you like to
take off.  And then it's heaven, isn't it, Ollie?"

"Sbut up and do as you're told!  I've one more call to make, and when
I'm finished I expect my suitcase to be down here!"  Mosedale ran back
to the Queen Anne table, picked up the phone, and again dialed
furiously.

"I'm leaving," he said to the voice which had only grunted.

"My phone indicator tells me that this is Rute's number.  Is that you,
code Switch?"

"You know goddamned well it is.  Take care of my affairs here in
London."

"I've already done so, Switch.  The house is on the market, the
proceeds to be wired to Bern, when and if there's a sale."

"You'll probably take half-"

"At least, Herr Rute," the voice on the line interrupted.

"I think it's quite fair.  How many thousands have I transferred to
Zurich at my own peril?"

"But you're one of us!"

"No, no, you're mistaken.  I'm merely a solicitor who accommodates
nefarious men who may or may not be traitors to the Crown.  How am I to
know?"

"You're nothing but a rotten money changer!"

"Again, you're wrong, Switch.  I'm an expediter, no matter how it
frequently pains me.  And to tell you the truth, you'll be lucky to
receive ten pounds for your house.  You see, I really don't like
you."

"You've worked for me-for us-for years!  How can you say that?"

"So easily, I can't tell you.  Farewell, code Switch, and for your
edification, the one thing that remains constant between us is the
confidentiality between client and solicitor.  You see, it's my
strength."  The English attorney hung up, and Mosedale looked around
the huge sitting room, panicked by the thought that he would never see
so many mementos of his life again.  Then he stood up straight, his
posture rigid, and recalled the words his father had shouted from the
upper staircase when war was declared.

"We'll fight for England, but we'll spare Herr Hitler!  He is far more
right than wrong!  The inferior races are corrupting our nations.  We
will win the temporary conflict, establish a unified Europe, and make
him the de facto chancellor of the Continent!"

The young woman called' Angel slid a suitcase down the staircase,
properly-or improperly, as one would have it-clad in her brief
nightgown.

"C'mon, luv, what's goin' on here?"

"I may be able to send for you later, but right now I have to leave."

"Later?  What're you talking about, Ollie?"

"There's no time for explanations.  I must catch a plane."

"Wot about me?  When are you comin' back?"

"Not for a while."

"Well, isn't that nice and clear!  Wot am I supposed to do?"

"Stay here until someone throws you out."

"Throws me out?"

"You heard me."  Mosedale grabbed the suitcase, rushed to the front
door, and opened it, stunned by what he saw.  The London fog had turned
into a downpour, and two men in raincoats stood on the brick steps to
his house.

Beyond them, in the street, was a black van with a lateral antenna on
the roof

"Under proper authority, your telephone has been monitored, sir," said
the first man.

"I think it's best you come with us."

"Ollie," cried the scantily clad maid in the foyer.

"Ain't you gonna introduce me to your friends?"

The shouts of children marshalled in groups by parents and camp
counselors mingled with the shrieks of myriad birds behind the wired
screens of the huge aviary in the Rock Creek Park Zoo.  The summer
crowds were boisterous, the exceptions being Washingtonians who had
come to the park for peaceful strolls, away from the hectic pace of the
nation's capital.  When faced with the hordes of tourists, these
natives usually cut their interludes short, preferring the quiet of
silent monuments.  A particularly nasty condor, its wingspread at least
eight feet, suddenly swooped down from a high perch, screeching as its
claws gripped the wires of the enormous cage.  Children and adults
alike backed away instantly;

the glaring eyes of the giant bird conveyed hostile satisfaction.

"That's one mother of a predator, isn't it?"  said Knox Talbot,
standing behind Wesley Sorenson.

"I've never understood the use of the word mother to describe
enormity," replied the director of Consular Operations, looking
straight ahead.

"Try tenacity.  It was the female's unrelenting agressiveness in
protecting her young that got us through the kc Age."

"What were we men doing?"

"Pretty much the same as we're doing now.  Out hunting while the women
protected the caves from far more dangerous beasts than our quarry."

"You're particularly biased."

"I'm particularly married, and that conclusion was drawn by my wife.
Since we've only been together thirty six years, why rock the boat at
this early stage?"

"Let's get a hot dog.  The stand's about fifty yards to the left and we
can sit down on a bench.  It's usually crowded, so I doubt anyone will
notice us."

"Chili gives me gas."

"Try sauerkraut."

"Worse."

"Then just mustard."

"Ever see how hot dogs are made, Wcs?"

"Have you?"

"I think I own a company that makes 'em."

Seven minutes later Sorenson and Talbot sat next to each other, not
unlike two grandfathers taking a much needed respite from their
rambunctious grandchildren.

"There's something I can't tell you, Knox," began the Cons-Op director,
"and you're going to be mad as hell later when you find out."

"Like our removing Moreau's name from Harry Latham's list, the one we
sent to you?"

There's a distinct similarity."

"Then we're even.  What can you tell me?"

"First, I can openly tell you that the request comes from a former
G-Two specialist who operated in the Berlin sectors during the bad
times.  His name is Witkowski, Colonel Stanley Witkowski-"

"Currently chief of security, Paris embassy," Talbot interrupted.

"You know him?"

"Only by reputation.  He's a man so bright that he could have been
right behind you for my job if he'd gotten the recognition he deserved.
But he couldn't; he worked in the silent zone."

"Right now he's apparently working as a conduit for Harry Latham, who
won't risk reaching Langley himself."

"The AA-Zero computers?"

"Apparently..  .. Latham wanted a sub-rosa route to you but he doesn't
know you.  Remember, you became the DCI with the new administration,
almost two years after Harry went deep.  So knowing Witkowski from the
old days, he used him; and since I've known the colonel from those same
days, he decided to use me as the sub rosa."

"Logical," said Talbot, nodding his head.

"Maybe logical, Knox, but later, when I can come clean, you'll see it's
so ironic, you may even forgive me."

"What's the sub rosa?"

"There's a man, a German doctor, who may have enormous influence in the
Nazi movement, or, conversely, may be a man with a conscience who's
turned against them.  We have to learn everything we can about him, and
you people are the kings of the hill in that department."

"So I'm told," agreed the DCI.

"What's his name?"

"Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger.  But there's a catch and it's a big one.

"Do tell."

"You've got to go underground with this, and I 'mean deep.  His name
can't be circulated within the Agency."

"The AA-Zero computers again?"

"The straight answer to that is yes, but there could also be others
beyond the computers.  Can you do it?"

"I think so.  When I took this job, the job you should have taken, I
insisted on bringing along my secretary of twenty years.  She's quick
and bright to the point that I don't have to finish sentences.

She's also British; that apparently gives her a certain authority over
us colonials..  .. Kroeger, Gerhardt, medicine man, the works.

She'll go down to the vaults herself and bring up everything there
is."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome.  I'll call you when I've got the papers.  We'll have a
few drinks at my place."

"Fine, I appreciate it."

"There's something else neither of us has said, isn't there, Wesley?"

"The witch-hunts, naturally.  Harry's list is getting out of
control."

"I said the very same thing to myself only moments before your call.
Have you heard the latest from the U.K.?"

"The outcry in Parliament, yes.  Even the insidious comparisons to
what's happening here.  I suppose it couldn't be avoided.  Sua culpa,
Secretary Bollinger, and I hope he knows it."

"Then you haven't heard.  We get this stuff before you, I suppose."

4 ZWhat are you talking about?"

"A man named Mosedale, very high up in the Foreign' Office."

"What about him?"

"Faced with various alternatives, he confessed.  He's been working for
the Brotherhood for the past five years.  He was on Harry's list, and
he claims there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, like him
everywhere."

"Oh, my God.  Gasoline tanks on the fires.  Everywhere."

 erhardt Kroeger walked out to the transportation platform at Orly
Airport carrying two pieces of luggage, a medical bag, and a
medium-size nylon suitcase, both carry-ons.  He veered to the left and
proceeded down the long concrete walkway until he saw the area
designated as PETITE CARGAISON, small cargo.  He scanned the constantly
moving traffic, then centered in on the few vehicles parked at the curb
in front of the huge sliding metal doors through which pre cleared
cases and cartons of merchandise were wheeled on dollies to those
waiting for them.  He saw what he hoped to see, a gray van with white
lettering on the side.  ENTREP&S AVIGNON, the Avignon Warehouses, a
massive market depot where over a hundred distributors kept their
consumer goods prior to delivering them to retail stores throughout
Paris.  And somewhere within that mazelike complex were the quarters of
the Blitzkrieger, the elite assassins of the Brotherhood.  The doctor
approached a man in a red and white rugby shirt leaning against the
side of the vehicle.  As he had been ordered to do.

"Has- the Malasol arrived, monsieur?"  he asked.

"The best caviar from Iranian waters," replied the muscular man in the
rugby shirt, flipping away a cigarette and staring at Kroeger.

"Is it really better than the Russian?"  continued Gerhardt.

"Anything's better than Russian."

"Good.  Then you know who I am."

"No, I don't know who you are, monsieur, and I do not care to know.
just get in the back with the rest of the fish, and I'll take you to
another who does know you."

The ride to their destination was odious for Gerhardt, both in terms of
the overpowering smell of iced fish and the fact that he was forced to
sit on a hard-slatted bench while the tight-springed van raced over
potholed roads that might have been the remnants of the Maginot line.
Finally, after nearly thirty minutes, they stopped, and a harsh voice
came over an unseen speaker.

"Out, monsieur.  And please to remember, you never saw us, and we never
saw you, and you never were carried in our truck."

The rear doors of the van opened mechanically.  Kroeger grabbed his
luggage, bent over so as not to hit his head on the roof, and
squat-walked to his exit and fresh air.  A youngish man in a dark suit,
With closecropped hair, studied him in silence as the van sped away,
its tires screeching in a hasty retreat.

"What kind of transport was this?"  exclaimed Gerhardt.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Do you know who we are, Herr Kroeger?  If so, your question is
foolish.  Our presence must be the most secret in France."

"We'll discuss that when I meet your superiors.  Take me to them
immediately!"

"There's no one superior to me, Herr Doktor.  I insisted on meeting you
myself."

"But you're-you're .. ."

"So young, sir?  .. . Only the young can do what we do.  Our reflexes
are at the height of their powers, our bodies superbly trained.  Old
men like you would be disqualified during the first hour of
indoctrination."

"That said and agreed to, you should be disqualified within two hours
for not carrying out your orders!"  .  "Our unit is the best.  May I
remind you that they killed one of the targets under the most hostile
conditions-"

"Not the right one, you imbecile!"

"We'll find the other.  It's merely a question of time."

"There is no time!  We must talk further; you've missed something.
Let's go to your headquarters."

"No.  We talk here.  No one goes to our offices.  We've made
arrangements for you; the Hotel Lutetia, once the headquarters of the
Gestapo.  It has changed, but the memories are in the walls.  You will
be comfortable, Herr Doktor."

"We must talk now."

"Then talk, Herr Kroeger.  You will go no farther."

"You're insubordinate, young man.  I am now the commandant of
Vaclabruck until a replacement for Von Schnabe is named.  You'll take
your orders from me."

"I beg to differ, Herr Doktor.  Since General von Schnabe's removal,
we've been instructed to take our orders solely from Bonn, from our
leader in Bonn."

"Who is?"

"If I knew, I would have been sworn to secrecy, but since I don't, it
doesn't matter.  Codes are used, and through them we recognize their
absolute authority.  All our assignments must be sanctioned by him, and
only him."

"This Harry Latham must be hunted down and killed.  There's not a
moment to waste!"

"We understand that, Bonn made it clear."

"Yet you stand there and say to me quite casually that it's 'merely a
question of time'?"

"It-wouldn't help matters to shout, mein Herr.  Time is measured in
seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and-"

"Stop it!  This is a crisis and I demand that you accept the fact."

"I do-we do, sir."

"So what have you done, what are you doing?  And where in hell are your
two men?  Have you heard from them?"

The young Blitzkrieger, his body rigid but his eyes flickering with
insecurity, answered slowly, quietly.

"As I explained to Catbird, Herr Kroeger, there are several
possibilities.  They escaped but both were wounded, how severely we
don't know.  If their situations were hopeless, they would have done
the honorable thing, as each of us has sworn to do, and taken
themselves out with cyanide or gunshots to their heads."

"You're saying you haven't heard from them."

"Correct, sir.

But we know they escaped in the car."

"How do you know it?"

"It was in all the papers and on the news broadcasts.  Also, we've
learned that there is a massive search for them, a manhunt employing
the police, the Sfiret&, even the Deuxieme Bureau.

They've spread out everywhere: towns, vi ill ages even the hills and
the forests, questioning every doctor within two hours of Paris."

"Then your conclusion is dual suicide, yet you said there were several
possibilities.  What others?"

"That is the strongest, sir, but it is conceivable that they are
getting their strength back, minimally recuperating, out of reach of a
telephone.  As you are aware, we are trained like animals to succor our
wounds out of sight until we are strong enough to make contact.  We are
all schooled in advanced aid to bodily punctures and the setting of
broken bones."

"That's splendid.  I'll turn in my license and send my patients to
you."

"It's not a joke, mein He", we are simply trained to survive."

1 4Any other 'possibilities')"

"You're asking if they were captured, no?"

"Yes.  9 @

"We'd know it if they were.  Our informers in the embassy would have
picked it up, and the manhunt has been established beyond question. 
The French government has over a hundred personnel looking for our
unit. We've watched them, heard them."

"You're persuasive.  So what else?  Where are you?  Harry Latham must
be found!"

"We believe we're closing in, sit Latham is under the protection of the
Antinayous-"

"We know that!"  Kroeger broke in angrily.

"But knowing it means nothing if you don't know where they are or where
they've hidden him."

"We may learn.  the whereabouts of their central headquarters within
two hours, mein Herr."

" What?  .. . Why didn't you say that before?"

"Because I'd prefer to present you with an accomplished fact rather
than speculation.  I said 'we may learn," we haven't yet."

"How?"

"Telephone contact with the Antinayous was made by the embassy's
security chief, whose phone, like the ambassador's, is swept for
intercepts.  However, there's a sealed log of the calls he's made; our
man thinks he can get a took at it and run a handheld photocopier down
the list.  Once we have the numbers, we can easily bribe someone in the
telephone company to unearth the locations.  From that point it is a
process of elimination."

"It sounds too simple.  It's my understanding that unpublished numbers
are well guarded, God knows ours are.  I doubt you can walk into the
office of a telephone official and put money on his desk."

"We won't walk into any office.  I used the word unearth and that's
exactly what I mean.  We find a worker in the underground trunk lines,
for that's where the true locations are in the computers.

They have to be, for installations and repairs."

"You seem to know your business, Herr-what is your name?"

"I have no name, none of us does.  I am Number Zero One, Paris.  Come,
I've arranged transportation for you.  and we'll stay in constant
touch, perhaps within minutes after you reach your hotel."

Sitting at the desk in his rooms at the Antinayous' Maison Rouge, Drew
picked up the telephone and dialed the embassy, asking the switchboard
to connect him with Mrs.  de Vries in Documents and Research.

"This is Harry Latham," said Drew in response, to Karin's greeting.

"Can you talk

"Yes, monsieur, there is no one here, but first I have instructions for
you.  The ambassador summoned me and asked me to deliver them to you
when you next called."

"Go on," said Latham, now his dead brother Harry, squinting, and
listening carefully.  Karin was about to send him a message.

He picked up a pencil as she spoke.

"You are to make contact with our courier number sixteen at the top of
the' funicular in Sacro-Coeur at ninethirty this evening.  He has
communiques from Washington for you.  . You understand, non?"

"I understand, yes," replied Drew, knowing that the French non, rather
than the usual nest-ce pas, meant he was to disregard the information.
Witkowski was setting another trap, based on the knowledge that Karin's
phone was tapped.

"Anything else?"

"Yes.  You were scheduled to meet your brother Drew's friend from
London's Cons-Op office at the fountains in the Bois de Boulogne at
eight forty-five, correct?"

"Yes, it was cleared."

"It's canceled, monsieur.  It interferes with the Sacr& Coeur
contact."

"Can you reach him and call it off?"

"We have, oui-@-yes.  We'll arrange another meeting."

"Please do.  He can tell me things I want to know about Drew's last
weeks, especially the details of the Jodelle business..  .. Is that
all?"

"For now, yes.  Did you have something?"

"Yes.  When can I come back to the embassy?"

"We'll let you know.  We're convinced it's being watched around the
clock."

"I don't like this hiding out.  It's damned inconvenient."

"You can always return to Washington, you know that."

"No!  This is where Drew was killed, this is where his killers are.

I'm staying here until we find them."

"Very well.  You'll call tomorrow?"

"Yes, I want more papers from my brother's files.  Everything he's got
on that actor."

"Au revoir, monsieur:,"

"Bye."  Latham hung up the phone and studied the brief notes he had
made, brief because he quickly understood the method of Karin's
concealed instructions.  The Sacr& Coeur was out and the fountains at
the Bois de Boulogne in; the French non eliminated the first, the
double oui-yes confirmed the second.  The rest was merely "fill" to
emphasize "Harry" Latham's insistence on remaining in Paris.

Whom he was to meet at the Bois, he had no way of knowing, but he would
obviously recognize whoever it was, or if he did not, someone would
reach him.

At the end of his shift, the Brotherhood's informer in Communications
at the embassy had walked out into the Gabriel, waited, then suddenly
crossed the avenue, brushing up against a man on a motorcycle.  He
slipped the cartridge to the cyclist and the motorcycle shot away down
the street, weaving between the traffic.  Twenty-six minutes later, at
precisely 4:37 in the afternoon, the tape was delivered to the
assassins' hidden headquarters at the Avignon Warehouses.

Holding a 5-inch-by-6-inch photograph of Alexander Lassiter/Harry
Latham, the Blitzkrieger's Zero One, Paris, for a third time listened
to the tape recording of the telephone conversation between Latham and
the De Vries woman.

"It would seem our search has ended," said Zero One, standing above the
table and reaching down to shut off the cassette player.

"Who will go to the Sacr&Coeur?"  he asked, addressing his colleagues
around the conference table.

As one, they all raised their hands.

"Four of you will be sufficient, more could be obvious," continued the
leader.

"Split up and carry the photograph with you, remembering that Latham
will no doubt disguise his appearance."

"What can he do?"  asked the Blitzkrieger nearest Zero One.

"Put on a mustache and wear a beard?  We know his height, the nature of
his build, and his facial structure.  Ultimately, he will reach a
courier who will be waiting for him, a stationary man or woman we'll
certainly spot within the contact area."

"Don't be so optimistic, Zero Six," said the young leader.

"Bear in mind that Harry Latham is an experienced deep-cover agent.  As
we have tricks, so does he.  And for God's sake, remember the kill must
be made through the head, a coup de grace shattering the left side of
his skull.  Don't ask me why, just don't forget it."

"If you have such serious doubts about us," interjected an older
Blitzkrieger at the far end of the table, his tone of voice in the zone
of implied hostility, "why don't you go yourself ?  "

"Instructions from Bonn," answered Zero One coolly.

"I'm to remain here for orders that will arrive at ten o'clock.  Would
any of you care to take my place in the event we have not found Harry
Latham and must deliver the news?"

"Non."

"Nein."

"Of course not."  These were the responses of those around the table,
some chuckling, others grim.

"However, I will cover the Bois de Boulogne."

"Why?"  asked Zero Seven.

"It's canceled; you heard the tape."

"Again, I ask you, would any of you not care to cover the Boulogne in
the event that an emphatic negative was the signal for a positive, or
that plans were changed again?"

"You have a point," said Zero Seven.

"Probably a useless one," conceded the youthful leader.

"Nevertheless, it will take me no more, than fifteen or twenty minutes,
then I'll drive back and be here by ten o'clock.  If I were in
Sacr&Coeur, I'd never make it on time."

The unit for the Sacro-Coeur selected, Zero One, Paris, returned to his
office and sat down at his desk.  He was a relieved man, for his
mythical instructions from Bonn had not been questioned, nor had anyone
insisted that, as their superior, he should lead the assault on Harry
Latham and let someone else take the call from Bonn.  In truth, he
wanted no part of the kill for the simple reason that it might not be
successful.  Any number of unforeseen contINgencies could prevent it,
and Zero One, Paris, could not afford another "miss" on his record,
like the driver who had been no match for the late Drew Latham, or the
unit sent to take out two Americans, which had missed the vital one and
then disappeared, or their female comrade who had not survived Monte
Carlo.  Should Alexander Lassiter/Harry Latham be properly executed,
shattered skull included, he could take the credit, for he had
orchestrated the assault.  If the trap failed, he wasn't there; others
were to be blamed.

For Paris's Zero One understood what the others did not; as their
leader he was to carry out the orders.  If a Blitzkrieger failed once,
he was severely reprimanded; if he failed twice, he was shot, another
in training given his or her place.  If Sacr&Coeur failed, he knew who
would be eliminated-the thirty-year-old Zero Five, for a start; his
resentment of his younger superior was surfacing too frequently .. .
and he had strenuously objected to the selection of the unit that had
disappeared.

"One's a baby who simply likes to kill, and the other's a bull head; he
takes too many risks!  Let me handle it!"  Those had been Zero Five's
words, spoken in front.  of Zero Six.

Both were heading out to Sac rE-Coeur; both would be executed if the
kill failed.  Zero One, Paris, could not allow another blemish on his
record.  He had to be brought into the inner circle of the Brotherhood;
he had to gain the respect of the true leaders of the movement, of the
new F4ihrer himself, and pay his obeisance with all his heart and soul.
For he believed , he truly believed.

He would take his camera out to the Bois de Boulogne, snapping enough
night photographs to prove he was there, the proof in the camera itself
as it imprinted the date and the time of each picture.  It was merely a
cover, if he ever needed one, which he doubted.

The telephone rang, startling the young superior Blitzkrieger.  He
picked it up.

"The code's right," said the female operator, "it's Malasol caviar on
the line."

"Herr Doktor-"

"You haven't called!"  cried Gerhardt Kroeger.

"I've been here over three hours and you haven't called me."

"Only because we are refining the strategy.  If my subordinates do not
miscalculate, we may achieve the objective, mein Herr.  I have
orchestrated it down to the last detail."

"Your subordinates?  Why not you?"

"A contradictory piece of information was received, sir,

one that may be far more dangerous and possibly equally productive.  I
have decided to take the risk myself."

"You're not making sense!"

"Nor can I over the telephone."

"Why not?  The enemy hasn't the slightest idea who I am, or that I'm
even here, so the hotel's switchboard could hardly be compromised.  I
demand to know what's happening!"

"There are two situations converging within the hour.  Tell Bonn that
Zero One, Paris, has used all of his talents to control both, but he
cannot be in two places at once.  Since he cannot, he's chosen to take
the highest risk.  That's all I can tell you, mein Herr.  If I do not
survive, think well of me.  I must go."

"Yes .. . yes, of course."

The young neo-revolutionary slammed down the phone.  No matter what
happened, he was covered.  He would have a long, leisurely dinner at
the Au Coin de la Famille, then stroll to the main fountain in the Bois
de Boulogne, take useless photographs, and return to the Avignon
Warehouses, accepting whatever took place.  Either the credit for the
kill, or the death of two Blitzkrieger executed for incompetence.

He truly believed.

Drew moved about the Bois de Boulogne's glistening fountain, bathed in
floodlights from the waters below, and meandered through the evening
strollers, looking for a face he knew.  He had arrived at the
rendezvous shortly before eight-thirty; it was now nearly nine o'clock,
and he had seen no one he recognized, nor had anyone approached him.
Had he misread Karin's instructions?  Had the reversed words presumed
an acknowledged reversal on the part of those tapping her phone, and
thus were they to be taken literally?

No, that made no sense.  Karin's Amsterdam years notwithstanding, they
did not know each other well enough to play cover-recover games; they
had no history of intuitive communication under stress.

Latham looked at his watch; it was 9:03.  He would circle the area once
more, then return to the Maison Rouge.  -

"Amiricain!"  He spun around at the sound.  It was Karin, her face
crowned by a blond wig, her right hand bandaged.

"Walk to your left, quickly, as if I'd bumped into you.  There's a man
taking photographs on the right.  Meet me on the north path."

Latham did as he was told, relieved by knowing she was there but
concerned by her words.  He circled his way in the lackadaisical rhythm
of the fountain crowds until he reached the flagstone path to his
extreme right.  He entered it, walked up the tree-lined tunnel thirty
or forty feet, and waited.  Two minutes later Karin arrived..  . As if
by an accident neither anticipated, they fell into each other's arms,
holding one another, not long, but long enough.

"I'm sorry said De Vries, pushing herself gently away and uselessly
brushing her blond wig with her bandaged right hand.

"I'm not," Drew interrupted, smiling.

"I think I've wanted to do that for a couple of days now."

"Do what?"

"Hold you."

"I was simply pleased to see that you were all right."

"I'm all right."

"That's very nice."

"It was also nice to hold you."  Latham laughed softly.

"Look, lady, you put the idea in my head.  You were the one who said
your excuse at the embassy was that you found me attractive, etcetera,
etcetera.  "

"It was not a self-fulfilling wish, Drew.  It was an excuse,
strategically employed."

"Come on, I'm not Quasimodo, am IF'

"No, you're a rather large, not ungainly fellow who, I'm sure, many
women find quite attractive."

"But not you."

"My concerns lie elsewhere."

"You mean I'm not Freddie-"Freddie de V," the incomparable."

"No one could be Freddie, the good or the ugly."

"Does that mean I'm still in the race?"

"What race?"

"For your affections, maybe, as temporary and as little as they may
be."

"Are you talking about sleeping with me?"

"Hell, that's down the road.  Remember, I'm an American from New
England.  Way down the road, lady."

"You're also a prevaricator."

"A what?"

"I won't say a liar, that's too harsh."

"What?"

"You're also a brutal man who smashes other men into whatever it's
called in hockey matches.  Oh, yes, I've heard.

Harry told me."

"Only when they got in my way.  Never gratuitously."

"Who made those decisions?"

"I did, I guess."

"My point is made.  You're a belligerent individual."

"What the hell has that got to do with anything?"

"Only, at the moment, I'm grateful that you are."

"What?"

"The man with the camera, at the other side of this fountain."

"What about him?  People take pictures of Paris at night.

Toulouse-Lautrec painted them, today they take photos."

"No, he's a neo, I feel it, I know it."

"How?"

"The way he stands, the way he's so .. . so aggressive."

"That's not a lot to go on."

"Then why is he here?  How many people really take pictures at night in
the Bois de Boulogne?"

"You've got a point.  Where is he?"

"Directly across from us-or he was.  On the south path.  "

"Stay here."

"No.  I'll go with you."

"Goddammit, do as I say."

"You cannot order me!"

"You don't have a gun, and even if you did, you couldn't fire it.

Your hand's all wrapped up."

"I do have a weapon, and if you were more alert, you'd know I'm
left-handed."

"What?"

"Let's go."

Together they raced through the trees until they reached the south path
that led to the illuminated fountain.  The man taking photographs was
still there, ramrod-straight and snapping what seemed to be random
shots of the strollers circling the fountain.

Silently, Latham approached, his hand gripping the automatic in his
belt.

"You get your kicks taking pictures of people who don't know they're
being photographed," said Drew, tapping the man on the shoulder.

The Blitzkrieger whipped around at his touch, staring at Drew in the
dim light, his eyes bulging.

"You!"  he chied gutturally.

"But no, not the same!  Who are you?"

"I've got one for you."  Latham grabbed the man by the throat, hurling
him into the trunk of a tree.

"Kroeger!"  he shouted.

"Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?"

The neo recovered quickly, instantly kicking his boot up into Drew's
groin; Latham leapt backward, avoiding the blow, and smashed the barrel
of his automatic into the Nazi's face.

"You son of a bitch, you were looking for me, weren't you?"

"Nein!"  screamed the neo, blood spreading across his face, partially
blinding him.

"You are not the man in the photograph!"

"But someone like me, right?  Same kind of face, sort of, right?"

"You are crazy!"  shrieked the Nazi, leveling a lethal chop to Drew's
neck; Latham gripped the wrist and twisted it violently
counterclockwise.

"I was only taking photographs!"  The man fell into the bushes.

"Now that we've established that," said Drew breathlessly, straddling
the neo, then suddenly crashing his knee into the man's ribcage, "let's
talk about Kroeger!"  Latham pressed the barrel of the automatic into
the flesh between the Nazi's eye.  "Youtell me or you've got a tunnel
in your head!"

"I am prepared to die!"

"That's nice, because you're about to.  You've got five seconds,
Adolf..  .. One, two, three .. . four-"

"Nein!  .. . He's here in Paris.  He must find Sting!"

"And you thought I was Sting, correct?"

"You are not the same man!"

"You're damned right I'm not.  Sit up!"

Where it came from, Drew would never know, but before he could adjust,
a large pistol was in the neo's right hand.  Without any sound
preceding it, a loud gunshot suddenly came from behind them; the Nazi's
head snapped back, blood flowing from his neck.

Karin de Vries had saved Latham's life.  She ran down the path to
him.

"Are you all right?"  she cried.

"Where did he get the gun?"  asked a shaken, bewildered Drew.

"The same place you got yours," answered De Vries.

"What?"

"The belt.  You grabbed him and told him to sit up; that's when I saw
him reaching under his jacket."

"Thank you-"

"Don't thank me, do something.  People are running away from the
fountain.  Soon the police wi e here."

"Come on!"  ordered Latham, shoving the automatic into his belt and
pulling the cellular phone from his inside pocket.

"Into the trees-way into."  Awkwardly' they raced through roughly sixty
feet of dark foliage when Drew held up his hand.

"This'll do," he said, out of breath.

"Where did you get that?"  asked Karin, pointing at the barely visible
outline of the telephone in Latham's hands.

"The Antinayous," replied Drew, squinting and touching the buttons in
the dim, filtered light from the fountain.

"They're very high-tech."

"Not when anyone can scan into a mobile phone's frequency, although in
emergencies, I suppose-"

"Stanley?"  said Latham, cutting her off.

"Christ, it happened again!  The Bois de Boulogne; a neo was covering
the area, sent to take me out."

"And?"

"He's dead, Stosh, Karin shot him when he was about to blow my head
off..  .. But, Stanley, listen to me.  He said Kroeger was here in
Paris, here to find Sting!"

"What's your situation?"

"We're in the woods off a path, maybe twenty or thirty yards from the
body."

"Now, you listen to me," said Witkowski harshly.

"If you can do it without running into the police-hell, even if you
risk running into them-pick that bastard's pockets clean and get out of
there."

"Like I did with Harry.  Drew's voice dropped to a painful whisper.

"Do it for Harry now.  If what you say about this Kroeger isn't
second-hand nonsense, that corpse is our only link to him."

"For a moment he thought I was Harry; he's got a photograph, he
said."

"You're wasting time!"

"Suppose the-police arrive

"Use your well-known bullshit officialese to talk your way out of it.
If that doesn't work, I'll take care of it later, although I'd rather
not go by the book on this.  Get going!"

"I'll call you later."

"Make it sooner rather than later."

"Come on," said Latham, grabbing Karin's right wrist above the bandage
and heading for the path.

"Back there?"  cried De Vries, stunned.

"Our colonel's orders.  We've got to move fast-"

"But the police!"

"I know, so even faster..  .. I've got it!  You stay on the path, and
if the police come, act frightened, which won't take much talent if
you're anything like me, and tell them your boyfriend stepped into the
woods to take a leak."

"Not impossible," conceded Karin, ol ing on and dodging the trees and
the underbrush with Latham.

"More American than French, but not impossible."

"I'll drag our would-be killer into the woods and sweep him clean.  He
also has a better watch than mine; I'll take that too."

They reached the path, the fountain below now practically deserted,
only a few morbidly curious observers scattered about the borders.

Several kept glancing down the other paths, obviously expecting the
police.  Drew pulled the corpse feet first into the brush and went
through the pockets, removing everything that was in them.  He did not
bother to look for the weapon that came within a second of ending his
life; it would tell them nothing.  Finished, he rushed back to the path
and Karin as the shouts came' from below.

"Les gendarmes, les gendarmes!  De I'autre ceti "Oh?"

"Oti done?"

Fortunately, in answer to the two police officers' demands of where "on
the other side," the remaining civilians pointed in various directions,
including several shadowed paths.  Frustrated, the policemen split and
raced down different paths.  It was enough;

Latham and De Vries ran across the open fountain and up the north path
again until it leveled out, and they found themselves in the splendor
of summer gardens surrounding a small manmade pond where white swans
paddled majestically under the wash of floodlights.  They spotted an
empty bench, and with very little breath in either of their lungs, sat
down, their spines slumping against the back slats.  Karin tore the
blond wig from her head and shoved it into her purse, shaking her hair
loose.

"As soon as I can talk, I'll call'Witkowski," said Drew, breathing
deeply.

"How's your hand?  Does it hurt?"

"You can think of my hand at a time like this?"

"Well, -1 grabbed it back there because you were still holding the gun
in your left and I though t the goddamned thing, might go off if I
reached for it-your left hand, I mean."

"I know what you mean.  There was no time to put it back in my purse
then..  .. Call the colonel, please."

"Okay."  Latham again removed the cellular phone from his pocket and
dialed, thankfully seeing the numbers clearly under the pond's
floodlights.

"Stanley, we made it," he said.

"Someone else didn't, lad," interrupted the colonel.

"And we don't know how the hell it happened."

"What are you talking about?"

"That neo scum bucket I put on a military jet under a drape to
Washington at five o'clock this morning."

"What about him?"

"He arrived at Andrews Air Force Base at three-thirty A.m."  D.C.

time-total darkness; incidentally-and was shot while under military
escort to the waiting area."

"How?"

"A damned powerful rifle with an infrared scope on one of the roofs.
Naturally, nothing was found."

"Who was looking?"

"Who knows?  As we agreed, I let the word out on a need-to know basis
to Knox Talbot's top senior officers that we had a genuine Nazi, when
he was flying in, and all the rest.

"So?"

"Someone hired a gun."

"So where are we-"'

"Narrowing everything down, that's where we are.  We know about the AA
computers, now we've got another four or five deputy directors on the
list.  That's how it's done, youngster, you keep closing the doors
until there's only one or two left in a room."

"What about me, what about Paris?"

"It's a cat-and-mouse, isn't it, lad?  This Kroeger wants to find
Harry-you-as much as you want to find him, isn't that so?"

"Apparently, but why?)l "We'll only know that when we catch him, won't
we?"

"You're not very comforting-" "I don't care to be, get that straight. 
I want you on your uppers every minute of the day and night."

"Thanks a lot, Stosh."

"Bring me whatever you've got-" "I grabbed everything there was,"
Latham broke in furiously.

"So don't say 'whatever."  Except I forgot to take the goddamn e'd
watch!"

"I like that," said the colonel.

"I like anger in situations like this.  My place, in an hour, and make
three changes of vehicles."

the flames shot upward, bright bursts of fire illuMInating the
darkness.  The enormous Vaclabruck Tcomplex was nearly completed,
including a vast scythed-down field descending from a sloping hill that
held fifteen hundred selected disciples of the BrUderschaft from all
over the world.  The night was cloudless and the torches filled the
huge natural arena, both along the surrounding borders as well as in
front of the dais, a fifty foot-long table on the crest of the hill
where the leaders sat.  A microphone was in the center lectern, its
wires leading to speakers throughout the area, and on top of tall poles
behind the imposing table, spotlighted and fluttering in the breezes,
were the bloodred and black flags of the Third Reich, with one
startling difference.  A white lightning bolt shot down across the
swastikas.  It was the banner of the Fourth Reich.

A series-of speakers, all in the military uniforms of Nazi Germany, had
spoken, their exhortations bringing the audience to clamorous
crescendos of fanatical endorsement.  Finally, the next to-last orator
approached the center of the dais; he gripped the lectern, his fiery
gaze sweeping over the serrated ranks, and spoke with quiet, echoing
authority.

"You have heard it all tonight, the cries of those around the world who
need us, demand us, insist that we take up the sword of global order,
purifying the races and eliminating the human and ideological garbage
that pollutes the civilized world.  And we stand ready!"

The applause, pulsated by roars of approval, rocked the ground,
reverberating throughout the surrounding forests.

The uniformed man held up his hands for silence; it came quickly, and
he continued.

"But to lead us, we must have a Zeus, a Ftibrer greater than the
last-not in thought, for no one could surpass Adolf Hitler in
philosophy-but in strength and determination, a leader who will strike
down the timid and not be stopped by the cautious strategies of
military intellectuals; who will smite the enemies of racial progress,
and will attack when he knows the time is right!  History has proved
that had the Third Reich invaded England when Herr Hitler ordered his
armies to do so, we would have a different and far better.  world than
we have today.  He was persuaded not to by the privileged dilettantes
of the Junker corps.  Our new leader, our Zeus, will never submit to
such cowardly interference..  .. However, and I know this will be a
disappointment, it is not yet the time to reveal his identity, even to
you.  Instead, he has recorded a message for you, for each and every
one of you."

The next-to-last orator shot his right arm up in the Nazi salute.

As he abruptly snapped it back, an amplified voice came from the
speakers everywhere.  It was a strange voice, mid-deep, sharp, and
cutting, each echoing consonant delivered like a swinging ax meeting
hard wood.  In some ways it evoked the memory of Hitler's diatribes in
the sense that the hysterical climaxes came numerously and rapidly, but
there the similarity ended.  For this speaker was more of this age; the
shock value of his screaming apogees was preceded by cold words, spoken
slowly, icily, followed by sudden bursts of emotional excess that lent
power to his conclusions.  His harangues were not diminished by the
shrieking one-note delivery of Hitler; instead, they were heightened by
contrast, as if he were confiding in his -audience, who undoubtedly
understood every point he was leading up to, then rewarded their acumen
by shouting, affirming the judgments they had already made.  The Age of
Aquarius was long gone; the age of manipulation had taken its place.
The lessons of Madison Avenue were heeded across the world.

"We are at the beginning, and the future is ours!  But you know that,
don't you?  You who work tirelessly here in the Fatherland, and you who
labor unceasingly in foreign countries-you can see what is happening,
can't you?  And isn't it magnificent?  The message we bring is not only
accepted, but zealously desired, desired in the hearts and minds of
people everywhere-and you do see that and hear that, and you know it!
.. I cannot see you, but I hear you, and I accept your gratitude,
although, to be frank, it is misplaced.  I am merely your voice, the
voice of the righteously discontented all over the civilized globe.

And you understand that, don't you?  You understand the agony we face
everywhere when inferior people make us pay for their inferiority! 
When industrious men and women are deprived of their hard-earned
benefits by those who refuse to work, or are incapable of working, or
too demented even to try!  Are we to suffer for their laziness, their
incompetence, or their derangement?  If so, the indolent, the
incompetent, and the deranged will rule the world!  For they-will rob
us of our moral leadership by overwhelming us, draining our coffers in
the name of humanity-but no, it is not humanity, my soldiers, for they
are garbage! .. . But they cannot and will not do that, for the future
is ours!

"Everywhere our enemies are increasingly confused, bewildered by what
is sweeping over them, not sure who is and who is not part of us, in
their deepest thoughts applauding our progress, even as they deny those
thoughts.  Continue the march, my soldiers.  The future is ours!"
Again, the applause was thunderous, as the strains of the Horst Wessel
anthem filled the huge stadium carved out of the forest.  And in a
prearranged back row, two men, alternately clapping and shouting cries
of devotion, turned to each other and spoke softly, both recognizing
their partially shaved opposing eyebrows.

"Madness," said the Frenchman in English.

"Not unlike the newsreels we've seen of Hitler's speeches," added the
Hollander from the Dutch Foreign Service.

"I think you're wrong, monsieur.  This Fahrer is far more believable.
He doesn't force his judgments on the crowd by constant shouting.  He
leads them there by ask- Ming seemingly reasonable questions.  Then
suddenly explodes, delivering the answers they want to hear.  He
understands dynamics-very clever, indeed."

"Who is he, do you think?"

"He could be any one of the far-right wingers in the Bundestag, I
imagine.  As instructed, I've recorded him so our department can match
voiceprints, if the ridiculously small machine in my pocket is
sufficient for the task."

"I haven't been in touch with the office in over a month," offered the
Dutchman.

"Nor I in six weeks," said the Frenchman.

"We must, however, give our superiors credit.  The satellites picked up
the clearing of the forest the way the high-altitude planes revealed
the missiles in Cuba nearly thirty years ago.  They could not accept
the explanation of another wealthy Far Eastern religious retreat
despite the official papers.  They were right."

"My people were convinced something was odd when foreign construction
workers were recruited."

"I was a simple carpenter, what about you?"

"An electrician.  My father owned a magasin ilectrique in Lyons.

I worked there until I went away to university."

"Now we have to get out of here, and I don't think that's going to be
so easy.  This compound is nothing short of an old concentration
camp-barbed-wire fences, towers with machine guns, and all the rest."

"Be patient, we'll find a way, monsieur'.  We'll meet at breakfast,
tent six.  There has to be a way."

The two men turned from each other, only to be faced by a semicircle of
uniformed men, their tunics emblazoned with the banner of the Fourth
Reich, the white lightning bolts descending across the swastikas.

"Have you heard enough, meine Herren?"

said an officer, standing forward of the guards confronting the two
foreigners.

"Youthink you are so clever, nicbt wahr?  You even converse in
English."  The soldier held up a small electronic listening device,
common in police and intelligence circles.

"This is a wonderful piece of equipment," the officer continued.

"One can zero in on, say, two people in a crowd and hear every word
being spoken by shutting out the external noises.  Remarkable..  .. You
have both been watched since the moment you showed up among our
privileged, invited guests, enthusiastically claiming to be two of
them.  Do you think we're so unsophisticated?  Did you really believe
we had no computerized lists to scrutinize?  When you were nowhere, we
cross-checked the foreign labor forces.  Guess what we found?  Never
mind, you know, of course.  A gruff Dutch carpenter, and a particularly
peevish French electrician..  .. Mitkommen!  Zackig!  We shall talk for
a while, your accommodations unfortunately not the finest, but then
you'll find peace, your earthly remains in a deep trench along with the
other worms and grubs."

"You people are well versed in such executions, aren't you?"

"I regret to say, Dutchman, that I wasn't alive to participate.  But
our time will come, my time will come."

Witkowski, Drew, and Karin sat around the colonel's kitchen table in
his apartment on the rue Diane.  Spread across the surface were the
articles Latham had taken from the pockets of the dead neo.

"Not bad," said the army G-2 veteran, alternately picking up the
objects and studying them.

"I'll tell youthi's much," he went on, "this bastard son of Siegfried
didn't expect to find any trouble at the Bois de Boulogne."

"Why do you say that?"  asked Latham, gesturing at his empty whisky
glass.

"Get it yourself."  The colonel raised his eyebrows and nodded at the
brass dry bar just beyond the archway to the living room.

"In this house I pour the first, the rest is up to you.  Except for the
ladies-ask the lady, you jackass."

"That's a pejorative term," said Drew, standing up and looking at
Karin, who shook her head.

"A what?"

"Never mind, Colonel, he's childish," interrupted De Vries.

"But please answer his question.  There are no papers, no
identification;

why is it 'not bad'?"

"Actually, it's pretty good.  He'd tell you that himself if he'd look
at the stuff instead of swilling the sauce."

"I've had one drink, Stosh!  A damn well-deserved one, I might add."

"I know, lad, but you still haven't really looked, have you?"

"Yes, I have.  As I put it all on the table.  There's a matchbook from
a restaurant called Au Coin de la Famille, a dry cleaning pickup
receipt for a store on the avenue Georges Cinq in the name of
AndrE-meaningless; a gold money clip with a couple of, I presume,
endearing words in German and nothing else; another receipt on a credit
card, that name and number so obviously false, or so buried, it would
take days to trace it to another blind alley.  The banks pay;

that's all the merchants want and they get paid..  .. The rest, I grant
you, I didn't examine, but then, what I just told you was the result of
approximately eight seconds.  Anything else, Colonel?"

"I told you, Mrs.  de Vries, he does have merit.  I doubt it was even
eight seconds-nearer five by my count, because of his wanting a drink
so fast."

"I'm impressed," conceded Karin, "but you found other things, other
items?"

"Just two.  One, another receipt for repairs from a cusi0m boot shop,
also in the name of Andre, and the last a crumpled admission to an
amusement park outside of Neuilly-sur-Seine-a free admission ticket."

"I never saw those!"  protested Latham, pouring himself a drink at the
dry bar.

"What do they tell you?"

"Shoes, especially boots, are extremely personal, Mrs.  de Vries-"

"Please stop calling me that, sir.  Karin will do."

"All right, Karin.  Footwear is, shall we say, idiosyncratic; a custom
shop services the particular form and shape of an individual foot.  If
a person goes to such a store, he's usually been there before, that is,
if he's been in Paris for any length of time.

Otherwise, he would return to his original boot maker you follow me?"

"I do, indeed.  And the amusement park?"

"Why was he issued a free ticket?"  interjected Drew, carrying his
drink back to the table and sitting down.

"I really didn't sea those, Stosh."

"I know, cblopak, and I wasn't trying to top you, but they were
there."

"So tomorrow morning we hit on a boot maker and someone in an amusement
park who gives away free tickets-not exactly a French tradition.
Christ, I'm tired.  Let's go home..  .. No, wait a minute!  What, about
the trap you set at Sacro-Coeur?"

"What trap?"  asked an astonished Witkowski.

"The trap!  Courier Sixteen at the top of the funicular."

"Never heard of it."  Both men looked at Karin de Vries.

"You?"

"I did that for Freddie many times," said Karin, smiling awkwardly.

"He used to say, "Make up something, the more foolish the better, for
we're all fools."

"Just hold it, both of you," said Witkowski, shaking his head, then
looking at Drew.

"Are you positive no one could have followed you here?"

"I'll overlook the insult, and give you my professional reply.  No, you
son of a bitch, because I knew better than to take three changes of
vehicles, which could have been picked up electronically, but you're
too antediluvian to know that.  Our changes took place underground, on
the Metro, not three, but five.

You got that?  ""Oh I do like your anger.  My sainted Polish mother
always said that there was truth in anger.  It was the only thing you
could trust."

"That's fine.  Now may I call a taxi and get us both home?"

"No, that's the one thing you can't do, lad.  Since no one knows where
you are, you'll stay right here, both of you.  I've -got a guest
bedroom and that very nice couch over there..  .. I suspect you'll be
on the couch, youngster, and I'll thank you not to drink up all of my
whisky."

The frustrated Blitzkrieger unit had returned to headquarters from the
"trap" at Sacr&Coeur only to be met by muted confusion.  It served to
heighten the elite killers' anger.

"There was no one!"  spat out the ojder Paris Five, throwing himself
into a chair at the conference table.

"Not a goddamned man or woman who even looked like a contact!  We were
set up-a foolish and dangerous waste of time.  "

"Where's our so brilliant leader, Zero One?"  asked another member of
the unit, addressing the three remaining Blitzkrieger who had not been
sent to Sac rE-Coeur.

"He may be in charge between his changes of diapers, but he's got an
explanation or two to deliver.  If we were set up, we were undoubtedly
spotted!"

"He's not here," replied another neo killer, his elbow on the table,
his voice a mixture of weariness and boredom.

"What are you talking about?"  cried Paris Five, sitting up sharply.

"The ten o'clock call from Bonn.  He had to be here for it."

"He wasn't, and no call came," said another.

"Could it have come in on his private line?"

"No, it could not and did not'.  answered the weary Blitzkrieger whose
number was Zero Two, Paris.

"When he didn' tshow up, I sat in his putrid office from nine thirty to
quarter of eleven.  Nothing.  . Zero One may be a devoted favorite of
our superiors, but I wish he'd bathe more often.  That room is a stink
tank."

"Taking a shower takes him away from his throne, and all its
gadgets."

"He's a mad child in an electronics toy store-"

"Careful," interrupted yet another.

"Dissension's frowned upon, I remind you."

"Legitimate criticism isn't," pressed Paris Five.

"Where is One and why isn't he here?  I gather you haven't even heard
from him."

"You 'gather' correctly, but then, we all understand the friction
between you two

"Admitted and irrelevant," said Five, standing up, his lean frame over
the table, supported by strong, splayed out hands.

"However, his behavior now is unacceptable,

and I'll express that to Bonn.  Our team is sent out on a false mission
filled with jeopardy-"

"We all heard the embassy tape," the weary Paris Two broke in.

"We agreed it was the priority."

"We certainly did, I foremost.  But instead of leading this priority
assault, our first Zero chose the secondary Bois de Boulogne on the
pretext that he could not return from the Sacro-Coeur in time for the
call from Bonn.  There was no call and he's not here.  An explanation
is definitely required."

"Perhaps none is available," said a previously silent Blitzkrieger at
the far right end of the table.

"However, there was another call, our informer at the American
Embassy."

As one, the unit from Sacro-Coeur reacted like startled cats.

Again Five spoke.

"It's absolutely forbidden for him to contact us directly, especially
by telephone."

"He felt the information warranted his disobedience."

"What was it?"  demanded Three.

"The subterranean, Colonel Witkowski."

"The coordinator," added Paris Two quietly.

"His impressive connections in Washington are familiar to our our
people over there."

"Whit was it?"  insisted Five.

"Our man stationed himself in an automobile outside the colonel's
apartment on the rue Diane.  It was instinct, based on the telephone
intercepts of Frederik de Vries's widow in Documents and Research."

"And?"

"Over an hour ago a man and a woman ran into the building.

They were in shadow, and he couldn't really see the man but thought he
knew him.  The woman he did know.  It was the widow De Vries."

"The man's Latham!"  exploded Paris Five.

"She's with Harry Latham; it can't be anyone else.  Let's go!"

"To do what?"  asked the skeptical Blitzkrieger, Zero Two.

"To complete the kill that One miscalculated."

"The circumstances are different, and considering the colonel's
background in security, the location is extremely dangerous.  In Zero
One's absence, I suggest we get clearance from Bonn."

"I suggest we don't," Paris Six broke in.

"Sacro-Coeur was enough of a fiasco, why open a window, much less a
door?  If we bring in the kill, it erases the fiasco."

"And if you fail?"

"The answer to that is obvious," replied another from Sacr6Coeur,
touching the outline of the shoulder holster under his jacket with his
right hand, his left reaching for the- collar of his shirt, wherein
were sewn three cyanide capsules.

"We may have our differences, our frictions, if you like, but the
baseline is our commitment to the Brilderschaft, the emergence of the
Fourth Reich.  Let no one mistake that commitment."

"I don't think anyone does," said Two.

"Then you agree with Paris Six?  We go to the rue Diane."

"Certainly.  We'd be idiots not to."

"We present Bonn with a triple kill our leaders can only applaud,"
added the angry, frustrated Paris Five.

"Without Zero One, who's screwed us up enough.  When he returns, he can
answer to us as well as to Bonn.  I suspect, at best, he'll be
recalled."

"You really want to command this unit, don't you?"  asked Two, looking
up, wearily at the imposing figure of Five.

"Yes," answered the elder assassin, elder because he had reached the
age of thirty.

"I'm the oldest and more experienced.

He's a mad teenager who acts and makes decisions before he's thought
things out..  I should have been given the position three years ago,
when we were assigned here."

"Why weren't you?  After all, we're all mad, so madness doesn't count,
does it?"

"What the hell are you saying?"  pressed another Blitzkrieger, sitting
up and staring at Zero Two.

"Don't mistake me, I approve of our madness.  I'm the son of a diplomat
and grew up in five different countries.  I saw firsthand what you've
only been told.  We're right, absolutely right.  The weak, the mentally
and racially inferior, are inserting themselves in governments
everywhere;

only the blind do not see that.  One doesn't have to be a social
historian to understand that intellectual levels everywhere are being
dragged down, not propelled upward.  That is why we are right..  . But
my question to Paris Five started this.  Why was Zero One chosen, my
friend?"

"I really don't know."

"Let me try to explain.  Every movement must have its zealots, its
shock troops who inhabit that dark area beyond madness that compels
them to hurl themselves against impenetrable barricades to make a
statement heard across the land.  Then they disappear into the
background, supplanted-or at least they should be supplanted -by
superior people.  The gravest error the Third Reich made was to permit
the shock troops, the, thugs, to control the party and thus the
nation."

"You're a thinker, aren't you, Two?"

"The philosophical theories of Nietzsche have always appealed to me,
especially his doctrine of perfectibility through self-assertion and
the moral glorification of the supreme rulers."

"You're too educated for me," said Zero Six, "but I've heard the words
before."

"Of course you have."  Paris Two smiled.

"Variations have been drummed into us."

"We're wasting time!"  Five broke in, standing erect, his eyes
squinting slightly, riveted on Two.

"You are a thinker, aren't you?

I've never heard you talk so much, especially about such matters.

Is there something else beneath your words?  Perhaps you believe that
you should command our Paris unit."

"Oh, no, you're very wrong, I'm not qualified.  What I may have in my
head I lack in practical experience, as well as by my youth."

"But there is something else-"

"Indeed, there is, Number Five," interrupted Two, their eyes locked.

"When our Reich emerges, I have no intention of fading into an obscure
background-any more than you do."

"We understand each other..  .. Come, I'll choose the team for the rue
Diane-six men.  Two of you remain here to expedite emergency procedures
should they be necessary,

The chosen six rose from the table, three of them going to their rooms
to change into black sweaters and trousers, the remaining Blitzkrieger
studying a large street map of Paris, concentrating on the area of the
rue Diane.  The three properly dressed killers returned; the team
checked their weapons, gathered up the equipment designated by Zero
Five, and the telephone rang.

"This situation's now intolerable!"  screamed Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger.

"I shall report you all for gross incompetence and refusal to keep in
communication with a Briiderschaft of the highest level!"

"Then you would be doing yourself a disservice, sir," sal 'd a
controlled Zero Five.

"Before the night is over, we'll have the kill you so greatly desire,
as well as two additional targets Bonn will be pleased to know you were
instrumental in directing us to."

"I was told that nearly four hours ago!  What happened?  Let me talk to
that insulting young man who claims he's your leader."

"I wish I could, mein Herr," replied Five, choosing his words
carefully.

"Unfortunately, Zero One, Paris, has not kept in touch with us.  He
elected to pursue a secondary source, a highly questionable source, if
you'll forgive me, and he hasn't called in to report.  In truth, he's
over two hours late."

"A 'questionable' source?  He said it was the highest risk.

Perhaps something happened to him."

"In the delights of the Bois de Boulogne, sir?  Again, highly
unlikely."

"Then what happened at the first location, for God's sake?"

"No more than a trap, mein Herr, but my team, Zero Five's team, eluded
it.  However, it led to a third source, an unimpeachable one, that
we're going after now.  Before the sun comes up you'll have proof of
the primary target's death, the prescribed method of execution very
much in evidence.  I, Zero Five, will have the photographs delivered to
you personally at your hotel."

"Your words relieve me; at least you speak more reasonably than that
damned youngster with the eyes of a cobra."

"He's young, sir, but very accomplished in the physical aspects of our
work."

"Without a head on his shoulders, that sort of talent doesn't mean a
thing!"

"I tend to agree, but, please, mein Herr, he is my superior, so I never
said what I just said."

"You didn't say it, I did.  You merely agreed to a generalization.  .
What was your number?  Five?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring me the photographs and Bonn will be apprised of your worth."

"You're most kind.  We must leave now."

Stanley Witkowski sat in the darkness, peering down through a window at
the street below.  His broad, leathery face was set, immobile, as every
now and then he brought a pair of infrared binoculars to his eyes.  The
object of his concentration was a stationary automobile at the far
right corner of the block, no more than a hundred feet across from the
entrance to his apartment building.  What had caught the veteran
intelligence officer's attention was the flash of a face in the front
seat picked up by a street lamp.  Sporadically, the face came into
view, then receded in the shadows as if the man were waiting for
someone or watching for something on the opposite side.  The hollow
pressure in the colonel's chest, a pressure he had felt hundreds of
times in the past, was a warning to be accepted or rejected with the
passing minutes or hours.

Then it happened.  The face came into view again, but there was a car
phone pressed against the man's right ear.  He appeared to be excited,
angry, his head angled upward, his gaze directed at the upper floors of
the apartment building, Witkowski's building.  The observer then thrust
the phone away, again in anger or frustration.

It was enough for the colonel.  He rose from the' chair and walked
rapidly to his bedroom door' and into the living room, shutting the
door behind him.  He found Drew

Latham and Karin de Vries sitting on the couch, to his distinct
pleasure at opposite ends; Witkowski hated personal relationships in
their work.

"Hello, Stanley," said Drew.

"You chaperoning?  If so, you've nothing to fear.  We're discussing the
post-Cold War situation, and the lady doesn't like me."

"I didn't say that," countered Karin, laughing softly.

"You've done nothing to cause me to really dislike you, and I do admire
you."

"Translation.  I've been shot down, Stosh."

"Let's hope that's figuratively speaking," said the colonel icily, the
tone of his voice bringing Drew up short.

"What are you talking about?"

"You said you weren't followed, youngster."

"We weren't.  How could we have been?"

"I'm not sure, but there's a man in a car down in the street who makes
me wonder.  He's been on the phone and he keeps looking up here."  Drew
quickly rose from the couch and started for Witkowski's bedroom door.

"Turn off the lamp before you go in there, you damn fool," Witkowski
barked.

"You can't allow any light to bleed through that window."  Karin
reached over and switched off the single floor lamp above her.

"Good girl," the intelligence officer went on.

"The eye-red binoculars are on the sill and stay low, away from the
glass.  It's the sedan across the street at the corner."

"Right."  Latham disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Witkowski and De
Vries alone in the relative darkness, only the spill of the
streetlights below providing what illumination there was.

"You're really worried, aren't you?"  asked Karin.

"I've been around long enough to be worried," replied the colonel,
still standing.

"So have you."

"It could be a jealous lover, or a husband too intoxicated to go
home."

"It could also be the tooth fairy trying to find the right pillow."

"I wasn't being facetious, and I don't think it's fair for you to
be."

"I'm sorry.  I mean that.  To repeat what my old acquaintance-friend
would be misleading, I'm not in his leagueSorenson said in Washington,
"Things are moving too fast and getting far too complicated."  He's
right.  We think we're prepared, but we're not.  The Nazi movement is
coming out of the dirt like white slugs in a garbage heap, many real,
many not, merely specks of light-colored refuse.  Who is and who isn't?
And how do we find out without accusing everybody, forcing the innocent
to prove they're not guilty?"

"Which would be too late once the accusations are made."

"You couldn't be more accurate, young lady.  I lived through it.

We lost dozens of deep- and middle-level agents.  Our own people blew
their covers, sucking up to politicians and so-called investigative
journalists, none of whom knew the truth."

"It must have been very difficult for you-"

"The standard resignations included such Ohrases as "I don't need this,
Captain," or Major, or whatever I was at the time.  And "Who the hell
are you to ruin my life?"  and most terribly, "You clean my slate, you
son of a bitch, or I go ballistic and blow your whole operation out of
the water."  I must have signed fifty or sixty 'confidential
memorandums' stating that the individuals involved were extraordinary
intelligence operatives, an awful lot of them far more flattering than
they deserved."

"Not after what had been done to them, certainly."

"Maybe not, but a lot of those clowns are in the private sector now,
making twenty times what I make due to the mystique of their past
employment.  Several of the lesser ones, who couldn't decipher a cereal
box code, are heading up the security of big corporations."

"That sounds 'nuts," an American expression, I believe."

"Of course it is.  We're all nuts.  It's not what we do, it's what we
did-on paper, that is, no matter how ridiculous.  Blackmail is the
order of the day, from top to bottom, my dear."

"Why haven't you resigned yourself, Colonel?"

"Why?"  Witkowski sat in the nearest chair, his eyes on the bedroom
door.

"Let me put it this way, as archaic as it may sound.  Because I'm very
good at what I do, which doesn't say much for my character-being
serpentine and suspicious are not exactly admirable traits-but if they
refined and applied to the work I do, they can be assets.  The American
entertainer Will Rogers once said, "I never met a man I didn't like." I
say, I never met a man in my business I didn't suspect.  Perhaps it's
the European in me, my heritage.  I'm Polish by descent; actually it
was my first language."

"And Poland, which has given more to the arts and sciences than most
other countries, has been betrayed more than most countries," said De
Vries, nodding.

suppose .-..a+'s part oil it.  I guess you could say it's ingrained."

"Freddie trusted you."

"I wish I could return the compliment.  I never trusted your husband.
He was a burning fuse I couldn't control, couldn't stamp out.  His
death at the hands of the Stasi was inevitable."

"He was right," said Karin, her voice rising.

"The Stasi and their ilk are now the core of the Nazis."

"His methods were wrong, his rage misplaced.  Both betrayed his cover
and he was killed for it.  He wouldn't listen to us, to me."

"I know, I know.  He wouldn't listen to me either..  .. By then,
however, it didn't really matter."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Freddie became violent, not only to me but to anyone who disagreed
with him.  He was enormously strong trained by your commando troops in
Belgium-and came to think he was invincible.

At the end he was as fanatic as his enemies."

"Then you understand where I come from when I say I never trusted your
husband."

"Naturally.  Our last months in Amsterdam were not days I care to
relive."

Suddenly the door to Witkowski's bedroom flung open, Latham in its
frame.

"Bingo!"  he shouted.

"You were right, Stanley.  That bastard down there in the street is
Reynolds, Alan Reynolds in Communications!"

"Who ?1)

"How many times have you gone down to Communications, Stosh?"

"I don't know.  Maybe three or four times in the last year.),

"He's the mole.  I saw his face."

"Then something's about to happen, and I suggest we take
countermeasures."

"What do we do and where do we start?"

"Mrs.  de Vries-Karin-would you please go to my bedroom window and let
us know what develops?"

"On my way," said Karin, rising from the couch and running into the
colonel's room.

"Now what?"  asked Drew.

"The obvious," answered Witkowski.

"Weapons first."

"I have an automatic with a full clip."  Latham pulled the gun from his
belt.

"I'll give you another one with an extra clip."

"You're expecting the worst, then?"

"I've been expecting it for nearly five years now, and if you haven't,
it's no wonder your flat was blown apart."

"Well, I have this instrument that stops anyone from opening the
door."

"No comment.  But if the bastards send two or three after you, Lord
love a duck, I'd surely like to ship a couple back to Washington.  It'd
make up for the one we lost there."  The colonel walked to an imposing
Mondrian print on the wall and swiveled it back, revealing'a safe.  He
spun the dial back and forth, opened the large vault, and withdrew two
sidearms and an Uzi, which he clipped to his belt.  He threw an
automatic to Drew, who caught it, followed by a clip of ammunition
which Latham missed; it fell to the floor.

"Why didn't you throw them both at once?"  said an irritated Drew,
bending down to retrieve the clip.

"I wanted to watch your reactions.  Not bad.  Not good, but not bad."

"Did you also mark the bottle?"

"Didn't have to.  With what's left in your glass, you've had maybe a
couple of ounces during the last hour.  You're a big fella, like me;

you can handle it."

"Thank you, mother.  Now what the hell do we do?"

"Most of it's been done.  I simply have to activate the externals."

Witkowski walked to the kitchen sink, unscrewed the chromium faucet in
the center, reached into the orifice, and pulled out two wires; each
end was capped with a small plastic terminal.  He broke the seals and
pressed the wires together; five loud beeps filled the adjoining
rooms.

"There we are," said the colonel, replacing the faucet and returning to
the living room area.

"Where are we, 0 Wizard?"

"Let's start with the fire escapes; in these old buildings there are
two-one in my bedroom, the other over there in the alcove, in what I
foolishly call my library.  We're on the third floor, the building has
seven.  By activating the external security devices, the fire escapes
between the top of the second floor and the bottom of the fourth are
electrified, the voltage sufficient to cause unconsciousness but not
death.  ""Suppose whoever the evil people are simply walk up the stairs
or take the elevator?"

"Naturally, one has to respect the privacy and civil rights of one's
neighbors.  There are three other flats on this floor.  My apartment is
on the left front quadrant, the door twenty feet from the nearest
resident on my right.  You probably didn't notice, but there is a
thick, rather attractive Oriental runner leading to my door."

"Arid once you turn on your externals," interrupted Latham, "something
happens when the bad guys step on the rug, is that it?"

"You're exactly right.  Four-hundred-watt floodlights go on,
accompanied by a siren that can be heard in the place de la
Concorde."

"You won't catch anybody that way.  They'll run like hell."

"Not on the fire escape; and if they use the stairs, they'll come right
into our welcoming arms."

"What?  How?"

"On the floor below is a miscreant, a Hungarian who deals in, shall we
say, misappropriated jewels.  He's barely above small-time and does no
great harm, and I've befriended him.  A phone call or a tap on his door
and we wait inside his apartment.  Whoever comes racing down these
stairs will have bullets in their legs-I trust you're a decent shot, I
wouldn't want anyone killed."

"Colonel!"  Karin de Vries's voice from the bedroom was emphatic.

"A van just pulled in front of the car; men are climbing out..  ..
Four, five, six-six men in dark clothing."

"They really must want you, youngster," said Witkowski as he and Drew
ran into the bedroom, joining Karin at the window.

"A couple of them are carrying knapsacks," said Latham.

"One of them is talking to the driver of the car," added De Vries.

"He's obviously telling him to leave.  He's backng away."

"The others are spreading out, examining the building," completed the
colonel, touching Karin's arm, forcing her to turn to him.

"The young fellow and I are going to leave."  The woman's eyes flashed
in alarm.

"Not to worry, we'll be right below.  Close the bedroom door and bolt
it; it's steel-plate and no one could break it open without a truck or
a ten-man battering ram."

"For Christ's sake, call the police or at least embassy security!"

Drew was cool but firm.

"Unless I'm grossly mistaken, my friendly neighbors will reach the
police, but not before you and I have a chance to grab one or two of
the bastards for ourselves."

"And you'd lose them if our security was involved," Karin broke in.

"They'd be forced to cooperate with the police, who'd take everyone
into custody."

"You're very quick," Witkowski agreed, nodding at her in the dim light
from the street.

"You'll hear a loud siren from the hallway, and most likely a great
deal of electric static from the fire escape-"

"It's wired.  You activated the current."

"You knew about that?"  asked Latham, astonished.

"In Amsterdam, Freddie did the same with ours."

"I taught him," said the colonel without emphasis.

"Come on, chlopak, there's no time to waste."

Eighty-five seconds later, the irritated Hungarian had been persuaded
to accept the price offered by an influential American who had
interceded for him in the past and in .  ight be helpful in the future.
Witkowski and Drew stood by the downstairs neighbor's door, which was
open less than an inch.  The waiting was interminable, the time elapsed
nearly eight minutes.

"Something's wrong," whispered the colonel.

"It's not reasonable."

"No one's come up the stairs and there's no static from either fire
escape," said Latham.

"Maybe they're still casing the building."

"That doesn't make sense either.  These old structures are open books,
and like books on a shelf, close together..  .. Jesus, 'close together
The knapsacks!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm a damn fool, that's what.  They've got grappling hooks and ropes!
They're crossing from one building to another and scaling down the
stone.  Out!  Upstairs as fast as we can.  And for God's sake, don't
step on the rug!"

Karin sat in the shadows across from the window, her weapon in her
hand, listening for the sounds of high-voltage electricity from
outside.  None came, and it was now nearly ten minutes since the
colonel and Latham had left.  She began to wonder.  Witkowski, by his
own admission, was suspicious of everyone and everything to the point
of paranoia, and Drew was exhausted.  Was it possible all of them were
wrong?  Had the colonel mistaken a jealous lover or a frightened
husband for something sinister?  And had the tired Latham seen a face
that reminded him of Alan Reynolds in Communications but was someone
else's entirely?  Were the men in the van, men who moved so quickly
they had to be young, merely a group of university students returning
from a camping trip or a late night in Paris?  She put the gun down on
a small table beside the chair, and stretched, her head arched back and
yawning.  Good heavens, she needed sleep.

And then, like an enormous combination of thunder and lightning, a
figure crashed through the window, shattering glass and wood, landing
on its feet and releasing a rope.  Karin sprang out of the chair,
instinctively rushing backward, her bandaged right hand groping for
anything and everything.  And then came another silhouetted, daredevil
intruder, sliding on his rope until he landed by the bed.

"Who are you?"  screamed De Vries in German, collecting what thoughts
she could, realizing that her gun was on the small table.

"What do you want here?"

"You speak German," said the first invader, "so you know what we want!
Why else would you speak our language?"

"It is second to my own, and few understand my native Walloon."

Karin circled, approaching the table.

"Where is he, Mrs.  de Vries?"  asked the second man by the bed
menacingly.

"You won't get out of here, you know.  Our comrades will block you;
they're on their way up now.  They just needed our signal and the
window was;

"I don't know what you're talking about!  Since you know who I am, does
it shock you that I'm having an affair with the owner of this flat?"

"It's an empty bed, not even slept in-"

"We had a lovers' quarrel.  He drank too much and we fought."

Karin was within arm's reach of her weapon, and neither of the Nazis
had bothered to un holster his.

"You've never had such fights with your women?  If not, you're
children!"  She lunged for the gun, grabbed it, and fired into the
first neo as the stunned second unstrapped his holster.

"Stop or you're dead!"  said De Vries.

As she spoke, the steel-plated bedroom door swung open, crashing into
the wall.

"Oh, my God!"  roared Witkowski, snapping on the light.

"She's got a live one."

"I thought it took a truck or a battering ram to get in here," said
Karin, visibly shaken.

"Not if you've got grandchildren who visit you in Paris; they can get
real playful.  There's a concealed button in the frame."  It was as far
as the colonel got.  An ear-shattering siren erupted, so loud that
within seconds lights were turned on in the nearby buildings.

"They're coming to stop you from leaving!"  cried De Vries.

"Let's welcome them, youngster," said Witkowski.  He and Latham ran
through the living room to the front door.  The colonel opened it, he
and Drew standing concealed behind the door itself.

Two men rushed in, their automatic weapons on rapid fire, blowing up
whatever was in their paths.  The colonel and Drew took aim, and
shooting three rounds apiece, shattered the arms and hands of the
killers.  They collapsed, writhing and moaning.

"Cover them!"

shouted Witkowski, racing into the kitchen.  Seconds later the siren
stopped and the hallway lights were out.  The colonel returned, giving
his orders rapidly as clamoring footsteps, growing fainter, could be
heard running down the hallway steps.

"Tie, these sons of bitches up and throw them into the guest bathroom
along with the live one in my bedroom.  We'll give the gendarmes the
bastard Karin sent to Valhalla'

"The police will want to know what happened, Stan."

"Until tomorrow-this morning-that's their problem.  I just want to pull
some diplomatic strings and get these scum on one of our supersonics to
Washington.  With no announcement except to

Suddenly a scream came from the bedroom; it was Karin.  Drew raced
through the door and saw her, weapon hanging at her side, staring at
the still, wide-eyed figure across the bed.

"What baPPened?"

"I'm not sure.  He reacfied for his collar and bit into it.  Seconds
later he collapsed."

"Cyanide."  Latham felt the young neo's throat for a pulse.

"Deutschland fiber Alles, " he said softly.

"I wonder if this kid's mother and father will be proud.  Christ, I
hope not."

heir hands and forearms bandaged, their shirt collars ripped off, Zero
Five, Paris, sat with Paris Two Tin the cramped quarters of the jet
flying across the Atlantic to Washington.  It was unlikely they would
be executed, thought Five; the Americans were weak in that area,
especially if a prisoner appeared irrational and repentant.  He nudged
the scholarly Zero Two, who was dozing.

"Wake up," he said in German.

"Was ist?"

"What should we do when we get there?  Have you any ideas?"

"A couple," replied Two, yawning.

"Let's hear them."

"The Americans are, by nature, given to violence, although their
leaders pontificate otherwise.  Equally ingrained is a proclivity for
seeking out conspiracies, no matter how remote they may be.  Our
leaders have their mistresses, who cares?  Their leaders enjoy a whore,
and suddenly they're tied to the overlords of crime.  Do such men
really need criminals to provide such women for them?  It's ludicrous,
but the Americans accept it; their hypocritical puritanism rejects
natural law.  A life of monogamy is simply not the nature of the male
animal."

"What the hell are you saying?  You're not answering me."

"Certainly I am.  When we get there we feed both their hypocrisy and
their need for conspiracy."

"How?"

"They believe, or surely must believe by now, that we're an elite
branch of the Broderschaft, and in a way we are, although not in the
way they think.  What we must do is to pretend we really are important.
That we have ties to the zealots in Bonn who see us as the true storm
troopers, who confide in us because they need us."

"But they don't.  We have no names, only codes that change twice
weekly.  The Americans will put us under drugs and learn this."

"These days the truth serums are no more reliable than hypnosis in
sophisticated circles; one can usually be programmed to resist them.
U.S. intelligence knows that."

"We haven't been programmed."

"Why should we be?  As you say, we have no names, only codes
authorizing us to proceed with our orders.  If we're subjected to
chemicals and we reveal those useless codes, they can be only more
impressed."

"You're still not answering me.  I liked you better when you didn't
talk so much and were less erudite.  How do we deal with the
Americans)"

"First, we acknowledge our importance, our close ties with the
leadership both in Europe and in America.  Then, with reluctance, we
also admit that there's a fair degree of hypocrisy in our actions.

Our lifestyles are extravagant concealed expensive residences,
unlimited funds, the most voluptuous women whenever we want them.  The
fantasies of every young man are our reality, and the cause that makes
this possible is the cause we work for, not necessarily a cause we
would die for."

"Very good, Two, very convincing."

"It's the foundation.  From there we appeal to their appetite for
conspiracy.  We reemphasize our importance, our influence, the fact
that we're constantly consulted and must be in contact with our
counterparts all over the world in these days of supersonic travel."

"Especially the United States, of course," said Zero Five, Paris.

"Of course.  And the information we have-specific names, and in the
absence of names, positions in both government and civilian industry-is
truly shocking.  Men and women they could not imagine are sympathetic
to the Brotherhood of the Watch."

"That's being done now."

"We'll escalate the process to new heights.  After all, no one's heard
it from 'the horse's mouth," as the Americans say.  If our computers
are right, and I expect they are, we're the first of the new Nazi elite
to be taken alive.  Actually, we're trophies, prisoners of war of the
highest order.  We might very well be given special privileges if we
appear to waver.  I'm rather looking forward to the next few days."

Zeros Four and Seven, near-hysterical escapees from the rue Diane,
burst into the Blitzkrieger headquarters at the Avignon warehouse
complex, trying to impose some control over their emotions-none too
successfully.  Their two remaining comrades were in the conference
room-one at the table, the other pouring Coffee.

"We're finished!"  cried the impulsive Paris Zero Four, breathlessly
throwing himself into a chair.

"All hell broke loose!"

"What happened?"  The Blitzkrieger pouring coffee dropped the cup.

"It wasn't our fault."  Paris Seven, standing, held his place, and
spoke in a loud, defensive voice.

"It was a trap, and Five and Two panicked.  They ran inside the flat on
rapid fire-"

"Then there were different shots and we heard them fall," Zero Four
broke in, his eyes unfocused.

"They're probably dead."

"What about the others, the two who scaled down the building to the
window?"

"We don't know; there was no way we could know!"

"What do we do now?"  asked Seven.

"Any word from Zero One?"

"Nothing.

"One of us must assume his position and reach Bonn," said the elite
killer by the coffee.

To a man, the other three shook their heads emphatically.

"We'll be executed," said Four -quietly, matter of-factly.

"The leaders will demand it, and speaking personally, I will not die
for others' mistakes, others'

panic.  Were I responsible, I would gladly take the cyanide, but I am
not, we are not!"

"But what can we do?"  repeated Seven.

The erect Four walked pensively around the table, pausing in front of
the Blitzkrieger by the coffee machine.

"You handle our accounts, not so?"

"Yes, I do."

"How much money do we have?"

"Several million francs."

"Can you get more quickly?"

"Our requests for funds are not questioned.  We place a phone call and
they are wired.  We justify them later, naturally understanding the
consequences if they are for false pretenses."

"The same consequences we face now, am I right?"

"Essentially, yes.  Death."

"Make your call and ask for the maximum you can get.  You might drop a
hint that we may have the President of France or the head of the
Chamber of Deputies in our pockets."

"That would call for the maximum.  The transfer will be immediate, but
the funds would not be available to us until the Algerian bank opens..
.. It's past four now; the bank opens at nine o'clock."

"Less than five hours," said Zero Seven, staring at Four.

"What are you thinking of?"

"The obvious.  We stay here, we all face execution..  .. What I'm about
to say to you may turn your stomachs, but I submit that we can better
serve our cause alive than dead.  Especially when our deaths are the
result of others' incompetence; we still have much to offer..  .. I
have an elderly uncle outside of Buenos Aires, seventy miles south of
the Rio de la Plata.  He was one of many who fled the Third Reich when
it was being destroyed, but the family still holds that Deutschland to
be holy.  We have passports;

we can fly there and the family will give us sanctuary."

"It's better than execution," said Seven.

"Unwarranted execution," added the Blitzkrieger at the table
solemnly.

"But can we be unreachable for five hours?"  asked the killer accounts
manager.

"We can if we tear out the phones and leave," replied Four.

"We'll pack whatever we need, burn what has to be destroyed, and get
out of here.  A long day and night lie before us.  Hurry!  Crumple the
files and any other papers there are, stuff them into the metal
wastebaskets and light them."

"I'm rather looking forward to it," said a relieved Zero Seven.

The ultimate believers had found a convenient crack in their sacred
covenant, and as the first wastebasket was set on fire, the bookkeeper
opened a window to let out the smoke.

Knox Talbot, director of the CIA, opened the front door for Wesley
Sorenson.  It was early evening, the Virginia sun descending over the
fields of Talbot's property.

"Welcome to these humble lodgings, Wcs."

"Humble, like hell," said the head of Consular Operations, walking
inside.

"Do you own half of the state?"

"Only an itty-bitty part.  The rest I leave for the white folk.  "

"Really, it's very beautiful, Knox."

"I won't argue," agreed Talbot, leading them through an extravagantly
appointed living room to a huge glass enclosed sun porch.

"If you like, and if you have time, I'll show you the barn and the
stables.  I have three daughters Who fell in love with horses until
they discovered boys."

"I'll be damned," exclaimed Sorenson, sitting down.

"I have two daughters who did the same."

"Did they leave you when they found husbands?"

"Well, they come back now and then."

"But they left you with the horses."

"Yea so, my friend.  Fortunately, my wife adores them."

"Mine doesn't.  As she frequently points Out, growing up on 145th
Street in Harlem didn't exactly prepare her for an estate with stables.
She allows me to keep them cause they draw the kids back, sometimes too
often..  .. Can I get you a drink?"

"No thanks.  My cardiologist allows me three ounces a day, and I've
already had four.  Then I'll get home, and it'll be a total of six with
my wife."

"Then to business."  Talbot reached down to a wicker magazine rack and
pulled up a black-bordered file folder.

"First, the AA computers," he said.

"There was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could go on.  I'm not
questioning Harry Latham and his source, but if they're right, it's so
buried, it would take an archeologist to pull him or her out."

"They're right, Knox."

"I don't doubt it, so while I continue to dig, I've replaced the whole
unit as a matter of a new rotation policy.  Expanding the venues of
upper-level personnel is the way I explained it."

"How did that go down?"

"Not well, but with no discernible objections, which, of course, I was
looking for.  Naturally, the former team is under a microscope."

"Naturally," said Sorenson.

"What about this Kroeger, Gerhardt Kroeger?"

"Far more interesting."  Talbot flipped several pages in the file
folder.

"To begin with, he was apparently some kind of genius in the brain
surgery field, not only in removing delicate tumors, but in eliminating
'subcutaneous pressures , that made mentally sick people well again."

"Was?"  asked Wesley Sorenson.

"What do you mean, was?"

"He disappeared.  He resigned his post as associate chief of cranial
surgery at the Hospital of Nuremberg at the age of forty three claiming
he was burnt out, psychologically unfit to continue operating.  He
married a prominent surgical nurse named Greta Frisch, and the last
anyone heard-the last trace, in fact-was that they immigrated to
Sweden."

"What do the Swedish authorities say?"

"That's what's interesting.  They have him entering Sweden, at
G6teborg, four years ago, ostensibly on a pleasure trip.  The hotel
records show that he and his wife spent two days and departed.

The trail ends there."

"He's back," said the director of Consular Operations.

"In reality, I suppose, he never went away.  He found another cause
beyond making sick people well."

"What in hell could that be, Wcs?"

"I don't know.  Maybe making well people sick.  I just don't know."

Drew Latham opened his eyes, annoyed by the sounds from the street,
louder because of the smashed window in the bedroom.

Witkowski, along with marine guards, had taken the captured Nazis to
the airport under cover, and someone had had to stay in the colonel's
room.  An open window was too inviting.  Slowly, Drew slid over to the
other side of the bed and got to his feet, cautiously avoiding
fragments of glass.  He grabbed his trousers and shirt from a chair,
put them on, and walked to the door.  He opened it and saw Witkowski
and De Vries across the living room at a table in the alcove, having
coffee.

"How long have you been up?"  he asked of both, not really caring.

"We let you sleep, my dear."

"There's that 'my dear' again.  I sincerely believe you do not mean an
endearment."

"It's an expression, Drew," said Karin.  ""You were quite wonderful
last night-this morning."

"Naturally, the colonel was better."

"Naturally, youngster, but you held your own, by damn.  You're a cool
customer in the face of the enemy."

"Would you believe, Mr.  Super Guy, that I've done it before?  Not that
I take any pride in it; it's merely a matter of survival."

"Come," said De Vries, rising.

"I'll get you some coffee.  Here, sit down," she continued, heading for
the kitchen.

"Take the third chair."

"I'll bet she wouldn't give it tome if it was hers," said Latham,
stumbling across the room.

"So, what happened, Stosh?"  he asked, sitting down.

"Everything we wanted, young man.  At five o'clock this morning I got
our scum buckets on a jet to D.C. and nobody will know but

"What do you mean, will?  Didn't you speak to Wcs?"

"I spoke to his wife.  I met her once and nobody could duplicate that
half-American, half-British speech.  I told her to tell the director
that a package was due at Andrews at four-ten in the morning, their
time, under the code name Peter Pan Two.  She said she'd tell him the
moment he got in."

"That's too loose, Stanley.  You should have requested a return
confirmation."

The apartmerittelephone rang.  The colonel got up and walked rapidly
across the room; he picked it up.

"Yes?"  He listened for six seconds and then hung up.

"That was Sorenson," he said.

"They've got a platoon of marines on the ground and on the roofs.
Anything else, Mr.  Intelligence Man?"

"Yes," replied Latham.

"Do we call off the boot maker and the amusement park?"

"I shouldn't think so," answered Karin, bringing Drew his coffee and
sitting down.

"Two ncos are dead and two on their way to America.  Others have fled,
an additional two, by my count."

"Six altogether," agreed Drew.

"Hardly a platoon," he added, looking at Witkowski.

"Not even half a squad.  How many others are there?"

"Let's try and find out.  I'll take the amusement park-7 "Drew," cried
De Vries, sharply interrupting.

"You'll take nothing," added the colonel.

"You haven't much of a short-term memory, youngster.  They want you -or
I should say Harry-on a slab with rigor mortis, remember?"

"What am I supposed to do, open a trapdoor and hide in the sewers?"

"No, you'll stay right here.  I'll send two marines to guard the stairs
and a maintenance man to repair the window."

"Would you mind, I'd like to be useful?"

"You will be.  This will be our temporary base camp and you'll be the
contact-"

"With whom?"

"With whoever I tell you to reach.  I'll be calling you at least once
an hour."

"What about me?"  asked Karin apprehensively.

"I can be of value at the embassy."

"I realize that, "specifically in my office with a guard at the door.

Sorenson knows who you are and no doubt Knox Talbot as well.  If either
reaches me on my secure phone, you take the messages, call them to our
amnesiac here, and I'll get them from him.  Now, if I can only figure
out a way to get you there in case there are hostiles in the street.
"

"Perhaps I can help you help us both."  De Vries reached down for her
purse beside the chair, stood up, and started for the bedroom.

"This will only take a moment or two, but.  it does require a little
prodding and primping."

"What's she doing?"  said Witkowski as Karin went through the door.

'."I think I know, but I'll let her surprise you.  Maybe then you'll
promote her as your assistant."

"I could do worse.  Freddie taught her a lot of tricks."

"Which you taught him."

"Only the fire escape; the rest he figured out for himself and he was
usually way ahead of us .. . all of us, except probably Harry."

"What happens when she leaves the embassy, Stanley?"

"She won't.  There are a lot of staff rooms.  I'll throw someone out
for a few days and she'll stay there."

6"With a guard, of course."

The colonel looked over at Latham, his eyes steady.

"You care, don't you?"

"I care," replied Drew simply.

"Normally, I wouldn't approve, but in this case I'll reduce my
objections."

"I didn't say it'll lead anywhere."

"No, but if it does, you've got a couple of miles on me.

She's in the same business."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't get grandchildren because some quartermaster issued them.  I
was married for thirteen years to a fine woman, a splendid woman who
finally admitted she couldn't accept what I did for a living, and all
the complications it involved.

For once in my life I pleaded, but to no avail-she saw through those
pleas.  I was too used to what I did, too primed for it every day.

She was very generous though-I had unlimited visitation rights with the
children.  But, of course, I wasn't around that much to visit them very
often."

"I'm sorry, Stanley.  I had no idea."

"It's not the sort of thing you put in Stars and Stripes, now, is
it?"

"I guess not, but you obviously get along with your kids.  I mean,
visiting grandchildren, and all."

"Hell, yes, they consider me a hoot.  Their mother remarried very well,
and what in Sam Hill am I going to do with the money I make?

I've got more perks than I can handle, so when they all come to Paris,
well, you can figure it out."

They were interrupted by the figure in the bedroom doorway, a very
blond woman in dark glasses, her skirt hiked up above her knees, her
blouse unbuttoned to mid chest  She shifted her weight from leg to leg
in mock sensuality.

"What'll the boys in the back room have?"  she said, her voice low,
imitating the well-worn motion picture clichL

"Outstanding!"  exclaimed the stunned Witkowski.

"And then some."  Drew spoke softly, adding a quiet whistle.

"Will this do, Colonel?"

"It surely will, except I'll have to screen the guards, hopefully find
a few gay ones."

"Worry not, Wizard," said Latham.

"Beneath the heat is a will of ice."

"Obviously, I can't fool you, monsieur."  Karin laughed, released her
skirt, buttoned her blouse, and started toward the table, when the
telephone rang.

"Shall I get it?"  she asked.

"I can say I'm the maid-in the proper French, naturally."

"I'd be obliged," answered Witkowski.

"Today's the laundry morning; he usually calls around now.  Tell him to
come up, and press Six on the phone to open the foyer door."

"AI16?  C'est la residence du grand colonel."  De Vries listened for a
moment or two, placed her hand over the phone, and looked over at the
embassy's chief of security.

"It's Ambassador Courtland.  He says he must speak to you
immediately."

Witkowski rose quickly and crossed the room, taking the phone from
Karin.

"Good morning, Mr.  Ambassador."

"You listen to me, Colonel!  I don't know what happened at your place
last night or at the Orly Airport annex field-and I'm not sure I want
to know-but if you have any plans for this morning, scratch them, and
that's an order!"

"You heard from the police, then, sit?"

"More than I care to.  And more to the point, I heard from the German
ambassador, who's fully cooperating with us.  Kreitz was alerted
several hours ago by the German section of the Quai d'Orsay that there
was a fire in a suite of offices at the Avignon Warehouses.  Among the
debris were remnants of Third Reich memorabilia, along with thousands
of charred pages, burned beyond recognition, set on fire in
wastebaskets."

"The papers set the whole place on fire?"

"Apparently a window was left open and the breezes spread the flames,
setting off the smoke alarms and the sprinklers.  Get over there!"

"Where are the warehouses, sir?"

"How the hell do I know?  You speak French, ask somebody!"

"I'll check the telephone book.  And, Mr.  Ambassador, I'd prefer not
to take my own car, or a taxi.  Would you please call-have your
secretary call-Transport, and send secure equipment to my apartment on
the rue Diane.  They know the address."

"

"Secure equipment'?  What the dickens is that?"

"An armored vehicle, sir, with a marine escort."

"Christ, I wish I were in Sweden!

Find out what you can, Colonel.  And hurry!"

"Tell Transport to hurry, sir."  Witkowski hung up, not, however,
before giving the telephone the proverbial "finger."  He turned to
Latham and Karin de Vries.

"Everything's changed, at least for the time being.  With any luck we
may have found a jackpot.  Karin, you stay the way you are.  You,
youngster, you go to my closet and see if you can find a uniform that
fits.  We're about the same size, one of 'em will come close."

"Where are we going?"  asked Drew.

"To a group of offices in a warehouse that got torched by ncos.

A Nazi wastebasket brigade didn't quite work out the way it was
intended.  Some asshole opened a window.  "

The neo-Nazi headquarters were in shambles, the walls scorched, the few
curtains burned up to their rods, and the whole mess drenched by the
sprinkler system.  In an office filled with computerized electronic
equipment, undoubtedly used by the leader of the unit, was a huge
locked steel cabinet.  Smashed open, it revealed an arsenal of weapons,
from high-powered rifles, telescopic sights attached, to boxes of hand
grenades, miniaturized flamethrowers, garrotes, assorted handguns, and
various stilettos some automated from canes and umbrellas.  Everything
coincided with Drew Latham's description of elite Nazi killers in
Paris.  This was their lair.

"Use pincers," ordered Colonel Witkowski, speaking French and
addressing the police while pointing to charred sheets of paper on the
floor.

"Get plates of glass and place anything that isn't totally destroyed
between them.  You never know what we can pick up."

"The telephones have all been torn from the walls and the receptacles
destroyed," said a French detective.

"The lines haven't, have they?"

"No.  I have a technician from the telephone company on his way.  He
will restore the lines and we can trace their calls."

"Outgoing, maybe, incoming negative.  And if I know these bozos, the
ones made here were routed for payment to a little old lady in
Marseilles who gets a money order and a bonus once a month."

"As it is with the drug dealers, no?"

"Yes."

"Still, there are instructions somewhere, yes?"

"Definitely, but none you can trace.  They'll come from a Swiss or
Cayman bank, the secret accounts not to be nvaded.  That's the way
things work these days."

1 investigate domestically, monsieur, in Paris and its environs mainly,
not internationally."

"Then get me someone who does."

"You would have to appeal to the Quai d'Orsay, the Service d'Etranger.
These are beyond my province."

"I'll find 'em."

The uniformed Latham and a blond-wigged Karin de Vries approached,
stepping cautiously on the floor, their feet avoiding the charred,
windblown pages.

"Have you figured out anything?"  asked Drew.

"Not much, but this sure was the core of their operations, whoever they
were."

"Who else but the men who attacked us last night?"  said Karin.

"I'll buy that,.  but where did they go?"  agreed Witkowski.

"Monsieur IAmiricain," shouted another plainclothes police official,
rushing from an outer room.

"Look what I found.  It was beneath a pillow on a sitting room chair!
It is a letter-the beginning of a letter."

"Let me have it."  The colonel took the piece of paper.  ""Meine
Liebste," Witkowski began, his eyes squinting.

"Etwas Entsetzlicbes ist gescheben."

"

"Give it to me," said De Vries, impatient with Witkowski's hesitation.
She translated in English.  "

"My dearest, tonight is most shocking.  We must all leave immediately
lest our cause be damaged and we are all to be executed for others'
failures.  No one in Bonn must know, but we are flying to South
America, to some place where we will be protected until we can return
and fight again.

I adore you so .. . I must finish later, someone is coming down the
hallway.  I will post this at the air-' It stops there, the letters
slurred."

"The airport!"  cried Latham.

"Which one?  Which airlines fly to South America?  We can intercept
them!"

"Forget it," said the colonel.

"It's ten-fifteen in the morning, and there are a couple of dozen
airlines that leave between seven and ten and end up in any one of
twenty or thirty cities in South America.  Those flights are well
beyond us.  However, there's a positive.  Our killers got the hell out
of Paris fast, and their scum bucket brothers in Bonn haven't a clue.
Until others take their place, we've got some breathing room."

Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon and alterer of minds, was about to lose his
own.  He had called the Avignon Warehouses a dozen times in the past
six hours, using the proper codes, only to be told by an operator that
all lines to the office he wished to reach were "not in service at this
time.  Our computers show manual disconnects."  No amount of
protestations on his part could change the situation; it was all too
obvious.  The Blitzkrieger had shut down.  Why?  What had happened?
Zero Five, Paris, had been so confident: The photographs of the kill
would be delivered to him in the morning.

Where were they?  Where was Paris Five?

There was no other option.  He had to reach Hans Traupman in Nuremberg.
Someone had to have an explanation!

"It's'foolish of you to reach me here," said Traupman.

"I don't have the proper telephone devices."

"I had no choice.  You cannot do this to me, Bonn cannot do this to me!
I'm ordered to find my creation at whatever the cost, even to the point
of employing the socalled incomparable skills of our associates here in
Paris-"

"What more can you ask for?"  interjected the doctor in Nuremberg
arrogantly.

"Something, anything that makes sense!  I've been treated abominably,
given promise after promise with nothing to show for them.  Now, at
this minute, our associates cannot even be reached!"

"They have special arrangements, as befits confidential consultants."

"I used them.  The operator said her computers show that the phones
were disconnected, manually disconnected.  What more do you need, Hans?
The .. . our associates have cut us off, cut us all off!  Where are
they?"

Seconds passed before Traupman spoke.

"If what you say is accurate," he said quietly, "it's most disturbing.
I assume you're at the hotel."

41 am."

"Stay there.  I'll drive home, reach several others, and call you back.
It may take me over an hour."

"It doesn't matter.  just call me back."

Nearly two hours passed before the Lutetia phone rang.

"Yes?"

said Kroeger, pouncing on it.

"Something very unusual has happened.  What you told me is true .. .
more than true, it's catastrophic.  The one man in Paris who knows
where our associates were -located went over and found the police
everywhere."

"Then they have disappeared!"

"Worse than that.  At four thirty-seven this morning, their
'bookkeeper' reached our finance department, and with a plausible, if
outrageous, story involving women and young boys and drugs and high
French officials, requested an enormous sum of money-to be verified
later as proper expenditures, of course."

"But there is no later, no verification."

"Obviously.  They're cowards and traitors.  We'll hunt them to the ends
of the earth."

"Your hunting them doesn't help me.  My creation has reached the
critical period.  What do I do?  I must find him!"

"We've talked it over.  It's not the most favorable course of action,
but we think it's the only one you've got.  Reach Moreau at the
Deuxi@me Bureau.  He knows everything that happens in French
intelligence circles."

"How do I reach him?"

"Do you know what he looks like?"

"I've seen photographs, yes."

"It must be done on the outside, no phone calls, no messages, a simple
meeting in the street, or a cafe, someplace where no, one would suspect
an encounter.  Say something short, no more than a sentence or two, in
a way that only he can hear.  The important thing is for you to use the
word brotberbood."

"What then?"

"He may dismiss you, but even as he does so he'll tell you where to
meet him.  It will be a common place, probably crowded, and the hour
late."

"Youtold me before to be suspicious of him."

"We've taken that into consideration, but we have a counterattack
should he not be the sympathizer he claims to be.  To date, we've paid
over twenty million francs into his Swiss account, substantiated by
written records.  He would be destroyed, sent to prison for years, if
those records were anonymously leaked to the French government, not to
mention the press.  He could not deny them.  Use it if you have to."

"I'll head for the Deuxi@me immediately," said Kroeger.

"Perhaps tomorrow, Harry Latham."

n his office at the Deuxi@me Bureau, Claude Moreau studied the decoded
message from his man in Bonn.

The content was judgmental, not factual, and not terribly enlightening,
but there was a substance to it that could be helpful.

In yesterday's session, the Bundestag fully addressed the problem of
the spreading Nazi revivals throughout Germany, the parties coalescing,
united in their denunciations.  However, my inside sources, several of
whom dine frequently with the leaders of the left and the right
factions report that there is rampant cynicism among both.  The
liberals don't trust the conservative denouncements, and a small circle
of conservatives seem to wink at their own oratory.  The leaders of
industry, of course, are appalled, fearing the Nazi movement will close
markets to them abroad, but are reluctant to support the socialistic
ally inclined left, and do not know' whom on the right to trust.  Their
money flows like spreading inkblots throughout Bonn, without sure
direction.

Moreau leaned back in his chair, mentally abstracting the phrase that
caught his attention.  Not only caught it, but set it on fire.  A small
circle of conservatives seem to wink at their own oratory.

Who, specifically, were they?  What were the names?  And why didn't his
man in Bonn include them?

He picked up his console phone, the line to his secretary.

"I

want to go on absolute scrambler, no intercepts possible."  .

"I'll activate the procedure, sit, and you'll know by the five second
hum on line three, as usual," said the female voice in the outer
office.

"Thank you, Monique, and since my wife expects me for lunch at
L'Escargot in a few minutes, she'll undoubtedly call when I'm not
there.  Please tell her that I'm delayed but will arrive shortly."

"It's no problem, sir.  R6gine and I are good friends."

"Certainly.  You both conspire against me.  The scrambler, please."

The low-toned hum on the line-three telephone completed, Moreau dialed
his man in Bonn.

"Hallo," said the man in Germany.

"Ibr Mann in Frankreich."

"Go ahead and talk," the man in Bonn broke in.

"I'm so clean here, I'm wired into the Saudi Arabian Embassy."

"What?"

"I use their lines, not their receivership.  Think of the money I save
France.  I should be given a bonus."

"You are a rogue."

"Why else would you pay me, Paris?"

"I read your communique to us.  Several things were left out."

"Such as?"

"Who comprises that 'small, circle of conservatives who wink at their
own oratory."  You deliver no names, not even a hint of their
affiliations."

"Naturally.  Isn't that part of our very personal agreement?  Do you
really want the entire Deuxi@me Bureau to have the information?  If so,
your bank in Switzerland is entirely too generous to this rogue."

"Enough!"  snapped Moreau.

"You do what you do, and I do what I do, and neither has to know what
the other is doing.  Is that understood?"

"I imagine it has to be.  So what do you want to know?"

"Who are the people leading, or behind, this small circle you
describe?"

"Most are nothing but opportunists with little ability who wish to
catch on to a tail that will bring back the old days.  Others are
followers who march to past drums because they have none of their
own-"

"Their leaders?"  said Moreau curtly.

"Who are they?"

"That'll cost you, Claude."

"It will cost you if you don't spell them out.  Monetarily and
otherwise."

"I believe you.  Alas, my presence would barely be missed.

You're a tough man, Moreau."

"And eminently fair," countered the Deuxi@me chief.

"You're well paid, both on and off the books, the former far more
dangerous for you.  I wouldn't have to leave this office, or issue a
single order except one: "Quietly release selected top-secret
information to our friends in Bonn."  Your demise probably wouldn't
even make the papers."

"And if I give you what I have?"

"Then a lovely, productive friendship will continue."

"It's not much, Claude."

"I trust that's not a prelude for your withholding anything."

"Of course it isn't.  I'm not a fool."

"There's logic in your words.  So give me this disappointing, limited
information that concerns your 'small circle."

"

"My informants tell me that every Tuesday night a meeting is held at
one or another's house along the Rhine, usually a large house, an
estate.  Each has docking facilities and all those coming together
arrive by boat, never by automobile."

"A boat's wake is somewhat less identifiable than tire tracks,"
interrupted Moreau, "or vehicles with license plates.

"Understood.  Therefore, these meetings are secret and the identities
of those attending concealed."

"The houses, however, are not, are they?  Or hadn't that fact occurred
to your informants?"

"I was getting to them.  For God's sake, give me some credit."

"I'm impatient.  The owners' names, please."

"It's a mixed bag, Claude.  Three are upstanding aristocrats whose
families opposed Hitler and paid for it; three, possibly four, are part
of the new rich who guard their assets from further government
appropriations; and two are men of the cloth-one an old Catholic
priest, the other a Lutheran minister who apparently takes his vows of
non ostentation seriously.  He's listed as the lessee of the smallest
house on the river."

"The names, damn you!"

"I have only six-- "Where are the others?"

"The unknown three are also renters, and the leasing agents in
Switzerland won't reveal anything.  That's standard practice among the
very rich who want to avoid taxes on outside income."

"Give me the six, then."

"Maximilian von L6wenstein, he owns the largest-" "His father, the
general, was executed by the SS in the Wolfsschanze incident, the
attempted assassination of Hitler.  Next?"

"Albert Richter, once a playboy, now a converted, serious
politician."

"He's still a dilettante, with property in Monaco.  His family was
about to cut him off unless he changed his ways.  It's an act.

Next?"

"Gunter jAger, he's the Lutheran minister."

"I don't know him, at least nothing that comes to mind.  Next?"

"Monsignor Heinrich Paltz, he's the priest."

"An ancient right-wing Catholic who covers his biases with
sanctimonious drivel.  Next?"

"Friedrich von Schell, he's the third of the rich people we've
identified.  His estate has more than-"

"He's smart," interrupted Moreau, "and -he's tough where the unions are
concerned.  A nineteenth-century Prussian in Armani suits.  Next?"

"Ansel Schmidt, very outspoken; an electronics engineer who made
millions in high-technology exports and fights the government at every
turn."

"A pig who went from one firm to another stealing technology until he
had it all, and formed his own companies."

"That's what I have, Claude; it's hardly worth my life."

"Who are the Swiss rental agencies?"

"The contact is a real estate company here in Bonn.

One sends an emissary with a hundred thousand deutsche marks as a sign
of serious intent, and they forward it to a bank in Zurich, along with
a profile of the would-be lessee.  If the money's returned, there's no
deal.  If it isn't, someone goes to Zurich."

"Telephone and household bills?  I trust you've looked into these with
our unknown three."

"In each case they are sent to personal managers, two in Stuttgart, one
in Munich, all coded, no names included."

"Certainly the Bundestag has a fist of addresses."

"Private residences are closely guarded, as they are in governments
everywhere.  I could try, but it might be dangerous if I were caught.
Frankly, I can't stand pain, even the thought of it."

"Then you don't have the specific addresses?"

"There, I'm afraid, I've failed you.  I could describe them from a
distance, and from the river, but the residence numbers have been
removed, the gates closed, and there are patrols with guard dogs both
within and without.  There are no mailboxes, of course."

"It's one of those three, then," said Moreau softly.

"Who's one of what?"  asked the man in Bonn.

"The leader of our 'small circle."  .. .. Put your people on the roads
to these houses and order them to identify the vehicles driving through
the gates.  Then match them with those at the Bundestag."

"My dear Claude, perhaps I wasn't clear.  These estates are patrolled
both inside and outside, dozens of cameras mounted throughout the
grounds.  If I could hire such men, which is unlikely, and they were
caught, the trail would lead to me, and, as I mentioned, even the
prospect of pain is abhorrent to your obedient servant."

"I often wonder how you got to where you are."

"By living well, with the proper finances to ingratiate myself among
the powerful, but most important, by-not being caught.  Does that
answer you?"

"God help you you ever get caught."

"No, Claude, God help you."

"I won't pursue that."

"My fee?"

"When mine comes in, yours will follow."

"Whose side are you on, my old friend?"

"No one's and everyone's, but especially my own."  Moreau hung up the
phone and looked at the notes he had taken.  He circled three names:
Albert Richter, Friedrich von Schell, and Ansel Schmidt.  One was
probably the leader he sought, but each had a reason to be and the
wherewithal to build a constituency.  At the least, they provided him
with the immediate ammunition he needed.

He saw that the blue strip on line three was lit; the scrambler was
still activated.  He picked up the phone and dialed a number in
Geneva.

-L'University de Gen@ve,said the operator four hundred miles away.

"Professor Andre Benoit, if you please.

"Allo?"  said the voice of the university's most prominent scholar of
political science.

"It's your confidant from Paris.  May we talk?"

"In a moment."  The phone was silent for eight seconds.

"Now we may," said Professor Benoit, back on the line.

"No doubt you're calling about the problems we've had in Paris.  I can
tell you now, I know nothing.  Nobody does!  Can you enlighten us?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Where have you been?"

"In Monte Carlo, with the actor and his wife.  I got back just this
morning."

"Then you haven't heard?"  asked the man in Geneva, astonished.

"About the attacks on the American Latham and his subsequent murder at
the country restaurant, no doubt engineered by your psychopathic K Unit
here in the city?  It was a stupid act."

"No!  Zero One, Paris, has disappeared, and early this -morning the
police reported an assault on the rue Diane-"

"Witkowski's place?"  Moreau interrupted.

"I haven't seen the information."

"They don't have what I know either.  The entire K Unit has also
disappeared."

"I never knew where they were posted-"None of us did, but they're
gone!"

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say, get on top of things and find out what happened!"

demanded Geneva.

"I'm afraid I have more bad news for you and Bonn," said the Deuxi@me
chief haltingly.

"What could it possibly be?"

"My agents in Germany have come up with names, men who meet every
Tuesday night in houses along the Rhine."

"Oh, my God!  What names?"

Claude Moreau gave them to him, slowly spelling out each.

"Tell them to be very, very careful," he said.

"They're all under intelligence microscopes."

"Outside of certain reputations, I don't know any of them!"

exclaimed the professor in Geneva.

"I had no idea-"

"You weren't meant to have any ideas, Herr Professor.  You follow
orders, as I do."

"Yes, but .. . but

"Academicians aren't very competent when it comes to practical matters.
just make sure our associates in Bonn get the information."

"Yes .. . yes, of course, Paris.  Oh, my God!"

Moreau hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair.

Things-things-were going his way.  They might not be the best, but they
were better than anyone else's.  If he lost, he and his wife could
always retire comfortably somewhere outside of France.  On the other
hand, he could also be executed by a firing squad.  C'est la vie.

It was early evening, the setting sun filtered through the windows of
Karin de Vries's apartment on the rue Madeleine.

"I went to my flat this afternoon," said Drew, sitting in the armchair,
talking to Karin, across on the couch.

"Of course, I had a marine on either side of me-sworn to secrecy by
Witkowski, who could send them back to boot camp-and they kept their
hands on their bolstered weapons, but still it felt good to be able to
walk in the street, you know what I mean?"

"I do, indeed, but I worry about misplaced confidence.  Suppose there
are others we don't know about?"

"Hell, we know about one, Reynolds, in Communications.  I'm told he
fled like a rat into the sewers, probably living on a Nazi pension in
the Mediterranean, if they didn't decide to shoot him first."

"If he's in the Mediterranean, I suspect his body is several hundred
feet below on the ocean's bottom."

"Actually, it's a sea."

"I don't think the definition would matter to him."

Silence.  Finally, Drew spoke.

"Where are we, lady?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I have to do, go by the numbers?"

"What numbers?"

"Like "One, two, three, four, what the hell am I marching for?"

You've been hiding me all night and all day, but I can't get near
you."

"What are you talking about, Drew?"

"Christ, I'm not even sure how to put it..  .. I never thought I'd
think it, not really, and certainly not say it to someone who may be
keeping me from being killed, a subordinate who has an apartment I
could never afford."

"Please be clearer."

"How can I?  I always thought I'd march to my brother's drum; he was so
right, so perfect.  Then I heard him in that booth before he was
killed-you know what I mean-crying out how much he loved you, adored
you-"

"Stop it, Drew," said De Vries sharply.

"Are you saying you're imitating your brother in his delusions?"

"No, I'm not," said Latham calmly, quietly, his eyes locked with
hers.

"His delusions are not my feelings, Karin.  I've grown out of that
syndrome; it never did me much good anyway.  You came into his life
first, mine years later, and the equation, no matter how similar, is
worlds apart.  I'm not Harry, I could never be him, but I'm me, and
I've never known anyone like you..  .. How's that for some kind of
declaration?"

"Extremely touching, my dear."

"There's that 'my dear' again.  Meaning nothing."

"Don't belittle it, Drew.  I have to get rid of my ghosts, and when I
do, it would be nice to think that you might be there for me.

Perhaps I could become attached to you, for you have qualities I so
admire, but a relationship is a remote and distant thing to me now.

The past has to be put to rest.  Can you understand that?"

"Whether I do or I don't, I'll do my goddamnedest to make it happen."

The post-noonday crowds filled the street, the office buildings
severely depleted as hordes of employees rushed to their favorite cafes
and restaurants for luncheon engagements.  The Parisian lunch was more
than a meal; as often as not, it was a minor event, and God help the
employer who expected his hired hands, particularly his manicured
executives, to return on time, most especially during the summer
weeks.

Which is why Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger was becoming more and more agitated,
continuously jostled as he was by the departing crowds while he stood
holding the folded newspaper in front of his face, his eyes on the
entrance of the Deuxi@me Bureau's building oh his left.  He could not
afford to miss the figure of Claude Moreau.  Time was of the essence,
not an hour to be wasted.  His creation, Harry Latham, had entered the
countdown; he had, at maximum, two days, forty-eight hours, and even
this was imprecise.

And what added to the surgeon's near-unbearable stress was a detail he
had not described to his superiors in the Briiderschaft:

Prior to a subject's brain finally rejecting the implant, virtually
exploding, the area around the surgery became horribly discolored;

an inflamed skin rash the size of a demitasse saucer appeared,
directing whoever performed an autopsy to investigate the unusual
manifestation.  Contrary to general belief, the data stored in an ROM
for a solitary purpose and environs could be extracted by equipment
foreign to its original controls.

In the wrong hands, the Brotherhood of the Watch could be destroyed,
its secrets exposed, its global objecttives all too clear.  Mein Gott!
reflected Kroeger.  We are the victims of our own progress!  Then he
thought of the proliferation of nuclear weapons and realized the truth
of his unoriginal conclusion.

There was Moreau!  The broad-shouldered chief of the Deuxi@me walked
out of the building's entrance and turned to his right, hastening his
steps on the pavement.  He was in a hurry, which meant Kroeger had to
practically run to catch up, for the Frenchman was heading in the
opposite direction.  Parting the bodies in front of him, his apologies
half in German, half in French, he closed the distance between himself
and Moreau, leaving angry strollers in his wake.  Finally, he was
within arm's reach.

"Monsieur, monsieur!"  he cried out.

"You dropped something!"

"Pardon?"  The Deuxi@me chief stopped and turned around.

"You must be mistaken, I dropped nothing."

"I was sure it was you," continued the surgeon in French.

"A

billfold or a notebook.  A man picked it up and ran!"

Moreau quickly felt his pockets, his face changing from concern to
relief.

"You are mistaken," he said, "I'm missing nothing, but I'm grateful
nevertheless.  Pickpockets are numerous in Paris."

"As they are in Munich, monsieur.  I apologize, but the brotherhood I
belong to insists we follow the Christian precepts of helping
others."

"I see, a Christian brotherhood, how admirable."  Moreau stared at the
man as pedestrians rushed by on both sides.

"The Pont Neuf at nine o'clock tonight," he added, lowering his
voice.

"The north trespass."

The Paris mist diffused the moon's reflection on the waters of the
Seine; a summer rain was imminent.  In contrast to the majority of
strollers on the bridge who were hurrying to escape the inclement
weather, the two figures walked slowly toward each other on the north
pedestrian walk.  They met at midpoint; Moreau spoke first.

"You made reference to something that might be familiar to me.

Would you care to clarify?"

"There's no time for games, monsieur.  We both know who we are and what
we are.  Terrible things have happened

"So I understand-things I knew nothing about until this morning.  The
alarming aspect is that my office was not kept up-to-date.  I can't
help but wonder why.  Have any of your couriers been indiscreet?"

"Certainly not!  Our mission now, our paramount mission, is to find the
American Harry Latham.  It's more vital than you can imagine.  We know
that the embassy, with the aid of the Antinayous, is hiding him
somewhere here in Paris.  We must find him!  Surely American
intelligence keeps you informed.  Where is he?"

"You've just made several leaps beyond my knowledge, monsieur .. . what
is your name?  I do not talk to unidentified men."

"Kroeger, Dr.  -Gerhardt Kroeger, and a call to Bonn will confirm my
high station!"

"How impressive.  And what 'high station' do you occupy, Doctor?"

"I was the surgeon who .. . who saved Harry Latham's life.  And now I
must find him."

"Yes, you said that.  You're aware, are you not, that his brother Drew
was killed by your idiot K Unit?"

"It was the wrong brother."

"Again, I see.  It was the K Unit, killers barely out of school, if
they ever went to one."

"I will not tolerate your insults!"  cried a frustrated Kroeger.

"Frankly, you're not considered entirely reliable, so I advise you to
be direct with me.  You know the consequences if you're not."

"If what you say is true, I'm a rich man for it."

"Find us Harry Latham!"

"I'll certainly try-"

"Stay up all night, reach every source you have French American,
British, everyone.  Find out where they've hidden Harry Latham!  I'm at
the Lutetia, room eight hundred."

"The top floor.  You must be important"

"I will not sleep until I hear from you."

"That's foolish, Doctor.  As a physician, you should know that a lack
of sleep makes for unstable thinking.  But since you're so persuasive,
your threats also, be assured I'll do my best to satisfy you."

"Sehr gut!"  said Kroeger, reverting to German.

"I will leave now.

Do not disappoint me; do not disappoint the Briiderschaft, for you know
what will happen."

"I understand."

Kroeger walked rapidly away, his figure quickly obscured by the
settling mists.  And Claude Moreau strolled slowly to find a taxi on
the Rive Gauche.  He had some thinking to do, among those thoughts the
secure communications equipment at the Deuxi@me Bureau.  Too many
things had become elliptical.

It was 7:42 A.M. Washington time when Wesley Sorenson walked into his
office at Consular Operations; the only other person there was his
secretary.

"All the overnight reports are on your desk, Sir," she said.

"Thanks, Ginny.  As I've said repeatedly, I really hope you put in for
overtime.  No one else gets here before eight-thirty."

"You're very understanding when the kids are sick, so why push it, Mr.
Director.  Also, it's easier for me; I can collate everything before
the troops come in."

They have come in, in more ways than you know, thought Sorenson.  He
had been at Andrews Air Force Base at four o'clock in the morning and
personally escorted the two neo-Nazis off the jet from Paris, seeing
them into a marine van to a safe house in Virginia.  Despite his
exhaustion, the Cons-Op director would be driven there shortly past
noon to, again, personally interrogate the prisoners; it was a craft he
knew well.

"Anything urgent?"  he asked his secretary.

"Only everything."

"Nothing changes."

Sorenson walked into his inner office, crossed to his desk, and sat
down.  The file folders were labeled: THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC

OF CHINA, TAIWAN, THE PHILIPPINES, THE MIDDLE

EAST, GREECE, THE BALKANS .. . and finally, GERMANY and

FRANCE.

Shoving aside the rest, he opened the file from Paris.  It was
explosive.  Using the police reports, it described the assault on
Colonel Witkowski's apartment with no mention of the colonel's sending
two captives on a military jet to Washington.  It spoke of the
burned-out headquarters of a neo-Nazi unit in the Avignon warehouse
complex.  They were reputed to be killers who had disappeared.  The
final news from Paris was a coded message from Witkowski, decoded in
Consular Operations; this was the explosion.

Gerhardt Kroeger in Paris.  He's bunting Harry Latham.  The target has
been alerted.

Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon, mystery man, and the key to many things.  No
one outside of American intelligence knew about him.

In a way, thought Sorenson, it was wrong.  The French and the British
should be included, but the CIA-Knox Talbot agreeing--could not trust
them.

And then at eight in the morning his telephone rang.

"Paris calling," said his secretary.

"A Mr.  Moreau from the Deuxieme Bureau."

Sorenson quietly gasped, his face suddenly pale.  Moreau had been cut
off; he was suspect.  The Cons-Op director breathed deeply, picked up
the phone, then spoke, his words controlled.

"HeLLO, Claude, it's good to hear from you, old friend."

"Apparently, Wesley, it's not proper for me to hear from you, if I may
speak plainly."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, come, within the last thirty-six hours a great many things have
happened that concern us both, but not a word of them has been
processed to my office.  What kind of cooperation is that?"

"I .. . I don't know, Claude."

"Of course you do.  I've been systematically excluded from the
operation.  Why?"

"I can't answer that.  I don't control the operation, you know that.

I had no idea-"

"Please, Wesley.  In the field you were an accomplished liar, but not
with someone who told lies with you.  We both know how these things
work, don't we?  Someone heard something from someone else and the
diseased oyster grows, producing a false pearl.  But there's time for
that later.  Assuming that you're still functioning, I may have a chess
piece for you."

"What is it?"

"Who's Gerhardt Kroeger?"

"What?"

"You heard me, and it's obvious that you've heard the name before. 
He's a doctor."

Kroeger was off limits to the Deuxi@me.  Moreau was out of the loop!
Was he fishing?

"I'm not sure I have heard it, Claude.  Gerhardt .. . Kroeger, was
it?"

"Now you're positively insulting.  Again, I'll let it pass, for my
information is too important.  Kroeger followed me and stopped me
during my evening stroll.  In short words, he made it plain that I
either directed him to Harry Latham or I was a dead man."

"I can't believe this!  Why would he come to you?"

"I asked him the same question and his answer was one I might have
expected.  I have people in Germany, as I do in most countries.  A year
ago I negotiated for the life of one man being held by a skinhead crowd
in Mannheim.  I got him out for roughly six thousand dollars American,
a bargain, I'd say.  Still, they had the name of the Deuxieme, and knew
the arrangement could not have been made without my approval."

"But you never heard of Gerhardt Kroeger before?"

"Not until last night, I just told you that.  I went back to my office
and searched our records for the past five years; there was nothing.

By the way, he's staying at the Hotel Lutetia, room eight hundred, and
he expects me to call him."

"For God's sake, take him!"

"Oh, he won't leave, Wesley, I can assure you of that.  But why not
play with him a bit?  He certainly doesn't work solo, and we're looking
for bigger fish."

A wave of relief spread over Sorenson.  Claude Moreau was clean!  He
never would ha@,e offered up Gerhardt

Kroeger, hotel and room number included, if he were working for the
Brotherhood.

"If it makes you feel any better," said the director of Cons-Op, "I was
excluded myself for a while.  Guess why?  Because we worked together,
specifically Istanbul, where you had the grace to save my ass."

"You would have done the same for me."

"That's what I angrily told the Agency, and what I'm going to tell them
again, even angrier."

"One moment, Wesley," said Moreau slowly.

"Speaking of Istanbul, do you remember when the apparatchiks of the KGB
believed you were a double, actually an informer for' their superiors
in Moscow?"

"Certainly.  They lived like the suleimans with the riches of the
Topkapi at their disposal.  They were frightened to death."

"So they took you into their confidence, did they not?"

"Naturally, telling me things-anything-to justify their lifestyles.
Most of it was rubbish, but not all."

"But they did take you into their confidence, no?"

"Yes."

"Then, for the moment, let things stay the way they are.  I'm still on
the outside, not to be trusted.  Perhaps I can play with Herr Doktor
Kroeger and learn things."

"Which means you need something first."

"

"Anything," as you said, referring to Istanbul.  It doesn't have to be
accurate, but it should be relatively acceptable."

"Like what?"

"Where is Harry Latham?"

There was no Harry Latham.  The doubts returned to the former
deep-cover intelligence officer.

"Even I don't know that," said

"I don't mean where he really is," broke in Moreau, "just where he
might be.  Something they would believe."

The doubts receded.

"Well, there's an organization called the Antinayous-"

"They know about it," interrupted Moreau.

"Those people are untraceable.  Something else."

"They certainly know about Witkowski and the De Vries woman-"

"They certainly do," agreed the Deuxi@me chief.

"Give me someplace where, with a little research, they could learn how
your people operate."

"I suppose that would be Marseilles.  We follow up on the drug
interdictions; too many of our people have been bought or disappeared.
Actually, we're fairly obvious if anyone's looking.  It's a
deterrent."

"That's good.  I'll use it."

"Claude, I'll be honest, I want to clear you over here!  It's
insufferable that you're under suspicion."

"Not yet, my old friend.  Remember Istanbul.  We've played these games
before."

In Paris, Moreau hung up the phone, once more leaning back in his
chair, his eyes on the ceiling, his thoughts bouncing from one fragment
of information to another.  He was now in the race to the finish.  The
risks he was taking were gargantuan, but he could not stop.  Revenge,
it was all that mattered.

ince Drew Latham had supposedly departed this world, his Deuxi@me car
had been withdrawn.  In its S place, Witkowski had ordered embassy
Transport to supply security measures: three personnel on eight-hour
shifts, and an unmarked vehicle kept available for an unnamed army
officer and his lady, at the moment in the rue Madeleine.  The colonel
made it clear to the marines, who would be on rotation duty, that
should they recognize the officer, his identity was to remain secret.
If it did not, certain "gyrenes" would be sent back to Parris Island
along with the lowest recruits, their accomplishments stricken from
their records.

"You don't have to say that, Colonel," said a marine sergeant.

"If you'll forgive me, sir, it's goddamned demeaning."

"Then I apologize."

"You should, sir," added a corporal.

"We've been on embassy duty from Beijing to Kuala Lumpur, where real
security mattered."

"Hog damn right!"  whispered a second corporal, then louder.

"We're not army-sir.  We're marines."

"Then I really apologize, fellas.  Forgive this old G.I. issue.  I'm
just a fossil."

"We know who you are, Colonel," said the sergeant.

"You have nothing to worry about, sir."

"I thank you."

As the three departed for the bowels of Transport, Witkowski was struck
by a comment from one of the corporals.

"He shoulda been a marine.  Hell, I'd follow that son of a bitch down
the barrel of a cannon."

Stanley Witkowski considered for a moment that it was the highest
praise he had ever received during his entire career.

But now there were other things to think about, not the least of which
were Drew Latham and Karin de Vries.  The confluence of hours and
exhaustion dictated that Latham stay in De Vries's apartment rather
than drive out to the Antinayous' sterile house actually the
Antinayous' insisted upon it in the event the target was still being
followed.  After several days without any untoward occurrence, they
would reconsider, but only reconsider.

"He has involved himself in things too public for our purposes," had
said an abrupt woman at the Maison Rouge.

"We admire him, but we cannot tolerate the remotest possibility of
being discovered."

As to Karin staying at the embassy, there simply was no point.

As a member of classified D and R who resided outside the embassy, her
address was filed only in Security, and anyone requesting it had to be
cleared by the colonel himself.  Several male at tachs had; they were
refused.  Added to which, the widow De Vries had once shared a piece of
information that greatly relieved him.

"I'm not a poor woman, Colonel.  I have three automobiles here in Paris
in different garages.  I change appearances with each change of
vehicle."

"That takes a load off my mind," said Witkowski.

"Considering the information in your head, it's damned smart
thinking."

"It wasn't mine, sit.  General Raichert, the supreme commander of NATO,
ordered it in The Hague.  There the Americans paid for it, but the
circumstances were different.  I don't expect it here."

"You must not be poor."

"I'm committed to what I do, Colonel.  The money's not important."

That conversation had taken place over four months before, and
Witkowski then had no idea how "committed" the new arrival was.

He had no doubts now.  The telephone on his private line rang,
interrupting the colonel's reverie.

"Yes?"

"It's your wandering angel, Stanley," said Drew.

"Any word from House Red?"

"There's no room at the inn, at least not for a while.  The fact that
you're a mark has them worried."

"I'm wearing a uniform, your uniform, for Christ's sake!  By the way,
you're a tad bigger in the waist and the ass than I am.  The tunic's
fine, however."

"I'm greatly relieved; it'll cover the imperfections when the fashion
photographers take your picture..  .. You could be disguised by that
actor, Villier, and they'd still want you to stay away."

"I guess I can't really blame them."

"I don't," agreed the colonel.

"Will Karin put up with you another day or two until I can find proper
lodgings?"

"I don't know, ask her."  Latham's voice became fainter as he held the
phone away from his face.

"It's Witkowski.  He wants to know if my lease is up."

"Hello, Colonel," said Karin.

"I gather the Antinayous are balking."

"I'm afraid so."

"It's understandable."

"Yes, it is, but I haven't come up with a suitable alternative.  Can
you stand him for another day, perhaps two?  I'll arrange something by
then."

"It's not a problem.  He tells me he made his bed this morning."

"Hell yes," Drew's voice was heard in the background.

"I'm back in Boy Scout camp with lots of cold showers!"

"Pay no attention to him, Colonel.  I believe I mentioned he can be
quite childish."

"He wasn't at the Trocadero or the Meurice or the Bois de Boulogne,
Karin.  Even I'll give him that."

"Agreed," said De Vries, "but if you have difficulties, there's a
possible solution, at least it worked several times in Amsterdam.

Freddie would put on one of several uniforms-American, Dutch, English,
it didn't matter-and register at the Amstel for confidential
meetings."

"One of his well-known tricks, then?"  asked a wary Witkowski.

"A benign one, Colonel.  As Drew told you, your uniform fits him quite
well, and I can easily sew tucks in the waist and other places-"

"I'm painfully aware of that other place..  .. What then; he's still
Latham?"

"With a slight altering of appearance, certainly less so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A change of hair color," she replied, speaking softly, It especially
around the temples, where it's obvious below his officer's cap, and a
pair of thick-rimmed glasses, plain lenses of course, and a false
military ID.  I can do the hair and supply the glasses if you'll
furnish an identification card.  He could then register at any crowded
hotel, which I'm sure you can arrange."

"This is hardly in the embassy's purview, Karin."

"From what I understand of Consular Operations, I submit it's within
its range of operations."

"You've got me there, I guess.  You must really want him out."

"It's not the person, Colonel, it's the fact that he's a man, seen here
only as an American army officer.  I doubt that anyone in the building
knows that I work for the embassy, but if anyone does or suspects that
I do, it compromises Drew, myself, and our objectives."

"In simple words, your residence could become another target."

"Far-fetched, perhaps, but not implausible."

"Nothing's implausible in this war.  I'll need a photograph."

"I still have Freddie's camera.  You'll have a dozen in the morning."

"I wish I was there to see you dye his hair.  That'd be a real hoot."

De Vries hung up the telephone, walked to a closet in the foyer, opened
it, and took out a small suitcase with two combination locks.

Latham watched her from the armchair, a drink in his hand.

"I trust that's not holding a quickly assembled automatic weapon," he
said as Karin placed the luggage on the coffee table in front of the
couch and sat down.

"Good heavens, no," she replied, manipulating the combination locks and
opening the suitcase.

"In truth, I

hope it can help you avoid the necessity of facing such a gun2l

"Hold it.  What's in there?  I couldn't hear you most of the time when
you were talking to Stanley.  What's boiling in that awesomely
attractive head of yours?"

-This is what Freddie called his 'emergency traveling case.?  "

"Already I'd rather not know.  Freddie was violent with you and that
makes him unfriendly."

"There were the other years too, Drew."

"Thanks for nothing.  What's in there?"

"Simple methods of disguise, nothing dramatic or mind-boggling.

Various pre-glued mustaches, also a couple of chin beards, and numerous
eyeglasses .. . and some basic washable dyes."  She described the last
far more quietly.

"What was that?"

"You can't stay here, my friend," said Karin, looking at him over the
top of the suitcase.

"Now, don't become defensive and take it personally, but the houses and
flats here in the Madeleine are like a small upscale neighborhood in
America.  People talk, and gossip abounds in the cafes and the
bakeries.  To use your word, it could reach unfriendly' ears."

"I accept that, I understand it, but that's not what I asked you."

"You'll be registering at a hotel under a different name, which the
colonel will supply, and with a slightly different appearance."

"What?"

"I'm going to dye your hair and your eyebrows with a washable solution.
Reddish-blond, I think."

"What are you talking about?  I'm no Jean-Pierre Villier!"

"You don't have to be.  just be yourself; no one will recognize you
unless he's standing a few feet in front of you and staring straight at
you.  Now, if you'll please put on the colonel's trousers, I'll pin
them and adjust the size."

"You know, you're crazier than a pissed loon!"

"Can you think of a better solution?"

"Goddammit!"  roared Latham, swallowing the remainder of his Scotch.

"No, actually, I can't."

"On second thought, we'll do the hair first.  Please remove your
shirt."

"How about my trousers?  I'd feel more natural, more at home that
way."

""You're not at home, Drew."

"Gotcha, lady!"

Moreau picked up his console phone, pressing a button that would record
his conversation, and spoke to the Lutetia switchboard.

"Room eight hundred, if you please."

"Certainly, sir."

"Yes?"  said the muffled, guttural voice on the line.

"Monsieur le docteur?"  asked the chief of the Deuxieme, unsure that he
had the right connection.

"It is I, from the Pont Neuf.  Is it you?"

"Of course it is.  What have you brought me?"

"I have reached deep, Doctor, far deeper than is healthy for me.  I've
provoked the American CIA into telling me that it is, indeed, hiding
Harry Latham."

"Where?"

"Perhaps not here in Paris, perhaps in Marseilles."

"Perhaps, perhaps?  That does me no good!  Can you be sure?"

"No, but possibly you can."

"Me?"

"You have people in Marseilles, no?"

"Of course.  A great deal of finance comes through there."

"Look for the "Consulars," that's what they're called."

"We know about them," said Gerhardt@ breathless.

"The bastard intelligence group, Consular Operations.  One can spot
them at every corner, every cafe."

"Take one of them, see what you can learn."

"Within the hour.  Where can I reach you?"

"I'll call you back an hour from now."

The hour passed, and Moreau called the Lutetia.

"Anything?"

he asked a hyper Gerhardt.

"It's insane!"  said the doctor.

"The man we spoke with is someone we've paid thousands to so we could
collect millions through the network.  He said we were crazy; no such
man as Harry Latham is on their list or in Marse'lles!"

Then he's still in Paris," said Moreau, frustration in his voice.

"I'll go back to work."

"As fast as you can!"

"Ever so," said the Deuxi@me chief, hanging up the phone and smiling an
enigmatic smile.  He waited exactly fourteen minutes and then called
back the Lutetia.  It was the moment to propel anxiety into high
gear.

"Yes?"

"It is I again.  Something just came in."

"For God's sake, what is it?"

"Harry Latham."

"What?"

"He called one of my people, a man he had worked with in East Berlin
who rightfully believed he should inform me.  Apparently Latham is
quite intense-isolation can do that, you know--even to the point that
he thinks his own embassy is compromised-"

"It's Latham!"  interrupted the German.

"The symptoms are predictable."

"What symptoms?  What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing at all.  As you say, isolation can do strange things
to people..  .. What did he want?"

"Possibly French protection, is what we gather.  My man's to meet him
at the Metro station, the Georges Cinq stop at two o'clock this
afternoon, toward the rear of the platform."

"I must be there!"  shouted Gerhardt.

"It's not advisable, nor is it the policy of the Bureau to involve the
hunted with the hunter, monsieur, when they are not part of our
organization."

"You don't understand, I must be with you!"

"Why is that?  It could be dangerous."

"Not to me, never to me."

"Now I don't understand you."

"You don't have to!  Remember the Brotherhood, it is what you must
obey, and I'm giving you your orders."

"Then, of course, I must obey, Herr Doktor.  We meet on the platform at
ten minutes to two o'clock.  Not before or after, is that
understood?"

"I understand."

Moreau did not hang up the phone; instead, he pressed the disconnect
button and touched the digits that connected him to his most trusted
subordinate officer.

"Jacques," he said calmly, "we have a very important confrontation at
two o'clock, just you and me.

Meet me downstairs at one-thirty and I'll fill you in.  Incidentally,
carry your automatic, but fill the magazine with blanks."

"That's a very strange request, Claude."

"It's a very strange confrontation," said Moreau, hanging up the
phone.

Drew looked into the mirror, his eyes wide in shock.

"For Christ's sake, I look like a Disney cartoon!"  he roared.

"Not really," said Karin, standing above him over the kitchen sink and
taking the mirror from him.

"You're just not used to it, that's all."

"It's preposterous!  I look like the leader of a gay rights parade."

"Does that bother you?"

"Hell, no, I've got a lot of friends in that crowd, but I'm not one of
them."

"It can be washed out in a shower, so stop complaining.  Now, put on
the uniform and I'll take some photographs for Colonel Witkowski, then
adjust the trousers."

"What has that son of a bitch got me into?"

"Basically, saving your life, can you accept that?"

"Are you always so logical?"

"Logic and the illogically logical saved Freddie's life more times than
I can tell you.  Please put on the uniform."

Latham did as he was told, returning two minutes later as a full
colonel in the United States Army.

"A uniform becomes you," said De Vries, observing him, "especially when
you stand up straight."

"One doesn't have any choice in this coat---excuse me, tunic.

It's so damn tight, if you don't arch your spine, you're punctured
somewhere and can't breathe.  I'd make a lousy soldier.  I'd insist on
wearing fatigues."

"Regulations wouldn't permit it."

"Another reason why I'd make a lousy soldier."

"Actually, you'd probably be a good one, as long as you were a
general."

"Hardly likely."

"Hardly."  Karin gestured toward the foyer.

"Come into the hallway, I'm set up.  Here are your glasses."  She
handed him a pair of heavy tortoise shells

"Set up?  Glasses?"  Drew looked over at the short hall that greeted a
visitor from the front door.  There was a camera on a tripod aimed at a
blank off-white wall.

"You're a photographer too?"

"Not at all.  Frequently, however, Freddie needed a new photograph for
a different passport.  He instructed me how to use this, not that I
needed any instructions.  It's an instant -picture camera sized down to
passport dimensions..  .. Put on the glasses and stand against the
wall.  Take off the hat; I want the full glory of your blond hair
evident."

A few minutes later De Vries had fifteen small Polaroid photographs of
a light-haired, bespectacled colonel, looking as grim and uncomfortable
as any passport picture.

"Splendid," she decreed.

"Now let's go back to the couch; where I've got my equipment."

"Equipment?"

"The trousers, remember?"

"Oh, this is the good part.  Should I take them off?"

"Not if you want them to fit.  Come along."

Fifteen minutes later, having suffered only two painful punctures of a
straight pin, Latham was ordered back into the guest room to resume his
normal appearance.  Again he returned, now to find Karin at the alcove
table, on which was placed a sewing machine.

"The trousers, please."

"You know, you're blowing my mind, lady," said Drew, handing her the
army issue.

"Are you some kind of female deep-cover factotum who works behind the
scenes?"

"Let's say I've been there, Monsieur Latham."

"Yes, it's not the first time you've said that."

"Accept it, Drew.  Besides, it's none of your business."

"You're right there.  It's just, as the layers peel away, I'm not sure
whom I'm talking to.  I have to accept Freddie, and NATO, and Harry,
and the subterranean way you got to Paris, but why do I have the
feeling that there's something else that's driving you?"

"It's your imagination because you live in a world of probables and
improbables, possibles and impossibles, what's real and what isn't.
I've told you everything you have to know about me, isn't that
enough?"

"For the moment it has to be," said Latham, his eyes locked with
hers.

"But my instinct says there's something else you won't tell me..  ..
Why don't you laugh more?  You're goddamned radiant when you laugh."

"There hasn't been that much to laugh about, has there?"

"Come on, you know what I mean.  A little laughter now and then
relieves the tension.  Harry once told me that, and we both believed
Harry.  Years from now, if we run into each other, we'll probably laugh
at the Bois de Boulogne.  It had its funny moments."

"A life was taken, Drew.  Whether it was the life of a good man or a
bad man, I killed him, I cut short the life of a very young person.
I've never killed anyone before."

"If you hadn't, he would have killed me."

"I know that, I keep telling myself that.  But why does the killing
have to go on?  That was Freddie's life, not mine."

"And it shouldn't have to be yours.  But to answer your question
logically-logic being a part of your lexicon-if we don't kill when it's
necessary, if we don't stop the ncos, ten thousand times the killings
will take place.  Ten thousand, hell, let's start with six million.

Yesterday they were Jews and Gypsies and other 'undesirables."

Tomorrow they could be Republicans and Democrats in my country who
can't stomach their bilge.  Don't kid yourself, Karin,

they get a foothold in Europe, the rest of this discontented world goes
down like a row of dominoes, because they're constantly, incessantly,
appealing to every zealot who wants 'the good old days."  No crime in
the streets because even the onlookers are shot on sight; executions
rampant because there are no appeals; no habeas corpus because it's not
necessary; the presumed innocent and the guilty are lumped together, so
let's get rid of them both, prison being more expensive than bullets.
That's the future we're fighting against."

"Youthink I don't know that?"  said Karin.

"Of course I do, you sermonizing fool!  Why do you think I've lived as
I have my entire adult life?"

"But the exalted Freddie notwithstanding, there's something else, isn't
there?"

"You have no right to probe.  May we stop this conversation?"

"For now, sure.  But I think I've made clear my feelings for you,
returned or not, so it may come up again."

"Stop it!"  said De Vries, tears slowly falling from her blinking
eyes.

"Do not do this to me."

Latham ran to her, kneeling by her chair.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  I wouldn't
do that.  "

"I know you wouldn't," said Karin, composing herself and cupping his
face with her hands.

"You are a good person, Drew Latham, but don't ask any more questions
-they do hurt too much.

Instead .. . make love to me, make love to me!  I so need someone like
you."

"I wish you'd eliminate the 'someone," and just say 'you."  @,

"Then I say it.  You, Drew Latham, make love to me."

Gently, Drew helped her from the chair, then lifted her up in his arms
and carried her into the bedroom.

The rest of the morning was one of sexual excess.  Karin de Vries had
been too long without a man; she was insatiable.  At the last, she
threw her right arm over his chest.

"My God," she cried, "was that me?"

"You're laughing," said Latham, exhausted.

"Do you know how wonderful you sound when you laugh?"

"It feels wonderful to laugh."

"We can't go back, you know," said Drew.

"We have something now, we are something now, that we weren't before.
And I don't think it's the bed alone."

"Yes, my darling, and I'm not sure it's wise."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because I must operate coldly at the embassy, and if you're involved,
I don't think I can act coldly."

"Am I hearing what I want to hear?"

"Yes, you are, you American naif."

"What does that mean?"

"I believe, in your parlance, that it means I think I'm in love with
you."

"Well, as a good old boy from Mississippi once said, 'if that don't
beat hens a-wrastlin'!"

"What?"

"Come here and I'll explain it to you."

It was twelve minutes to two in the afternoon when Claude Moreau and
his most-trusted field officer, Jacques Bergeron, arrived at the
Georges Cinq station of the Paris Metro.  They walked, separately, to
the rear of the platform, each carrying a handheld radio, the
frequencies calibrated to each other.

"He's a tall man, quite slender," said the Deuxieme chief into his
instrument.

"With a propensity for bending over due to his usually addressing
shorter people-"

"I've got him!"  exclaimed the agent.

"He's leaning against & wall, waiting for the next train to come in."

"When it does, do as I told you."

The underground train arrived and came to a halt; the doors opened,
disgorging several dozen passengers.

"Now," said Moreau into his radio.

"Fire."

As ordered, Bergeron's blank gunshots reverberated along the platform
as the Metro riders raced en masse to the exit.  Moreau ran to the
panicked Gerhardt Kroeger, grabbing his arm and shouting.

"They're trying to kill you!  Come with me!"

"Who's trying to kill me?"  screamed the surgeon, running with Moreau
into a prearranged open storage room.

"What's left of your idiotic K Unit, you fool."

"They've disappeared!"

"To your ears from their mouths.  They must have bribed a maid or a
maintenance man and placed a tap in your room."

"Impossible!"

"You heard the gunfire.  Shall we bring back the train and see where
the bullets came from?  You were lucky it was crowded."

"Acb, mein Gott!"

"We have to talk, Herr Doktor, or we both may be within their gun
sights."

"But what about Harry Latham?  Where was he?"

"I saw him," lied Jacques Bergeron, walking behind them, his pistol
filled with spent blank shells in his pocket.

"When he heard the gunfire, he got back on the train."

"We must talk," said Moreau, staring at Kroeger, and heading for a
large steel door that was partially open, otherwise, we all lose."

They walked inside.

The Deuxi@me chief found the light switch and flipped it on.

They were in a medium-size enclosure of dull white cinder block,
housing huge antiquated switches and track lights along with unopened
crates of new equipment.

"Wait outside, Jacques," said Moreau to his agent.

"When the police arrive, as they surely will, identify yourself and
tell "II them you were on the train and got off when you heard the
gunshots.  Close the door, please."

Alone with the German in the dim gray light of a wire enclosed ceiling
bulb, Moreau sat on one of the crates.

"Make yourself comfortable, Doctor, we'll be here for a while, at least
until the police have come and gone."

"But if they find me in here-"

"They won't, the door locks upon closing.  We were most fortunate that
some idiot left it open.  On the other hand, who'd want to steal
anything here?  Who could even carry anything?"

"We missed him, we missed him!"  cried Kroeger, banging his fist on a
crate, then sitting on the large wood box, shaking his bruised hand.

"He'll call again," offered Moreau.

"Perhaps nor today, but certainly tomorrow.  Remember, we're dealing
with a desperate man, an isolated man.  But I must ask you, why is it
so important that you find Latham?"

"He's .. . he's dangerous."

"To whom?  You?  The Brotherhood?"

"Yes .. . to all of us."  4"Why?)@

"How much do you know?"

"Everything, naturally.  I am the Deuxieme Bureau."

"I mean specifically."

"Very well.  He escaped from your Alpine valley, somehow made his way
through the mountain snows until he reached a road, and was picked up
by a villager in a truck."

"A villager?  Now you're the fool, Herr Moreau.  The Antinayous, that's
who picked him up.  His escape was arranged from inside, a traitor
inside the valley.  We must find that Hocbverrdter!"

"

"Traitor," yes, I understand."  Over the years the head of the Deuxi@me
had learned to sense a lie when told by amateurs under stress.  The
vacuous desperation in the eyes, the words tumbling over one another,
often accompanied by spittle forming at the corners of the mouth.  As
he studied Gerhardt Kroeger, the signs were all there.

"So that's why you must find him?  To interrogate him before executing
him, so as to learn the identity of your traitor?"

"You must understand, it was a woman, and she has to be someone very
high up in the organization.  She must be eliminated!"

"Yes, of course, I understand that too."  Beads of perspiration began
to form on Kroeger's hairline, and the underground room was cool.

"So that's it, the reason for your K Unit, the reason such an important
man as yourself would come to Paris-to learn the identity of a traitor
high in the ranks of the Brotherhood."

"Precisely."  "I see.  And there's no other reason?"

"None."  Two rivulets of sweat rolled down the German's forehead, fell
over his brows, and continued down his cheeks.

"It's terribly warm in here," said Kroeger, wiping his face with the
back of his right hand.

"I hadn't noticed it.  Actually, I thought it was rather cool, but
then, such events as this afternoon are not unfamiliar to me, and do
not excessively fray my nerves.  Off and on, gunfire has been a part of
my life."

"Yes, yes, that's you, not me.  I daresay if I brought you into an
operating room during a particularly nasty procedure, you'd probably
faint."

"There's no debate, undoubtedly I would.  But you see, Doctor, for me
to be at my most efficient, I must know everything, and something tells
me you baven't told me everything."

"What more can you possibly need?"  Kroeger's sweat was more profuse.

"Perhaps you're right, at times I'm overzealous.  Then this is how
we'll proceed.  When Harry Latham calls again, I will not phone you at
the Lutetia, but instead take him ourselves.  Once taken, we'll treat
him handsomely, and after a few hours I'll reach you."

"Unacceptable!"  cried the surgeon, rising from the crate, his hands
trembling.

"I must be there when you find him!  I must be alone with him before
any interrogation takes place, away from all of you, for I'll be
discussing information no one else can overhear.

It's vital, and those are your orders from the Briiderschaft!"

"And if, for my own well-being, I don't comply?"

"News of over twenty million francs deposited into your account in
Switzerland could find its way to the Quai d'Orsay and the French
press."

"Well, that certainly is a persuasive argument, isn't it?"

"I should hope so."

"When you say jaway from all of you," what do you mean?"

"Just what I say.  I carry with me several syringes and various
narcotics that will force Harry Latham to reveal to me what we must
know.  NaWrlich, no one else may be in the vicinity."

"You mean in a room by yourselves?"

"Absolutely not.  Conversations in a room can be transmitted, as you
claim my own hotel room is tapped."

"Then how can we accommodate you?"

"An automobile of my own choosing, not one of yours.  I will drive
Latham somewhere, administer my chemicals, learn what I must learn, and
bring him back to you."

"No execution?"

"Only if I'm followed."

"Again, I understand.  It seems I have no choice."

"Time, Moreau, time!  It's extremely important.  He must be found
within the next thirty-six hours!"

"What?  Now I don't understand you at all.  Why thirty six hours?

Does the earth stop moving around the sun then?  Please explain to
me."

"Very well, it's what you perceived, what I haven't told you..  ..

Remember, I'm a doctor, some say the finest cranial surgeon in Germany,
and I will not dispute that judgment.  Harry Latham is insane, a
combination of schizophrenia and manic-depressive syndrome.  I saved
his life in our valley, operating to relieve the pressures that caused
his illness.  In looking over my notes, I found a horrible realization.
Unless given medication within six days after he escaped, he will die!
He's reached four and a half of those six days.  Now do you see?  We
must question him before he takes the name of the traitor to his
grave."

"Yes, now I do understand, but, Doctor, are you all right?"

"What?"

"You've grown quite pale and your face is drenched with perspiration.
Are there pains in your chest, perhaps?  I can have an ambulance here
in minutes."

"I don't want an ambulance, I want Harry Latham!  And I have no chest
pains, no angina, only an intolerance for slow-witted bureaucrats."

"Would you believe I understand that too?  For you're a learned man, a
brilliant man, and in addition to my devotion to your cause, I'm
honored to know you..  .. Come, we'll leave now, and I shall press my
energies to their zenith."

Out on the Charnpstlys6es, Moreau and his field officer saluted as
Gerhardt Kroeger climbed into a taxi, then headed for their Deuxi@me
vehicle.

"Hurry!"  said the veteran of Istanbul and more posts than one could
name.

"That bastard was lying to the point of swallowing his spit!  But what
was he lying about?"

"What are you going to do, Claude?"

"Sit and think and make several phone calls.  One to the eminent
scholar Heinrich Kreitz, the German ambassador.  He and his government
are going to dig out some records for me whether they like it or
not."

rew Latham, attach case in hand, presented himself at the
InterContinental's front desk.  He placed Don the counter an American
Embassy requisition order for a reservation and a military
identification card.  They were swiftly picked up and studied by a
formally dressed hotel clerk who pulled a card out of his file.

"Ah, oui, Colonel Webster, you are a most welcome guest.  The embassy
requested a mini-suite and would you believe we found one for you.  A
Spanish couple left early."

"I'm very grateful."

"Further," said the clerk, reading the card, "you may be having
visitors, and we are to call you before giving them your room number,
nest-ce pas?"

"Quite correct."

"Your luggage, monsieur?"

"I left it at the concierge's desk and gave him my name."

"Excellent.  You are a traveler, then."

"The army has me going from one place to another," said Drew, signing
the register.  Anthony Webster, Col."  U.S. Army.

Washington, D.C."  U.S.A.

"Ah, so interesting."  The clerk spun the registry pad around and
withdrew the hotel record.

He raised his eyes and tapped his bell.

"Take Monsieur le Colonel to Suite 703, and inform the concierge to
send up his luggage.  The name is Webster."

"Oui," replied the uniformed bellman.

"Follow me, monsieur.

Your luggage will arrive in a few minutes."

"Thank you."

The elevator ride to the seventh floor was uneventful except for a
middle-aged American couple who were arguing.  The woman, hair bluish
and neck and wrists replete with jewels, berated her obese husband, who
was wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson.

"Lucas, you can at least be pleasant!"

"What's to be pleasant about?  Ah cain't git a real lit no jest one of
those tiny jobs you can barely put yer ass in, and nobody speaks
American till you give 'em a tip, then you'd think they were brought up
in Texarkana."

"That's because you won't learn the money."

"You did?"

"I shop.  Do you know what you gave the last taxi driver?"

"Hell, no, Ah jest peeled off some paper."

"The fare was fifty-five francs, roughly ten dollars.  You gave him a
hundred, which is nearer twenty dollars."

"Ali'll be swaggled.  Mebbe that's why he kept winkin' at me when you
got out, sayin' in perfectly good English that he'd be outside the
hotel most of the night and I should look for him."

"Really!"  Fortunately, the door to the sixth floor opened and the
couple walked out.

"I apologize for my countrymen," said Drew, lacking for anything else
to say as he saw the raised eyebrows of the bellman.

"Don't, Monsieur le Colonel.  Later tonight it's quite possible the
gentleman will be on the pavement looking for that taxi."

"Touchif.  "

"D'accord.  This is the Paree of their dreams, nest-ce.  pas?"

"C'est vrai, I'm afraid."

"It's all harmless..  .. Here is your floor, monsieur."

The suite was small, a bedroom and a separate living area, but it was
charming, very European, and what made it rather outstanding was a
bottle of Scotch on the small bar.  Witkowski must have had pangs of
guilt, which were definitely appropriate.

Latham hated the goddamned uniform.  His chest, his waist, and his rear
end were encased in a cloth tube.  Why weren't there massive
resignations in the armed forces on the basis of clothing alone?

The bellman gone, Drew waited for his suitcase, which held a basic
change of civilian clothes, taken from his flat by a blond wigged
Karin.  He removed the suffocating tunic, poured himself a drink,
turned on the television set, switching the channels until he found the
CNN station, and sat down.  The current news was on sports, mainly
American baseball, which did not interest him; when the hockey season
arrived, it was different.

The doorbell rang; it was a young bellboy with his suitcase.

Drew thanked and tipped.  him, astonished to hear him say, "This is for
you, monsieur."  The wide-eyed youngster gave him a note.

"It is, how do you say, confidentiel?"

"That's good enough, thanks very much."

Call Room 330.  A friend.

Karin?  It was so like her very unpredictable behavior.  They were
lovers now-more than lovers.  There was something between them that no
one could take away.  So like her!

He picked up the phone, studied the printed instructions, and dialed.

"Hi, I made it," he said, the moment the phone was picked up.

"Hey, man, then it is you!"  said a mate voice on the line.

"What?  Who are you?"

"C'mon, Bronco, you can't recognize your old roommate from the Manitoba
Stars?  It's Ben Lewis!  I saw you in the lobby.  At first I thought I
was seeing double, but I knew it was you!

"Course, then you took off your hat and I figured I was nuts, until I
watched you walk to the elevators.  "

"I .. . I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Get with it, Brond Your right foot.  Remember when your ankle got
sliced by a guy on the Toronto Comets?  You heated in a few weeks and
came back on the ice, but your right foot was always angled, just
slightly, to the left.

Nobody who didn't know you would notice, but I did.  I knew it was
you!"

"Okay, okay, Benny, it's me, but you can't say anything to anybody. 
I'm working for the government now and you've got to keep your mouth
shut."

"Hey, I understand, pal.  You know, I played for the Rangers for two
seasons-"

"I know, Benny, you were terrific."

"The hell I was, I got cut on the third."

"It happens."

"Not if I were you, pal.  You had it over all of us."

"That's history.  How did you find me, Ben?"

"The concierge's desk.  I asked where the bag was going."

"They told you?"

"Sure, because I said it was mine!"

"Christ, you do bring back memories.  We'd go to an expensive
restaurant in Montreal, the check would come, and if it was too large,
you'd say it belonged to another table, or another one after that,
until it was small enough for you to accept it.  What are you doing in
Paris?"

"I'm in the fast-food business, representing all of the majors;

they recruit jocks like you and me 'cause we got big muscle and they
hype our reputations.  Would you believe my resumE says I was a star on
the Rangers?  What do they know over here?  I was a second-rater, but I
fill out a jacket."

"I never filled out one like you did."

"No, you didn't.  You were like a Toronto paper said, 4all raw sinew
and speed."  I wished the hell they'd said that about me."

"Again, that's history, Ben, but I have to tell you once more.

You've got to forget you saw me!  It's terribly important that you
remember that."

"Sure, old pal."  The man named Lewis burped, then hiccupped twice.

"Benny," said Latham firmly, "you're not on the sauce again, are
you?"

"No," answered the fast-food international salesman,

combining another burp and a hiccup.

"But what the hell, pal, this is Paris."

"Talk to you later, pal," said Latham, hanging up the phone.  No sooner
had he done so than it rang again.

"Yes?"

"It's me," said Karin de Vries.

"Did everything go all right?"

"No, goddammit, someone I knew years ago recognized me."

"Who?"

"An old hockey player from Canada."

"Is he a problem?"

"I don't think so, but he's a drunk."

"Then he's a problem.  What's his name?"

"Ben-Benjamin Lewis.  He's in room three-thirty."

"We'll get on .. .. How are you, my darling?"

"Wanting you with me, that's how I am."

4 "I've decided."

"Good God, what have you decided?  Do I want to hear it or not?"

"I hope so.  I do love you, Drew, and as you said, quite rightly, the
bed was but a small part of it."

"I love you so much, I can't find the words to tell you..  .. I can't
believe I just said that!  I never believed it could happen-"

"Nor did I. I hope we're not wrong."

"What we feel couldn't be wrong.  In a few days we've been through more
than most people have in a lifetime.  We've been tested, lady, and
neither of us blew apart.  Instead, we found each other."

"TheEuropeaninmemight call that inconclusive, but I know what you feel,
for I feel it too.  I do, and I ache for you."

'-"Then come to the hotel, blond wig and all."

"Not tonight, my darling.  The colonel would courtmartial us both.
Perhaps tomorrow."

Within the hour, as it was barely noon in New York, the president of
the International Food Services Trade Association on Sixth Avenue
received a call from Washington.

Thirty minutes later, one of their representatives, a former star of
the New York Rangers, currently in Paris, was ordered to Oslo, Norway,
to pave the way for new business opportunities.  There was only one
minor difficulty.  The salesman in question was dead drunk on his bed,
and it took two of the concierge's assistants to rouse him for the
call, help him pack, and put him in a taxi for Orly Airport.

Unfortunately, everything being rather hectic, Benjamin Lewis got in
the wrong line, missed the plane, and bought a ticket to Helsinki, as
he could not remember Oslo, but knew his employer had named a
Scandinavian city, and he had never been to Helsinki.

Such is the fate of those interfering with far-flung intelligence
operations.

Halfway through the flight, Benny suddenly recalled Oslo, and asked the
stewardess if he could step out and flag down another plane.  The
flight attendant, a gorgeous Finnish blonde, was sympathetic but
explained that it would not be a good idea.  So Benny asked her for a
late dinner in Helsinki.  She politely refused.

Wesley Sorenson left Cons-Op headquarters and was driven to the safe
house in Fairfax, Virginia, where the two Nazi revolutionaries were
being held.  As the car passed through the gates into a long, circular
drive that led to the imposing front entrance, once the estate of an
Argentinean diplomat, the director of Consular Operations tried to
remember all the tricks he had used in his field interrogations.  The
first, of course, was "Hey, fellas, I'd rather see you alive than dead,
which won't be my decision, I hope you understand that.  We can't play
games here; there's an underground soundproof room where the wall is
pretty well pockmarked from previou's executions" .. . etcetera,
etcetera.  Naturally, there was no such wall, no such room, and usually
only the most fanatical prisoners would be taken down the black-draped
elevator to an anticipated death.  Those that chose to travel that
short fifty feet were in'ected with scopolamine derivatives and were so
thankful when they revived that they normally cooperated to a fault.

The large two-man cell was not the prison variety.  It was twenty feet
long and twelve feet wide, and included two normal-size beds, a sink, a
walled toilet, a small refrigerator, and a television set.  It was
closer to a moderately priced hotel room than to something out of the
old Alcatraz or Attica.  What the prisoners did not know, but probably
suspected, was that concealed cameras were in the walls, covering every
foot of space.

"May I come in, gentlemen?"  said Sorenson, standing outside the cell
door.

"Or should I speak German to make myself clear?"

"We are well versed in English, mein Herr," replied the relaxed Paris
Two.

"We have been captured, so what can we say?  .. . No, you cannot come
in?"

"I take that as an affirmative.  Thank you."

"Your guard and his weapon will remain outside," said the less cordial
Paris Five.

"Regulations, not mine personally."  Sorenson was let into the cell by
the intelligence patrol, who stepped back to the opposite wall,
removing his sidearm from its holster.

"I think we should talk, talk seriously, gentlemen."

"What is there to talk about?"  asked Paris Two.

"Whether you live or die, I suppose is the primary question," replied
the director of Cons-Op.

"You see, it's not my decision.

Downstairs, twenty feet below ground, there's a room..  .."

Sorenson described the execution chamber to the discomfort of Paris
Five and a cooler reception from Zero Two, who kept staring at the
director, a tight smile across his lips.

"Do you think we're so committed as to give you an excuse to kill us?"
he said.

"Unless you're predisposed to do so."

"In this country we regard the taking of a life very seriously.  It's
never predisposed or accepted lightly."

"Really?"  Paris Two continued.

"Then why is it that outside of certain Arab states, China, and what's
left of selected Russian breakaways, you are the only country in the
civilized world to retain the death penalty?"

"The will of the people-in certain states, of course.  However, your
situation is beyond national policies.

You're international killers, terrorists operating on behalf of a
discredited political party that doesn't dare show itself, for it would
be denounced throughout the world."

"Are you so certain of that?"  interrupted Paris Five.

"I would hope so."

"Then you'd be wrong!"

"What my comrade is saying," Two broke in, "is that perhaps we have
more support than you think.  Look at the extreme Russian nationalists,
are they so different from the Third Reich?  And your own right-wing
fanatics and their brothers, the book-burning religious
fundamentalists.  Their agendas could have been written by Hitler and
Goebbels.  No, mein Herr, there is far more sympathy for our goals of
cleansing than you can conceive of."

"I would hope not."

"

"Hope is a thing with feathers," as one of your finest writers
suggested, is it not so?"

"I don't happen to believe that, but you're a pretty well-read young
man, aren't you?"

"I've lived in various countries, and-I would hope absorbed some of
their cultures."

"You mentioned something about being committed," said Sorenson.

"You asked me if I thought you were 'so committed' as to use that
commitment as an excuse to have you executed."

"I said 'to kill us,"

" corrected Zero Two.

"Execution implies a legal justification."

"For which, in your case, there's more than ample evddence.  I refer to
three attempts and the final murdering of Field Officer Latham, for
starters."

"It's war!"  cried Paris Five.

"In war, soldiers kill soldiers!"

"I'm not aware of any declaration of hostilities, no national call to
arms.  Therefore, it's murder, pure and simple..  .. However, this is
all academic and beyond my scope.  I can only relay information;

the decision is up to my superiors."

"What sort of information?"  asked Two.

"What can you offer in exchange for your lives?"

"Where do you wish to begin-if we have such information?"

"Who are your colleagues in Bonn?"

"That I can tell you honestly, we don't know..  .. Let me go back, mein
Herr.  We are an elite group who live extraordinary lives, the
fantasies of all young men who are superbly trained to follow orders.
These orders are issued to us by codes, codes that change constantly."
Paris Two described their lifestyles as he had told Zero Five he would
do on the jet to Washington.

"We are the shock troops, the storm troopers, if you wish, and we
maintain contacts with our units in every country.  No names are ever
used, the prefix Zero is Paris-I am Paris, Zero Two-the United States
is the prefix Three, the specific names preceding."

"How do you make contact?"

"By revolving, secure telephone numbers issued by Bonn.

Again, our digits are used, no names."

"Regarding this country, what can you tell me that could convince me to
recommend leniency with regard to your executions?"

"Mein Gott, where do you want to begin?"

"Anywhere you like."

"Very well, let's start with the Vice President of the United

"What?"

"He's one of us to the core.  Then there is the Speaker of the House,
German ancestry, naturally, an aging gentleman who claimed
conscientious objector ship during World War Two.  Of course, there are
others, many others but their names, or positions, will depend on your
recommendation to the execution committee."

"You could be lying through your teeth."

"If that's what you think, shoot us."

"You're garbage."

"As you are in our eyes!"  shouted Paris Five.

"But time is on our side, not yours.  Sooner or later the world will
wake up and see that we're right.  The dehumanized blacks commit the
vast majority of crimes; the Arabs constitute the largest groups of
terrorists, and the Jews are the manipulators of the world, cheating
and corrupting all within their reach-everything for themselves,
nothing for any-one else!"

"My passionate associate notwithstanding, do you want our information
or not?"  asked Zero Two.

"I loved my privileged life in Paris, but if it is to stop, why not
make it complete?"

"Can you provide any evidence for the outrageous accusations you've
made?"

"We can only tell you what we've been told.  But please remember, we
are the elite of the Brotherhood."

"Die Briiderschaft," said the director of Consular Operations, disgust
in his voice.

"Precisely.  That name will sweep across the globe and it will be
honored."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"But do you, mein Herr?  You are no more than a small cog in many
wheels, as I am.  Frankly, I'm bored with the whole thing.  Let history
take its inevitable course, it's beyond such men as you and me.  Also,
I'd much rather live than die."

"I'll confer with my superiors," said Wesley Sorenson coldly, walking
to the cell gate and signaling the guard.

When both men had disappeared through the outer door, Paris Two picked
up a notepad and, covering his hand, wrote in German, "He cannot afford
to execute

US."

"Monsieur IAmbassadeur," said Moreau, alone with Heinrich Kreitz in the
latter's office at the German Embassy.

"I trust there is no recording made of our conversation.  It would not
be to the advantage of either of us."

"There is none," replied the aged ambassador, his small stature, pale,
lined face, and thin steel-rimmed glasses making him appear more like a
weathered gnome than a giant intellect of Europe.

"I

have the information you requested-"

"Requested over a secure line, nest-ce pas?"  interrupted the chief of
the Deuxi@me Bureau, seated in front of the desk.

"Naturally, you have my word for it..  .. The records go back to what's
known of Gerhardt Kroeger's childhood and family, through his
university and medical training, to his hospital appointment and his
eventual resignation in Nuremberg.  It's a remarkable dossier, filled
with the triumphs of a brilliant man; and with the possible exception
of his abrupt resignation from the medical community, there's nothing
to indicate impropriety, much less sympathy with the neo-Nazi
movements.  I've made a copy for you, of course."  Kreitz leaned
forward and placed the sealed manila envelope in front of Moreau, who
picked it up, impressed by its thickness and weight.

"Save me some time, if you've got the time, sir."

"There's nothing more important than our combined investigations.  Go
on."

"You've read this thoroughly?"

"As if it were a doctoral thesis I had to accept or reject.  Very
thoroughly."

"Who were his parents?"

"Sigmund and 91si Kroeger, and you've just struck the first note that
discredits any association with the neo Nazis  Sigmund Kroeger was
officially listed as a deserter.  from the Luftwaffe in the final
months of the war."

"So were thousands of others."

"Of the Wehrmacht, perhaps, not the Luftwaffe, and very few senior
officers.  The elder Kroeger was a decorated major, decorated by
Goering himself.  The military records, ours and yours, show that had
the war continued and Kroeger been captured, he would have been
courtmartialed and shot.  By the Third Reich."

"What happened to him after the war?"

"The usual obfuscations.  He had flown his Messerschmitt over the
Allied lines, parachuted out, and let his plane crash into a field.

British troops kept the nearby villagers from killing him and he was
given the status of prisoner of war."

"And after the surrender, he was repatriated?"

"Obfuscations, what can I tell you?  He was the son of a factory owner
who employed hundreds of people.  However, in the final analysis, he
was a deserter, and no devoted follower of the Ffihrer.  Hardly the
basis for his own son to become one."

"Yes, I see.  What about his wife, Gerhardt's mother?"

"A stolid, upper-middle-class Hausfrau who probably detested the war.
At any rate, she was never listed as a member of the National Socialist
Party and never known to attend the numerous rallies."

"Not exactly a pro-Nazi influence."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"And Kroeger's university and medical schooling, were there any student
factions antagonistic to Germany's democratizations, its rejection of
the Third Reich, that might have impressed the young Kroeger?"

"None that I can find.  His professors, by and large, termed him a man
who kept to himself, a born scholar and doctor in training, simply
outstanding.  His surgical residency was so superb, he was operating
months before it was customary."

"His specialization?"

"The brain.  They say he had 'golden hands and quicksilver fingers';
that's a direct quote from the renowned Hans Traupman, another giant in
the field."

"Who ?5)

"Traupman, Hans Traupman, chief of cranial surgery, Nuremberg."

"Are they friends?"

"Other than a professional association, there's no reference to a
specific friendship."

"Yet he was excessive in his praise of a subordinate."

"Not all surgeons are ungenerous, Moreau."

"I suppose not.  Were there any conclusions or opinions as to why
Kroeger resigned his post and immigrated to Sweden?"

"Other than his own very emotional statement, no.  He had been
performing extremely delicate, one might say nerve-racking, operations
for nearly twenty years.  His personal judgment was that he had burnt
himself out, that a tremble had developed in those 'quicksilver'
fingers of his, and he would not further risk patients' lives.  Most
admirable.

"Most obfuscation al said Moreau quietly.

"Has anyone followed up on where he is now?"

"Only hearsay, as you'll read.  Several former colleagues who've heard
from him, none less than four years ago, say he opened a general
practice under a Swedish name, north of Gbteborg."

"Who are these 'former colleagues'?"

"Their names are in the report.  You may reach them yourself, if you
wish."

"I wish."

"Now, Monsieur Moreau," said the German ambassador, his short, skeletal
body leaning back in the chair, "I think it's time you were clear with
me.  When we spoke on a secure line, as you demanded-you implied that
one Gerhardt Kroeger, surgeon, could be part of the Nazi movement, but
you offered no evidence, to say nothing of proof.  Instead, rather
outrageously, you said that if my government, through this office,
refused to comply with your request to furnish you with a complete
dossier on Kroeger, you would complain to the Quai d'Orsay that we were
conceivably covering up the identity of a powerful member of the new
Nazi core.

Again, no evidence, no proof, and once you enter that file into your
system, it's quite possible that an doctor somewhere in Sweden will
have his very life in jeopardy, for I have no doubt you'll find him.
There's your information, Monsieur Moreau.  Give me something, if only
to assuage my conscience, for, as I say, you will find him."

"We have found him, Monsieur IAmbassadeur.  He's here in Paris, less
than twenty blocks away.  His mission is to find Harry Latham and kill
him.  But why be, why a doctor, a surgeon?  That's the question we must
answer."

Out on the street, Moreau went directly to his Deuxieme Bureau vehicle,
climbed in, nodded to his driver to proceed, and picked up the embassy
telephone from its cradle.  He dialed an in-house sterile number.

"Jacques?"

"Yes, Claude?"

"Run an in-depth trace on a doctor named Traupman, Hans Traupman, a
surgeon in Nuremberg."

The evening was passing slowly, far too slowly for an agitated Drew
Latham.  The hotel suite was his personal prison; even the recycled air
was beginning to become oppressive.  He opened a window, immediately
shutting it; the Paris night was humid, the air-conditioning
preferable.  He had spent too long cooped up like the fugitive he was
presumed to be.  He had to get out as he had yesterday afternoon when
he had visited his flat on the rue du Bac, accompanied by his marine
escort.  It had taken less than an hour, only minutes in the street,
but that hour, those minutes, were a brief respite from the
suffocating, restricting enclosures of the Antinayous'Maison Rouge,
Witkowski's place, even Karin's apartment-no, not Karin's apartment. 
That had been a release from something else, something he had been
running away from for years, and it was splendid and warm and filled'
with comfort.

But now, now he had to feel like a free man again, if only for a while;
he had to walk in the streets among people, it was as simple as that,
perhaps.  He had spoken to Karin two hours earlier while she was still
at the embassy, agreeing that in the interests of absolute security, he
would not call her in the Madeleine.  Certainly not; the last thing he
wanted was to make her a fugitive too.  She had, however, given him an
urgent message from Washington.  He was to reach Wesley Sorenson on his
very private line, and keep trying until the Cons-Op director answered;
and if by six o'clock D.C. time they had not made contact, he was to
call Sorenson at his home, regardless of the hour.

He had tried repeatedly, knowing the number could not be traced, until
eleven o'clock in Paris, six o'clock in Washington.

Then he had phoned Wcs's home.  Mrs.  Sorenson had answered;

the compleat spook's wife had said the proper words.

"My husband's expecting a call from our antiques dealer in Paris.  If
this is he, Mr.  Sorenson is tied up until around seven, our time, but
if it's not too inconvenient, please try then, as we don't have your
apartment number.  He's most eager about the tapestry we saw last
month."

"It hasn't been sold, madam," Drew had said.

"I'll call him shortly past midnight, Paris time, seven o'clock yours.
It's the least I can do for such excellent clients."

What was so important that Sorenson termed it "urgent"?  No matter,
there was an hour to waste, and to speculate on a dozen possibilities
in the confines of the small hotel suite was more than he could
tolerate.  Besides, he was wearing the inhibiting uniform that barely
allowed him to breathe, his hair was dyed a ridiculous blond, he would
wear the glasses Karin had given him, and it was dark out.  What could
be more secure than the combination of altered appearance and darkness?
Finally, he had his thin cellular phone.  If Witkowski or anyone with
maximum clearance at the embassy needed him in an emergency, they would
try that number should they not be able to reach him at the hotel.

He took the elevator down to the lobby, walked past the concierge's
desk, feeling foolish as fingers touched caps along with such
salutations as "mon colonel?"  and "Monsieur le Colonel Webster?" 
until he went through a revolving door and out onto the rue de
Castiglione. God, it felt good to be outside, away from his prison
walls!  He turned right, away from the street lamps, and proceeded down
the sidewalk, breathing the air deeply, his stride firm, almost
military, he realized, chuckling to himself.

And then it happened.  The phone in his tunic pocket rang, a low,
emphatic ring.  It so startled him that he fumbled, forgetting the
buttons on the army jacket, wanting only the damn noise to stop.

At last he ripped the ringing instrument out, pressed the receiver
button, and put the phone to his ear.

"Yes, what?"

"This is marine unit W, that's you, mister!  What are you doing outside
the hotel?"

"Getting a little air, do you mind?"

"You can bet your ass we do, but it's too late.  You're being
followed."

"What?"

"We've got a photograph; we can't be sure, but we think it's Reynolds,
Alan Reynolds from the comm center.  We've got him in our binoculars,
but the light's not so good, and he's wearing a hat with his lapels
up."

"How the hell could he spot me?  I'm in uniform and my goddamn hair's
blond!"

"A uniform can be rented, and blond hair doesn't mean much when it's
mostly dark out and someone's wearing an officer's cap.  . Keep walking
and laugh a lot when you put the phone back in your pocket.  Then turn
right into the next narrow street.  We've studied the area; we'll get
out and be behind you."

"For Christ's sake, stop him, take him!  If he's found me, it's more
than likely he's zeroed in on Mrs.  de Vries's place!"

"S he's not our priority, whoever she is.  You are, mister."

"She's a big priority with me, Mr.  Marine!"

"Start laughing real loud and put the phone away."

"You got it!"  Drew, making a fool of himself on the crowded rue de
Castiglione, laughed like a howling hyena, replaced the cellular phone
in his pocket, and turned right into the first narrow street only yards
ahead.  However, instead of walking, he broke into a run, racing to the
nearest door front on the right and whipped around the stone corner out
of sight.  The street itself, barely more than a double alleyway, was
one of those lower Parisian residential areas where the histories were
long and the rents short.  The only light came from two street lamps,
at opposite ends of the thoroughfare;

the rest was bathed in dark shadows.  Removing his officer's hat,
Latham, inch by inch, peered around the stone.  The figure walking
cautiously down the narrow street held a gun in his hand, causing Drew
to swear silently.  He had not thought to carry a weapon thought hell,
there was no place under the tight-fitting fabric of the uniform to
wear one!

Then, obviously seeing no one, the man with the gun began running
toward the lamplight at the other end; it was all Latham had to
observe.  At the instant the figure came into view, Drew lashed his
right foot out, catching the man in the groin, then sprang forward,
throwing Alan Reynolds across the wide alleyway into the wall, Latham's
hand gripping the weapon loosened by the traitor's lack of balance.

"You son of a bitch!"  roared Drew, crashing Reynolds into the stone
more aggressively than he had ever body checked an opponent on the
ice.

"Where do you come from, what do you know?  Where does my brother fit
in?"

"You're not him!"  choked the Nazi.

"I suspected as much, but they wouldn't listen to me!"

"I'm listening, you bastard," said Latham, the mole's gun pressed
against his forehead.

"Talk!"

"There's nothing to talk about, Latham, they have my report.  You and
the De Vries woman, the trap you've set."

Suddenly Reynolds's right hand surged up in the shadows to his collar.
He squeezed the cloth and bit into the bulging fabric.

"Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein 174ihrer!"  shrieked Alan Reynolds with his
dying breath.

The marine unit, designated W, raced down the dark, narrow street,
their weapons bared.

"Are you all right?"  yelled the sergeant in charge.

"No, I'm not all right!"  answered a furious Drew.

"How did this son of a bitch pass muster?  How did he get by all those
high-tech microscopes and the psychiatrists and the researchers who
supposedly can pinpoint the date, hour, and minute of an applicant's
conception?  It's all bullshit!  This man wasn't just a neo out for
money or a few medals, he was a certifiable fanatic who screamed the
Nazi salute as he took his cyanide.  He should have been spotted years
ago!"

"Can't argue with you there said the sergeant.

"We radioed Colonel Witkowski that we'd spotted him, or thought we had.
He told us to do whatever we had to do, shoot him in the legs or the
arms, but to bring him in alive."

"Unless the Corps issued you powers I don't think it possesses, that'll
be a tad difficult, Sergeant."

"We'll take the' body to the embassy, but first we're getting you back
to the Inter-Continental."

"You'd have to drive around several blocks to drop me off.  I can walk
quicker."

"The colonel would fry our asses if we let you do that."

"And

I'll fry them if you don't.  I'm not responsible to

Witkowski, but if it'll make you feel better, he's the first person I'm
going to call."

Back in his hotel suite, Latham picked up the phone and dialed the
colonel's apartment.

"It's me," he said.

"And the next time you tell my people you'll do what you like because
you're not responsible to me, I'll dismiss your protection and do my
best to steer you into a Nazi assassination unit."

"I believe you would."

"You can take it to the bank!"  confirmed the angry colonel.

"I had my reasons, Stanley."

"What the hell are they?"

"Karin, to begin with.  Reynolds filed a report to the ncos that
claimed I wasn't Harry but the other Latham and that Karin was part of
the trap."

"Pretty goddamned accurate.  Did he say what the trap was?"

"The cyanide cut him off-"

"Yes, I gathered that from the sergeant, along with your rather strong
opinions of our security checks."

"I believe I called them bullshit, and that's exactly what they are.  .
Get Karin out of her apartment, Stanley.  If Reynolds found me, the rue
Madeleine isn't far behind.  Get her out!"

"Any suggestions?"

"Here at the Inter-Continental, blond wig and all."

"That's about the dumbest thing you could say.  If Reynolds found you
there, who else did he tell, and who told him?"

"I'm missing something."

"You certainly are.  There's another Alan Reynolds, another mole, at
the embassy and he's as high up as they come.  I'm moving you to the
Normandie, on the pretext that Colonel Webster is being transferred
back to Washington for evaluation."

"That's kind of negative, isn't it?"

"Actually, we'll probably imply that you're incompetent.  The French
love to hear that about Americans."

"Colonel Webster is outraged.  At least I can wash out this blond hair
and get rid of the uniform, right?"

"Wrong," said Witkowski.

"Keep both awhile longer.  You can't go back to your own name and
you've got the proper ID as Webster.

It's been leaked, and by keeping it that way we may find the mole here.
The circle is tight and we're watching the few who know, and they're
damned few.  Maybe only the marines, Reynolds, and that fruit juiced
salesman Lewis, who's probably going from door to igloo door in some
tundra somewhere."

"If Reynolds leaked it to the right people, measure me for a coffin!"

"Not necessarily.  You're guarded, Colonel.  By the way, did Karin tell
you?  Wesley Sorenson has been trying to reach you.  We didn't give him
your cover and he didn't want it, but you're to phone him."

"It's next on my list.  Call me back on my move to the Normandie, and
get Karin out of harm's way.  How about the Normandie?"

"For a spook, you're not entirely subtle, Latham."  Drew hung up the
phone and glanced at his watch.  It was past midnight, past seven
o'clock in D.C. He picked up the telephone and pressed the numbers for
the States.

"Yes?"  said the voice of Sorenson.

"It's your antiques dealer from Paris."

"Thank heavens!  Sorry I was tied up, but that's another story, another
massive headache, if not a catastrophe."

"Can you tell me?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then what was so urgent?"

"Moreau.  He's clean."

"That's nice to hear.  Our embassy isn't."

"I gather that, so judgment wise it's in your court.  if you're strung
out and don't know where to turn-"

"Hold it, Wcs, I have no problem with Witkowski," interrupted Latham.

"Nor do I, but we don't know who's tapped in to him."

1 4Agreed.  Someone is."

"Then turn to Moreau.  He doesn't know you're alive,

so before you do, reach me and I'll play the scenario for him."

"He's still cut out?"

"One of our larger mistakes."

"Incidentally, Wcs, did you ever hear of an Alan Reynolds, embassy comm
center?"

"Can't say as I have."

"Wish we hadn't.  He was a neo."

"Was?"

"He's dead."

"I suppose that's a blessing."

"Can't say that it is.  We wanted him alive."

"Things go wrong sometimes.  Stay in touch."

 erhardt Kroeger labored over the fax from Bonn, a code book in his
left hand, a pencil in his right.

Carefully he inserted the proper letters above the coded words of the
message.  The nearer he came to completing the task, the more excited
was his state of mind, excited but controlled, the scientist in him
demanding total concentration.  Finished at last, elation swept over
him.  Their informer at the American Embassy had succeeded where the
vaunted Blitzkriezer had failed.  The mole's information was flawed,
but he had found the surviving Latham!  His last source remained
nameless, but he claimed it was irrefutable, a person he had cultivated
over the years, a woman for whom he had done many favors, now living
far beyond her means.

She would not lie to him for two specific reasons, the first being her
current expensive way of life; the second and far more powerful, the
threat of exposure.  They were the usual components in keeping an inner
source on a chain.

Where the informer was in error was his conviction that the Latham who
had survived the assassination attempt was not Harry Latham but his
brother, Drew Latham, the Consular Operations officer.  Kroeger knew
that was preposterous; the evidence was overwhelmingly to the contrary,
evidence from so many different quarters, it could not have been
manufactured.  Beyond the police reports, the press, and the
government's widespread dragnet for the killers, there was the
Deuxieme's Moreau and his associate.  The latter had seen Harry Latham
get back on the Metro train after the gunfire.  Of all the officials in
French Intelligence, Moreau was the last who would dare lie to the
Brotherhood.  Should he do so, he would become a pariah, a man
disgraced beyond redemption.  Scores of financial transfers to his
account in Bern guaranteed it.

My inner source, concluded the message from Bonn, tells me that
Documents and Research mocked up papers for a Colonel Anthony Webster,
a military identification card, and an embassy requisition for rooms at
the Hotel Inter-Continental on the rue de Castiglione.  The same source
further states she briefly saw the plastic ID card.  The inserted
photograph was obviously also mocked, a man with familiar features but
with blond hair rather than dark brown, and wearing a uniform and
large-framed glasses.

Although she has never seen a photograph of Harry Latham, she believes
the man in the picture is his brother, Drew Latham, a Consular
Operations officer.  According to embassy records, authorized by
security, the body of Drew Latham was flown back to the family in the
United States.  However, my own research, including the manifest
records of American diplomatic aircraft, shows no such transfer for the
date in question.  Therefore, in'my judgment, the Latham at the
Inter-Continental is not Harry Latham but his brother.  Together with
embassy security and the Dutch woman, De Vries, they have mounted a
strategy to entrap a member or members of our Brotherhood.  What the
nature of the trap is I hope to learn tonight, as I will post myself
outside Latham's hotel, and if it takes all night and all day, I will
take him and learn.  Or I will kill him in the method prescribed.

Rubbish!  thought Kroeger.  Brothers frequently have similar features.
Why would the Americans lie about the slain Latham?

There was no reason to, and every reason not to!  Harry Latham's list
was the key to the global search for the reemerging Nazis everywhere.
They needed him, which was why they were going to such lengths to keep
him alive, from enlisting the contentious Antinayous to issuing false
military identification cards and moving him from hotel to hotel. 
Harry Latham/ Alexander Lassiter was an intelligence tiger; he mourned
his brother and wanted revenge at all costs.  Little did he know that
in roughly twenty-eight hours it wouldn't make any difference to him;
he would be dead.  But it did to Gerhardt

Kroeger.  He had to find him and blow his head apart.  Now he knew
where to go, hoping rather desperately that their informer had already
performed the execution properly

It was two-ten in the morning and Kroeger put on his jacket and a light
raincoat; the raincoat was necessary if only to conceal the large,
heavy-calibered pistol that held six Black Talon shells.  Each bullet
penetrated the flesh and spread on impact like a lethal Roman candle,
leaving total destruction in its wake.

"You're being picked up at three o'clock sharp," said Witkowski.

"Not before?"  asked Latham.

"Hell, it's only forty-five minutes.  By the time you come down, I want
a unit in the lobby and a team in the street.  That takes a little
organization, proper civilian clothes and all."

"I approve.  What about Karin?"

"She's out of harm's way, as you wanted.  Blond wig and all, as I think
you suggested."

"Where ?"

"Not where you are."

"You're all heart, Stanley."

"You sound like my mother, God rest her soul."

"Why can't I wish the same for yours?"

"Because you always want instant gratification, and I won't permit it..
.. One of my people will pick up your luggage and attache case fifteen
minutes before you go down.  If anyone asks where you're off to, just
tell him you can't sleep.  Another of your strolls outside.  We'll take
care of the hotel later."

"You really believe Reynoldstipped off other ncos here in Paris?"

"Frankly, no, because from what we can piece together, his killer
platoon is gone-who was he going to reach?  No one in Germany could get
here in time, and this Kroeger's a doctor, not an assassin.

My judgment is that he's here to confirm, not to pull an y triggers,
assuming he knows how.  Reynolds was acting solo because he'd been
spotted in the street outside of my place and wanted to make up for it.
Killing you would have given him points."

"We can't be sure he knew he was spotted, Stanley."

"Really?  Then why didn't he show up at the embassy in the morning?
Remember, chlopak, two ncos got away while surviving my externals-"

"The fire escapes and the rug, right?"  interrupted Drew.

"You're getting brighter.  If A equals B and B equals C, then it's a
good bet that A equals C. Not a bad rule to go by."

"Now you sound like Harry."

"Thanks for the compliment.  Get yourself ready."

Latham packed his suitcase rapidly, which was easy because he had
barely unpacked, taking out only his civilian trousers and blazer, an
embassy attach's uniform of the day.  Now the waiting began, minutes
ticked off within his prison walls.  Then his telephone rang;

expecting Witkowski, he picked it up.

"Yes, what is it now?"

"What is what?  It's Karin, my dear."

"Jesus, where are you?"

"I swore not to tell you-", "Bullshit!"

"No, Drew, it's called protection.  The colonel tells me he's moving
you-please, I don't care to know where."

"This is getting ridiculous."

"Then you don't know our enemy.  I just want you to be careful, very
careful."

"You heard about tonight?"

"Reynolds?  Yes, Witkowski told me, which is why I'm calling you.

I can't get through to the colonel; his line's busy, which means he's
constantly on the phone to the embassy, but something occurred to me
only moments ago, and someone other than me should know about it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Alan Reynolds frequently came down to D and R on one pretext or
another, usually concerning our maps and transportation information."

"No one thought it was odd?"  Latham broke in.

"Not really.  It's easier than calling the airlines or track- Ming
train schedules, or, even worse, buying road maps in small lettered
French.  Ours are in legible English."

"But you thought it was strange, right?"

"Only after the colonel told me about tonight, not before, frankly.

Many of our people take weekend trips all over France, Switzerland,
Italy, and Spain.  Especially those whose tours in Paris are limited.

No, Drew, it was something else, and that was strange."

"What was it?"

"On two occasions when I went back to Transport, I saw Reynolds walking
out of the last aisle before the Transport door.  I suppose I thought
something like, "Oh, he has a friend in one of the offices and is
arranging a lunch or a dinner," or some such thing."

"And now you're thinking so meting e se?"

"Yes, but I could be quite wrong.  All of us in D and R work with
degrees of confidential materials, much of it not deserving the
designation confidential, but it's common knowledge that those in the
last aisle, the farthest from the door, deal solely with maximum
classified information."

"A pecking order?"  asked Latham.

"From the first to the last aisle degrees of confidentiality?"

"Not at all," replied Karin.

"The offices are simply different.

When one is working on highly secret material, he or she moves into the
last aisle, where the computers are far more inclusive and the
communications set up for instant contact worldwide.  I've worked there
three times since I arrived here."

"How many offices in the last aisle?"

"Six on each side of the central corridor."

"Which side did you see Reynolds in?"

"The left side.  I turned my head to the left, I remember that."

"Both times?"

"Yes."  "What were the days, the dates, you saw him?"

"Good Lord, I don't know.  It was over several weeks, going back a
month or two."

"Try to think, Karin."

"if I could pinpoint them, I would, Drew.  At the time, I simply didn't
consider it important."

"It is.  He is."

4"Why?  ))

"Because your instincts are right.  Witkowski says there's another Alan
Reynolds at the embassy, another mole, someone very high up and very
inside."

"I'll get a calendar and do my best to isolate the weeks, then the
days.  I'll try like mad to recall what I was working on.  "

"Would it help to get into your office at the embassy?"

"That would mean getting into the supercomputer, which is somewhere
below our own cellars.  It stores everything for five years because our
own papers are destroyed."

"It can be arranged."

"Even if it can, I haven't the vaguest idea how to operate it."

"Someone does."

"It's two-thirty in the morning, my darling."

"I don't care if it's half past the third moon!  Courtland can order in
whoever operates it, and if he can't, Wesley Sorenson can, and if be
can't, the goddamn President can!"

"Getting angry won't help, Drew."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not Harry."

"I loved Harry, but he was never you either.  Do what you have to do.
In you ranger which is probably the only way it can be done."

Latham depressed the lever, disconnecting the call, then immediately
dialed the embassy, demanding to speak to Ambassador Courtland.

"I don't care what time it is!"  he shouted when the operator
objected.

"This is a matter of national security, and I'm under direct orders
from Washington's Consular Operations."

"Yes, this is Ambassador Courtland.  What can be so urgent at this
hour?"

"Is this phone secure, sir?"  asked Latham, lowering his voice to a
whisper.

"I'll put you on hold and take it in another room.  It's constantly
swept, and besides, my wife is asleep."  Twenty seconds later Courtland
continued on an upstairs telephone.

"All right, who are you and what's this all about?"

"It's Drew Latham, sir-"

"My God, you're dead!  I don't understand-" 4 "You don't have to
understand, Mr.  Ambassador.  just find our computer whizzes and order
them down to the underground super stuff." "That's pretty heavy-my God,
you were killed!"

"Sometimes we get too complicated, but please, do as I ask..  . Also,
you have the capability.  Break into Witkowski's phone and order him to
call me."

"Where are you?"

"He knows.  Do it quickly.  I'm expected to leave here in fifteen
minutes, but I can't until I speak to him."  ,

"All right, all right, whatever you say..  .. I guess I should mention
that I'm glad you're alive."

"So am I. Go to it, Mr.  Ambassador."

Three minutes later Latham's phone rang.

"Stanley?"

"What the hell's going on?"

"Get Karin and me to the embassy as soon as possible."  Drew explained
in a few emphatic words what De Vries told him about Alan Reynolds.

"A couple of minutes won't change the scenario, young man.

Stick to the schedule I've set, and I'll reroute you to the embassy and
meet you both there."

Latham waited; Witkowski's marine, in civilian clothes, arrived and
took his suitcase and attache case.

"Come down in four minutes, sir," said the man courteously.

"We're prepared."

"Are you people always so polite in these situations?"  asked Latham.

"It doesn't help to be uptight, sir.  It blurs your focus."

"Why do I think I've heard that before?"

"I don't know.  See you downstairs."

Three minutes later, Drew walked out the door and went to the
elevators.  At that hour the ride down was swift, the lobby practically
deserted except for a few late night revelers, Japanese and Americans,
by and large, all of whom disappeared into the bank of elevators.
Latham strode across the marble floor, every inch the military man,
when suddenly, ear-shattering gunshots exploded, echoing off the walls,
emanating from the mezzanine balcony.  Drew lunged toward a space
between the lobby furniture, his eyes riveted on the two men behind the
concierge's desk.  He saw the chest and stomach of one literally
explode, a monstrous detonation that sent the man's bloody intestines
hurling across the lobby; the other raised his hands as his head blew
apart, skull tissue flying everywhere.  Madness!

Additional gunfire then filled the huge ornate enclosure, followed by
voices, shouting in English with American accents.

"We've got him!"  yelled a man, also on the mezzanine level.

"In the legs!"

"He's alive!"  roared another.

"We've got the son of a bitch!  He's nuts!  He's crying and moaning in
German!"

"Take him to the embassy," said a calmer voice in the lobby, turning to
the terrified clerks behind the front desk.

"This is an antiterrorist operation," he continued.

"It's over now, and you may assure the owners that all expenses for
damages will be covered, as well as generous compensation for the
families of your personnel who tragically lost their lives.  However
meaningless it may appear to you now, they died heroes, and a grateful
Europe will honor them..  .. Hurry up!"

The horrified clerks stood frozen behind the marble counter.

The man on the left began to weep as his colleague slowly, as if in a
trance, reached for a telephone.

Latham and De Vries embraced under the disapproving eyes of Colonel
Stanley Witkowski and Ambassador Daniel Courtland in the latter's
office at the American Embassy.

"May we get to the issue-the issues-at hand, if you please?"  said the
ambassador.

"Dr.  Gerhardt Kroeger will survive and our two man computer team will
arrive shortly.  Actually one of them is here now, and his superior is
being flown in from his holiday in the Pyrenees.  Will somebody now
tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Certain intelligence operations are beyond your purview, Mr.

Ambassador," replied Witkowski, "for your own deniability, sit."

"You know, I really find that phrase rather obscene, Colonel.

Since when did civilian intelligence, or military intelligence, or any
of the clandestine exercises take precedence over the State
Department's ultimate control?"

"That's why Consular Operations was created, sir," answered Drew.

"The purpose was to coordinate between State, the administration, and
the intelligence services."

"Then I can't say that you have, have you?"

"In crises we can't afford a bureaucratic delay," said Latham firmly.

"And I don't give a goddamn if it costs me my job.  I want the person,
the people, who killed my brother.  Because they're part of a much
larger disease, and it's got to be stopped-not by bureaucratic debate,
but by individual decision."

Courtland leaned back in his chair.  Finally, he spoke.

"And you, Colonel?"

"I've been a soldier all my life, but here I must reject the chain of
command.  I can't wait for some Congress to declare war.  We are at
war."

"And you, Mrs.  de Vries?"

"I gave you my husband, what more do you want?"

Ambassador Daniel Courtland leaned forward in his chair, both hands on
his forehead, his fingers massaging his flesh.

"I've lived with compromises all my diplomatic life," he said.

"Maybe it's time to stop."  He raised his head.

"I'll probably be demoted to Tierra del Fuego, but go for it, you
rogues.  Because you are right, there are times when we can't wait."

The three rogues were taken down to the supercomputer thirty feet below
the cellars.  It was both enormous and frightening; an entire ten-foot
wall was covered by a plate of thick glass with whirling disks behind
it, dozens spinning and abruptly stopping, trapping information from
the skies.

"Hi, I'm Jack Rowe, one half of your deep, under-the earth geniuses,"
said a pleasant-looking sandy-haired man of less than thirty years.

"My colleague, if he's sober, will be here in a few minutes.  He landed
at Orly a half hour ago."

"We didn't expect to find drunks," exclaimed Witkowski.

"This is serious business!"

"Everything's serious here, Colonel-yes, I know who you are, it's
standard operating procedure.  Youtoo, Con sOp guy, and the lady who
probably could have run NATO if she were a man and wore a uniform.
There are no secrets here.  They all spew out on the disks."

"Can we get at them?"  said Drew.

"Not until my buddy arrives.  You see, he has the other code, which I'm
not allowed to have."

"To save time," said Karin, "can you collate the data from my office
with specific dates as I recalled them?"

"Don't have to, it's one and the same.  You give us the dates, and
whatever you recorded on those days will show up on the screen.  You
couldn't change it or erase it if you wanted to."

"I don't care to do either."

"That's a relief.  When I got the hurry-up from the Big Man, I figured
we maybe had one of those Rose Mary Wood things we read about in
history books."

"History books?"  Witkowski's brows arched in indignation.

"Well, I was about six or seven when all that stuff happened, Colonel.
Maybe history is the wrong word."

"I hope to kiss a pig it was."

"That's an interesting phrase," said the young, sandyhaired
technician.

"Root linguistic vernaculars are kind of a hobby with me.  That's
either Irish or Middle European, Slavic probably, where sus scrofa-pigs
or hogs-were valuable property.  To 'hope to kiss a pig' implied
ownership, a status symbol, actually.  And if you supplant the a with a
my, therefore my pig, it meant you were either pretty rich or soon
expected to be."  .- "Is that what you do with computers?"  asked an
astonished Latham

"You'd be surprised at the mountains of incidental intelligence these
Big Birds can hold.  I once traced a Latin chant, a religious chant, to
a pagan cult in Corsica."

"That's very interesting, young man," interrupted Witkowski, "but our
concerns here are speed and accuracy."

"We'll give you both, Colonel."

"Incidentally," Witkowski said, "the phrase I used was Polish."

"I'm not sure of that," said Karin.

"I believe it stems from Gaelic roots, Irish in fact."

"And I don't give a damn!"  cried Drew.

"Will you please concentrate on the days, the time spans, you can
remember, Karin?"

"I already have," replied De Vries, opening her purse.

"Here they are, Mr.  Rowe."  She handed the computer expert a torn
piece of notebook paper.

"These are all over the place," said the technician partial to
linguistic vernaculars.

"They're in sequence, it's the best I could do.," '"No problem for the
biggest bird in France."

"Why do you call this thing a bird?"  asked Latham.

"

"Cause it flies into the ether of infinite recall."

"Sorry I asked."

"But this helps, Mrs.  de Vries.  I'll program my side, so when Joel
arrives, he can key in and the sideshow can begin."

"Sideshow?"

"The screen, Colonel, the screen."

As Rowe inserted the codes that released his side of the massive
computer, and typed in the data, the metal door of the subterranean
complex opened and another technician, this one perhaps in his early
thirties, perhaps older, walked in.  What distinguished him from his
colleague was a long, neatly bound ponytail, held in place by a small
blue ribbon at the nape of his neck.

"Hi," he said pleasantly,."I'm Joel Greenberg, the resident general
here.  How're you doin', Jackman?"

"Waiting for you, Genius Two."

"Hey, I'm Numero Uno, remember?"

"I just replaced you, I got here first," replied Rowe, still typing.

"You must be the exalted Colonel Witkowski," said Greenberg, extending
his hand to the perplexed chief of security, whose glare did not convey
much pleasure at the sight of the slender man in blue jeans and an
open-collared bush jacket, to say nothing of the ponytail.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir, and I mean that."

"At least you're sober," said the colonel awkwardly.

"I wasn't last night.  Wow, did I do a mean flamenco!  .. And you have
to be Mrs.  de Vries.  The rumors weren't wrong, ma'am.

You're a gorgeous, A-plus."

"I'm also an officer-attache of the embassy, Mr.  Greenberg."

"I'll bet I outrank you, but who's counting..  .. I apologize, ma'am, I
didn't mean to offend you.  I'm just sort of the ebullient type.  No
offense, okay?"

"Okay," said Karin, laughing quietly.

"You've got to be our Mr.  Cons-Op, right?"  said Greenberg, shaking
hands with Drew, then becoming suddenly serious.

"My heart goes out to you, sir.  You lose a parent, it's kind of
expected, you know what I mean?  You lose a brother-yes, Jackman and I
were told the scenario -well, it's something else.  Especially the way
it happened.  I don't know what else to say."

I "You've said it very well; it's appreciated..  .. Who else down here
knows what you just told, me?"

"Nobody, only Rowe and myself.  We have two pairs of relief.

The last left when the Jackman arrived, but none have the codes to
invade our super bird.  If either of us has an accident or a cardiac
arrest, a sub is flown down from NATO."

"I've never seen you around the embassy," said Witkowski.

"And I'm sure I'd recall having seen you."

"We're not permitted to fraternize, Colonel.  We have a separate
entrance and our own very small elevator."

"That seems rather excessive."

"Not when you consider what's in Mother Bird.  The only people accepted
for this job are computer PhDs, male and unattached.

That may be sexist, but it's the way things are."

"Are you armed?"  asked Latham.

"Just curiosity."

"Two weapons.  Both Smith and Wesson, nine mil limeters.  One,in a
chest holster and one strapped to the leg.  Trained in usage, by the
way."

"May we get to work," said Karin firmly.

"I believe your partner has inserted the information I need."

"It won't do us any good until I repeat it," said Greenberg, heading
for his chair on the left of the giant equipment and sitting down,
entering his code.

"Print it up for me, Jackman, okay?"

"Transfer in sequence," answered Rowe.

"It's in your ballpark.

Repeat and release on demand-print key."

"I'm with you."  Joel Greenberg swiveled in his chair and addressed the
three intruders.

"As I repeat his data, it'll come out on the printer below the center
screen.  That way you won't have to remember everything on the
movie."

"The movie?"

"The screen, Colonel, the screen," said Jack Rowe.

As the computer printouts spewed forth, page by page, date by date,
Karin ripped them off and studied them.  Twenty minutes passed.  When
the printouts were finished, she went back over each, circling items in
a red pencil.  Finally, she said softly but emphatically, "I've found
it.  The two occasions when I went back to Transport.  I remember
exactly..  .. Can you now bring up the names of the D and R personnel
on the left side of the center aisle?"  She handed the printouts with
the data circled in red to Greenberg.

"Sure," said the Ph.D. with a ponytail, in concert with his
associate.

"Ready, Jack?"

"Go ahead, Numero Duo."

"Asshole."

The names appeared on the screen before the ten-second delay for the
printer.

"You're not going to like this, Mrs.  de Vries," said the computer
Ph.D. named Rowe.

"Out of the six days you specified, you were.  on three of them."

"That's crazy-insane!"

"I'll bring up your data, see if you recall it."

The screen printed out the information.

"Yes, that's mine!"  cried Karin, her eyes on the line of green letters
as they first appeared.

"But I wasn't there."

"Big Bird doesn't lie, ma'am," said Greenberg.

"It wouldn't know how."

"Try the others, their inputs," insisted Latham.

The bright green letters appeared again on the screen, each from
different offices.  And again, the very data Karin had recognized was
on two others.

"What more can I say?  I could not have been in three offices at once.
Someone has penetrated your holy computers."

"That would require such a complex number of codes, including
insertions and deletions, that it would take someone with more
knowledge than Joel and I have to do it," said Jack Rowe.

"I hate to say it, Mrs.  de Vries, but the info on you from Brussels
made it clear that you were pretty expert in this department."

"Why would I implicate myself?  With three insertions?"

"You've got me there."

"Run down our top personnel, and I don't care if it takes until the sun
comes up," said Drew.

"I warn to see every resume from the Big Man on down."

The minutes passed, the printouts continued, studied by all, until an
hour went by, then an hour and a half.

"Holy shit!"  exclaimed Greenberg, looking at his screen.

"We may have a probable."

"Who is it?"  asked Witkowski, ice in his voice.

"You're not going to like this, any of you.  I don't like it

"Who is it?"

"Read it yourselves," said Joel, arching his head, his eyes closed as
if in disbelief.

"Oh, my God," cried Karin, staring at the center screen.

"It's Janine Clunes!"

"Correction," said the colonel.

"Janine Clunes Courtland, the ambassador's wife, his second wife, to be
precise.  She works in D and R, under her maiden name for obvious
reasons."

"What were her qualifications?"  asked the stunned Latham.

"I can bring them up in a couple of minutes," replied Rowe.

"Don't bother," said Witkowski.

"I can give you a fairly accurate picture; it isn't often security's
told to clear an ambassador's wife.

Janine Climes, University of Chicago its think tank, Ph.D. and full
professorship in computer science before marrying Courtland after his
divorce about a year and a half ago."

"She's brilliant," added Karin.

"She's also the sweetest, kindest woman in D and R. If she hears
somebody has a problem and thinks she can help, she'll go right to her
husband.  Everyone adores her because, among other reasons, she never
takes advantage of her position; to the contrary, she constantly covers
for those who may be late, or can't complete their assignments on
time.

She's always offering to help."

"A real roving butterfly," said Drew.

"Christ, is Courtland now on our list, Harry's list?"  ,

"I can't believe that," answered the colonel.

"I'm not very partial to him, but I can't believe it.  He's been too
open with us, even gone out on a limb for us.  I remind you and Karin
that we wouldn't be here without his giving us the go-ahead, because we
shouldn't be here unless we had clearance from the State Department,
D.C."  the CIA, the National Security Council, and probably the joint
Chiefs.  @

"The only people left out are in the White House," said the irreverent
Greenberg.

"But then, what do they know?  They're too busy trying to get their
free parking spaces back."

"I remember reading about Courtland's divorce in The Washington Post,"
interrupted Drew, looking at Stanley Witkowski.

"As I recall, he gave everything to his wife and children, admitting
that the constant relocations of a State Department officer were no way
to bring up the kids."

"I can understand that," said the colonel coldly, returning Latham's
look.

"But it doesn't necessarily mean his current wife is the other
informer."

"Of course it doesn't," broke in Jack Rowe.

"My comrade in computer arms merely said he had a possible, right,
Joel?"

"I believe he said 'probable," right, Joel?"  Latham said.

"Okay, Cons-Op, because I happen to believe it.  The Big Bird fed us
too much not to.  Don't tell me Courtland doesn't know about our lady
from NATO here, and please don't tell me they haven't talked about her.
Her looks, her remoteness, her NATO duty-she's high-quality fodder for
the rumor mill.  If anyone was a logical candidate for suspicion, I
submit it's Mrs.  de Vries.  At least it throws people off the scent
for the real mole."

"What about languages?"  said Latham, turning to Karin.

"They'd have to be important."

"Janine speaks an acceptable French and Italian, but her German is
completely fluent-" De Vries stopped, aware of what she just said.

"A 'probable," mused Drew softly.

"Where do we go from here?"

"I've gone," replied Greenberg.

"I just sent a query to Chicago, asking for in-depth data on Professor
Climes.  That stuff is all stored, so it should be coming back in a
minute or two."

"How can you be sure?"  asked Karin.

"It's nearly midnight there."

"Shhh!"  whispered the computer scientist in mock secrecy.

"Chicago's a government-funded database, like the earthquake equipment,
but don't tell anybody.  Someone's always there because no one on the
taxpayer's payroll wants to find his pants wet for withholding
information from a machine like ours."

"Here it comes!"  cried Jack Rowe as the screen lit up from Chicago.

The woman named Janine Clunes held the position of full professor of
computer science for a period of three years before her recent marriage
to Daniel Courtland, then ambassador to Finland.  She was highly
regarded by both faculty and students alike for her ability to
demystify computer- Mese  She was active in campus politics, a staunch
conservative when it was not popular, but her winning personality
softened the negative reactions.  It was rumored that she had several
affairs while in residence but nothing of consequence or detrimental to
her position.  It was noted, however, that political events excepted,
she was not known to frequent social occasions, living off campus in
Evanston,

Illinois, an hour's drive from the university.

Her background is quite conformist for the times.  She emigrated from
Bavaria in the late forties as an infant, her parents deceased, and was
brought up by relatives, Mr.  and

Mrs.  Charles Schneider, in Centralia in the county of Marion,

Illinois.  Her records show that she was an outstanding student in high
school, won a Merit Scholarship to the University of

Chicago, and upon completion of her bachelor's degree, master's, and
doctorate, was offered a position on the faculty.  She made frequent
trips as an unpaid political consultant to

Washington, D.C."  where she met Ambassador Courtland.

That's about it, Paris.  Regards, Chicago.

"That's not 'about it," said Witkowski quietly as he read the bright
green letters on the screen.

"She's a Sonnenkind."

"What the hell are you talking about, Stanley?"

"I thought the Sonnenkinder theory was discredited," said Karin softly,
nearly inaudible.

"To most people," replied the colonel, "not to me, never has been. 
Look what's happening now."

"What's a Sonnen-whatever?"

"A concept, Drew.  The premise was that before and after the war, the
zealots of the Third Reich sent out selected children to chosen
"Parents' throughout the world, whose mission was to raise the Kinder
to positions of influence and power so as to pave the way for a Fourth
Reich."

"That's fantasyland, it couldn't happen."

"Maybe it did after all," said Witkowski.

"Christ, the world's gone crazy!"  exploded the embassy's chief of
security.

"Hold it," said Joel Greenberg at the computer, overriding Witkowski's
outburst.

"There's an addendum coming in from Chicago.  Catch the movie."  All
heads turned to the screen and the bright green letters.  Additional
information re Janine Clunes.

While championing conservative causes, she violently opposed the Nazi
march through Skokie, Illinois.  She went on the parade's rostrum at
her own peril and denounced the event as barbarism.

"What do you make of that, Stanley?"  asked Drew.

"I'll tell you what I make of it," interrupted De Vries.

"What better way to support an ultimately horrible agenda than by
denying it?

You could, be right, Colonel.  The Sonnenkinder operation may be alive
and well."

"Then tell me, how I can approach the ambassador?  What the hell can I
say?  He's living with, sleeping with, a daughter of the Third
Reich?"

"Let me handle this, Stanley," said Latham.

"I'm the coordinator, right?"

"Who are you going to lay it on, youngster?"

"Who else?  A man we both appreciate.  Wesley Sorenson."

"May God have mercy on his soul."

The telephone rang on Rowe's computer.  He picked it up.

"STwo here, what is it?  .. . Yes, sit, right away, sit."  He turned to
Witkowski.

"You're to go right up to medical, Colonel.  Your 'prize' is awake and
talking."

 erhardt Kroeger, strapped in a straitjacket, was on the narrow bed,
crouched against the wall, his body Gcurled up and pressed into the
wood.  He was alone in a room at the embassy's infirmary, his wounded
legs bandaged underneath his medical pajamas, his eyes wide, glaring,
roving everywhere but focused on nothing.

"Mein Vater war ein Verrdter," he whispered hoarsel@.  "Mein Vater war
ein Verrdter!  .. . Mein Leben ist vorbei, alles vernicbtet!"

Two men watched him through a false mirror in an adjoining office-one,
the embassy physician, the other, Colonel Witkowski.

"He's getting real squirrelly," said the chief of security.

"I don't understand German.  What's he saying?"  asked the doctor.

"Something about his father being filth, a traitor, and that his life
is over, everything destroyed."

"What do you make of it?"

"Only what I hear.  He's a basket case, carrying a ton of guilt that's
driving him up the wall he can't climb."

"Then he's suicidal," concluded the doctor.

"He stays in the jacket."

"You're damn right," agreed the colonel.

"But I'm still going in and try to question him."

"Be careful, his blood pressure's almost out of sight.  Which, I
suppose, is natural, considering who he is-or was.  When the mighty
fall, they crash with a bang."

"You know who he is-was?"

"Sure.  Most anybody who got through medical school would.

Especially the head sessions."

"Enlighten me, Doctor," said Witkowski, looking at the physician.

"He is, or was, a famous German surgeon-I haven't heard of him for a
few years now-but his specialty was brain disorders.  It was said at
the time that he cured more mentally dysfunctional patients than anyone
else in the field.  With a scalpel, not drugs, which are overloaded
with side effects."

"So why was this goddamned genius sent to Paris to kill someone when he
couldn't hit the side of a barn with buckshot?"  .

"I wouldn't know, Colonel, and if he said anything about it, I wouldn't
understand."

"Fair enough, but not good enough, Doctor.  Let me go inside,
please."

"Sure, but remember, I'll be watching.  If I see him reaching an
apex-the jacket is wired to blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen you
out.  Understood?"

"I don't take lightly to orders like that where a killer is
concerned-"

"You'll take them from me, Witkowski," the doctor interrupted curtly.

"My job is to keep him alive, perhaps even for your benefit.

Do we understand each other?"

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No, you don't.  I'd advise talking quietly."

"That advice I don't need from you."

The colonel sat in a chair in front of the bed; he remained immobile
until the unfocused Kroeger realized he was there.

"Guten Abend, Herr Doktor.  Sprechen zie Engliscb, mein Herr?"

"You know perfectly well I do," said Kroeger, struggling against the
constricting jacket.  Why am I in this undignified attire?  I am a
doctor, a surgeon of repute, so why am I treated like an animal?"

Because the families of two of your victims at the Hotel
InterContinental no doubt consider you a vicious animal.  Should we let
you free to face their wrath?  I assure you that death at their hands
would be far more painful than execution at ours."

"They were an error, a mistake!  A tragic event brought about by your
hiding an enemy of humanity!"

"An enemy of humanity .. . ?  That's a very serious charge.  Why is
Harry Latham an enemy of humanity?"

"He's insane, a violent schizophrenic who must be relieved of his
tortures, or given medication so he can be institutionalized.

Hasn't Moreau told you?"

"Moreau?  The Deuxi@me Bureau?"

"Of course.  I explained everything to him!  He did not reach you?

Of course he's French, and they keep things to themselves, don't
they?"

"Perhaps I overlooked the communication."

"You see," said Kroeger, still struggling, but sitting up straight on
the bed, "I treated Harry Latham in Germany -where, it does not
matter-I saved his life, but you must bring me to him so I can inject
him with the drugs that were in my clothes.  It's the only way he can
stay alive and serve your purposes!"

"A tempting scenario," said Witkowski.

"He brought out a list of names, you know, several hundred names-"

"Who knows where he got them?"  interrupted Gerhardt Kroeger.

"He traveled with the drug-infected scum of Germany.  Some could be
right, many could be wrong.  That's why you must bring me to him in
neutral quarters so we can learn the truth."

"My Go 'd, you're desperate enough to cover all the bases, aren't
you?"

"Was ist?"

"You know goddamned well was ist, Doktor.  Let's talk about something
else for a minute, okay?"

"Was?"

"Your daddy, your Vater, do you mind?"

"I never discuss my father, sit," said Kroeger, his eyes blank,
unfocused, staring at nothing on the wall.

"Oh, I think we should," insisted the colonel.

"You see, we ran a check on you, the whole you, and we considered your
father a hero, an enlightened hero of Germany."

"Nein!  Ein Verrdter!"

"We don't think so.  He wanted to save lives, German, English, and
American.  He finally saw through the hollow crap of Hitler and his
thugs and decided to make a statement at the risk of his life, if not
certain death.  That's a real hero, Doctor."

"Nein!  He betrayed the Fatherland!"  Kroeger writhed in the
straitjacket, bouncing back and forth on the bed, a man in agony, as
tears fell from his eyes.

"Throughout the Gymnasium, then through the Universitdt, the schoolboys
would come up to me-frequently they beat me.

"Your father was a traitor, we all know itV and "Why did the Americans
make him the Btirgermeister when none of us wanted him?"  Mein Gott,
such tortures!"

"So you decided to make up for what he never completed, is that

Herr Kroeger?"

"You have no right to interrogate me this wayl" screamed the surgeon,
sitting up straight, his eyes wet and red.

"All men, even enemies, have the privacy of their lives!  "

"And I respect that," said Witkowski, his posture straight in the
chair.

"But you're an exception, Doctor, because you're too intelligent, too
educated to buy the bilge you've been sold, and are now selling.  Tell
me, do you respect the sanctity of life outside of the womb?"

"Naturally.  "Breathing life is life."

"Including Jews, Gypsies, the disabled and mentally impaired, along
with homosexuals of either gender?"

"Those are political decisions, beyond the realm of the medical
profession."

"Doctor, you are one son of a bitch.  But I'll tell you something.

I may just bring you to the Latham you're after, if only to watch him
listen to you, then spit in your face......... Political decisions?"
You make me sick."  '

Wesley Sorenson stared out his corner office window in Washington,
absently noting the morning traffic congestion in the street below. 
The scene resembled a fish tank maze filled with insects, all trying to
reach the next horizontal tube, only to find themselves in yet another
tube, leading to still another, none with a finish line.  It was a
visual metaphor for his thoughts, concluded the director of Consular
Operations, swinging his chair around, facing the separate plies of
notes on his desk, notes that would be shredded and burned before he
left the office at the end of the day.

The strands of information were coming in too fast, clogging the
alleyways of his mind, each revelation seemingly no less explosive than
the one preceding it.  The two Germans in custody in Fairfax had
implicated the Vice President of the United States and the Speaker of
the House in the spreading hunt for neo-Nazis, with the promise of
additional names to follow; the CIA was compromised in its upper levels
(how many more agencies were so infected?); a Defense Department
communications laboratory had had an entire year's research deleted
from its computers by a neo who had disappeared on a Lufthansa flight
to Munich; senators, congressmen, powerful businessmen, even
newscasters, had been tainted with the Nazi brush with no substantive
evidence whatsoever, the allegations dismissed until an influential
member of Britain's Foreign Office had been caught, apparently giving
the names of other influential figures in the U.K."s government
hierarchy.  Finally, Claude Moreau was clean,-but the U.S. Embassy in
Paris was not-good God, it was far from it if the latest information
was accurate!  Ambassador Courtland's wife?

It was a maelstrom of charges and counter charges of insidious
implications furiously denied, a battleground where blood would be
spilled, the innocent mortally wounded, the guilty vanishing from the
scene.  It was as if the insanity of the crazed McCarthy period had
been fused with the Nazi madness of the late thirties, the marching
Bunds everywhere, all in lockstep with demonic leaders whose screaming
exhortations brought the intellectually unwashed to their feet, their
fears and their hatreds-frequently one and the same finding volcanic
outlets for their own inadequacies.  The sickness of fanaticism was
again spreading across the world; where would it end, if ever?

What concerned Sorenson at the moment, however concerned hell, shocked
him-was the information, followed by a faxed background check, on
Courtland's second wife, Janine Clunes.  On the surface it would ap- 3
pear inconceivable; he had said as much to Drew Latham over their
secure phones only minutes before.

"I can't believe it!"

"That's what Witkowski said until he read the check from Chicago.  Then
he said something else, only he kind of whispered it.  You could barely
hear him but the words were clear.

"She's a Sonnenkind."

"

"Do you know what that means, Drew?"

"Karin filled me in.  It's wild, Wcs, and it could never fly.  Infants,
kids, sent all over the place-"

"You left out a couple of items," interrupted Sorenson.

"Selected kids, pure Aryan blood, parents with combined IQ's over two
hundred seventy, none less."

"You know about it?"

"They were called the products of the Lebensborn.  SS officers
impregnating blond-haired, blue-eyed northern European women, those
closest to or across the Scandinavian borders whenever possible."

"That's nuts!"

"That was Heinrich Himmler.  It was his concept."

"It happened?"

"Not according to every intelligence investigation after the war.

The conclusion was that the Lebensborn scheme was abandoned, due to the
difficulty of transport and the time it took for medical
evaluations."

"Witkowski doesn't believe it was abandoned."

Silence.  Then Sorenson spoke.

"I was convinced it was," he said.

"Now I'm not so sure."

"What do you want us to do-me to do?"

"Keep cold and keep silent.  If the ncos know Kroeger's alive, they'll
break everyone's balls to find him.  If you've lucked out, nobody on
our side will be killed."

"That's pretty icicle like Wcs."

"

"Remembrance of things past," if you'll forgive the literary
bastardization," said Sorenson.

"Send a signal out to the Antinayous.  Tell them you've got the
prize."

"For Christ's sake, w y?"

"Because at this point I don't trust anybody, and I'm covering all our
flanks.  Do as I say.  Call me back in an hour, or less, as things
develop."

Things, however, had developed for the veteran intelligence officer,
now the director of Consular Operations.  No one had ever found a
Sonnenkind.  Even those once suspected were totally, angrily, deemed
innocent children because of official papers and the perfectly
Americanized, loving couples who took in the bereft orphans.  But now,
courts notwithstanding, a possible Sonnenkind had surfaced!  A grown-up
woman, once a child of Nazi Germany, now a highly desirable,
accomplished academician who had snared a high-level officer of the
State Department.  It was a Sonnenkinder agenda if one ever existed.

Sorenson picked up his phone and touched the numbers for the private
phone of the director of the FBI, a decent man of whom Knox Talbot had
said, "He's okay."

"Yes?"

"It's Sorenson over at Cons-Op, am I disturbing you?"  on this line,
hell no.  What can I do for you ?), I'll be up front.  I'm
transgressing into your area, but I don't have a choice."

"Do any of us at certain times?"  asked the FBI director.

"We've never met, but Knox Talbot says you're a friend of his, which
gives you a pretty clean slate with me.  Where's the transgression?"

"Actually, I haven't gone over the line yet, but I want to, I think I
have to."

"You said you had no choice."

"I don't believe I do.  However, it's got to remain within Con sOp

"Then why call me?  Isn't solo better?"

"Not in this case.  I need a shortcut."

"Go ahead, Wcs-that's what Knox calls you.  I'm Steve."

"Yes, I know.  Steven Rosbician, the paradigm-of law enforcement."

"My troops carry the PR.  way beyond the goal line.  I was a white L.A.
judge who got lucky, 'cause the blacks figured I was fair.

Your petition, please."

"Have you got a unit in Marion County, Illinois?"  Fm sure we do.
Illinois goes way back in our history.  What city?"

"Centralia."

"Close enough.  What do you need?"

"Anything you've got on a Mr.  and Mrs.  Charles Schneider.  They may
be dead and I don't have an address, but I have an idea they may have
immigrated from Germany in the early to middle thirties."

"That's not much to go on."

"I realize that, but in the context of our inquiry and considering the
times, the Bureau may have a file on them."

"If we have one, you'll get it.  So where's the transgression?  I'm not
that long in this 'job, but I don't see it."

"Then let me clarify, Steve.  I'm going domestic, which is your
province, and I can't give you the background for my inquiry.  In the
old days, J. Edgar, the hound, would have demanded it or slammed down
the phone."

"I'm no goddamned Hoover, and the Bureau has changed considerably.  If
we can't cooperate with each other, full disclosure or no, where are
we?"

"Well, it's kind of spelled out in our charters-"

"More honored in the breach, I'd suggest," interrupted Rosbician.

"Give me your secure fax number.  Whatever we've got, you'll have
within the hour."

"Thanks very much," said Sorenson, "and also, as you suggested,
whatever I do from now on, I'll go solo."

"Why the bullshit?"

"Wait till you face a congressional hearing with six dour faces who don
't like you.  Then you'll understand."

"Then I'll go back to a law firm and live a hell of a lot better."

"I like your perspective, Steve."  Sorenson gave the FBI director the
number of his secure fax machine.

Thirty-eight minutes passed before the loud beep of the Con sOp machine
in his office preceded the emergence of a single page of paper from the
FBI.  Wesley Sorenson retrieved it and read the information.

Karl and Johanna Schneider came to the U.S. on January 12, 1940,
expatriates from Germany with relatives in Cicero,

Illinois, who vouched for them, stating that the young male Schneider
had skills that would easily find him work in the technical field of
optometry.

Their ages were, respectively, twenty-one and nineteen.  The stated
reason for their leaving Germany was that Johanna

Schneider's grandfather was Jewish, and she was discriminated against
by the Aryan Ministerium -in Stuttgart.

In March of 1946, Mr.  Schneider, by then Charles rather than Karl,
owned a small optometric factory in Centralia, and petitioned the
Immigration Service to allow his niece, one

Janine Clunitz, an infant female child, to immigrate, as her parents
had died in an automobile crash.  The petition was granted and the
Schneiders legally adopted the child.

In August of 1991, Mrs.  Schneider died of heart failure.  Mr.

Schneider, age 76, still resides at 121 Cyprus Street, Centralia,

Illinois.  He has retired, but goes down to his business twice a
week.

The MO for this file is based on long-ago surveillance of

German immigrants at the beginning of World War H. In the opinion of
this field officer, it should be terminated.

Thank heavens, it wasn't, thought Sorenson.  If Charles Karl Schneider
was really a Sonnenkind recipient, a wealth of information might be
extracted from him on the assumption that the Sonnenkinder had a
network.  It would be asinine to assume that it did not have one.  The
legal and technical paperwork involved in the U.S. immigration
procedures were complex to the point of total confusion; a support
system was mandatory.  It could well be past the time when it should
have happened, but a crack in the ice now might release the fouled
waters below, exposing dirt that was relevant to the present.  Sorenson
picked up his phone and pressed the button for his secretary.

"Yes, sir?"

"Book me on an airline that flies into Centralia, Illinois,

or whatever's closest.  Under an assumed name, of course, which, I
trust, you'll tell me."

"For when, Mr.  Director?"

"Early this afternoon, if you can.  Then get my wife on the phone.

I won't be home for dinner."

Claude Moreau studied the transcript from Nuremberg, Germany, the
decoded dossier on one Dr.  Hans Traupman, chief surgeon in residence
at the Nuremberg Hospital.

Hans Traupman, born April 21, 1922, in Berlin, the son of two
physicians, Drs.  Erich and Marlene Traupman, showed early signs of a
high intelligence quotient, according to his initial school years ..
.

The dossier went on to describe Traupman's academic achievements,
including a brief period in the Hitler Youth movement, ordered by
decree, and his duty after medical school in Nuremberg as a young
doctor in the Sanitdtstruppe, the Wehrmacht's medical corps.

After the conflict, Traupman returned to Nuremberg, where he was
trained in residence and specialized in surgeries of the brain.  Within
ten years, with scores of operations behind him, he was considered one
of the leading cranial surgeons in the country, if not the Free World.
As to his personal life, little is known.  He was married to an
ElkeMueller, said marriage dissolved by divorce after five years and no
children.  Since that time be has resided in an elegant apartment in

Nuremberg's most fashionable section.  He is a wealthy man, frequently
dining at the most expensive restaurants and known to be an excessive
tipper.  His guests range from medical colleagues to political fl9ures
from Bonn and various celebrities from the motion pictures and
television.  To summarize, if such a summary is possible, be is a bon
vivant with the medical skills to permit his extravagant living.

Moreau picked up his phone and touched the button that put him in
direct contact with their man in Nuremberg.

"Yes?"  said the voice in Germany.

"It is L"

"I sent you everything there was."

"No, you didn't.  Dig up everything you can on Elke Mueller."

"Traupman's former wife?  Why?  She's history."

"Because she's the key, you idiot.  A divorce after a year or two is
understandable, after twenty perfectly acceptable but not after five.

There's a story there.  Do as I ask, and send me the material as fast
as you can."

"It's a whole different agenda," protested the agent in Nuremberg.

"She's living in Munich now, under her maiden name."

"Mueller, of course.  Do you have an address?"

"Naturally."  The Deuxieme agent gave it to him.

"Then forget my previous order.  I've changed my mind.  Alert Munich
that I'm flying in.  I wish to confront this lady myself."

"Whatever you say, but I think you're crazy."

'Everyone's crazy," said Moreau.

"It's the times we're living in."

Sorenson's plane landed in Mount Vernon, Illinois, roughly thirty miles
south of Centralia.  Using the false driver's license and credit card
provided by Consular Operations, he rented a car and, following the
routes highlighted for him by the rental agency's clerk, drove north to
the city.  Cons-Op had also given him a street map of Centralia, the
address, 121 Cyprus Street, clearly marked, and the directions from the
city limits on Highway 51 specific.  Twenty minutes later Sorenson
drove down the quiet tree lined street looking for number 121.  The
street itself was, indeed, central America, but of a different, bygone
era.  It was upper-middle-class Norman Rockwell, the houses large, with
generous front porches, profuse with latticework, even rocking chairs.
One could easily imagine the owners sitting in them and drinking
afternoon tea with their neighbors.

Then he saw the mailbox, 121.  Only this house was different, not in
style or size, but something else, something subtle.  What was it?  The
windows, thought the director of Consular Operations.

The windows on the second and third floors all had their shades drawn.
Even on the ground floor, the large, multi paned bay window, flanked by
two stained-glass vertical rectangles, was blocked by venetian blinds.
It was as though this particular residence was not terribly receptive
to visitors.  Wesley wondered if he'd fall into that category, or
worse.  He parked in front, got out and walked up the concrete path,
climbed the steps, and rang the bell.

The door opened, revealing a slender old man with thinning white hair
and wearing thick-lensed glass ds

"Yes, please?"  he said in a soft, wavering voice with barely a trace
of an accent.

"My name is Wesley Sorenson and I'm from Washington, D.C., Mr.
Schneider.  We have to talk, either here or in far less comfortable
quarters."

The old man's eyes grew wide, what color there was in his face leaving
it.  He started to speak several times but choked on the words.
Finally, he became clear.

"Ach, it has taken you so long, it was so long ago....... Come in, I've
been expecting you for nearly fifty years....... Come, come, it is too
warm out, and the air-conditioning is expensive..  .. Nothing matters
now anyway."

"We're not so far apart in years, Mr.  Schneider," said Sorenson,
walking into a large Victorian foyer and following the Sonnenkind
recipient into the shadowed living room, filled with overstuffed
furniture.

"Fifty years is not that long for either of us."

"May I offer you some schnapps?  Frankly, I could use one or two,
probably more."

"A short whisky would be sufficient, if you have it.  Bourbon would be
nice, but it doesn't matter."

"Oh, but it does, and I do have it.  My second daughter is married to a
man from one of the Carolinas, and he prefers it..  Sit, sit, I shall
disappear for a minute or two and bring us our libations."

"Thank you."  The Cons-Op director suddenly wondered whether he should
have arranged for a weapon.  He had been away from the field too long!
The old son of a bitch could be finding one of his own.  Instead,
Schneider returned, carrying a silver tray, glasses and two bottles on
it, without any bulges in his clothing.

"This will make things easier, night wahr?"  he said.

"I'm surprised you expected me at all," observed Sorenson once their
drinks were in front of them, his on a coffee table, the German's on
the arm of an easy chair across from him.

"As you say, it was so many years ago."

"My young wife and I were part of the fanatical youth of Germany at the
time.  All those torchlit parades, the slogans, the euphoria of being
the true master race of the world.  It was all quite seductive, and we
were seduced.  We were assigned our mission by the legendary Heinrich
Himmler himself, who thought 'long range," as we say today.  I honestly
believe he thought we would lose the war, but he was totally devoted to
the thesis of Aryan superiority.  After the war we did as we were
ordered by the Odessa.  And even then, we still believed."

"So you petitioned, accepted the immigration of one Janine Clunitz,
later Clunes, and adopted her?"

"Yes.  She was an extraordinary child, far more intelligent than
Johanna and me.  Every Tuesday night from the time she was eight or
nine, men would come for her and drive her to someplace else where she
was-I suppose the word is indoctrinated."

"Where was this place?"

"We never found out.  In the beginning she was only given sweets, ice
cream, and so on while blindfolded.  Later, as she grew older, she
simply told us that she was being trained in our 'glorious heritage,"
those were the words she used and, naturally, we knew what they
meant."

"Why are you telling me this now, Mr.  Schneider?"

"Because

I've lived in this country for fifty-two years.  I

cannot say it is perfect, no nation is, but it is better than what I
came from.  Do you know who lives across the street from me?"

"How could I?"

"The Goldfarbs, Jake and Naomi.  Jews.  And they were Johanna's and my
best friends.  And down the block, the first negro couple to buy a
house here.  The Goldfarbs and we gave them a welcoming party, and
everyone came.  And when a cross was burned on their lawn, we all got
together, hunted the hooligans down, and had them prosecuted."

"Hardly the agenda of the Third Reich."

"People change, we all change.  What can I tell you?"

"How long has it been since you were in contact with Germany?"

"Mein Gott, those idiots keep calling twice, three times a year.  I
tell them I'm an old man and to leave me alone, for I am no longer
involved.  I must be in their computers or whatever the new technical
machines order them to do.  They keep track of me; they never let go,
never stop threatening me."

"There are no names?"

"Yes, one.  The last caller a month ago was nearly hysterical, shouting
at me that a Herr Traupman might order my execution.

"What for?"  I asked.

"I'll be dead soon anyway and your secret will die with me."

Claude Moreau was driven down the Leopoldstrasse by his man in Munich
who had reconnoitered the apartment house where Elke Mueller, the
former Frau Traupman, lived.  To save Moreau's time, the secret
Deuxi&me office in the K6niginstrasse had telephoned Madame Mueller,
explaining that a high-ranking member of the French government wished
to discuss a confidential matter with her which could be to her
financial advantage-..  .. No, the caller had no idea what the
confidential matter was, except that it would in no way compromise the
eminent lady.

The apartment house was grand, the apartment itself grander still, a
fulsome mixture of baroque and art deco.

Elke Mueller matched her surroundings, a tall, imperious woman in her
seventies, her coiffed dark hair streaked with whitish-gray, her face
angular, her features aquiline.  She was obviously a woman not to be
trifled with; it was in her eyes, wide and bright and bordering on the
hostile or suspicious, or both.

"My name is Claude Moreau, madame, and I'm with the Quaid'Orsay in
Paris," said the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau in German, having been
ushered into a sitting room by the uniformed maid.

"It's not necessary to speak die Deutsche, monsieur.  My French is
fluent."

"You greatly relieve me," lied Moreau, "for my German is barely
adequate."  .

"I suspect it's more than that.  Sit down across from me and explain
this confidential matter if you will.  I can't imagine why the
government of France has the slightest interest in me."

"Forgive me, madame, but I suspect that you might."

"You're impertinent, monsieur."

"I apologize.  I only wish to be clear and speak the truth as I
perceive it."

"Now you're admirable.  It's'Traupman, isn't it?"

"Then my gentle suspicion was correct, no?"

"It was, of course.  There could be no other possible reason."

"You were married to him-"

"Not for long, as marriages go," interrupted Elke Mueller swiftly,
firmly, "but far too long for me.  So his filthy little chickens are
coming home to roost, is that it?  .. Don't look so surprised, Moreau.
I read the papers and watch television.  I see what's happening."

"About those 'filthy chickens'?  May I inquire about them?"

"Why not?  I left the incubator coop over thirty years ago."

"Would it be impertinent of me to ask you to amplify only what's
comfortable for you, naturally."

"Now you're a liar, monsieur.  You'd prefer that I be terribly
uncomfortable, even bitterly hysterical, and tell you what a horrible
man he was.  Well, I can't do that, whether it's true or not.  However,
I can tell you that when I think of Traupman, which is rarely, I'm
filled with disgust."

-Oh .. . r

"Oh, yes, your amplification.  Very well, you shall have it..  .. I
married Hans Traupman rather late.  I was thirty-one, he thirty-three,
and a very successful surgeon even at that age.  I was struck by his
medical brilliance and believed there was a good man beneath his rather
cold exterior.  There were flashes of warmth that excited me, until I
soon realized it was all an act.  Why he was attracted to me became
evident quite rapidly.  I was a Mueller from Baden-Baden, the richest
landowners in the area, also socially prominent, and gave him access to
the circles he so desperately wanted to be a part of.  You see, his
parents were both doctors, but not really attractive people, and
certainly not very successful, their practices relegated to clinics
serving the lower economic classes-"

"If I may," Moreau broke in, "did he use his position as your husband
to further his social ambitions?"

"I just told you that."

"Then why did he risk a divorce?"

"He didn't have much to say about it.  Besides, after five years he had
made the inroads he needed, and his skills accomplished the rest.  In
deference to the Mueller family, I agreed to a so-called amicable
divorce-simple incompatibility, neither party charged with anything. 
It was the biggest mistake I made, and my father, before he died,
soundly criticized me for it."

"May I ask why?"

"You don't know my family, monsieur, and Mueller is a common name in
Germany.  I will explain for you.  The Muellers of BadenBaden opposed
the criminal Hitler and his gangsters.  The Fuhrer didn't dare touch us
because of our holdings and the loyalties our several thousand
employees accorded us.  The Allies never understood how frightened
Hitler was of domestic dissent.  Had they understood, they might have
developed tactics within Germany that could have shortened the war.
Like Traupman, the little thug with a mustache reached far beyond his
grasp, mixing with people he had admired from afar, but who never
accepted him.

My father always claimed Hitler's diatribes were the rantings of a
frightened, man, driven to eliminate by murder the slightest
opposition, as long as there were no consequences.  However, Herr
Hitler, through conscription, made sure my two brothers were sent to
the Russian front, where they were killed, more likely by German
bullets than Soviet."

"Hans Traupman, please?"

"He was the total Nazi," said Madame Mueller quietly, turning her face
toward the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window.

"It was strange, almost inhuman, but he wanted power, simply power,
beyond the rewards of his profession.  He would recite the discredited
theories of a superior Aryan race as if they were considered
infallible, although he had to know they were not.

I think it was the bitter resentment of the rejected young man who
could not walk among the elite of Germany, in spite of his growing
reputation, because he simply was a coarse, unlikable person."

"You're leading to something else, I think," said Moreau.

4 "Yes, I am.  He began to hold meetings at our house in Nuremberg,
meetings with people I knew were unreconstructed National Socialists,
Hitler fanatics.  He soundproofed the cellar, where they met every
Tuesday-I was not permitted to attend.  There was a great deal of
drinking and from our bedroom I could faintly hear shouting and "Sieg
Heils' and the Horst Wessel song, over and over.  This went on for
three years, until the fifth year of our marriage, and finally I
confronted him-why I did not do so earlier, I simply don't know..  ..
Affection, no matter how dwindling, does involve protection.  I shouted
at him, accusing him of dreadful things, of trying to bring back the
horrors of the past.  And on a Wednesday morning, after one of those
terrible nights, he said to me, "It doesn't matter what you think, you
rich bitch.  We were right then and we're right now!"  I left the next
day.  Does that amplify enough for you, Moreau?"

"It certainly does, madame," replied, the head of the Deuxieme.

"Can you recall any of the men or women at those meetings?"

"It was more than thirty years ago.  No, I cannot.

"Even one or two of the 'unreconstructed Nazis'?

"Let me think..  .. There was a Bohr, a Rudolf Bohr, I believe, and a
former, very young colonel in the Wehrmacht named Von Schteifel, I
think.  Other than those two, my memory leaves me.  I remember them
only because they were frequent visitors for lunch or dinner, where no
politics were discussed, but I saw them getting out of their cars
through my bedroom window."

"You have been of enormous help, madame," said Moreau, getting up from
his chair.

"I'll not disturb you any longer."

"Stop them," whispered Elke Mueller harshly.

"They'll be the death of Germany!"

"We'll remember your words," said Claude Moreau, walking into the
foyer.

At the Deuxi&me headquarters in the Kbniginstrasse, Moreau exercised
his privileges and ordered Paris to reach Wesley Sorenson
immediately.

Sorenson was on the plane back to Washington when his Sky Pager buzzed.
He got out of his seat, walked up to the telephone on the first-class
bulkhead, inserted his card, and reached his office.

"Hold on, Mr.  Director," said the operator in Consular Operations.

"I'll call Munich and patch you through

Allor, Wesley?"

"Yes, Claude?"

"It's Traupman!"

"Traupman's the key!"

They had spoken simultaneously.

"I'll be in my office in roughly an hour," said Sorenson.

"I'll call you back."

"We've both been busy, mon ami."

"You can bet your French ass!"

 rew lay beside Karin in the bed in her room at the Bristol

Hotel, their being together a reluctant conDcession on the part of
Witkowski.  They had made love, and were now experiencing the
comfortable afterglow of lovers who know they belong with each other.

"Where the hell are we?"  said Latham, having lighted one of his
infrequent cigarettes.  The smoke curled above them.

"It's in Sorenson's hands now.  You have no control."

"That's what I don't like.  He's in Washington and we're in Paris and
that goddamned Kroeger is on another planet."

"Drugs could extract information from him."

"The embassy doctor says we can't do anything in that area until he
stabilizes from the gunshot wounds.  The colonel's as mad as I've ever
seen him, but he can't override the medicine man.  I'm not exactly
sanguine either; every twenty-four hours we lose makes the bastards
harder to find."

"Are you so sure of that?  The ncos have been entrenching themselves
for over fifty years.  What difference can a single day make?"

"I don't know, maybe another Harry Latham.  Let's say I'm impatient."

"I can understand.  Is there any strategy where Janine is concerned?"

"You know as much as I do.  Sorenson said to keep cold and silent, and
let the Antinayous know we had Kroeger.  We've done both and left word
at Wesley's office that his instructions were carried out.  Signed,
Paris."

"Does he really believe the Antis have been infiltrated?"

"He told me he was covering all our flanks; it can't do any harm.

We've got Kroeger and nobody can get near him.  If anyone tries, we
know we've got an exposed flank."

"Could Janine be an asset there?"

"That's Wesley'sob  I wouldn't know how to get near

"I wonder if Courtland told her about Kroeger."

"He had to say something after we got him up at three o'clock in the
morning."

"He could have said anything, not necessarily the truth.  All
ambassadors are schooled in what and what not to tell their immediate
families.  Most of the time for their own protection."

"There's a flaw in that argument, Karin.  He put his own wife in D and
R, a hornet's nest of classified information."

"His marriage is relatively recent, and if what we believe is true,
Janine wanted to be put there.  It wouldn't be very difficult for a new
wife to persuade her husband.  Heaven knows she had the qualifications,
and no doubt she put it in terms of wanting to make a patriotic
contribution."

"True, or at least I have to take your word for it, Eve and the apple
being your foundation-"

"Male chauvinist," interrupted De Vries, laughing and gently jabbing
his thigh.

"The apple wasn't our idea, lady."

"You're being pejorative again."

"I wonder how Wcs is going to handle it," said Latham, grabbing her
hand and holding it while extinguishing his cigarette.

"Why not call him?"

"His secretary said he wouldn't be back until tomorrow, which means he
went somewhere.  He mentioned that he had another problem, a heavy one,
so perhaps he went after it."

"I'd think Janine Courtland would take precedence."

"Maybe she did.  We'll know tomorrow-actually today.  The sun's coming
up."

"Let it come up, my dearest.  We're not allowed near the embassy, so
let's consider this our holiday, yours and mine."

"I like that idea," said Drew, turning to her, their bodies touching.

And the telephone rang.

"Some holiday," added Latham, reaching for the abusively intruding
phone.

"Yes?"

"It's onem-something in the morning here," said the voice of Wesley
Sorenson.

"Sorry if I woke you, but I got your hotel number from Witkowski and
wanted to keep you up to speed."

"What happened?"

"Your computer whizzes were on the mark.  Everything panned out. 
Janine Clunitz is a Sonnenkind."

"Janine who?"

"Clunitz is her real name-the Clunes is anglicized.  She was brought up
by the Schneiders in Centralia, Illinois."

"Yes, we read that.  But how can you be sure?"

"I flew out there this afternoon.  Old Schneider confirmed it."

"What the hell do we do now?"

"Not 'we," me," replied the director of Consular Operations.

"The State Department is recalling Courtland for thirty-six hours for
an emergency meeting with several other European ambassadors, the
subject to await their arrival."

"State agreed to this?"

"State doesn't know about it.  It's a Four Zero directive, issued
back-channel through this office to avoid any traffic interception."

"I trust that makes sense."

"Who gives a damn?  We'll pick him up at the airport and he'll be in my
office before Secretary Bollinger orders his eggs Benedict."

"Wow, I think I hear an old case-officer talking."

"Could be."

"How are you going to handle Courtland?"

"I'm trusting he's as bright as his service record says he is.  I
recorded Schneider-with his permission-and had him vocally confirm a
very complete deposition.  I'll pre- 9 sent Courtland with everything,
and hope he sees the light."

"He may not, Wcs'

"I'm prepared for that.  Schneider's ready to be flown to Washington.
He really doesn't like where he came from his words, incidentally."

"Congratulations, my honcho."

"Thanks, Drew, not bad, if I do say so..  .. Also, there's something
else."

"What?"

"Contact Moreau.  I spoke to him a few minutes ago and he expects your
call this morning-your time."

"I'm not comfortable going around Witkowski, Wcs."

"You won't be, he knows everything.  I reached him too.  It'd be stupid
to freeze him out; we need his expertise."

"What's with Moreau?"

"He and I went in different directions but came back with the same
information.  We've found our tunnel to the Brotherhood.  It's a man, a
doctor in Nuremberg, where the trials took place."

"Ironic.  What goes around comes around."

"Talk to you later, after you speak to Moreau."

Latham hung up the phone and turned to Karin.

"Our holiday's been cut a tad short, but we've still got an hour or
so."

She held out her arms, her bandaged right hand lower than her left.

The night was dark and still, as, one by one, ten minutes apart, the
speedboats swung into the long dock in the Rhine River.  A dim red
light on the highest pylon was their point of arrival, the erratic moon
not helpful, for the sky was overcast.  The operators of these swift
craft, however, were familiar with the waterways and the estates they
frequented.  Engines were cut a hundred or so feet from the dock, the
river tides gently ushering the boats toward their slips, where a
two-man crew caught the thrown ropes and pulled them silently into
their resting places.  And, one by one, the men attending the
conference walked up the dock and onto a flagstone path that led to the
mansion on the river.

The arrivals greeted one another on a huge candlelit veranda where
coffee, drinks, and canapes were served.  The conversation was
innocuous-golf scores and tennis competitions, nothing of relevance;
that would change abruptly.  An hour and twenty minutes later the group
was, complete, the servants dismissed, and the formal meeting began.
The nine leaders of Die Briiderschaft der Wacht sat in a semicircle
facing a lectern.  Dr.  Hans Traupman rose from his chair and walked to
it.

"Sieg Heil!"  he shouted, thrusting his right arm forward in the Nazi
salute.

"Sieg Heil!"  roared the leaders in unison, rising as one and shooting
out their arms.

"Sit, if you please," said the doctor orn Nurern rg.  Everyone did so,
their posture straight, their concentration absolute.  Traupman
continued.

"We have glorious news to report.  Across the globe, enemies of the
Fourth Reich are in disarray, they tremble in fear and confusion.  It
is now time for another stage, an assault that will plunge them further
into bewilderment and panic, while our disciples-yes, our disciples-are
prepared to move cautiously but firmly into positions of influence
everywhere..  .. Our action will require sacrifices from many in the
field, risk of imprisonment, even death, but our resolve is strong, our
cause mighty, for the future is ours.

I shall turn the meeting over to the man we've chosen to be the Ffibrer
of the BAiderschaft, the Zeus who will guide our movement to
fulfillment, for he is a man without compromise and with a will of
steel.  It's an honor to ask Ginter jdger to address you."

Again, as one, the small congregation rose, and once more their arms
shot forward.

"Sieg Heil!"  they shouted.

"Sieg Heil, Gunter jdger!"

A slender, blond-haired man of nearly six feet in height and dressed in
a black suit, his neck encased in a pure white clerical collar, rose
from a center chair and approached the lectern.  His posture was erect,
his walk a stride, his head that of a sculptured Mars.  It was his
eyes,

however, that demanded attention.  They were gray-green and
penetrating, at once cold, yet strangely alight with flashes of warmth
as his gaze settled on individuals, which it did as those eyes roamed
from chair to chair, each recipient bathed in the glory of his stare.

"I am the one who is honored," he began quietly, permitting himself a
gentle smile.

"As you all know, I'm a defrocked father of my own church, for it finds
my positions impolitic, but I have found a flock far greater than any
in Christendom.  You represent that flock, those millions who believe
in our cause."  Jdger stopped and inserted his right forefinger between
his clerical collar and his neck, adding in self-deprecating humor.

"I often wish the elders of my misguided church had made my banishment
public, for this white coil around my throat is suffocating.  But, of
course, they can't; it would be bad politics.  They conceal more
infelicitous sins than the scriptures enumerate; they know it and I
know it, so an accommodation was made."

Softly, knowing laughter came from the audience.  Gfinter Jdger
continued.

"As Herr Doktor Traupman has told you, we are about to enter out next
phase of disorientation among our enemies.  It will be devastating, an
unseen army attacking the most vital source of life on earth..  Water,
gentlemen."

The response was now bewilderment; the congregation talked among
themselves.

"How is this to be accomplished, my defrocked brother?"  asked the old
Catholic priest, Monsi c gunro r Heinrich Paltz.

"If your eh knew who and what you are, Father, we'd be joined at the
hip."

Laughter again.

"I can substantiate our theories back to the book of Genesis!"  the mon
signor broke in.

"Cain was obviously a Negro, the mark of Cain was his skin and it was
black!  And in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, both spoke of the inferior
tribes who rejected the words of the prophets!  "

"Let's not get into a scholarly debate, Father, for we might both lose.
The prophets, by and large, were Jews."

"So were the tribes!  5@

"Similias similibus, my friend.  That was two thousand years ago, and
we are here now, two thousand years later.  But you asked how this
operation can be accomplished.  May I explain?"

"Please do, Herr Jdger," said Albert Richter, a dilettante turned
politician, but with property and another way of life in Monaco.

"The reservoirs, gentlemen, the main water reserves for London, Paris,
and Washington.  As we convene, plans are being developed to drop tons
of toxic chemicals into those central reservoirs from aircraft at
night.  Once they are dispersed, thousands upon thousands of people
will die.  Corpses will pile up in the streets, the governments of each
nation will be blamed, for it is their responsibility to protect their
resources.  In London, Paris, and Washington, it will be nothing less
than a catastrophic plague, leaving the citizenry terrified, outraged.
As political figures fall, our people will take their places, claiming
to have the answers, .  P the solutions.  Weeks, perhaps months, later,
once the crises have been reduced through -specific antitoxins
introduced into the water in a similar manner, we shall have made
considerable inroads within governments and their militaries.  When
relative calm has been restored, our disciples will be given the
credit, for they alone will know and will order the chemical theriacs
or counter poisons

"When will this take place?"  asked Maximilian von L6wenstein, son of
the general and Wolfsschanze traitor executed by the SS but whose loyal
mother was a mistress of Josef Goebbels's, a devoted courtesan of the
Reich who loathed her husband.

"My mother constantly spoke of the extravagant promises emanating from
the Chancellory without specifics.  She felt they were most unfortunate
and weakened the Fuhrer."

"And our history books will extol the contributions your mother made to
the Third Reich; how she exposed her treacherous husband among them.
However, in the current situation, tactics are being studied, including
the payloads of radar-eluding, low-flying aircraft.  Everything is in
place within two hundred kilometers of the targets, our specialists on
the scene.  According to the latest projections, Operation Water
Lightning will occur between three and five weeks of this date, each
national catastrophe taking place at the same moment, in the darkest
hours of night on both sides of the Atlantic.  It is now determined
that it will be at four-thirty A.M. Paris time, three-thirty London,
and ten-thirty P.m. of the previous evening in Washington.  They are
the most accommodating hours of darkness.  That is as specific as I can
be at this juncture."

"It's more than sufficient, mein hibrer, our Zeus!"  exclaimed Ansel
Schmidt, multimillionaire electronics tycoon who had stolen the
majority of his high technology from other firms.

"I see a problem," said a heavyset man whose enormously large legs
dwarfed his chair, his face balloonlike, devoid of lines despite his
age.

"As you know, I'm a chemical engineer by training before branching out.
Our enemies are not fools; water samples are constantly analyzed.  The
sabotage will be revealed, and treatments prescribed.  How do we handle
that?"

"German inventiveness is the simplest answer," replied Gfinter J@ger,
smiling.

"As several generations ago our laboratories created Zyklon B, which
rid the world of millions of Jews and other undesirables, our people
have developed another lethal formula employing soluble compounds of
seemingly incompatible elements, made compatible by isogonic
bombardment prior to mixture."  Here JAger stopped and shrugged,
continuing to smile.

"I am a man of the cloth, our cloth, and do not pretend to be a master
of the subject, but we have the finest chemists, a number of whom were
recruited from your own laboratories, Herr Waller."

"

"Isogonic bombardment'?"  said the obese man, a thick-lipped smile
slowly spreading across his large face.

"A simple variation of isometric fusion, semetrizing the hostile
elements, forcing compatibility, like a coating on aspirin.  It could
take days, weeks, to break down the compounds, let alone isolate them
for specific counteract ants  Absolutely ingenious, Herr JAger-mein
Fuhrer-I salute you, salute your talent for bringing together other
brilliant talents."

"You're too kind, but I would not know my way around a laboratory."."

"Laboratories are for cooks, the visions must come first!  Yours was in
'attacking the most vital source of life on earth.  Water..  .."

"

"The rich and even the less affluent will buy their Evians and
Pellegrinos in the markets," countered 'a short man of medium build and
close-cropped dark hair.

"The lower classes will be ordered to boil water for the prescribed
twelve minutes-for purification."

"The accepted twelve minutes will be insufficient, Hekr Richter,"
interrupted the new hihrer.

"Replace that number with thirty-seven, then tell me how many can or
will comply.  Granted, the bottom rungs of the social ladder will be
affected most severely, then again, that is not antithetical to our
cleansing purposes, is it?  Whole ghettos will be wiped out, saving us
time later."

"I see an even greater advantage," said Von L6wenstein, son of a
Reich's courtesan.

"Depending on the success of Water Lightning, those same compounds
could be dropped into selected reservoirs throughout Europe, the
Mediterranean, and Africa."

"Israel first!"  shouted the senile Monsignor Paltz.

"The Jews killed our Christ!"  A number of the congregation looked at
one another, then up at Gfinter JAger.

"Surely, my brother priest," said the Brotherhood's Zeus, "but we must
never raise our voices about such solutions, no matter how justified
our anger, must we?"

"I simply wanted the logic of my demand made clear."

"It is,

Father, it is."

On this same evening, at a long-forgotten airstrip ten miles west of
the legendary Lakenheath in England, a small group of men and women
studied blueprints and a map under the glare of a single floodlight.
Behind them, in the distance, was a partially camouflaged vintage 727
jet, circa the middle 1970s.  It stood by the bordering woods, its
cloth covering pulled up to permit entry into the forward cabin.  The
language the group spoke was English, several with British accents, the
rest with German.

"I tell you it's impossible," said a German male.

"The payload capacity is more than adequate, but the altitude is
unacceptable.

We'd shatter windows for kilometers from the target and be caught on
radar the moment we ascended.  It's a harebrained scheme, any other
pilot would have told you that.  Insanity coupled with suicide."

"In theory it could work," observed an Englishwoman, "a single low pass
as in a final landing approach, then rapid acceleration in the sweep
away, staying below three hundred meters, thus avoiding the grids until
over the Channel.  But I see your point.  The risk is enormous, and the
slightest malfunction definitely suicidal."

"And the reservoirs here are relatively isolated," added another
German.

"But Paris is treacherous."

"Are we back to land vehicles, then?"  asked an elderly Briton.

"Ruled out," answered the pilot.

"It would take too many large ones to be feasible, and it eliminates
the spreading effect, requiring weeks for the poisons to enter the
major sluice flows."

"Then where are we?"

"I believe it's obvious," said a young neo-Nazi who had been at the
rear of the group; he now walked forward, arrogantly brushing' aside
the aircraft blueprints.

"At least to anyone who kept his eyes open during our training in the
Hausruck."

"That's a gratuitously harsh remark," objected the Englishwoman.

@"W eyesight's quite splendid, thank you."

"Then what did 'you see, what did all of you see, frequently swooping
and circling down from the sky?"

"The glider," replied the second German.

"A rather small glider."

"What did you have in mind, mein junger Mann?"  asked the pilot.

"A squadron of such aircraft, say fifty or a hundred, colliding above
the water reserves?"

"No, Herr F1ugzeugfzihrer.  Replace them with aircraft that already
exist!  Two giant military transport gliders, each capable of carrying
twice or three times the tonnage of that excessively heavy relic across
the field."

"What are you talking about?  Where are such aircraft?"

"At the aerodrome in Konstanz, under heavy coverings, there are some
twenty such machines.  They have been there since the war."

"Since the war?"  cried the stunned German pilot.

"I really don't understand you, junger Mann!"

"Then your studies of the Third Reich's collapse fail you, sit.

During the final years of that war, we Germanswho were the experts in
gliding equipment-developed the massive Gigant, the Messerschmitt ME
323, which evolved from the ME 321, both the largest transport gliders
in the air.  They were initially created to aid the supply lines to the
Russian front in full expectation for use in the invasion of England,
their construction of wood and cloth eluding radar."

"They're still there?"  asked the elderly Briton.

"As is much of your Royal Navy and the American destroyers-'in
mothballs," I believe is the phrase.  I've had airmen check them out
for me.  With minor modifications they can be operable."

"How do you propose to get them airborne?"  said the second German.

"Two aircraft carrier jets can easily lift them off from short fields,
assisted by disposable booster rockets under their wings.  The
Luftwaffe proved it can be done.  They did it."

There was a brief silence, broken by the older Briton.

"The young man's idea has merit," he said.

"During the invasion of Normandy, scores of such gliders, many carrying
jeeps, small tanks, and personnel, were released behind your lines and
wreaked havoc.  Good show, chap, really very good

"I agree," said the German pilot pensively, his eyes squinting.

"I take back my sarcasm, young fellow."

"Further, if I may, sir," continued the delighted younger neo, "the
carrier jets could drop off both gliders from an altitude of, say,
three thousand meters above the reservoirs, then rapidly ascend to
forty thousand, sweeping across the Channel before the radar operators
could piece anything together."

"What about the gliders themselves?"  asked a skeptical British neo.

"Unless the mission is specifically one of no return, they have to land
somewhere-or crash somewhere."

"I'll answer that," replied the pilot.

"Opfn fields or pastures close by the water reserves should be the
designated landing sites, and once on the ground, the gliders will be
blown up while our flyers race away in pre-positioned vehicles."

"Jawohl."  The second German held up his hand in the spill of the
floodlight.

"This strategy could well change many things," he said with quiet
authority.

"We'll confer with our aircraft engineers as to the modifications of
these gliders.  I must return to London and call Bonn.  What is your
name, young man?"

"Von L6wenstein, sir.  Maximilian von L6wenstein the Third."

"You, your father, and your grandmother have erased the treachery on
your family's escutcheon caused by your grandfather.

Walk with pride, my boy."

"I've prepared myself for these moments all my life, sir."

"So be it.  You've prepared-yourself brilliantly."

"Mon Dieu!"  exclaimed Claude Moreau as he embraced Latham.

They stood by a stone wall overlooking the Seine, a blond-wigged Karin
de Vries several feet to their left.

"You are alive and that is the most important thing, but what has that
madman Witkowski done to you?"

"Actually, I'm afraid it was my idea, monsieur," said Karin,
approaching both men.

"You are the De Vries woman, madame?"  asked Moreau, removing a visored
walking cap.

"I am, sir."

"The photographs I've seen say you are not.  But then, if this
yellow-haired gargoyle is Drew Latham, I suppose anything is
possible."

"The hair is not my own, it's a wig, Monsieur Moreau."

"Certainement.  However, madame, I must admit it is not in concert with
such a lovely face.  It is, how can I say it, somewhat more blatant?"

"Now I understand why it's reported that the head of the Deuxieme is
one of the most charming men in Paris."

"A lovely sentiment, but please don't tell my wife."

"Would anybody mind," interrupted Drew.

"I'm the one he's happy to see."

"You are, indeed, my friend, but I mourn the loss of your brother."

"I do too, so let's get on with the reason.  we're here.  I want the
sons of bitches who killed him .. . among other things.

"We all do, among other things.  There's an outdoor cafe up the street;
it's usually crowded and no one will notice us.  I know the owner.  Why
don't we stroll up there and get a table far from the entrance?
Actually, I've arranged it."

"An excellent idea, Monsieur Moreau," said Karin, taking Latham's
arm.

"Please, madame," continued the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau, putting
on his cap as they started walking.

"My name is Claude, and I suspect we'll be together until the finish'.
if there is one.

Therefore, the 'monsieur' is hardly necessary, but you don't have to
tell my adorable wife."

"I'd love to meet her."

"Not in that blond wig, my dear."

The owner of the sidewalk cafe greeted Moreau quietly behind a row of
flower boxes and escorted the three of them to the farthest table from
the latticed entrance.  It abutted the bordering shoulder high row of
flowers, more in shadows than in light, a single flickering candle in
the center of the checkered tablecloth.

"I thought Colonel Witkowski might be with us," said De Vries :

"So did I," agreed Latham.

"How come he isn't?  Sorenson made it clear that we needed his
expertise."

"It was his decision," explained Moreau.

"He is a large, imposing man known by sight to many in Paris."

"Then why didn't we meet somewhere else?"  asked Drew.

"Say a hotel room?"

"Again, the colonel.  You see, by extension his presence is here.

Parked at the curb in front is an unmarked American embassy car.

The driver will remain behind the wheel, and his two marine companions
in civilian clothes are roaming among the strollers beyond our garden
wall."

"He's running a test, then," said De Vries, making a statement, not
posing a question.

"Exactly.  It is why our mutual friend here is still posing as a
soldier, a most contradictory role.  Witkowski wants to make certain
that there are no other leaks, but if there are, he intends to take a
prisoner and learn the source."

"That would be Stanley," Latham again agreed.

"The only chance he's taking is with my life."

"You're perfectly safe," said the Deuxieme chief.

"I have the utmost regard for your aggressive marines..  .. Karin," he
added, seeing her bandaged hand, "your hand .. the colonel told me
you'd been wounded.  I'm so sorry!  "

"It's healing well, thank you, and later a small prosthesis will
complete the cosmetics.  I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow, after which I
shall be wearing a fashionable pair of gloves, I expect."

"A Deuxi@me vehicle is at your disposal, of course."

"Stosh already made the arrangements," said Drew.

"I insisted on that because I want everything on the embassy record.
I'll be damned if she pays a sou for her medical bills.  "

"My darling, it doesn't matter-"

"It does to me!"

"Ah, 'mon chou."  So that's the way it is.  I'm so happy for both of
you."

"It slipped out, monsieur.  je regretter"

"Do not, please.  Despite my profession, I'm a from antique au coeur.
Also, Colonel Witkowski did mention, most confidentially, a possible
liaison between you.  It's far better not to be alone in these
situations, loneliness is a terrible detriment when under stress."

"Well said, monsieur .. . mon ami, Claude."

"Merci.  "

"One question," interrupted Latham.

"I can understand Stanley's not being here, but what about you?  Aren't
you pretty well known in Paris?"

"Hardly at all," replied Moreau.

"My photograph has never appeared in the newspapers or on
television-that is the policy of the Deuxi@me Bureau.  Even my office
door does not have a Le Directeur sign on the glass.  I am not saying
that our enemies do not have snapshots of me, they obviously do, but my
presence is not significant.  I am neither a tall man nor do I dress
extravagantly, I'm really quite ordinary.  As you Americans say, I
hardly stand out in a crowd, and I have a large collection of hats;
witness the idiotic cap I'm wearing.  They're all I need."

"Except in the case of your enemies," said Drew.

"That is a risk we all take, is it not, my friend?  And now let me
bring you up to the moment.  As you may or may not know, Ambassador
Courtland will be on the Concorde for Washington tomorrow morning-"

"Sorenson said he was bringing him back for thirty-six hours," Drew
broke in, "the explanation being some trumped-up State Department
business that State doesn't know about."

"Precisely.  In the meantime, Mrs.  Courtland is under our
surveillance; believe me, it's absolute.  Every move-she makes outside
the embassy will be watched, and even within the embassy every
telephone number she calls will be instantly transmitted to my office,
courtesy of the colonel-"

"You can't tap her conversations?"  interrupted Latham.

"The risk is too great, there isn't time to reprogram the phones.

She's undoubtedly aware of such tactics and will run tests of her own.
Should she confirm an intercept, she will know she's under
surveillance."

"In the same way you confirmed that my own telephone was compromised,
Drew."

"The meetings at specific locations."  Latham nodded.

"All right, you've got her under a scope.  Suppose nothing happens."

"Then nothing happens," said Moreau.

"But that would strike me as most unusual.  Remember, beneath her
charming exterior there is a zealot, a trained believer in a fanatical
cause.  Here she is, an hour from the borders of the holy Reich of her
passions, and she has risen so high in her life's work, her ego will
demand a certain satisfaction.  Acclamation says it better, for the
Sormenkinder must have extraordinary egos.  The temptation will be
equally extraordinary.  In my judgment, with the ambassador away,
she'll make a move and we'll learn something more."

"I hope you're right."  Latham frowned as a waiter approached the table
carrying glasses and two bottles of wine on a tray.

"The owner here always brings me his newest acquisitions of wine for my
approval," interjected the chief of the Deuxi@me Bureau quietly as the
waiter uncorked the bottles.

"If you'd prefer something else, please tell me."

"No, that's fine."  Drew glanced at Karin, and both nodded.

May I ask," began De Vries after the waiter had left, should Drew be.
right and nothing happen, is it possible we might force Janine to make
a move?"

"In what way?"  asked the Frenchman.

"A votre santi,he added softly, raising his glass.

"To all of us..  .. How, my dear Karin?"

"I'm not sure.  The Antinayous, perhaps.  I know them and they know me;
more to the point, they held my husband in great esteem."

"Go on," said Latham, his eyes fixed on her.

"Keeping in mind that Sorenson didn't exactly give them a clean bill of
health."

"That's rubbish."

"It may be, but old Wesley has instincts few people are born
with-except perhaps Claude here, and probably Witkowski."

"You're too generous where I am concerned, but I can vouch for my
friend Sorenson.  Brilliant only half describes his talents."

"He says the same about you.  He also told me you saved his life in
Istanbul."

"While saving my own, he should have added.  But back to the
Antinayous, Karin.  How would we use them to urge the ambassador's wife
into an indiscreet act?"

"Again, I'm not sure, but their knowledge of the ncos is extensive.
They've unearthed names, codes, methods of contact;

their files contain a thousand secrets they will not share.  However,
this might be an exception."

"Why?"  asked Drew.

"I must 'join him," added Moreau.

"From everything we've learned about the Antinayous, they, indeed,
share nothing.  They are an independent intelligence organization
wholly unto themselves, responsible to no one but themselves.  Why
would they change the rules now and open their files to outsiders?"

"Not 'files," only appropriately selected information, perhaps simply a
method of contact using an emergency code recognized by the
Sonnenkinder, if there is one."

"You're not hearing us, lady," said Latham, leaning forward and gently
covering her bandaged hand.

"Why would they do it?"

"Because we have something they don't know about.  We have an
authentic, highly visible Sonnenkind right here in Paris.  I myself
will negotiate."

"Wow," whispered Drew, leaning back in his chair.

"That's powerful bait."

"It's not unreasonable," said the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau,
studying De Vries.

"But won't they demand some proof?"

"Yes, they will, and I think you can provide it."

"In what way?"

"Forgive me, darling," said Karin, glancing at Latham, "but the
Antinayous are somewhat more comfortable -with the Deuxi@me than they
are with the Central Intelligence Agency.  It's a European thing, and
not necessarily justified."  She turned back to Moreau.

"A

short note on your stationery-date, time, and.  secrecy classification
registered by your security equipment-stating that I'm permitted to
describe an ongoing surveillance operation on a confirmed high ranking
Sonnenkind here in Paris, without giving a name until authorized by
you.  That should be sufficient.  If they're willing to cooperate,
we'll go on scrambler and I'll call you on a private line."

"At the moment I cannot think of a flaw," said Moreau admiringly.

"I can," objected Drew.

"Suppose Sorenson's right?  Suppose a neo or two has infiltrated the
Antinayous?  She's dead meat and I won't.  allow it."

"Oh, Please," said De Vries.

"The three Antinayous we met together I've known since I came to Paris,
and two of them were Freddie's contacts."

"What about the third?"

"For heaven's sake, darling, he's a priest!"

Suddenly there was shouting from the pavement beyond the row of flower
boxes.  The owner rushed to the table and spoke harshly to Moreau.

"There is trouble!"  he exclaimed.

"You must leave; get up and follow me!"  The three of them rose and
walked behind the owner, no more than ten feet, where he pressed a
concealed button and the last flower box opened.

"Run," he cried, "into the street!"

"The wine was excellent," said the Deuxi&me chief as he and Latham held
Karin's arms and raced through the opening.

Suddenly all three turned, their attention drawn by the panicked
screaming crowd in front of the outdoor cafE Then each understood.
Karin gasped, Moreau briefly closed his eyes in pain, and Latham swore
in fury.  The light of a street lamp penetrated the windshield of the
unmarked embassy car, illuminating the driver behind the wheel.  He was
arched back in the seat, a stream of blood rolling down his face from
his forehead.

 Christ, they're everywhere, and we can't see them!"

roared Drew, hammering his clenched fist down a on the hotel desk.

"How did they find me?"

Claude Moreau had been standing silently by a window, looking out.

"Not you, my friend," he said quietly, "not Colonel Webster and his
uniform, but me."

"You?  I thought you said hardly anybody in Paris knew who you were,"
Latham broke in abrasively.

"That you were so ordinary and had a collection of goddamn hats!"

"It had nothing to do with recognizing me, they knew where I'd be."

"How, Claude?"  asked De Vries, sitting on the bed in her room at the
Bristol Hotel, where they had decided to retreat, each entering
separately.

"Your embassy is not the only place that's been infested."

Moreau turned from the window, his expression a mixture of sadness and
anger.

"My own office has been compromised."

4'you mean the sacrosanct Deuxi@me Bureau actually has a mole or
two?"

"Please, Drew," said Karin, shaking her head, conveying the fact that
Moreau was deeply disturbed.

"I did not say the Bureau, monsieur."  The Deuxi@me chief locked eyes
with Latham and spoke coldly.

"I said my own office."

"I don't understand."  Drew lowered his voice, the sarcasm now
absent.

"There's no way you could, for you do not know our system.  As le
directeur, my whereabouts must be known at all times in case there are
emergencies.  Outside of Jacques, who helps me plan my days, I give
them to only one person, a subordinate who works closely with me, one
whom I trust completely.  This person wears a beeper and can be reached
any time of day or night."

"Who is he?"  Karin sat forward on the bed.

"Not he, I must reluctantly say, but she.  Monique d'Agoste, my
secretary of over six years, but more than a secretary, a confidential
assistant.  She was the only one who knew about the cafe-Lmtll she told
someone else."

"You never had the slightest doubts about her?"  continued Karin.

"Did you about Janine Climes?"  asked Drew.

"No, but then, she was the ambassador's wife."

"And Monique is unquestionably my wife's closest friend.  In fact, my
wife suggested her to me.  They went to university together and Monique
was trained at the Service d'Etranger, where she worked during a
disastrous marriage.  All those years, they were like schoolgirls
together .. . and now it's all so clear."  Moreau stopped and crossed
to the desk where Latham sat.  He picked up the phone and dialed.

"All those years," repeated the chief of the Deuxi@me, waiting for the
call to be completed.

"So amiable, so caring..  .. No, you were not the targets, my friends,
I was.  The decision was made, my time was up.  I was found out."

"What are you talking about?"  pressed Latham from the chair.

"I regret that I cannot tell even you that."  Moreau held up his hand
and spoke French into the phone.

"Go to Madame d'Agoste's residence in the St.  Germain at once and take
her into custody.

Bring along a female officer and have the prisoner immediately
strip-searched for possible self-administered poison..  .. I will
answer no questions, just do as I say!"  The Frenchman hung up the
phone and wearily sat down on the small love seat against the wall.

"The maddening sorrow of it all," he mused softly.

"That's two different things, Claude," said Drew.

"You can't be mad and sorry at the same time; at least one's got to
outweigh the other where your life is concerned."

"You can't just leave things suspended, mon ami," added De Vries.

"Considering everything we've been through, I submit we deserve some
sort of explanation, vague though it may be."

"I keep wondering how long she planned this, how much she learned, how
much she revealed-"

"To whom, for God's sake?"  demanded Latham.

"To those who report to the Brijderschaft."

"Come on, Claude," Drew went on.

"Give us something!"

"Very well."  Moreau leaned back in the chair, massaging his eyes with
the fingers of his left hand.

"For three years I've played a dangerous game, filling my pockets with
millions of francs, which will be mine only if I fail and their cause
succeeds."

"You became a double?"  De Vries broke in, startled, and rising from
the bed.

"Like Freddie?"

"A double agent?"  Latham got out of his chair.

"Like Freddie," continued the Deuxi@me chief, looking at Karin.

"They were convinced I was a convenient and powerful informer, but it
was a strategy that could not @e entered into the Bureau's records."

"On the assumption, no matter how remote, that you were 'infested," De
Vries completed emphatically.

"Yes.  My great weakness was that I could not find a safety net.

There was no one, no one in official Paris I felt I could trust.

Bureaucrats come and go, the more influential ones into private
business, and politicians are sworn companions of the wind.  I had to
act alone, without authorization, a highly questionable 'solo," as the
term goes."

"My God!"  exclaimed Drew.

"Why did you put yourself in that position?"

"That part I cannot tell you.  It goes back a long time and must remain
a forgotten event'..  . except to me.""If it's forgotten, can it be so
important, mon ami?"

"It is for me."

"D'accord.

"Merci.  "

"Let me try to piece this together," said Latham, pacing aimlessly in
front of the window.

"You did say 'millions," am I right?"

"Indeed, yes."

"Did you spend any of it?"

"A great deal, moving in circles a directeur's salary could not permit,
always getting closer, paying others who could be bought, learning more
and more."

"A real solo operation.  What's for who and what's for you and who's to
tell."

"Unfortunately, that's quite accurate."

"But you told us," interrupted Karin.

"That has to mean something."

"You are not French, my dear.  Instead, you are part of the secret
movements, the covert operations no country cares to reveal, but which
for the average citizen are filled with corruption."

"I don't think you're corrupt," stated Drew emphatically.

"I don't think so either," agreed Moreau, "but we both could be wrong.
I have a wife and children, and before I subject them to the calumny of
a disgraced husband and father-to say nothing of an unsanctioned firing
squad or years in prison-I will flee with my millions and live
comfortably wherever I wish in the world.

Remember, I am an experienced intelligence officer with talons
everywhere.  No, my friends, I've thought this out.  I will survive,
even if I fail.  I owe it to my family."

"And if you do not fail?"  asked Karin.

"Then every remaining sou will be turned over to the Quai d'Orsay,
along with a complete accounting of every franc used in my solo
operation."

"Then you're not going to fail," said Latham.

"We're not going to fail.  Among other things, I haven't got any
millions, I've got only a brother whose face was blown away, and Karin
has a husband who was tortured to death.  I don't know what your
problem is, Moreau, and you won't tell us, but I have to assume it's as
important to you as ours is to us."

"You may assume that."

"So I think we should go to work."

"With what, mon ami?"

"With our heads, our imaginations.  It's all we've got."

 M

"I like your phraseology," said the Deuxi@me chief.

"It is, indeed, all we have."

"In death, his brother lives after him," said Karin, crossing to Drew
and taking his hand.

"Let's go back to Tratipman and Kroeger and the second Mrs.

Courtland," said Latham, releasing Kgrin's hand and sitting down at the
desk, impatiently opening a drawer and removing several pages of hotel
stationery.

"A connection's going to be made, it has to be.

But how?  The first assumption is your secretary, Claude, your Monique
-whatever her name."

"Entirely possible.  We can get her internal telephone calls;

they'll show us whom she reached."

"Also the calls she made at home-"

"Certainement.  I can do that in minutes."

"Put 'em all together and confront her with them.  Tell her she's
expendable-put a gun to her head if you have to.  If Sorenson's right,
this Traupman has to ow what's going on, and she's the bitch who can
tell him!  Then we move on to that all-too-waffling scholar, Heinrich
Kreitz, ambassador from Germany, and I don't give a damn if we put him
into a tank until he sends out the alarms to Bonn."

"You move swiftly, my friend; you cut through diplomatic imperatives.
It's attractive, but it could backfire on you.  @5

"Fuck it!  I'm impatient!"

The telephone rang.  Moreau picked it up, identified himself, and
listened.  The muscles in his strong face fell; his flesh went pale.

"Merci," he said, hanging up.

"Another failure," he added, closing his eyes.

"Monique d'Agoste was beaten to death.  Obviously, that's how the
information of my whereabouts was extracted from her..  .. Where is our
God?"

Vice President Howard Keller was five feet eight inches tall, but he
gave the impression of being a much larger man.  Many had remarked on
this fact, but few had rendered a satisfactory explanation.  Perhaps
the closest was that of an aging New York choreographer who had
observed the Vice President during one of those White House cultural
evenings.  He had whispered to a dancer, "Watch him.  He's simply
walking to a microphone to introduce someone, but watch him.  He breaks
the space in front of him, parting the air with his body.

Truman did that; it's a gift.  A rooster in the barnyard."

Gift or rooster notwithstanding, Keller was a politician to be reckoned
with, a Washington insider to the core, having spent four terms as a
congressman and twelve years as a senator, rising to chair the powerful
Finance Committee.  He had weathered the Beltway's slings and deadly
arrows, accepting the nomination for Vice President despite the fact
that he was older and far wiser than his party's nominee for President.
He did so because he knew he could deliver the states to guarantee the
election, which for him was a national priority.  Beyond this, he was
genuinely fond of the President, admiring his courage as well as his
brains, although the latter had a hell of a lot more to absorb about
Washington than was evidenced so far.

At the moment, however, such considerations were far distant concerns
as he sat behind his large, cluttered desk and gazed at Consular
Operations' Wesley Sorenson.

"I've heard of gorilla shit before, but this makes King Kong look like
an organ grinder's pet," he said calmly.

"I realize that, Mr.  Vice President-"

"Cut the crap, Wcs, we go back too long for that," Keller
interrupted.

"I'm the one who tried to promote your name for the DCI spot, remember?
The only person who shot me down was you;

the whole damn Senate would have been behind me."

"I never wanted the job, Howard."

"So you took on a tougher one.  A small bastard operation that's
supposed to coordinate between State, the CIA, and the administration,
say nothing of the gung-ho uniforms at the Pentagon.  You're a lunatic,
Wcs.  You of all people know that's an impossible job."

"Granted, I thought it would be more in the area of advise and
consent-no, don't say it, that's the Congress's job.l@

"Thank you for saving my breath..  .. Now, to add to the antics of the
asylum you're in, two Nazis tell you I'm with them, part of their new
Fascist uprising.  It'd be hysterically funny except for the quicksand.
It was Hitler who said if you told a large enough lie long enough, it
would be believed..  .. This is large enough, outrageous enough,
Wcs."

"For Christ's sake, Howard, I'd never let it circulate!"

"Maybe you won't be able to stop it.  Sooner or later your two
skinheads will have to be interrogated by others, among them
administration haters who'll grab a brass ring even if it's lead."

"I won't let it go that far.  I'll shoot the bastards first."

"That's not the American way, is it?"  asked Keller, chuckling.

"If it isn't, I'm pretty un-American.  I've done it before."

"That was in the field, and you were much younger."

"Well, if it's any consolation, they also implicated the Speaker of the
House, and he's in the other party."

"My God, how convenient.  A direct line of succession to the
presidency.  The man himself, then the VP, followed by the Speaker.

Your Nazis know our Constitution."

"One of them is pretty well educated, I'll say that."

"The Speaker .. . ?  That sweet, kindly old Baptist whose only real sin
is praying while he makes deals he doesn't like because it's the only
way to get legislation through?  How the hell did they arrive at
him?"

"They said he was of German ancestry and claimed conscientious objector
status during World War Two."

"He also volunteered as a noncombatant medic and was severely wounded
while saving soldiers' lives.  Now your Nazis aren't too bright.  If
they did their research properly, they'd have learned he's been wearing
a brace for his back ever since they brought him out of Omaha Beach,
praying for kids he left behind while damn near dying himself.  It's
part of his Silver Star citation.

Some Hitler goon!"

"Listen to me, Howard," said Sorenson, leaning forward in his chair.

"I came to you because I thought you should know, not because I thought
there was an iota of credence to the accusation.  Surely, you realize
that."

"I would hope so, and considering what's happening all over this
country, 'forewarned is forearmed' takes on new significance."

"Not just here.  In London and Paris they're crawling through cellars
and peeking under beds, looking for Nazis."

"Unfortunately they've found a few-unfortunate in the sense that even a
very few inflame the nostrils of the hunters."  Keller reached for a
newspaper on his desk; it was folded so a front-page article on the
lower right could be read.

"Look at this," the Vice President added.

"It's today's Houston paper."

"Goddammit!"  muttered Sorenson, taking the newspaper and reading, the
short headline striking him instantly.

Nazis on Hospital Staff?

Patients' Complaints Cite Abusive Language

HouSTON, July 14 Based on statements, written and oral, the specific
names withheld by the Board of Trustees, the Meridian

Hospital has begun an investigation of its staff.  The complaints
center around numerous remarks by doctors and nurses which were
reported to be blatantly antiSemitic, as well as insulting to African
Americans and Catholics.  Meridian is a nonsectarian institution, but
it is common knowledge that its clientele are predominately Protestant,
a large percentage

Episcopalian.  It is also no secret that among the wealthier country
clubs the hospital is referred to as the "WASP watering hole," a play
on words, as the Meridian has an active and highly confidential
alcoholic rehabilitation annex located twenty miles south of the
city.

This newspaper has received copies of twelve letters sent by former
patients to the hospital's administration office, but in fairness, and
until the situation is clearer, we withhold publication to protect
people whose names appear.

"At least they didn't identify anyone," said Sorenson, slamming the
folded paper down on the desk.

"How long do you think that'll last?  They sell papers, remember?"

"It's sickening."

"It's spreading, Wcs.  In Milwaukee there was massive sabotage done to
a brewery two days ago because the beer and the owner's name were
German."

"I read about it.  I couldn't finish my breakfast."

"How far did you read?"

"About what I did just now.  Why?"

"The name was German, but the family's Jewish."

"Revolting."

"And in San Francisco a city councilman named Schwinn resigned because
of threats to his family.  Reason: He said in a speech that he had no
objection to gays, many were his friends, but he felt they were having
an impact on the public funding of the arts far beyond their
representative numbers.  His logic may be questionable-without gays the
arts would be considerably diminished-but he had a political point and
he was entitled to it..  . He was called a Nazi and his kids were
harassed going to school."

"Sweet Jesus, it's, happening all over again, isn't it, Howard?

just switch labels and the snarling dogs are barking at heels, any
heels."

"Tell me about it," said Keller.

"I've got a lot of enemies in this town, and they're not all in the
opposing party.  Say our two ncos are subpoenaed by the Senate and
state with Germanic authority that, of course, I'm one of them, the
Speaker of the House also.  Do you think either of us will survive?"

I "They're outrageous liars.  Certainly you will."

"Ah, but the seeds are planted, Wcs.  Our records will be scrutinized
by hostile zealots, extracting out of context hundreds of remarks we've
made that, put together, support the outrage..  .. You just mentioned
the name Jesus.  Did you know that the old KGB built an entire dossier
on Christ, basing its conclusions solely on the New Testament, and
concluding that he was the consummate Marxist, a true Communist?"

"I not only know it, I read it," replied the director of Cons-Op,
smiling.

"It was damned convincing, except I'd say it showed him to be more of a
Socialist-reformer, hardly a Communist.  There was never any reference
to his advocating a single political authority."

"

"Render unto Caesar," Wcs?"

"It's a gray area, I'd have to go back and reread."  Both men laughed
softly; Sorenson went on.

"But I see what you mean.  Like statistics, anything can mean anything
when it's selectively extracted from a body of work."

"So what do we do?"  asked the Vice President.

"I shoot the sons of bitches, what else?"

"No, others will simply take their place.  No, you make assholes out of
them.  You demand a Senate hearing, a fullfledged circus, and make them
laughingstocks."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Not at all.  It could be the remedy for the madness that's infected
this country, the U.K."  and France-and God knows where else."

"Howard, that's crazy!  Their appearance on television alone would fuel
the fires of vigilantism!"

"Not if it's done correctly.  As they have an agenda, so must we."

"What sort of an agenda?  You're beyond me."

"You bring in the clowns," said Keller.

"The clowns?  What clowns?"

"It'll take a little digging, but you bring in both the pro and the
con-witnesses who support the allegations and those who vehemently
oppose them.  The latter will be easy to find; the Speaker and I have
basically honorable records and we'll have reasonable men and women to
speak for us from the White House on down.  But the

Ipros," our clowns, that'll be a bit more difficult, but they're the
key."

"Key to what?"

"To the door behind which lunacy thrives unfettered.  You've got to
find a fair number of crazies who at first appear perfectly sane and
even courteous but underneath are fanatics.  They should be unwavering
zealots, devoted to their cause, but who, when stripped under
cross-examination, break and reveal themselves."

"That seems awfully dangerous," said the director of Cons-Op,
frowning.

"Suppose they don't break?"

"You're not a lawyer, Wcs, I am, and I assure you it's the oldest trick
in trial law-in the hands of the right attorney.  Good Lord, even plays
and films have caught on to it because it's damn good melodrama."

"I'm beginning to see.  The Caine Mutiny and Captain Queeg-"

"And just about every Perry Mason show that was ever written,"
completed Keller.

"But those were fictions, Howard.  Entertainments.  We're talking about
reality, and the ncos exist!"

"So did the "Commies' and the "Pinkos' and the 'fellow travelers," and
we damn near lost sight of the quiet professional Soviet spies because
we were chasing illuminated ducks in a hundred galleries while Moscow
laughed at us."

"I'd have to agree with you there but I'm not sure the analogy fits.
The Cold War was real, I'm a product of it.  How can lawyers deny
what's happening now?  Not the false ducks in a gallery, like you and
the Speaker, but the real vultures like that scientist Metz, or the
British assistant to the foreign secretary, Mosedale..  .. And there's
another, but it's too soon to go into it."

"I'm not suggesting for a minute that the hunt for the real vultures
slow down.  I'd just like to puncture the ballooning mania where
everybody's a potential Nazi and nobody's a false duck.

Furthermore, I believe you agree with me."

"I do.  I just don't know how a Senate hearing can do it.  I see only a
force-eighteen storm over the waters."

"Let me explain from recent events, first stating that I. served in the
military.  If the attorney, that fellow Sullivan, who advised Oliver
North, had, instead, been a lawyer for the Senate committee, Mr.

North would still be sitting in a stockade rather than be contemplating
his next run for public office.  Pure and simple, he was a liar who
broke his oath as a soldier, a disgrace to his uniform and his country
who coated his illegalities in self-serving, sanctimonious bromides
that shifted his guilt to some higher power read that as God-who had
nothing to do with what he did.

"You're saying a lawyer could have short-circuited him?"

"I just suggested one, and I can think of at least a dozen others.

During those days my colleagues and I would sit in one (if our offices,
enjoying a few drinks while watching the hearings on television.  The
running joke was which of our legal brethren could bring the lying
bastard to his knees-crying, of course-and we were a mix of both
parties.  We came up with a fiery senator from the Midwest, a former
prosecutor who annoyed the hell out of us but who was a thundering
advocate."

"Youthink he could have done it?"

"Without question.  You see, he was also a marine and he'd won the
Congressional Medal of Honor.  We figured we'd have him in his dress
blues with the purple ribbon and the gold medal around his neck and let
him loose."

"Would he have done it?"

"I remember his words.

"The little whiner isn't worth it.  I'm working like hell to get
industry into my state."  But: yes, I think he would have liked to."

"I'll do some quiet checking around in the files," said Sorenson,
standing up.

"I still have grave doubts, however.  Pandora's boxes aren't attractive
to me, it's a legacy from my years in the field.

Come to think of it, I'm about to open one in less than an hour."

"Care to tell me about it?"

"Not now, Howard, but maybe later.  It's possible I'll need your
intercession with the President, if only to keep our Secretary of State
in line."

"The trouble's in the diplomatic area, then?"

"To the top of an embassy."

"Bollinger's a pain in the ass, but they like him in Europe.  They
think he's an intellectual.  They don't realize that his thoughtful
pauses are filled more with how-can we-spin-this-to-our-advantage than
with real solutions."

"I'd have to say I agree.  I've always found him to be lacking in deep
commitments."

"You're wrong, Wcs.  He's got one really deep commitment:

himself.  And fortunately for us, another to the President, which
naturally reverberates back to himself."

"Does the President know this?"

"Of course he does, he's a very bright man, even brilliant.  It's a
quid pro quo.  I think it's fair to say that our man in the Oval Office
has needed a master spin doctor every now and then."

"No question about it, but as you say, he's bright, he's learning."

"If I could only get him to kick more ass around this town, he'd learn
faster.  It's much easier that way."

"Thanks for your time, Howard-Mr.  Vice President, I'll be in touch."

"Don't be a stranger, Mr.  Director.  We dinosaurs have to guide the
young two-legged creatures stumbling out of the water."

"I wonder if we're capable."

C'if not us, who, then?  The Adam Bollingers of this world?  The witch
hunters?"

"Talk to you soon, Howard."

Three thousand miles away in Paris it was midafternoon, the sun warm
and bright, the sky clear, a perfect day for strolling along the
boulevards, or walking through the Tuileries Gardens, or catching the
breezes from the Seine, watching the boats glide over the water and
under the myriad bridges.  Paris in summer was an unmatched blessing.

For Janine Clunes Courtland the day itself was not only a blessing, but
a symbol of triumph.  She was free for a day or two, free from the
middle-class morality of a boring husband who still mooned over another
wife, repeating her name frequently in his sleep.  For a moment or two
she considered how lovely, how fulfilling it would be to have an
assignation with someone, a lover who could satisfy her as had the many
virile young students in Chicago, carefully selected, and the reason
she lived an hour away from the university.  There was an attache at
the German Embassy, an attractive man in his early thirties who had
flirted with her somewhat obviously; she could phone him and he would
come running to wherever she suggested, she knew that.

But it could not be, as delightful and as tempting the thought was;

her free time had to be put to more immediate, less selfish, interests.
She had excused herself from D and R for the length of time her
husband, the ambassador, would be away, for there were domestic chores
far more easily accomplished in his absence.  No one argued, naturally,
and, naturally, she let Daniel's chief aide know she was scouting the
shops for various new fabrics for their quarters..  .. No, she could
not accept an embassy limousine; it was an exercise in personal taste
and should not be charged to the State Department.

How easily the words came.  Then, why shouldn't they?  She had been
trained since she was nine years old for her life's work.  She did,
however, permit the aide to call her a taxi.

Janine had been given the address and the contact code for a member of
the Brotherhood before she left Washington.  It was a boot maker shop
in the Champstlys6es, the name "Andre" to be used twice in a brief
conversation, such as "Andre says you're the best boot maker in Paris,
and Andre is almost never wrong."  She gave the taxi driver the address
and sat back, contemplating what information she would send to
Germany..  .. The truth, of course, but phrased in such a way that the
leadership would not only admire her extraordinary accomplishments but
see the wisdom of bringing her to Bonn.  After all, the ambassadorship
to France was one of the most important diplomatic posts in Europe, at
the moment so sensitive that the State Department had reached into its
corps of experienced professionals rather than accept a raw political
appointee.  And she was that professional's wife.  She had been told
that the recently divorced foreign service officer was soon to emerge
as a star of the department.  The rest was easy;

Daniel Courtland was lonely and depressed, in search of the comfort she
provided.

The taxi arrived at the boot maker shop, yet it was more than a shop,
rather, a small leather emporium.  Glistening boots, saddles, and
various riding accoutrements filled the tasteful front windows.  Janine
Clunitz got out and dismissed the taxi.

Thirty yards behind the departing cab, the Deuxi@me vehicle pulled into
a no-parking space.  The driver picked up the ultra highfrequency phone
and was immediately connected to Moreau's office.

"Yes," said Moreau himself, as no secretary had been chosen to replace
the murdered Monique d'Agoste, whose death was kept secret under the
pretext of illness.

"Madame Courtland just entered the Saddle and Bootery in the
Champstlys6es."

"Purveyor to wealthy equestrians," said the Deuxi@me chief.

"Strange, there was nothing in the ambassadors dossier that mentioned a
fondness for horses."

"The store is also famous for their boots, sir.  Very durable and quite
comfortable, I'm told."

"Courtland in boots, durable or not?"

"Perhaps the madame."

"If she's partial to such footwear, I suspect she'd march right in to
Charles Jourdan or the Ferraganio shop in Saint-HonorL"

"We're reporting only what is happening, monsieur.  Shall I send my
colleague in to reconnoiter?"

"A good idea.  Tell him to examine the merchandise, inquire as to
prices, that sort of thing.  If the madame is being fitted, he can
leave quickly."

"Yes, sir."

In a Peugeot sedan that had circled the wide boulevard of the
Champstlys6es and parked in a space across from the Saddle and Bootery,
a man in an expensive pinstripes business suit also picked up his car
phone.  However, instead of calling a number in Paris, he dialed the
code for Germany-Bonn, Germany.  In a matter of seconds the call was
completed.

"Guten Tag," said the voice on the line.

"It is I, again from Paris," said the well-dressed man in the
Peugeot.

"Was it necessary to kill the marine driver last night?"

"I had no choice, mein Herr.  He recognized me from the Blitzkrieger
headquarters in the Avignon Warehouse complex.  If you recall, you
wanted everything I could learn about their disappearance, and since I
was the only one who knew where they operated, you yourself ordered me
there."

"Yes, yes, I remember.  But why kill the marine?"

"He drove the colonel and the other two, the army officer and the blond
woman, out to the warehouse.  He-saw me then, and again last night.  He
shouted at me to stop; what was I to do?"

"Very well, then I congratulate you, I imagine."  4,you imagine, mein
Herr?  Had they captured me, they would have filled me with drugs and
learned why I was there!  That I had killed Moreau's secretary and
learned, where he was."

"Then I truly congratulate you," said the voice in Germany.

"We'll get Moreau; he's far too dangerous to us now.  It's simply a
matter of time until you succeed, am I right?"

"I'm confident of it, but that's not why I'm calling you:1

"Then what is it?"

"I've been following an unmarked Deuxi@me automobile; it was parked for
hours in front of the American Embassy.  Unusual, I think you'd
agree."

"I do.  So?"

"They have under surveillance the ambassador's wife, Frau Courtland.
She just entered an expensive leather shop called the Saddle and
Bootery-"

"My God!"  interrupted the man in Bonn.

"The Andre conduit!"

"I beg your pardon-" "Stay on the line, I'll be back to you shortly."
The minutes passed as the man in the Peugeot tapped the fingers of his
left hand against the steering wheel, the telephone at his right ear.
Finally, the voice from Germany came back on the line.

"Listen to me carefully, Paris," said the man emphatically.

"They've found her out."

"Found who, mein Herr?"

"Never mind.  just hear your orders and follow them..  .. Kill the
woman as soon as it is humanly possible!  Kill her!"

 aniel Rutherford Courtland, ambassador to the Quai d'Orsay, Paris,
stared silently at the pages of Dthe transcript in his hands, reading
and rereading them until his eyes were strained.  Finally, tears ran
down his cheeks; he brushed them away and sat upright in the chair in
front of Wesley Sorenson's desk.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Ambassador," said the director of Consular
Operations.

"This pains me no end, but you had to be told."

"I understand."

""If you have any doubts whatsoever, Karl Schneider is prepared to fly
here and speak to you privately."

"I've heard your taped interview, what more do I need?"

"May I suggest that you speak to him on the telephone?  A deposition
may be false, another voice can be used.  He's in the phone book and
you can ask for the number from an ordinary operator..  .. Of course,
we could have orchestrated both to substantiate our conclusions, but I
doubt even we could alter the telephone information system so
quickly."

"You want me to do it, don't you?"

"Frankly, yes."  Sorenson picked up a phone and placed it in front of
Courtland.

"This is my private line, a regular telephone, and not connected to my
console.  You'll have to take my word for that.

Here's the area code."

"I take your word for Courtland picked up the phone, dialed the area
code for Centralia, Illinois, as written on the note placed in front of
him, and gave the operator the information.  He pressed the disconnect,
released it, and dialed again.

"Yes, hello," said the accented voice in Centralia.

"My name is Daniel Courtland "Ach, he told me you might call!  I am
very nervous, you understand?"

"Yes, I understand, I'm nervous too.  May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What is my wife's favorite color?"

"Red, always red.  Or lighter-rose or pink."

"And what is her favorite dish when dining out?"

"That veal plate-an Italian name.

"Piccata," I think."

"She has a favorite type of shampoo, can you tell me what it is?"

"Mein Gott, I had to order it from our pharmacy and send it to her at
the university.  A liquid soap with an ngredlent called ketoconzole."

"Thank you, Mr.  Schneider.  This is painful for both of US."

"Far more for me, sir.  She was such a lovely child, and so brilliant.
The ways of the world are beyond my comprehension."

"Mine too, Mr.  Schneider.  Thank you, and good-bye."  Courtland hung
up the phone and sank back in the chair.

"He might have faked the first two, but not the last."

"What do you mean?"

"The shampoo.  It can only be ordered by prescription; it's a
preventative remedy for seborrheic dermatitis, a condition she
episodically suffers from.  She's never wanted anyone to know, so I
have to buy it under my own name -as did Mr.  Schneider."

"Are you convinced?"

"I wish I could yell foul and go back to Paris with a clean slate, but
that's not possible, is it?"

"No, it's not."

"It's all so crazy.  Before Janine, I had a terrific marriage, I
thought.  Great wife, wonderful kids, but State kept bouncing me
around.  South Africa, Kuala Lumpur, Morocco, Geneva, all as a chief
attache, then came Finland, a real ambassadorship."

"You'd been tested.  Good Lord, man, they plucked you out of the
chief-attach pool and made you the ambassador to France, a post usually
reserved for the high rollers in political contributions."

"Only because I could put out the brush fires said Courtland.

"The d'Orsay was becoming more and more anti-American, and I could
paste over the anti-French stereotypes coming out of Washington.  I
guess I'm good at that."

"Obviously, you are."

"And it cost me my family."

"How did Janine Clunes come into your life?"

"You know, that's a hell of an interesting question.  I'm not really
sure.  I had the normal postpartums after the divorce, the living alone
in an apartment, not a house, the wife and the kids back in Iowa, sort
of on my own, scratching around for diversions.  It was a kind of
limbo.  But State kept calling me, saying I should put in an appearance
at this party or that reception.  And then one evening, at the British
Embassy, this lovely lady, so alive and so intelligent, seemed
attracted to me.  She held my arm as we went from group to group, where
very nice things were said about me, but they were diplomats I knew,
and I didn't take them seriously.  She did, however, and she fed what
ego I had left..  .. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

"It's not difficult."

"No, it's not.  What's difficult is now.  What am I going to do?  I
suppose I should be filled with anger, furious at her betrayal, ready
to behave like a howling animal lunging for the kill, but I don't feel
any of those things.  I just feel empty, burned out.  I'll resign of
course, it would be asinine to continue.  If a ranking reign service
officer can be duped this way, he should run, not walk, to the nearest
plumbing school."

"I think you can serve yourself and your country in a better way," said
Sorenson.

"How?  Come back and fix the pipes?"

"No, by doing the most difficult thing of all.  Return to Paris as if
we'd never met, never had this conversation."

Stunned, Courtland stared in silence at the director of

Consular Operations.

"Besides being impossible," he said finally, "that's inhuman.  I could
never do it."

"You're a consummate diplomat, Mr.  Ambassador.  You never would have
landed in Paris if you weren't."

"But what you're asking me to do is beyond diplomacy, it goes to the
core of subjectivity, hardly a diplomat's ally.  There's no way I could
conceal my contempt.  Those feelings I claim not to have now would come
rushing to the surface the instant I saw her.  What you ask is simply
unreasonable."

"Let me tell you what's unreasonable, Mr.  Ambassador," Sorenson
interrupted, his tone harsher than before.

"It's exactly what you said.  That a man of your intelligence and vast
experience, a foreign service officer who knows his way around
embassies all over the world and is on constant alert to the danger of
internal and external espionage, could be deceived into marrying a
confirmed Sonnenkind, a Nazi.  And let me tell you what's even more
unreasonable.  These people have been in hiding for anywhere from
thirty to fifty years.  Their time has come and they're crawling out of
the cracks in the walls, but we don't know who they are or where they
are, only that they're there.  They've sent out a list of hundreds of
men and women in high places who may or may not be part of their global
movement.  I don't have to tell you the climate of fear and confusion
that's spreading across this country and the countries of our closest
allies, you can see for yourself.  Pretty damn soon there'll be
hysteria-who is and who isn't?"

"I'm not disputing anything you say, but how will my going back to
Paris as an innocent husband change things?"

"Knowledge, Mr.  Ambassador.  We have to learn how these Sormenkinder
operate, who they contact, how they reach their counterparts in the new
generation of Nazis.  You see, there has to be an infrastructure, a
chain of command leading to a hierarchy, and the current Mrs.
Courtland, the brilliant wife of the ambassador to France, isn't small
potatoes."

"You really think Janine can unwittingly help you?"

"She's the best shot we've got-let's be honest, she's the only shot.
Even if we found another Sonnenkind, her rank, the circumstances, and
the fact that she's within minutes by let of the borders of Germany
makes her a prime candidate.  If she contacts the hierarchy, or they
contact her, she can take us right to those hidden leaders behind the
movement.  We must find those leaders and expose them.  As someone
said, it's the only way to rip out the cancer..  .. Help us, Daniel,
please help us."

Again there was silence on Courtland's part.  He shifted his weight in
the chair, and, uncharacteristically for a diplomat, he seemed
uncertain what to do with his hands.  He fidgeted, ran his fingers
through his graying hair, and massaged his chin several times.  At
last, he spoke.

"I've seen what those bastards do, and I loathe them..  .. I can't
guarantee I'll pull it off, but I'll try."

Janine Clunes Courtland approached the exquisite leather counter of the
Saddle and Bootery and asked to speak with the manager.

Shortly, a small, slender man wearing an expensive yellowish toupee
that flowed back over his skull and covered the nape of his neck
appeared.  He was dressed in a riding outfit, complete with 'odhpurs
and boots.

"Yes, madame, how may I help you?"  he said in French, glancing beyond
her to several well-dressed customers, some standing, others seated.

"You have a lovely shop," replied the ambassador's wife, her speech
betrayin her origins.

- 9

"Ah, an American," enthused the manager.

"Is it so-obvious?"

"Oh, no, madame, your French is excellent."

"My friend, AndrE, constantly tutors me, but sometimes I think AndrE is
too gentle.  Yes, he must be firmer with me."

"AndrP" asked the short man in the jodhpurs, looking hard at Janine.

"Yes, he said you might know him.

"It's such a common name, is it not, madame?  For instance, a customer
named Andre left a pair of boots here and they were repaired the day
before yesterday."

"I believe AndrE may have mentioned it."

"Please come with me."  The manager walked to his right behind the
counter, emerged through a green velvet curtain that covered a narrow
entrance, and beckoned his new client.  Together they went into a
deserted office.

"I presume you are who I-presume you are?"

"Not by my identity, monsieur."

"Of course not, madame."

"A man in Washington instructed me.  He said I should also use the name
Catbird."

"That is sufficient, it's an alternate code changed every few weeks.
Again, follow me.  We'll go out the back entrance and you will be
driven a short distance outside of Paris to an amusement park.  Pay
your way into the south entrance, second booth, and protest, stating
that a courtesy ticket should have been provided by "Andre."  Do you
understand?  ""South entrance, second booth, protest in the name of
Andre Yes, I have it."

"A "Moment, please."  The manager reached down and pressed a button on
a desk intercom.

"Gustav, we have a delivery for Monsieur AndrE.  Go to the vehicle
immediately, if you please."

Outside, in the small alleyway parking area, Janine climbed into the
first backseat of a van as the driver jumped in behind the wheel and
started the engine.

"There will be no conversation between us, please," he said as he drove
out of the alley into the street.

The manager returned to the deserted office, again reached for the
intercom, pressed a second button, and spoke.

"I'm leaving early today, Simone.  It's slow and I'm exhausted.  Lock
up at six, and I'll see you in the morning."  He went out to his
motorbike in the parking area behind the row of shops.  He jammed his
foot on the ignition pedal; the motor erupted and he sped down the
alleyway.

Inside the leather boutique the telephone rang.  A clerk at the counter
picked it up.

"La Selle et les Bottes, " he said.

"Monsieur Rambeau!"  yelled the man on the line.

"ImmeViatement!"

"I'm sorry," answered the clerk, offended by the arrogance of the
caller.

"Monsieur Rambeau has left for the day."

"Where is he?"

"How the hell would I know?  I'm not his mother or his lover."

"This is important!"  screamed the man on the phone.

"No, you're not important, I am.  I sell the merchandise, you merely
interrupt, and there are customers in the store.  Go to the devil." 
The clerk hung up the phone and smiled at a young woman who wore a
Givenchy cocktail dress obviously designed for her obviously expensive
body. She oiled her way across the parquet floor and spoke in the
half-whispered voice of a well-kept mistress.

"I have a message for An&6," she intoned seductively.

"Andre will wish to hear it."

"I am desolate, mademoiselle," said the clerk, his eyes straying to her
swelling collet age

"But all messages for Monsieur Andre are delivered to the manager
alone, and he has left for the day."

"What am I to do, then?"  cooed the courtesan.

"Well, you could give -the message to me, mademoiselle.  I am a
confidant of Monsieur Rambeau's, the manager."

"I don't know that I should.  It's very confidential."

"But I just explained, I am a close confidant, a confidential associate
of Monsieur Rambeau's.  Perhaps you would rather tell me over an
aperitif at the cafe next door."

"Oh, no, my friend watches me wherever I go, and the limousine is right
outside.  just tell him that he's to call Berlin."

"Berlin?"

"What do I know?  I gave you the message."  The Givenchydressed young
woman, buttocks swiveling, walked out of the store.

"Berlin?"  said the clerk to himself.  It was crazy, Rambeau hated
Germans.  When they came into the shop, he treated them with contempt
and doubled the prices.

The Deuxi@me agent walked calmly out of the leather store, then rushed
up the pavement to the unmarked car.  He opened the door, quickly
climbed in beside the driver, and swore.

"Daninut, she wasn't there!"

"What are you talking about?  She didn't come outside."

"I assume that."

"Then where is she?"

"How the hell do I know?  Probably in another arrondissement across the
city."

"She made contact with someone and they left by another exit."

"My God, you're smart!"

"Why bite my head off?"

"Because we both should have known better.  Places like this have
delivery entrances; when I went in, you should have driven around and
found it, then waited."

"We're not psychic, my friend, at least I'm not."

"No, we're stupid.  How many times have we done this sort of thing? 
One of us follows a subject, the other covers the rear."

"You're too hard on us," protested the driver.

"This is the Champs-flys6es, not the Montmartre, and the woman is the
wife of an-ambassador, not a killer we're stalking."

"I hope Director Moreau sees it that way.  For reasons he will not
explain, he seems almost obsessed with this particular ambassador's
wife."

"I'd better call him."

"Please do.  I forgot the number."

The fashionably dressed man in the Peugeot several hundred feet across
the wide boulevard was more than impatient, he was deeply troubled.
Nearly an hour had passed and Frau Courtland had not emerged from the
leather shop.  He could accept the time; women were notoriously
sluggish shoppers, especially the wealthy ones.

What troubled him was the fact that the Deuxieme vehicle had sped away,
sped away, thirty-odd minutes ago, apparently prompted by the second
Deuxi@me agent's running to the car and conferring with his colleague,
the driver.  What had happened?  Something, certainly, but what?  He
had been torn between following the official automobile and waiting
longer for the ambassador's wife.  Remembering his orders, and the with
which they were delivered, he had decided to wait.

"Kill the woman as soon as it's humanly possible!"

His control in Bonn had been apoplectic; the assassination was to be
immediate.  The meaning was clear: dire consequences would result if
there was a delay.

As the assassin of record, he dared not fail.  From being the monitor
of the Blitzkrieger unit, he had suddenly been thrust into its deadly
line of work.  Not that he wasn't a trained killer, he was; he had come
from the Stasi, one of the first to switch alliances from hard-core
Communist to committed.  Fascist.  Labels, merely labels that were
meaningless to men like him.  He craved the access and the power to
live beyond the laws, the exhilaration of knowing he was not
accountable to the dictates of small-minded officials.  Such
bureaucrats, no matter their positions, had been terrified of the
Stasi, just as the ministers of the Third Reich had been petrified of
the Gestapo.  That knowledge, then and now, was truly exhilarating.

Yet to remain in their enviable positions, such men as he were
accountable to the structures that nurtured them.

Kill the woman as Soon as it's humanly possible!  Kill her!

A bullet in the head at close range in the crowded Champstl@s@es was an
attractive option.  Perhaps a collision, followed by a small-caliber
gunshot, easily drowned out by the traffic, yes, it was feasible. 
Then, grabbing her purse, a trophy to be sent to Bonn, and disappearing
among the crowds of afternoon strollers, time elapsed, no more than two
or three seconds.  It would work; it had worked four years earlier in
West Berlin when he had taken out a British MI-6 officer who had made
one too many sorties behind the Wall.

The man in the Peugeot unlocked the glove compartment, withdrew a
short-barreled .22 revolver, and shoved it into his jacket pocket.  He
started the engine, swung into the street, and circled at the first
break in the traffic.  He pulled into the curb as a blue Ferrari
lurched away from the space; the entrance to the expensive leather shop
was diagonally to the left, in full view, no more than ten meters away.
He could be out of the car and within feet of the woman in seconds, the
moment he saw her, but not spotting her between the bodies of the
erratic strollers was too great a risk.  He got out of the Peugeot and
made his way to the elaborate front windows of the Saddle and Bootery.
He studied the extravagant items behind the glass, constantly aware of
those leaving the entrance only several arm's lengths away.

Eighteen minutes passed and the fashionably dressed assassin's patience
was coming to an end.  Suddenly the pleasant face of a clerk looked at
him through the window, from behind the banquette of the tasteful
display.  The killer shrugged amiably and smiled.  Seconds later the
youngish man came out of the entrance and spoke.

"I noticed you've been looking over our merchandise for quite a while,
monsieur.  Perhaps I could help you?  "

"In truth, I'm waiting for someone who is quite late.  We're to meet
here."

"One of our clients, no doubt.  Why not come inside, out of the sun? 
My word, it's broiling."

"Thank you."  The former Stasi officer followed the clerk through the
door.

"I believe I'll look over your boots," he continued in perfect
French.

"There are none -better in Paris, sir.  If you need assistance, please
call me."

The German glanced around the store, at first not believing his eyes.
He then slowly studied the women individually; there were seven, either
standing in newly purchased equestrian finery or sitting in chairs
being fitted for riding boots.  She was not there!

That was why the Deuxieme official had raced back to the Bureau's
automobile!  He had learned what the assassin-of-record had just found
out nearly an hour later.  The ambassador's wife had escaped the
surveillance!  Where had she gone?  Who had made it possible for her to
leave unseen?

Obviously someone in the shop.

"Monsieur?"  The killer, standing over a row of polished boots,
beckoned the clerk.

"A moment, please."

"Yes, sir," replied the employee, approaching with a smile.

"You've found something to your taste?"

"Not exactly, but I must ask you a question.  I was not entirely direct
with you outside, for which I apologize.  You see, I'm with the Quai
d'Orsay, assigned to escort an important American woman, protect her
from the vagaries of Paris, if you like.  As I mentioned, she was late,
but she cannot be this late.  The only answer is that she came inside
before I arrived, then left, and I missed her."

"What does she look like?"

"Medium height and quite attractive, in her early forties, perhaps.

She has light brown hair, neither blond nor brunette, and, I'm told,
was wearing a summer dress, white and pink, I think, and obviously very
expensive."

"Monsieur, look around you.  You could be describing half the women
shoppers here!"

"Tell me," said the assassin in the pinstriped suit, 4ccould she have
left another way, through a rear exit, perhaps?"

"That would be most unusual.  For what reason?"

"I don't know," answered the would-be killer, his tone of voice
conveying his anxiety.

"I merely asked if it was possible."

"Let me think," said the clerk, frowning and looking around the
store.

"There was a woman in a pink dress, but I did not notice her later, as
I was with the Countess Levoisier, a lovely but most demanding
client."

Again the assassin was torn.  His control had called the Saddle and
Bootery the "Andre conduit."  If he pursued his questioning too far'
word of his carelessness might be sent back to Bonn.  On the other
hand, if the ambassadors wife was in the back of the store or had been
taken somewhere else, he had to know.  Frau Courtland had left the
embassy unprotected, not in a customary limousine driven by an armed
escort.  The circumstances were optimum and might not be repeated for
days.  For days!  And the kill was not to

be delayed.

"If I may," he said to the accommodating clerk, "since this is official
business and the government would be most appreciative, could you tell
me if "AndW is on the premises?"

"Good Lord, that name again!

"AndrC is very popular today, but there is no AndrE here.  However,
when messages come for him, whoever he is, the manager, Monsieur
Rambeau, accepts them.

He's left for the day, I'm afraid."

"

"Very popular .. . today'?"  repeated the killer, stunned.

"Frankly," said the clerk, lowering his voice, "we think the mysterious
AndrE is Rambeau's lover."

"You said very popular .. . today--"

"Oh, yes.  Barely minutes ago, an adorable young lady with a body one
could kill for gave me a message for AndrE."

"What was it?  Remember, I'm an official of the government."

"I doubt the government would be remotely interested.  It's really
quite harmless, even amusing, if I've figured it out correctly."

"Figured what out?"

"Cities, probably countries, as well-destinations they the
substitutes."

"Sub9titutes for what?"

"Hotels most likely.

"Call London' could mean, the Kensington or the d'Angleterre; 'call
Madrid," the Esmeralda; 'call Saint-Tropez," the Saint-Pores; do you
see what I mean?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Rendezvous for lovers, monsieur.  Hotel rooms where strangers of
either persuasion can meet without alarming those they live with."

"The message, please!"

"This one's really quite simple.  The hotel Abbaye Saint-Germain."

"What .. . P, "The English for Allemagne, Germain-Germany."

"What?"

"That was the message for Andre, monsieur.

"Call Berlin."

"

In shock, the assassin studied the soft face of the clerk.

Then, without a word, he raced out of the store.

arm de Vries moved in with Drew at the Hotel Normandie.

"We just want to save the State DepartKment money, Stosh, and as a
taxpayer, I insist upon it!"

"You're so full of bullshit, you could be a yellow torero.  Stick with
the uniform and the blond hair for another day; we've got you watched
like a Derby racehorse.  I'll explain to the hotel brass that you're a
couple of computer freaks we can't stand but have been ordered to use."
The colloquy had ended testily; Stanley Witkowski did not like being
outflanked.

It was late afternoon and Latham was seated at the desk, reading the
transcript of his older brother's debriefing in London after his escape
from the Briiderschaft valley.  Karin had suggested he request it;
there were too many mounting questions about Harry Latham's list.

"It's right here," said Drew, underlining words on a page.

"Harry never claimed the names were written in cement..  . Listen to
this.  '..  . I brought out the material, it's your job to evaluate
it."

"

"Then he had doubts himself?"  asked Karin, sitting on the couch in the
suite's living room and lowering the newspaper in her hand.

"No, not really, but he allowed for the outside possibility, not a
probability.  When it was suggested that he might have been 'fed dirt,"
he was mad as hell.  Here.  '..  . Why would they?  I was a major
contributor to their cause.  They believed me!"

"The same kind of anger he showed to me when I told him about the
Brotherhood having a file on him."

"He pounced on both of us for that.  And right after,

when I asked him who Kroeger was, he said the words that'll stay with
me for the rest of my life..  .. "I don't think I should tell you that,
Alexander Lassiter can."  He was two people, one moment himself, the
next Lassiter.  That's heavy."

"I know, my darling, but it's over, he's at peace."

"I hope so, I really hope so.  I'm not religious, as a matter of fact,
I don't like most religions.  The violence done in their various names
is about as God-like as Genghis Khan.  But if death is the proverbial
Big Sleep, I'll settle for that, and so will Harry."

"You never went to church as a child?"

"Sure.  Mother's an Indiana Presbyterian corrupted by academic New
England, and therefore felt that Harry and I should attend regularly
until we were sixteen.  I made it to twelve, but Harry quit when he was
ten."

"Didn't she protest?"

"Beth was never any good at conflicts, except where track and field
events were concerned.  There, she was a tiger.  "

"What about your father?"

"Another piece of work."  Drew leaned back in the chair, smiling.

"One Sunday, Mom had the flu and told Dad to drive us to church,
forgetting that he had never been there.  Naturally, he got lost, and
Harry and I weren't about to help him.  Finally, he stopped the car and
said, "Go on in there.  It's all pretty much the same, so hear it from
somebody else."  Only it wasn't our church."

"Well, it was at least a church."

"Not exactly.  It was a synagogue."  They both laughed as the telephone
rang.  Latham picked it up.

"Yes?"

"It is I, Moreau."

"Any word on your secretary?  I mean, on who might have killed her?"

"Absolutely nothing.  My wife is distraught; she's making the
arrangements.  I shall never forgive myself for what I believed."

"Get out from under the hair shirt said Drew.

"It doesn't help."

"I know.  Fortunately, I have other things to occupy me.

Our ambassador's wife made her first move.  About an hour ago she
stopped at an expensive leather shop on the Champstlys6es,_ dismissed
her taxi, and then disappeared."

"A leather shop?"

"Riding equipment, saddles, boots-they're rather famous for their
boots."

"A boot maker

"Yes, you could say that-"

"That was one of the items we found on the neo who tried to blow my
head off!"  interrupted Latham.

"A repair receipt in the name of AndrE."

"Where is this receipt?"

"Witkowski's got it."

"I'll send someone over to pick it up."

"I thought you didn't like sending Deuxi@me people to the embassy."

"It's only annoying when questions are asked."

"Then don't bother.  Stanley's having a car brought over to take Karin
to the doctor.  I'll tell him to give the receipt to the marine
escort-wait a minute!"  Drew snapped his head up in sudden thought, his
eyes creased as a person does when trying desperately to remember
something.

"You said Courtland's wife disappeared .  ?"

"She went in and never came out.  My people think she was taken
somewhere else; they found a delivery entrance in the rear with a small
parking area.  Why?"

"It's probably a losing long shot, Claude, but there was something else
on our Bois de Boulogne Nazi.  A free pass for an amusement park on the
outskirts of the city."

"A strange item for such a man-"

"That's what we thought," Latham broke in.

"We were going to check it out, along with the boot maker when that
arsenal at the Avignon Warehouse went up in smoke.  It sidetracked
us."

"Youthink she might have been driven there?"

"As I say, it's a long shot, but as we both agree, a free pass to a fun
house is a pretty strange ticket for a Nazi killer to keep buried in
his wallet."

"It's certainly worth a try," Moreau said.

"I'll reach Witkowski; he'll be sending the car for Karin soon.

When it gets here, I'll have the receipt and the pass.  In the
meantime, you order up one of your fancy vehicles and wait for me at
the side entrance of the hotel."

"It is done.  Have you a weapon?"

"Two.  I didn't give Stanley's sergeant Alan Reynolds's automatic last
night.  He was so pissed off at me for going out, I thought he'd wear
gloves, shoot me, and say Reynolds did it."

"Good thinking.  One of my people probably would have.  A bientEt."

"Make it soon."  Drew hung up the phone and looked over at Karin, who
was now standing in front of the couch, her expression none too
pleasant.

"I'm calling our colonel, want to say hello?"

"No, I want to go with you."

"Come on, lady, you're going to the doctor's.  Youthink you fooled me
last night, but you didn't.  You got up and went to the bathroom, and
you were there a hell of a long time.  I turned on the light and saw
the blood around your pillow.  Later I found the bandage in the
wastebasket.  Your hand was bleeding."

"It was nothing-"

"Let the doctor tell me that.  And if it's true, why is your right arm
bent at the elbow so your hand is across your chest, somewhat ignoring
gravity?  Are you in the middle of a benediction, or would you rather
not have the bandage soiled again?"

"You're very observant, you bastard."

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Only in spasms, and only now and then.  You're probably
responsible."

"That's the nicest thing you've said in quite a while."  Latham got up
from the desk; they crossed to each other and embraced.

"My God, I'm glad I found you!"

"It's a two-way street, my darling."

"I wish I could say things better, say the things I feel.  I haven't
had much practice, not in a genuine way-I guess that's a dumb thing to
say."

"Not at all.  You're a grown man, not a monk.  Kiss me."  They kissed,
long and sensuously, searching their swelling arousal.  Quite
naturally, the telephone rang.

"Answer it, Officer Latham," said Karin, gently disengaging herself and
looking up into his eyes.

"Someone's rightfully trying to stop us.  There's work to do."

"Did that uniform make me a general?"  said Drew, now in civilian
clothes.

"If so, whoever it is, the son of a bitch is going to do fifty years in
Leavenworth."  He walked to the desk and picked up the telephone.

"Yes?"

"If you were really under my command," said Colonel Stanley Witkowski
harshly, "you'd be spending the rest of your life in Leavenworth for
dereliction of duty!"  ,

"Exactly my thoughts, but in the reverse.  Only I've lost my rank
temporarily."

"Shut up.  Moreau just reached me and asked if I'd

talked to you about the amusement park."

"I was just going to call you.  I had an acid attack-"

"Thank you," whispered De Vries.

"Cut the crap!"  the colonel continued over the line.

"The car's on the way for Karin, and the sergeant has what you need.  I
think I should be with you boys, but Sorenson wants me to stick
around.

We're trying to figure out how to make Courtland's homecoming as easy
as possible."

"How did he take the news?"

"How would you if Karin turned out to be a neo?"

"Don't even think it."

"Courtland did better than that.  He was shattered but convinced.

Wesley's an old-timer, like me.  He doesn't pull a put-around unless he
has sufficient background confirmation to make it irresistible."

"You speak a funny language, but I understand you."

"The bottom line is that the ambassador's going along with us.

He's going to play his part."

"Better you should get the actor Villier.  That's going to be one hell
of a 'homecoming' bed tomorrow night."

"That's what we're working on.  Courtland's frightened to be alone with
her.  We're orchestrating a series of late night emergencies."

"Not bad.  With the cumulative jet lag, it might work."

"It has to.  How's your friend?"

"She continually lies to me.  Her hand hurts and she won't admit it."

"A real soldier."

"A real idiot."

"Our car will be there in ten minutes.  Wait till the marines are
inside, then take her out."

"Will do."

"Have a good hunt."  "I don't want a useless one."

Latham, in gray trousers and a blazer, climbed into the backseat of the
armored Deuxi@me car beside Moreau and handed him the boot maker
receipt and the pass for the amusement park.

"This is my associate-Jacques Bergeron-Jacques will do," said the head
of the Deuxi@me, gesturing at the man in the front passenger seat.
Amenities were exchanged.

"And I believe you've met our driver," added Moreau as the agent behind
the wheel angled his head around.

"Bonjour, monsieur."  It was the driver who had saved his life on the
avenue Gabriel, the man who insisted he get in the car only seconds
before a fusillade of bullets pocked the windshield.

"Your name's Franqois," said Drew, "and I'll never forget it or you.  I
wouldn't be alive if it weren't---2'

"Yes, yes," Moreau interrupted, cutting Latham off.

"We've all read the report and Fran@ois has been sufficiently
commended.  He took the rest of the day off to calm his nerves."

"Cest merde," said the driver under his breath as he started the car.

"Is it the park we determined, Monsieur Director?"  he continued
courteously in English.

"Yes, beyond Issy-les-Moulineaux.  How long will it take?  "

"Once we reach the rue de Vaugirard, not long.  Perhaps twenty minutes
or so.  It's the traffic until then."

"Don't overburden yourself with city regulations, Fran@ois.  It would
be advantageous if you did not run over or crash into someone, but
short of that, get us there as quickly as possible."

What followed belonged on the crassest television show, wherein
automobiles replaced characters and became roaring machines hell-bent
on self-destruction.  The Deuxi&me vehicle not only weaved perilously
in and around the cars in front, but twice Fran@ois swung up on
relatively empty pavements to avoid minor congestions, scattering what
pedestrians there were, who ran for their lives.

"We're going to get arrested!"  said an astonished Latham'.

"It might be attempted, but we haven't got time for that," disagreed
Moreau.

"Our automobile is equipped with an engine superior to any police car
in Paris.  We could even put in use the siren, but it startles people
and could actually cause accidents, which we cannot afford."

"This guy's nuts!"

"Among Franqois's talents is an extraordinary ability as a driver.

I suspect that before he came to us he was what you Americans call 'the
wheels' in bank robberies-that sort of thing."

"I saw that a couple of days ago on the Gabriel."

"So don't complain."

Thirty-two minutes later, the foreheads of Drew, Jacques, and even
Moreau dripping with sweat from the wild drive, they reached le Pare de
Joie, a tawdry alternative to Euro Disney, popular because it was
French and inexpensive.  In fact, it was a poor distant relation to
Disney's spectacle, more carnival than park, with grotesque, outsize
cartoon figures above the various rides and sideshows, the dirt paths
littered with debris.  The screams of -delight from the crowds of
children, however, defined the equality with its grandiose American
competition.

"There are two entrances, Monsieur Director," said the driver.

"One north and one south."

"You know this place, Franqois?"

"Yes, sir.  I've taken my two daughters here several times.  This is
the north entrance."

"Shall we use the pass and see what happens?"  asked Drew.

"No," replied the Deuxieme chief.

"That can come later if we think it will be helpful..  .. Jacques, you
and Franqols go in together, two fathers looking for your wives and
children.  Monsieur Latham and I will go in separately through
different gates.  Where would you suggest we meet, Franqois?"

"There is a carousel in the center of the park.  It's usually crowded
and the noise from the excited children and the calliope makes it
ideal."

"You both have studied the photograph of Madame Courtland, no?"

"Certainly."

"Then split up inside and walk around, looking for her.  Monsieur
Latham and I will do the same, and we'll meet at the carousel in half
an hour.  If either of you see her, use your radios and we'll move up
the rendezvous."

"I don't have a radio," complained Drew.

"You do now," said Moreau, reaching into his pocket.

Madame Courtland had been ushered into a small building at the south
end of the seven-acre amusement park.  The anteroom was a slovenly
mess, garish old posters tacked on the walls in no particular order and
without concern for symmetry.  Two desks and a long, rickety buffet
table were piled high with assorted multicolored flyers, many stained
by coffee rings and cigarette ashes, while three employees labored over
a mimeograph machine and several stencils.  Two were overly made-up
women in belly dancer costumes and a young male in a strangely
ambiguous outfit soiled orange tights and a blue blouse-his gender
revealed by a scraggly beard.  There were four small windows on the
upper-front walls, too high for those outside to look through, and the
clattering of an ancient air conditioner seemed to be in syncopation
with the mimeograph.

Janine Clunes Courtland was appalled.  The Saddle and Bootery was a
palace compared to this dump, she thought.  Yet this dump, this
foul-smelling office, was obviously superior in status to the
exquisite leather boutique in the Champstlys6es.  Her doubts were
partially put to rest with the sight of a tall, middle-aged man who
seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but in reality from a narrow door in
the left wall.  He was dressed informally, the soft blue jeans and tan
suede jacket the best to be found in Saint-Honor6, and the ascot around
his throat the most expensive Herrn@s had to offer.  He signaled her to
follow him.

Through the narrow door, they walked down an equally narrow but dark
corridor until they reached another door, this on the right.

The tall man in the extravagant sport clothes pressed a series of
digits on a square electronic panel and opened the door.  Again, she
followed him, entering an office that was as different from the first
as the Hotel Ritz was from a soup kitchen.

The walls and furniture were made, of the finest wood and leather, the
paintings authentic works of the Impressionist masters, the recessed,
mirror-paneled bar complete with glasses and decanters of Baccarat
crystal.  It was the lair of a very important man.

"Willkommen, Frau Courtland," the man said in a voice warm and
ingratiating.

"I am An&6," he added in English.

"You know who I am?"

"Certainly, you used my name twice and the code of the month, Catbird.
We've been expecting your contact for many weeks now.

Please, sit down."

"Thank you."  Janine sat down in front of the desk as the park's
manager lowered himself in a chair next to her, not behind his desk.

"The time wasn't right until now."

"We assumed that.  You're a brilliant woman and your coded messages to
Berlin have been received regularly.  Through your information
regarding the financial watchdogs in Paris and Washington, our accounts
have swelled.  We are all eternally grateful."

"I've always wondered, Herr AndrE, why Berlin?  Why not Bonn?"

"Bonn is such a small city, night wabr?  Berlin is and will remain a
mass of confusion.  So many interests, so much chaos-the crumbling
Wall, the influx of immigrants; it's far easier to conceal things in
Berlin.  After all, the funds remain in Switzerland, and when they are
needed in Germany, the transfers are in successive increments, hardly
noticeable in a city of such high finance that millions are sent by
computer every hour of the day."

"My work, then, is appreciated?"  asked the ambassador's wife.

"Extraordinarily so.  How could you think otherwise?"

"I don't.  I just think it's time, after all these years of
accomplishment, that I be brought to Bonn and recognized.  I'm now in a
position to render even more extraordinary service.  I am the
whore-wife of one of the most important ambassadors in Europe. 
Whatever our enemies plan against us, I will know.  I would like to
hear from our Fuhrer that the daily risks I take will be rewarded.  Is
that so much to ask?"

"No, it isn't, gnddige Frau.  Yet I am Andre, not an ambassador, of
course, but perhaps the most vital conduit in Europe, and I take these
things on faith.  Why can't you?"

"Because I've never even seen the Fatherland!  Can't you understand
that?  All my life, since I was a child, I've trained and worked myself
into states of exhaustion for one cause only.  A cause I could never
mention, never confide to anyone.  I became the best at what I do and
could not tell even my closest friends why I drove myself.  I deserve
recognition!"

The man called AndrE studied the woman across from him.

"Yes, you do, Frau Courtland.  You of all people do.  I'll call Bonn
tonight..  .. Now, to more mundane matters, when will the ambassador
return to Paris?"

"Tomorrow."

Drew dodged the hordes of parents and their offspring in the main
mothers chasing after their children, who were chasing other children,
laughing or screaming uncontrollably as they raced from one
entertainment to the next.  He kept shifting his concentration,
studying every woman who appeared to be anywhere from early to late
middle age, which was just about every female in the amusement park.

Sporadically, he raised the radio in his hand, as if expecting the
short beeper signal to burst forth, telling him someone had seen
something-seen Janine Climes Courtland.  No sound came; he continued
walking through the crisscrossing dirt paths, passing the large,
malformed figures whose garish grins tempted the onlookers to pay their
money and enter.

Claude Moreau chose the quieter sections on the premise that the
ambassador's wife would instinctively avoid the more raucous areas, and
where her next contact, if there was one, would more likely be
situated.  Therefore he roamed around the animal cages and the stalls
of fortunetellers and souvenir hawkers, where T-shirts and insignia
caps lay in rows under canopies.  The chief of the Deuxi@me kept
peering beyond the wares into the shadowed interiors, hoping to see men
or a woman who did not belong there.

Eighteen minutes passed, and the results were negative.

Moreau's most-trusted subordinate, Jacques Bergeron, was annoyingly
caught up in a rush toward a reopened Ferris wheel, which had had a
temporary power failure, stranding a number of riders fifty feet in the
air.  As a result, the crowd racing to the gate included parents who
were convinced they had sacrificed their children to the avarice of the
park's owners, who were too cheap to pay their electric bill.  At one
point Jacques collided with a young child and was struck in the face by
a mother's purse; reeling, he fell to the ground and was trampled.  He
lay there, his arms covering his head until the enthusiastic
cum-hysterical onslaught passed him by.  He, too, had seen no one
resembling Madame Courtland.

Franqois, the driver who frankly was delighted with the English term
"Wheels," sauntered past the ramshackle structures at the south
entrance, where the signs were small and.  subdued announcing the
offices of first aid, complaints, lost and found, management (barely
legible), and one larger billboard proclaiming the office of group
parties.  Suddenly Franqois heard the words, spoken by an obese woman
addressing her companion, a gaunt, pinch- 5

faced female.

"What the hell is someone like that coming here for?

That pink dress could feed my family for a year!"  said the heavy
woman.

"They call it slumming, Charlotte.  They think they're better than we
are, so they have to prove it."

"It's shit, that's what it is.  Did you see those la-di-da white shoes?
Five thousand francs if a soul"

Franqois had no doubt whom they were talking about!  The unit in the
ChamPS7tlys@es had described the ambassador's wife as wearing a pale
pink and white summer dress, obviously from one of the better fashion
houses.  The driver watched the two women, casually walking closer to
them as they strolled down the wide dirt thoroughfare.

"I'll tell you what I think," said the thin woman with the perpetual
pout.

"I'll bet my good-for-nothing husband that she's one of the owners of
this stinking money trap.  The rich do that, you know.

They buy up places like this because they're cheap to run and the cash
registers ring night and day."

"You're probably right.  After all, she went into the manager's office.
Damn the filthy rich!"

"Fran@ois dropped behind, then turned and strolled back to the row of
shacks that served as offices.  He sported the small sign.

that read Management; the building was perhaps twenty feet wide,
separated from those on either side by narrow paths that looked more
like ditches.  The front windows were unusually high, and below there
was a door that seemed out of place.  It appeared to be much thicker or
heavier than the wood surrounding it.  Franqois removed the handheld
radio from his jacket pocket, pressed the Transmit button, and brought
the instrument to his ear.

Then abruptly, without warning, he heard two familiar voices, very
familiar, and then a third, one he had been listening to for years.

"Papa, Papa!"

"Notre P@re!  C'est lui!"

"Franqois, what are you doing here?"

The sight of his wife and two daughters sent the wideeyed driver into
shock.  Finding his voice while awkwardly embracing the two young
girls, he spoke.

"My God, Yvonne!  What are you doing here?"

"You called saying you'd be late and probably not home for dinner, so
we decided to come here for a little fun."

"Papa, can you' come on the carousel with us?  Please, Papa!"

"My darlings, Papa is at work.

"At work?"  exclaimed the wife.

"Why would the Deuxi@me come here?"

-Sbb!"  The perplexed Franqois turned briefly away and spoke rapidly
into the radio.

"The subject is over here, near the south entrance.  Meet me there.  I
have complications, as you may have heard..  .. Come, Yvonne; you too
children, away from here!"

"Good Lord, you weren't joking," said the wife as the family rushed
down the dirt road toward the south entrance.

"No, I wasn't joking, my dear.  Now, for all our sakes, please get,
into the' car and go home.  I'll explain later."

"Non, Papa!  We just got here!"

"It is "Yes, Papa," or the next time you come here, you'll be in the
Sorbonne!"

What Franqois had not noticed was a young man dressed in torn orange
tights and a ragged blue blouse, only his unkempt beard declaring him a
male.  He was standing to the left of the heavy door, smoking a
cigarette, his attention drawn to the noisy and obviously unexpected
family reunion.  Especially noticeable was the handheld radio into
which the man spoke, and even more startling, the question posed by the
woman.  "..  . Why would the Deuxieme come here?"  The Deuxi@me?

The young man crushed his cigarette under his foot and raced inside.

The elegant proprietor, who called himself AndrE, broke off his
conversation with Frau Courtland, politely excusing himself as he got
out of the chair and crossed to the ringing telephone on his desk.

"Yes?"  he said, then listened silently for no more than ten
seconds.

"Prepare the car!"

he ordered, replacing the phone and turning to the ambassador's wife.

"Were you escorted here, madame?"

"I was driven from the Saddle and Bootery, yes."

"I mean, are you under the protection of French or American officials?
Are you being followed?"

"Good heavens, no!  The embassy has no idea where I am.1)

"Someone does.  You must leave immediately.  Come with me.

There is an underground tunnel from here to the parking area;

the steps are back here.  Quickly!"

Ten minutes later, a breathless AndrE was back in his well appointed
office; he sat behind the desk and relaxed,

sighing audibly.  His telephone rang again; he answered it.

"Yes?"

"Go to scrambler," instructed the voice from Germany.

"Immediately!"

"Very well," said a concerned Andre, opening a drawer and flipping a
switch inside.

"Go ahead."

"You have a most inefficient organization!"

"We don't think so.  What troubles you?"

"It's taken me nearly an hour to find out how to reach you, and only
then after threatening half of our intelligence branches!"

"I'd say that was most appropriate.  I think you should reevaluate."

"Fool!"

"Now, I find that most offensive."

"You'll be far less offended when I tell you why."

"Enlighten me, please."

"Ambassador Daniel Courtland's wife is coming to see you-"

"Come and gone, mein Herr," interrupted Andre in selfsatisfaction.

"Thus eluding those who followed her here."

"Followed her?"

"Presumably."

"How?"

"I have no idea, but they put on quite a show, even to the point of
employing the name of the Deuxi@me in a most unusual manner. 
Naturally, I rushed her away sight unseen and within the next half hour
she'll be safely in the American Embassy."

"Idiot!"  screamed the man in Germany.

"She was not to return to the embassy.  She was to be killed.!"

oreau, his chief aide Jacques Bergeron, and Latham converged on
Fran@ois within moments of each M other.  Together they walked fifty
yards west of the south entrance, where the Deuxieme chief held up his
hand; the area was less crowded, the shabby tents on the right used for
the employees' toilets and dressing rooms.

"We can talk here," said Moreau, looking at the driver.

"Mon Dieu, my friend, such misfortune!  Your wife and children!"

"I shall have to invent a very convincing explanation."

"The children won't speak to you for a week, Frangois," said Jacques,
grinning sheepishly.

"You know that, don't you?"

"We have other things to discuss," Franqois broke in defensively.

"I overheard two women, too harridans talking..  .."  The driver
described the conversation he had surreptitiously listened to, ending
with the words "She's in there, in the management's office."

"Jacques," said Moreau.

"Scout the building in your most professional manner.  I'd suggest the
inebriated mode; remove your jacket and tie, we'll hold them."

"I'll be back in three or four minutes."  The agent took off his coat
and tie, pulled out a section of his shirt, letting it hang over his
belt, and started weaving back and forth toward the south entrance and
beyond.

"Jacques does this very well," observed Moreau, looking at his
subordinate admiringly.

"Especially for a man who never touches whisky and can barely tolerate
a glass of wine."

"Maybe he tolerated too much of both before," said Drew.

"No," said the head of the Deuxi@me Bureau, "it's his stomach.

Something to do with acidity.  He can be very embarrassing when we dine
with the ministers of the Chamber of Deputies, who control our purse
strings.  They think he's a prissy bureaucrat."

"What are we going to do if Courtland's wife stays inside?"

asked Latham.

"I'm not sure," replied Moreau.

"On the one hand, we know she's come here, which validates your
assumption that this is a Briiderschaft contact, yet on the other, do
we want whoever they are to know that we know it?  Is it better to be
patient and keep this place, this poor excuse for an office, under
constant surveillance and learn who goes where, or do we force the
issue by assaulting it?"

"I go for the second," answered Latham.

"We're wasting time if we don't.  Pull the bitch out and take her
contacts.  "

"A tempting shortcut, Drew, but a dangerous one, and conceivably
counterproductive.  If, as we both now believe, this crude shambles of
an amusement park is a vital link to the Brotherhood, do we take it
out, leaving a shocking void, or do we let it stand and learn more?"

"I say we take it out."

"Sending alarms to the neo-Nazis throughout Europe?  There are other
ways, my friend.  We can tap into their phones, their fax machines,
their ultrahigh-frequency radio transmissions, if they exist.  We could
be giving up a golden prize for a stuffeddonke-yCourtlancVs wife -can
be watched, this park kept under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.
We must think about our actions very carefully."

"You're so goddamned French!  .. . Youtalk too much."

"Fortunately or unfortunately, it is my heritage, our Gallic
skepticism."

4 4And you're probably right.  I just wish you weren't.

I'm impatient."

"You had a brother most brutally murdered, Drew.  I did not.

Were I in your place, I'd feel the same way."

"I wonder if Harry would."

"That's an odd thing to say."  Moreau studied Latham's face, noting the
distant, briefly unfocused look in the American's eyes.

"De sang-fro id said Drew softly.

"I beg your pardon."

"Nothing, nothing at all."  Latham blinked several times, the reality
of the moment returned.

"What do you think Jacques will find?"

"The ambassador's wife, if he can," replied Franqois, the wild
driver.

"I hope he does, for the sooner I get home, the better.  My daughters
were crying their eyes out when they left with Yvonne..  Sorry,
Monsieur Director, I don't mean to allow personal matters to
interfere-which, of course, they will not.  in truth, they are
inconsequential."

"No need to apologize, Franqois.  A man who has no life outside the
Deuxi&me is a man lacking in perspective, in itself a dangerous
condition."

"Alors!"  said the driver, looking up the dirt thoroughfare.

"What is it?"  asked Moreau.

"That fellow in the funny costume, the orange stockings and the blue
shirt!"

"What about him?"  said Drew.

"He's looking for someone.  He keeps running back and forth he coming
this way, past the entrance."

"Separate!"  ordered the chief of the Deuxi&me.

The three men peeled off in different directions as the young, bearded
man in the orange tights raced by, intermittently stopping and glancing
around.  Franqois walked between two of the employees' tents, his back
to the path.  A minute later a pounding orange blur ran feverishly,
returning to the ramshackle office labeled Management.  Moreau and
Latham joined Franqois by the narrow space between the tents.

"He sure was looking for someone," said Drew.

"Was it you?"

"I see no reason why," answered the driver, frowning, "but I seem to
remember a speck, a splash of orange, when I turned away from my wife
and children and called all of you."

"Your radio, perhaps," said Moreau.

"But, as you say, there was no reason for you to be singled out..  .. I
believe there's a rather common explanation.  Such places as these
small amusement parks are havens for eluding taxes.  Everything is cash
money, and they print the tickets themselves.  Someone probably assumed
you were from the Department of Taxation, clocking the sales.  Not at
all unusual; those investigators are subject to bribery."

"Mes amis!"  Jacques, minus his inebriated mode, rushed up to them,
taking his jacket and tie from Franqois.

"If Madame Courtland went into the manager's office, she is still
inside.  There's no other exit."

"We'll wait," said Moreau.

"Again, we'll separate but stay in the area, one of us at all times
watching the door.  We'll rotate, twenty minutes a turn.  I'll be
first, and remember, keep your radios where you can hear the signal."

"I'll take over from you," said Drew, looking at his watch.

"And I from you, monsieur," added Jacques.

"I'll follow him," completed Franqois.

Two hours passed, each man having spent double duty at his post, when
the chief of the Deuxi@me ordered them to meet at the tents west of the
south entrance.

"Jacques," said Moreau, "are you certain there was no door on either
side or at the rear of the building?"

"Not even a window, Claude.  Except for those in front, there's not a
single window."

"It's beginning to get dark," offered Franqois.

"Perhaps she's waiting for it to become darker still, then she'll leave
when the lateafternoon crowds head home."

"A possibility, but again, why?"

"She got away from your unit on the Champstlys6es," said Latham, his
eyebrows raised questioningly.

"There was no way she could have known she was under surveillance,
monsieur," objected Jacques.

"Maybe somebody told her."

"That adds an entirely different dimension, Drew.  One we have no
evidence of."

"I'm searching, that's all.  It's possible she's just paranoid possible
hell, such a person would have to be..  ..

Let me ask all of you.  Who did you see going out of that door?  I saw
the weirdo in the orange tights; he met with someone in a clown
costume, who was waiting for him."

"I saw two hideously made-up women who looked like they came from an
impoverished sheikh's harem," said Jacques.

"Could either of them have been Courtland's wife?"  asked Moreau
quickly.

"Negative.  The same thought struck me, so I reverted to the drunken
exercise and literally bumped into both.  They were washed-out hags,
one had terrible breath."

"You see how accomplished he is," said the Deuxieme chief to Latham.

"And you, Franqois?"

"There was only,a tall' man in large dark glasses, about our American's
size, dressed in casual but expensive clothing.  I suspect he was the
owner, as he checked the door to see if it was locked."

"Then, if Madame Courtland has not emerged, and the office is locked up
for the night, we're all saying she's still in there, not so?"

"Definitely," replied Drew.

"She could be in there for any number of reasons, including a pristine
phone call while the ambassador's in Washington..  .. Which of you is
the best second-story man?"

"Second story?"  asked Franqois.

"He means opening locked doors and illegally entering places,"
clarified Moreau.

"What has that to do with two stories?"  asked the perplexed driver.

"Never-mind, the answer is Jacques."

"You're really talented," said Latham.

"If Franqois was a getaway driver, I suspect my friend Jacques was
probably a jewel thief before seeing the light and joining our
organization," Moreau said.

"That also is merde, monsieur," said Jacques, grinning.

"Monsieur le Directeur has strange ways of complimenting us.

However, the Bureau sent me to a locksmith's training school for a
month.  With the proper tools, all locks are vulnerable, for the
principles are the same, with the exception of the most recently
developed computerized ones."

"That dilapidated hovel looks as computerized as an outdoor toilet.  Go
to work, Jacques, we'll be across from you on the other side."  The
locksmith-trained Deuxi@me agent walked rapidly back to the crude
building as the others followed, staying in the growing shadows on the
left of the dirt thoroughfare.  Within moments Claude Moreau's judgment
was proven grossly wrong; a clamor of bells and sirens suddenly
erupted, echoing throughout the park.

Guards in various dress, some uniformed, others in outrageous
apparel-clowns, half-naked sword swallowers, dwarfs, and tiger skinned
Africans---converged on the violated structure with the aggressiveness
of a Mongol assault.  Jacques fled the scene, gesturing to his
companions to evacuate!  They did so, running as fast as they could.

"What happened?"  shouted Latham once they were in the Deuxieme vehicle
and speeding away.

"Beyond the tumblers, which were easy to penetrate," answered the
breathless Jacques, "there had to be an electronic scanner that
determined the weight and the density of the instrument that caused the
tumblers to fall into place."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You find it every day with the newest automobiles, monsieur.

The small black chip in the ignition key; without it you cannot start
the motor.  In the most expensive cars, if you try sirens will go
off."

"So much for your outhouse, Claude."

"What can I say?  I was wrong, but it told us something, did it not? 
Le Pare de Joie is every bit the vital Briiderschaft drop we believed
it was."

"But now they know it's been penetrated."

"Not so, Drew.  We have backups for such emergencies, in cooperation
with the police and the Soret!"

"What?"

"There are scores of felons every week, many first-time offenders whose
distressed circumstances called for their actions but who are basically
decent human beings.  jean Valjean in Les Misirables is the perfect
example."

"Christ, you talk too much.  What are you trying to say?"

"We have lists of such would-be criminals serving mandatory sentences
of, say, six months to a year.  In exchange for taking the blame for
one more felony-such as attempting to rob an amusement park-their
sentences are reduced and in some cases their records expunged."

"Shall I get to work on it?"  asked Jacques from the front seat,
reaching for the car phone.

"Please do."  As his subordinate officer dialed and began speaking,
Moreau explained.

"Within fifteen or twenty minutes the police will call the park's
security, stating that they caught a car racing away and the two men
inside were known burglars.  Is the scenario clear?"

"I think so.  Naturally, they'll ask if there was a robbery and, if so,
what was stolen, and is there anyone who might identify the
perpetrators?"

"Precisely.  Adding, of course, that the police, in their gratitude for
any witnesses, would be happy to drive them to and from the station
where the prisoners are being held.  "

"Said invitation rapidly declined," added Latham, nodding his head in
the rushing, darkening shadows of the backseat.

"Not always, mon ami," contradicted Moreau.

"Which is why we must have our false culprits.  Every now and then the
objects of our disaffections are too curious, too nervous about their
own situations, and accept the invitation.  However, they invariably
have the same request demand actually."

"Let me guess," said Drew.

"They'll go to the lineup on the condition that they can see the
suspects but the suspects can't see them."

"As I've mentioned, you're very astute."

"If I couldn't figure that one out, I should have retired the day I
finished training.  But the concept of-what did you call them?-'false
culprits' is a beaut.  For God's sake, don't leak the idea to
Washington, the "Gates' will multiply.  Watergate and Iran-gate will
be Puppy Chow compared to CIA gate and State-gate.  The real heavies
will figure out they can put in doubles for themselves, including the
President himself."

"Frankly, we over here could not understand why they didn't.

"Keep that speculation to yourselves, we've got enough troubles."

"Claude," interrupted Jacques, turning around in the seat.

"You'll like this.  Our perpetrators are a couple of underpaid
bookkeepers who tried to rob a butcher chain that was selling poor meat
at premium prices."

"Their premise was correct: Steal from thieves."

"Unfortunately, the thieves altered their supplies overnight and our
bookkeepers were caught on videotape opening a safe."

"They were hardly suited to their new endeavors."

"The gendarmes were happy to oblige.  The chief of detectives has been
buying meat from the chain for years."

"His taste buds weren't very acute.  When will they activate?"

"As we speak."

"Bien.  Drop off Monsieur Latham at the Normandie and me at the office.
Then, for God's sake, have Franqois go home."

"It is no problem for me to stay with you, Monsieur Director," said the
driver.

"In case there is an emergency."

"No, Franqois, you will not avoid your domestic responsibilities.

Your lovely wife would never forgive you."  I "It's not her forgiveness
that concerns me, sir.  Children are far more brutal."

"I lived through it and so can you.  It builds character."

"You're all heart," said Drew quietly into Moreau's ear.

"What are you going to do at the office?"

"Follow up on this afternoon, tonight.  I'll keep you informed.

Also, mon ami, you have a relatively domestic concern of your own.

The enchanting Karin has been to the doctor.  Her wound, remember?"

"Jesus, I forgot!"

"I would advise not telling her that."

"You're wrong, Moreau.  She'd understand."

Karin, in a hotel bathrobe, was pacing back and forth in front of the
large casement window when Latham opened the door.

"My God, you've been gone a long time!"  she cried, running to him,
both embracing.

"Are you all right?"

"Hey, lady, it was an amusement park, not the battle of Bastogne.  Of
course I'm all right; we never even thought to look at our weapons."

"That took nearly four hours?  What happened?"

He told her, then asked.

"How about you?  What did the doctor say?"

"I'm sorry, darling, it's why I never should have gotten involved with
you.  I thought such feelings were gone, but they're obviously not.
When I care about someone, I care very deeply."

"That's terrific, but you haven't answered my question."

"Look!"  De Vries proudly held up her right hand, the bandage less than
half its previous size, not much more than a small nozzle.

"He fitted me for a prosthesis about two centimeters long-less than an
inch.  It will slip over my finger, with a nail attached, and be
practically unnoticeable."

"That's great, but how does it feel?  You were bleeding last night."

"The doctor said I must have been quite excited, and clutched
something.  Do you have any welts on your back, my darling?"

"Another piece of work."  Drew again pulled her into his arms.

Their lips met, the kiss slowly broken off by Karin.

41 want to talk," she said.

"About what?  I told you what happened."

"About your safety.  The Maison Rouge called-"

"They knew where to find you?  Here at the Normandie?"

"They frequently know things before many of us learn about them
ourselves."

"Then they're being fed information they goddamned well shouldn't
have!"

"I believe you're right, but then, we know which side the Antinayous
are on."

"Not necessary ily.  Sorenson cut them off."

"He was the most feared deep-cover intelligence officer during the Cold
War.  He suspects everybody."

"How do you know that?  The deep-cover bit?"

"Partially from you, but mainly from Freddie."

"Freddie .. . ?"

"Of course.  The sub-networks protect themselves, Drew.

Information circulates.  Whom can you count on, whom can you trust
Survival's the ultimate answer, isn't it?"

"What did the Maison Rouge call about?"

"Their informers in Bonn and Berlin say that two teams of trained
Blitzkrieger are being sent to Paris to find and kill the Latham
brother who survived the assault at the inn in Villejulf.  The man they
believe to be Harry Latham."

"That's nothing new, for God's sake."

"They say that the number of assassins is between eight and twelve. 
Not one or two or even three, but a small army is coming after you."

Silence, and then Latham spoke.

"I guess that's really impressive, isn't it?  I mean, I'm popular
beyond my wildest dreams, and I'm not even the guy they want."

"I'd have to agree with you."

"But why?  That's the question, isn't it?  Why do they want Harry so
badly?  His list is out and with the confusion and dissension it's
causing, they've got to know it's to their benefit, so why?"

"Would it have something to do with Dr.  Kroeger?"

"That cat's in space without an oxygen helmet.  He tells one lie after
another, forgetting the lies he told before."

"I wasn't aware of that.  In what sense?"

"He told Moreau, who he believes is one of them, that he had to find
Harry in order to learn.  the identity of the female traitor in the
Briiderschaft valley-"

"What traitor?"  De Vries interrupted.

"We don't know and neither did Harry.  When he was in London and we
talked on the phone, he mentioned something about a nurse who had
alerted the Antinayous that he was coming out, but the man who drove
the truck that picked him up didn't elaborate."

"If that was Kroeger's lie, it may not have been a lie."

"Except that he told Witkowski something entirely different.  He
insisted he had to find Harry before the medication he was on wore off
and Harry died.  Stanley didn't believe him for a moment and that's why
he wanted to shoot him to the moon with chemicals-to see if he could
learn the truth."

"Which the embassy doctor wouldn't permit," said Karin softly.

"Now I understand why Witkowski was so upset with him."

"Which is also why that medical saint is going to be overruled if I
have to get Sorenson to blackmail the President."

"Really?  Is he .. . black mailable

"Everybody is, especially presidents.  It's called political genocide,
depending upon which party you belong to."

"May we get back to another subject, please?"

"What subject?"  Latham walked to the desk and the telephone.

"I want to fry a doctor who'd rather prolong the life of a slug than
prevent the killing of decent people on our side."

Which could be you, Drew."

"I suppose so."  Latham picked up the phone.

"Stop it and listen to me!"  cried De Vries.

"Hang up and listen."

"Okay, okay."  Drew replaced the phone and slowly turned, facing her.

"What is It?"

"I'm going to be brutally honest with you, my darling -because you're a
man I love."

"For the moment?  Or can I count on a month or two?"

"That's not only gratuitously unfair, it's also demeaning.  5 @

"I apologize.  Only I'd rather hear the man, not a man."

"And I loved another, no matter how misguided I was, and I will not
apologize for that."

"Two points for the lady.  Go on, be brutally honest."

"You're a bright, even brilliant man in your own way.  I've seen that,
watched you, applauded your ability to make quick decisions, as well as
your physical prowess which certainly outstripped my husband's and
Harry's.  But you are not Freddie and you are not Harry, both of whom
lived with the specter of death every morning they woke up and every
night when they prowled the streets for black rendezvous.  It's a world
you don't know, Drew, a horrid, convoluted world you've never been
steeped in exposed to, yes, but you are not a veteran of its
nightmares."

"Get to the point, I want to make a phone call."

"Please, I beg you, give all the information you have, all the
conclusions your imagination has produced, to those who have been in
that world..  .. Moreau, Witkowski, your superior, Sorenson.

They will avenge your brother's death; they're equipped to do it."

"And I'm not?"

"My God, there's a band of killers coming after you!  People with
resources and contacts we know nothing about.  They'll be programmed
with names, with unlimited funds to corrupt those names, and all-it
takes is one to betray you.  That's why the Antinayous called me.
Frankly, they think your situation is hopeless unless you disappear."

"Then we're back to our original question, aren't we?  Why all this
firepower against Harry Latham?  Why?"

"Let others find out, my darling.  Let's you and I take ourselves out
of this horrible game."

"You and I .. . ?"

"Does that answer your earlier question?"

"It's so tempting, I could cry like a baby, but it can't work, Karin.

I may not have the experience of the others, but I have something they
don't have.  It's called rage, and along with whatever minor talents I
do possess, it makes me the leader of the pack.  I'm sorry, I'm really
sorry, but that's the way it has to be."

"I'm appealing to your sense of survival-our survival -not your
courage, which needs no further proof."

"Courage hasn't a damn thing to do with it!  I never pretended to be
brave, I don't like bravery, it gets idiots killed.  I'm talking about
a man who happened to be my brother, a man without whom I would have
been a high school or a college dropout, by this time a hockey bum with
a swollen face, broken legs, and not a dollar to my name.  Jean-Pierre
Villier told me he owed as much or more than I did to a father he never
knew.  I disagree.  I owe more to Harry because I did know him."

"I see."  Karin was silent as their eyes met, each leveled at the
other's.

"Then we'll see it through h together."  9

"Hell, I'm not asking you to do that!"

"I wouldn't have it any other way.  I ask only one thing, Drew.

Don't let your rage kill you.  I don't think I could stand losing the
only other man I ever loved the same way I lost the first."

"You can take it to the bank.  I have too much to live for..  ..

Now, may I make that phone call?  It's shortly past noon in Washington
and I'd like to catch Sorenson before he goes to lunch."

"You may spoil it for him."

"I'm sure I will.  He doesn't approve of what I'm doing, but he hasn't
blown the whistle on me for a damn good reason."

"What's that?"

"He'd do the same thing himself."

In Washington, Wesley Sorenson was both annoyed and frustrated.

Vice President Howard Keller'had faxed him a background list of a
hundred eleven senators and congressmen of both parties who would react
in outrage over their former colleague's inclusion as a Nazi, and were
perfectly willing to testify.  Added to these was another list of
potential adversaries, ranging from rejected but still powerful
fundamentalist leaders to fanatical members of the lunatic fringe, both
of which would reject the Second Coming of Christ as a political
manipulation if it served them.  At the bottom of the fax, in his own
handwriting, was the Vice President's summation.

The above clowns are in place, ready, willing, and per-

son ally eager to destroy anyone who even vaguely disagrees with them.
I've got the lawyers.  Along with our good guys, we'll make mules bit
out of the whole passel of ass boles  Let's bring it to the Senate and
expose these crap-artist witcH-Hunters for what they are.

However, Sorenson wasn't ready to go that flagrantly public.

Much might be gained, but a great deal could be lost.  The Sormenkinder
did exist, where they were and how high they were still undetermined.
The easiest thing for the hunted to do was to become one of the "good
guys."  He would call Howard Keller and try to make his position clear.
And then his telephone rang, the red line that came directly into his
office.

"Yes?"

"It's your rogue agent, boss."

"I wish I weren't-your boss, I mean."

"Stay with me, we're making progress."

"How?"

"Bonn and Berlin are sending out a couple of semi brigades to find
me-find Harry, that is-and eliminate me."

"That's progress?"

"One step always leads to another, doesn't it?"

"if I were you, and I speak from experience, I'd get the hell out of
Paris."

"Would you have done that, Wcs?"

"Probably not, but it doesn't matter what I'd have done.  The times are
different, Latham, ours were easier.  We knew who our enemies were, you
don't."

"Then help me find out.  Tell that humanitarian doctor at the embassy
to plug all the Amytals we've got into Kroeger so we might learn
something."

"He said it could kill him."

"So kill the son of a bitch.  Give us a break!  Why are they going to
the max to kill Harry?"

"We have certain codes of medical ethics-"

"To hell with them, I've got my life too!  I'm no advocate of capital
punishment because, among other things, it can't be administered
fairly-when was the last time a rich white guy with a high-priced law
firm behind him was sent to the electric chair?-but if there ever was
an exception to my stand, it's Kroeger.  I saw that bastard blow apart
two innocent hotel clerks with Black Talon bullets simply because they
were there!

And, furthermore, our benevolent physician at the embassy didn't say
the injections would kill him, only that they could.  Those are better
odds than Kroeger gave those two men in the hotel."

"You're developing a rather good sense of advocacy debate..  . Say I
went along with you, got State to go along, what do you think you might
learn from Kroeger?"

"For God's sake, I don't know.  But maybe something, anything that
could explain the ncos' obsession with taking out Harry."

"I grant you it's an enigma."

"It's more than that, Wcs, it's the key to a lot more than we can
understand."

"Including Harry's list perhaps?"

"Possibly.  I read the transcript from his debriefing in London.

There's no question that he believed it was authentic, but he allowed
for outside disinformation-more in the area of misinformation, I grant
you, but he considered it."

"Human error, mistaken names, not dirt," said Sorenson quietly.

"Yes, I remember reading that.  If I recall correctly, he was angry at
the implication that he was duped, and insisted it was up to the
spiders in counterintelligence to ultimately evaluate the material."

"He wasn't that precise, but that's what he was saying."

"And you think Kroeger might fill in some gaps?"

"Let's put it this way, I can't think of anybody else.  Kroeger was
Harry's doctor, and strangely enough-probably because Kroeger treated
him decently-he had some kind of hold over my brother.  At least Harry
didn't hate him."

"Your brother was too professional to let hatred surface, much less
interfere."

"I realize that, and I admit it's a fine, very thin line, but I have an
idea Harry respected him-maybe respect is the wrong word-but there was
a definite attachment.  I can't explain it because I can't understand
it."

"Perhaps you just said it.  The doctor treated him decently, the captor
giving attention to the captive."

"The Stockholm syndrome again?  Please spare me, there are too many
flaws in that theory, especially where Harry's concerned."

"Heaven knows you knew him better than anyone else..  .. Very well,
Drew, I'll give the order and I won't even bother Adam Bollinger over
at State.  He's already given us carte blanche, although for all the
wrong motives."

"Motives?  Not reasons?"

"Reasoning is secondary to Bollinger.  Motives come first.  Stay well,
stay alive, and be terribly careful."

In the embassy's infirmary, actually a modern clinic of six rooms with
state-of-the-art medical equipment, Gerhardt Kroeger was strapped to
the table.  A single transparent tube combining the flows from two
plastic pouches above his head was inserted into his left arm, the
needle penetrating the antecubital vein.  He had been tranquilized
prior to the procedure, a passive patient who had no idea what was in
store for him.

"If he dies," said the embassy doctor, his eyes on the
electrocardiogram screen, "you pricks take the fall.  I'm here to save
lives, not execute them."

"Tell that to the families of the men he shot to death without knowing
who they were," replied Drew.

Stanley Witkowski elbowed Latham aside.

"Let me know when he's reaching comatose," he ordered the Ohysician.

Drew stepped back, standing beside Karin as they all watched, both
fascinated and repulsed by what was taking place.

"He's entering the mode of least resistance," said the doctor.

"Now," he added severely.

"And orders or no orders, I'm shutting the IV off in two minutes!
Christ, a minute after that, and he's dead!  .  I don't need this job,
fellas.  I can pay off the government for medical school in three or
four years, but I can't erase this for all the bread in the Treasury
Department."

"Then stand aside, youngster, and let me go to work."  Witkowski bent
over Kroeger's body, speaking at first softly into his left ear, asking
the usual questions about his identity and his position in the neo-Nazi
movement.  They were answered briefly, succinctly, in a monotone, and
then the colonel raised his voice; it became gradually threatening
until it began to echo off the walls.

"Now we've reached the nucleus, Doktor!  Why do you want Harry Latham
killed?"

Kroeger writhed on the table, straining to break the straps as he
coughed and spat out gray phlegm.  The embassy physician grabbed
Witkowski's 'arm; the colonel shook it off violently.

"You've got thirty seconds," said the doctor.

"Tell me, you tenth-rate Hitler, or you die now!  I have no use for
you, you son of a bitch!  Tell me or go join your Oberf4ihrer in
hell.

It's now or, you're gone!  Oblivion, Herr Doktor!"

"Now you must stop," said the embassy's physician, again grabbing the
colonel's arm.

"Get the fuck away from me, pissant!  .. . Did you hear that, Kroeger?
I don't give a goddamn if you live or die!  Tell me!  Why do you have
to kill Harry Latham?  Tell me!  "

"It's his brain!"  shrieked Gerhardt Kroeger, thrashing on the table
with such force he broke one of the leather straps.

"His brain!"  the Nazi repeated, then fell into unconsciousness.

"That's all you get, Witkowski," said the doctor firmly, shutting off
the valves of the combined intravenous injections.

"His heart rate is up to a hundred and forty.  Another five points,
he's finished."

"Let me tell you something, medicine man," said the veteran G-2
colonel, "do you know what the heart rate is of the two hotel employees
this scuzball blew across the lobby?  It's zero, Doctor, and I don't
think that's very nice.

The three of them sat at a table in an outdoor cafe on the rue de
Varenne, Drew still in civilian clothes, Karin holding his hand
underneath.  Witkowski kept shaking his head, his bewilderment
obvious.

"What the hell did the son of a bitch mean when he kept saying 'his
brain'?"

"The first thought that comes to mind," said Latham reluctantly, "is
brainwashing, which I find hard to believe."

"I agree," said De Vries.

"I knew that side of Harry, his obsession with control, if you like,
and I can't imagine his being mentally warped.  He had too many
defenses."

"So where are we?"  asked the colonel.

"An autopsy?"  suggested Karin.

"What could it tell us, that he was poisoned?"  answered Witkowski.

"We can assume that, or something like it.  Besides, all autopsies are
assigned by the courts and must be registered with the Ministry of
Health with accompanying medical records.  We can't take the chance.
Remember, Harry's not Harry now."

"Then it's back to the beginning," said Drew.

"And I don't even know where that is."

In the morgue on the rue Fontenay, the attendant whose duty it was to
check on the corpses in their refrigerated, temporary tombs, went down
the line, sliding out each body -to ascertain that the bloodless
corpses were properly identified, and not moved due to overcrowding. 
He reached number one hundred one, a special case as determined by a
red check mark signifying no removal, and opened it.

He gasped, not certain that what he saw made any sense at all.

The skull of the near faceless corpse had a huge, gaping hole, as if a
postmortem explosion had taken place, the fragments of skin and tissue
spread out like an opening strawberry, the fluid gray and
diseased-looking.  Quickly, the attendant closed the vault, not caring
even to breathe the gaseous residue.  Let someone else find it.

 laude Moreau issued an irreversible order at eight thirty in the
morning.  Latham and De Vries were Cagain under the protection of the
Deuxieme.  American security might offer suggestions as to their
safety, but the Deuxi@me alone would make all final decisions.

Unless, of course, the two decided to remain confined to their embassy,
which under international law was American territory and therefore
beyond the Deuxi@me's jurisdiction.  When Drew roared his objections,
Moreau's answer was succinct.

"I cannot permit the citizens of Paris to risk their lives being caught
in the crossfire of those trying to kill you," said the Frenchman,
sitting across from Drew and Karin in the suite at the Hotel
Normandie.

"That's bullshit!"  yelled Latham, putting his morning coffee down with
such force that half of it spilled onto the rug.

"Nobody's going to start a war in the streets.  It's the last thing
they'd do!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not.  So why don't you both move into the embassy,
and the question becomes irrelevant?  I'd have no objections
whatsoever, and the citizens of Paris would be free of harm."

"You know I've got to move around!"  Drew rose from the couch angrily,
his undersize hotel bathrobe constricting him.

"Then move with my people or stay off the' streets  That's final, mon
ami..  .. Oh, and one other thing.  Wherever you go, whatever you do,
will be cleared by me."

"You not only talk too much, you're impossible!"

"Speaking of the impossible," continued the Deuxieme chief, "Ambassador
Courtland is arriving on the Concorde at five o'clock this afternoon.
His wife will be meeting him at the airport.

I don't know that any amount of training prepares a man for the charade
he will have to perform."

"If Courtland can't handle it, he should take himself out," said Drew,
pouring coffee for himself and returning to the couch with his cup.

Moreau raised his eyebrows at Latham's curt tone.

"Perhaps you're right, mon ami.  One way or the other we'll have our
answer before nightfall, nest-ce pas?  .. . Now, as to the rest of the
day, I want you to familiarize yourselves with the Bureau's protection
procedures.  They're quite different from my friend Witkowski's
operation, but then, the colonel does not have the resources we
have."

"Incidentally," Drew broke in, "have you run all this by Witkowski?
Does he agree with your off-the-wall 'orders'?  "

"He not only agrees, he's filled with relief.  I think you should know
that he's extremely fond of both of you perhaps the edge goes to the
lovely Karin-and he's aware that my resources are far greater than his.
Also, he and Wesley Sorenson have their hands full orchestrating the
reunion of the ambassador and his wife, a most delicate situation that
calls for constant monitoring.  What more can I say?"

"You've said it," said Latham without enthusiasm.

"What do you want us to do?"

"To begin with, meet and familiarize yourselves with our escorts.

They all speak fluent English, and the leader, in fact, is your aid-in
survival in the Gabriel-"

"Fran@ois, the driver?"

"Who else?  The others will be around you night and day.  There will
always be two in the hotel corridor when you are here.  Then, perhaps,
I thought you might be interested in our various surveillances on Le
Pare de Joie and Madame Courtland.

Everything's in place."

"I'll get dressed," said Drew, again rising and taking his coffee with
him as he headed for the bedroom door.

"Don't forget to shave, darling.  Your dark stubble is rather apparent
in contrast to your hair."

"That's another thing," mumbled Latham.

"I want to wash that stuff out just as soon as possible," he added
clearly, walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

"Bien," said Moreau, continuing in French.

"We may talk now, madame."

"Yes, I knew this was coming.  A few moments ago your eyes were like
two rifles aimed at me."

"Shall we speak German?"

"No need to.  He can't hear anything in there and French, when spoken
rapidly, escapes his ear anyway.  Where do we begin?"

"With the obvious," replied the chief of the Deuxieme matter-of
factly

"When do you intend to tell him?  Or do you?"

"I see," said Karin, drawing out the two words.

"And if I could speak for both of us, I might ask the same of you,
mightn't P"

"You refer to my own secret, not so?  The reason why I take the risks I
do to destroy the fanatical German wherever I can find him."

"Yes, I do."

"Very well.  You won't be in a position to spread the information, thus
harming my family, so why not?  .. . I had a sister, Marie, quite a bit
younger than I, and as our father had died, she looked upon me as
taking his place, and certainly I adored her.  She was so alive, so
filled with the innocence of blossoming youth, and to add to that crown
of spring flowers, she was a dancer-perhaps not a prima ballerina, but
certainly an accomplished member of the corps de ballet.  However,
during the angriest years of the Cold War, solely to avenge themselves
on me, the East German Stasi destroyed that glorious child.  They
kidnapped her and rapidly turned her into a drug addict, forcing her
into prostitution to support her induced habit.  She collapsed and died
on the Unter den Linden at the age of twenty-six, begging for food or
money, as she could no longer sell her body..  .. That is my secret,
Karin.  It's not very pretty, is it?"

"It's horrible," said De Vries.

"And you were helpless to do anything about it, about her?"

"I did not know.  Our mother had passed away, and I was in deep cover
in the Mediterranean sector for thirteen months.

"When I returned to Paris, I found in my long suspended mail four
photographs, courtesy of the East Berlin Polizel, by way of the Stasi.
They showed what was left in death of my child sister."

"I could cry, and I mean that, Claude, I'm not merely saying it.

"

"I'm sure you do, my dear, for you have an equally agonizing story to
tell, is it not so?"

"How did you find out?"

"I'll explain later.  First, I must ask you again.  When will you tell
our American friend?  Or don't you intend to do so?"

"I can't right now-"

"Then you are merely using him," interrupted Moreau.

"Yes, I am," exclaimed De Vries.

"That's the way it started but not the way it's turned out.  Think what
you will of me, but I do love him-I've come to love him.  It's a far
greater shock to me than anyone else.  He has so many qualities of the
Freddie I married-too many, in fact, and that frightens me.  He's warm
and searching and angry; he's a good man who's trying to find his
focus, or his compass, or whatever you want to call it.  He's as lost
as we all are, but he's determined to find answers.  Freddie was like
that at the beginning.  Before he changed and became an obsessed
animal."

"We both heard Drew several minutes ago talking about Courtland.  I was
appalled at his coldness.  Is this the Freddie syndrome?"

"No, not at all.  Drew is becoming the brother he's impersonating.  He
has to be Harry."

"Then how far down the road does he become Freddie?

The animal?"

"He can't, he can't.  He's too decent for that."

"Then tell him the truth."

"What is truth?"

"Start with honesty, Karin."

"What's honest any longer?"

"Your husband's alive.  Frederik de Vries is alive, but nobody knows
where he is or who he is."

The Deuxieme escort consisted of the driver of reckless abandon,
Franqois, and two guards whose names were spoken so rapidly that Latham
dubbed them "Monsieur Frick" and "Monsieur Frack."

"Are your daughters speaking to you, Franqois?"  asked Drew from the
backseat as he and Monsieur Frack flanked Karin.

"Not a word," replied the driver.

"My wife was quite harsh with them, explaining that they should respect
their father."

"Did it do any good?"

"None.  They marched to their room and closed the door, on which they
hung a sign reading Private."

"Is this something I should know about?"  said De Vries.

"Only the obvious conclusion that children of the female species can be
notoriously cruel to their saintly fathers," answered Latham.

"I think I'll let that pass."

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the Deuxi&me Bureau, a nondescript
stone building with an underground parking area that was entered only
after the scrutiny of armed guards.  Frick and Frack took Drew and
Karin up in a steel-encased electronic elevator that required an
inordinately long series of codes to operate.  They reached the fifth
floor and were escorted to Moreau's office, less of an office actually
than a large living room, the venetian blinds half closed.  What
comforts existed were shockingly intruded upon by an array of computers
and various other high-tech equipment.

"You know how to make all of this stuff work?"  asked Drew, sweeping
his hand around the room.

"What I don't know, my newly appointed secretary does, and what she
doesn't, my associate Jacques does.

And if we really get In trouble, I'll simply call up my new friend,
Madame de Vries."

"Mon Dieu," exclaimed Karin, "this is a technologist's dream!

Look over there, you're in instant contact with a dozen relaying
satellites, and there, telecommunications to every remote section of
the world that has receiving equipment, which you obviously have in
place or it wouldn't be here."

"I have a little trouble with that one," said Moreau.

"Perhaps you could help."  ,

"The frequencies revolve constantly, even mini-second by mini second
said De Vries.

"The Americans are working on it."

"They were, but a computer scientist named Rudolph Metz gave them a
little trouble when he fled the United States and disappeared into
Germany.  He spread an eliminating virus throughout the entire system;
they're still trying to recover."

"Whoever perfects it will have the secrets of the globe," said Karin.

"Then let us hope the Briiderschaft require the equipment Metz left
behind," added the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau.

"Yet this is futile speculation..  We have other things to show you, or
more appropriately, for you to listen to.  As promised, and with
Witkowski's help at the embassy, we've invaded the ambassador's private
telephone, a telephone that searches all channels and will operate only
on one that is supposedly intercept-free.  Le Pare de Joie was far
simpler; we simply jammed their lines on a pretext of a fire at the
phone company.  It was widely reported and caused thousands of
complaints, but the ruse was accepted..  .. Actually, we did start a
fire, more smoke than flames, but it worked."

"Did we learn anything?"  asked Latham.

"Listen for yourselves," replied Moreau, walking to a console on the
left wall.

"This tape is from the ambassador's constantly swept telephone in his
private office within the upstairs quarters.  We've edited it so only
the pertinent information is heard.  Who cares to listen to innocuous
courtesies?"

"Are you sure they're innocuous?"

"My dear Drew, you may listen to the master tape anytime you care to;
it's digitally marked."

"Sorry, go ahead."

"Madame Courtland has just reached the Saddle and Bootery on the
Champstlys6es."  The tape began.

"I must talk to AndrE at Le Pare de Joie.  It's urgent, an
emergency!"

"And who speaks?"

"One who knows the code Andrii and was driven to the amusement park in
your own vehicle yesterday.  "

"I was told of this.  Stay on the line, I'll be back to you in a few
moments."  Silence.

"You are to be at the Louvre at one o'clock this afternoon.  In the
Ancient Egypt exhibition gallery on the second floor.  You will
recognize each other and he will direct you to follow him.  If by any
chance you are interrupted, he is known as Louis, Count of Strasbourg.
You are old acquaintances.  Is this understood?"

"It is."

"Good-bye."

"This next tape is between the store manager and Andre at Le Pare de
Jole," said Moreau.

"In fact, he is the Count of Strasbourg."

"A real count?"  asked Latham.

"Since there are so many, let's say he more real than most.  It's a
rather ingenious cover and quite authentic.  He's the surviving male of
an old distinguished family in Alsace-Lorraine who came upon hard times
after the war; the family broke apart, you sec."

"From a count to a carnival owner?"  continued Drew.

"That's some drop.  What broke up the family?"

"In German the Alsace region is known as Elsass-Lothringen.

One side fought for Germany, the other for France."

"So this Louis, the Count of Strasbourg's half, went with the Nazis,"
said Latham, nodding his head.

"No, not at all," disagreed Moreau, his eyes alive with surprise.

"That's what makes his cover ingenious.  He was only a child, but his
'half," as you put it, fought valiantly for France.  Unfortunately, the
German contingent squirreled the fortune away into Swiss and North
African banks, and left the nobler part nearly penniless."

"Yet he works for the ncos?"  interrupted Karin.

"He is a Nazi."

"Obviously."

"I don't get it," said Drew.

"Why would he do it?"

"He was reached," answered De Vries, looking at Moreau.

"He was corrupted by the side of the family that had the money."

"To run a fifth-rate and pretty damned filthy amusement park?"

"With promises of a great deal more," added the Deuxieme's chief.

"He is one man at Le Pare de joie, very much another in the salons of
Paris."

"I'd think he'd be laughed at," said Latham, "not allowed anywhere near
those salons."

"Because he runs a 'carnival'?"

"Well, yes."

"Quite wrong, mon ami.  We French admire practicality, especially the
humbling practicality of the dethroned rich, who find ways of
rebuilding their resources.  You do the same in America, and you're
even more blatant about it.  A multimillionaire entrepreneur loses his
companies, or his hotels, or his various enterprises, loses everything.
Then he regains his fortunes, and you make him a hero.  We're not so
different, Drew.  The overlord becomes the vilified underdog, then with
a burst of energy reclaims his throne.  We applaud him, regardless of
the moralities involved.

As to what the count hopes to gain from the Nazis, who really knows?"

"Let's hear the tape."

"You may, of course, but it merely confirms Strasbourg's orders to have
Madame Courtland at the Louvre at one o'clock this afternoon."

Washington, D.C. It was shortly past five o'clock in the morning, but
Wesley Sorenson could not sleep.  Slowly, quietly, he got out of the
twin bed next to his wife's, and walked softly across the master
bedroom toward his dressing room.

"What are you doing, Wcs?"  said his wife sleepily.

"You went to the bathroom barely a.half hour ago."

"You heard me?"

"Only most of the night.  What is it?  Have you got a medical problem
you haven't told me about?"

"It's not medical."

"Then I mustn't ask, must I?"

"Something's wrong, Kate, something I'm not seeing."

"That's hard to believe."

"Why?  It's the story of my life, looking for the missing pieces."

"Are you going to look for them in the dark, my dear?"

"It's late morning in Paris, not dark at all.  Go back to sleep."

"I shall.  It'll be quieter."

Sorenson plunged his face into a sink of cold water practices of the
field returning-put on his bathrobe, and walked downstairs to the
kitchen.  He pressed the button on the automatic coffeemaker,
programmed by their housekeeper after the previous night's dinner,
waited until nearly a cup was filled, poured it, and trudged into his
study beyond the living room.  He sat down at his eight foot-long desk,
sipped coffee, and opened a lower drawer for a pack of his "absolutely
forbidden" cigarettes-practices of the field returning.

Gratefully inhaling the pacifying smoke, he picked up the phone on his
elaborate console, checked for intercepts, and dialed Moreau's private
line in Paris.

"It's Wcs, Claude," said Sorenson after hearing the brief, curt "Oui?"
over the phone.

"It's my morning for Americans, Wesley.  Your cantankerous Drew Latham
just left with the lovely, if enigmatic, Karin de Vries."

"Where's the enigma?"

"I'm not sure yet, but when I learn, so will you.  However, we're
making progress.  Your incredible discovery, Janine Clunitz, is leading
us right along.  Our Sonnenkind is behaving predictably within her
sphere of unpredictability."  Moreau described the events of the
morning in Paris as they pertained to the ambassador's wife.

"She's to meet with Strasbourg at the Louvre early this afternoon.

We'll have them covered, naturally."

"The Alsace Strasbourgs are a hell of a story, if I remember
correctly."

"You do, and the count takes it several steps further."

"Elsass-Lothringen?"  asked the director of Cons-Op.

"No, those are the additional steps, but we'll climb them later, my
friend.  The ambassador, his schedule remains, no?"

I "His schedule remains, yes, and we're lucky if he doesn't fall apart
and strangle the bitch."

"We're prepared for him here, I assure you..  .. Now, what about you,
mon ami?  What is happening on your side of the Pond?"

"Only the most unholy mess you can imagine.  You know those two Nazi
killers-what are they called?"

"I presume you're talking about the two Witkowski sent to Andrews Air
Force Base."

"They're the ones.  They spewed out garbage that could bring down the
administration if it was released publicly."

"What are you saying?"

"They say they have direct and specific evidence linking the Vice
President and the Speaker of the House to the neo-Nazi movement in
Germany."

"That's utterly preposterous!  Where is this so-called evidence?

"

"The inference was that they could pick up a phone, call Berlin, and
the documentation would be forwarded immediately, presumably by fax."

"It's a bluff, Wesley, surely you know that."

"Certainly, but a bluff that could include false documents.  The Vice
President is furious.  He wants a full Senate hearing and has gone so
far as to line up a slew of enraged senators and congressmen of both
parties to refute the allegations."

"That might be an imprudent course of action," said Moreau,
"considering the climate over there, the witch hunts  "

"That's what I have to make clear to him.  All I can think of is what
impact even the phoniest of 'official evidence' would have on our
frenzy-feeding media.  Government letterheads, especially intelligence
letterheads, and most especially German intelligence letterheads, can
be copied in seconds.  Good God, can you imagine, they'd be flashed
across television screens all over the country?"

"The accused are condemned before they've been heard," agreed the chief
of the Deuxi@me Bureau.

"Wait a minute, Wesley-" Moreau interrupted himself.

"For such events to take place, the two assassins would need the
cooperation of the neo-Nazi hierarchy, not so?"

"Yes.  So?"

"Impossible!  The Paris unit of the Blitzkrieger is in disgrace!

They're considered traitors and would receive no assistance from the
hierarchy whatsoever because they're too dangerous to the Nazi
movement.  They're cut off, abandoned..  .. Who else over there knows
about your two prisoners?"

"Well, we're damned shorthanded here, so I used the marines and a
couple of Knox Talbot's men to pick them up at Andrews.

Also a CIA safe house in Virginia to keep them under wraps

"A CIA safe house?  The penetrated CIA?"

"I didn't have much choice, Claude.  We don't own any."

"I understand that.  Still, those two men are major liabilities for the
ncos."

"So you've said.  And?"

"Check on those prisoners, Wesley, but give no advance notice that
you're doing so."

4 "Why?"

"I'm not sure.  Call it the instincts we both developed in

Istanbul."

"On my way," said Sorenson, disconnecting the line to

Paris and touching the speed-dial numbers for Cons-Op transportation.

"I need a car at my residence in half an hour."

Thirty-six minutes later, shaven and dressed, the director of Consular
Operations instructed his driver to take him to the safe house in
Virginia.  Immediately upon receiving the order, the driver picked up
the interceptor proof UHF radio phone to give the destination to the
CIA dispatcher.

"Don't bother with that," said Sorenson from the backseat.

"It's too early for a reception committee."

"But it's standard procedure, sir."

"Have a heart, young fella, the sun's barely up."

"Yes, sir."  The driver replaced the radio phone in its cradle, his
expression con ve- ing his judgment that the old y man was a pretty
nice guy for a bigshot.  A half hour later they reached the winding
country road cut but of the woods that led to the concrete gatehouse
flanked by an electrified hurricane fence.

The gate remained closed as a voice came from a speaker built into the
concrete below a thick, tinted bulletproof window outside the
limousine's left rear door.

"Please identify yourself and state your business."

"Wesley Sorenson, director of Consular Operations," answered the head
of Cons-Op, lowering the car's window, "and my business is
max-classified."

"I recognize you, sir," said the blurred figure beyond the dark glass,
"but you're not on the morning's roster."

"If you'll check the Permanent Entries log, you'll find my name."

"One moment, sir..  .. Driver, release the vehicle's trunk."  There was
an internal snap, followed by the glare of a roving searchlight at the
rear of the limousine.

"Sorry, Mr.  Director," continued the disembodied voice, "I should have
checked, but the Permanents usually come later in the day."

"No need to apologize," said Sorenson.

"I probably should have called the DCI, but it's a little early for him
too."

"Yes, sir..  .. Driver, you may leave the vehicle and close the trunk
now."  The driver did so, returned to his seat behind the wheel, and
the heavy steel gate opened.  A quarter of a mile beyond, they entered
the circular drive that fronted the marble steps of the former
Argentinean ambassador's estate.  The limousine came to a stop as the
large entrance door swung back and a heavyset, middleaged army major
emerged in the early morning light, the shoulder patch on his
beribboned uniform proclaiming a Ranger battalion.  He walked rapidly
down the steps and opened the door for Sorenson.

"Major James Duncan, Officer of the Watch, Mr.  Director," he announced
pleasantly.

"Good morning, sit."

"Good morning, Major," said the chief of Cons-Op, climbing out of the
backseat.

"Sorry I didn't make it a point to call and tell you I'd be arriving so
early."

"We're used to it, Mr.  Sorenson."

"The front gate wasn't."

"I don't know why not.  They had a bigger surprise at three o'clock
this morning."

"Oh?"  The veteran intelligence officer's antenna picked up a negative
signal.

"An unannounced visitor?"  he asked as they walked up the, steps to the
open door.

"No, not really.  His name was added to the Perm-Ent log around
midnight.  That list is pretty long and he didn't like the delay; the
deep-c Agency types can be touchy.  Hell, I suppose I would be, too, if
I worked all day and was called out here during a night's sleep.  I
mean, this isn't exactly "Nam with an impending firefight."

"No, but there are always emergencies, aren't there?"  observed
Sorenson, knowing better than to probe further.

"Not many at that hour, sit," said Major Duncan, leading the Cons-Op
director to the security counter, behind which sat a tired looking
female officer.

"How may we assist you, sit?  If you'll give the information to
Lieutenant Russell, she'll call for an escort."

"I wish to see the two prisoners housed in E Section, Isolated."

The lieutenant and the major looked at each other, as if startled.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Director Sorenson," replied Lieutenant Russell,

her dark-circled eyes roaming over the keys of a computer as she
typed.

"Merely coincidence, sit."

"What do you mean?"

"That's who Deputy Director Connally had to meet with at three o'clock
this morning," answered Major James Duncan.

"Did he say why?"

"Pretty much the same words you used at the gate, sir.  The conference
was so maximum-classified that our own guard had to remain outside
Section E after opening the cell."

The signal was complete.

"Major, take me there at jj once.  No one had clearance to interrogate
those men but me!"

"I beg your pardon, sit," interrupted the lieutenant.

"Deputy Director Connally had full clearance.  It was spelled out in an
interAgency order signed by Director Talbot."

"Get Talbot on the phone for me!  If you don't have his private number,
I'll get it for you."

"Hello?"  said the guttural, sleepy voice of Knox Talbot over the
line.

"Knox, it's Wesley-"

"Who the hell bombed whom?  Do you know what time it is?"

"Do you know who a Deputy Director Connally is?"

"No, I don't, because there isn't one."

"What about an inter-Agency order, signed by you, that cleared him to
meet with the ncos?"

"There was no such order, so I couldn't have signed it.  Where are
you?"

44where the goddamned hell do you think?"

"Here in Virginia?"

"I only hope my next call is less unsettling, because if it isn't,
you've got some serious housecleaning to do."

"The AA computers?"

"Try something less sophisticated, try something very human."

Sorenson slammed down the phone.

"Let's go, Major!"

The two Blitzkrieger were in their beds, lying on their sides.  When
the cell doors clanked open, neither moved.  The director of Consular
Operations crossed to each and threw back the blankets.  Both men were
dead, their eyes shocked open at the moment of death, blood still
trickling from their closed mouths, the back of their heads blown away,
soiling-the wall.

The syncopated sound of the jazz combo below floated up to the private
dining room; it meshed with the vibrant noise outside on Bourbon Street
in New Orleans's French Quarter.

Around the large table sat six men and three women, all but one dressed
with relative formality--conservative suits and ties, and severe
business apparel for the women.  Again, except for one, they were
white, clean-cut, and looked as though they had been plucked, much
younger, from Ivy League yearbooks of decades ago, when quotas meant
something.  They ranged in age from their forties to their early
seventies, and to an individual, each possessed an aura of wary
superiority, as if constantly in the presence of annoying inferiors.

Among this group were the mayors of two major East Coast cities, three
front line congressmen, one prominent senator, one president of an octo
puslike computer corporation, and a most fashionably dressed woman, who
was the leading spokesperson of the Christians for a Moral Government.
They sat properly upright in their chairs, their skeptical eyes on the
man at the head of the table, a large heavyset figure with swarthy
skin, wearing a white safari jacket, unbuttoned to mid-chest, and large
tinted glasses that blocked out his eyes.  His baptismal name was Mario
Marchetti; his sobriquet in the FBI files was the Don of Pontchartrain.
He spoke.

"Let us understand each other," he began, his voice deep and soft, the
words measured.

"We have what historians might call a concordat, an agreement between
entities that do not necessarily concur on all things but find a common
agenda that allows them to coexist.  Do you follow me?"

There were affirmative murmurs and the slight nodding of heads, until
the senator interrupted.

"That's a mighty fancy way of putting it, Mr.  Marchetti.  Wouldn't it
be simpler to say we both want something, and each can help the
other?"

"Your record in the Senate, sit, hardly reflects such straightforward
talk.  But yes, you're quite correct.  Each entity can give assistance
to the other."

"Since I've never met you before," said the expensively dressed woman
from the Christian far right, "how exactly can you help us?

Even as I speak, I find the question somewhat demeaning."

"Get off your fucking high horse," said the Don of Pontchartrain
quietly.

"What?"  The reaction around the table was more one of stunned silence
than of anger or shock.

"You heard me," continued Marchetti.

"You came to me, I didn't go looking for you, lady.  Do you want to
bring her highness here up to speed, Mr.  Computer Factory?"

All eyes glanced at the CEO of one of America's preeminent computer
companies-most briefly.

"It was a meticulously researched decision," replied the slender man in
the conservative gray suit.

"It was mandatory that we stop the progress being made by an
inquisitive executive of mine, a black man we hired-obviously -for
cosmetic purposes.  He began to question our duplicate shipments to
Munich-destination the Hausruckand even went so far as to trace the
receivership, which, naturally, was convoluted.  We couldn't fire him,
of course, so I flew thousands of miles and met with Mr.  Marchetti."

"Who did his own research," broke in the Don of Pontchartrain gently
with a friendly smile.

"I mean, why whack a highly intelligent black guy with a lot of letters
after his name?  It didn't make sense.

So before the gentleman went into the arms of Jesus, I had my
associates do a little investigating-like in breaking-and-entering his
office at home..  .. Good heavens, Mr.  Computer Factory, he was on to
you, or close to it.  His notes, which he kept locked in his desk,
spelled everything out.  You were shipping very sophisticated
equipment, at virtual cost, to people no one ever heard of and which
was picked up by people nobody knew.  That was extremely sloppy, sir,
if not downright unprofessional.  The gentleman we speak of was about
to alert the authorities in Washington..  .. However, we took care of
your problem and you found a partner of sorts-'of sorts' being the
operative phrase."

"I fail to see the connection," pressed the fashionably dressed
Christian woman as if addressing a war ted frog.

"You fail once, lady, it's your fault.  Twice, it's mine.  Don't fail
again."

"Really!"

"Please don't insult the both of us," continued Marchetti calmly.

"Our compares in Germany didn't learn where the shipments were going-a
plus for your side-but they discovered who picked them up."

"I think enough has been said," interrupted the.  mayor of a large
northeastern city.

"You have no idea how crime and the minorities are constantly
intermingled.  Drastic measures are called for."

"Basta!"  For the first time the Don raised his voice.

"Try education, real education!  I'm a "Wop," a "Guinea," a dirty
"Greaseball," and not too long ago we couldn't even apply for jobs,
except for laying bricks and making gardens grow.  Then came the smart
ones, the Gianninis and the Fermis-the heritage of the Da Vincis, the
Galileos, yes, even the Machiavellis.  But you wouldn't accept us..  ..
Don't tell me about the minorities, Mr.  Mayorof-Quick Solutions like
in blowing up the ghettos.  I know history, you don't."

"Where is this getting us?"  asked another frustrated mayor from a
large city in Pennsylvania.

"I'll tell you where right now," said Marchetti.

"I don't like you and you don't like me.  You consider me dirt, and I
think you're assholes, but we can work together."

"Considering your objectionable outburst," said another woman, prim,
and with her streaked hair pulled back into a stern bun, "I don't
believe that is conceivable."

"Let me explain, dear lady."  The Don of Pontchartrain leaned forward
over the table, the separation of his jacket further revealing his
hairy chest, his deep voice again quiet and soft.

"You want a country and its government-that's okay with me, I couldn't
care less.  What I want are the profits that come from controlling the
country, the government.  Quid pro quo.  I leave you alone, you leave
me alone.  I do some dirty work for you-which I've done before and am
prepared to do in the future-and you throw massive government contracts
to those I tell you.  It's as simple as that.  Is it a problem?"

"Not that I can see," said the senator.

"I'm sure such precedents exist.  One accommodates for the good of
all."

"Naturally," agreed the Mafioso.

"Take Mussolini and Hitler, El Duce and the Rihrer, they were worlds
apart, but they fueled the global profits of war.  Unfortunately, they
w@re both paranoid, filled with delusions of invincibility.  We are
not, for war is not on our agenda.  We seek something else."

"How would you describe that, Mr.  Marchetti?"  asked the youngest man
at the table, a crew-cut blond wearing the blazer of a prominent
Massachusetts university.

"I'm a political science major, completing my doctorates little late,
I'm afraid."

"Very simple, Mr.  Alphabet, and not what you learn in school,"
answered the Don.

"Politics is influence and succmful politics is power, and political
power is fundamentally money-what goes where and to whom.  The socalled
people, who pick up the tab, don't give a pig's fart where it goes,
because they'd rather watch a game show on television or read a
supermarket tabloid.  If you want to know the truth, we're a nation of
idiots..  .. That's why you assholes may take over after all."

"Your language is offensive in the extreme," added the young doctoral
candidate.

"May I remind you that there are ladies present?"

"Funny, I can't see any.  Also, let me remind you that this isn't a
finishing school and I'm not an etiquette consultant..  .. What I am is
a supplier of last resorts.  Should you need something accomplished-and
the circumstances are such that you feel you can't use your own
extensive resources-you come to me.  The deed is done, I

take the risk, and nothing can be traced to you-as it might have been
in the case of our Mr.  Computer Factory and his overly curious black
executive.  Capisce?"

"However, as you've just pointed out," said the third woman, an
elderly, gaunt lady with dark, glaring eyes, magnified by thicklensed
glasses, "we have our own extensive resources.  Why use yours?"

"Va bene!"  exclaimed Marchetti, spreading his hands expansively.

"Then don't, and I wish you well.  I simply want you to know I'm here
for you if the necessity arises.  That's why I invited our computer gig
ante-and his friend in the Congress-to bring you here, so to clarify
our concordat.  On my private jets, of course."

"His friend .. . ?"  asked the Pennsylvania mayor.

"I," replied a slightly embarrassed but unapologetic member of the
House Subcommittee on Intelligence.

"Orders relayed from the Berlin cell.  There may be a very loose cannon
at the CIA who must be put under total surveillance and dealt with, if
required.  To use one of our people is too great a risk.  Mr. 
Marchetti has undertaken the task.  "

"So it seems we have a La Rochefoucauld marriage-of sorts," said the
seventy-plus old woman with the magnified glaring eyes.

"Minor though it may be, it is one of convenience."

"In my own inadequate way, that's what I've been trying to tell you,
dear lady."

"Yes, well, you've told it very well, and, as always, actions speak
volumes more than words..  .. You have your concordat, Mr.

Marchetti, and I believe my associates will agree with me when I say
that I'd like to leave here as soon as possible."

"The limousines are downstairs waiting for you, as are the Lears at the
private airport."

"The congressmen and I will leave by the delivery entrance and drive in
separate cars," said the senator.

"As you arrived, sir," agreed the Don of Pontchartrain, rising with the
others.

"I thank you all from the depths of my Sicilian heart.

The conference has been a success, our concordat in place."

One by one, in varying degrees of discomfort, the American Nazis left
the ornate dining room in New Orleans.  The don reached under the
table, snapping off a hidden switch.  It stopped the operation of the
roving video cameras concealed in the velour covered walls.  His name,
voice, and image would be excised from the tapes, the name of another,
perhaps an enemy, inserted.

"Assholes," said Marchetti softly to himself.

"Our family will either be the richest in America or heroes of the
Republic."

he artifacts of ancient Egypt, spectacularly large and delicately
small, are among the Louvre's most fasciTriating exhibitions.  The
concealed shafts of illumination provide highlights and unearthly
shadows, as if centuries past were given life for the present observer.
Yet within that life there is the constant reminder of mortality; these
men and women lived, they breathed, they made love and bore children
for which they had to provide, usually from the generosity of the Nile.
And then they died, rulers and slaves, their legacy both majestic and
dreary; neither particularly good nor evil, they simply were.

It was within this ethereal scene that the two Deuxi@me agents held the
tools of their profession, waiting for the meeting between Louis, Count
of Strasbourg, and Janine Courtland, wife of the American ambassador.
These tools consisted of a miniaturized 8mm camcorder with a voice beam
capable of picking up quiet conversations twenty feet away, and a
breast pocket voice-activated recorder for close encounters.  The agent
with the camcorder, his earplug in place, positioned himself between
two huge sarcophagi, the video recorder held level, the Deuxieme
officer leaning over it, concealing it, as though he were a scholar
deciphering an ancient inscription.  His colleague wandered about the
room among the sparse crowds, sparse because it was summer lunchtime in
Paris;

both men kept in contact with small lapel radios.

Janine Courtland arrived first.  She looked nervously about the
exhibition room, squinting into the dimly lit areas.  Finding no one,
she walked aimlessly around the exhibits, at one point standing next to
the bent-over "scholar" studying a sarcophagus inscription, then am-

M

bling over to a glass-encased display of ancient Egyptian gold.

Finally, AndrE-Louis, the Count of Strasbourgstrode through the main
archway, resplendent in the most up-to-date gentleman's afternoon
attire, completed by a blue silk paisley ascot.  He spotted the
ambassador's wife, studied the room slowly, cautiously, and, satisfied,
approached her.  The first Deuxi&me agent angled his camcorder,
activated the voice beam, and started the all but-silent shooting
mechanism.  He listened as he watched through the lens, his left arm
covering the instrument.

"You are entirely mistaken, Monsieur Andrii," began Janine Clunitz
Courtland softly.

"I spoke quite casualty and convincingly to the embassy's head of
security.  He was shocked when I suggested that he had had me followed.
"

"What else would he say?"  asked Strasbourg coolly.

"I've lied too long and too often-all my life in fact not to know a
liar.  I told him I stopped at a shop and that one of the clerks came
up to me and said my two or three escorts were waiting on the pavement
for me, and should be ask them inside to get out of the noonday sun."

"A well-phrased story, madame, I grant you that," said the man called
AndrE more warmly.

"You people are, indeed, superbly trained."

"You;// grant me?  I'll grant myself, thank you.  We've all spent our
lives honing our skills for one purpose only.  "

"Admirable," conceded Strasbourg.

"Did your embassy security suggest who your 'escorts' were?"

"I led him to the suggestion, naturally; that, too, is part of our
training.  I asked him if it was possible that the French had me
followed.  His answer was ingenuous and probably correct.  He replied
that should the Paris authorities spot the attractive well known wife
of France's most powerful foreign ambassador shopping alone, they might
easily order quiet protection."

"I imagine that;s logical, unless your chief of security is as well
trained as you are."

"Rubbish!  Now, you listen to me.  My husband is arriving on the
Concorde in a few hours, and we'll spend a day or two in a connubial
reunion, but I still insist on going to

Germany to meet our superiors.  I have a plan.  According to the
official records, I have a surviving great-aunt in Stuttgart, she's
close to ninety and I'd like to see her before it's too late-"

"The scenario's perfect," interrupted Strasbourg, gesturing for Janine
to follow him into the darkest shadows of the exhibition room: "The
ambassador can hardly object, so here's what we'll do, and Bonn will
certainly approve.  "

Peering through the lens, the Deuxi@me officer angled the camcorder,
following the couple into the dimly lit area in the corner.

Suddenly, he gasped, watching in horror as the count reached into his
jacket pocket and slowly pulled out a syringe, the hypodermic needle
encased in a plastic cover.  With his other hand in shadows, Strasbourg
removed the casing, baring the needle.

"Stop him!"  the agent whispered harshly into his lapel radio.

"Interfere!  My God, he's going to kill her.  He's got a needle!"

"Monsieur le Comte!"  cried the second Deuxi&me officer, breaking
through the bodies and stunning both Strasbourg and the ambassador's
wife.

"I couldn't believe my eyes, but it is you, sir!  I was the small boy
who used to play in your family's orchards years ago.  How good it is
to see you again!  I'm an attorney in Paris now."

"Yes, yes, of course," said the frustrated, angry Strasbourg, dropping
the syringe on the dark floor in the noise of the intrusion and
crushing it under his foot.

"An attorney, how fortunate..  .. I'm sorry, this is an awkward time.
I'll look you up."  With those words, Louis, the Count of Strasbourg,
rushed back through the small crowd and out of the exhibition room.

"I regret the intrusion, madame!"  said the second Deuxieme man, his
apologetic gaze conveying the impression that he had awkwardly humbled
into a lovers' assignation.

"It's of no matter," stammered Janine Courtland, turning and walking
rapidly away.

It was shortly past five o'clock when Latham and Karin de Vries
returned for a second time from the Deuxi@me Bureau.  They had been
summoned by Moreau after the Louvre tapes, both video and audio, had
been duplicated and prepared for scrutiny.  Their escorts, Monsieur
Frick and Monsieur Frack, were following in separate elevators, five
minutes apart, to make certain no curious strangers in the lobby showed
undue interest in the American or the Belgian employee of the
embassy.

"What is it between you two  asked Drew as they walked down the hallway
to their Normandie suite.

"What are you talking about?"

"You and Moreau.  This morning you were like two old friends, closer
than ham and cheese.  The rest of the day you hardly spoke."

"I wasn't aware of it.  If it appeared that way, I'm sure it's my
fault.  I was intensely interested in everything that happened.  The
Louvre operation was brilliant, wasn't it?"

"It was smart and smooth, especially the short-circuiting of
Strasbourg, but then, the Deuxi@me has been around for a while."

"Those two agents reacted beautifully, surely you agree."

"I'd be stupid to disagree."  Latham approached the door of the suite,
held up his hand for them both to stop, and took out a pack of matches
from his pocket.

"I thought you were drastically cutting down on cigarettes.  Do you
mean that you can't wait till we're inside to light one?"

"I am cutting down, and this hasn't anything to do with cigarettes."
Drew struck a match and moved it back and forth around the door lock.
There was a sudden tiny flare of light, swiftly extinguished.

"We're fine," said Latham, inserting his key.

"No invaders."

"What?"

"That was your real hair, not your wig."

"What?"

"I found it in the bed."

"Would you mind-"

"Very simple and damn near foolproof."  Latham opened the door,
admitting Karin; he followed her and closed the door.

"Harry taught me that one," he continued.

"A strand of hair, especially dark hair, is for all intents and
purposes invisible to the naked eye.  You stick one in a lock,
protruding on the outside, and if anyone enters, the hair's gone. 
Yours was still where I left it, therefore no one's been inside since
we left here."

"I'm impressed.",

"With Harry.  So was L" Drew quickly removed his jacket, threw it on a
chair, and turned to De Vries.

"Okay, lady, what's going on?"

"Really, I don't understand you."

"Something happened between you and Claude and I'd like to know what it
is.  The only time you were alone with him was when he first came over
early this morning to lay down the law to us and I went in to get
dressed."

"Oh, that," said Karin casually, her eyes not casual at all.

"I

imagine I did overstep--challenged his authority is a better way of
putting it."

"Challenged his authority .. . ?"

"Yes.  I told him he had no right placing such restrictions on an
officer of American Consular Operations.  He said he had every right to
do whatever he thought best outside the embassy, and I said, how would
he like it if the Deuxi@me or the Service d'Etranger were told they
couldn't move around Washington, and then he said-2' "All right, all
right," Latham broke in, "I get the picture."

"Good Lord, Drew, I was acting on your behalf!"

"Okay, I accept that.  I saw how angry he was when I told him to pound
sand.  The French really get ticked off when their almighty authority
is questioned."

"I suspect that most people with responsibility, be they French,
German, English, or American, resent it when their authority is
challenged."

"What about Belgians, or is it Flemish?  I'll never get the two
straight.  ""No we're too civilized, we listen to reason," replied De
Vries, smiling.  They both laughed softly; the argument was over.

"I'll apologize to Claude in the morning and explain that I was simply
overwrought..  .. Tell me, Drew, do you really think Strasbourg was
going to kill Janine with that needle?"

"Sure.  Her cover was blown, a Sonnenkind exposed the ncos have no
choice.  And it certainly makes Moreau's job rougher.  Now he not only
has to keep the surveillance in place, he has to be prepared for an
outright attack on her life.  What bothers you?  You agreed with us an
hour ago

"I don't know.  It all seems so bizarre.  The Louvre, the crowds of
tourists.  I'm sorry, I'm just exhausted."

"Are you telegraphing me something?  Should I send out for a pound of
Spanish fly?"

"I said exhausted, not out of my mind."  They fell into each other's
arms and kissed, long and arduously.  The telephone rang.

"I truly believe," said Karin, "that the phone is our natural enemy."

"I'll tear it out of the wall."

"No you won't, you'll answer it."

"The lady was trained by the Inquisition."  Latham crossed to the desk
and picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"It is I," said Moreau.

"Has Wesley called you?"

"No, should he?"

"He will, but at the moment he is extremely preoccupied, and our friend
Witkowski is all but ready to fly to Washington and personally destroy
the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia."

"Well, Stanley was G-Two, and never had much affection for the Company.
What happened?"

"The two Blitzkrieger the colonel sent to Washington under the tightest
circumstances were found dead in the safe house, bullets in their
heads."

"Holy shit!  In a safe house?"

"As Wesley said to me, "Where are you, James Jesus Angleton, when you
might have done some good?"  They're running photographs of every
single man in every section of Central Intelligence under the eyes of
everybody in that house in Virginia."

"It won't get them anywhere.  I've got temporarily blond hair and
glasses that nullify the approach.  Tell them to look for someone in
the lower to middle levels who once toyed with college or community
theaters."

"Another Ames?"

"Certainly not a Jean-Pierre Villier.  An amateur, a nerd with a big
head and bigger payoffs.  Someone who could have been privy to
classified data."

"Youtell Wesley, I've got enough on my mind.  Ambassador Courtland will
be arriving in half an hour, and I have to keep his wife alive."

"What's the problem?  She's in an armored embassy vehicle."

"So were you when you were nearly killed the other night.  Au revoir."
The line went dead.

"What is it?"  asked Karin.

"The two ncos Stanley sent to D.C. were shot in a safe house-a safe
house, for Christ's sake!"

"You said it last night," said De Vries quietly.

"They're everywhere but we can't see them..  .. What makes people do
their bidding?  The killings, the betrayals, it's all so insane.
Why?"

"The experts say there are three types of motivation.  The first is
money, lots of it, way beyond their normal circumstances, and in this
group are the gamblers, the luxu zzlovers and the psychotic showoffs.
Then there are the ots who identify with a fanatical cause that makes
them feel superior insofar as the cause is absolute and puts everyone
else down-as in a master race.  The third, oddly enough, are what the
analysts call the most dangerous.  They're the malcontents who are
convinced they've been shafted by the system, their talents
unrewarded."

"Why are they the most dangerous?"

"Because they become fixtures, sitting at their desks for years, doing
their usually unimportant jobs just adequately enough not to be
fired."

"If they're unimportant, why are they dangerous?"

"Because they learn the very system they despise.  Where the secrets
are, how to access them, or even how to intercept them on their way
from one section to another.  You see, nobody pays much attention to
fixtures, they're simply there, reading dull bureaucratic reports or
researching material about as classified as a telephone directory.  If
they applied themselves as assiduously to their jobs as they do to
analyzing the system, some of them might go further legitimately, but
not many.  The psych men say they're generally lazy, like students
who'd rather go into an exam with crib notes on their sleeves than
study for it."

"

"Assiduously'?  You're beginning to sound like Harry."

"Would you, believe I got through "See Jack run.  See Jill run'?"

"I never doubted it.  Any day now I expect you to extemporize on the
terza rima of Dante's Divina Commedia."

"The pizza guy from Brooklyn, right?"

"You really can be adorable, do you know that?"

There was a knock on the hotel suite's door.

"Now, who the hell is that?"  said Latham, walking across the room.

"Yes, what is it?"

"The Deuxieme," replied the voice of Monsieur Frack.

"Oh, sure."  Drew opened the door, suddenly facing a gun leveled at his
head.  He whipped his hand up, simultaneously lashing his right foot
out, crashing it into the agent's groin.  The man fell back into the
hallway; Drew pounced on him, wrenching the weapon from his grip as
Monsieur Frick came running down the corridor, shouting.

"Stop, monsieur!  Please stop!  This was only an exercise."

"What?"  screamed Latham, about to pistol-whip his would-be killer, who
was holding his crotch in agony..  "If the monsieur will please
listen," choked Frack on the floor.

"You are never to open the door until you are certain it is one of
us!"

"You said you were the Deuxieme!"  exclaimed Drew, getting up.

"How many Deuxi&me are there up here?"

"That is the point, sir," said Frick, looking painfully down at his
writhing colleague.

"Monsieur le Directeur gave you a list of identifying codes that are
changed every two hours.  You were to ask for the one assigned to this
time period."

"Codes?  What codes?"

"You never looked at it, my dear," replied Karin, standing in the
doorway and holding up a page of paper.

"You gave it to me and said you'd read it later."

"Oh .. . ?"

"You must never assume that it is one of us until we are identified!"
cried the guard on the floor, embarrassed by the appearance of De
Vries, and briefly removing his hands from the assaulted area, but only
briefly.

"For God's sake, come in, all of you," said Karin.

"The very least you can do, Monsieur Latham, is to offer our friends a
drink."

"Sure," agreed Drew, helping his presumed assailant to his feet as two
hotel guests -appeared, coming out of a room up the hallway.  Seeing
them, Latham added clearly enough to be heard, "Poor fellow!  It must
have been his last two drinks."

Inside the room, the door closed, the wounded agent collapsed on the
couch.

"You are trs rapide, Monsieur Lat'am," he said, his voice returning,
"and very, very strong."

"If we were on the ice, you would have been dog meat," said Drew,
breathless, falling into the couch beside his victim.

"Ice .. . ?"

"It's difficult to translate," explained Karin quickly by the dry
bar.

"What he means is, do you care for ice in your whisky?"

"Clui, merci.  But more whisky than the ice, s'il vous plait.))

"Naturellement.

Ambassador Daniel Courtland, as ordered by the government of France,
was escorted off the Concorde from'a ramp in the forward section before
the aircraft reached its gate.  The idling jet engines were deafening
as Courtland, flanked by a marine guard detail, was taken to the
waiting American Embassy limousine on the tarmac.

He steeled himself for the ensuing minutes, understanding that they
would be the most difficult of his life.  To be embraced by the
consummate enemy, an enemy trained since childhood to deceive someone
like himself, was almost worse than losing the woman he loved.

The limousine door was opened for him and he fell into the arms of his
adoring, consummate enemy.

"It was only three days, but I missed you so!"  cried Janine Clunitz
Courtland.

"And I you, dear.  I'll make it up to you, to both of us."

"You must, you must!  The fact that you were thousands of miles away
from me made me ill, positively ill!"

"It's over with, Janine, but you must get used to Washington's demands.
I have to go where I am needed."  They kissed violently, viciously, and
Courtland could taste the po son in her mouth.  "Then you must take me
with you-I love you so!"

"We'll work it out..  .. Now, please, my dear, we can't embarrass the
two marines in front, can we?"

"I can.  I could rip your trousers off and do wonderful things for
you."

"Later, dear, later.  Remember, I am the ambassador to France."

"And I'm one of the leading authorities in computer science, and I say
the hell with them both!"  Dr.  Janine Courtland grabbed her husband's
unaroused crotch.

The limousine raced down the avenue Gabriel to the embassy's front
entrance; it was the quickest route to the elevators that would take
them up to their living quarters.  The huge vehicle came to a stop as
two additional marine guards came out to assist the ambassador and his
wife.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, three nondescript cars without
license plates roared to the curb, surrounding the limousine as
Courtland and his wife walked out onto the pavement.  Doors opened and
figures in black stocking masks leapt out, their automatic weapons on
rapid fire, spraying deadly bullets everywhere.  Almost simultaneously,
additional gunfire erupted from two automobiles that had obviously been
following the embassy car.  The crowds in the Gabriel raced for cover.
Four masked terrorists fell; one marine collapsed, grabbing his
stomach;

Ambassador Courtland plunged across the pavement, one hand reaching for
his right leg, the other for his shoulder.  And Janine Clunitz,
Sormenkind, was dead, her skull shattered, her chest spewing blood.  A
number of the masked killers-who knew how many?-raced away, soon to
discard their head coverings and 'join the evening strollers of
Paris.

"Merde, merde, merde!"  roared Claude Moreau, emerging from around one
of the Deuxi&me vehicles that had been protecting the Americans.

"We did everything and we did nothing!  .. . Take all the bodies inside
and say nothing to anyone.  I am disgraced and I should be!  .. See to
the ambassador, he's alive.  Quickly!"

Among the Americans rushing out of the embassy to lend assistance was
Stanley Witkowski.  He ran up to Moreau, grabbed him by the shoulders
as the police sirens grew louder, and shouted, "Listen to me, Frenchie!
You're going to do and say exactly what I tell you, or I'm declaring
war on you and the CIA!  Is that clear?"

"Stanley," said the Deuxi@me chief, no spirit in him, "I have failed
miserably.  Do what you will."

"No, you haven't failed, you fucking idiot, because you couldn't have
controlled this!  These goddamned killers were willing to die tonight,
and four did!  Nobody can control fanatics like them.  You can't, we
can't, no one can because they don't give a shit about their lives.  We
can't obliterate their fanatical commitments, but we can outthink them,
and you above all people know that!"

"What are you saying, Colonel?"

"Come inside with me, and I'll ream your tight ass with a blowtorch if
you refuse to do what I want you to

"May I ask in what sphere?"

"Sure you can.  You're going to lie through your teeth to your
government, to the press, to any son of a bitch who wants to listen to
you."

"So my grave is dug deeper?"

"No, it's your only way out of it."

 r. Hans Traupman maneuvered his short speedboat into the modest dock
of the small cottage on the Driverfront.  No lights were necessary, as
the summer moon was bright, glistening off the waters.  And there were
no dock hands to assist Traupman in securing his craft; they would be
an added expense the defrocked Lutheran minister could ill afford.
Ginter J@ger, as his.  few friends in the Bundestag knew, watched his
deutsche marks; it was rumored that his rent was minimal for the
converted boathouse, now a cottage on the banks of the Rhine.  The
former estate beyond had been demolished in anticipation of a new
mansion to be built in the near future.  In truth, a new estate would
be built, but more than a mansion, a magnificent fortress with all of
the most modern technology to ensure the isolation and the safety of
the new Fuhrer.

That day would come soon, when the Brfiderschaft controlled the
Bundestag.  The mountains.  of Berchtesgaden would be replaced by the
waters of the mighty Rhine, for Ginter jdger preferred the constantly
moving river to the stationary snow-capped alps.

Ginter jdger .. . Adolf Hitler!  Heil Hitler .. . Heil jAger!  Even the
syllabic rhythm fitted the man.  More and more, jdger assumed the less
public trappings of his predecessor: the absolute chain of command; the
select few designated as his personal aides and through whom all
appointments were made; his disdain for physical contact save for
abrupt handshakes; his apparently genuine affection for young children,
but not infants, and, finally, his asexuality.

Women could be admired aesthetically, but not in a lascivious manner;
even off-color remarks were unacceptable in his presence.

Many ascribed this puritanical streak to his previous ecclesiastical
duties, but Traupman, a physician to the brain, did not.  Instead, he
suspected a far darker explanation.  Observing jdger in the presence of
women, he thought he discerned brief flashes of hatred in the new
hibrer's eyes when a woman was provocatively dressed or used her
physical charms to flatter men.  No, Gunter'Pger was not driven by a
sense of purity, he was like his predecessor-pathologically obsessed by
a fear of women, by how much their wiles could destroy.  But the
surgeon quite wisely decided to keep his speculations to himself.  The
new Germany was everything, and if it took a charismatic figure with a
flaw or two to bring it about, so be it.

The doctor had asked for a private audience this night, for events were
taking place in the field that jdger might not be aware of.  His aides
were intensely loyal, but none cared to be the bearer of disturbing
news.  Traupman, however, knew he was on safe ground, for he had
literally plucked the mesmerizing orator from his enraged church and
pushed him into the front ranks of the Brotherhood.  In the final
analysis, if there was one man left who could push him back, it was the
celebrated surgeon.

He secured his boat, and awkwardly, painfully, climbed up on the dock
only to be greeted by a heavyset guard who emerged from the shadows of
a riverbank tree.

"Come, Herr Doktor," called out the man.

"The hibrer is waiting for you."

"In the house, of course?"

"No, sir.  In the garden.  Follow me, please."

"The garden?  A cabbage patch is now a garden?"

"I myself planted a great many flowers and our staff cleared the
riverbank.  They placed flagstones where there were only reeds and
debris."

"You're not exaggerating," said Traupman as they approached a small
clearing on the edge of the Rhine, where two lanterns were suspended
from tree branches, the wicks now being lighted by another aide. 
Around the short flagstone patio were several pieces of outdoor
furniture, three upright lawn chairs and a white wroughtiron table.  It
was a pastoral enclave for private meditation or confidential meetings.
And seated in the far chair, his blond hair catching the irregular
light of the lanterns, was Gfinter jAger, the new hibrer.  At the sight
of his old friend, he rose and held out his arms, immediately lowering
his left and extending his right hand.

"How good of you to come, Hans."

"I requested the meeting, Gunter."

"Drivel.  You don't need to request anything of me, you simply say what
you want.  Sit down, sit down.  Can I get you something, a drink
perhaps?"

"No, thank you.  I want to get back to Nuremberg as soon as I can.  The
un intercepted messages keep my telephone ringing."

"Unintercepted?  .. . Oh, yes, the scramblers."

"Exactly.  You have the same."

"Do l?"

"Different channels perhaps, but whatever I learn you should know
also."

"That said and agreed to, what is so urgent, my good doctor?  "

"How much do you know of the recent events in Paris?"

"Everything, I trust."

"Gerhardt Kroeger?"

"Shot to death by the Americans in that mess at the Hotel
InterContinental.  Good riddance; he never should have gone to
Paris."

"He felt he had a mission to complete."

"What mission?"

"The death of Harry Latham, the CIA officer who penetrated the valley
and was exposed by Kroeger."

"We'll find him, not that it matters," said jAger.

"The valley no longer exists."

"But you're convinced Gerhardt Kroeger is dead."

"It was in the report forwarded to Bonn Intelligence by our embassy. 
In those circles, it's common knowledge, although they're burying it
because they don't care to throw a spotlight on us."

"A report, if I'm not mistaken, that originated at the American
Embassy."

"Presumably.  They knew Kroeger was one of us-how could they not know?
The stupid pig started shooting up the place believing he could kill
this Latham.  However, the Americans didn't learn anything, he died on
his way to their embassy."

"I see," said Hans Traupman, shifting his body in the chair, only
sporadically glancing at Gunter Jdger as if he were pained to engage
his new Fzihrer's eyes.

"And our Sonnenkind, Janine Clunitz, wife of the American
ambassador?"

"We hardly needed our penetrators to learn what happened, Hans.  It was
in all the newspapers in Europe and America and everywhere else,
confirmed by witnesses.  She narrowly escaped an ambush by Israeli
extremists out to kill Courtland over what they called an "Arabist'
State Department.  He was wounded and, unfortunately, our Sonnenkind
Clunitz survived.  She'll be dead in a day or so, I've been assured of
that."

"Finally, Gunter-mein hihrer-"

"I told you before, Hans, between us that's not required."

"I require it of myself.  You are far more than the gangster from
Munich ever was.  You are highly educated, historically grounded, and
ideologically positioned by what is happening, not only in Germany, but
in all countries.  The ill born, the unworthy, and the mediocre are
assuming positions of power in governments everywhere, and you
understand that this destructive trend must stop.  You can bring this
about .. . mein Fuhrer."

"Thank you, Hans, but you Were saying?

"Finally'what?"

"This man Latham, the deep-cover Central Intelligence officer who
penetrated the valley and was exposed by Gerhardt Kroeger-"

"What about him?"  interrupted Jdger.

"He's still alive.  He's better than we thought."

"He's only a man, Hans.  Flesh and blood and with a heart muscle that
can be stopped, punctured with a bullet or a knife.  I've authorized
two units of Blitzkrieger to fly to Paris and accomplish the task. 
They won't fail.  They dare not fail."

"And the woman he lives with?"

"The De Vries whore?"  asked the new Fahrer.

"She must be killed with him-or before him, preferably.  Her sudden
death will unnerve him, cause him to be more vulnerable; he'll make
mistakes.  . Is all this what you've come to tell me, Hans?"

"No, GUnter," said Traupman, getting up from the chair and pacing
between the shadows and the glare of the two lanterns.

"I've come to tell you the truth, as I've perceived the truth through
my own sources."

"Your own sources?"

"No different from yours, I assure you, but I'm an old man whose
training is in the nuts and bolts of surgery, and all too frequently
patients skirt around their symptoms, frightened by my diagnoses if
they were totally honest.  Eventually, you learn to understand a degree
of self deceiving falsity."

"Please be clearer."

"I shall, and I'll support what I say by my own inquiries..  ..

Gerhardt Kroeger did not die.  I suspect he's alive and a prisoner in
the American Embassy."

"What?"  jdger shot forward in his chair.

"I sent one of our people to the Inter-Continental hotel, with official
French identification, of course, to interrogate the surviving clerks.
They all speak English, and they said they distinctly heard two of the
guards on the balcony shouting that the 'maniac' had been shot in the
legs, but was still alive.  They took him away and put him into an
ambulance.  I repeat, still alive."

"My God!"

"Next, I had our people examine the so-called witnesses to the assault
on the American Embassy, where the ambassador was severely wounded and
his wife supposedly survived.  These witnesses could not understand the
subsequent reports on television and in the newspapers.  They told our
people that the woman's upper chest and face were flowing with
blood......... How could she have lived?"  they asked."

"So our people did their work.  She's gone."

"Then why are they keeping it quiet?  Why?"

"That godforsaken Latham, that's why!"  cried J@ger, the hatred
returning to his ice-cold eyes.

"He's trying to fool us, to pull us into a trap."

"You know him?"

"Of course not.  I know men like him.  All corrupted by whores."

"Do you know her?"

"Good God, no.  But since the legions of the pharaohs, the whores have
always corrupted armies.  They follow in their covered caravans,
sapping the soldiers of their strength for a few minutes of unholy
pleasure!  Whores!"

"As accurate as that judgment may be, Gunter, and I do not dispute it,
it's not particularly relevant to what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying, Hans?  Youtell me that things are not as
they've been reported and I reply that you may be correct, that our
enemies are attempting to entrap us as we lay traps for them.

There's nothing new in this except that we're winning.  Assess the
circumstances, my friend.  The Americans, the French, and the British
are finding us everywhere and nowhere.  In Washington, senators and
congressmen are suspect; in Paris we have twenty seven members of the
Chamber of Deputies shaping laws to our benefit, and the head of the
I5euxieme in our pocket.  London is ludicrous; they find an ineffectual
adviser in the Foreign Office and overlook the first associate to the
foreign secretary, who's so furious over the black immigration that he
could have written Mein Kampf!"  J@ger stopped briefly as he rose from
his chair and stood on the flagstone patio, looking over a flowered
hedgerow at the calming waters of the Rhine.

"Yet for all of that, our work in the lesser areas is even more
impressive.  An American politician once said "All politics is local,"
and he was right.  Adolf Hitler understood that; it's what gave him the
Reichstag.  You pit one race against another, one ethnic group against
another, one economic class against another seemingly drained by it,
you provoke chaos, wherein lies a vacuum.  He did it from one city to
another-Munich, Stuttgart, Nuremberg, Mannheim; troopers everywhere
spreading rumors, sowing discontent.  Finally, he rushed into and took
the political Berlin; he could not have done that without the erratic
but consuming support of the outlying areas."

"Bravo, Ginter," cried Traupman, applauding.

"You see the landscape so clearly, so perceptively."

"Then what bothers you so?"

"Things you may not know-"

"Such as?"

"Two Blitzkrieger were taken alive in Paris and flown to Washington."

"I was not told of this," said jAger, his words frozen in ice.

"It's true, but it's of no significance now.  They were shot in a safe
house in Virginia by our Penetrator Three at the Central Intelligence
Agency."

"He's a moron, a clerk!  We give him twenty thousand American dollars a
year to tell us what the other departments are researching."

"He now wants two hundred thousand for carrying out an order he
believes would have been issued to him if he were higher on the
ladder."

"Kill him!"

"That's not a good idea, gUnter.  Not until we learn whom he may have
spoken to about us.  As you pointed out, he's a moron; he's also a
braggart."

"That swine!"  roared jdger, turning from the glare t)f the lantern,
his face in shadows.

"A swine who did us a considerable service," added the doctor.

"We'll live with him for a while, even elevate him.  The time will come
when we can deal him other cards and he'll become a grateful slave."

"Acb, my dear Hans, you are so good for me.  Your mind is like your
steady surgical hand.  If my predecessor had had more men like you
around him, he would still be giving orders to the British
Parliament."

"In that spirit, I hope you will listen to me now, Gunter."

Traupinan took several steps across the patio; the two men were
face-to-face in the flickering shadows.

"When haven't I listened to you, my old friend and mentor?  You are my
Albert Speer, the precise analytical mind of an architect replaced by
the precise analytical mind of a surgeon.  Hitler made the mistake of
ultimately disregarding Speer for the likes of Goering and Bormann.  I
shall never make such a mistake.  What is it, Hans?"

"You were correct when you said we were winning the battle of nerves
with our enemies.  You were also accurate when you stated that in
certain localities, especially in the United States, our Sonnenkinder
have performed admirably, creating schisms and discontent."

"I'm impressed with my own assessments," interrupted J@ger, smiling.

"That's the point, Gunter, they are merely assessments based on current
information..  .. However, the situation could change, and change
rapidly.  Right now could be the pinnacle of our strategic success."

"Why the pinnacle?"

"Because too many traps are being set for us that we can't know about.
We may never be in such an advantageous position again."

"Then what you're really saying is "Invade England now, mein Fuhrer, do
not wait,"

" interrupted jdger once more.

"Water Lightning, of course," said Traupman.

"It must be moved up.  Six Messerschmitt ME 323 Gigant gliders have
been retrieved and are being reconditioned.  We have to strike as soon
as possible, and set the panic in motion.  The water reservoirs of
Washington, London, and Paris must be poisoned the moment our flying
personnel have been trained.  Once the governments are in a state of
paralysis, our people everywhere are prepared to move into positions of
influence, even power."

The woman on the stretcher was carried out of the American Embassy in
full view of the strollers on the avenue Gabriel.  A sheet and a light
cotton blanket covered her body; her long dark hair was swept back over
the small white pillow, and her face was concealed beneath an oxygen
mask below gray silk blinders that protected her eyes from the Paris
sun.  The rumors spread quickly, aided by several embassy attaches who
circulated through the gathering crowd, answering questions softly.

"It's the ambassador's wife," said a woman in French.

"I just heard it from an American.  Poor dear, she was hurt last
evening during that terrible shooting."

"Crime here has become intolerable," said a bespectacled slender man.

"We should bring back the guillotine!"

"Where are they taking her?"  asked another woman, wincing in pity.

"The Hertford Hospital in the Levallois-Perret."

"Really?  It's called an.  English hospital, isn't it?"

"They say their equipment is the most advanced for her wounds."

"Who said so?"  broke in an indignant Frenchman.

"That strapping young man over there-where is he?  Well, he was there
and that's what he said."

"How badly is she hurt?"  asked a teenage girl, her right hand gripping
the arm of a young male student, his canvas shoulder bag filled with
books.

"I heard one of the Americans say it was extremely painful but not
life-threatening," answered yet another Frenchwoman, a secretary or a
minor executive who carried a large, thick brown envelope under her
arm.

"A punctured lung that makes it difficult for her to breathe.  She was
wearing an oxygen mask.  Such a shame!"

"It's such a shame that the Americans are so meddlesome," said the
student.

"She has trouble breathing and one of us who may be seriously ill is
shoved aside to make her life more pleasant."

"Antoine, how can you say that?"

"Very easily.  I'm a history major."

"You're a thankless dog!"  cried an elderly man with a small Croix de
Guerre emblem in his lapel.

"I fought with the Americans and marched into Paris with them.  They
saved our city!"

-All by themselves, old soldier?  I don't think so..  .. Come, Mignon,
let's get out of here."

"Antoine, really!  Your radicalism isn't only passe, it's boring."

"Little fuck-up," said the aging soldier to anyone who would listen.  "
Tuck-up," it's a term I learned from the Americans."

Upstairs in the embassy, in Stanley Witkowski's office, Claude Moreau
was slumped di consolately in a chair in is front of the colonel's
desk.

"Fortunately," he said in a weary voice, "I do not need money, but I
shall never be able to spend what I have in Paris, or even France."

"What are you talking about?"  asked Stanley, lighting a Cuban cigar,
his expression one of self-satisfaction.

"if you don't know, Colonel, you should be granted what the American
military calls a Section Eight."

"Why?  I've got all my marbles and I'm doing what I'm pretty damned
good at."

"For God's sake, Stanley, I've lied to my own.  Bureau, to the hastily
summoned committee of the Chamber of Deputies, to the press, to the
President himself!  I've literally sworn that Madame Courtland
survived, that she didn't die, that she received excellent treatment
from your clinic!

"Well, you weren't under oath, Claude.

"Merde!  You are crazy!"

"The hell I am.  I got her covered body inside and downstairs before
anybody could tell the bitch was dead."

"But will it work, Stanley?"

"It has so far..  .. Look, Claude, I'm only trying to produce
confusion.  The Latham the ncos are after is the one they killed, but
they don't know that.  So they're coming after the other, and we're
waiting for them.  The ambassador's bitch is no less important to them,
maybe even more important because they figured out we know who and what
she is.  After all, the Count of Strasbourg wasn't about to give her a
tetanus shot.  With luck, along with your minor fibs, our little
charade outside will pay off-"

"Minor fibs?"  choked Moreau, interrupting.

"Have you any idea what I've done?  I lied to the President of France!
I'll never be trusted again!"

"Hell, extend your rationale a touch.  You did it for his own good.

You had reason to believe his office was bugged."

"Preposterous.  It's the Deuxi@me's responsibility to see that it's
not!"

"Guess you can't use that one," allowed Witkowski.

"How about your running clearance checks on his top aides?"

"We did that most thoroughly months ago.  However, your equivocation
about extending my rationale may have merit."

"For your President's own good," the colonel broke in, drawing heavily
and happily on his cigar.

"Yes, exactly.  What he doesn't know he can't be held responsible for,
and we are dealing with psychopaths, with fanatical assassins."

"I don't get the connection, Claude, but it's a start.  Incidentally,
thanks for the additional personnel at the hospital.  Except for two
sergeants and a captain, my marines aren't exactly fluent in French."

"Your captain was an exchange student, and one of the sergeants has
French parents; he knew our language before English.  Your other
sergeant's use of French mainly consists of obscenities and how to
procure specific services."

"Good!  The ncos are obscene, so he's perfect."

"How is our stenographer, the reincarnated Madame Courtland, holding
up?"

"She's a loaded gun," said the colonel.

"I ho e not."

"What I mean is she's a Jewish lady from New York and hates the Nazis.
Her grandparents were gassed at Bergen-Belsen."

"Strange, isn't it?  Drew Latham used the phrase "What goes around,
comes around."  Apparently it's quite true in human terms."

"What's really true is that when some neo son of a bitch comes after
the new Mrs.  Courtland, and one of them will, we'll nail him and break
him!"

"I told you before, Stanley, I have my doubts that anyone will come.
The ncos are not fools.  They'll sense a trap."

"I've considered that, but my money's on human nature.  When the
stakes get this high-and a live Sonnenkind puts 'em up there-all bets
are covered.  The bastards can't afford not to."

"I hope you're right, Stanley..  .. How is our argumentative colleague,
Drew Latham, accepting the scenario?"

"Pretty well.  We've selectively leaked his cover as Colonel Webster
around the embassy, even to the Antinayous, who apparently knew it
anyway.  Now you do the same.  Also, we're moving the De Vries woman
here to the embassy with complete marine security at her quarters."

"I'm surprised she agreed so readily," said Moreau.

"She's capable of many artifices, but I truly believe she cares for the
man, and given her background would not voluntarily leave him under the
circumstances."  .  "She doesn't know about it yet," said Witkowski.

"We're moving her tonight."

It was early evening, the -Parisian days growing shorter, and Karin de
Vries sat in an armchair by the window, the dull,-soft light of a floor
lamp careening off her long dark hair, creating soft shadows across her
attractive face.

"Have you any idea what you're doing?"

she asked, glaring at Latham, who once again was half dressed in the
army uniform, the tunic draped over the desk chair.

"Sure," he replied.

"I'm bait."

"You're dead, "for God's sake!"

"The hell I am.  At least the odds are on my side.  I wouldn't take
them otherwise."

"Why?  Because the colonel said so?  .. . Don't you understand, Drew,
that when it comes down to 'mission completed, "you are merely factor X
or Y, expendable for the competition?  Witkowski may be your friend,
but don't fool yourself, he's a professional.  The operation comes
first!  Why do you think he insists that you wear that damned
uniform?"

"Hey, I know that, or at least I figured it was part of the equation.

But they're sending over a chest protector and a larger jacket, or
whatever you call it; it's not like I'm being sent out naked.  Also,
don't tell Stanley how often I

don't wear his lousy outfit, he'll sulk..  .. I wonder what kind of
chest protector he'll send?"

"Assassins don't aim for the body, my dear, they aim for the head with
telescopic sights."

"I keep forgetting, you know all about that stuff."

"Fortunately, I do, which is why I want you to tell our mutual friend,
Stanley, to go to the devil!"

"I can't do that."

"Why not?  He can send out a decoy on the streets.  It would be so
simple!  But not you."

"Somebody else?  Maybe somebody who's got a brother who's a farmer in
Idaho, or an automobile mechanic in Jersey City?  .. . I couldn't live
with that."

"And I can't live without you!"  shouted Karin, lunging out of the
chair and into his arms.

"I never, never thought I'd ever say that to anyone else in the world,
but I mean it with all my heart, Drew Latham.  Only God knows why, but
it's as if you're the extension of the young man I married years ago,
without the ugliness, without the hatred.  Don't despise me for saying
this, my darling, I simply have to.

"I could never despise you," said Drew quietly, holding her.

"We need each other for different reasons, and we don't have to analyze
them for years."  He tilted her head back and looked into her eyes.

"How about when we're kind of old and sitting in our rocking chairs,
looking out over the water?"

"Or the mountains.  I love mountains."

"We'll discuss it."  There was a rapid knocking on the hotel door.

"Oh, hell," said Drew, releasing her, "where's that time-code sheet?"

"I tacked it on the hallway wall.  You can't miss it."

"I got it.  What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty is good enough.  The shift changes at eight."

"Who is it?"

"Bonney rabitte," said the voice of Frack behind the door.

"This is infantile," said Latham, opening it.

"It is time, monsieur."

"Yes, I know.  Give me a couple of minutes, okay?"

"Certainement," said Frack as Drew closed the door and turned to
Karin.

"You're leaving, my friend."

"What?"

"You heard me.  You're being transferred to the embassy."

"What?  .. . Why?"

"You're an employee of the American Embassy, and it has been determined
that your work in classified communications is reason enough to remove
you from harm as well as from possible compromise."

"What are you saying?"

"I've got to go solo, Karin."

"I won't let you!  You need me!"

"Sorry.  You either, go calmly or Messieurs Frick and Frack give you a
needle and take you their way."

"How can you, Drew?"

"Easy.  I want you alive so we can sit in those rocking chairs in
Colorado, looking up at the mountains.  How about that?"

"You bastard!"

"Never said I was perfect.  just perfect for you

The Deuxi@me agents escorted Karin down the elevator, assuring her that
her belongings would be removed from the hotel and delivered to the
embassy within the hour.  Reluctantly, she accepted her circumstances;
the elevator door opened and they walked out into the lobby. 
Instantly, two other Deuxie'me personnel came forward; the four agents
nodded at each other, and Messieurs Frick and Frack turned, walking
rapidly back to the bank of elevators.

"Stay between us, please, madame," said a stocky, bearded man who
placed himself on Karin de Vries's right.

"The car is just outside to the left of the entrance beyond the lights
of the canopy."

"I trust you realize this is not of my choosing."

"Director Moreau does not confide in us about every assignment,
madame," said the second clean-shaven

Deuxieme officer.

"We are simply to make sure you get from here to the American
Embassy."

"I could have taken a taxi."

"Personally," said the bearded agent, smiling, "with no offense, I'm
glad it was not permitted.  My wife and I were to have dinner with her
parents.  Can you believe after fourteen years and three grandchildren
they're still not certain I'm the right husband for their daughter?"

"What does their daughter say?"

"Ah, she is again with child, madame."

"I believe that says enough, monsieur."  Karin smiled weakly as the
trio approached the glass doors.  Outside on the pavement, they quickly
swung left from under the canopy, away from the wash of the dual
strands of lights beneath the deep-red canvas.  In the relative
darkness and through a profusion of the evening pedestrians on the rue
de PEchelle, the two Deuxieme agents rushed De Vries thirty feet down
the street to the armored Bureau vehicle waiting in the No Parking
zone.  The bearded escort opened the curbside door for Karin, smiling
and gesturing for her to enter.

At that instant there was an audible spit; the agent's left temple blew
apart, blood shooting out where the bullet exited the man's skull.
Simultaneously, the second Deuxieme escort arched backward, eyes wide,
mouth gaping, a guttural cry emerging from his throat as a long-bladed
knife was yanked out of his back.  Both men slumped to the pavement; De
Vries started to scream, but a strong hand was clamped over her mouth
and she was shoved violently inside the automobile, her attacker
following, slamming her into the backseat.  Barely seconds later, the
opposite door opened and a breathless second killer jumped in gripping
a blood-streaked knife in his right hand, the dripping blade as deep
red as the hotel's canopy.

"Los schnell!"  he cried.

The car leapt forward into the street, in moments settling into the
flow of the traffic.  The first killer spoke as he removed his
spiderlike hand from Karin's face.

"Screaming will do you no good," he said, "but if you try you'll have
scars on both cheeks."

"Willkommen, Frau de Vries," said the driver, partially turning his
head around while shoving a curled-up corpse across the seat.

"It seems you're determined to be with your husband.  It will certainly
happen if you refuse to cooperate with us."

"You killed those two men," whispered Karin, her mouth raw, unable to
find her voice.

"We are the saviors of the new Germany," said the driver.

"We do what we have to do."

"How did you find me?"

"Quite simple.  You have enemies where you think you have friends."

"The Americans?"

"They're there, yes.  Also the British and the French."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"That depends on you.  You can either join your once celebrated
husband, Frederik de Vries, or you can join us.  We know you're for
sale."

"I simply want to find my once-celebrated husband, you know that
too."

"You make no sense, Frau de Vries."

Silence.

 030 @

he loud radio blocking out much of the abrasive sound of the street
traffic outside, Latham tried on The bulletproof jacket, pulling the
enlarged army officer's tunic over it, surprised at how relatively
comfortable it was.  He kept glancing at the telephone on the desk,
wondering why Karin had not called him; she had said she would once she
settled into her quarters at the embassy.  She had left over two hours
before, her luggage following shortly.  Shaking his head unconsciously
while chuckling, he imagined her meeting Witkowski, the colonel being
soundly berated, even yelled at, over the decision to let him go solo.
Poor Stosh, his tough exterior notwithstanding, he was not prepared for
a righteous onslaught by the future wife of his Consular Operations
officer.  Drew actually felt sorry for the colonel; in a way he could
not win except by official decree, which was basically unsatisfying.
Karin had love on her side, an emotion both Stanley and Ambassador
Courtland had experienced, and lost, courtesy of their government
careers.

Latham crossed to the body-length mirror in the hallway and observed
his image.  The underlining chest protector made him appear more
imposing than he was, reminding him of his days on the ice under a
green and white uniform in Canada, where body checks and slap shots
were as important- as life and death-how totally ridiculous in
afterthought..  .. Long enough!  he said to himself as he walked back
to the desk and the telephone.  He picked it up and started to dial,
then there was a knocking at the door.  He slammed down the phone,
walked to the door, examining the code sheet, and said, "Who is it?"

"Witkowski," answered the voice on the other side.

"What's your code?"

"To hell with that, it's me."

"You're supposed to say "Good King Wenceslas," you asshole!"

"Open the door before I blow the lock off with my forty-five."

"That has to be you, cretin, because you probably don't know that a
brass lock can ricochet a bullet into your stomach."

"Not if you fire around the rim, you maggot.  Open!"

In contrast to the shouted insults, a sober, serious Witkowski and
Claude Moreau stood in the doorframe, their expressions pained.

"We must talk," said the chief of the

Deuxieme Bureau as he and, the colonel walked inside.

"Something terrible has happened."  I

"Karin!"  exploded Drew.

"She hasn't called-she said she would call at least an hour ago!  Where
is she?"

"We're not sure, but the facts are unsettling," answered Moreau.

"What facts?"

"Two of Claude's men were killed on the pavement outside," replied
Witkowski.

"One with a bullet in his head, the other with a knife.  The Bureau's
car is gone, the driver presumed dead also."

"They were taking her to the embassy!"  roared Latham.

"She was under protection!"

"She was kidnapped," said Moreau quietly, his eyes locked with
Drew's.

"They'll kill her!"  screamed Latham, spinning around and pounding his
fist against the wall.

"I deplore the possibility," countered the Deuxieme chief, "but I mourn
the death of my colleagues, for at least two are dead, most probably a
third.  As for Karin, we have no evidence she has been dealt the same
fate, and in my judgment, she's very much alive."

"How can you say that?"  asked Drew, snapping his head toward Moreau.

Because she's more valuable to them as a hostage than as a corpse. 
They want the man known as Harry Latham, and that's you."

"So?))

"They'll use her to draw out Harry Latham, for what reason none of us
know, but they want your brother and you are now he."

"What do we do?"

"We wait, chlopak," said Colonel Witkowski, standing erect and speaking
softly.

"As we both know, it's the toughest part of our job.

If they wanted to kill Karin to make another example, her body would
have been left with the other two.  She wasn't.  We wait."

"All right, all right!"  exclaimed Drew, lunging across the room,
stopped by the desk, his hand on the edge.

"But if that's the way it's got to be, I want the names of everyone,
everyone who was told who I am and where I am.  The leaks, I want to
know where every leak was planted!"

"What good would it do, mon ami?  Such leaks are like stones thrown
into a pond; the ripples spread across the waters."

"I have to have them, that's why!"

"Very well, I'll give you the names of the people we reached, and
Stanley will have to provide those at the embassy."

"Start writing," ordered Latham, rushing around the desk, opening the
drawer, and pulling out sheets of hotel stationery.

"Everything you've got."

"We've fed them two hundred thirty-six names along with corresponding
photographs," said Knox Talbot, director of the Central Intelligence
Agency, over the phone to Wesley Sorenson.

"Any responses yet?"

"Nothing concrete, but a number of possibles.  We're lucky insofar as
seven personnel at the safe house actually saw "Deputy Director
Connally," unlucky that only four were close enough to give
descriptions in any detail."

"What about the possibles?"  asked the director of Consular
Operations.

"Very inconclusive.  Damned if one of the witnesses didn't pick out
your photograph among eight others."

"If they were all around my age, that tells us something."

"They weren't.  We made it clear that whoever the impostor was would
drastically change his appearance, that his hair would most likely not
be his own, his eye color possibly altered with contact lenses, all the
usual devices."

"Except one, Knox.  He could look older, but not younger, not without
appearing grotesque."

"That's the strange thing, Wcs.  To a man and one woman, they pretty
much said the same thing.  That this "Connally' was so ordinary as to
be almost nondescriptI'm cutting through the verbiage, of course."

"Of course.  What about his clothing?"

"Right out of the old Agency guidelines.  Dark suit, white shirt,
preppy striped tie, laced brown shoes.  Oh, and a light raincoat, the
short, hang-loose variety.  The woman who was at the security counter
said it was like one an officer friend of hers wore, a London Fog."

"Face?"

"Again bland, very ordinary.  No mustache, no chin beard, just pale
skin and no outstanding features, but wearing fairly thick glasses, too
thick, I'd say."

"How many possibles are there?"

"Eliminating the obvious, such as yourself, twenty four

"Without eliminating anyone, how many?"

"Fifty-one."

"May I see them?"

"The twenty-four are on their way over to you.  I'll send the other
twenty-seven posthaste.  Or should I remove yours?  I mean, you don't
even work here."

"Why did you include it?"

"A perverse sense of humor, I guess.  As I frequently tell our
administration colleague, Adam Bollinger, a laugh now and then can put
things into perspective."

"Granted, my friend, I'must not feeling very humorous.  Have you heard
the word from Paris?"

"Not for the last twenty-some hours."

"Hear it now.  Karin de Vries has disappeared.  She was abducted by the
ncos."

"Oh, my God!"

"Apparently He's not around when you need Him."

"What does Witkowski say?"

"He's worried about Latham.  He said Drew behaved like he was under
control, but he's convinced it was an act."

"How so?"

"Because he demanded to know where the leaks were made that blew his
cover."

"A reasonable request, I'd say.  He's the bait."

"You're not listening, Knox.  I said 'demanded," and Stanley made it
clear that Latham delivered it on a give me-or-I'm-out basis."

"I still don't see why that makes him a loose cannon."

"We've both been married a long time to remember.  He's in love, old
boy.  It came a bit late maybe, but probably for the first time.  His
lady was taken from him, and he's at the height of his professional
prowess, which includes a multitude of lethal capabilities.  At his
age, one frequently has delusions of invincibility.  He wants her
back."

"I read you, Wcs.  What can we do?"

"He's got to do something first, something that gives us an excuse to
sandbag him."

"Sandbag .. . ?"

"Short of putting him in a locked room with sponge rubber walls, at
least getting him out of Paris.  He's no good to anybody if the bait
becomes the hunter."

"I understood he was being watched, under guard."

"So was his brother, Harry, and he escaped from the Brotherhood valley.
Don't underestimate the Latham genes.  On the other hand, Witkowski and
Moreau aren't exactly pikers in counterinsurgency."

"I'm not sure what that means in this context, but I assume it's
reassuring."

"I hope to hell it is," said Sorenson.

Under the glare of the desk lamp, Drew studied the names.  On
Witkowski's list of possible leaks there were seven names, including
the Antinayous, and on Moreau's nine, three of them members of the
Chamber of Deputies at the Quai d'Orsay, who the Deuxieme chief thought
were radically to the right of the political mainstream, in a word,
Fascists.  On Stanley's list were several rumor-mongering attaches,
"floaters," as he called them, who spent more time sucking up to
influential French businessmen than at their jobs; two secretaries
whose absences suggested alcohol problems; and a Father Manfried Neuman
at the Antinayous' Maison Rouge.

Moreau's list, beyond the Quai d'Orsay, were the usual paid informers
whose allegiances were exclusively to money, ideology and morality
nonexistent.

Working from the viewpoint of reducing the numbers, Latham eliminated
Moreau's informers-he had no entre into their ranks-as well as two of
the deputies; the third he had met at diplomatic functions.  He would
call that man, listening hard.  Witkowski's list was easier, for he
knew five of them by sight and name, casual embassy acquaintances.  The
remaining two, both women, both suspected of having a drinking problem,
he could reach out of the blue, as it were.  What he needed were
telephone numbers.

"Stanley, I'm so glad you're working late, because you left out
something with your seven candidates."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  said the angry Witkowski.

"Those are the ones we used for observable leaks."

"We?  Who else?  Who did the circulation duty?"

"My secretary who came with me from the old G-Two, a former sergeant
whom I made a first lieutenant before her discharge."

"Her?  She?"

"Service-oriented, son.  Her husband was a gunny until he retired after
his thirtieth, and he was only fifty-three.  Kids are all army
brats."

"What does he do now?"

"Plays golf, goes to museums, and still takes French lessons.

He can't get the hang of the lingo."

"Then I don't need her telephone number, but I want all the rest.

Their residences, including the Antinayous' Maison Rouge."

"I can figure where you're coming from.  Let me punch up my
computer."

Claude Moreau was somewhat more difficult.  He was at home, arguing
with a son over politics.

"The youth today, they understand nothing!"

"Neither do I, but I need telephone numbers, unless you want me to
benevolently usher your guards into a long night's sleep."

"How dare you say such a thing?"

"Easily.  I can do it."

"Mon Dieu, Stanley is right, you are impossible!  Very well, I'll give
you a phone at the Bureau.  Call it in five minutes and you'll be given
the numbers you want."

"Not want, Claude.  Need."

Eleven minutes later, Latham had matched the telephone numbers with
every name on both lists.  He started calling, using essentially the
same words with each.

"This is Colonel Webster, and I believe you know my true identity. 
What disturbs me is that others have learned it and we've traced the
leak to you.  What have you got to say for yourself, before you've got
nothing left to say?"

Every response was a variation on the same theme.  Explosive negatives,
down to the point of each one offering to have their phone calls
checked, both at their offices and their homes; a number volunteered to
take lie-detector tests.  Those over with, only a holier-than-thou
Antinayou at the Maison Rouge was left.

"Father Neuman, please."

"He's conducting vespers and cannot be disturbed."

"Disturb him.  This is a matter of extreme urgency, directly related to
your secrecy."

"Mein Gott, I don't know what to do.  The father is an ardent priest.
Can't you call back in, say, twenty minutes or so?"

"By that time the Red House may be blown up with no one surviving."

"Ach!  I will reach him!"

When Father Manfried Neuman finally came on the line, he snapped, "What
is this foolishness?  I'm in the middle of the Lord's work and you take
me away from His supplicants."

"My temporary name is Colonel Webster, but you know who I am,
Father."

"Of course I do!  So do many others."

"Really?  That comes as something of a shock.  I assumed it was highly
privileged information, airtight, in fact."

"Well, I presume others know.  Now, what's this about a bomb here?"

"Maybe I'm the bomber if you don't answer my questions.  I stayed
there, remember, and right now I'm pretty desperate."

"How can you behave this way?  The Antinayous took care of you, we gave
you sanctuary in your hour of need."

"And refused to take me back when the need was still there."

"That was a collective decision based on our own security
requirements."

"Not good enough, Father.  We're against the same people, aren't we?"

"Do not trifle with us, Herr Latham.  I am a man of God and abhor
violence, but there are others here who are not of my persuasion."

"Is that a threat, padre?"

"Take it as you will, my son.  We know where you are and our vehicles
constantly roam the city."

"Tell me, do you know where Karin de Vries is?"

"Frau de Vries .. . ?  Our colleague?"

"She's gone.  They took her."

"No!  That's wrong .. . !"

"You just blew it, Bible freak.  What's right?  .. . I guess we're not
on the same side after all."

"Untrue!  I've given up everything" "You'll give up the last thing
you've got to give unless you tell me whom you spoke to about me,"
broke in Latham.

"Now!"

"As the Lord God is my witness, only to our informant at the embassy ..
. and one other."

"First, the informant.  Who?"

"A secretary, a woman named Cranston In need of Christ's help."

"How do you know her?"

"We speak, we meet, and the flesh is weak, my son.  I'm not perfect,
may God forgive me."

"The other?  Who is it?"

"It is a confidence so deep, it would be a sacrilege to violate it."

"So would exposing the Maison Rouge, along with a couple of grenades
that would light up the entrance."

"You wouldn't."

"The hell I wouldn't.  I'm a Four Zero officer of Consular Operations,
and among my bag of tricks are a few the Blitzkrieger never thought of.
Give!"

"Another priest, a former priest.  He's an old man now, but when he was
a young scholar, he was a talented cryptanalyst for the branch of
French intelligence that became the Deuxieme Bureau.

The secret services still hold him in high regard, and frequently
confide in him, seeking his help.  His name is Lavolette, Antoine
Lavolette."

"You said he's a former priest, so why is it such a sacrilege to give
me his name?"

"Because, damn you, I go to him for religious counseling, not politics!
I have a problem, not unlike his own years ago, but mine is far more
unforgivable, for it is a compulsion and not confined to one woman. 
I'm an imperfect man and unworthy of my holy church.

What more can I tell you?"

"Maybe a lot more, I'll let you know.  By the way, padre, why did you
say it was 'wrong' for Karin to be kidnapped?"

"Because it was stupid, it's as simple as that"' spat out the priest.

"Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?"

"Must you use the Lord's name in such a manner?"

"Depends on whose Lord you're talking about.  Now, cut the sideshow.
Why was it wrong and stupid to kidnap her?"

"Speaking selfishly, it could very well compromise our operation here.
If their objective was to kill her, then kill her and leave her to God!
But to abduct her with no proof of death is to open the
floodgates-everyone will be searching for her, as you are searching for
her now.  Our very headquarters could be revealed-just as you
threatened to do with your grenades and your bombs.  I ask you in the
name of all that is holy and good not to expose us or reveal our
whereabouts."

"You've given me two names, so I'll do my damnedest not to, but Karin
de Vries comes first, and that's all I can promise."  Latham hung up
the phone, immediately tempted to reach Moreau and ask some pointed
questions about the former Father Antoine Lavolette, retired
cryptanalyst extraordinary.  Then he thought otherwise; the head of the
Deuxi@me was a control freak, especially where one Drew Latham was
concerned.  Undoubtedly, Moreau would interfere, calling the retired
priest himself and usurping the initiative.  No, that wasn't the way.
This Lavolette had to be cornered, surprised, forced by shock into
revealing whatever he knew, or whatever he did not know he knew by
disclosing another name or names.  The same could be said for the
Cranston woman, Phyllis Cranston, errant secretary to a middle-level
attach who was on Witkowski's list of "floaters," probably the reason
she kept her job.

First, there was the primary task of, getting out of the hotel.

Every hour, every minute, he spent there was an hour and a minute lost
in his hunt for Karin.

Karin had said his blond hair was the product of a minor bleach rinse
coupled with a "tint coloring," whatever that was, but she insisted
that with a harsh shampoo plus a tube of something that turned gray
hair darker, he could return to his normal hair color, or something
close to it.  She had put the magic tube in the medicine chest, he had
moved it to a bedroom drawer so she would not remove it.  It was still
there.

A half hour later, the bathroom a steaming mess, a naked Latham kept
throwing water on the basin mirror to clear it.  His hair was now a
strange dark brown with specks of auburn, but it was not blond.  He had
sent one hockey puck right through a goalie's legs!

Now there were Messieurs Frick and Frack to consider, or, more
accurately, whoever relieved them for the current shift.  And it was
another shift, as Karin had mentioned.  He knew each of the guards, but
he knew Frick and Frack better than the others, and he doubted the pair
would have related the details of their embarrassment over a missed
code word.  A lone American disarming an officer of the Deuxieinc,
ripping his weapon away, and punishing his groin to the point' of
agony?  Mon Dieu, fermez la bouche!

Drew pulled his other uniform out of the closet and his bureau drawers.
It was the all but prescribed dress of the male embassy attache: gray
flannels, dark blazer, white shirt, and a conservative tie-regimental
stripes preferable, subdued paisleys permitted for informal evening
functions.  He was mildly pleased that the supposedly bulletproof vest
was accommodated, snug but not inhibiting.  Fully clothed, his suitcase
packed, he opened the hotel door and walked out into the corridor,
standing in place, waiting for the obvious.  It came immediately with
the appearance of, the guard by the elevators, his colleague
simultaneously emerging from the shadow at the opposite end of the
hallway.

"Til vous Platt," he began in even more awkward French than he was
capable of, "voulez-vous venir ici-"

"En anglais, monsieur!"  cried the man from the elevators.

"We can understand."

"Oh, thanks a lot, I appreciate that.  If one of you would help me out,
I just got a telephone message and I wrote out the words as best I
could.  It's an address, I think, but the fellow couldn't speak
English."

"You go, Pierre," said the guard at the opposite end in French.

"I'll stay here."

"Very, well," replied the man walking down from the bank of
elevators.

"Don't they teach any other language but English in America?"

"Did the Romans learn French?"

"They didn't have to, there's your answer."  The first guard entered
Latham's suite as Drew followed and closed the door.

"Where is the message, monsieur?"  - "Over at the desk," said Latham,
walking behind the Frenchman.

"It's the paper with the writing on it.  Right in the center, I turned
it around so you could read it."

The guard picked up the sheet of paper with the strange words spelled
out phonetically.  As he did so, Latham raised both arms, hands angled
downward, two hammers that crashed into the man's shoulder blades,
rendering him instantly unconscious.  It was a stunning blow, painful
but not injurious.  Drew dragged the body into the bedroom, where he
had stripped the bed and ripped the sheets into long lengths of narrow
cloth.  Ninety seconds later the guard was strapped facedown on top of
the mattress, arms and legs lashed to the bedposts, his mouth
immobilized by a thin strip of cloth, allowing breath to enter and
leave.

Picking up a handful of torn sheets, Latham raced out of the bedroom,
closing the door.  He dropped the strips of cloth on a chair and opened
the hallway door.  He walked out calmly and addressed the second guard,
who was barely seen in the far shadows.

"Your friend Pierre says he must talk to you at once, before he calls
that fellow, what's his name?  Montreaux or Moneau?"

"Monsieur le directeur?"

"Yeah, that's the guy.  He says what I wrote down is encredeebal."

"Get out of my way!"  yelled the second guard, running up the corridor
and rushing into the suite.

"Where .. . ?"  His question was stopped by an aikido chop to his neck,
followed by a two-fingered prong to the space below his ribcage, the
combination leaving the guard temporarily breathless and unconscious,
but again without harm.  Drew pulled him over to the couch and
performed the same exercise he had with the first Deuxieme officer,
only with necessary variations.  He lay prone on the pillows, legs and
arms stretched and tied to the sofa's feet, mouth gagged, but his head
angled, with no loss of air.  Latham's FINAL gesture was to yank out
the telephones in both rooms.  He was now free to begin the hunt.

e walked up the steps of Phyllis Cranston's apartment house in the rue
Pavee, entered the lobby, and Hpressed the bell for her flat.

There was no answer, so he kept ringing, thinking she might be in a
stupor, if Witkowski's opinion was justified.  He was about to give up,
when an obese, elderly woman came out of the locked hallway, noticed
the button he was pressing, and spoke in French.

"You looking for the Butterfly?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"Ah, Amiricain.  Your French is terrible," she added in English.

"I was the sorriest woman in Paris when your airdromes left France."

"You know Miss Cranston?"

"Who here does not?  She's a sweet thing and once was very pretty, as I
was.  "Why should I tell you anything else ?

"Because I have to speak with her, it's urgent."

"Because you're 'horny," as you Americans call it?  Let me tell you,
monsieur, she may have the malady, but she is no whore!"

"I'm not looking for a whore, madame.  I'm trying to find someone who
can give me information I need very quickly, and that person is Phyllis
Cranston."

"Hmm," mused the old woman, studying Drew.

"You are not looking to take advantage of her because of her malady? 
If you are, you should know that her friends in this building protect
her. She is, as I said, sweet and kind and helps out people who need
help.

We are not poor here, but many of us are close to being so, what with
the taxes and the high prices.  The Butterfly is free with her

American money and never asks for repayment.  On her days off she cares
for children so their mothers can work.  You will not harm her, not
here."

"I don't want to harm her, and I'm not looking for a Mother Teresa.  I
told you, I want to find her because she may have information I
need."

"Do not mention catbolique to me, monsieur.  I am a Catholic, but we
told that filthy priest to stay away from her!  "

Bingo, thought Latham.

"A priest?"

"He took advantage of her, he still takes advantage of her!"

"How ?@9

"He comes late at night, and the absolution he's looking for is between
his two legs!"

"She accepts him?"

"She feels she has no choice.  He's her confessor."

"Son of a hitch!  Listen to me, I have to find her.  I've spoken to
that priest and he gave me her name.  Not for the reason you might
think, only because he may have said things to her he shouldn't have
said."

"And who are you?"

"Someone who, believe it or not is fighting France's battle as much as
I am my own country's.  The Nazis, madame, the goddamned Nazis are
beginning to march again all over Europe!  I know that sounds
melodramatic, but it's true.  "

"I was a small child and saw them execute people in the streets," said
the old woman, whispering, her lined face pinched.

"They can do it again?"

"They're a long way from it, but we've got to stop them now."

"How is our Butterfly involved?"

"She was given information she may have innocently imparted to others.
Or perhaps not innocently.  That's as honest as I can be.

If she's not here, where is she?"

"I was about to tell you to go to Les Trois Couronnes, a cafE down the
street, but it is past midnight, and you need not go there.

She's right behind you, being helped u' the P

steps by her neighbor, Monsieur Du Bois.  As is quite apparent, her
malady is that she drinks too much wine.  There are things she has to
forget, monsieur, and she does it with wine."

"Do you know what they are?"

"It is not my business to know, and what I know I keep to myself.

We take care of our Butterfly, here."

"Will you accompany me to her flat so you can see for yourselves, both
you and Monsieur Du Bois, that I mean no harm to her?  That I merely
want to ask her a few questions?"

"You will not be alone with her, I can assure you of that.  There'll be
no priests in fancy street clothing."

Phyllis Cranston was a diminutive woman of forty-five or fifty, her
figure compact, even athletic.  Although unsteady on her feet, each
foot was planted firmly, defiantly, both admitting and denying her
state of drunkenness.

"So who's going to make some coffee?"  she demanded in a solidly nasal
Midwestern American accent as she fell back in a chair at the far end
of her flat, her companion, Du Bois, at her side.

"I've got it on the stove, Butterfly, don't you worry," said the old
woman from the lobby.

"Just who is this creep?"  asked Cranston, gesturing at Latham.

"An American, mon chou, who knows that dirty priest we told you to stay
away from."

"That pig forgives old broads like me, because we're the only women he
can get!  Is this bastard one of them?  Did he come here to get his
rocks off?"

"I'm the last person you could imagine being a priest," said Drew
softly, calmly.

"And as to sexual satisfaction, I'm very much committed to a lady who
takes care of those needs and whom I expect to stay with for the rest
of my life, with or without religious sanction."

"Boy, you sound like a real square!  Where are you from, baby?"

"Connecticut, originally.  Where are you from?  Indiana or Ohio, or
maybe northern Missouri?"

"Hey, you're pretty much on target, macho-boy.  I'm a St.  Louis girl,
born and brought up in the parochial system -what a drag, right?"

"I wouldn't know."

"But how did you know I was from that part of the good old

U.S.A.?"

"Your accent.  I'm trained to spot such things."

"No kidding?  .. . Hey, thanks for the java, Eloise."  The embassy
secretary accepted the mug of coffee and took several sips, shaking her
head after each.

"I guess you figure I'm a real loser, don't you?"

she continued, looking at Latham, then suddenly sitting up, staring at
him.

"Wait a minute, I know you!  You're the Cons-Op officer!"

"That's right, Phyllis."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Father Manfried Neuman, he gave me your name."

"That prick!  So you could fire me?"

"I see no reason to fire you, Phyllis-- "Then why are you here?"

"Father Neuman, that's why.  He told you who a Colonel Webster was,
didn't he?  That he was a deep-cover American intelligence officer from
the embassy who was going underground with a new identity, a new
appearance.  He told you that, didn't he?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, he was so full of shit, you couldn't find an
outhouse big enough.  He did that all the time, especially when he got
so excited I thought he'd tear my bottom apart.  It was like he was
playin' God, telling secrets only God would know, and then when he came
off, exploded, he'd grab my face and say God would condemn me to the
fires of hell if I ever repeated what he said."

"Why are you telling me now?"

"Why?"  Phyllis Cranston drank a large portion of her coffee.  She
answered simply.

"Because my friends here explained to me that I was a damn fool.  I'm a
good person, Mr.  Whatever-your-name-is and I have a problem which is
confined to these few streets.  So go to hell."

"Beyond the obvious, what is your problem, Phyllis?"

"I will answer that for you, Monsieur Amiiricain," said the old lady.

"This bilingual child of French parents lost her husband and three
children in the American Midwest floods of 'ninety-one.  The raging
river by their house destroyed -everything.  Only she survived,
clinging to the rocks until rescued.  Why do you think she looks after
the children here whenever she can?"

"I have to ask her one more question, the only question, really."

"What is it, Mr.  Latham-that is your name, isn't it?"  said Phyllis
Cranston, sitting up, now more exhausted than drunk.

"After Father Neuman told you who I was-whom did you tell

"I'm trying to remember..  .. Yeah, in the peak of a hangover, I told
Bobby Durbane in the comm center, and a lower-pool stenographer I
hardly know, not even her name."

"Thank you," said Latham.

"And good night, Phyllis."

Drew walked down the steps of the apartment house in the rue Pavee; a
bewildered man.  He had no idea who the pool stenographer could be, but
her status hardly suggested much influence.  Robert Durbane, however,
was a shock.  Bobby Durbane, the gray fox of the comm center, the
veteran expert of ethereal communications, the man who only days
earlier had Drew on his mysterious grids and sent out embassy vehicles
to rescue him from a neo assault?  It was beyond understanding. 
Durbane was the quiet man, the ascetic, the intellectual who pored over
his esoteric crossword puzzles and double crostics, who was so generous
to his crew that he frequently took the midnight-to-dawn shifts so his
subordinates could get some rest from the daily bombardments.

Or was there another Robert Durbane, a far more secretive one?

A man who chose the deserted, early morning hours so he could send his
own messages through the ether to others who pre calibrated his unknown
frequencies and read his codes.  And why had the armed embassy cars
with all their firepower arrived barely a minute after the Nazi
limousine had swung around the street, spraying their bullets
everywhere, killing a neo named C-Zwdlf?  Had Bobby Durbane
orchestrated the would-be massacre by alerting the Nazis first?  These
were questions that had to be answered; the unknown embassy pool
stenographer had to be tracked down as well.  Both could wait until
morning; now it was time for Father Neuman's adviser, Antoine
Lavolette, retired priest and former intelligence cryptanalyst.

The address was easily gotten from the telephone book.  Latham found a
vacant taxi two blocks east.  It was nearly one o'clock in the morning,
just the hour, he decided, to confront the elderly Father Lavolette,
defrocked man of God, who possessed secrets that might have to be pried
out of him.

The house in the quai de Grenelle was a substantial three-story
structure of white stone and freshly painted strips of green wood,
bringing to mind a Mondrian canvas.  The owner also had to be
substantial, at least in income, for the neighborhood rivaled the
avenue Montaigne in upscale opulence; it was not for the marginally
rich, only the rich.  The former cryptanalyst and retired man of the
cloth had done very welL for himself in the material world.

Drew walked up the short flight of steps to the enameled green door,
the shining brass of the bell plate and the knob casement glistening in
the wash of the street lamps.  He rang the bell and waited; it was
twenty-six minutes after one o'clock in the morning.

At 1:29 the door was opened by a startled woman in a bathrobe;

she was perhaps in her late thirties, her light brown hair mussed from
sleep.

"My God, what do you want at this hour?"  she blurted out in French.

"The household is asleep!"

"Vous parlez anglais?"  asked Latham, holding out his black bordered
embassy identification, a document that was both reassuring and
intimidating.

"Un peu," replied the apparent housekeeper nervously.

"I must see Monsieur Lavolette.  It's a matter of great importance and
cannot wait until morning."

"You stay outside, I'll get my husband."

"He's Monsieur Lavolette?"

"No, he is the patron's chauffeur .. . among other things.  He also
speaks anglais more better.  Outside!"

The door was slammed shut, forcing Drew out on the small brick porch.
The only comforting fact was that the woman turned on the carriage
lights that flanked the entrance.  Moments later the door opened again,
revealing a large, heavyset man, also in a bathrobe, broad of face and
with a chest and shoulders that qualified him as a potential linebacker
who would not need much padding.  Beyond his menacing size, Latham's
eyes were drawn to the bulge in his right bathrobe pocket; the black
steel of an automatic's handle was clearly visible through the gap at
the top.

"What business do you have with the patron, monsieur?"  asked the man
in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Government business," answered Drew, again holding out his
identification.

"It can be relayed only to Monsieur Lavolette himself."  The chauffeur
took the ID and studied it in the foyer's light.

"The American government?"

"My branch is intelligence, I work with the Deuxieme."

"Abb, the Deuxieme, the Service d'Etranger, the secret corps of the
Siiret6, and now the Americans.  When will you leave the patron
alone?"

"He's a man of great experience 'and wisdom, and there are always
urgent matters."

"He's also an old man who needs his sleep, especially since his wife
passed away.  He spends exhausting hours in his chapel speaking to her
and God."

"Still, I have to see him.  He'd want me to; a friend of his could be
in terrible trouble over an event that concerns the governments of
France and the United States."

"You people always scream 'emergency," and when your conditions are
Met, you sit on the information for weeks, months, even years."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I worked for you people for years, and that's all I'll say
about it.  Tell me, why should I believe you?"

"Because, goddammit, I'm here!  At one-thirty in the morning."

"Why not eight-thirty, or nine-thirty, so the patron can sleep?"

The question was asked innocently; there was no threat whatsoever in
the chauffeur's voice.

"Come on, man, you're busting my chops!  Has it occurred to you that
I'd rather be home with my wife and three children?"  .

The lie was interrupted by a loud whirring sound.  Instinctively, the
huge man turned as the door swung open farther, exposing the foyer and
a long hallway.  At the end of the hall was a small brass webbed door;
in seconds a miniature elevator descended into view.

"Hugo!"  cried the frail voice of the white-haired figure inside.

"What is it, Hugo?  I heard the bell and then people arguing in
English."

"It would be better if you kept your door closed, patron.  You would
not be awakened."

"Come, come, you overprotect me.  Now help me out of this damn thing, I
wasn't really sleeping anyway."

"But Anna said you didn't eat well and then spent two hours on your
knees in the chapel."

"All to good purpose, my son," said the former Father Antoine
Lavolette.  Helped from the elevator chair, he cautiously stepped into
the hallway.  He was a reed of a man in his red-jhecked bathrobe, over
six feet in height but thin to the point of emaciation.

His face had the chiseled features of a Gothic saint-an aquiline nose,
severe eyebrows, and wide-open eyes.

"I truly believe God is hearing my prayers.  I said to Him that since
He created everything, He was responsible for my feelings about my
wife.  I even scolded Him... , pointing out that neither His Son nor
the Holy Scriptures ever said anything forbidding a priest to marry."

"I'm certain He heard you, patron."

"If He didn't, I shall loudly complain about my constantly painful
kneecaps, if I ever greet Him.  I wonder if our Lord God has knees that
must bend.  But, of course, He does, we're made in His image that may
have been a big mistake."  The old man stopped in front of Latham,

who was now standing in the hallway.

"Well, well, whom do we have here?  Are you the intruder who breaks
into the tent of night?"

"I am, sir.  My name is Latham, and I'm with the American Embassy, an
officer with the United States Consular Operations.

Your chauffeur is still holding my identification in his hand."

"For heaven's sake, give it back to him, Hugo, you're finished with all
that nonsense," instructed the former priest, suddenly shaken, his head
trembling.

"Nonsense, sit?"  said Drew.

"My friend Hugo was among the Praetorian guards recruited from the
Foreign Legion and sent to Command Saigon when he was a young man.  You
left him behind, but he got himself out."

"He speaks English very well."

"He should, he was a special activities officer under the direction of
the Americans."

"I'never heard of any Praetorian guard or of French officers in
Saigon."

"Praetorian was a euphemism for suicide squads, and there were many
things you never heard of in that action.  The Americans paid them ten
times what they could make in the Legion; they brought back information
from behind the lines.  You people forget so easily.  French was a
language far better known than English among the ruling cadres in
Southeast Asia..  .. Now, why are you here?"

"Father Manfried Neuman."

"I see," said Lavolette, staring at Latham, their eyes level, for the
former priest was as tall as Drew.

"Escort us into the library, Hugo, and relieve Monsieur Latham of his
weapon, which you will keep in your possession until we , re finished.
"

"Oui, patron.  " The chauffeur held out Latham's identification while
simultaneously signaling with the fingers of his right hand that Drew
give him his gun.  Noting that Hugo's stare centered on the slight
bulge on the left side of his jacket, Latham.reached in slowly and
removed his automatic.

"Merci, monsieur," said the chauffeur, taking the gun and handing Drew
his ID card case.  He took his patron's elbow and led them through an
archway into a book-lined room profuse with heavy leather chairs and
marble tables.

"Make yourself comfortable, Monsieur Latham," said Lavolette, sitting
in an upright chair, gesturing for Drew to sit across from him.

"Would you care for something to drink?  I know I would.

Conversations at this hour require, a touch of the grape, I believe."

"I'll have whatever you have."

"From the same bottle, of course," said the former priest, smiling.

"Two Courvoisiers, Hugo."  - "Good choice," said Latham, looking around
the elegant, high-ceilinged library.

"This is a lovely room," he said.

"Being an avid reader, it suits my purpose," agreed Lavolette.

"Guests are frequently astonished when they ask me if I've read every
volume, and I answer, "Usually two or three times."

"

"That's a lot of reading."

"When you reach my age, Monsieur Latham, you'll find that words are far
more permanent than the fleeting images on television."

"Some people say one picture is worth a thousand words."

"One photograph out of ten thousand, perhaps, I will not deny that.
However, one exhausts the familiar, doesn't one, even a painting."

"I wouldn't know.  I haven't thought that much about it."

"No, you probably haven't had time.  At -your age I never did."

Their snifters of brandy arrived, the liqueur in each precisely an inch
from the bottom.

"Thank you, Hugo," continued the retired cryptanalyst and former
priest, "and if you'd close the doors and wait in the foyer, I'd be
most pleased."

"Oui" patron," said the chauffeur, leaving the room and pulling shut
the heavy double doors.

"All right, Drew Latham, how much do you know about me?"

asked Lavolette sharply.

"That you left the priesthood for marriage, and when

you were quite young you were a cryptanalyst for French intelligence.
Other than that, virtually nothing.  Except, of course, Manfried
Neuman.  He told me you're helping him with his problem."

"No one can help him but a trained behavioral psychiatrist, which I've
implored him to seek."

"He says you're giving him religious counseling because you had the
same problem."

"That is the meide of the bull, as you Americans say.  I fell in love
with one woman and stayed faithful to her for forty years.

Neuman has the impulse to fornicate with many women, selectivity being
merely a result of time and place and maximum opportunity.

I've begged him repeatedly to seek help before he destroys himself.  .
You came here at this hour to tell me that?"

"You know I didn't.  You know why I'm here because I saw your
expression when I said who I was.  Youtried to hide your reaction, but
it was as if you'd been punched in the stomach.  Neuman told you about
me and you told somebody else.  Who?"

"You don't understand, none of you can ever understand," choked
Lavolette, breathing deeply.

"Understand what?"

"They have us all with ropes around our necks, not just our necks-that
would be easy to dispense with-but others, so many others!"

"Neuman told you who a Colonel Webster was, didn't he?  That he was a
man named Latham!"

"Not willingly.  I extracted it from him, for I knew the situation.

I had to."

"Why?

"Please, I'm an old man and have very little time.  Do not make my life
any more complicated than it is."

"Let me tell you, Father, your gorilla out there may have my weapon,
but my hands are as good as any gun.  What the hell did you A?"

"Listen to me, my son."  Lavolette drank his brandy in two swallows,
the tremble in his head returning.

"My wife was German.

I met her when the Holy See posted me to the Church of the Blessed
Sacrament in Mannheim a the war.  She was married with two children and
an abusive husband, a former Wehrmacht officer who ran an-insurance
company.  We fell in love, desperately in love, and I left the Church
so we could be together for the rest of our lives.  She divorced her
husband in a Swiss court, but by German law he kept the children.  .
They grew up and had children of their own, and then their children
began to have children.  There are sixteen in the two families that are
my dear wife's bloodline, and she was devoted to them all, as I was to
be."

"She kept in touch with them, then?"

"Oh, yes.  We had moved to France, where I started my businesses, aided
in no small measure by my former colleagues in the services, and as the
years went by, the children frequently.

came to visit us, both here in Paris and during the summers at our
house in Nice.  I came to love them as my own."

"I'm surprised their father even let them see their mother," said
Drew.

"I don't think he cared one way or the other, except for the expenses,
which I was happy to provide.  He remarried and had three more children
with his second wife.  The first two children, my wife's, were more an
impediment, I believe, reminding him of a meddling priest who had
broken his vows and upset a German businessman's life.  A Wehrmacht
officer's life..  .. Now do you begin to understand?"

"My God," whispered Latham, his eyes once again locked with those of
Lavolette.

"It's a trade-off.  He's still a Nazi.  "

"Exactly, except that he is no longer a factor, he passed away several
years ago.  However, he left survivors, tokens readily accepted by the
movement."

"His own children and their children, perfect inroads to a former
priest, once highly regarded and still in the confidence of French
intelligence.  A trade-off, and I'm the chess piece."

"Your life, Mr.  Latham, for the lives of sixteen innocent men, women,
and children, pawns, indeed, in a deadly game they know nothing about.
What would you have done in my place?"

"Probably what you did," acknowledged Drew.

"Now, what did you do?  Whom did you reach?"

"They could all be killed, you understand that?"

"Not if it's done right, and I'll do my best to do it right.

"Nobody knows I came here, that's on your side.  Tell me!"

"There's a man.  I loathe to say it, another clergyman, but not of my
Church.  A Lutheran minister and rather young, late thirties or early
forties, I'd say.  He is their leader here in Paris, the main contact
to the Nazi hierarchy both in Bonn and Berlin.  His name is Reverend
Wilhelm Koenig, his place of worship is Neuilly-sur-Seine, it's the
only Lutheran church in the district."

"You've met him?"

"Never.  When there are papers to be delivered to him, I send a
parishioner in the interest of our Christian Alliance Association,
either someone very old or very young whose only concern is the francs
they make.  Naturally, I questioned a few and learned his approximate
age and description."

"What does he look like?"

"He's quite short and very athletic, very muscular.  He has a
gymnasium, where there are various machines and weights to lift, in the
basement of his parish hall.  He meets messengers there, without his
collar, and always sitting on one of those stationary bicycles, or a
torso vehicle, apparently to conceal his lack of height."

C'You are assuming that, of course."

"I worked for French intelligence, monsieur, but I didn't need its
training to learn that.  I sent a devout twelve-year-old to deliver a
packet to him, and Koenig was so excited, he got off whatever machine
he was on, and the boy said to me, "I don't think he's.  as big as me,
Father, but, my God, he's all muscle."

"

"He shouldn't be hard to spot, then," said Latham, finishing his brandy
and getting up from the chair.

"Does Koenig have a code name?"

"Yes, known to no more than five people in all France.  It is Heracles,
a son of Zeus in Greek mythology."

"Thank you, Monsieur Lavolette, and I'll try to protect your wife's
people in Germany.  But as I told someone else tonight, that's all I
can promise.  There's another who comes first."

"Go with God, my son.  Many think I've lost my privilege to say that,
but I'm convinced He hasn't lost faith in me.  Sometimes this is a
terrible world, and we must all act with the free will He decreed for
us."

"I've got a few problems with that scenario, Father Lavolette, but I
won't burden you with them."

"Thank you for not doing so.  Hugo will return your weapon and see you
out."

"I have a Iasi request, if I may?"

"That depends on what it is, doesn't it?"

"A length of cord or wire, ten feet long should be enough."

"What for?"

"I'm not sure yet.  I just think I should have it."

"You field peopit were always so esoteric."

"It goes with the territory," said Drew quietly.

"When we don't know what's ahead, we try to imagine the possibilities.
There aren't so many."

"Hugo will find you what you need.  Tell him to look in the pantry."

It was ten past three in the morning when Drew reached the Lutheran
parish in Neuilly-sur-Seine.  He dismissed the taxi and approached the
church, which was attached to a rectory by a short, closed-in
colonnade.  All was dark, but the clear night sky, illuminated by a
bright Paris moon, sharply defined the two separate structures.  Latham
spent nearly twenty minutes walking around the area, studying each
ground floor window ana door, focusing on the private quarters of the
rectory where the neo leader lived.  The church could be broken into
easily, but not the private quartets;

they were wired to the hilt, metallic alarm strips showing
everywhere.

To trigger the alarm might shock the Nazi, but it would also be the
most negative sort of warning.  Drew had the address and number of the
parish.  He pulled the portable phone issued by Witkowski from a jacket
pocket, and then his slim notebook from another.  He considered his
words, read the number, then dialed.

-Allo all6!"  said the high-pitched male voice on the second ring.

"I'll speak English, for I'm a Sonnenkind born and brought up in
America-"

"What?"

"I flew over for a conference in Berlin and was instructed to contact
Heracles before I returned to New York.  My plane was delayed by
weather or else I would have reached you hours ago, and my flight to
the States is in three hours.  We must meet.  Now."

"Berlin .. . "Heracles' .. . ?  Who are you?"

"I don't like repeating myself.  I am a Sormenkind, the hihrer of the
Sonnenkinder in America, and I demand respect from you.  I have
information you must be given."

"Where are you?"

"Ten meters from your front door."

"Mein Gott!  I've heard nothing of this!"

"There wasn't time; the usual channels could not be used, for you've
been compromised."

"I cannot believe this!"

"Believe, or I'll use this phone to reacHer in, even Bonn, and other
instructions will be issued that will remove Heracles from his post.
Come down and meet me within thirty seconds or I call Berlin."

"No!  Wait!  I'm coming!"

Well before a minute had passed, the lights on the upper floors were
turned on, followed by the lights below.  The front door opened and the
Reverend Wi elm Koenig, in pajamas and draped in a blue shawl,
appeared.  Drew studied him from the shadows of the lawn.  He was,
indeed, a small man, but with massive shoulders and thick legs, not
unlike a bull mastiff, the legs severely bowed.  And like a huge
bulldog, his large, pinched face was set in defiance, as if prepared to
attack.

Latham walked out of the darkness of the lawn into the light of the
entrance.

"Please, come here, Heracles.  We'll talk outside."

"Why do you not come in?  There's a chill in the air; it's far more
comfortable inside."

"I'm not cold at all," said Drew.

"As a matter of fact, it's rather warui and humid."

"Then our air-conditioning would be preferable, would it not?"

"My instructions were not to have any conversations within your
rectory; the assumption was obvious."

"That I'd tape whatever we said, incriminating myself?"  cried Koenig
in a harsh whisper, stepping outside.

"Are you vernickt?"

"Another more reasonable assumption could be made."

"Such as?"  - "The house is wired by the French."

"Impossible!  We have devices perpetually in operation that would
reveal any invasion."

"New technology is born every day, Reverend.  Come on, humor our
superiors in Berlin even if they're wrong.  Frankly, we both must."

"Very well."  Koenig started to walk down the single porch step, when
Drew stopped him.

"Hold it."

"What?  9 @

"Turn off the lights and close the door.  Neither of us wants a
cruising police car to stop, do we?"

"You have a point."

"Who else is in the house?"

"My assistant, whose rooms are in the attic, and my two hounds who
remain in the kitchen until I summon them."

"Can you turn off the upstairs lights from down there?"

"The hallway, yes, not the bedroom."

"Turn them off too."

"You're excessively cautious, Herr Sonnenkind."

"A product of my training, Herr Demeter."

The minister went inside; seconds later the main lights, both upstairs
and downstairs, were extinguished, when suddenly Koenig shouted,
"Hunde!  Aufrug!"  When the neo leader returned to the darkened
doorway, the moonlight revealed two additional figures, one on either
side of him.  They were low to the ground, large-headed, barrel chested
and each poised on four slightly bowed legs.  The reverend's dogs were
not unlike the reverend himself; they were pit bulls.

"These are my friends, Donner and Blitzen; the parishioners' children
like the names.  They are completely harmless unless I give them a
specific command, which, of course, I cannot repeat because they would
tear you to pieces."

"Berlin wouldn't like that."

"Then don't give me any reason to use it," continued Koenig, walking
out on the lawn, his guards waddling beside him.

"And please, no comments about owners looking like their pets, or vice
versa.  I hear that all the time."

"I can't imagine why.  You're somewhat taller."

"You're not- amusing, Sonnenkind," said the Nazi, looking up at Drew
and throwing his wide blue shawl over his shoulder, concealing his left
hand.  It was not difficult to know what Koenig held under the cloth.

"What is this information from Berlin?  I'll reconfirm it, of
course."

"Not from this house, you won't," contradicted Latham firmly.

"Go down the street, or even better, into another district, and call
all you want to, but not from here.  You're in enough trouble, don't
compound it.  That's a bit of friendly advice."

"They're serious, then?  They believe that with all of my precautions,
I am compromised?"

"They certainly do, Heracles."

"On what basis?"  - "First, they want to know if you have the woman."

"De Vries?"

"I think that was the name, I'm not sure; the connection was terrible.
I'm to reach Berlin within the hour."

"How would they even know about her?  We haven't filed our report!
We're waiting for results."

"I assume they have moles in French intelligence, the SOret,
organizations like that..  .. Look, Koenig, I don't care to know
anything that's not in my orbit, I have enough problems of my own back
in the States.  just give me the answers I can relay to our superiors.
Have you got whoever this woman is?"

"Of course we do."

"You haven't killed her."  A statement, not a question.

"Not yet.  In a few hours we will if she doesn't produce results.

We'll drop her body off at the steps of the American Embassy."

"What results?  And don't give me a bunch of complicated facts just
sketch it out so they'll be satisfied.  Believe me, it's in your
interest."

"All right.  At the first light our unit will reach her lover, this
Latham, telling him that if he ever wants to see her alive, he'll come
to a rendezvous, a park or a monument, someplace where several of our
expert snipers can conceal themselves.  When he arrives, a barrage of
gunfire will kill them both."

"Where is this rendezvous?"

"That's the unit's decision, not mine.  I have no idea."

"Where is she being held now?"

"Why would that concern Berlin?"  The neo-Nazi suddenly squinted,
staring questioningly at Drew.

"They've never wanted such tactical information before."

"How the hell do I know?"  At the raising of his voice, the deadly pit
bulls growled.

"I'm simply repeating what they told me to ask!"

Latham, in his anxiety, could feel the perspiration rolling down his
face.  Control, goddammit, control!  Only a few more moments!

"All right.  Why not?"  said the short pit bull on two legs.

"What's in motion can't be derailed by men who are five hundred miles
away.  She's in a flat on the rue Lacoste, number twenty-three."

"What flat?"

"The unit never told me.  It was for rent and they don't even have a
telephone.  Naturally, by this morning they'll disappear, and a
landlord will have several months' rent and no tenants."

Step one, thought Drew.  Step two was to get rid of the goddamn dogs
and have Koenig to himself.

"That seems to me all that Berlin can demand," he said.

"Now, what is the information I'm to be given," asked the Lutheran
neo.

I "Orders more than information," said Latham.

"You're to temporarily close down all activities, neither issuing nor
accepting instructions from anyone.  When the time is right, Berlin
will reach you and tell you to resume operations.  Furthermore, should
you care to confirm your orders from me, do so at the lowest levels,
preferably through Spain or Portugal."

"This is insane!"  choked the diminutive prelate as the two dogs
growled and snapped their teeth simultaneously.

"Halten!"  he yelled, quieting the animals.

"I am the most secure man in France!"

"They told me to tell you that what someone called AndrE thought, and
now he's finished."

"Andrii?"

"You heard me and I don't know who he is or what it means."

"Mein Gott.  AndrE!"  The Nazi's voice grew weak, confusion and fear in
his expression.

"He was so getarnt!"

"Sorry, I'm not with you, the cells in America don't want all of us to
know German.  They figured it was a trip point."

"He was beyond unearthing."

"I guess he wasn't.  Berlin said something about his going back to
Strasbourg, wherever the hell that is."

"Strasbourg?  Then you know."

"Not a damn thing, and II don't want to.  I just want to get to
Heathrow and a plane to Chicago."

"What am I to do?"

"I told you before, Heracles.  In the morning you call your relays in
Spain or Portugal-from a phone far away from here--confirm my orders,
and do as Berlin says.  How much clearer can I be?"

"Everything is so confusing-"

"Confusing, hell," said Latham, starting to take Koenig's elbow, when
the pit bulls snarled.

"Come on, tell your hounds to get inside and I'll follow you.  If
nothing else, you owe me a drink."

"Oh, certainly.-..  . Rein," ordered Koenig as the two pit bulls raced
through the open door.

"There we are, Herr Sonnenkind, come inside."

"Not yet," said Drew, suddenly slamming the door closed and yanking the
neo outside, stripping the blue shawl off his shoulders, revealing the
small automatic in his left hand.  Before the confused Koenig could
react, Latham gripped the weapon, twisting it violently
counterclockwise, expecting either the Nazi's wrist to snap or the gun
to fall free; it loosened as Koenig's fingers spread in agony.

Drew grabbed it and flung it into the dark grass.

What followed was nothing short of a life-and-death struggle between
two human animals, pit bulls, perhaps, each possessing an agenda that
consumed him, one ideological, the other intensely personal.  Koenig
was a hissing, attacking cat, thrusts and claws deadly; Latham was the
larger, snarling wolf, fangs bared, constantly lunging for the
throat-in the present case, any appendage he could grab on to, hold,
and immobilize.  In the end, the wolf's size and marginally superior
strength prevailed.  Both animals, bloodied and exhausted, knew who had
won the battle.  Koenig lay on the ground, one arm broken, the other
sprained, the thigh muscles of both legs partially paralyzed.  Latham,
his hands scraped and bleeding, his chest and stomach pummeled almost
to the point of his vomiting, stood over the Nazi and spat in the
direction of his face.

Drew knelt down, pulling the length of coiled cord provided by Hugo out
of his belt, and proceeded to tie up the neo leader, legs and arms
connected behind Koenig's spine; with each struggle the lines grew
tighter.  Finally, Latham tore the blue shawl in strips, as he had done
with the sheets at the Normandie hotel, and gagged the ersatz minister
of God.  Glancing at his watch, he dragged Koenig into the bushes,
chopped him into unconsciousness, yanked out his telephone, and dialed
Stanley Witkowski.

You son of a bitch!"  roared the colonel.

"Moreau wants your ass in front of a firing squad, and I Y can't say as
I blame him one bit!"

"His two men got loose, then?"

"What did you think you were doing?  What are you doing?"

"If you'll calm down for a moment or two, I'll fill you in."

"Me calm down?  Oh, I've got a lot to be calm about.  Courtland's to be
ordered to the Quai d'Orsay in the morning to take the whacks for you;
you're being declared persona non grata and thrown out of the country;
a formal protest is being lodged against me by a foreign government,
and you tell me to be calm?"

"Moreau's behind all this?"

"It's not Tinker Bell."

"Then we can control it."

"Are you listening to me?  You assaulted two Deuxieme agents,
blindsided them, and held them hostage by roping them up without
communication for hours, therefore disrupting a major French
intelligence investigation!"

"Yes, but, Stanley, I made progress, the kind of progress Moreau wants
more than anything else."

"What .. . ?),

"Send a marine unit out to a Lutheran church in Neuilly-surSeine."
Latham gave Witkowski the address and described the bound Koenig in the
bushes.

"He's the high honcho of the neo movement in Paris, higher, I think,
than Strasbourg, at least his cover's better."

"How did you find him?"

"There's no time for that now.  Call Moreau and have the marines take
Koenig to the Deuxieme Bureau.  Tell Claude from me it's a bona
fide."

"He'll want more than a roughed-up Lutheran minister.  Jesus, you could
be a nut and he'd be drummed out of his job, facing all kinds of
lawsuits!"

"No way.  Koenig's code name is Heracles, something out of
mythology."

"Greek mythology?"  interrupted the colonel.

"Heracles is a son of Zeus, known for feats of strength."

"That's nice," said Drew pleasantly.

"Now, get things moving, which shouldn't take you more than a minute or
two.  Then I want you to meet me-"

"Meet you?  I may blow your brains out!"

"Postpone it, Stanley.  I know where they've got Karin."

"What?"

"Twenty-three rue Lacoste, flat unknown, but just recently rented."

"You sprung this from the padre?"

"Actually, it wasn't difficult.  He was frightened."

"He was what .. . ?"

"No time, Stosh!  It's got to be just you and me.  If they even sense a
conversion, or see a strange car or two parking on the street at this
hour, they'll kill her.  They intend to do just that in an hour or so
anyway if they don't reach me and pull me out."

"I'll meet you a hundred yards east of the building, between
streetlights, the darkest storefront or alley."

"Thank you, Stanley, I mean that.  I know when a solo operation has to
be added to, and there's no one better than you."

"I don't have a choice.  There's no way you could come up with a code
like Heracles unless it was real."

Karin de Vries sat in the straight chair, her hands tied behind her, a
slender, broad-shouldered neo killer sitting in front of her, his legs
straddling the seat of a wooden kitchen chair, his arms across the
back, a pistol casually in his right hand, a pistol with a large
cylinder attached to the barrel.  A silencer.

"Why do you think your husband is alive, Frau de

Vries?"  asked the Nazi in German.

"More to the point, if by an impossible stretch of the imagination he
is, why should we know anything about him?  Really, my good woman, he
was executed by the Stasi, that's common knowledge."

"It may be common knowledge, but it's a lie.  If you live with a man
for eight years, you know his voice when you hear it, no matter how
garbled or incoherent."

"That's fascinating.  You heard his voice?"

"Twice."

"The Stasi files say otherwise, most graphically, I might add."

"That's the problem," said Karin icily.

"It was too graphic.

in in "You:r,e not making sense."

"Even the most vicious of the Gestapo did not describe detail the
torture and execution of prisoners.  It wasn't their interest."

"That was before my time."

"Mine also, but there are records.  Perhaps you should read them."

"I don't need instructions from you, madame..  .. These voices, how did
you hear them?"

"How else?  The telephone, of course."

"The telephone?  He called you?"

"Not using his name, but with a diatribe of invective I was subjected
to frequently during the last year of our marriage, before he was
presumably executed by the Stasi."

"Of course you challenged this person on the telephone, did you not?"

"That only made his screams become more manic.  My husband's a very
sick man, Herr Nazi."

"I take the appellation as a compliment," said the neo, grinning and
twirling the pistol in his hand.

"Why do you say your husband's sick, or, to put it another way, why do
you tell me?"

"Because I think he's one of you."

"One of us?"  asked the German incredulously.  "

"Freddie de V," the Amsterdam provocateur, the consummate enemy of the
movement?  Forgive me, Frau de Vries, but now you've lost your senses!
How could such a thing happen?"

"He fell in love with hate, and you people are the personification of
hatred."

"You're beyond me."

"I'm beyond myself, for I'm no psychologist, but I know I'm right.

His sense of hate had nowhere else to go, but he couldn't live without
it.  You did something to him -as to what, I have a theory, but
obviously no evidence.  You channeled him, channeled his hatred,
turning him against everything he believed in-"

"I've heard enough of this foolishness.  You are truly a madwoman!"

"No, I'm quite sane.  I even think I know how you did it."

"Did what?"

"Turned him against his friends, your enemies."

"And just how did we perform this miracle?"

"You made him dependent on you.  During the final months, his mood
swings became more extreme..  .. He was away much of the time, as I
was, but when we were together, he was another man, depressed one
minute, violent the next.  There were days when he was like a child, a
little boy who wanted a toy so badly that when he didn't get it, he ran
out of the apartment and was gone for hours.

Then he'd come back, contrite, begging forgiveness for his
outbursts."

"Madame," cried the neo, "I haven't the slightest idea what you're
talking about!"

"Drugs, Herr Nazi, I'm talking about drugs.  I believe you supply
Frederik with narcotics, that's why he's dependent on you.  No doubt
you're holding him in a mountain retreat somewhere, feeding his habit
or habits, extracting information from him with every move that's made
against you.  He is a treasure house of secrets, even secrets he's
forgotten."

"You are insane.  If we had such a man, there are other drugs that
could produce those secrets in a matter of minutes  Why should we
spend time and money prolonging his life?"

"Because the Amytals and the scopolamine derivatives cannot produce
secrets that are no longer remembered."

"So what good is such a source?"

"Situations change, circumstances vary.  You run into an obstacle, be
it a man or a strategy, you face him with it, and memories come back.
Identities can be revealed, once familiar tactics explained."

"My God, you've read too much fiction."

"Our world-yours, and not too long ago, mine-is largely based on
fictitious hypotheticals."

"Enough!  You're too academic for me..  .. However, a question, Frau de
Vries.  Given a fictitious hypothetical, as you call it, say you're
correct and we have your husband under the conditions you describe. 
Why do you want to find him?  Do you seek a reunion?"

"That is the last thing I wish for, Nazi."

"Then why?"

"You could say I want to satisfy my morbid curiosity.  What makes a man
become another human being from the one you knew?  How can he live with
himself?  .. . Or, you might say, if it was in my power, I'd like to
see him dead."

"Those are serious words," said the neo, leaning back in the chair, his
pistol mockingly pointed at his head.

"Boom!  You would do that if you could?"

"Probably."

"But of course!  You've found another, haven't you?  An officer of
American intelligence, a very accomplished deep-cover operative for the
Central Intelligence Agency named Harry Latham."

Karin froze, her expression immobile.

"That is irrelevant, be is irrelevant."

"We don't think so, madame.  You are lovers, we've established that."

"Establish what you like, it doesn't change the reality.  Why are you
interested in .. . Harry Latham?"

"You know why as well as I do."  The neo grinned, placing both heels on
the floor as he straddled the chair, a laughing cavalier on
horseback.

"He knows too much about us.  He penetrated our former headquarters in
the Hausruck and saw things, learned things, he should not have seen or
learned.  But it's merely a question of an hour, perhaps two, and he
will no longer be a thorn to our superiors.  We will follow orders down
to the letter, including a coup de grace in the left side of his skull.
You see how wonderfully specific we are?  We're not hypothetical at
all, and certainly not fictitious.  We are the reality, you're the
fiction.  You can do nothing to stop us."

"Why his skull, the left side of his skull?"  asked De Vries in a
monotone, mesmerized by the Nazi's words.

"We wondered about that, but then one of our younger recruits, a very
educated fellow, supplied the answer.  It goes back to the seventeen
hundreds, when condemned soldiers were executed by a single officer. 
If the condemned man had shown valor in battle, he was shot on the
right side of his head; if he had no redeeming qualities, he was shot
on the left side-sinistra in Italian, where the custom began, sinister
in English.  Harry Latham is filth, need I say more?"

"That strikes me as a barbaric ritual," said Karin, barely audibly as
she stared at the lean, muscular assassin.

"Rituals, dear lady, are the basis of all discipline.  The further back
they go, the more ingrained they are, the more to be worshiped."

There was a brief sound of static from an adjoining room, followed by a
muffled male voice speaking in German.  The voice stopped and moments
later another neo appeared in the doorway, this one' ounger than De
Vries's y interrogator, but no less lean and muscular.

"That was Berlin on the radio," he said.

"The Paris authorities are in the dark, they've traced nothing, so
we're to proceed on schedule."

"It was -a useless communication.  How could they trace anything?"

"Well, there were the bodies outside the Normandie hotel-"

"And a Deuxi@me vehicle at the bottom of the Seine.  So what?"

"Thoy said to make sure that everything-well, you know, w1mwI mean-the
Chiteau de Vincennes, north of the Bois."

"Yes, I know what you mean and what Berlin means.  Anything else?"

"It will begin to be light in an hour."

"Helmut is in place, no?"

"He is, and with the words he's to say."

"Tell him to make the call in twenty minutes."

"Bin it will still be dark."

"I'm aware of that.  Better for us to be in place and reconnoiter,
no?"

"As always, you're brilliant, sir."

"I'm aware of that too.  Go!"  The second neo disappeared and the
interrogator turned to Karin.

"I'm afraid I must tape your mouth, Frau de Vries, quite' extensively
Then I will untie the ropes and you will accompany us."

"Where are we going, other than to my death?"

"Do not be so pessimistic.  Killing you is not a priority with us."

"And Hitler protected the Jews."

"Acb, you really can be amusing."

Latham made contact with Witkowski roughly eighty yards east of 23, rue
Lacoste, in a dark, narrow alleyway.

"Good spot," said Drew.

"There wasn't any other.  I don't know who pays the electric bills for
the tlity of Lights, but they've got to be horrendous."

"Speaking of lights, that's the only way we'll be able to center in on
the flat."

"Wrong," said the colonel.

"It's on the fifth floor, west corner."

"You're kidding."

"I don't kid when I'm carrying two automatics with custom-made
silencers, four clips of ammunition, and a cut-down version of a MAC-10
under this raincoat."

"How did you find out?"

"Thank Moreau, who still wants your ass, but he received your
package."

"Koenig?"

"That's right.  Funny thing is, the Saret6 had the good prelate in
their files."

"As a neo?"

"No, his predilection for choir boys  Five anonymous complaints had
been registered."

"What about the flat?"

"Claude ran a trace on the owner of the building, the rest was easy.
Nobody wants to mess with an agency that can bring down the bureaus of
taxation and public health on his head."

"Stanley, you are a wonder."

"I'm not, Moreau is, and part of the deal is that you apologize to his
men, buy them very expensive gifts, and take them to a very, very
expensive dinner at the Tour d'Argent.  With their families."

"That's two months salary!"

"I accepted for you..  .. Now, let's figure out how we do this without
any backup."

"First we get inside, then -climb the stairs," replied Latham.

"Very quietly and carefully."

"They'll have patrols on the staircases.  Better an elevator.  We'll be
two drunks singing something like "Aupr@s de Ma Blonde," loud but not
too loud."

"Not bad, Stosh."

"I was around when you were sending away for code rings from cereal
boxes.  We take the elevator to the sixth or seventh floor and walk
down.  But you're right about being quiet and careful, I'll give you
that."

"Thanks for the compliment.  I'll put it on my resumE."

"If you get out of this, you may need one quicker than you think

I have an idea Wesley Sorenson would like to see you stationed in a
Mongolian outpost.  Now let's go.  Stay close to the buildings-, from
the fifth floor, their line of sight is negative."

Latham and Witkowski, one behind the other, scrambled up the Lacoste,
successively ducking into doorways until they reached Number 23.  The
entrance was at ground level; they entered the hallway, tested the
locked foyer door, then studied the list of flats and occupants.

"I

know how to do this," said the colonel, his hand reaching to press the
button for an apartment on the ninth floor.  When a startled, sleepy
female voice responded on the speaker, he answered in fluent French.

"My name is Capitaine Louis d'Ambert of the Sfiret6.

You may call my office to confirm my identity, but time is of the
essence.  There is a dangerous person in this building who could bring
harm to the tenants.  We must gain entrance and arrest him.

Here, let me give you the number of my Sfiret@ office so you can verify
my authority."

"Don't bother!"  said the woman.

"Crime these days, it's everywhere-criminals, murderers, in our own
buildings!  " The buzzer sounded and Drew and Witkowski were inside.

The elevator was on the left; the panel above it showed the car was on
the fourth floor.  Latham pushed the button; the inner machinery
cranked instantly.  As the door slid open, a light on the panel inside
indicated that some-, one on the fifth floor has pressed the red
button, indicating descent.

"We've got the priority," said Stanley.

"Press the second floor."

"It's the ncos," whispered Drew.

"It's got to be them!"

"At this hour, I figure you're right," agreed the colonel.

"So we'll get off, walk down the stairs, stay way back in the hallway,
and see if our instincts still have merit."

They did.  Racing back to the ground floor, they crouched at the end of
the tiled foyer and watched as the elevator door opened and Karin de
Vries, her face taped, came into view, accompanied by three men, all
dressed in ordinary civilian clothing.

"Halt!"  shouted Witkowski, lunging out of the shadows, Latham at his
side, their weapons leveled.  The farthest neo spun around, reaching
for his shoulder holster.  The colonel fired a silenced automatic; the
man spun again, grabbing his arm and falling to the ground.

"This was easier than I thought, chlopak," continued Witkowski, "these
super Aryans aren't as smart as they think they are."

"Nein!"  shrieked the obvious leader of the trio, grabbing Karin and
shielding himself with her, then yanking out a pistol.

"You make one move, this woman dies!"  he shouted, the gun at De
Vries's right temple.

"Then I must have shown valor in battle," said Karin coldly, stripping
the tape off her face.

"Was?"

"You made it plain that you had to administer the coup de grace on
Harry Latham at the left side of his skull.  Your weapon is on my
right."

"Halt's Maul!"

"I'm only glad that you don't consider me filth, that I'm not a coward.
My execution at least will be honorable."

"Be quiet!"  The neo leader dragged her, heels scraping, toward the
door.

"Drop your firearms!"  he screamed.

"Drop it, Stanley," said Drew.

"Naturally," said the colonel.

And then a voice came from the staircase, an angry voice speaking
French.

"What is all this commotion?"  cried an elderly woman in a nightshirt,
walking down the steps.

"I pay good rent to get a night's sleep after working in the bakery all
day and I have to put up with this?"

With the sudden interruption, Karin sprang out of her captor's arms as
Witkowski pulled his second automatic from under his raincoat.  When De
Vries ducked, he fired two shots, one into the neo's forehead, the
other into his throat.

"Mon Dieu!"  screamed the woman on the staircase, racing up the
steps.

Latham ran to Karin, holding her fiercely, his arms two clamps of
enormous strength.

"I'm all right, my darling, I'm all right!"  she said, seeing the tears
that streamed down his face.

"My poor dear," she went on, "it's over, Drew."

"The bell it is!"  yelled the colonel, holding the two live ncos under
his gun.  The Nazi he had wounded was getting up from the floor.

"Here," said Stanley, picking up his and Latham's weapons and handing
one to De Vries.

"Cover this scum bucket who can walk, and I'll shove the other sleaze
after us.  You, cblopak, use your fancy tele- 7 phone and call Durbane
at the embassy!  Get us wheels back there!

"

"I can't do that, Stosh."

"Why the hell not?"

"He may be one of them."

It was midnight Washington time, and Wesley Sorenson studied the
materials sent over by Knox Talbot from the CIA files.  He had been
studying them for hours, all fifty one dossiers, looking for that
relevant piece of information that would separate one suspect from the
others.  His concentration had been interrupted by Claude Moreau's
frantic phone call from Paris, describing Latham's outrageous
behavior.

"He may be on to something, Claude," Wesley said soothingly.

"If he was, he should have told us, not acted alone.  I will not
tolerate this!"

"Give him time-"

"Absolutely no.  He's out of Paris, out of France!"

"I'll see what I can do."

"He's already done it, mon ami."

Later, after an awkward conversation with an equally furious Witkowski,
Moreau had called back at five o'clock in the morning Paris time.  The
storm-tossed horizon began to brighten.  Drew had delivered a bona fide
neo in the guise of a Protestant minister.

"I must admit, he's somewhat validating his existence," the Frenchman
had said.

"Then you'll let him stay in Paris?"

"On a very tight leash, Wesley."

Returning to the selected possibles among the material sent over by the
CIA, the Cons-Op chief proceeded to weed out the obvious negatives much
as Knox had done.  From the remaining twenty-four, he pared further
based on the time-honored principles of motive and opportunity, plus an
element Sorenson called "why cubed," or why to the third power; beyond
the first and second motives, another was invariably hidden.  Finally,
as a result of an adult lifetime of searching for the elusive, there
were three probables, to be expanded if none proved accurate.  Each
suspect had what he termed a "neutral" face, physiognomies that lacked
the definition of sharp features, the sort political cartoonists
emphasize.

Second, none held a position of influence or high profile, either of
which would disqualify the risk-taking.  However, each was part of, or
had access to, teams of examiners, either as couriers or researchers.
Third, each lived beyond his apparent means.

Peter Mason Payne.  Recruitment development as per division's
requirements.  Married with two children; residence a $400,000 house in
Vienna, Virginia, complete with a recently added pool, estimated cost,
$60,000.  Automobiles: Cadillac Brougham and a Range Rover.

Bruce N.M.I. Withers.  Office procurement validation, one of many.
Divorced, one daughter, limited visiting rights.  Former wife living on
Maryland's Eastern Shore, $600,000 house reportedly purchased by her
parents.  Subject's residence, condominium in Fairfax's high-rent
district.  Automobile: Jaguar SJ6.

Roland Vasquez-Ramirez.  Third-level researcher and coordinator, of
which there were four, with the upper two levels.

Married, no children.  Residence, upscale garden apartment complex in
Arlington.  Wife, a bottom-rung attorney at the justice Department.
Known frequenters of expensive restaurants, clothes custom-made.
Automobiles: Porsche and Lexus.

Those were the essential facts, none provably relevant until one
studied the inter-Agency relationships.  Peter Mason Payne sought
recruits as specific abilities were required.  Perforce, he had to
question the various divisions and legitimately ask for examples of
subject matter to gain a clearer picture.  Bruce Withers's job was to
justify the enormous expenditures for office equipment, including
complex electronics.  Quite correctly, he had to observe, even operate,
certain machines himself, in order to ask a superior to sign off on
huge 'urchase orders.  Roland Vasp quez-Ramirez coordinated the flow of
information among three levels of researchers.  Granted, there were
extraordinary restrictions, sealed envelopes, et al, and a man
violating them would not only lose his job but conceivably be
prosecuted.  Nevertheless, those restrictions, often innocently
violated in the interest of expedience, would not stop an enemy of the
state who did so with an absence of innocence.

All three men fit the composite of the neo mole.  They had the motives
to maintain their lifestyles, opportunities due to the access their
positions permitted .. . what was lacking was the abstract "why cubed."
What drove any of them to go beyond all that and become a traitor?  A
Nazi who had killed two captured Nazis.  And then he thought he might
have -found it, but only might have.  Each candidate was essentially a
messenger, a liaison between superiors; none ha d real authority
himself.  Payne studied r@sum@s of applicants, and those he advanced
soon made far more money than he did.  Withers could only recommend
extraordinary purchases, purchases that made those demanding them' even
more efficient and how many were on the receiving end of kickbacks
while he got nothing?  SOP.  And Vasquez-Ramirez was really a
messenger, collating sealed envelopes A, B, and C, secrets for others
to evaluate, while he stayed out of the loop.  And each had been at his
innocuous job, his decisions easily overruled, for a number of years
with little chance of advancement.  Such men were hotbeds of
resentment.

There wasn't time to intellectualize any longer, to analyze further.
Either he was right, considered Sorenson, or he was Wrong, which meant
going back to the drawing board.  As he had taught Drew Latham in the
early stages of his training, sometimes a frontal assault was best,
especially if it was totally unexpected.  He wondered if Drew had used
the strategy in trapping the neo minister.  If not specifically,
concluded Wesley, certainly a variation.

With the constraints of time, there wasn't much alternative.  He
reached for the telephone.

"Peter Mason Payne, if you please?"

"This is Pete Payne, who's this?"

"Kearns at the Agency," answered Sorenson, using the name of a
relatively well-known deputy director.

"We've never met, Pete, and I'm sorry to bother you at this hour-"

"No trouble, Mr.  Kearns, I'm watching television in my den.  My wife
went to bed; she said it was rotten and she was right."

"Then you don't mind breaking away for a few minutes?"

"Not at all.  What can I do for you, sir?"

"It's a little touchy, Pete, but the reason I'm calling you now is that
you may be asked upstairs in the morning, and it's possible you might
want to consider your answers."

" What answers?  What questions?"  Peter Mason Payne might not be the
killer mole, thought Wesley, but he was taking something from somebody.
It was in the gasp that had preceded his words.

"We've had severe problems in.  recruitment, so we're holding
evaluation meetings, have been holding them damn near around the clock.
Several of your recommendations have been sorely under qualified
costing the Company a lot of wasted man-hours."

"Then it was the r@sum@s, or the applicants were rehearsed for
interviews, Mr.  Kearns.  I never advanced anyone I didn't believe
could do the job, and I never took money under the table for a
recommendation!"

"I see."  So that was it, mused Sorenson.  The denial was too quick,
the inference had not even been made.

"But I didn't suggest that, did I, Peter?"

"No, but I've heard the rumors-wealthy families wanting their kids in
the Agency for a couple of years because it looks good when they go
after other jobs..  .. I'm not saying it's not possible a few slipped
through, due, as I say, to false information and rehearsed interview
responses, but you'd have to look to other recruiters for those things.
They could supply that information, I never didr,

Thank God you've been kept out of the field, Mr.  Payne, thought the
Cons-Op director, you'd last eleven seconds.  However, Peter Payne had
just led him to the conclusive question.

"Then maybe one of the others is trying to lay something on you.  You
see, the parents of one of our under qualified say they met with a
recruiter in the early morning hours the night before last to make
their final payment."

"For Christ's sake, not me!"

"Where were you, Pete?"

"Hell, that's easy."  The relief in Payne's voice was, well, painful.

"My wife and I were up the street at Congressman Erlich's home for a
late-night neighborhood barbecue-late because the House stayed in
session.  We were there until around two-thirty in the morning, and
frankly, Mr.  Kearns, none of us cared to get into a car and drive
anywhere."

Candidate Rejected

"Mr.  Bruce Withers, please?"

"No one else lives here, pal.  Who are you?"

Sorenson repeated the Deputy Director Kearns introduction, now zeroing
in on the constant and considerable overruns on office procurements.

"High technology's expensive, Mr.  Director.  There's nothing I can do
about that, and, frankly, it's not in my province to make those
decisions."

"But it is in your province to make recommendations, isn't it?
""Somebody has to do the initial spec work, and that's what I do."

"Say there's a competitive bid for a more powerful computer in the
range of a hundred thousand dollars.  Your word means a great deal,
doesn't it?"

"Not if my bosses know a megabyte from their elbows."

"But most of them don't, do they?"

"Some do, some don't."

"So with those who don't, your recommendation is probably accepted,
wouldn't you say that?"

"Probably.  I do my homework."

"And there could be instances when the selection of a certain company
could benefit you, couldn't it?"

"Stop with those kind of questions!  What are you trying to pin on
me?"

"A payoff was made the other night, early morning to be precise, by a
Seattle firm with lobbyists here in Washington.

We'd like to know if it was you."

"This is bullshit," cried Withers, almost breathless.

"Excuse me, Mr.  Director, but I'm deeply offended.  I've been at this
lousy job for seven years now because I know high tech better than
anyone else, and it's nowberesville!  I can't be replaced, so I don't
go up, or even down, which has to tell you something."

"I don't mean to offend you, Bruce, I just want to know where you were
at three o'clock in the morning the night before last."

"You don't have any right to ask that."

"I think I do.  That's when the payoff was made."

"Listen, Mr.

Kearns, I'm a divorced man and I have to find my pleasures where I can,
if you understand me."

"I believe I do.  Where were you?"

"With a married woman whose husband is out of the country.

Her husband's a general."

"Will she back you up?"

"I can't give you her name."

"We'll find out, you know that."

"Yeah, I I guess you wi 11..  .. All right, we spent this evening here,
and she just left.  The general's on an inspection tour in the Far East
and calls her around one o'clock -God forbid he should upset a military
schedule for a lonely wife.  It's the story of her marriage."

"Very touching, Bruce.  What's her name?"

"It takes her twenty, twenty-five minutes to get home."

"Her name, please?  " "Anita Griswald, General Andrew Griswald's
wife."

""Mad Andy' Griswald?  The scourge of Vietnam's Songchow?  He's pretty
old, isn't he?"

"For the army, definitely.  Anita's his fourth wife.  She's much
younger, and the Pentagon's keeping him on loose duty until they can
get rid of him next year, which, I gather, they'd like to do as soon as
possible."

"Why did she ever marry him?"

"She was broke and had three kids.  Enough questions, Mr.

Director."

Candidate Still Open

"Mr.  Vasquez-Ramirez, if you please?"

"Just a moment," said a female voice, slightly accented with Hispanic
inflections.

"My husband is on the other telephone, but he will be finished quickly.
Who shall I say is calling?"

"Deputy Director Kearns, Central Intelligence Agency, Counselor."

"You know I am a lawyer?  .. . Oh, but of course you do.  )@

"I apologize for calling so late, but it's urgent."

"It would have to be, seflor.  My husband works long hours for you,
sometimes until late in the evenings.  I wish you paid him accordingly,
if I may be so bold to suggest.  Please hold."

Silence.  There were no records of Vasquez-Ramirez working late hours.
Forty-five seconds later, "Rollie" Ramirez came on the line.

"Mr.  Kearns, what's so urgent?"

"Leaks in your department, Mr.  Vasquez-Ramirez."

"Please, we've met, sir.  Rollie or Ramirez is sufficient."

"It saves time,

I'll say that."

"Do you have a cold, Mr.  Kearns?  You don't sound like yourself."

"It's the flu, Ramirez.  I can hardly breathe."

"Rum, hot tea, and lemon will relieve you..  .. Now, what are these
leaks and how can I -assist you?"

"They've been traced to your section."

"In which there are four of us," broke in the Hispanic.

"Why call me?"

"I'll call the others; you're first on the list."

"Because my skin is not as pale as the others?"

"Oh, cut that out!"

"No, I don't 'cut it out," for it's the truth.  The spic is the first
you go after."

"Now you're insulting both me and you.  Money was made by revealing
maximum-classified information from your section two nights ago, a
great deal of money, and we've got the people who paid it.  At this
moment it's merely a question of who got paid!  So don't give me any
crap about racism.  I'm looking for a leak, not a spic!"

"Let me tell you this Americano.  My people do not ay for information,
it is freely delivered.  Yes, there have geen times when I've steamed
open the sealed envelopes, but only when they've been marked "Caribbean
Basin."  Why have I done this?  Let me explain.  I was a sixteen
year-old soldier at the Bay of Pigs and spent five years in Castro's
filthy prisons until I was exchanged for medicine.  This great Estados
Unidos talks and talks but does nothing to liberate my Cuba!"

"How did you get into the Agency?"

"The easiest way possible, amigo.  It took six years, but I became a
scholar, with three degrees, way overqualified for what you offered me,
but I accepted what you offered me, truly believing you would see my
qualifications and put me into a position where I could make a
difference.  You never did, for I was the spic and, you gravitated to
the white boys and the blacks-oh, "were unqualified blacks chosen over
me!  You had to clean your racist slate, and they were the answer."

"I think you're being unfair."

"Think what you like.  I'll be out of this house in twenty seconds and
you'll never find me!"

"Please, don't do that!  You're not what or whom I'm after.  I'm after
Nazis, not you!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's too complicated," said Sorenson calmly.

"Stay on your job and do what you're doing.  You'll get no grief from
me, and I'll make sure your superior qualifications are brought to the
attention of those who should know about them."

"How can I count on that?"

"Because I'm a fake, I'm not with the Company.  I'm the director of an
outside agency that frequently coordinates with the CIA at the highest
levels."

"Circles within circles," said Vasquez-Ramirez.

"Where will it ever end?"

"Probably never," replied Sorenson.

"Certainly not until people trust one another-which will be never."

Candidate Possible

 uddenly it occurred to the director of Consular Operations that he
should follow his immediate instincts.  S Peter Mason Payne was out,
Roland VasquezRamirez barely a possible, but the craw in his throat was
Bruce Withers, the man with a quick tongue and an all too-believable
saga of a destitute widow or divorcee with three children who had
latched on to an overage general of the army, with all the retirement
benefits that implied.  It would be easy for Withers to reach the
general's wife by car telephone, if she really had spent the evening
with him, or at her home..  .. It'll take her twenty twenty-five
minutes.  More than enough time for the lonely general's wife to be
given instructions.  The answer might be found somewhere else.  On the
Eastern Shore of Maryland, perhaps, with the former wife of Bruce
N.M.I. Withers.

Again Sorenson picked up his phone, hoping that Withers's name would be
listed because of his teenage daughter.  It was, with an alternate
name, McGraw.  McGraw-Withers.

"Yes .. . hello," whispered the sleepy voice on the line.

"Forgive me, Miss McGraw, for calling you at this hour, but there is an
emergency."

"Who are you?"

"Deputy Director Kearns of the Central Intelligence Agency.  It
concerns your former husband, Bruce Withers."

"Whom did he shaft now?"  asked the barely awake ex Mrs

Withers.

"Perhaps the United States government, Miss McGraw."

"Thanks for the Miss-I earned it.  Of course, he shafted the
government, why should it be any different?  He'd flash his CIA badge
around, not saying much, but implying he was Mr.  Super Spook himself,
all the while fleecing somebody."

"He used the Agency to gain favors?"

"Please, Mr.  Whoever-you-are, my family has connections all over
Washington.  When we found out he was sleeping @vlth every secretary
and bimbo tramp who worked for a defense contractor, my father said we
should get rid of him, and we did."

"He still has visitation rights to your child."

"Under the closest supervision, I can assure you."

"Because you fear violation?"

"Good God, no.  Kimberly is probably the only person in this world that
bastard can relate to."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because children don't threaten him.  Her hugs erase the terrible
thing inside of him."

"What is that terrible thing, Miss McGraw?"

"He's the bigot of the world!  He hates so many people, I can't begin
to tell you.  Blacks, or as he says, those lousy niggers, and "Wops,"
and "Slopes,"-that's Asians-the Spanish-speaking, the Jew bastards,
anyone who isn't pure white and Christian, and he's definitely not
Christian.  He wants them all eliminated.  That's his credo."

Candidate Accepted

It was four o'clock in the afternoon Paris time, the hour noted by the
low, echoing chimes of a mantel clock in Ambassador Daniel Courtland's
living quarters at the American Embassy.  The ambassador, coat less the
bandages across his chest and left shoulder visible beneath his open
blue Oxford shirt, sat at an antique table that served as a desk,
talking quietly on the telephone.

Across the large, ornate room, Drew Latham and Karin de Vries were
sitting opposite each other in brocaded armchairs, also speaking
softly.

"How's the hand?"  asked Drew.

"It's fine; it's my feet, they still hurt," answered Karin, laughing
quietly.

"I told you to take off your shoes."

"Then the soles of both feet would be scraped, my dear.  How long did
we walk from the Lacoste until you reached Claude to send
transportation?  Nearly forty minutes, I think."

"I couldn't call Durbane.  Even now we don't know where he stands, and
Moreau was busy with our Nazi minister' "

"We saw three separate police cars.  I'm sure any one of them would
have accommodated us."

"No, Witkowski was right about that.  There were five of us, which
would have meant two of those small cars or a wagon.  Then there was
the problem of convincing them to take us to the embassy and not to a
police station, a request they'd damn well refuse considering one of
the ncos was wounded.  Even Claude was grateful that we waited for him.
As he put it, "There are already too many cooks in the kitchen."  We
didn't need police reports or the SfiretL"

"And the Deuxi@me found no one at the Chiteau de Vincennes?"

I "Nobody with a weapon, and they swept the park clean."

"It's surprising," said De Vries, frowning.

"I was sure that's where the killing would take place."

"You're sure and I can confirm it, straight from Koenig's mouth.

It's the scenario he described."

"I wonder what happened."

"It's pretty obvious.  They never got the final go-ahead, so the kill
was aborted."

"Do you realize we're talking about our own lives?"

"I'm trying to keep it clinical."

"You're devastatingly effective."

The doorbell of the main entrance to the living quarters rang.

Latham rose from the chair and glanced at Courtland, who nodded, still
on the phone.  Drew crossed to the door, opened it, and admitted
Stanley Witkowski.

"Any progress?"  asked Drew.

"We think so," replied the colonel.

"I'll wait till the ambassador's off the horn.  He has to hear it.  Did
either of you get any rest?"

"I did, Stanley," answered Karin from the chair.

"Am,bassador Courtla'nd was kind enough to let us use the guest rooms.
I fell right to sleep, but my friend here couldn't stay off the
phone."

"Only after you swore it was sterile," added Drew.

"No phone up here could be tapped by Swie'ty Piotr himself, as my dear
departed mother used to call him.  Whom did you reach, chlopak?"

"Back and forth with Sorenson.  He's made progress too."

"Any word on the Virginia assassin?"

"He's nailed him.  That son of a bitch can't go to the toilet without
being heard."

Daniel Courtland hung up the telephone, awkwardly turning in his chair,
wincing in pain as he greeted Witkowski.

"Hello, Colonel, what happened at the hospital?"  ,

"It's in the hands of Bri tish MI-Five, sir.  A pulmonologist named
Woodward from the Royal College of Surgeons showed up, claiming the
Foreign Office had asked him to fly over and examine Mrs.  Courtland-at
your request.  They're looking into it."

"I made no such request," said the ambassador.

"I don't know any Dr.  Woodward, much less the Royal College of
Surgeons."

"We know that," said Witkowski.

"Our French-American unit at the hospital stopped him just before he
was about to inject the false Mrs.  Courtland with strychnine."

"A brave woman.  What's her name?"

"Moskowitz, sir.  From New York.  Her late husband was a French rabbi.
She volunteered for the assignment."

"Then we must volunteer compensation.  Perhaps a month's vacation, all
expenses paid."

"I'll forward the offer, sir..  .. And how are you feeling?"

"I'll be fine.  just a little torn skin, nothing serious.  I was a
lucky man."

"You weren't the target, Mr.  Ambassador."

"Yes, I understand that," said Courtland quietly.

"So let's all get current, okay?"

"Mrs.  de Vries just told me how much they appreciate your inviting
them to stay up here."

"Considering what they've been through, they're quarantined up here for
the duration if need be.  I assume your full security's in place."

"Practically a complete platoon of marines, sir.  They hear a footstep
or a sneeze, their weapons are drawn."

"Good.  Sit down, fellas, we have to recap.  You go first, Stanley.

Where are we?"

"Let's start back at the hospital," began Witkowski, lowering himself
into a chair next to Karin.

"It was a foul up but the British lung doctor, this Woodward, was
cleared by the Quai d'Orsay as one of Mrs.  Courtland's physicians,
only the clearance came too late.  He'd already arrived."

"That strikes me as pretty sloppy for the ncos," said Courtland.

"Paris is an hour ahead of London, sir," offered Latham, sitting
down.

"It's a common mistake, although you're right, it was sloppy."

"Perhaps it wasn't," said De Vries, and all eyes turned to her.

"Is- it possible we have a friend in the English neo ranks?  What
better way to draw attention to such a killer than by withholding
clearance when it's necessary and sending it suspiciously, late

"That's over complicated Karin," the colonel disagreed, "and leaves too
much room for error.  The link in the chain's too weak;

a mole would be traced immediately."

"Complications are our business, Stosh, and errors are what we look
for."

"Is that a lesson from on high?"

"Come on," persisted Drew, "she could be right."

"Indeed, she could be; unfortunately we can't know at this juncture."

"Why not?  We can put out a trace too.  Who at the Quai d'Orsay gave
Woodward clearance at the hospital even if it was late?"

 M

"That's why we can't know.  It came from the office of an Anatole
Blanchot, a member of the Chamber of Deputies.  Moreau followed it
up."

"And?"

"There's nothing.  This Blanchot never heard of a Dr.  Woodward and
there's no record of a telephone call made from his office to the
Hertford Hospital.  As a matter of fact, the only time Blanchot ever
called London was over a year ago on his home phone to place a bet at
Ladbrokes for the Irish Sweepstakes."

"The ncos just picked a name, then."

"That's what it looks like."

"Son of a bitch!"

"Amen, cblopak."

"I thought you said some progress was made."

"It was, but not with Woodward."

"Then where?"  Courtland broke in.

"I'm referring to Officer Latham's package delivered to the Deuxieme in
the early hours of the morning, sir."

"The Lutheran minister?"  asked Karin.

"Without knowing it, Koenig's a songbird," said Witkowski.  "What's the
time?"  Drew leaned forward in his chair.

"It's an aria called "Der Meistersinger Traupman."  We've heard it
before."

"The surgeon from Nuremberg?"  pressed Latham.

"The big wheel Nazi that Sorenson unearthed from-" He stopped, looking
helplessly at the ambassador.

"Yes, Drew,".  said Courtland quietly, "from my wife's legal guardian
in Centralia, Illinois..  .. I spoke with Mr.  Schneider myself.

He's an old man now with many painful memories and regrets, and
whatever he says, I believe he speaks the truth."

"He's certainly telling the truth about Traupman," said the colonel.

"Moreau met with Traupman's former wife in Munich only a few days ago.
She confirmed it in double swastikas."

"I'm aware of that also."  The ambassador spoke again softly, nodding
his head.

"Traupman was instrumental in implementing Operation Sonnenkinder all
over the free world."

"What did Claude learn about Tratipman from the Lutheran priest?" 
asked Karin.

"Basically that Koenig and others like him in the upper levels are
frightened of him, and curry favors whenever and wherever they can.
Moreau understood that Traupman was a major player, but now he thinks
he's something else.  He thinks Tratipman has some kind of hold over
the neo movement, a grip that keeps everyone where he wants them."

"The Nazi Rasputin?"  continued De Vries.

"The untouchable figure behind the imperial throne, controlling that
throne) "

"We know there's a new bibrer," said Witkowski, "we just have no idea
who he is."

"But if this new Hitler is the throne-"

"that is where I must stop you, Karin," Daniel Courtland interrupted,
suddenly rising, slowly, painfully, from his chair behind the antique
table.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Ambassador-"

"No, no, my dear, the apologies are mine, so ordered by my
government."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Cool it, Drew, just cool it," ordered Courtland.

"It may interest you to know that I've been on the phone with Wesley
Sorenson, who has temporarily assumed the authority of certain covert
activities.  I'm to neither hear nor be a party to any further
conversation on this subject.  However, when I have left the room, you,
Officer Latham, are to call him on this scrambled telephone and hear
what he has to say..  .. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall retire to
the library, where there is a well-stocked bar.  Later, if you care to
indulge in some innocuous chitchat, please join me."  The ambassador
limped across the room and out an inner door, closing it firmly behind
him.

Drew leapt out of the chair and raced to the phone.  Barely sitting
down, he began pressing the numbered buttons.

"Wcs, it's me.  Why the voodoo?"

"Has Ambassador Daniel Rutherford Courtland in Paris left the room?"

"Yeah, sure, what is it?"

"In the event this conversation is compromised, I, Wesley Theodore
Sorenson, director of Consular Operations, take full responsibility for
this action under Article Seventy-three of the Clandestine Activities
Statutes as they apply to unilateral, individual decisions in the
field-"

"Hey, goddammit, that's my line!"

"Shut up!"

"What is it, Wcs?"

"Mount a team, fly to Nuremberg, and take Dr.  Hans Traupman.

Kidnap the bastard and bring him to Paris."

 obert Durbane sat at the desk in his office next to the sealed-off
Communications Center, a troubled Rman.  It was more than a feeling,
for feelings were abstract, based on anything from an upset stomach to
an early morning argument with one's wife.  His stomach was perfectly
normal and his wife of twenty-four years was still his best friend; the
last time they had argued was when their daughter married a rock
musician.  She was for it; he was not.  He lost.  The marriage was not
only successful, but his long-haired son-in-law "hit" something called
"the charts," and made more money performing for a month in Las Vegas
than Bobby Durbane would make in half a century.  And what really
rankled the father-inlaw was that his daughter's husband was a nice
young man who drank nothing stronger than white wine, didn't do drugs,
had a master's degree in medieval literature, and completed crossword
puzzles faster than Bobby.  It was not a logical world.

So why was he so uncomfortable?  he mused.  It probably started with
Colonel Witkowski's requisition for a computer printout of all
telephone and radio calls made from the comm center during the past
seven days.  It was then compounded by the subtle yet still fairly
obvious behavior of Drew Latham, a man he considered to be a friend.
Drew was avoiding him, and it was not like the Cons-Op officer. 
Durbane had left two messages for Latham, one at his rue du Bac
apartment, which was still in the process of being restored, and one at
the embassy message center.  Neither had been returned, and Bobby knew
that Drew was in the embassy, had been there all day, sequestered in
the ambassador's upstairs quarters.

Durbane understood that calamitous events had taken place, that
Courtland's wife was so severely wounded during the terrorist attack
the night before last that she was not expected to live, but withal, it
was not Latham's way to ignore messages from his friend "the egghead"
who filled in those "detestable crossword puzzles."

Especially considering Bobby had saved his life several nights
before.

Something was wrong; something had happened that Durbane could not
understand, and there was only one way to find out what it was.  He
picked up his telephone, a phone that could access any other in the
embassy regardless of restrictions, and pressed the numbers for
Courtland's living quarters.

"Yes ?@l

"Mr.  Ambassador, it's Robert Durbane in the comm center."

"Hello .. . Bobby," said Courtland hesitantly.

"How are you?"

"I think it's my place to ask you that sir."  Something was wrong.

The usually unflappable State Department man was uncomfortable.

"I refer to your wife, of course.  I hear she was taken to a
hospital."

"They're doing everything possible, and that's all Ican ask.

Other than your well-known courtesy, which I appreciate, is there
anything else?"

"Yes, sir.  I know no one's supposed to know Drew Latham is alive, but
I work closely with Colonel Witkowski.  Therefore, I also know that
Drew is up-there, and I'd like very much to talk to him."

"Oh .. . you rather startle me, Mr.  Durbane.  Hold on, please."

The line went on Hold, the silence unnerving, as if a decision was
being made.  Finally, Drew's voice came on the phone.

"Hello, Bobby?"

"I left a couple of messages for you.  You didn't call me back."

"I didn't write either.  Besides having been shot and gone on to a far
better world, I've been up to my ass in confusion, plus a few other
less attractive things."

"I can imagine.  However, I think we should talk."

 SS5

"Really?  About what?"

"That's what I'd like to find out."

"Is this double crostics?  I'm no good at those, you know that."

"I know I want to talk to you, and not on the phone.  May I?"

"Wait a minute."  Again the silence was pervasive, but shorter than the
previous one.

"All right," said Latham, back on the line.

"There's an elevator I never knew about that stops on your floor.  I'll
be on it, escorted by three armed marines, and you're to clear the
corridor.  We'll be there in five minutes."

"It's gone this far?"  asked Durbane quietly.

"Me?  I'm suddenly a danger zone?"

"We'll talk, Bobby."

Seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, Drew sat in the single
chair in front of Durbane's desk, his office having been swept by the
marine contingent, and no weapons found.

"What the hell is this?"  said the comm.  center's chief of
operations.

"What in God's name have I done to warrant these Gestapo tactics?"

"You may have used the right word, Bobby.  Gestapo, as in the Nazi
lexicon."

"What are you saying?"

To you know a woman named Phyllis Cranston?"

Certainly.  She's the secretary to what's-his-name, the third or fourth
attache below the ambassador's chargE d'affaires.So what?"

"Did she tell you who a Colonel Webster was and where he was
staying?"

"As a matter of fact she did, but she didn't have to."

"What do you mean?"

"Who do you think set up the communications between the embassy and the
wandering Colonel Webster?  Two, or was it three changes of hotels.
Between your movements and Mrs.  de Vries's, even Witkowski couldn't
keep it all straight."

"Then everything was kept under wraps?"

"I believe the overused phrase, 'maximum classified,"

was affixed to the equally abused 'order of the day."  Why do you think
I was so harsh with Cranston?"

"I didn't know you were."

"I demanded to know how she knew.  I even threatened her with exposure,
which wasn't easy for me because my mother was an alcoholic.  It's a
rotten disease."

"What did she tell you?"

"She fell apart, crying and mumbling some religious claptrap.

She'd been on a hinge the night before and her defenses were
nowhere."

"You must know her pretty well."

"You want it straight, Drew?"

"That's why I'm here, Bobby."

"My wife and I went to one of those embassy receptions, and
Martha-she's my wife-saw Phyllis hanging around the bar and lapping up
the booze.  I figured, how else could a normal person get through one
of those functions without an edge on, hell, I've done it myself.  But
Martha knew better; she'd lived through my mother's last years with us.
She told me to try to help her, that she needed help due to 'low
self-esteem' and phrases like that.  So I tried and obviously
failed."

"Then you never mentioned to anyone else who I was or what hotel I was
at?"

"Good God, no.  Even when that prick Cranston works for came sniffing
around about your staff and resources, I told him I hadn't the vaguest
idea who was taking over for you.  I was grateful that Phyllis had
gotten my message about keeping her mouth shut."

"Why was he sniffing around?"

"That part sounded legitimate," replied Durbane."

"Hell, everyone knows Consular 0 - erat ions doesn't overp see the
embassy's kitchen menus.  He said he'd been approached by a French
developer and asked to invest in some hot real estate.

He thought your staff might check out the guy's legitimacy.  It's par
for his course, Drew.  Cranston says he spends more time lunching with
Paris businessmen than with those who could do us some good over
here."

"Why didn't he go to Witkowski?"

"I didn't have to ask him to know why.  This isn't a security matter;
he can't use an arm of the embassy for a personal financial
transaction."

"What am I, a little toe?"

"No, you're more like a roving outer eye, overlooking the inner
operations of a major consular post, which could be interpreted as
advising personnel regarding their behavior, financial and otherwise.
At least that's what your official curriculum vitae suggests."

"Someone should rewrite it," said Latham.

"Why?  It's deliciously obscure."

Drew leaned back in his chair, arching his neck, his eyes briefly on
the white ceiling, and sighing audibly.

"I owe you an apology, Bobby, and I truly mean that.  When I learned
from Phyllis Cranston that you were one of the two people she told
about who and where I was, I jumped -no, slid-into the wrong
conclusion.  I thought it was bolstered by what happened the other
night when the ncos damn near killed me in the embassy car with that
son of a bitch .. . what did he call himself?  .. . C-Zwdif The timing
seemed-well, it seemed off center."

"It was," agreed Durbane, "and there was a good reason why the Nazis
got there before we did-"

"That was it.  How come?"

"C-Zw61f.  We discovered it the next morning and included it in the.
report  Your German driver gave the high frequency calibrations of our
backup interior radio to his friends miles away and left the switch on
transmit.  They heard everything you said from the time you left the
embassy.  When you called me for two backups, they moved quickly."

"Christ, it was so simple, and I never thought to look down at the
radio casing!"

"If you had, you would have seen a small red dot in the center of the
panel, signifying transmissions "Goddammit!"

"For heaven's sake, don't blame yourself.  You'd been through a
terrible evening; it was the wee hours of the morning and you were
exhausted."

"I hate to tell you, Bobby, but that's never an excuse.

 M

When you get to that point, you punch in all the adrenaline you've got,
because that's when you're vulnerable..  .. It's strange though, isn't
it?  The ncos centered in on Phyllis Cranston."

"Why, is it strange?  She's unstable, and instability is milk and honey
to those wanting to penetrate."

"And her boss?"

"I don't see the connection."

"It's there, my friend, oh, Lord, there."

"If it is," said Durbane, staring at Latham's unfocused eyes, "it's
made with a pair of pliers.  Concentrate on the two of them; hit the
alcoholic and squeeze the greedy, ambitious superior.  One or the other
will break without your spreading yourself around."

"Thanks to you, Bobby, the first didn't.  Now let's go after the
second.  Reach Phyllis's boss and tell him you've talked to one of my
people who's covering for me.  Say my assistant agreed to check with a
few bankers if he'll give you the name of this developer."

"I don't understand-"

"If he doesn't give you a name, we'll know he can't.  If he does, we'll
know who's behind him, who's programming him."

"I can do that right now," said Durbane, picking up his phone and
dialing the attachFs office.

"Phyllis, it's me, Bobby.  Let me speak to the pinstriped idiot-and,
Phyl, it has nothing to do with you..  .. Hello, Bancroft, it's Durbane
in the comm center.  I just spoke 'to Latham's head investigator, and
although he's busy as hell, he figures he can make a couple of calls
for you to some banking types.  What's the name of this real estate
broker who wants you to invest?  .. . I see, yes, I see.  Yes, I'll
tell him that.  I'll get back to you."  Durbane hung up while writing
on a notepad.

"The name's Vaultherin, Picon Vaultherin" with a company of the same
name.  Bancroft said to tell your office that his consortium has
exclusive rights to roughly twenty square miles of choice property in
the Loire Valley."

"Isn't that interesting," said Drew, turning his head and gazing @t the
wall.

"There's been talk for years that a lot of those old chateaus are
falling apart and nobody can afford to put them back together.  Also,
that developers are foaming at the mouth to buy up land and build
dozens of mini estates at enormous profit.

I might put in a few dollars myself, or at least steer my son-in-law to
look into it."

"Your son-in-law?"  asked Latham, turning back to the comin center
chief.

"Never mind, it's too embarrassing.  You wouldn't know who he is any
more than I would if he weren't married to my daughter."

"I'll leave it alone."

"Please do.  How do you want to move on this Vaultherin?"

"I'll take it to Witkowski, who'll give it to Moreau at the Deuxi@me.
We need a background check on Vaultherin .. and also a sweep of those
exclusive rights in the Loire Valley."

"What@s one got to do with the other?"

"I don't know, I'dust like to explore it.  Someone may have made a
mistake..  .. And remember, Bobby, I never came down here.  I couldn't,
I'm dead."

It was nine-thirty in the evening, the embassy kitchen having delivered
an excellent dinner for Karin and Drew to the ambassador's living
quarters.  The stewards had set the dining room table, complete with
candles and two bottles of outstanding wine-one red at room temperature
(for Latham's thick, rare bifteck)and the other a chilled Chardormay
(De Vries's filet of sole almondine).  Daniel' Courtland, however, had
not joined them, on orders of his government, for it was understood
that Colonel Stanley Witkowski would appear and projected strategies be
discussed that the ambassador could not be privy to.  Deniability was
again the order of the day.

"Why do I get the idea that this is my final meal before being
executed?"  said Drew, finishing his last slice of blood-rare beef and
drinking from his third glass of Pommard wine.

"It will be if you continue to eat like that," replied

Karin.

"You've just consumed enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a
dinosaur."

"Who can tell anymore?  They keep switching.  Margarine's good, butter
is terrible .. . butter is better, margarine's worse.  I'm waiting for
a new medical analysis that says nicotine is a cure for cancer."

"Moderation and variety are the answer, my darling."

"I don't like fish.  Beth could never cook fish right.  It always
smelled like fish."

"Harry liked fish.  He told me your mother broiled it beautifully, with
sprinkles of dill."

"Harry and Mom were in a conspiracy against Dad and me.  He and I would
go out and get a hamburger."

"Drew," began Karin, letting the moment pass, "have you reached your
parents to tell them the truth about you and Harry?"

"Not yet, it's not the time."

"That's terribly cruel.  You're their surviving child and you were with
him when he was killed.  You can't overlook them- they must be
heartbroken."

"Beth I could trust, not my father.  Let's say he's pretty outspoken
and not too fond of the authorities.  He's spent his life fighting
campus politics and various countries' restrictions on archeological
explorations.  It's not unlike him to demand an accountability, and I
can't give him any.l@

"He sounds not unlike his two sons, I'd suggest."

"Maybe.  That's why the time isn't right."  The doorbell of the
ambassador's living quarters rang.  Instantly, a steward came out of
the upstairs kitchen.

"We're expecting Colonel Witkowski," said Latham.

"Let him in, please."

"Yes, sir."

Twelve seconds later the embassy's head of security walked into the
dining room, his eyes disapproving as he glanced around the table.

"What the hell is this?"  he asked curtly.

"You guys suddenly part of the diplomatic crowd?"

"I, personally, am representing the nation of Oz," replied Drew,
grinning.

"If the candlelight is too bright, we'll have the Munchkin slaves
extinguish a few."

"Pay no attention to him, Stanley," said Karin, "he's had three glasses
of wine.  If you'd like something, I'm sure we can get it for you."

"No, thanks."  Witkowski sat down.

"I had a damn good steak sent up to my office while waiting for Moreau
to come through."

"Too much cholesterol," said Latham.

"Haven't you heard about that?"

"Not recently, but I've heard from Moreau."

"What's he got?"  asked Drew, abruptly serious.

"This Vaultherin is relatively clean on the surface, but there are
questions.  He's made a fortune out of the new construction around
Paris, making a lot of his investors very rich too."

"So?  Others have done the same."

"But none with the same background.  He's a young, arrogant buccaneer
in financial circles."

"Again, what's new?"  - "His grandfather was a member of the Milice-"

"The what .. . ?"

"The French pro-Nazi police during the war," answered Karin, "formed
under the Germans as a counterpart to the Resistance.

They were middle-level henchmen without whom' the Nazis couldn't
control the occupied country.  They were filth."

"What's the bottom line, Stanley?"

"Vaultherin's major investors come from, Germany.  They're buying up
everything they can purchase."

"What about the Loire Valley?"

"They damn near own it, at least large chunks along the river."

"Have you got a breakdown of the properties?"

"Yes, I have," said the colonel, removing a folded piece of paper from
his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Drew.

"I'm not sure what they can tell us, most are owned by families that go
back for generations.  Those that aren't are either government
appropriated because nobody paid the taxes, and therefore they've
become landmarks, or they were recently bought by movie stars and other
celebri ties until their accountants told them what they were
costing.

Most of those are up for sale."

"Are there any generals on the list?"

"As you can see, fifteen or twenty by name, but that's only because
they purchased their plots of five or six acres and pay taxes on them.
There are at least a dozen others, generals and admirals, who've been
awarded 'domiciles for life' due to their military contributions to the
Republic of France."

"That's wild."

"We do the same, chlopak.  We've got a few thousand top brass living in
fancy houses within the perimeters of military bases after their
retirements.  It's not unusual, or even unfair if you think about it.
They spend their lives making a fraction of what they could in the
private sector, and if they aren't headline makers sought by various
boards of directors, they couldn't afford to live in Scarsdale, New
York."

"I never thought of it that way."

"Try, Officer Latham.  I'll complete my thirty-five years eighteen
months from now, and while I can give my children and grandchildren a
hell of a time in Paris, if you think one of my kids could come to me
and borrow fifty thousand bucks for an operation, forget it.  Sure, I'd
do it, but I'd be wiped out."

"Okay, Stanley, I see where you're coming from," said Latham, studying
the list.

"Tell me, Stosh, these landmark acquisitions, why aren't the
inhabitants named?"

"Quai d'Orsay regulations.  Same as in our country.  There are crazies
out there who hold grudges against commanders.

Remember the Vietnam vet who tried to kill Westmoreland by firing
through a window?"

"Can we get those names?"

"Moreau probably can."

"Have him do that."

"I'll call him in the morning..  .. Now, can we talk about the
operation we've been given' namely the heisting of Dr.  Hans Traupman
in Nuremberg?"

"Five men, no more," said Drew, putting down Witkowski's list on the
dining room table.

"Each fluent in

German and each with Ranger training, none of them married or with
children."

"I anticipated you.  I dug up two from NATO, with you and me that makes
four, and there's a candidate from Marseilles who may qualify."

"Stop it!"  cried Karin.

"I am the fifth man-far better, for I'm a woman."

"In your dreams, lady.  It's a good bet that Traupman as heavily
guarded as if he wore the Hope diamond around his neck like a
mezuzah."

"Moreau's looking into that," said the colonel.

"Frankly, he'd like to take over the operation himself, but the Quai
d'Orsay, as well as French foreign intelligence, would blow him away if
he tried.  But there's nothing on the books that says he can't give us
assistance.

Within twenty-four hours he expects a report on Traupman's daily
routine and security."

"I'm going with you, Drew," said De Vries calmly.

"There's no way you can stop me, so don't try."

"For Christ's sake, why?"

"For all the reasons you know very well, and one you do not."

"What .. .

"As you said about Harry and your parents, I'll tell you when the time
is right."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"For the moment, the only one you' I get."

"Youthink I'll settle for that?"

"You have to, it's a gift from you to me.  If you refuse, and as much
as it pains me, I'll leave and you'll never see me again."

"It means that much to you?  This reason I don't know about means that
much?"

Yes.

"Karin, you're driving me up the wall!"

"I don't mean to, my darling, but some things we must all simply
accept.  This you must."

"I should have the words to tell you I don't buy this crap!"  said
Latham, swallowing, as he stared at her.

"I just don't have them."

"Listen to me, chlopak," Witkowski interrupted, studying them both.

"I'm not crazy about the idea, but there's a positive side.  A woman
sometimes makes quiet inroads where men can't."

"What the hell are you proposing?"

"Obviously not what you think  But as long as she's made up her mind,
she could be useful."

"That's the coldest, most insensitive thing I've ever heard you say,
Colonel!  The assignment is everything, the individual nothing?"

"There's a middle ground where both are vital."

"She could be killed!"

"So could we all.  I think she has as much right to that option as you
do.  You lost a brother, she lost a husband.  Who are you to play
Solomon?"

It was twenty minutes to five in Washington, those hectic minutes
before the rush-hour traffic fill the streets, when secretaries,
clerks, and typists mildly harass their bosses into .  leaving their
final instructions for the day so that personnel can get to garages,
parking lots, and bus stops before the crowds.  Wesley Sorenson had
left the office, already in his limousine but not on his way home; his
wife knew how to handle emergencies, filtering the false ones and
reaching him in the car for those she considered genuine.  After nearly
forty-five years she had developed instincts as perceptive as his, and
he was grateful for that.

Instead of home, the director of Consular Operations was on his way to
a rendezvous with Knox Talbot in Langley, Virginia.  The head of the
CIA had alerted him an hour earlier; the snare for Bruce Withers,
high-tech purchasing agent, bigot, and prime suspect in the safe-house
killings, might have been sprung.  Talbot had ordered an in-house tap
on Withers's phone, and at 2:13 in the afternoon a calf had come to him
from a woman who identified herself only as Suzy.  Knox had played the
recording for Wesley over their secure telephones.

"Hi, hon, it's Suzy.  Sorry to bother you at work, sweetie, but I ran
into Sidney, who says he's got that old set of wheels for you."

"The silver Aston-Martin, DB-Three?"

"If that's the one you want, he tracked it down."

"Hey, I can smell it!  That's the "Goldfinger' car."

"He doesn't want to bring it into the lot, so you're to meet him at
your watering hole in Woodbridge around five-thirty.

"

"You and I and a few younger strong-arms will follow him, Wcs," Talbot
had said.

"Sure, Knox, but why?  The man's a Fascist, a thief, and a late
blooming yuppie, but what's his buying a fancy Englis car got to do
with anything?"

I remembered I own a custom-made auto parts company in Idaho-or is it
Ohio?-so I made a call to the fellow who runs it for me.

He said that anybody who's an automobile freak knows damn well that the
"Goldfinger' car is the Aston-Martin DB-Four, not a Three.

He even went so far as to say that he could understand if someone said
DB-Five, because there wasn't that much difference in the design, but
never a DB-Three."

"I can't tell a Chevrolet from a Pontiac, if they make them any longer,
that is."

"A car freak can, especially if he's going to pay over a hundred
thousand for it.  Meet me in the south parking lot.  That's where
Withers's Jaguar is."

The limousine entered the huge Langley complex, the driver wending his
way to the south lot.  They were stopped by a man in a dark suit,
holding up a badge.  Sorenson lowered his window.

"Yes, what is it?"

"I recognized the car, sir.  If you'll get out and-follow me, I'll
bring you to the DCI.  There's a change of vehicles, somewhat less
obvious than a limo."

"That makes sense."

The change of vehicles meant riding in a nondescript sedan of dubious
ownership.  Wesley climbed into the backseat alongside Knox Talbot.

"Don't let appearances fool you," said the DCI.

"This iron mother has an engine that could probably win the Indy
500."

"I'll take your word for it, but then, what choice do I have?"

"None.  Besides, in addition to the two gentlemen in front, there's a
second car behind us with four other gentlemen armed to their
bicuspids."

"Are you expecting the invasion of Normandy?"

"I got mine in Korea, so I don't know that much about ancient history.
I only know we should expect anything from these bastards."

"I'm on your side-"

"There he is," the driver broke in.

"He's heading straight for the jag."

"Go slow, man," said Talbot.

"Go with the flow, just don't lose him."

"No way, Mr.  Director.  I'd love to nail that son of a bitch."

"Why is that, young man?"

"He hit on my girl, my fiancee.  She's in the steno pool.  He got her
in a corner and tried to feel her up."

"I understand," said Talbot, leaning into Sorenson's shoulder and
whispering.

"I love it when there's true motivation, don't you?  It's what I try to
instill in my companies."

After nearly an hour's drive, the Jaguar pulled into a shabby motel on
the outskirts of Woodbridge.  On the far left of a row of cabins was a
miniature barnlike structure with a red neon sign proclaiming
cocKTAiLs, TV, , ROOMS AVAILABLE.

"The Waldorf of the quickie afternoon trade, no doubt , observed Wesley
as Bruce Withers got out of his car and went into the bar.

"I'd suggest you swing around and park way to the right of the door,"
he continued, speaking to the driver, "next to that low-slung silver
bug."

"That's the Aston, DB-Four," said Talbot, "the "Goldfinger' car."

"Yes, I remember seeing it now-a good film.  But why would anyone pay a
hundred thousand dollars for it?  The damn thing can't be very
comfortable."

"According to my manager, it's a classic, and it's well over a hundred
thousand by now.  Probably nearer two."

"Then where would a Bruce Withers get anywhere near that kind of
money?"

"How much is it worth to the neo movement to get rid of two captured
Nazis whose tongues could be loosened?"

"I see what you mean."  Sorenson again addressed the front seat as the
driver pulled alongside the British sports car.

"How about one of you fellows going inside and taking a look around?"

"Yes, sit," replied the agent passenger, "as soon as our backup parks..
.. There, he's in place."

"May I suggest that you loosen or remove your tie.  I don't think this
place sees too many men in business suits -going into the cabins,
perhaps, but not in there."

The man next to the driver turned around.  His tie was gone and his
shirt collar unbuttoned.

"Also my coat, s1r," he said, taking off his Jacket.

"It's a hot day."  The agent got out of the car, his erect posture
suddenly turning to a slouch as he walked to the aoor'under the neon
sign.

Inside the dimly lit bar, the clientele was a Saroyanesque mixture:

several truck drivers, men from a construction crew, two or three
collegiate types, a white-haired man whose wrinkled, blotched face was
once aristocratic and whose threadbare clothes still showed their
original quality, and a quartet of aging local hookers.  Bruce Withers
had been greeted by the burly bartender.

"Hi, Mr.  W," the man had said.

"You want a cabin?"

"Not today, Hank, I'm meeting someone.  I don't see him-"

"Nobody's asked for you.  Maybe he's late."

"No, he's here; his car's outside."

"He's probably in the can.  Take a booth, and when he comes out, I'll
send him over."

"Thanks, and make me a double of the usual.  I'm celebrating."

" Coming right up."

Withers sat in the high-backed booth at the rear of the bar.  His
outsize martini arrived and he sipped it, tempted to go to the front
window and look again at the AstonMartin automobile.  It was the real
thing!  He couldn't wait to tool around the roads in it, couldn't wait
to show it off to Anita Griswald-especially couldn't wait for his
daughter Kimberly to see it!  It was a hell of a lot more exciting than
anything his former snotty in-laws or his bitch exwife could chauffeur
her around in!  His enjoyable reverie was cut short by a heavyset man
in a checkered shirt who suddenly appeared and slid into the booth
opposite him.

"Good afternoon, Mr.  Withers.  I'm sure you saw the DBFour.  Nice set
of wheels, aren't they?"

"Who the hell are you?  You're not Sidney, you're twice his size."

"Sidney was unavailable, so I'm taking his place."

"We've never met.  How did you know it was me?"

"A photograph."

"A what?"

"It's trivial."

"I've been here at least five minutes.  Why did you wait?"

"Just checking," said the intruder, continually glancing at the front
door.

"Checking what?"

"It's nothing really.  To be honest with you, I'm a bearer of great
news and considerable riches."

"In my pocket are four untraceable bearer bonds, each in the amount of
fifty thousand dollars, for a total of two hundred thousand.  Along
with these is an invitation to visit Germany, all expenses paid, of
course.  We understand that you haven't taken your summer holiday;
perhaps now you can schedule it."

"My God, I'm speechless!  This is great.  Then my contribution was
appreciated, I knew it would b&!  I took a hell of a risk, you all know
that, don't you?"

"The proof is in the fact that I'm here, isn't it?"

"I can't wait to get to Berlin, because you're right, we're right!

This country's going to hell in a handbasket.  Talk about ethnic
cleansing, we'll need fifty years of it-"

"Hold it!"  whispered the stranger harshly, his eyes again on the
door.

"The fellow who came in after you, the one in the white shirt."

"I didn't notice.  What about him?"

"He had a couple of swallows of beer, paid with a deuce, and just
left."

6'so?"  I

"Wait here, I'll be right back."  The man slid out of the booth, walked
rapidly around the bar to the far end of the filthy front window, and
peered outside.  Instantly, he moved away from the glass and returned
to the booth, his expression grim, his eyes narrowed.

"You stupid fool, you were followed!"  he said, sitting down.

"What are you talking about?"

"You heard me, you idiot!  There are three men out there talking to the
white shirt, and believe me, they're not patrons of this dump.

They've got federal government written all over their faces."

"Jesus!  A deputy director named Kearns called me last night asking
dumb questions, but I set him straight."

"Kearns of the CIA?"

"That's where I work, remember?"

"All too well."  The stranger leaned forward over the table, his left
hand on it, his right underneath.

"You're a liability to those who expect me to do my job, Mr.  Withers.
"

"Just give me the money and I'll get out of here through the back door,
where they make deliveries."

"What will you do then?"

"Wait in an empty cabin until they leave, bribe one of the hookers to
swear she was with me if it's necessary, and head home.

It's clean, I've done it before.  Call me later about the
Aston-Martin.

Come on!"

"I don't think so."  There was a burst of raucous laughter from the
bar, accompanied by four muted spits under the table.  Bruce Withers
lurched back in the seat, his upper body pinned to the banquette, his
eyes wide as blood trickled down the corner of his mouth.  The stranger
in the checkered shirt sidled out of the booth and walked calmly toward
the rear delivery entrance while slipping the silenced pistol under his
belt.  He opened the door and Mario Mamhetti's henchman disappeared.
The Don of Pontchartrain was living up to his concordat.

Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed until the shouts, joined
by female screams, erupted from inside the motel bar.  An overly
made-up woman raced out the door screeching.

"For Christ's sake, somebody call the police!  A guy was shot to death
in there!"

The agents of the CIA, accompanied by their director and Wesley
Sorenson, ran inside.  Everyone in the bar was ordered to remain where
they were and not try to make any phone calls.  A frustrated, dejected
Knox Talbot, Sorenson at his side, came out into the diminishing
sunlight.  The Aston-Martin, DB-Four, was gone.

The subject, Dr.  Hans Traupman (residence above), is in the company of
bodyguards around the clock, three-man units on eight hour shifts who
are heavily armed, even when escorting the surgeon into an operating
room, where they remain throughout surgery.  When Traupman goes to
restaurants or attends the theater, concerts, or events of any kind,
his guards are frequently doubled, flanking him in seats or chairs and
often roaming the area in a most Professional manner, scanning the
sections.  When at Traupman's home, the bodyguards continuously patrol
the elevators, the hallways, and the exterior of his luxury apartment
house.  This is in addition to multiple alarms and backups.  In rare
visits to public rest rooms, two guards enter with him, the third
remaining outside to courteously prohibit others from going in until
Traupman reappears.  The vehicle He's driven in is an armor-plated
Mercedes limousine, the windows bulletproof, gas jets on' all sides to
immobilize carjackers and activated from the dashboard.  When
traveling, he is flown in his private Jet, which is kept in an alarmed,
sealed-off hanger.  at an airstrip south of Nuremberg.  Digital
cameras, operating day and night, record all activity inside and out.

The only deviation from this security routine is when Traupman flies to
Bonn and takes his motorboat out on the Rhine during those nights when
be is presumably attending clandestine meetings of the neo-Nazi
movement.  (See pre vious report.) Apparently none of the members is
permitted to have a crew or a captain, which accounts for the size and
maneuverability of the craft.  It is a small boat with a 12S hp motor
and inflatable pontoons, starboard and port.  However, even here be has
a large degree of security by way of revolving cameras that send images
and sound back to his guards at the marina, where there is the standard
helicopter prepared for immediate emergency takeoff (Here, unobserved
conclusions may be drawn: There is a radar instrument that transmits
river-map coordinates, and, as with his Mercedes, gas jets on the
gunwales designed to deter or kill unwanted boarders, the man at the
helm protected by a simple mask, which was observed.)

Good luck, Claude.  You really owe me for this one.  I had to talk my
way out of the Bonn marina by saying I was going to buy an American
Chris Craft  Fortunately, I left the name of a Spanish undercover pig
who operates here and owes me money.

Drew Latham, laughing quietly at the last paragraph, put Moreau's
report down on the antique table-desk and looked over at Witkowski and
Karin, who were sitting on the couch.

"Is there any contingency that son of a bitch hasn't thought of?"  he
asked.

"It's pretty complete," replied the colonel.

"I wouldn't know," said De Vries.

"I haven't read it."

"Read it now and weep."  Drew@got up and brought the report to Karin,
then sat in one of the brocaded armchairs across from both of them.  De
Vries began reading as Latham continued.

"I'll be damned if I know where to begin," he said.

"That bastard's really covered, right down to the men's room."

"It looks rough on paper, but up close we might spot gaps."

"We damn well better.  According to this, it'd be a lot easier to take
him out than to take him."

"It always is."

"Diversion," said De Vries, looking up from Moreau's report.

"It's the only thing I can think of.  Divert the attention of the
guards somehow."

"That's axiomatic," said Witkowski.

"Going further, immobilize a couple and run an assault.  The question
is how, and how disciplined are his gunslingers."

"As you say, Stosh, we won't know until we get there."

"Speaking of which, the two men from NATO are downstairs in my office.
They arrived on the three o'clock flight from Brussels, with new
passports and papers that say they're salesmen for an aircraft
company."

"Good cover," said Latham.

"Those salesmen are all over Europe."

"We had to go around some dicey corners to clear everything.

It took all morning and part of the afternoon to complete their
'authenticity."  They're actually on the company's payroll."

"Was all that necessary?"  asked Karin.

"Indeed it was, young lady.  Any references to their real names would
reveal the service records of two Special Forces commandos who operated
behind the lines in Desert Storm.  Each is as handy with a knife as he
is with his hands, say nothing of garrotes and marksmanship."

"You're saying they're killers."

"Only when necessary, Karin.  Frankly, they're two nice kids, kind of
shy actually, who've been trained to react properly in given
situations."

"That's a euphemism for they'll beat your head against a rock if you're
a bad guy," explained Latham.

"You're satisfied with them, Stosh?"

"Very definitely."

"And they both speak fluent French and GermanP' added De Vries.

"Absolutely.  The first is a Captain Christian Dietz, thirty-two,
graduate of Denison University, and a career army officer.  Parents and
grandparents were German, the latter part of the German underground
during the Third Reich.  His father and mother were sent to the U.S. as
children."

"The other?"  said Drew.

"A lieutenant named Anthony, Gerald Anthony.  He's a little more
interesting," said the colonel: "He has dual master's degrees in French
and German literature, was going for his Ph.D. while teaching at a
small college in Pennsylvania, when he decided, in his own words, that
he couldn't take campus politics.  I thought I'd ask them up here,"
continued Witkowski.

"We'd sort of get to know each other quietly, informally."

"That's a good idea, Stanley," said Karin.

"I'll have the kitchen prepare some hors d'oeuvres and coffee, perhaps
drinks."

"No," countered Drew.

"No hors d'oeuvres, no coffee, and definitely no drinks.  This is a
cold paramilitary operation, let's keep it that way."

"Isn't that a bit too cold?"

"He's right, young lady, although I never thought I'd hear him say it.
I was wrong, the time for that kind of informality comes later.

After you see the slack, or lack of it, in their ropes."

De Vries looked at him questioningly.

"They're still being evaluated," explained Latham.

"Interviewed for the job-how do they behave, what have they got to
offer?  Two Special Forces officers who've operated behind enemy lines
in any war should have input."

"I wasn't aware that we had such a pool of candidates."

"We don't, but they don't know that.  Call for them to come up,
Stanley."

Captain Christian Dietz, except for his relatively short stature, could
have walked out of a poster for the Hitler Youth.  Blond, blue-eyed,
and with a body to be envied by an Olympic champion, he carried himself
like the experienced commando he was.  Lieutenant Gerald Anthony, on
the other hand, was equally muscular but much taller and dark-haired, a
reed-thin man who evoked' the image of an upright bullwhip, ready to
coil and lash out lethally at any given instant.  Contradictorily, both
their faces were utterly devoid of malice, their eyes without a trace
of hostility.  And to complete the incongruity, they were, as
Witkowski had mentioned, basically shy men, hesitant to expound on
their past activities or their citations.

"We were at the right place at the right time," said Dietz without
comment.

"Our intelligence was excellent," added Anthony.

"Without it, we'd have been roasted over an Iraqi fire, that is, if
they'd ever learned how to make one in the sand."

"You worked together, then?"  asked Drew.

"Our radio code was Alpha-Delta."

"Delta-Alpha," Dietz corrected Gerald Anthony.

"Both were used," said Anthony, grinning at his friend.

"Okay," agreed the captain, smiling modestly.

"You've read the Traupman report," Latham went on.

"Any suggestions?"

"A restaurant," said Lieutenant Anthony.

"The river," said Captain Dietz simultaneously.

"I say we, wait in Nuremberg and follow him to Bonn, using the

"Why a restaurant?"  asked Karin, addressing Anthony.

"It's easy to create a diversion-"

"I said that," interrupted De Vries.

by starting a fire," continued the lieutenant, "or by spotting the
bodyguards and immobilizing them by force or with instant sedatives in
their water or food.  Frankly, I think a fire is more effective.  All
those flanib6 dishes; it's so simple to switch sauces and the whole
place is filled with flames that are short-lived but distract everyone
while we take the subject."

"And the river?"  interjected Witkowski.

"You can cork the gas jets on the gunwales-we've done it.  before

Saddam Hussein's patrols all had them.  Then you blow out the cameras
with high-powered pellets, as if the electrical systems had
malfunctioned.  The key is doing it by scuba, out of camera range, and
before the boat gets near shore.  You climb on board and get out of the
area."

"Let's go back," said Latham.

"Lieutenant, why do you think a restaurant in Nuremberg is more
efficient than the river in Bonn?"

"Saves time, to begin with, and there's too much room for error on the
water, sit.  Visibility is poor, gas jets could be missed, as well as
the transmitting cameras-even one.  The emergency helicopter has
powerful searchlights and the motorboat is easily identifiable.  As I
understand it, the enemy would prefer that the subject be killed by
strafing or bombing than be taken alive."

"Good point," said the colonel.

"And you, Captain, why do you think a restaurant is a poor choice?"

"Again, too much room for error, sit," Dietz said.

"A panicked crowd is meat and potatoes to security units.  The moment a
fire diversion is activated, they'll race to the subject to protect
him, and there's no way to sedate the guards who aren't at surrounding
tables, even if you know who they are."

"So you disagree with your associate," said Karin.

"It's not the first time, ma'am.  We usually work it out."

"But you're his superior," Witkowski interrupted brusquely.

"We don't pay much attention to rank," said the lieutenant.

"Not in combat anyway.  In a month or two I'll be a captain and then
we'll have to split lunch and dinner checks.  I won't be able to insist
he pays anymore."

"The Thin Man eats like an ox," grumbled Captain Christian Dietz
softly.

"I've got a hell of an idea," Latham suddenly broke in.

"It's damn near close to the yardarm, whatever that is.

Let's have a drink."

"But I thought you said-"

"Forget what I said, General de Vries."

The five members of Operation N-2 flew into Nuremberg on three
different flights, Drew on board with Lieutenant Anthony, Karin with
Captain Dietz, and Witkowski by himself.  Claude Moreau had made the
arrangements: Latham and De Vries had ad'oining rooms at the same
hotel; Witkowski, Anthony, and Dietz were in different hotels across
the city.  Their rendezvous was the next morning at Nuremberg's main
library, between the stacks of volumes devoted to the once-imperial
city's history.  They were shown to a conference room as three doctoral
candidates and their professor from Columbia University in New York,
along with their female German guide.  No papers were required, as
Moreau's agents had cleared the way.

"I had no idea this was such a beautiful place!"  exclaimed Gerald
Anthony, the only former Ph.D. candidate from America.

"I got up early and walked around.  It's so medieval-the
eleventh-century walls, the old royal palace, the Carthusian monastery.
Whenever I thought about Nuremberg, all I conjured up were the World
War Two trials, beer, and chemical plants."

"How could you be a student of the German arts and not have studied the
birthplace of Hans Sachs and Albrecht Dfirer?"  said Karin as they all
sat around the thick, round, glistening table.

"Well, Sachs was primarily a musician and playwright and Direr an
engraver and a painter.  I concentrated on Germanic literature and the
frequently terrible influences-"

"Do you two academics mind?"  Latham interrupted as Witkowski
chuckled.

"We have other things on the current agenda."

"Sorry, Drew," said Karin.

"It's just so refreshing to never mind."

"I can finish your comment, but I won't," Latham broke in.

"Who wants to go first?"

"I got up early too," replied Captain Dietz.

"But not being so aesthetically inclined, I studied Traupman's
residence.  The Deuxl@me report said it all.  His gorillas prowl around
that complex like a wolf pack.  They go in, they go out, they circle
the building and come back; one disappears, another appears.  There's
no way to penetrate and live to tell about it."

"We never seriously considered taking him in his apartment," said the
colonel.

"The Deuxi@me's men here in Nuremberg are our observers.  They'll keep
us informed by phone codes when he leaves his residence.  One of them
should be here pretty soon.  You wasted your time, Captain."

"Not necessarily, sit.  One of the guards is a heavy drinker; he's a
big, beefy guy and doesn't show it, but he swigs from a flask whenever
he's in shadows.  Another's got a rash in his crotch and on his
stomach--crabs maybe, or poison oak or ivy-he literally runs into dark
areas and scratches the hell out of himself."

"What's your point?"  asked De Vries.

"Several, ma'am.  Having that information, we could position ourselves
to take one or the other or both, and once having taken them, use what
we've learned to extract information from them."

"You employed these tactics in Desert Storm?"  Witkowski was obviously
impressed.

"It was mostly food there, Colonel.  A lot of those Iraqis hadn't eaten
in days."

"I want to know how he enters and leaves his limousine," said Drew.

"He's got to walk out of the apartment house and into his car, then at
the hospital he has to get out of the limo and into the hospital.
Whether aboveground or in underground parking lots, he's got to be
exposed, if only briefly.  Those may be our best opportunities."

"The compressed times and locations could also work against us, sir,"
offered Lieutenant Anthony.

"If we consider them, so will his bodyguards."

"We have dart guns, silencers, and the element of surprise," said
Latham.

"They've worked more often than not."

"Go easy," admonished Witkowski, "one miss and we're out of business."
If they even get a whiff of what we're doing here, they'll pack Herr
Doktor Traupman off to a bunker in the Black Forest.  I'd say we've got
one shot and it had better work.  So we wait, we study, and make sure
it's our best shot."

"It's the waiting that bothers me, Stosh."

"The prospect of failure bothers me a lot more," said the colonel.

Suddenly a low, trilling sound erupted from Witkowski's jacket.  He
reached in and pulled out a small portable phone supplied by the German
branch of the Deuxi@me.

"Yes?"

"Sorry I'm late for breakfast" were the English words spoken in a
pronounced French accent over the line.

"I'm only a short distance from the cafe and should be there in a few
minutes."

"We'll reorder your eggs, they're cold by now."

"Thank you very much.  Cold poached eggs are no eggs at all."

The colonel turned to his colleagues around the table.

"One of Moreau's men will be here in a couple of minutes.  Karin, would
you mind going to the desk and bringing him here?"

"Not at all.  What's his name and cover?"

"Ahrendt, associate professor, University of Nuremberg.  I?

"I'm on my way."  De Vries rose from her chair, walked to the door, and
left the room.

"That lady is something," said the young commando, Lieutenant
Anthony.

"I mean, she's really into history and the arts-"

"We know," Latham broke in dryly.

The man Karin returned with looked like an average German bank teller,
medium height, well dressed in well pressed off-the-rack clothing of
medium cost.  Everything about him was medium, which meant he was a
superior operative for the spiderlike Deuxi@me.

"No names are required, gentlemen," he said, smiling sweetly.

"Even false names-they get so confusing, don't they?  However, for
convenience sake, just call me Karl, it's such a common name."

"Sit down, Karl," said Drew, gesturing at an empty chair.

"I don't have to tell you how much we appreciate' your assistance."

"I only hope and pray it will be helpful."

"The praying makes me nervous," interrupted Drew.

"You don't sound terribly confident."

"You've embarked on an extremely difficult task."

"We also have extremely competent assistance," said Witkowski.

"Can you aad anything to the report?"

"Quite a bit.  Let me start with what we've achieved since the report
was sent to Paris.  Traupman funnels the majority of his personal
business through the office of the hospital's immensely wealthy
chairman, a politically and socially connected man-it's an ego trip for
Traupman, as if the chairman were at his beck and call."

"That's a little weird, considering who Traupman is," said Gerald
Anthony, the scholar.

"Not really, Gerry," Christian Dietz disagreed.

"It's like the secretary of defense ordering up an aircraft by way of
the Oval Office.  He may be a big man on campus, but there's no one
bigger than the President.  It's actually very German."

"Exactly."  The man who called himself Karl nodded.

"And since those instructions are recorded so as to avoid error or
blame-also very German-we compromised a hospital clerk into relaying
Traupman's instructions to US."

"Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Not if he was convinced by a uniform that it was Polizei security."

"You fellows are good," said Dietz.

"We'd better be or we're dead," said Karl.

"At any rate, Traupman has made a reservation for six at the garden
terrace of the Gartenhof restaurant for eight-thirty this evening."

"Let's try it."  Lieutenant Anthony was emphatic.

"On the other hand, our man at the airstrip informed us that Traupman
has ordered his plane to be ready at five o'clock tomorrow afternoon.
Destination Bonn."

"A neo meeting on the Rhine," said Dietz.

"The water's best, I know it."

"Easy, Chris," countered the lieutenant.

"We screwed up on the north beach in Kuwait, remember?"

"We didn't screw up, buddy, the cowboy SEALs did.  They were so hyped,
they plugged up the engine returns..  Anyway, we saved their asses by
crawling over the sides and-"

"History," Lieutenant Anthony interrupted.

"They got the medals and they deserved them.  Two of them got wasted, I
hope you remember that too."

"It shouldn't have happened," said Dietz quietly.

"But it did," added Anthony, even quieter.

"So we have two opportunities," said Latham firmly.

"Tonight at the restaurant, and tomorrow on the Rhine.  What do you
think, Karl?"

"Both are equally treacherous.  I wish you well, my friends."

In the discarded, obsolete airfield north of Lakenheath, in the cut
down meadows of County Kent, the two huge reconditioned Messerschmitt
ME 323 gliders had been assembled.  It remained only for the powerful
jets to sweep down, their engines cut at ten thousand' feet so their
descents would make minimal noise.  Water Lightning would take place
within one hundred hours.

In the flattest expanse of bank land between the Dalecarlia reservoir
and the Potomac River, two other mammoth reassembled ME 323
gliders-having first been stripped and shipped across the
Atlanticremained on the ground.  The huge reservoir, fed by plentiful
underground aquifers, was at the end of the final strip of MacArthur
Boulevard, and supplied water to all of Arlington, Falls Church,
Georgetown, and the District of Columbia, including the ghettos and the
White House itself.  At the appointed moment, timed down to a fraction
of a minute, two Thunderbird jets would swoop down, their engines
briefly cut, and with tail hooks would snare the dual pole wires,
yanking the gliders airborne.  Due to the stress factors, the liftoffs
would be assisted by disposable self-propulsion rockets underneath the
gliders' wings.  They would be activated at the of impact.  The tactic
had been tested in the fields of Mettmach, Germany, the new quarters of
the Brijderschaft, Properly executed, it was successful.  It would be
properly executed here, and the entire capital of the United States
would be poisoned, paralyzed.

Time zero: one hundred hours.

Forty-odd kilometers north of Paris in the Beauvais countryside are the
waterworks that supply large sections of the city, including the
arrondissernents that house much of the government-the entire Quai
d'Orsay, the presidential palace, the military security barracks, and a
host of lesser departments and agencies.  Approximately twenty
kilometers east of the vast waterworks is flat farmland, and within
this massive acreage are scattered three private airfields catering to
the rich who disdain the inconveniences of the Orly and De Gaulle
airports.  At the field farthest to the east stand two huge freshly
repainted gliders.  The explanation for the curious is properly exotic.
They belong to the Saudi royal family for sport over the desert, and
since they were built and paid for in France, who cared to know any
more?  Several 'ets-how many no one knew would arrive sometime soon to
haul them away on their journey to Riyadh.

The control tower was told that they would be airborne in approximately
one hundred hours.  Peu d'importance?

The garden terrace of the Gartenhof restaurant belonged to an older,
far more graceful era, when string quartets accompanied fine dinners
superbly served and all dishes were carried by hands encased in pure
white gloves.  The problem was that it was a garden, outside on a
terrace, profuse with flower boxes overlooking the ancient streets of
Nuremberg, within sight of the hallowed Albrecht Dijrer house.

Gerald Anthony, Lieutenant, Special Forces, late of Desert Storm, was
furious.  He had prepared them all for the mission, for his specialty,
a conflagration that would erupt suddenly, distracting everyone,
especially the body guards seated near Tratipman's table who could be
sufficiently immobilized during the chaos so as to be useless to their
employer.  However, the warm breezes winding between the buildings from
the Regnitz River were constant, too dangerous for the strategy; only
the glass globes around the candles prevented them from being
extinguished.  A brief, startling burst of fire was all that was needed
to spirit Traupman away, but the possibility of the flames spreading
throughout the area, conceivably killing or maiming innocent people in
the crowded enclosure, was not acceptable.  Equally important, the
panic engendered by such an expanding breeze-driven fire could easily
work against them, clogging the only entrance with hysterical patrons.
If even one guard recoveredust enough to draw a weapon, the mission
could fail with a single gunshot.

In successive glances, each member of the N-2 unit studied Hans
Traupman and his guests surreptitiously.  The celebrated surgeon was
the leader of the peacocks; all that was missing were brightly colored
feathers spreading from half a dozen shoulders, Traupman's the
fieriest.  He was a thin, medium-size man with animated gestures
accompanied by sudden facial expressions, exaggerated to make an
inevitably humorous point, although his aging features resulted in
semi-grotesquery.  He was not an attractive man, but despite his
constant search for approval, if not applause, he was completely in
charge-the wealthy host whose abrupt silences caused the others to wait
for his next words..

Latham, his appearance altered by horn-rimmed glasses, paste don full
eyebrows and a mustache, glanced at Karin, equally unrecognizable in
the dim candlelight with her pale face unmade up and her hair sternly
pulled back into a hostile bun.  She did not return his gaze.  Instead,
she seemed mesmerized by something or someone at Trauptnan's table.

Lieutenant Anthony looked across the table at Drew and Colonel
Witkowski.  Reluctantly, imperceptibly, he shook his head.  His
superiors, in like manner, did the same.  Karin de Vries suddenly spoke
in German, her tone frivolous, insouciant, very much unlike her.

"I believe I see an old friend who's going to powder her nose, and so
will M' She got up from the table and walked across the terrace,
following another woman.

"What did she say?"  asked Drew.

"The ladies' room," replied Dietz.

"Oh, that's all."

"I doubt it," said the equally fluent Anthony.

"What do you mean?"  pressed Latham.

"The woman she's tailing is obviously Traupman's date for the evening,"
explained Witkowski.

"Is Karin crazy?"  exploded Latham, whispering intensely.

"What does she think she's doing?"

"We'll know when she comes back, chlopak."

"I don't like it!"

"You don't have a choice," said the colonel.

Twelve frustrating minutes later, De Vries returned to the table.

"To use the American vernacular," she said in English quietly, "my new
young friend hates the 'stinking pervert."  She's twenty-six years old
and Traupman takes her out to show her off, pays her money, and demands
kinky sex when they return to his apartment."

"How did you learn that?"  asked Drew.

"It was in her eyes..  .. I lived in Amsterdam, remember?  She's a
cocaine addict and desperately needed a dose to get through the
evening.  I found her giving herself one -also supplied by the good
doctor."

"He's such a beautiful man," said Captain Christian Dietz
contemptuously.

"One day the story will be told how many Iraqis were supplied a daily
diet of that crap.  Hussein made it part of the military diet!  .. .
Can this lead us to something?"

"Only if we can get into his apartment," answered Karin, "which could
give us an enormous advantage."

"How so?"  asked Witkowski.

"He makes videotapes of his sexual encounters."

"Sick!"  spat out Lieutenant Anthony.

"Sicker than you think said De Vries.

"She told me he has a whole library, everything from alpha to zed,
including little girls and boys.  He claims he needs them to get
properly excited."

"They could be awesome artillery," interjected the colonel.

"Embarrassment and public disgrace," said Latham.

"The most powerful weapons ever invented by man."

"I think we can do it," said Dietz.

"I thought you said we couldn't," whispered Anthony.

"I can change my mind, can't P"

"Sure, but your first assessments are usually right, Ringo.  "

"Ringo?"

"He likes that movie, forget it, sit..  .. How, Chris?"

"First I Mrs.  de Vries, since you learned about the tapes, I can only
assume you made subtle inquiries about the apartment itself.  Am I
correct?"

"Of course you are.  The three guards divide their duties, alternating
to give each other breaks, I gather.  One remains outside the door at a
table with an intercom while the other two, as you described before,
Captain, patrol the hallways, the lobby, and the exterior of the
building."

"What about the elevators?"  asked Witkowski.

"They don't really matter.  Traupman has the penthouse, which is the
entire top floor, and to reach it my disturbed young friend says you
either enter a code, which is the normal procedure, or you're cleared
by the building's own security desk after they've ascertained that
you're expected."

"Then you're talking about two barriers," said Drew.

"Traupman's guards and the apartment building's inhouse security."

"Try three," interrupted Karin.

"The guard outside the penthouse door has to punch in a series of
numbers for the door to open.  If he punches in the wrong ones, all
hell breaks loose.  Sirens, bells, that sort of thing."

"The girl told you that  said Lieutenant Anthony.

"She didn't have to, Gerald, it's standard procedure.  My husband and I
had a variation of that system in Amsterdam."

"You did?"

"It's a complicated story, Lieutenant," Latham broke in curtly.

"No time for it now..  .. So if we 'manage somehow-which is highly
doubtful-to bypass the guards and the elevator-programmed security
desk, we're stymied and probably shot outside the penthouse.  It's not
exactly an attractive scenario."

"Do you concede that we could possibly overcome the first two
obstacles?"  Witkowski asked.

"I do," replied Dietz.

"The drunk and the scratchycrotch, Gerry and I can take care of.  The
inside desk could probably be handled by a couple of very official
types showing very official Ms."  The captain settled his gaze on
Latham and Witkowski.

"If they're really experienced at this kind of exercise, which the
lieutenant and I went through twice in Desert Storm," he added.

"Say we do," said an increasingly irritated Drew, "how is anyone going
to handle the penthouse robot?"

"There you've got me, sir."

"Perhaps not me," interrupted Karin, getting up from the table.

"If things work out, I'll be quite a while," she continued, speaking
softly, enigmatically.

"Please order me a double espresso, it may be an exhausting night."
With those words, De Vries took the long way out of the garden
restaurant toward the entrance, and in case anyone was watching her,
she doubled back along the walls beyond the crowded tables to the
ladies' room.

A full five minutes later the young blond woman sitting beside Dr. 
Hans Traupman had a mild sneezing fit, the sympathetic conversation at
the table ascribing it to Nuremberg's summer pollen and the breezes. 
She left the table.

Eighteen minutes later, Karin de Vries returned to her American
scholars.

"Here are the conditions," she said.

"And neither she nor I will accept any less."

"You met the girl in the ladies' room."  Witkowski did not aska
question, he made a statement.

"She understood that if I left the table and walked toward the
entrance, she was to make some excuse and meet me there in three or
four minutes."

"What are the conditions and how does she earn them?"  asked Latham.

"Second question first," said Karin.

"Once inside with Traupman, give her an hour and she'll deactivate the
alarm and release the lock on the door."

"She can be our first woman president," said Captain Dietz.

"She asks far less.  She wants, and I agree with her, a permanent visa
to the United States and enough money to see her through
rehabilitation, as well as sufficient funds to live in relative comfort
for three years.  She doesn't dare stay here in Germany, and after
three years, while polishing her English, she believes she'll be able
to find work."

"She's got it and then some," said Drew.

"She could have demanded a lot more."

"In all honesty, my dear, she may very well, later.  She's a survivor,
not a saint, and she is an addict.  That's her reality."

"Then it'll be someone else's problem," the colonel interrupted.

"Traupman just signaled for the check," said Lieutenant Anthony.

"Then, as your German guide, I shall also, in several minutes."

De Vries leaned down over her chair as if to retrieve her purse or a
fallen napkin.  Three tables away the blond woman did the same, picking
up a gold cigarette lighter that had slipped from her fingers.

Their eyes met; Karin blinked twice, Traupman's escort once.

The night's agenda was set.

 he apartment complex-house did not do it justice -was one of those
cold steel and tinted-glass strucTtures that made a person long for
stone walls, spires, arches, and even flying buttresses.  it was not so
much the work of an architect as it was the product of a robotic
computer, the aesthetics found in vast wasted space and stress
tolerances.  However, it was imposing, the front windows literally two
stories high, the lobby made of white marble, in the center of which
was a large reflecting pool with a cascading fountain illuminated by
underwater floodlights.  As each floor ascended, the inside corridors
were bordered by an interior, fifty-four-inch wall of speckled granite
that permitted all but the shortest people to observe the opulence
below.  The effect was less of beauty than of triumphant engineering.

On the left of the white-marbled lobby was the un tinted sliding glass
window of the security office, behind the glass a uniformed apartment
guard whose job it was to admit visitors who identified themselves over
the entrance intercom after ascertaining their welcome by those in
residence.  Further, in the interest of privacy and safety, the
security desk had at a guard's fingertips the alarms for Fire, Forced
Entry, and Police; the last, stationed approximately a half mile away,
could be at the building in no more than sixty seconds.  The complex
was eleven stories high, the penthouse occupying the entire eleventh
floor.

The exterior, as might be expected, was in keeping with the
establishment's prices.  A circular drive led from tall hedgerow to
hedgerow, between which was a landscaper's semi-annuity:

sculptured foliage, flowering gardens, five concrete goldfish ponds
aerated naturally, and with flag- 9

stone paths for those who cared to stroll outside amid nature's beauty.
In the rear of the complex, in sight of the medieval Neutergraben Wall,
was an Olympic-size swimming pool, complete with cabanas and an outside
bar for the summer months.

Everything considered, Dr.  Hans Traupman, the Rasputin of the neo Nazi
movement, lived very well.

"This is like breaking into Leavenworth without an army pass,"
whispered Latham behind the greenery of sculptured bushes in front of
the entrance.  Alongside him was Captain Christian Dietz, who had
previously reconnoitered the area.

"Every access back by the pool is electronically sealed-you touch a
screen with a human hand and the sirens go off.  I know those fibers.
They're heat sensitized."

"I'm aware of that, sir," said the Ranger from Desert Storm.

"It's why I told you the only way was to take out the two roving
bodyguards, get past the house security, and reach the eleventh
floor."

"Can you and Anthony really get rid of the guards?"

"That's not the problem .. . sir.  Gerry will take the big guy with the
flask, and I'll deep-six the scratch merchant.  The problem, as I see
it, is whether you and the colonel can talk yourselves through the
apartment secitrity.1)

"Witkowski was on the phone with a couple of the Deuxieme agents.  He
says it's.under control."

"How?"

"Two or three names from the Polizei.  They'll make calls to the
in-house security guard and pave the way.  Top secret and all the rest
of that mumbo-jumbo."

"The Deuxi@me works with the Nuremberg police?"

"They may, but that's not what I said.  I said 'names," not people.

I presume they'll be important names whether they're real people or
not..  .. What the hell, Chris, it's well after midnight, who's going
to check?  When the Allies stormed Normandy, no one dared wake up
Hitler's chief aides, much less the man himself."

"Is the colonel's German really good?  I've heard him speak only a
little bit of,it."

"He's totally fluent."

"He's got to be authoritative-"

"Can you doubt it?  Witkowski doesn't speak, he barks."

"Look-he just struck a cupped match from the bushes on our right flank.
Something's happening."

"He and the lieutenant are nearer.  Can you see what it is?  "

"Yes," replied Captain Dietz, peering through the foliage.

"It's the big Kraut with the juice.  Gerry's scrambling around to the
far right; he'll take him in the shadows halfway down the building's
path."

"Are you fellas always so confident?"

"Why not?  It's simply a job and we're trained to do it."

"Has it occurred to you that in hand-to-hand the other guy might be
tougher?"

"Oh, sure, that's why we specialize in the dirtiest tricks on record.
Don't you?  A friend of, mine at the Paris embassy saw you play hockey
in Toronto or Manitoba or someplace; he said you were the mother ship
of body check techniques."

"This subject is over," ordered Latham.

"What happens if whisky-boy doesn't come back?  Will the other guard be
waiting for him?"

"They're German, they go by the clock.  Any deviation is unacceptable.
If one soldier is derelict, another can't be influenced by the
dereliction.  He continues the march, the watch.  There, see!

Gerry's got him."

"What?"

"You weren't looking.  Gerry struck a match and arched it to his left.
Mission accomplished..  .. Now I'll crawl straight forward while you
join the colonel on the flank, Sir."

"Yes, I know that-"

"It'll be a while, maybe as long as twenty minutes or so, but be
patient, it will happen."

"From your mouth to God's ear."

"Yeah, Gerry said you'd probably say something like that.  See you
later, Mr.  Cons-Op."  The Special Forces captain wormed his way toward
the canopied entrance of the condominium complex as Drew crawled
between the stalks of the flowers of the English-style garden to the
hedgerow where Stanley Witkowski lay prone.

"Those sons of bitches are outstanding!"  pronounced the colonel, a
pair of infrared binoculars at his eyes.

"They've got ice water in their veins!"

"Well, it's simply a job they're trained to do, and they do it well,"
said Drew, hugging the ground.

"From your mouth to God's ear, chlopak," erupted Witkowski.

"Here goes the other one .. . hell, they're magnificent!  Go for the
kill, nothing less!"

"I don't think we want kills, Stanley.  We'd rather have captives."

"I'll take either one.  I just want to get in there."

"Can we do it?"

"The setup's in place, but we won't know until we try.  If there's a
problem, we blast ourselves in."

"The guard will alert the police the moment he sees a weapon."

"There are eleven stories, where do they start?"

"Good point.  Let's go!"

"Not yet.  The captain's target hasn't arrived yet."

"I thought you just said 'here he goes."

"

"Into position, not for Maggie's drawers."

"For what?"

"It's a marine term.  You can't score until the bull's-eye appears."

"Will you please speak English?"

"The second of the two guards hasn't come out."

"Thank you."

Six minutes passed and Witkowski spoke.

"Here he comes, right on schedule.  Bless the Ein, Zwei, Drei!"  Thirty
seconds later a match was struck and thrown to the striker's left.

"He's out," said the colonel.

"Come on, and stand up straight.  Remember, you're a member of the
Nuremberg police.  just stay behind me and don't open your mouth."

"What could I say?

"O, Tannenbaum, mein Tannenbaum'?"

"Here we go."  Both men raced across the circular drive, and upon
reaching the broad canopy fronting the thick glass doors of the
entrance, they stopped.  Catching their breath and standing erect, they
approached the outside panel that was the intercom to the security
desk.

"Guten Abend," said the colonel, continuing in German, "we're the
detective detail called in to check the external emergency relay
equipment for Dr.  Traupman's residence."

"Acb, yes, your two superiors called an hour ago, but as I told them
both, the doctor is entertaining tonight-"

"And I trust they told you that we will not disturb the doctor,"
Witkowski interrupted curtly.

"In fact, neither he nor his persona) escorts are to be disturbed,
those are the commandant's orders, and I for one would not care to be a
party to disobeying those instructions."  The external equipment is in
the storage room across the floor from Dr.  Traupman's door.  He will
not even know we've been here -that is the way the chief of Nuremberg's
police wishes it to be.  But then, I'm sure he made it clear to you."

"What happened anyway?  To the .. . equipment?"

"Probably an accident, someone moving furniture or cartons into the
storage room and severing a wire.  We won't know until we examine the
panels, which we're responsible for..  .. Frankly, I wouldn't know if I
fell over the malfunction, my colleague's the expert."

"I didn't even know there was such equipment," said the apartment
guard.

"There's a lot you're not aware of, my friend.  Between YOU and me, the
doctor has direct lines to all high-ranking officials in the police and
the government, even to Bonn."

"I knew he was a great surgeon, but I had no idea-"

"Let's say he's extremely generous with our superiors, yours and mine,"
Witkowski again interrupted, his voice now friendly.

"So, for all our sakes, let's not rock the boat.  We're wasting time,
let us in, please."

"Certainly, but you'll still have to sign the register."

"And possibly lose our jobs?  Yours as well?"

"Forget it.  I'll insert the elevator codes for the eleventh floor,
that's the penthouse.  Do you need the key for the storage room?"

"No, thanks.  Traupman gave one to our commandant and he gave it to
us."

"You erase all my doubts.  Come inside."

"Naturally, we'll show you our identification cards, but again, for all
our sakes, remember you never saw us."

"Naturally.  This is a good job, and I certainly don't want the police
on my back."

The elevator was around the corner and out of sight from the surgeon's
penthouse entrance on the eleventh floor.  Latham and the colonel
inched their way along the wall; Drew peered around the edge of
marbleized concrete.  The guard at the desk was in shirtsleeves and
reading a paperback book while tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the
soft music coming from a small portable radio.

He was at least fifty feet away, the imposing console in front of him
his direct links to several receivers that could cause the aborting of
Operation N-2.  Latham checked his watch and whispered to Witkowski.

"It's not a pleasant situation, Stosh," he said.

"Didn't expect it to be, chlopak," said the veteran G-2 officer,
reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out five marbles.

"Karin was right, you know.  Diversion's everything.  "

"We're past the hour when Traupman's girlfriend said she'd deactivate
the alarm.  She's got to be sweating it out in there.  "

"I know that.  Use the darts and aim for his neck area.  Keep firing
until you hit his throat."

"What?"

"He'll get up and walk down here, believe me."

"What are you going to do?"

"Watch."  Witkowski rolled a marble out on the marble floor; it
clattered until it hit the opposite wall and stopped.  He then threw
another out in the opposite direction; it, too, spun to a stop.

"What's happening?"  he whispered to Drew.

"Your scenario.  He's getting up and coming toward US."

"The closer he gets, the better shot you have."  The colonel threw two
marbles down the corridor to his right;

they clattered, marble against marble; the bodyguard raced forward,
weapon in hand.  He rounded the corner and Latham fired three narcotic
darts; the first missed, ricocheting off the wall, the second and third
struck the neo Nazi on the right side of his neck.  The man gasped,
grabbed his throat, and uttered a low, prolonged cry as he slowly
collapsed.

"Take out the two darts, find the other, and let's get him back to the
desk," said Witkowski.

"The drug wears off in half an hour."

They carried the neo to the desk, placing him in the chair, his upper
body slumped over the top.  Drew went to the penthouse door, took a
deep, prayerful breath, and opened it.  There was no alarm, only
darkness and silence until a weak female' voice spoke unfortunately in
German.

"Scbnell.  Beeilen Sic sich!"

"Hold it!"  said Latham, but the command was unnecessary, as the
colonel was at his side.

"What's she saying, and can we turn on a light?"

"Yes," replied the woman.

"I speak englisch little, not good."

With those words she snapped on the foyer light.  The blond girl was
fully dressed, her purse and overnight case in hand.  Witkowski stepped
forward.

"We go now, ja?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Frdulein," said the colonel in
German.

"Business comes first."

"I have been promised!"  she cried.

"A visa, a passport protection for me to go to America!"

"You'll get it all, miss.  But short of carrying Traupman out of here,
where are the tapes?"

"I have fifteen-the most grotesque of the lot-in my bag here.  As to
taking the Herr Doktor out of the apartment house, it is impossible.
The service entrance is locked with an alarm from eight o'clock in the
evening until eight in the morning.  There is no other way, and
television cameras record everything."

The colonel translated for Drew, who replied, "Maybe we can get
Traupman past the security desk.  What the hell, his guards are gone."
Witkowski again translated, now for the German woman.

"That is foolishness leading to the death of us all!"  she countered
emphatically.

"You don't understand this place.  The owners are the richest in
Nuremberg, and what with the kidnappings of the wealthy throughout
Germany these days, a resident himself must inform the desk that he is
leaving the premises."

"So I'll use the phone and be Traupman, so what?  Where is he,
incidentally?"

"Asleep in the bedroom; he's an old man and easily exhausted by the
wine .. . and other methods But you really don't understand.  The rich
all over Europe travel with guards and bulletproof automobiles.  You
may have gotten in here, and I congratulate you on doing so, but if you
think you can leave with the doctor, you're mad!"

"Ve'll sedate him, just as we did the guard outside the door."

"Even more foolish.  His limousine must be called up from the garage
before he leaves the building, and only his bodyguards have the
combination for the key vault-"

"Key vault?"

"Automobiles can be stolen or tampered with-you really don't
understand."

"What the hell are you two talking about?"  Drew broke in.

"Stop with the German!"

"We're screwed," said the colonel.

"The Deuxieme report didn't go far enough.  How about armored vehicles
under the canopy before he goes outside, and combination vaults in the
garage for the keys?"

"The whole damn country's paranoid!"

"Nein, mein Herr," said Traupman's woman for the evening.

"I

understand a little of what.  you say.  Not entire Deutschland-parts,
sections where the rich live.  They are frightened."

"How about the Nazis?  Is anyone frightened of them, lady?"

"They are garbage, mein Herr!  No decent person supports them."

"What the hell do you think Traupman is?"

"A bad man, a senile old man-"

"He's a goddamned Nazi!"

It was as though the young woman had been struck in the face.

She winced and shook her head.

"I have no .. . no knowing of such a thing.  His Freunde .. . in der
Medizin, they have respect.  Many are berfibmt.  So famous."

"That's his cover," said Witkowski in German.

"He's one of the leaders of the movement, that's why we want him."

"I can't do any more than I am doing, sir!  I'm sorry, but I cannot.

You have the tapes, that's all I promised.  Now,you must make it
possible for me to leave Germany, for if what you say is true, I will
be marked by the Nazi pigs."

"We honor our agreements, miss."  The colonel turned to Latham and
spoke in English.

"We're out of here, cb1opak.  We can't take the bastard without
jeopardizing the whole operation.  We'll fly to Bonn in an hour or so
on a Deuxieme plane and wait for the son of a bitch there."

"Do you think he'll still go to Bonn tomorrow?"  asked Drew.

"I don't think he has a choice.  Also, I'm counting on a German chain
of command, which is a lot more rigid than ours.  Blame is to be
avoided at all costs, which is pretty much the same as ours,
actually."

"Clarification, please?"

"Each of Traupman's bodyguards has been drugged.  They'll come to in
twenty or thirty minutes, scared shitless no doubt, and immediately
check on the penthouse."

"Where they'll find Traupman peacefully asleep," interrupted Latham.

"But what about the tapes, Stosh?"

Witkowski looked at the young blond woman and asked the same question.
Tratipman's lady of the evening opened her purse and pulled out a
key.

"This is one of the two keys to the steel cabinet that holds the rest
of the tapes," she answered in German.

"The other is in the Nuremberg National Bank."

"Will he miss the key?"

"I don't believe he'll even think about it.  He keeps it in the second
drawer of his bureau, beneath his underwear."

"Then I ask this only because I must.  Did he tape your activities this
evening?"

"Certainly not, it would be too embarrassing.  After I met with your
associate in the ladies' room, I saw, as they say, my way out.

I always carry an eyedropper filled with a sleep-inducing narcotic in
the event the evening becomes too repulsive."

"Yet you're an addict yourself, aren't you?"

"It would be ridiculous to deny it.  I have sufficient dosages to last
me three days.  After that I have been promised to be put on private
subsistence in America..  .. I did not choose to become an addict, sit,
I was led into it, as it was for so many of my sisters in East Berlin.
We all became high-priced official hostesses and consequently addicts
so we could survive."

"We're out of here," yelled Witkowski.

"These kids are victims!"

"Then let's go, Colonel-mine," said Latham.

"Captain Dietz will get his chance on the Rhine after all."

One by one, the disoriented bodyguards converged in the hallway outside
Tratipman's door.  Each of their accounts of what happened was
different, yet each was the same, the variations due to self serving
excuses, for none really knew what had happened.  That they had been
attacked was a given, but none was seriously injured.

"We'd better go inside and see if there's damage," said the man whose
breath was born in a distillery.

"Nobody could get inside!"  protested the guard who manned the hallway
desk.

"There would be a crowd up here if anyone had tried.

The alarm simultaneously alerts the lobby security and the police."

"Still, we were assaulted and drugged," insisted the bodyguard whose
hands roamed around his stomach and private parts, scratching
furiously.

"I hope to God you're seeing a doctor," said the whisky-prone man.

"I don't want to catch what you've got."

"Then don't have a picnic on the banks of the Regnitz with a slut who
makes love in the weeds.  The bitch!  .. .

We must go inside, if only to learn whether we have to get the hell out
of Nuremberg."

"I'll deactivate the alarm and free the door," said the desk guard,
bending over unsteadily and touching a series of numbers on his
console.

"There, it's unlocked."

"You go first," instructed the riverbank lover.

Four minutes later the threesome returned to the hallway, perplexed,
uncertain, each in his own way stunned.

"I don't know what to think," said the large man.

"The doctor is sleeping peacefully, nothing was upset, no papers in his
study disturbed-- And no young woman!"  interrupted the scratch
merchant.

"Youthink .. .

"I know," pronounced the guard whose skin was driving him crazy.

"I tried to tell the doctor subtly, you understand, that she was not
good for him.  She lives with a hot-tempered policeman who's separated
from his wife, and, God knows, he can't afford her habit."

"The police .. . the alarms .. . she could have done it all with her
boyfriend's help," said the hallway guard, sitting down at his desk and
picking up the phone from his console.

"There's one way to find out," he continued.

"We'll call her apartment."  Reading from a list of prominent numbers
encased in plastic, he dialed.  A full minute passed and he replaced
the phone.

"There's no answer.

They've either left the city or are out somewhere establishing an
alibi."

"For what?"  asked the guard, nervously drinking from his flask,
unnerved because it was now empty.

"I don't know."

"Then none of us knows .. . anything."  The bodyguard was adamant.

"The doctor is fine, the whore left on her own volitionHeinrich can
verify that-and everything is normal, right?"

"Why not?"  agreed the guard named Heinrich at the desk.

"Even Herr Doktor Traupman would find it acceptable.  He'd rather not
see those women in the morning."

"So then, my comrades, nothing happened," said the man, glancing at his
empty flask.

"I will continue my watch, stopping in the garage and my automobile for
replenishment."

The floodlights shining down on the docks of the marina on the Rhine
River in Bonn were in full force.  All but one would be extinguished
when the small powerboat left its slip In a matter of minutes.  A
half-mile away, in darkness, was another craft, its hull and deck
painted a deep hunter green, its engine off, bobbing up and down in the
gentle river currents; its inhabitants were in wet suits, scuba tanks
strapped to their backs.  There were six of them, the sixth person, a
captain, an agent of the Deuxi@me.  Of the five prepared to go
underwater, only Karin de Vries had to vociferously justify her
inclusion.

"I've probably had more experience with scuba equipment than you have,
Officer Latham."

'1 doubt that," Drew had replied.

"I was trained at the Scripps Institute in San Diego, and you don't get
any better than that."

"And I learned with Frederik in the Black Sea, four weeks of
preparation-our cover was a sporting husband and wife.  If Stanley's
memory is intact, he might recall the exercise."

"I do, young lady," Witkowski had said.

"We paid for the whole operation..  .. Freddie de V brought back a
couple of hundred underwater shots of the Soviet vessels in and around
Sevastopol.

Tonnage, displacement, the whole enchilada."

"I took at least a third of those photographs," added Karin
defiantly.

"All right," Latham had conceded, "but if we get out of this alive,
you're going to have to learn that you don't wear the pants in the
family."

"And you'll not get into mine unless you change your attitude..  Did
you just ask me to marry you?"

"I've asked you before-not in so many words, but plain enough what
new?"

"Put a cap on it, you two ordered Witkowski.

"Here comes

The commando captain approached and squatted in front of them.

"I've gone over the strategy with our skipper and he can find no holes.
Now, let me go over it again with you people."

Captain Christian Dietz's plan, if not a masterpiece of confusion, was
certainly designed to elude penetration during the moments of hostile
activity.  Trailing the dark green motorboat, hauled by a rope, was a
black PVC life raft with a 250 hp engine, capable of making 40 knots an
hour.  In addition, rolled up at the bow was a black tarpaulin that
could be released over the entire raft, engine included.  The strategy
was simplicity itself-if everything worked according to schedule.

A mile or so out of its slip, Tratipman's small boat would be attacked
by the underwater N-2 unit, its gas jets plugged by liquid steel caps
that would harden in seconds.  Then from all sides the roving
television cameras were to be shorted out by silent pellets exploded
from pistols as powerful as .357 Magnums.  The unit would then board
Traupman's boat, rip out all other communications equipment, sedate the
doctor, and deliver him to the black PVC raft with the Deuxieme
captain, who would roll out the black tarpaulin.  Traupman's boat would
then be set on automatic pilot upriver, while the unit returned to
their painted dark green motorboat to head into shore near Traupman's
destination.

The first two exercises worked.  Under the guidance of Lieutenant
Anthony'and Captain Dietz, Latham, Witkowski, and Karin surfaced beside
the speeding boat, grabbing whatever ribs they could find and shoving
the steel caps into the small circular gas holes marked by small red
circles.  The craft slowed down; it was heading into shore.  As one,
all five climbed on board, facing a terrified Traupman.

"Was ist los?"  he screamed, reaching for his radio.  It was instantly
torn out by Latham, while Karin walked up to the Nazi, ripped open his
jacket, and inserted a needle into the flesh beneath his shirt.

"I will have you shot .. . !"  were the last words Traupman spoke
before falling to the deck.

"Get him into the raft!"  yelled Witkowski as the black

PVC pulled alongside and the Nazi's body was lowered over the
gunwale.

"Now, full speed out of here!"

"I'll circle the boat and put it on auto, north-northwest!"  cried
Christian Dietz.

"What the hell is that?"

"Not to worry, Cons-Op," replied Lieutenant Gerald Anthony.

"It's straight up the Rhine, curves included.  We studied the maps."

1.1Traupman was headed toward that yellow light on a dock over on the
left," said Karin.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"  said Drew.

"I hope so, for I will not be denied."

"Then over the sides and swim to our own boat, if we can see it."

"I anchored it, Cons-Op," said Anthony.

"It's right over there-no more than a hundred feet away.  Once we're on
board, I'll steer it into shore under a bunch of trees."

"How would you like to be a'colonel, Lieutenant?"

"I'd love it!"  cried Captain Dietz, returning from making sure
Traupman was under black cover in the motorized raft and was on his way
to the opposite side of the Rhine.

"Let him pay for my dinners..  .. Let's get out of here!  We've got to
send this hunk of wood upriver."

The suggestion came none too soon, for within minutes, as Traupman's
empty boat reached the center of the Rhine, the marina helicopter
descended, as if to provide rescue equipment.  Instead, a continuous
fusillade of machine gun rounds sprayed the craft, circling twice, and
finally blowing it apart with cannon fire.  It sank.

"That's hardball," said Latham to Karin and their three colleagues as
they sat on the banks of the Rhine.

"I say we go back to that dock, wait and see who else arrives, and find
out how hard," said Witkowski.

 hey removed the scuba equipment from their backs, leaving the black
wet suits and coarse rubber foot Tcoverings intact.  Assorted weapons
and miniaturized walkie-talkies were taken out of Captain Dietz's
waterproof duffel bag and distributed.  The semi-commando unit then
crawled along the riverbank to within sight of the dock with the dull
yellow Jight.  Slowly, at approximately ten-minute intervals, the
small, sleek boats drifted into the slips from various directions until
the majority were filled.  Suddenly, the yellow light was
extinguished.

"I think the class is assembled," whispered Latham to Witkowski.

Karin was on the colonel's left, the two cornniandos on Drew's right.

"Gerry and I will reconnoiter," said Dietz as he and the lieutenant
elbowed forward, the blades of their long knives erratically reflecting
the moonlight.

"I'll go with you," said Latham.

"That's definitely not a good idea sit," protested Anthony.

"We work better alone-sir."

"Cut the 'sit' crap, please.  I'm not army, but I'm running this
operation."

"What he means, Mr.  Cons-Op," explained the captain, "is that he and I
have signals we recognize when we've studied an area.  Like the low
rustle of a breeze through the trees, or the gulp of a frog, anything
that's indigenous."

"You're kidding."

"Not for a second," replied the lieutenant, "It's basic to the work."

"Also," continued Dietz, "if this estate here is what all the reports
suggest, there'll be patrols roaming around."

"Like Traupman's place?"  Witkowski interjected.

"That was chocolate cake, sir-I'd studied it before."

"All right, go ahead," said Drew.

"Leave your radios on transmit and call us when we can move forward-and
be careful."

"That's even more basic to the work," said Anthony, glancing hesitantly
over at Karin de Vries, and lowering his whisper to the point where
Latham could barely hear him.

"Our orders in Nuremberg were to immobilize, not neutralize.  From what
we saw that chopper do out there on the river, I don't think that rule
can apply here."

"It doesn't, Lieutenant.  This is the core of the Nazi movement, so
consider yourself at war.  If it's at all possible, we have to learn
who's in there, that's the most important thing we can do.  So if you
have to use those knives, use them well."

The following minutes were akin to the sound track of some ghoulish
film noir, the images far more powerful, for they were imagined, not
seen.  Karin and Witkowski kept a single radio between them, Drew held
his in front of his eyes.  What all three heard caused each to wince,
the colonel less so than Latham and De Vries.  As the two commandos
crept forward through the dense, tangled foliage of the riverbank,
there were rushes of leaves and footsteps and sudden muted screams cut
off by the horrible expulsions of air and liquid, the skewering of
blades through flesh.  Then more footsteps, racing, growing fainter,
coughing grunts accompanied by cracking spits that had to be silenced
pistol shots.  More running feet, snaps of broken twigs, louder now,
the range diminishing.  Then silence-total, frightening-suddenly broken
by a burst of static and the sound once again of footsteps, but on a
hard surface.  Karin, Drew, and Witkowski looked at one another, their
intense eyes conveying their fears of the worst.  Then voices, all
speaking German, pleading, supplications -in German!  Crashes of metal
and glass followed, now accompanied by moans and the exploding cry of a
voice in English.

"My God, don't kill me!"

"Christ!"  exploded Witkowski.

"They've been captured.  You stay here, I'm going after them!"

"Hold it, Stanley," ordered Drew, gripping the colonel's shoulder with
the strong hand of a former, younger hockey champion.

"Stay where you are, I mean that!"

"I'll be damned if I will!  Those boys are in trouble!"

"If they are, you'll only get killed, and we all had that option, isn't
that what you said?"

"This is different!  I've got a full automatic with clips enough to
fire two hundred rounds."

"I feel the same way you do, Stosh, but that's not why we're here, is
it?"

"You big son of a bitch," said the colonel quietly, lowering himself to
the ground, "you really could be an officer."

"Not in any army I ever heard of, I can't stand the uniforms."

"All right, chlopak, what do we do?"

"We wait-that's another thing you told me-waiting's the hardest
part."

"So it is."

It was not, however, as the breathless voice of Captain Christian Dietz
came softly over the radio.

"Beach One to Beach Two.  We've taken out four patrols by necessity,
roped and taped two others who gave no resistance.  We then followed
the lines and captured the security center in a subcellar below the
carriage house sixty or seventy yards east of the estate.  Of the three
operators here, one is dead, shot while attempting to set off an
auxiliary alarm, another roped and taped, the third-a good-ol'-boy
redneck who married a German girl while in the army-is still crying and
singing "God Bless America."

"You guys are fantastic!"  exclaimed Drew.

"What's happening at the big house?  Did you get a chance to see?"

"Only a couple of glimpses through the windows once we took out the
lawn patrols.  Between twenty and thirty men and some blond-haired
priest at the lectern who wasn't offering any prayers, just fire and
brimstone.  By the looks of things, he's the chief rabbi around
here."

"A priest?"

"Well, he's in a dark suit with a white collar around his neck.

What else could he be?"

"There was a priest or a minister in Paris-how tall is he?"

"Not your size, but pretty close.  I'd say five eleven or six feet."

"Oh, my God!"  intruded the panicked voice of Karin de Vries, her whole
body trembling.

"What?"

"A priest .. . with blond hair!"  Shuddering, she covered the radio and
whispered to Latham and Witkowski.

"We must get over to one of those windows."

"What is it?"  asked Drew as the colonel stared at De Vries.

"What's the matter?"

"Do as I say!"

"Do it," said Witkowski, his eyes still on Karin.

"Beach Two to Beach One, what's the scene like at the estate?"

"I don't think we missed anyone, but I can't guarantee it.  You know, a
guy could've been taking a leak somewhere in the bushes-"

"Then when he came out he'd find a few corpses, wouldn't he?"

"If so, he might have opted for getting the hell out of here and
reaching some ncos in Bonn."

"I think you're better than that," said Drew.

"We're moving forward."

"Just calm down, Cons-Op.  Wait'll we position ourselves between the
house and the river.  I'll let you know when to come out."

"I'll accept that, Captain.  You're the experts."

"You better' believe it .. . sir," said the voice of Lieutenant
Anthony.

"And please keep Mrs.  de Vries on your river flank in case there's a
firefight."

"Naturally."  Latham covered the radio and spoke to Karin over
Witkowski's head.

"You know, that kid's beginning to annoy me."

"He's okay," said Witkowski.

"He's twelve years old."

"Please, the windows!"  Karin urged.

"When we get the word, young lady."  Unobtrusively, the colonel reached
for De Vries's trembling hand and gripped it.

"Easy, girl," he whispered.

"Control, remember?"

"You know .. . ?"

"I don't know anything.  just a few unanswered questions from the
past."

"Beach Two," came Dietz's quiet voice over the radio.

"You're clean, but stay low.  There could be infrared trips waist-high
until you reach the upper terrace."

"I thought you short-circuited the system," Witkowski broke in.

"The cameras and the fences, Colonel.  They may be enough, but the
trips could be wired underground and independent."

"Understood, Captain, we'll stay close to the ground."

The trio crawled forward, Latham in the lead, the waves of the Rhine
lapping over the path Drew created on the riverbank.  Mud sticking to
their wet suits, their weapons held directly over their heads, they
reached the border of the estate's sloping lawn.

Coming side by side, each nodded to the other as they proceeded up
through the grass to.  the first, lower patio overlooking the dock.

Atop the ascending hill of manicured lawn was a second patio terrace
beyond which was the rear of the river mansion, a wall of sliding glass
doors indicating an enormous interior, a ballroom or a banquet hall
judging by the dimly lit chandeliers.

"I've seen this place before!"  whispered Drew.

"You've been here?"  asked Witkowski.

"No.  Pictures, photographs of it."

"Where?"

"In one of those architectural magazines, I don't recall which, but I
remember the descending terraces and the -row of glass doors..  Karin!
What are you doing?"

"I have to look inside."  As if in a trance, De Vries stood up and
began walking like a robot across the grass toward the wall of huge
glass panels.

"I must!"

"Stop her!"  said the colonel.

"Good Christ, stop her!"

Latham shot forward, grabbing Karin around the waist and pulling her to
the ground, rolling over and over to the right, away from the wash of
light.

"What's wrong with you?  Do you want to get yourself killed?"

"I have to look inside!  You can't stop me."

"All right, all rigbt, I agree with you, we all agree with you, but
let's be halfway bright about it."

Suddenly the two Special Forces commandos were on their knees, flanking
them, Witkowski scrambling up from the terrace patio.

"That wasn't too smart, Mrs.  de Vries," said Captain Dietz angrily.

"You don't know who may be standing by one of those glass doors, and
there's a fair amount of moonlight tonight."

"I'm sorry, truly sorry, but it's important to me, so important.

You mentioned a priest, a blond priest .. . must look at him!"

"Oh, my .. . God!"  whispered Drew, staring at Karin, seeing the panic
in her eyes, the trembling of her head.

"This is what you wouldn't tell me-"

"Ease off, cb1opak!"  ordered the colonel, interrupting and gripping
Latham's left arm.

"You," said Drew, turning his head and looking hard.  at the lined,
stern face of the G-2 veteran.

"You know what this is all about, don't you, Stosh?"

"I may or I may not.  However, I'm not the issue.  Stay with her, young
fella, she may need all the support you can provide."

"Follow us," said Lieutenant Anthony.

"We swing to the right and reach the corner, then sidestep our way to
the first door.  We slip tripped the latch and opened it an inch or
two, enough to hear what's going on beyond the drape."

Half a minute later the five member unit was huddled by the corner of
the estate's ground floor, at the edge of the upper terrace.

Witkowski tapped Latham's shoulder.

"Go with her," he whispered.

"Keep your hands free and quick.  There may be nothing, but be prepared
for anything."

Drew gently pushed Karin forward, holding her shoulders, until they
reached the first sliding glass door.  She peered around the edge of
the inside drape and saw the man at the spotlighted lectern, heard the
blond priest exhorting the crowd into hysterical shouts of Sieg Heil,
Gtinterjdger!  Her mouth agape, her eyes wild, she started to scream.
Latham clamped his hand over her mouth while the roars of Sieg Heil
filled the ballroom, and spun her around back to the corner of the
mansion.

"It's he!"  choked De Vries.

"It's Frederik!"

"Get her back to the boat," the colonel fairly yelled.

"We'll finish up here."

"What's to finish?  Kill the son of a bitch!"

"Now you're not acting like an officer, lad.  There's always a
follow-up."

"And we're following up, Colonel," said Captain Christian Dietz,
gesturing at his lieutenant, who held a miniaturized video camcorder in
his hands and was recording the frenzied event taking place inside.

"Get her out of here!"  repeated Witkowski.

The ride back across the river was made mostly in silence, in deference
to the shock sustained by Karin.  For a long time she preferred to
stand alone at the bow, staring in the moonlight at the opposite
shoreline.  Halfway across she turned and looked pleadingly at Latham,
who got up from the gunwale and walked over to her.

"Can I help?"  he asked quietly.

"You already have, but can you forgive me?"

"For God's sake, for what?"

"I lost control, I could have killed us all.  Stanley warned me about
losing control."

"You had every reason to..  .. So this was your secret, that your
husband was alive and-"

"No, no," interrupted Karin.

"Or I should say, yes, but not this way, not what we saw tonight.  I
was sure he was alive and I believed he had turned and was part of the
Nazi movement-willingly, or unwillingly@ but nothing like this!  " '

"What did you think

"So many things, so many possible explanations.  Before East Berlin
fell, I left him, telling him that we were finished unless he put his
very odd life back together.  His drinking was never a problem, for
alcohol only made him pleasant, expansive, and full of fun.  Then he
changed, drastically, and became horribly abusive, striking me and
throwing me into walls.

He wouldn't admit it, but he had gravitated to drugs, which was
antithetical to everything he believed."

"What do you mean?"

"He believed in himself, liked himself.  Drinking sporadically was a
now-and-then enjoyment, not an addiction.  If it had been, your brother
wouldn't have tolerated him-for both personal and professional
reasons."

"I'll grant you that said Drew.

"Harry liked good wine and a fine brandy, but he had no use for anyone
who drank himself into a stupor.  Neither do I, as a matter of fact.
"

"That's my point, neither did Freddie.  Anything that altered who he
was for any length of time was abhorrent to him.  Yet he changed, as I
say, drastically.  He became an enigma, a monster one minute, contrite
the next.  Then one night in Amsterdam, having convinced myself that
Harry was right, that Frederik was dead, I got.  an obscene phone call.
It was the sort adolescents make showing off in front of their friends,
disguising their voices by pitching them high or low and speaking
through paper.  There were the usual sexual demands and insults, so I
started to hang up, when a particular phrase or series of words were
used that stunned me.

I'd heard them before-from Freddie!  I shouted, My God, is that you,
Freddie?"  .. . I can still hear the agonizing scream that followed,
and I knew I'd been right and Harry was wrong."

"What we saw tonight was a variation of that monster," Drew said.

"I wonder if he's still on drugs."

"I have no idea.  Perhaps a psychiatrist should be brought in to watch
the tape Lieutenant Anthony made."

""I can't wait to see it myself.  That tape could be a gold mine..
Karin, what does Witkowski know?"

"Again, I have no idea.  All he said to me was that there were
unanswered questions from the past.  I don't know what he meant."

"Let's ask him."  Latham turned and addressed the colonel, who was
sitting on the starboard gunwale with the two commandos.

"Stan, can you come here a minute?"

"Sure."  The colonel walked across the deck and stood between Drew and
Karin.

"Stosh, you knew more about tonight than you told either of us, didn't
you?"

"No, I didn't know, I merely assumed the possibility.  One of Freddie
de V's favorite personas when he went undercover was that of a priest,
and, Lord knows, he was blonder than Marilyn Monroe when he didn't dye
his hair.  When the captain described a blond priest around six feet
tall, I was next to you, Karin, and watched you go ballistic.  Suddenly
memories came back to me."

"That doesn't answer why you could even imagine it might be her husband
up there," said Latham.

"Well, now you're going back a few years.  When G-Two got word of
Frederik de Vries's death at the hands of the Stasi, there were a few
gaps we couldn't fill, such as why they recorded his 'interrogations'
and death in such detail.  It wasn't normal, not normal at all. 
Usually that stuff was buried, deep; the lessons of the concentration
camps were learned."

"That 5s what first struck me," said Karin.

"Harry, too, but he ascribed it to the mentality of Stasi fanatics who
knew they were about to lose their power, lose everything.  I couldn't
go along with that because Frederik talked about the Stasi so
frequently, how brutal they could be, now manipulative, yet how
basically insecure they were.  Insecure men don't condemn themselves
with their own words."

"What did my brother say when you told him that?"

"I never did.  You see, Harry wasn't just Frederik's control, he was
very fond of him.  I didn't have the heart to tell him about our
difficulties.  There was no point, Freddie was dead-for the record."

"There were a couple of other things too," said the colonel softly,
"things you couldn't know, Karin.  In his last three penetrations, the
information De Vries brought out was patently false.  By that time we
ourselves had compromised quite a few Stasi who knew they were soon
going to be unemployed and indictable, so they were happy to
cooperate.  Several brought out proof that contradicted De Vries's
findings."

"Why didn't you call him on it?"  asked Drew.

"Pull him out and put him on the grill?"

"It was a lousy, fogged-up area," replied Witkowski, shaking his head
in the shadows.

"Had he been duped, outsmarted?  Was it burnout?  He had been
outstanding in the past, so were these simply lapses as a result of
overwork?  You figure, we couldn't."

"You mentioned a 'couple of things," Stanley," said Karin.

"What were they?"

"Only one really, but it was confirmed by two of our turnarounds who
didn't know each other, and we confirmed that.  The Stasi was an
octopus with a hundred eyes and a thousand tentacles; in a sense it ran
the underside of the country..  .. Your husband was flown twice to
Munich and met with General Ulrich von Schnabe, later established to be
one of the leaders of the neo-Nazi movement.  He was assassinated while
in prison by one of his own people before he could be interrogated."

"So the seed was planted and a poison flower called Gfinter jAger
bloomed," said Karin, arching her head back in disbelief.

"How?  In the name of sanity, how?"

"Maybe the tape will tell us something."  Latham gently shoved the
colonel away and put his arm around her shoulders, then turned to
Witkowski.

"Use your fancy phone and call Moreau's people here in Bonn.  Tell them
to get us a triple suite at the Kenigshof Hotel, one with a VCR that
has duplicating equipment."

"Jawohl, mein Herr!"  said the colonel, smiling appreciatively in the
erratic darkness of the moonlight.

"You sound like a real commander, chlopak."

"But how?"  cried Karin de Vries suddenly, her pained face appealing to
the rushing night clouds in the sky.

"How could one man become such another?"

"We'll find out," said Drew, holding her.

The words, alternately muted and roared in German, took on a strange
cadence of their own, an erratic flow of sound, both numbing and
electrifying, a mixture of sermon and threat.  The images on the screen
were equally hypnotic despite the constant movement of the small
camcorder that could not be held steady, or the frequent intrusions of
a drape that kept blocking the lens.  The blond priest spoke to an
all-male audience of thirty-six men, a number, by the looks of their
clothes, non-German, but each was expensively dressed, some less formal
than others, yachting outfits and Dior jogging gear juxtaposed with
business suits.  They sat in mostly rapt attention, a few eyes straying
in conceivable embarrassment when the fiery priest's harangue became
too violent, yet all rose as one during the frequent Sieg Heils.  And
the intense priest with the bright blond hair and piercing eyes was,
indeed, mesmerizing.

Before placing the tape in the VCR, Lieutenant Anthony had stood in
front of the unit in the large suite at the K6nigshof Hotel and made an
announcement.

"The camera has a zoom lens and a high-impedance microphone, so you'll
hear everything, and I tried to get close ups of everyone in the place
for identification purposes.

Since Mr.  Latham doesn't speak German, Chris and I ordered up an
English typewriter and did our best to translate what this Gunter JAger
said-the text isn't word perfect, but it's clear enough."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Gerry," said Drew, sitting between
Witkowski and Karin.

"It was more than that.  It was very damned important," interrupted
Captain Dietz, kneeling in front of the television set and inserting
the tape.

"I'm still shook up," he added enigmatically.

"Okay, it's magic time."  The screen was suddenly filled with sound and
images, or, perhaps, sound and fury, as the poet wrote.

Latham followed the English text.

"My friends, my soldiers, you true heroes Qf the Fourth Reich!"

began the man who called himself Gunter Jdger.

"I bring you magnificent news!  A tidal wave of destruction is about to
descend on the capitals of our enemies.  Zero hour has been determined,
and it is now precisely fifty-three hours away.  Everything we have
worked for,

strived for, sacrificed for, has come to fruition.  The end is not yet
in sight, but the end of the beginning is upon us!  It will be the
omega, the final solution, of an international paralysis!  As you who
have come here tonight from across the borders and the seas are well
aware, our enemies are in a state of chaos, so many accusing so many
others of being part of our great cause.  They curse us on the surface,
but millions silently applaud us, for they want what we can provide!
Rid the halls of power of the conniving Jews, who want everything for
themselves and the loathsome Israel, deport the screeching inferior
blacks, squash the Socialists who would tax us into productive oblivion
and use our taxes to promulgate the unproductive-in a word,
restructure!  The world must take a lesson from the Romans before they
grew indolent and let the blood of slaves infect their veins.  We must
be strong and completely intolerant of inferiority!  One kills a
deformed dog, why not the product of inferior parents?  .. . Now to our
tidal wave -most of you know its name, some of you do not.  Its code
name is Water Lightning, and that's precisely what it is.  As lightning
strikes and kills, so will be the water struck by it.  In fifty-three
hours the water reserves of London, Paris, and Washington will be
polluted with such extraordinary toxicity that hundreds of thousands
will die.  The governments will be paralyzed, for it will take days,
perhaps weeks, before the toxins are analyzed, and weeks after that
before countermeasures are in place.  By that time-"

"I've heard enough!"  said Latham.

"Shut the goddamned thing off and make immediate duplicates.  I don't
know how you do it, but wire that tape to London, Paris, and
Washington!  Also, fax this transcript to the number I give you.  I'll
get on the phone to everyone I can think of.  Christ, all we've got is
two days!"

esley Sorenson listened as Latham spoke over the phone from Bonn; the
director's eyes were steady, w.intense, as beads of sweat formed at his
white hairline.

"The 'water reserves," the reservoirs," he said, barely audible with
fear.

"It's the province of the Army Corps of Engineers."

"It's the province of everyone at the Pentagon, Langley, the FBI, and
the police around every water supply source in Washington, Wcs!"

"They're fenced, guarded-"

"Double, triple, and quadruple all the patrols," insisted Drew.

"This maniac wouldn't have promised what he did unless he thought he
could deliver, not with that crowd.  I'm betting there was more money
in there than in half of Europe.  They're hungry for power, salivating
for it, and I suspect he's got unlimited resources to pay the Nazi god.
Jesus, barely two days!"

"How are the identities of that crowd going?"

"How the hell do I know?  You're the first call I've made.  We're
wiring the tapes-the President of Germany gave us carte blanche through
satellite feeds at the government studios-to French, British, and
American Intelligence, in our case all questions and releases to be
directed to YOU."

"There can't be any public releases!  The climate here and across the
country is poisonous; it could get worse than the McCarthy period.
There've been several riots, and a march on the state capital in
Trenton.  The crowds began shouting Nazi at the mention of politicians,
bureaucrats, union leaders, and corporate executives INStantly
associated with those openly being investigated.  And this is only the
beginning."

"Wait a minute," said Latham's voice over the line, fit wait a minute!
Hundreds of those initial names were brought out of the Briiderschaft
valley by Harry, weren't they?"

"Of course."

"And according to the MI-Six transcripts, my brother made it clear that
not only should the names be examined but everyone around them."

"Naturally, it's standard."

"And then after those names were circulated, the order to kill Harry
came from the Nazi high command, right?"

"Obviously."

"Why?  .. . Why, Wcs?  They've hunted me like a starving wolf pack in
search of a sheep."

"I've never understood that."

"Maybe I'm beginning to.  It pains me to say it, but suppose Harry was
fed false names.  Purposely, to create the very climate you just
described."

"What I know of your brother, I don't think he'd buy them."

"Suppose he didn't have a choice?"

"He didn't lose his mind.  Of course he had a choice."

"Suppose he did-lose his mind, I mean.  Gerhardt Kroeger is a brain
surgeon, and he risked his life in Paris to kill Harry.  In one
scenario he-l-was to be decapitated; in another, a coup de grace was to
be administered that would blow his head away .. . the left side of his
head."

"I'd say an autopsy is called for," said the director of Consular
Operations, then added, "when it's feasible.  At the moment, we'd all
better move as fast as we can to stop whatever it is that's going to
kill hundreds of thousands of people in Paris, London, and
Washington."

"JAger spelled it out, Wcs.  Toxicity in the reservoirs."

"I'm no expertl in waterworks, but I know something about them.

Good Lord, at one time or another we've all considered them in terms of
tactical sabotage, and, conversely, we all rejected them .

4,why ?7@

"The task is simply too massive.  To have any effect on the water of
large cities would entail a supply line of heavy-duty trucks at least
three or four miles long, a sight that could hardly be concealed.  Then
there's the obstacle of entry into the reservoirs, which for such a
number of vehicles is virtually impossible.  Those fences are like
prison barricades, they're equipped with lateral sectional alarms; if
penetration is made, a signal is sent to the water tower7s security and
immediate inspections are made."

"I'd say you were quite an expert, Mr.  Director."

"Rubbish, that information could be and probably is learned by the Boy
Scouts, and certainly by any civil engineer on a government payroll."

"So you've ruled out the ground, what about the air?"

"Just as impossible.  There'd have to be at least two squadrons of
low-flying cargo aircraft, pinpoint-targeting their materials nearest
the water towers for sluice entry.  In all likelihood they'd crash into
one another, and even if they didn't, they'd be like prolonged
deafening thunder across the area, not to mention being tracked by
radar."

"Wow, you really did consider this kind of sabotage, didn't you?"

"You know as well as I do, Drew, various options are basic to the games
we play."

"This isn't a game, Wcs.  That bastard meant what he said.  He's
figured out a way.  He's going to do it."  .  "Then we'd all better get
to work, hadn't we?  I'll stay in contact with MI-Five and the Quai
d'Orsay.  You concentrate on the identities of everyone in that estate
on the Rhine.  Coordinate with Claude, MI-Six, and German intelligence.
We want every one of those fanatics in cells by tomorrow.  And zero in
on the non-Germans first; don't let them leave the country."

The government computers of four nations spun their disks furiously for
the next twenty-one hours as isolated photographs were wired to the
intelligence agencies of Germany, France, England, and America.  Of the
thirty-six men who roared Sieg Heil, Gunter jdger, seventeen were

German, seven American, four British, and five French; three were
unidentified and presumably had already boarded flights out of the
country.  All were secretly placed under arrest and held incommunicado
in isolated prison cells, no explanations given, no telephone calls
permitted.  In cases where the individuals were prominent, sudden
business trips and prolonged conferences were the stories told their
households, issued in the names of their companies.

"This is outrageous!"  roared the owner of a German chemical factory.

"So are you," replied the German police officer.

There remained only Gunter jdger, kept oblivious of the events of the
last twenty-one hours, alone with his staff in his modest compound on
the banks of the Rhine.  It was a multilateral command decision, as
none of the neo-Nazis taken prisoner could provide any specifics
regarding Water Lightning.  The strategies they offered up in hopes of
better treatment and leniency were totally impractical and therefore
false.  Even the hysterical Hans Traupman, having been shown the lurid
tales of his sexual experiments, could provide nothing of substance.

"Do you think I would withhold anything from you?  My God, I'm a
surgeon, I know when an operation has failed.  We're finished!"

Only Gunter jAger had the answers, and it was the considered opinion of
the behavioral scientists who had studied the tape that he would take
his own life before revealing them.

"His condition is one of manic-depressive, controlled paranoia, which
simply means he's constantly living on the edge.  One shove and he's
into the abyss of complete madness."

Karin de Vries agreed.

Therefore, the new Fdhrer's every means of communication was monitored:
telephone, radio frequencies, deliveries, even the possibility of
carrier pigeons.  Agents with powerful electronic listening devices
were in the bushes, in trees, and among the ruins of the former
demolished estate, the "ears" beamed to every area of the river cottage
and its grounds.  All waited for Jdger to make contact with anyone or
anything that would give them a clue about Water Lightning.

None came, and the hours passed.

In London, Paris, and Washington, the waterworks were virtually under
siege.  Platoons of armed soldiers patrolled every foot of the areas,
roads leading to the reservoirs were blockaded, detours put in place.
In the brick water towers of Washington, the operations and security
systems were manned by experts of the Army Corps of Engineers, the most
experienced personnel flown in from all over the country.

"No son-of-a-bitch Nazi will get near this place," said the brigadier
general in command of the Daleearlia reservoir.

"It's the same in London and Paris, we've conferred down to the last
possibility.  I think the French went a little ape though.  They've got
bazooka and flamethrower units every hundred yards, and they don't even
drink water."

In.  Bonn because there was no evidence that Water Lightning would
affect the city, the government placed all its resources at the
disposal of the allies, its allies now, for no one on earth loathed the
reappearance of the Nazi more than the German leadership.

However, they did not consider history or its plague of repetition.

For during the darkest hours of the night of Water Lightning, trucks
ostensi ibly carrying everything from linen supplies to kitchen
equipment to cleaning services drove slowly, unobtrusively, into the
parking areas of the Bundestag.  In reality, within those trucks were
stored large tanks of high octane, highly explosive fuel attached to
pumps capable of spraying an entire football or soccer field.  It was a
symbol Gunter J@ger could not resist, a personal symbol he shared with
no one but his committed disciples who would perform the task.  They
would torch the Bundestag, burning it to the ground.

"Reichstag revisited," he wrote in his private journal.

"Nothing's happening!"  exclaimed Karin in the suite at the K6nigshof
Hotel.  It was one o'clock in the morning in Bonn; Witkowski and the
two commandos from Desert

Storm, exhausted from nearly two days' lack of rest, were asleep in the
other rooms.

"We're not getting anywhere!"

"We've all agreed," said Latham, his eyelids like lead shields he had
to constantly pry open, "if nothing comes down by six o'clock this
morning, we take him and put him on the rack."

"There won't be a rack, Drew!  Freddie never went into an operation
without the means to kill himself if he was caught.  He always said to
me that it wasn't heroic at all, it was only his fear of torture.  If
he was exposed, he knew he'd eventually be executed, so why not avoid
the pain..  .. It was one of the reasons I couldn't believe the Stasi
file."

"You mean a cyanide capsule in a collar and all the rest of that
crap?"

"It's real, you've seen it!  Your brother Harry armed himself with the
same pill!"

"He never would have used it."  Latham's head fell forward over his
chest, then his entire body lurched slowly back on the couch.

"Hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake, Drew!  You said it
yourself-he's found a way to do it!"  Her plea was not heard; Latham
was asleep.

"There's another way to stop him," said De Vries, whispering as she
raced into their bedroom, yanked a blanket off the bed, and returned,
covering Latham.  She then -returned to the bedroom and picked up the
phone.

A telephone rang, disorienting Drew, who fell off the couch, reaching
for what was not there.  He rose to his feet unsteadily; the ringing
stopped and thirty seconds later a nearly dressed Witkowski burst out
of the bedroom.

"Goddammit, she's done it!"  shouted the colonel.

"Done what .. . ?"  asked Latham, back on the couch and shaking his
head.

"Gone after De Vries herself."

"What?"

"Karin used our codes and got clearance to pass through the jdger
security."

"When?"

"A few minutes ago.  The officer of the watch wanted to know whether to
log her entry by code or by name."

"We're out of here!  .. . Where's my weapon?  It was right here on the
table.  My God, she took it!"

"Put on a jacket and a raincoat," said the colonel.

"It's been raining for the last hour."

"A car from German intelligence is on its way," announced Captain
Dietz, rushing out of the third-bedroom door followed by his
lieutenant, both fully dressed, their automatics bolstered.

"I picked up the phone and heard, "he explained.

"We've got to hurry, it'll take at least ten minutes to get there."

"Call the security chief and order them to stop her, or go in after
her!"  said Lieutenant Anthony.

"No," snapped Witkowski.

"Jdger's a mad dog.  If he thinks he's cornered, he'll go wild, killing
everything in front of-him.  You heard the psychiatrists.  Whatever the
hell she thinks she's doing, she's better off doing it alone until we
get there."

"And when we get there," said Drew quietly, yanking a jacket and a
raincoat off a chair, "we're going in.  Each of you has a second
weapon.  One of you give me his."

Identifying herself as a member of the N-2 unit, her name and code
verified by the German intelligence officer in charge of the Jdger
compound's surveillance team, Karin de Vries was given an overview as
well as specific instructions.

"I have nine men strategically placed throughout the grounds with their
equipment," said the officer, crouched in the pouring rain bel@ and a
half-demolished wall of the old estate.

"Each is camouflaged and hidden in the foliage, several actually up in
trees, and the rain, though extremely uncomfortable, is advantageous
for us.  Gunter Jdger's two patrols stray barely twenty-five meters
beyond the boathouse cottage.  You say that you must reach the door
without being seen, and it's vital to our situation that you are not
seen-so listen to what I tell you.  Follow this old flagstone path
until you reach the remnants of a burned-down gazebo where there's a
croquet field rebuilt for Jdger's re-

Taxation.  On the opposite side is a spreading pine tree; roughly
fifteen feet above the first branches is one of my men with clear sight
lines to the cottage.  He has a penlight he will cup in his hand:

two flashes mean a guard is walking around, three mean everything's
clear.  When you see the three flashes, run across the center of the
croquet course, where there is another flagstone path that curves to
the left.  Enter it and stop after approximately forty paces, at where
the curve is the sharpest.  Look to your right;

there'll be another man in the brush, another penlight.  He has a
direct line of sight to a side door which is straight ahead at the end
of the path, you can't miss it."

"A side door?"  Karin had interrupted, brushing the rain off her face
under her black canvas hat.

"Jdger's living quarters," answered the German intelligence officer.

"Bedroom, bath, office, and an addition on the north wall that contains
a small personal chapel with its own altar.  It's said he spends hours
there in meditation.  The side door is his private entrance, the
closest to the riverbank and forbidden to everyone else.  The front
door is at the far left, the old boathouse's original entrance; it's
the one the guards and visitors use."

"In other words, he's basically separated from the rest of the
household when he's in his quarters."

"Definitely.  Director Moreau was particularly interested in the
arrangement as I described it to him.  He reached me after you called
him in Paris, and together we devised the plan to accommodate you with
the minimum of risk."

"What did he tell you, if I may ask?"

"That you knew Gfinter Jdger years ago and that you were a highly
trained strategist who might accomplish what others could not.  I along
with most senior officers in our profession accept Moreau's judgments
as those of an expert.  He also mentioned that you would be armed and
capable of protecting yourself."

"I hope he's right on both counts," said Karin softly.

"Oh?"  The German officer stared at De Vries.

"Your superiors approve of your tactics, of course."

"Naturally.  Would the celebrated Moreau himself have reached you on my
behalf if they did not?"

"No, he wouldn't..  .. Your raincoat will soon be soaked.  I can't
offer you a new one, but I have an extra umbrella.  You're welcome to
it."

"Thank you, I'm grateful.  Are you in touch with your personnel by
radio?"

"Yes, but I'm sorry, I can't let you have one.  The risk is too
great."

"I understand.  just let them know I'm on my way."

"Good luck and be very, very careful, madame.  Remember, we can lead
you to the door, but we cannot do anything else for you.

Even if you cried out, we could not respond."

"Yes, I know.  One life compared to so many thousands."  With those
words Karin snapped open the umbrella and started down the flagstone
path through the deluge.  Constantly wiping the rain from her eyes, she
reached the once-elegant gazebo, its skeletal outlines of burnt wood
and coiled screening somehow akin to a wartime photograph illustrating
the lesson that war was an equalizer, touching the rich and the poor
alike.  And then beyond, as if to purposely contradict the lesson,
there was a perfectly kept croquet field, the lawn manicured, the
wickets and the brightly painted poles intact.

She raised her head, squinting under the brim of her canvas.  hat
studying the enormous pine tree with different, less imposing trees on
either side.  Suddenly there were the barely visible flashes.  Two of
them!  A guard was on patrol.  Karin lowered herself to the ground,
peering into drenched darkness, waiting for another signal.

It came quickly: three flashes, repeated twice.  The way was clear!

She raced across the croquet course, her flat shoes sinking into the
swollen, wet grass until she felt the hard surface of the second
flagstone path.  Without hesitating, she raced down it, keeping in mind
the approximate forty paces and the sharp curve; she found it too late,
plunging headlong into the overgrown foliage as the flagstones turned
abruptly left.  There was no visibility, no way she could have known.
She got painfully, awkwardly, to her feet and picked up the umbrella;
it was broken, useless.  On her knees, she looked to her right, as
instructed.  There was nothing but downpour and darkness, yet she dared
not move until the signal came.  Finally, it did: three flashes.  Karin
walked slowly, cautiously, to the end of the flagstone path; she was at
the edge of the woods and saw the lair of her once and now-despised
husband, Fiibrer of the Fourth Reich.  There were lights on at the far
left side of the structure, darkness everywhere else.

The former boathouse was much longer, though not necessarily larger,
than she had envisioned, for it was one level.  The German intelligence
officer had said there was an addition on the right that housed the
isolated living quarters of the man called Gunter Jdger.

Additions had been made on the left as well, she thought, observing the
lighter, newer wood, twenty-five or thirty feet long, and considering
the width to the river side, enough for two, three, or four added rooms
for the staff.  The officer had been correct in one area: The front
door was on the far left, at the end of the gravel drive, symmetrically
unbalanced, as if temporary, but removed from J@ger's quarters.  And
directly ahead of her, the short- dock and the great river beyond, was
the porticoed side door of Gunter Jdger's suite of rooms; a dim red
light was affixed to the interior roof of the small porch.  Karin took
several deep breaths, hoping to control the pounding in her chest,
removed Drew Latham's automatic from her raincoat pocket, and started
across the grass toward the porch with the dim red light.  One of them
would live, the other die.  It was the end of their godforsaken
marriage.  But first there was Water Lightning, Gunter Jdger's omega
for the paralyses of London, Paris, and Washington.  Frederik de Vries,
once the most brilliant of agents provocateurs, had figured out a way
to do it.  She knew it!

Karin reached the short porch with the eerie red light; she walked up
the single step, holding on to one of the two columns that supported
the overhang, the heavy rain pounding a steady tattoo on the roof.
Suddenly, she gasped, fear and confusion spreading over her.  The door
was ajar, open no more than three inches, beyond the slit was only
black darkness.  She approached it, Latham's automatic in her left
hand, and pushed the door back.  Again only darkness, and except for
the now-torrential rain, silence.  She walked inside.

"I knew you'd come, my dear wife," said the unseen figure, his voice
echoing off the unseen walls.

"Close the door, please."

"Frederik!"

"Not Freddie any longer, I see.  You only called me Frederik when you
vere angry with me, Karin.  Are you angry with me now?"

"What have you done?  Where are you?"

"It's best we talk in the dark, at least for a while."  You knew I'd
come here .. . ?"

"That door's been open since you and your lover flew into Bonn.

"

"Then you understand they know who you are-"

"That's totally irrelevant," interrupted De Vries/jAger firmly.

"Nothing can stop us now."

"You won't get away."

"Of course I will.  It's already been arranged."

"How?  They know who you are, they won't let you!"

"Because they're out there in four acres of tangled shrubbery and
ruins, their listening devices waiting for me to reach others here in
Germany and in England, France and America?  So they can accuse others,
arrest others, because I talked with them?  I tell you, dear wife, the
temptation to place calls to the Presidents of France and the United
States, and the Queen of England, was nearly irresistible.  Can you
imagine the utter bewilderment in the intelligence communities?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Because the sublime would become the ridiculous and we're deadly
serious."

"Why, Frederik, why?  What happened to the man who, above all, loathed
the Nazis?"

"That's not quite right," said the new Fuhrer curtly.

"I loathed the Communists first, for they were stupid.  They squandered
their power everywhere, trying to live up to the Marxist doctrine of
equality when no such equality exists.  They gave authority to
uneducated peasants and crude, ugly louts.  There was nothing grand
about them at all."

"You never spoke in those terms before."

"Of course I did!  You just never listened carefully enough..  ..

But that, too, is irrelevant, for I found my calling, the calling of a
truly superior human being.  I saw a void and I filled it, admittedly
with the help of a surgeon of great stature and perception who realized
that I was the man they needed."

"Hans Traupman," said Karin in the darkness, immediately angry with
herself for saying the name.

"He's no longer with us, thanks to your team of blunderers.  Did you
people really think you could hijack his boat and speed away with him?
All four cameras blacked out in succession, the radio suddenly
malfunctioning, the boat itself heading upriver?  Honestly, such
amateurism.  Traupman gave his life for our cause, and he wouldn't want
it any other way, for our cause is everything."

GUnter Jdger knew a great deal, but he did not know everything,
considered Karin de Vries.  He thought Traupman had died on his boat.

"What cause, Frederik?  The cause of the Nazis?  The monsters who
executed your grandparents and forced your father and mother to live as
pariahs, until they finally took their own lives?"

"I have learned many things since you abandoned me" wife."

"I abandoned you .. . ?"

"I traded my execution for diamonds, all the diamonds I had left in
Amsterdam.  But who was going to hire me after the Wall fell?

What good is a deep-cover espionage agent when there's nothing to
penetrate?  Where would my lifestyle go?  The unlimited expense
accounts, the limousines, the extravagant resorts?  Remember the Black
Sea and Sevastopol?  My God, we had fun, and I stole two hundred
thousand, American, for the operation!"

"I was talking about the 'cause," Frederik, what about the cause?"

"I've come to believe in it with all my being.  In the beginning,
others wrote my speeches for the movement.

Now I write them all, compose them all, for they are like short heroic
operas, bringing those who see and listen to their feet, their voices
ringing with my praises, honoring me, holding me in adoration as I hold
them enthralled!"

"How did it start .. . Freddie?"

"Freddie-that's better.  Would you really like to know?"

"Didn't I always want to hear about your missions?  Remember how we
sometimes laughed?"

"Yes, that part of you was all right, not like the bitch whore you were
most of the time."

"What .. . ?"  Immediately Karin lowered her voice.

"I'm sorry, Freddie, truly sorry.  You went to East Berlin, that's the
last word we had of you, any of us.  Until we read that you'd been
executed."

"I wrote that report myself, you know.  Rather sensational, wasn't
it?"

"It certainly was graphic."

"Fine writing's like great speaking, and great speaking's like fine
writing.  You've got to create instant images to capture the minds of
those reading or listening.  Capture them immediately with fire and
lightning!"

"East Berlin .. .

"Yes, that's where it began.  Certain of the Stasi had ties with
Munich, especially with a provisional general of the Nazi movement.

They recognized my abilities, and my God, why not?  I'd made fools of
them too often!  After the official leaders I dealt with retrieved my
diamonds in Amsterdam and set me free, several came to me and said they
might have work for me.  East Germany was collapsing, the entire Soviet
Union soon to follow-everyone knew it.  They flew me to Munich and I
met with this general, von Schnabe.  He was an man, even perhaps a
visionary but he was basically a martinet, a harsh bureaucrat.  He
lacked the fire to be a leader.  However, he had a concept, a concept
he was progressively turning into reality.  It could ultimately change
the face of Germany."

"Change the face of Germany?"  said Karin incredulously.

"How could an obscure, unknown general of a despised radical movement
be capable of such a thing?"

"By infiltrating the Bundestag, and infiltration was something I knew a
great deal about."

"That doesn't answer my question .. . Freddie."

"Freddie-I like that.  We had good times for a number of e 'fe." 
Gunter j5ger's voice still seemed to y ars, my

WI I

come from nowhere and everywhere in the darkness of the room, the
source further obscured by the pounding rain against the shaded windows
and the roof.

"To answer your question.  To infiltrate the Bundestag, the right
people simply have to be elected.

The general, with the help of Hans Traupman, scoured the country for
talented but discontented men, placed them in distressed economic
districts, fed them 'solutions," and funded their campaigns beyond
anything their opponents could match.  Would you believe we have over a
hundred members in the Bundestag at this moment?"

"You were one of those men .. . my husband?"

"I was the most extraordinary, my wife!  I was given a new name, a new
biography, a completely new life.  I became Gunter jdger, a parish
clergyman from a small village in Kuhhorst, moved by the church
authorities to Strasslach, outside Munich.  I left the church, fighting
for what I called the disenfranchised middle class, the burghers who
were the backbone of the nation.  I won my seat in a landslide, as they
say, and while I was campaigning, Hans Traupman watched me, and made
his decision.  I was the man the movement needed.  I tell you,
whore-wife, it is fantastic!  They've made me emperor, king, the ruler
of all we espouse, the Fzihrer of the Fourth Reich!"

"And you accept it, Freddie?"

"Why not?  It's the extension of everything I practiced in the past.

The persuasiveness I exhibited while burrowing into the enemy camps,
the speeches I gave solidifying my false commitments, all those dinner
parties and symposiums-it was all training for my greatest
achievements."

"But you once considered these people your enemies."

"No longer.  They're right.  The world has changed and it's changed for
the worse.  Even the Communists with their iron fists were better than
what we have now.  Youtake away the discipline of a strong state and
what's left is the rabble, screaming at one another, slaughtering one
another, no better than animals in a jungle.  Well, we'll get rid of
the animals and restructure the state, selecting and rewarding only the
purest to serve it.  The dawn of a great new day is upon us, my wife,
and as soon as it is understood, the truth of its force and the force
of its truth will sweep across the world."

"The world will point to and remember the brutality of the Nazis, won't
it .. . Freddie?"

"Perhaps for a while, but that will pass when the world sees the
results of a cleansed state under strong, benign leadership.  The
democracies constantly extol the righteousness of the bailor box, but
they could not be more in error!  Ballots are fought for in the gutter,
for that's where the majority of votes are.  And bless the Americans,
they don't even understand their own Constitution as it was conceived
two hundred years ago.  Originally, only the landowners, the men who
had proved themselves successful and therefore superior, were to be
permitted to vote.  That was the consensus of the Constitutional
Convention, did you know that?"

"Yes, it was an agrarian society, but I'm surprised you know it.

History was never one of your strong suits, my husband."

"All that's changed.  If you could see these shelves .. . they re lined
with books, new ones brought in every day.  I read five or six a
week."

"Let me see them, let me see you.  I've missed you, Freddie."

"Soon, my wife, soon.  There's a certain comfort in the darkness for I
'see' you as I prefer to remember you' The lovely, vivacious woman who
took such pride in her husband, who brought me secrets from NATO, a
number of which I'm convinced saved my life."

"You were on NATO's side, how could I do otherwise?"

"Now I'm on a greater side.  Would you help me now?"

"It depends, my husband.  I can't deny that you're extremely
convincing.  Having heard your own words, I'm very excited for you. 
You were always an extraordinary man, even those who disapproved of you
said as much-"

"Such as my friend, my former friend, Harry Latham, who is now your
lover!"

"You're wrong, Freddie.  Harry Latham is not my lover."

"Liar!  He was always fawning on you, waiting for you to show up,
asking me when you would."

"I will repeat my statement to you, and we lived together too long for
you not to know when I'm telling the truth.  It's your profession,
after all, and you've heard me tell a hundred lies on your behalf..  ..
Harry Latham is not my lover.  Shall I repeat it again?"

' "No."  The single word echoed off the unseen walls.

"Then who is he?"

"Someone who's assumed Harry's name."  6"Why?)@

"Because you want your friend Harry killed, and Harry doesn't care to
be killed.  How could you, Frederik?  Harry loved you as a-a younger
brother."

"It was not of my doing," said the disembodied voice of Gunter J@ger
quietly.

"Harry penetrated our headquarters in the Alps.  He was part of an
experiment.  I had no choice but to agree."

"What kind of experiment?"

"A medical thing.  I never fully understood it.  Traupman, however, was
very Enthusiastic, and I could not go against Hans.

He was my mentor, the man who put me where I am today."

"And where are you, Freddie?  Are you really the new Adolf Hitler?"

"It's odd that you mention him.  I've read and reread Mein Kampf, and
all the biographies I could get my hands on.  Have you any idea how
parallel our lives are, at least our lives before we joined the
movement?  He was an artist, and in my own way, I'm an artist too.  He
was unemployed, as I was about to be.  He was rejected by the Austrian
Artists League, as well as the Architectural Academy, for a supposed
lack of talent-an ex-corporal with nowhere to go.  In my case, the
same.  Who employs someone like me?  And we were both penniless; in
his case he had nothing, and I sold all my diamonds to save my life.. 
.. Then someone in the twenties saw a street-corner radical screaming
passionately, convincingly, against the injustices of social
conditions, and years later someone else watched the oratory of a
superb, former agent provocateur who had fooled even them.  Such men
are valuable."

"Are you saying that both you and Adolf Hitler backed into your awesome
positions?"

"I'd put it another way, my wife.  We didn't find our causes, our
causes found us."

"That's obscene!"

"Not at all.  The convert's convictions are always the strongest, for
they must be arrived at."

"To bring all this about will result in an enormous loss of life-"

"Initially, yes, but it will pass quickly, be forgotten quickly, and
the world will be a far better place.  There'll be no massive war, no
nuclear confrontations-our progress will be gradual but sure, for much
of it is in place already.  In a matter of months, governments will
change, new laws will be created that benefit the strongest, the
purest, and within a few years the useless garbage, the dregs of
society who suck us dry, will be swept away."

"It's not necessary to deliver a speech to me .. . Freddie."

"It's all true!  Can't you see that?"

"I can't even see you, and you do excite me when you talk like this,
like the extraordinary man, I know you are.  Please, turn on a
light."

"I have a small problem with that."

"Why?  Have you changed so much in five years?"

"No, but I'm wearing glasses and you're not."

"I wear them only when my eyes are tired, you know that."

"Yes, but mine are' different  I can see in the dark, and I see the gun
in your hand.  It reminded me that you were left-handed.  Do you
remember when you decided you should play golf with me and I bought you
a set of clubs, only they were the wrong kind?"

"Yes, of course, I remember, they were for right-handed players.  . I
carry the gun because you taught me never to go to a meeting at night,
even with you, without a weapon.  You said neither of us could know if
you'd been followed."

"I was right, I was protecting you.  Did your friends outside know you
had a gun?"

"I didn't see anyone.  I came alone, without authority."

"Now you're lying, at least in part, but it doesn't matter.  Drop the
gun on the floor!"  Karin did so, and De Vries/jdger turned on a light,
a reflector lamp that shone down on a small chapel altar, heightening
the gold crucifix on a purple cloth.  The new hihrer sat on a prayer
stool on the right, in a white silk shirt, opened at the collar, his
bright blond hair glistening, his handsome, sharp featured face at its
most flattering angle.

"How do I look after five years, wife?"

"As beautiful as ever, but you know that."

"It's an attribute I cannot deny, and one Herr Hitler never possessed.
Did you know he was a rather small, pinch-faced man who wore elevator
shoes?  My looks are a great help to me, but I wear them in brilliant
humility, and pretend to be icelike when women make,a point of them.
Physical vanity does not become a national leader."

"Others care.  I believed they're awed by it.  I was .. . I still
am."

"When did you people suspect that "Ginter Jager' was the new neo-Nazi
leader?"

"When one of the Sonnenkinder broke under questioning.  With the
addition of drugs, I suspect."

"That couldn't be, I never revealed myself to any of them!"

"Obviously, you did, whether you realized it or not.  You said you had
meetings, gave speeches-"

"Only to those of us in the Bundestag!  All the rest were recorded."

"Then someone sold you out .. . Freddie.  I heard something about a
Catholic priest who went to confession and taxed the conscience of his
confessor."

"My God, that senile idiot Paltz.  Time and again I said he should be
excluded, but no, Traupman claimed he had a large following among the
working class.  I'll have him shot."

Karin briefly breathed easier.  She had struck the chord she so needed
to strike.  The name of Paltz came to her from the identifications made
from the tape, and the fact that Monsignor Paltz was an old man
vociferously disliked by the Catholic hierarchy in Germany, another
fact established by a call to the bishop of Bonn.  The bishop had not
minced words.

"He's a misguided bigot who should be retired.  I've said as much to
Rome."  Karin waited until her unwanted husband calmed down.

"Freddie," she began quietly, in control.

"This Paltz, whoever he is, this priest, said that something dreadful
will happen to the cities of London, Paris, and Washington.  Disasters
of such magnitude that hundreds of thousands will be killed.  Is it
true .. . Freddie?"

The pitch-black silence from the F4hrer was electric, exaggerated by
the pounding rain.  Finally Gunter Jager spoke, his voice strained,
harsh, sounding like the strings of a taut cello about to snap.

"So that's why you're here, slut-wife.  They sent you on the distinctly
outside chance that I might reveal the nature of our shock wave."

"I came on my own.  They don't know I'm here."

C'It's Oossible, for you were never a good liar.  However, the irony is
sweet.  I said before that nothing could stop us, and that happens to
be the truth.  You see, like all great leaders, I delegate
responsibility, especially in areas where I lack expertise.  I'm given
the outlines of a plan or a strategy, in particular the final results,
but not the technical aspects, nor even the names of the personnel
refining them.  I wouldn't know whom to call should I want them
myself."

"We know it concerns the three cities' water, the reservoirs or
waterworks, whatever they're called."

"Really?  I'm sure Monsignor Paltz was very technical in his
disclosures.  Ask him."

"It can't work, Frederik!  Call it off.  Everyone involved will be
caught.  There are troops by the hundreds prepared to fire at anyone or
anything that gets near the water.  They'll be captured and you'll be
exposed!"

"Exposed?"  asked JAger calmly.

"By whom?  A senile old man who isn't even sure what year it is, much
less the month or the day?

Don't be ridiculous."

"Frederik, there is a tape of last night's meeting.  Everyone who was
there has been arrested and kept in isolation!  It's over, Freddie!

For God's sake, call off Water Lightning!"

"Water .. . Ligbtning?  My God, you're telling the truth, it's in your
voice, your eyes."  Gunter JAger rose from the prayer stool, his face
and his body like a Siegfried under an operatic spotlight.

"Still, my whore-wife, it changes nothing, for no one can stop the
shock wave.

In less than an hour I'll be on a jet to a country that applauds my
work, our work, and watch as my disciples throughout the Western world
move into positions of power."

"You'll never get away!"

"Now you're naive, dear wife," said Jdger, walking to the center of the
altar and pressing a button under the gold crucifix.  Abruptly, with
his touch, a square on the floor opened, revealing the splashing waters
of the 'river below.

"Down there is a two-man submarine, courtesy of a boat works whose
chairman is one of us.

It will take me up to K6nigswinter, where my plane waits for me.

The rest is history reborn."

"And I?"

"Have you any idea how long it's been since I've had aw oman

said Jager quietly under the altar spotlight.

"How many years I've had to assume the mantle of rigid monastic
discipline, while inferring that others who succumbed to such
temptations were vulnerable to compromise and corruption?"  ,

"Please, Frederik, I'm not interested in your posturings."

You should be, wife!  For over four years I've lived like this, proving
that I, and only I, was the incorruptible supreme leader.  I frowned on
women who wore indiscreet clothing and would not even permit lewd
anecdotes or jokes in my presence."

"It all must have been unbearable for you," said Karin, her gaze
straying about the shadowed room.

"Whenever you returned from one of your forays into the Eastern bloc,
you invariably carried an excess of condoms and various telephone
numbers, women's names opposite them."

"You searched my clothes?"

"They usually had to be sent to the cleaners."

"You have an answer for everything, you always did."

"I answer honestly, what first comes to mind as my memory tells me.. 
.. Let's return to me, Frederik.  What happens to me?  Are you going to
kill me?"

"I'd rather not, my wife, for that's what you still are, legally and in
the eyes of God.  After all, my courtesy submarine accommodates two
people.  You could be my consort, my companion, eventually, perhaps,
the empress to the emperor, not unlike Fraulein Eva Braun to Adolf
Hitler."

"Eva Braun committed suicide with her 'emperor," accomplished by
cyanide and a gunshot.  It does not appeal to me."

"You will not accommodate me, wife?"

"I will not accommodate you."

"You will in another way," said Gunter Jager, barely audible as he
unbuttoned his white silk shirt and removed it, then began unbuckling
his belt.

Karin suddenly lunged to her left, her body in midair as she tried
desperately to reach Latham's automatic that she had dropped on the
floor.  Jager raced forward, lashing out his right leg, the toe of his
boot crashing into her midsection with such force that she collapsed in
the fetal position moaning in pain.

"You'll accommodate me now, wife," said the new Fahrer, taking off his
trousers leg by leg and folding them, matching the creases and laying
them over the prayer stool.

 When did she go asked Latham, raising his voice to be heard in the
downpour.  W "Roughly twenty minutes ago," answered the bilingual
German officer as the intelligence vehicle, its headlights off, backed
out of the compound.

"Christ, she's been in there that long?  And you let her inside without
a wire, without any way to reach you?"

"She understood, sir.  I made it plain that I could not give her a
radio and her very words were "I understand."

"

"Don't you think you should have checked with us before letting her
pass?"  Witkowski fairly shouted in' German

"Mein Gott, nein!"  replied the officer angrily.

"The great Director Moreau himself reached me and we devised the least
dangerous way to get her past the patrols."

"Moreau?  I'll strangle the son of a bitch!"  exploded Latham.

"To more fully answer your question, mein Herr," said the German
intelligence officer, "the Frdulein has not been in the cottage that
long; my forward scout reported by radio that she entered it only
twelve minutes ago.  Here, see, I wrote the exact time in my notebook
with my waterproof ink.  I am extremely efficient, we Germans
is-are."

"Then why do all my rich friends have so much trouble getting their
Mercedes fixed?"

"Undoubtedly the American mechanics, sir."

"Oh, shut up!"

"I think it's time for me and the Thin Man," interrupted Captain
Christian Dietz, standing only feet away in the rain, Lieutenant
Anthony at his side.

"We'll replay that big estate downriver and take out the guards."  The
captain stepped forward and switched to German, addressing the
officer.

"Mein Oberf4hrer,he began, "how many patrols are there, and is there a
routing?  I speak to you in Deutsch, for I don't care to risk any
misunderstanding."

"My English is as good as your German, sir."

"But it's a little more hesitant.  And your grammar-"

"I shall not pay my tutor next week," broke in the officer, smiling.

"To reach my next grade, I must have afternoon tea with Englishmen from
Oxford."

"Ab/all!  You'll never understand them.  I don't.  They talk like
they've got raw oysters in their mouths!"

"ja, so I've heard."

"What are they talking about?"  yelled Drew.

"They're getting acquainted," answered Witkowski.

"It's called gaining trust."

"It's called wasting time!"

"The little things, chlopak.  Listen to a man in his own' language for
even a minute, you learn when he's uncertain.  Dietz merely wants to
make sure there are no ambiguities, no hesitations' "

"Tell them to hurry up!

"I don't have to, they've about concluded."

"There are only three patrols," continued the officer in German to the
commando captain, "but there is a problem.  As one guard returns to the
door on the far left of the d .  rive, another comes out a short time
later, but only after the current guard returns.  And I must tell you,
we've identified two, and they are pathological killers, always with an
arsenal of weapons and grenades."

"I see.  It's a relay.  The baton is passed to the next man by his
presence."

"Precisely."

"So we have to figure out a way to get the others outside."

"Ja, but how?"

"Leave it to us.  We'll manage."  He turned to Latham and Witkowski.

"They're crazies in there," said Dietz, 4 4which doesn't surprise us.

"Pathological killers' as our buddy here explained.

These types would rather kill than eat; the shrinks have a word for it,
but we can't give a damn about that now.  We're going in."

"And this time I'm going with you!"  said Drew emphatically.

"Don't even think about making any objections."

"Gotcha, boss man," agreed the lieutenant, "only do us all a favor,
sir."

"What's that?"

4 Don't play Errol Flynn, like in those old movies.  It's not like
that."

"Tell me about it, junior."

"Give us the precise layout beyond here," said Witkowski, turning to
the German officer.

"You follow the flagstone path to a destroyed gazebo

Ten seconds later, the quartet started forward from behind the
half-destroyed wall of the old estate, the commandos in front, Drew on
the radio.  They reached the croquet field and waited for the penlight
signal from the tree.  It came: three flashes, barely seen in the
horrendous downpour.

4 4Let's go," said Latham, "it's clear!"

"No!"  whispered Dietz, his strong right arm blocking Latham.

"We want the patrol."

"Karin's in there!"  cried Drew.

"A few seconds can't matter," said Lieutenant Anthony as he and his
captain raced forward.

"Stay there!"  he added as the two of them scrambled across the croquet
course and into the drenching darkness.  No signal came; there was
nothing.  And then it was there, two flashes: A guard was on patrol.
Suddenly, from the distance, came a shout, a howl, abrupt, short-lived.
And then another and another after that.  Then, again, came the muted
flashes from the tree, three dim bursts of light; the area was clear.

Latham and Witkowski rushed across the croquet field and down the
flagstone path, the colonel's flashlight illuminating the way.

They reached the abrupt left turn and raced to the end of the path
above the old boathouse.  Far on the left, the commandos were having
trouble subduing two guards who had run out of the house.

gu

"Go help them," ordered Drew, looking at the side porch with the red
light as described by the officer of German Intelligence.

"This is my trick."

"Chlopak .. . !"

"Get the hell out of here, Stosh, they need help.  This is mine!"

Latham walked down the sloping hill of grass, an automatic in his hand.
He walked up on the short porch, beneath the dim red light, and over
the pounding rain on the roof, he heard the screams inside.  Karin's
screams!  His personal galaxy blew apart into a thousand infinities. 
He hurled his body against the door, shattering it, hinges flying,
sending the entire panel across the obscenely spotlighted glare of the
altar with its glistening gold crucifix.  On the floor, stripped to his
shorts, was the blond hihrer, his body on top of a screaming, kicking,
struggling Karin, who thrashed her legs in fury and tried to free her
hands from his grip.  Drew fired his automatic, blowing a hole in the
roof.  jAger, in shock, spun off his abused wife, his face and body
spastic; he was stunned into silence.

"Get up, you Nazi slug," said Latham, his voice icelike, deadly with
pure hatred.

"You're not Harry!"  said J@ger suddenly, rising slowly, hypnotically
to his feet.

"You look something like him .. but you are not he."

"I'm surprised you can tell in this light."  Drew moved out of the
glare.

"Are you all right?"  he asked Karin.

"Give or take a few bruises."

"I want to kill him."  Latham spoke calmly, coldly.

"In light of everything, I have to kill him."  He raised his automatic,
leveling it at j5ger's head.

"No!"  cried Karin.

"I feel the same way, but you can't, we can't!  .  Water Lightning,
Drew.  He claims we cannot stop it, that he doesn't know the details,
but he's lied all his life."

"Drew .. . ?"  interrupted Gunter j5ger, a malevolent grin of relief
spreading across his face.

"Drew Latham, Harry's brutish younger brother.  What did he used to
call him?

"My kid brother, the jock," that was it.  I had to ask him what it
meant.  So Hans Traupman was wrong, the Blitzkrieger did kill Harry,
only his brother took his place.

Mein Gott, we've been hunting the wrong man!  Harry Latham is dead
after all, and no one was the wiser for it."

"What do you mean, the wiser for it?"  asked Drew.

"Remember, the gun's in my hand, and considering my unstable state, I
could easily blow your head off.  I repeat, what did you mean?"

"Ask Dr.  Traupman.  Oh, I forgot, he's no longer with us!  And even
the Polizei, including the ones who are on our side, can't cover every
frequency from the marina' or know our emergency codes.  As the British
say, "Sorry, chap, can't help you."

"

"He said Harry was part of an experiment," Karin broke in quickly as
Latham again raised his weapon, "a medical experiment."

"Sorenson and I came pretty much to that conclusion.  We can find out;
Harry's body is still in a morgue..  .. Okay, glamour boy, start
walking out the door."

"My clothes," protested jdger, "surely you'll permit me to put on my
clothes?  It's pouring rain."

"Would you believe it if I told you I really don't care if you get wet?
Also, I don't know what you've got in your clothes, say, in the
collars.  My friend here will carry them out with us."

"Friend?  Don't you mean your whore-lover?"  screamed the new
F4ihrer.

"You son of a bitch!"  Latham swung the barrel of the automatic into
jdger's head, when suddenly the Nazi thrust his left arm up, blocking
the pistol-whip, his right fist crashing into Drew's chest with such
force that Latham was propelled backward off his feet.

jdger then pounced on the automatic, wrenching it out of Drew's grip,
and stood up, firing twice as Latham rolled first to his right, then to
his left, both feet on the sides of the German's legs, where he locked
jdger's right ankle, smashing his foot in the Nazi's knee with all the
desperate strength he could summon.  jdger screamed in pain as he
arched back, firing twice more, the bullets piercing the walls.  Karin
lunged across the floor, grabbing Drew's automatic;

which her husband had forced her to drop.  She rose and shouted.

"Stop it, Frederik!  I'll kill you!"

"You couldn't, wife!"  screamed Gunter jdger, fending off Latham's
blows, trying to angle his gun into Drew's chest as Latham pinned his
wrist to the floor beside the square hole and the waves of the river
below.

"You adore me!  Everyone adores me, they worship me!"  The Nazi thrust
his right arm behind him, beyond Drew's reach.  He arced his hand to
his left, then his right; it was free, he could shoot.

Karin fired.

The commandos raced through the open door, Witkowski at their heels.
They stopped abruptly, staring at the scene in front of them under the
spectral wash of the reflector lamp shining on-the misplaced altar. 
For a few seconds the only sounds were those of the downpour beyond the
door, and the heavy breathing of the five individuals of the N-2
unit.

"I assume you had to do it, cb1opak," said the colonel finally, a at
jdger's body, his shattered forehead.

st i ri@t

"He didn't, @ I did!"  cried Karin.

"It was my fault, Stanley, I caused it," Latham corrected her, gazing
at the veteran G-2 officer, the death of Ginter jAger an acknowledged
defeat of immense proportions.

"I lost control and he grabbed the advantage.  He was about to kill me
with my own gun."

"Your own gun?"

"I took a swing at him with it.  I shouldn't have, I know better.

"

"It wasn't his fault at all, Stanley!"  Karin exclaimed.

"Even if the circumstances were different, I would have shot him!  He
tried to rape me, and if Drew hadn't shown up, he would have succeeded
and left me dead.  He said as much."

"Then that'll be our report," said the colonel.

"Things don't always work out, and I wouldn't care to attend Officer
Latham's funeral.  Did you learn anything, Karin?"

"Primarily how he got to where he was-the deal with the Stasi, his new
identity, his oratorical talents discovered by Hans Traupman.  About
Water Lightning, he claimed no one could stop It, not even him, because
he didn't know the technical details or the specific personnel
involved.  Then, again, he was a consummate liar."

"Goddammit!"  yelled Latham.

"I'm a pissant fool!"

"I don't know, lad.  If I'd found someone attempting such an obscene
act on a good friend, I don't think I'd have behaved much differently..
.. Come on, we'll tear this whole place apart and see if we can find
anything."

"What about the German detail out there?"  asked Christian Dietz.

"They could help us, maybe."

"I don't think so, Captain," said Karin quickly.

"Frederik made it clear that the Polizei,-even those whose sympathies
were with the Nazis, could not monitor every radio frequency.  That
could mean the ncos have infiltrated the authorities as they have the
Bundestag.

I suggest we do the-search ourselves."

"It'll be a long night," added Lieutenant Anthony.

"Let's get started."

"What about the other two guards?"  asked Drew.

"Or the first, for that matter?"

"They're bound and fast asleep," answered Dietz.

"We'll check them now and then, and when we're finished, we'll turn
them over to whomever you say."

"You fellows ransack the rest of the house, we'll concentrate on the
living quarters," ordered the colonel.

"There are three rooms and a bath here, an office, a bedroom, and this
unholy holy place.

One for each of us."

"What are we looking for, sir?"  said Gerald Anthony.

"Anything that could possibly pertain to Water Lightning-and anything
else that has numbers or names..  .. And one of you find a sheet and
cover the corpse "

They left nothing to chance, and as the summer dawn broke over the
eastern Rhine, cartons, discovered in the supply room, were filled with
materials and brought to 'the chapel.  Most of the contents were
probably worthless, but there were experts with far more experience
than anyone in the N-2 unit to make that determination.  Except,
perhaps, Karin de Vries.

"Flugzeug .. . gebaut-there's nothing else, the writing's ripped away,"
said Karin, studying a torn scrap of paper in her late husband's
handwriting.  ""Aircraft made," that's all it says."

"Anything that connects it to Water Lightning?"  asked Witkowski,
taping up several other boxes.

"No, not on the surface."

"Then why spend time on it?"

"Because he wrote it in an excited state, the I's and the b's look
alike, the rest is slurred, but the impressions are hard.  I know that
handwriting; he'd leave lists for me, things I should buy or make sure
were available before he went under cover.  He'd be on a high, his
adrenaline flowing.1)

"If you're suggesting what I think you are, I'm afraid it doesn't make
sense," said Drew, standing beside the square hole in the floor that
led to the miniature submarine below in the river.

"There's no linkage to Water Lightning.  Sorenson, who I learned is
something of an expert on reservoirs, ruled out aircraft."

"He was right," said the colonel, pressing the tape on the last of the
three cartons.

"Sheer numbers and altitudes would make it impossible.  It'd be a
strategy designed to fail."

"Wcs mentioned that reservoirs and other water sources were frequently
considered for sabotage.  I never knew that."

"Because it's never been done except in desert warfare, where oases
have been poisoned.  First, there are humanitarian concerns the victors
have to live with the vanuished after hostilities cease.

And second, the logistics are damn near insurmountable."

"They've figured out a way, Stanley, I'm convinced of that."

"What can we do beyond what we've done?"  said Karin.

"There's less than twenty-four hours left."

"Get this stuff over to London and pull in every analyst in MI Five
MI-Six, and the Secret Service.  Tell them to put everything under
multiple microscopes, the more the better.  "

"We can have it there in forty-five minutes," said Witkowski, taking
out his portable phone and dialing.

"I want the fastest way back to Paris, to meet with whoever's in charge
of guarding the water sources, wherever they are."

"Why not find out where they are and land closest to them?"

asked De Vries.

"Claude can do that."

"If he lives that long after I see him!"  Latham spat out.

"He got you in here.  You called him and he got you in here without
telling us!"

"He had every good reason to do as I begged him begged him."

"With terrific results, I might add," said Drew.

"You were damn near raped and killed, and the mighty Gunter J@ger is
dead under a sheet, no longer able to do us any good."

"For that I'll never forgive myself.  Not for killing him -he had to be
killed or you would have died-but the fact that I caused it all."

"What were you thinking of?"  continued Latham angrily.

"That you were going to fire up his coals and he'd spew out
everything?"

"Something like that, but far more than that.  Harry would have
understood"

"Make me understand!"

"Frederik, for all his flaws, was once devoted to his parents and
grandparents.  Like many children who lose that love through separation
or death, he was passionate about them.  If I could fire up the coals
of those memories, it was conceivable that he might break, even
briefly."

"She's right, cblopak," the colonel interrupted quietly as he replaced
his telephone in his pocket.

"The psychiatrists who saw the tape said he was unstable to the max.  I
understood that to mean he could go one way or the other under extreme
stress.  She tried with a courage I've rarely seen; it didn't work, but
it might have.  Risks like that are taken every day in our ungodly
profession, more often than not by brave people who never get credit,
even for losing."

"That was years ago, Stosh, not today."

"I submit, Officer

Latham, that today is the forerunner of our worst projections.  You
wouldn't be here now, on the banks of the Rhine, if you didn't believe
that."

"Okay, Stanley, I believe it.  I'dust like to have better control over
my troops-they are called 'troops," aren't they?"

"Not in your case, but everything's clear in Paris.  Moreau has two
German jets at the airport, one heading to London, the other down into
France, destination to be determined while airborne."

Captain Dietz and Lieutenant Anthony walked into the chapel from the
door to the rest of the house.

"There's nothing left out there but pots and pans and furniture," said
the captain.

"If there's a paper trail, it's in those boxes."

"Where to now, boss man?"  asked the lieutenant.

Latham turned to Witkowski.

"I know you won't like this, Stanley but I want you to take these
cartons to London.  They're the best and you're the best, and no one
can crack the whip better than you.  Nobody gets any rest, any sleep,
everyone just keeps working, reading, trying to find any clues.  Karin
and our two new friends will fly down into France with me."

"You're right, I don't like it, cb1opak, but logic's on your side, I'll
not deny it.  But, Drew, I'll need help, I'm not exactly on the joint
Chiefs of Staff, you know.  I need more clout behind me than I've
got."

"How about Sorenson, or Talbot of the CIA, or the President of the
United States?"

"I'd love to settle for the last one.  Can you do it?"

"You're damn right I can-Sorenson can.  Call German intelligence and
have a car here in five minutes."

"It never went away, just down the road.  Come on, boys, each of us
takes one of these."

As the two commandos crossed the room to retrieve the boxes, Lieutenant
Gerald Anthony spotted a crushed fragment of paper on the floor at the
foot of the attar.  Sheer instinct made him scoop it up; he unfolded
it.  There were only a few words in illegible German.  Nevertheless, he
shoved it into his pocket.

The jet to London, its engines muted but incessantly roaring,
approached the coast of England.  Witkowski was continuously on the
international phone, first with Wesley Sorenson, then Knox Talbot, the
director of Central Intelligence, Claude Moreau of the Deuxi&me, and,
finally, to his amazement, the President of the United States.

"Witkowski," said the Commander in Chief, "you're now in control of the
London operation.  This has been fully agreed to by the Prime Minister.
You say jump, they'll ask how high."

"Yes, sir.  That's what I wanted to hear.  It can be a little awkward
for an army colonel to give orders, especially to high ranking
civilians.  They resent that kind of thing."

"There'll be no resentment, only gratitude, believe me.  Incidentally
you're cleared at the White House switchboard to reach me whenever you
call.  I'd appreciate a report every hour or so, if it's convenient."

"I'll try to do that, sir."

"Good luck, Colonel.  Several hundred thousand people are counting on
all of you, even though they don't know it."

"I understand, sir, but if I may, shouldn't the people be informed of
the possibilities?"

"And have panic in the streets, the highways at a standstill, public
transportation bursting at the seams as people start racing out of
Washington?  If an alarm is issued that the entire city's water supply
may be poisoned by terrorists, what's next?  Contaminated food,
Legionnaires' disease in all the air-conditioning units, germ
warfare?"

"I hadn't thought of that, sir."

"And you can add wholesale destruction of property, the looting and
roving gangs that would follow, rampant hostilities out of control.
Also, our experts tell us that the main reservoir is armed to the
teeth, every conceivable penetration prepared for.  They don't believe
anything like Water Lightning can happen."

"I hope they're right, Mr.  President."

"They'd better be, Colonel."

Twenty minutes out of the airport in Bonn, Latham received a call from
Claude Moreau.

"Please do not waste time berating me, Drew.

We can debate my decision later, argue the risk I took."

"You can bet your ass we will.  So what have you got?"

"You'll be landing at a private airport in the Beauvais district; it's
twelve miles away from Paris's major reservoir.  You'll be met by my
second-in-command, Jacques Bergeron-you remember him, I trust."

"I remember him.  So?"

"He'll take you to the water tower and the military commander in charge
of the defenses.  He'll answer any questions you have and give you a
tour of the fortifications."

"The problem is, I really don't know a goddamn thing about reservoirs
other than what Sorenson told me and Witkowski confirmed."

"Well, at least you've been prepared by experts."

"Experts?  They're not even engineers."

"All of us become experts and engineers when the sabotage of utilities
may be on the table."

"What are you doing?"

"Overseeing,an army of agents, soldiers, and police who are searching
every square foot of territory within ten miles of the waterworks.
Looking for what, we don't know, but a few of our analysts have
suggested missile launchers or rockets."

"That's not a bad idea-"

"Others say it's insane," the Deuxi@me director interrupted.

"They say that to use launchers with the accuracy required would entail
a couple of tons of equipment with enough electrical power to light up
a small town, or blow it out.  Also, they'd need launching sites, and
we've photographed every inch of ground via aircraft and satellites."

"Underground pads?"

"That's what we're afraid of, but we have over two thousand 'deputies'
spreading out all over the place, asking if any unusual construction
equipment has been sighted.  Have you any idea how much concrete goes
in a single pad?  Or the electrical wiring required from a power
station?"

"You're keeping busy, I'll say that."

"Not busy enough, mon ami.  I know you're convinced that the pigs have
figured out a way, and I agree with you.  Frankly, it was the reason I
let Karin convince me-but let's not go into that.  I have.  a gnawing
feeling that we're missing something, something rather obvious, but
still it eludes me."

"How about something as simple as bazooka-type rocket launchers with
canisters?  ""Among the first things we thought of, but using such
weapons would require many hundreds, all positioned with clear
sightliness You can't walk twenty paces in the woods around the water
without colliding with a soldier.  A dozen rocket launchers, much less
hundreds, would be spotted instantly."

"Could it all be a hoax?"  asked Drew.

"A hoax on whom?  We both saw that tape.  hibrer Gunter JAger was not
speaking to us, not threatening us, he was declaiming to his sworn
constituency, some of the wealthiest men in Europe and America.  No,
mon ami, he believes he can do it.  And so we must keep thinking.
Perhaps the London analysts will find something, God willing.
Incidentally, you were right to send those materials to the British."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that."

"You shouldn't be.  Not only are they very professional, but the U.K.

was never' occupied  I grant you that the majority of the people
reading through the material were probably not around during that war,
but the scar of occupation remains on the national psyche.

The French can never be totally objective."

"That's quite an admission."

"It is the 'truth, as I see it."

They landed in Beauvais at 6:47 in the morning, the private airfield
awash with the blinding early sun.  The N-2 unit disembarked and was
taken directly to the airport's lounge, where- clean, dry clothes
awaited them.  They changed quickly into the lightweight military
fatigues, Karin the last to finish.  When she emerged from the ladies'
room in the pale blue army coveralls, Drew remarked.

"You look better than you should," he said.

"Now roll or bunch your hair up and shove it under the beret."

"It'll be uncomfortable."

"So's a bullet, and if anyone in that German detail at JAger's place
was on his side, word will be sent down to take out the female.  Come
on, let's go.  We're down to seventeen-plus hours.

How long will it take us to get to the-what-do-you-call-it, Jacques?"

"The water tower complex at the reservoir," replied the Deuxieme agent
as they walked out to the waiting car in the parking lot.

"It's eighteen kilometers from here twelve miles American-so it won't
be longer than ten minutes.  Franqois is our driver, you remember
Franqois, don't you?"

"From that carnival?  The man with two bawling daughters he sent
home?"

"The same.  "

"My blood pressure remembers him very well, especially when he drove up
on sidewalks."

"He's quite clever behind the wheel."

"Another word is maniacal."

"The director sent up several hundred aerial photographs for you to
look at, to see if you might spot something we've missed."

"Not likely.  While I was in college I got my pilot's license-props
only-and did about thirty hours solo, but without a radio I could never
find my way back to an airport.  Everything looked the same."

"I can commiserate.  I spent two years as a pilot officer in the Arm6e
de I'Air and it was the same for me."

"No kidding?  The French air force?"

"Yes, but I did not especially like heights, so I resigned and studied
languages.  The mystique of a military pilot fluent in different
tongues still exists.  The Deuxi@me picked me up."

They reached the Bureau's vehicle; it was the same nondescript car,
with an engine designed for Le Mans or Day- 9

tona, that Latham remembered so well.  Franqois was effusive in his
greeting.

"Have your daughters forgiven you?"  asked Drew.

"Never!"  he exclaimed.

"Le Pare de Joie is closed down and they blame me for it!"

"Maybe someone will buy it and reopen.  Let's go, old friend, we're in
a hurry."

The N-2 unit piled in and Fran@ois took off-literally, it might have
seemed, by the expressions of Karin and the two commandos in the
backseat.  De Vries's eyes were wide open, and the faces of the two
behind-the-lines veterans of Desert Storm were white with fear as
Franqois screeched, side-slipping around curves and pressing the
accelerator to the floor on straightaways until the speedometer read
over a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour.

"What the hell is this freak doing?"  asked Captain Dietz.

"Is this a suicide run, because if it is, I want out!"

"Not to worry!"  yelled Drew, turning his head between Franqois and
Jacques, trying to be heard over the roar of the engine.

"He was a racing car driver before he went to the Deuxi@me."

"He should have gone to a permanent traffic court," cried Lieutenant
Anthony.

"He's crazy!"

"He's good," answered Latham.

"Watch!"

"I'd rather not," mumbled Karin.

The Deuxieme sedan screamed to a stop in the parking area of an
enormous brick structure that was the waterworks of the Beauvais
reservoir.  As the unit got shakily out of the car, a contingent of two
platoons of French soldiers converged on the vehicle, their weapons
drawn.  -Arr9tez!-shouted Jacques Bergeron.

"We are the Deuxi@mej here is my official identification."

An officer approached, studied the shield and the plastic card.

"Of course, we knew it was you, monsieur," he said in French, "but we
do not know your guests."

"They are with me, that's all you have to know."

"Naturally."

"Alert your commander and tell him I'm bringing the N-Two unit
inside."

"Right away, sir," said the officer, unclipping a walkietalkie from
his belt and announcing the new arrivals.

"Proceed, sit, the commander of the watch is waiting for you.  He says
to please hurry."

"Thank you."  Jacques, Latham, Karin, and the two commandos proceeded
in front of a row of rifles at port arms to the entrance of the
waterworks.  Inside, the four newcomers were startled by what they saw.
It was like the bowels of an ancient castle, devoid of ornamentation,
dark and reeking of dampness.  Everything was very, very old brick, the
walls reaching up to high ceilings; in the center, flanked by two wide
stone staircases, the huge open area rose to the top of the
structure.

"Come," said Jacques Bergeron in English, "the elevator is down this
hallway to the right."  The unit followed the Frenchman as Lieutenant
Anthony spoke.

"This place must have been built over three hundred years ago."

"With an elevator?"  interrupted Dietz, grinning.

"That came much later," replied Bergeron, "but your colleague is
correct.  This plant, with crude but serviceable viaducts, was built by
the Beauvais dynasty for the purpose of capturing the water and sending
it out to their fields and gardens.  That was in the early sixteen
hundreds."

The enormous old square elevator was the sort found in warehouses or
frei' tdepots where heavy equipment gh .

must be sent from one floor to another.  It creaked and stuttered its
way up, metal abrasively rubbing against metal, until it reached the
top floor.  Jacques opened the heavy vertical panel with such obvious
effort that Captain Dietz helped him shove it up.  Instantly revealed
was the imposing figure of a general in the uniform of the army of
France.  He spoke quickly, urgently, to the Deuxieme officer.  Jacques
frowned, then nodded, muttered a few words in French, and walked
rapidly away with the soldier.

"What did they say?"  asked Drew, turning to Karin as the four of them
walked out of the elevator.

"They rattled too fast for me, but I got something about 'terrible
news."  @ 9

"Basically, that was it," answered De Vries, squinting in the dim light
at the two Frenchmen down the darker brick hallway.

"The general said he had terrible news and had to speak with Jacques
privately."

Suddenly there was a desperate cry.

"Mon Dieu, non!  Pas vrai!"

It was followed by the mournful wail of a damaged man in pain.  As one,
the N-2 unit rushed into the shadowed corridor.

"What happened?"  asked Karin in French.

"I will answer so our friend, Drew, will understand," said Bergeron,
slouched, his back against the brick, tears failing down his cheeks.

"Claude was assassinated twenty minutes ago in the Deuxi@me underground
parking area."

"Oh, my God!"  cried De Vries, stepping forward and gripping Jacques's
arm.

"How could it happen?"  roared Latham.

"That place is tighter than a drum-with your own people!"

"The Nazis," whis ered the Deuxieme agent, his words @p choked.

"They're everywhere."

 he large rectangular window looked out over the vast expanse of the
Beauvais reservoir.  They were in The huge office complex belonging to
the manager of the waterworks and his staff, who had been temporarily
displaced by the military commander overseeing the fortifications.  The
general was nonetheless intelligent and sensitive enough to se&k the
advice of the civilian manager and decline to use his desk.  Jacques
Bergeron had been on the telephone to Paris for over fifteen minutes,
intermittently catching his breath and checking his tears.

The general had spread a map and a stack of photographs over an
enormous table in front of the window, and, using a pointer, was
describing in detail his defenses.  However, the old soldier was aware
that his audience of four was not totally attentive, eyes darting and
ears listening to the Deuxi@me officer at the desk.

Finally, Jacques hung up the phone, rose from the chair, and walked to
the table.

"I'm afraid it is far worse than we imagined," he said quietly"
breathing deeply to find his own control.

"In a macabre way, perhaps it's best that Claude was cut down where he
was if it had to be.  For if he had survived, he would have found his
beloved wife shot to death at their home."

"Goddammit!"  shouted Drew, then lowered his voice to a guttural
murmur.

"No quarter," he said, "no quarter at all for those sons of bitches! 
We see, we kill; we find, we kill."

"There is something else, and I consider it totally irrelevant, for
Claude Moreau was my mentor, my instructor father in so many things,
but it is a fact.  By the order of the President of France, I am the
temporary director of the Deuxieme and must return to Paris."

"I know you never wanted it this way, Jacques," said Latham, "but
congratulations.  You wouldn't have been chosen if you weren't the
best.  Your mentor trained you well."

"It doesn't matter.  Regardless of what happens in the next sixteen
hours, I will resign and find other work."

"Why?"  asked Karin.

"You could be made the permanent director.  Who else is there?"

"You're very kind, but I know myself.  I am a follower, a very good
follower, but I am not a leader.  One must be honest with oneself."

"I hate what's happened," said Latham, "but we've got to go back to
work.  You owe it to Claude and I owe it to Harry.  Start from the
beginning, General," he went on.

"We temporarily lost YOU."

"I must return to Paris," repeated Bergeron.

"I don't want to, but those are my orders-orders from the President-and
I must obey them.  Orders must be obeyed."

"Then do so," said Karin gently.

"We'll do our best, Jacques."

"Right.  You go down to Paris and stay in touch with London and
Washington," said Latham firmly.

"But, Jacques-keep us informed."

"Au revoir, mes amis."  The Deuxi@me officer turned and walked
disconsolately -out of the room.

"Where were we, General?"  asked Drew, leaning over the table, Dietz
and Anthony on either side, Karin across from them.

"These are the armed personnel I've dispersed throughout the area,"
began the old soldier, pointing at the huge map of the reservoir and
its surrounding woods.

"From long years of experience, including in Southeast Asia, where the
enemy's guerrilla forces presented similar concerns for penetration, I
cannot think of any additional defenses we haven't considered.  A
squadron of fighter planes is on an alert at an air base thirty
kilometers from here, and they are fully armed.  We have over twelve
hundred troops throughout the woods and the roads, all units in
constant contact with one another, as well as twenty antiaircraft
emplacements with instant trajectory guidances.  Seventeen bomb squads
have been working without rest, studying the banks, searching for
time-set explosives.  There is also a patrol boat with
chemical-analysis equipment crisscrossing the areas nearest the major
flows.  At the first signs of toxicity, the sluice gates will send
signals, the valves on alert for alternative sources from other
districts.

"If that's necessary," asked Drew, "how long will it take for the
alternative sources to start flowing?"

"According to the manager, who will be back shortly, the longest time
on record was four hours and seven minutes in the middle thirties-due
to machinery failure.  However, the first major problem is a drastic
lowering of water pressure everywhere, followed by initial massive
impurities from the unused flows."

"Impurities?"  Karin broke in.

"Nothing like toxic poisoning; some dirt or mud, or pipe residue.

Perhaps enough to cause upset stomachs, vomit i ing, diarrhea, but not
fatal.  The potential real danger  is with the underground hydrants;
the pressure might r is w"

prelude their use in case of fires."

Then the potential crisis has geometric proportions," said De Vries.

"Because if Water Lightning somehow, some way does succeed, and your
solutions are activated, the pressure still goes down and fires could
be set all over Paris.  Gunter J@ger used the phrase 'fire and
lightning' fire and lightning.  It could be significant.

If I remember my history, Hitler's last order to his evacuating
commanders was "Burn Paris down!"

"All too true, madame, but I ask you, and I'll ask you again after we
take a tour of our defenses, can you really believe this Water
Lightning can succeed?"

"I don't want to, General."

"What about London and Washington?"  said Latham.

"Moreau .  Moreau told me you were in touch with both."

"You see the bald man at the desk over there with the red telephone?"
The old soldier gestured at an army major across the room, a red
telephone at his ear.

"He is not only my most trusted adjutant, he is my son.  The baldness
comes from his mother's side, poor fellow."

"Your son?"

"Oui, Monsieur Latham," replied the general, smiling.

"When the Socialists took over the Quai d'Orsay, many of us in the
military practiced nepotism for our own protection until we discovered
that they weren't such bad fellows."

"How very Gallic," said Karin.

"Again, too true, madame.  La famille est t4ernelle.  However, my
hairless son is an exceptional officer, for which I thank my side of
the family-we are extremely astute.  He is also on the telephone with
either London or Washington right now.  The lines are constantly open,
a single button changes the capital."  The major hung up the phone and
the general called out.

"Adjutant-Major, is there anything new?"

"Non mon general, answered the stern-faced, bald major, turning to
reply to his father.

"And I would appreciate it if you would not continue to ask the same
question.  I will inform you when there is anything unexpected or a
suggested change in our strategies."

"He's also impudent," said the general softly, "again his mother's
influence."

"My name's Latham," said Drew, interrupting.

"I know who you are, sir.  My name is Gaston."  The major rose from his
desk and extended his hand to each mem her of the N-2 unit.  The hands
were shaken awkwardly, as if the command had been shifted from father
to son.

"I must tell you that the general has deployed extraordinary defenses,
as only a man with his experience in incursion and infiltration can,
and we are all grateful.  He has been through such campaigns and we
have not, at least I haven't, but as technology has changed, so the
rules have changed.

London and Washington have upgraded their fortifications, as we have,
employing the newest electronics."

"Like what specifically?"  asked Drew.

"Infrared sensor beams throughout the woods as well as webs of spun
plastic matting along the roads that, when penetrated, activate clouds
of vapor immobilizing everyone in the vicinity-naturally, our troops
have masks.  In addition, radar and radio signals that flare out over
the trees on all sides, capable of intercepting missiles as far away as
two hundred kilometers; they trigger our own heat-seeking counter
missiles-"

"Like the Patriots in D-Storm," Captain Dietz interrupted.

"When they worked," said the lieutenant, barely audible.

"Precisely," agreed the major, in his enthusiasm not hearing the
subordinate officer.

"What about the reservoir itself?"  inquired Karin.

"What about it, madame?  To anticipate you, if there are scores of huge
drums filled with toxins, and attached to pre-set explosives to blow
them apart, our divers have not found them.  They've searched, I assure
you, and considering the sheer mass of metal required, the underwater
sonar would have.  Finally, even in normal times the reservoir is
constantly under observation, the perimeters fenced, penetration
instantly known.  How could it happen?"

"It obviously couldn't, I'm just trying to think of everything.

You've undoubtedly done so already."

"This is not necessarily so," disagreed the old general.

"You are all accomplished intelligence personnel, and you know the
enemy, you been dealing with him.  Oncebefore Dien Bien Phu-a spy whose
cover was as an accountant, which he actually was in Lyons, told me
that the antigovernment forces could afford far greater firepower than
Paris acknowledged.  Paris scoffed and we lost a country."

"I don't see the relevance," said Karin.

"Perhaps there is none, but you may see something we've missed."

"That's what Moreau said to me," interjected Drew.

"I know.  We talked.  So let us get into an open truck and each of
you-all of you--see for yourselves.  Dissect us, pick us apart, as you
Americans say, find our flaws, if they exist."

The "tour" throughout the forests, the fields, and the adjacent roads
was not only exhausting in the roofless truck that seemed to gravitate
to every ditch and minor gully, but it took over three hours.

Everyone made notes, in the main affirmative; only the two commandos
were negative, in terms of underbrush incursion.

"I could send fifty men on their bellies through a sector of this
foliage, taking out the soldiers and putting on their uniforms,"
exclaimed Captain Dietz.

"This is nuts!"

"And.once you get into the uniforms," added Lieutenant Anthony, "you
can waste, away your flanks and create a big, wide boulevard."

"The roads are protected by plastic webs, they set off alarms!"

"You freeze 'em with cold nitro sprays, General," said Dietz.

"They close down electrical impulses."

"Mon Dieu..  .."

"Let's face it, guys," said Latham when they were back at the
waterworks, "your theories may have merit, but you're thinking too
small.  There wouldn't be fifty men, there'd have to be five hundred to
be effective.  See what I mean?"

"The general asked for criticisms, Mr.  Latham," replied Captain
Dietz.

"Not solutions."

"Let's look at the photographs," said Drew, approaching the table and
seeing that they had been spread but in rows in some sort of precise
order.

"I have arranged them from top to bottom as determined by the farthest
distance from the reservoir to the nearest," explained the general's
son.

"All were taken by infrared cameras at relatively low altitudes
according to aerial radar, and where suspicious images occurred, they
were repeated -frequently, no more than a few hundred feet above the
objects."

6 4What are these?"  asked Dietz, pointing at several dark circles.

"Farm silos," replied the major.

"To make certain, we had them examined by the local police."

"And those?"  said Karin, her index finger on a series of three
photographs depicting long, dark rectangular images with muted lights
on one side.

"They look dangerously like missile sites."

"Railroad stations.  You're seeing the lamps under the overhang, next
to the tracks," answered Gaston.

"And these?"  Latham used the pointer and touched a photograph that
showed the outlines of two large airplanes on what appeared to be a
field off the major runway of a private airport.

"Aircraft purchased by Saudi Arabia, awaiting transport to Riyadh.  We
checked the Ministry of Export and found everything to be in order."

"They bought French, not American?"  said Gerald Anthony.

"Many do, Lieutenant.  Our aircraft industry is superb.  Our Mirages
are considered to be among the finest fighter planes in the world.
Also, one saves millions of francs by having them flown from Beauvais
instead of, say, Seattle, Washington."

"I'll grant you that Major."

And so it went for the rest of the morning every photograph scrutinized
with magnifiers, a hundred questions asked and answered.  Everything
led to nowhere.

"What is it?"  exclaimed Latham.

"What is it they've got that we don't see?"

In the restricted cavernous hall in the bowels of British intelligence,
the most experienced analysts and cryptographers of MI-5, MI-6, and Her
Majesty's Secret Service pored over the cartons of material from Gunter
Jdger's house on the Rhine.  Suddenly there was a firm, controlled
voice that rose above the hum of nearby machines.

"I've got something," said, a woman in front of one of the endless
computers around the huge room.

"I'm not sure what it means, but it was buried in the deep code."

"Explain, please."  The MI-6 director in charge rushed to her station,
the silent Witkowski at his side.

""Daedalus will fly, nothing can stop him."  Those are the decoded
words."

"What the devil do they mean?"

"Something about the sky, sir.  In Greek mythology, Daedalus escaped
from Crete with feathered wings attached to his arms by wax, but his
son, Icarus, flew too high and the sun melted his wax.

He fell to his death into the sea."

"What in blazes has that got to do with Water Lightning?"

"Frankly, I don't know, sir, but there are three gradations of codes,
A, B, and C, C being the most complex."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Mrs.  Graham."

"Well, this was in the C classification, which is equivalent to our top
secret, which means it's the most restricted of the ciphers.

Others in the neo movement might intercept it, but it's doubtful they
could break it.  The message was meant for very few eyes."

"Any idea where it came from?"  asked the American colonel.

"Is there a date, a time?"

"Fortunately, to both questions, yes.  It was a fax from here, from
London, and the time was forty-two hours ago."

"Well done!  Can you trace it?"

"I have.  It's one of yours, sir.  MI-Six, Euro-Division, German
section."

"shit!  Sorry, old girl.  There are over sixty officers in that
section-just a moment!  Each has to enter a two-digit marker, the
machine won't transmit without it.  It has to be there!

"It is, sir.  It's Officer Meyer Gold, chief of the section."

"Meyer?  That's impossible!  He's a Jew, to begin with, and lost both
sets of grandparents in the camps.  He requested the German section for
just that reason."

"Perhaps he's not actually Jewish, sir."

"Then why did we all attend his son's bar mitzvah last year?"

"Then the only other explanation is that someone else used his
marker."

"The manual makes clear that each individual keeps his marker to
himself."

"I'm afraid I can't help you any further," said the clear

eyed, gray-haired Mrs.  Graham, returning to her stack of materials.

"I may-or I may not," said another analyst several stations away, a
black West Indian officer, a Rhodes scholar from the Bahamas.

4 CWhat is it, Vernal?"  asked the MI-6 director, walking quickly to
the Bahamian's table.

"Another Code C entry.  The name Daedalus appears, only with no marker,
no London, and it was sent thirty seven hours ago from Washington."

"What's the communication?"

"

"Daedalus in position, countdown begun."  And then it ends, and I'll
say it in German.

"Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein bibrer jdger."  How about that?" "Did you
trace the fax?"  asked Witkowski.

"Naturally.  The American State Department, the office of Jacob
Weinstein, undersecretary for Middle Eastern affairs.  He's a highly
regarded negotiator."

"Good God, they're using well-respected Jewish personnel for their
covers."

"That shouldn't surprise us," said the Bahamian.

"The only thing that could top it would be to use us blacks."

"You've got a point," agreed the American.

"But color doesn't come over a fax."

"Names do, sir, and the fact that Daedalus appears twice in two
top-secret ciphers nine hours apart has to mean something."

"They've already told us.  The countdown's begun and they're too damned
confident of its success to suit my skin."  The MI-6 officer walked to
the center of the large room and clapped his hands.

"Listen up, everyone!"  he cried.

"Listen up, if you please."

The room went silent except for the soft humming of the computers.

"We seem to have found a significant piece of information related to
this bloody Water Lightning.  It's the name Daedalus.  Have any of you
run across it?"

"Yes, rather," replied a slender middle-aged man with a chin beard and
wearing wire-rimmed glasses, quite professorial in appearance.

"About an hour past.  I considered it to be the code name for a Nazi
agent or agents, Son-

nenkinder, no doubt, and saw no relevance to Water Lightning.  You see,
Daedalus was the builder of the great labyrinth of Crete, and as we all
recognize, labyrinthine connotes circuitous thought, concealed avenues,
that sort of thing-"

"Yes, yes, Dr.  Upjohn," interrupted the impatient MI-6 director, "but
in this case it may refer to the mythological flight he took with his
son."

"Oh, Icarus?  No, I doubt that.  As the legend has it, Icaru!  was a
headstrong moron.  Sorry, old man, but my interpretation is far more
academically valid.  Where in heaven's name does Water Lightning fit
in?  It simply doesn't, don't you see?"

"Please, Professor, just dig the damn thing out, will you?"

"Very well," said the wounded academic, his voice resounding with
superiority.

"It's here somewhere in the reject pile.  It was a facsimile, I
believe.  Yes, here it is."

"Read it, please.  From the top, old fellow."

"Its point of origin was Paris, and it was sent yesterday at 11:17A.M.
The message is as follows.

"Messieurs Daedalus in splendid condition, prepared to strike in the
name of our glorious future!"  Obviously, either he or they are
misguided zealots with functions to perform following this Water
Lightning.  Quite possibly assassins."

"Or something else," said the gray-haired Mrs.  Graham.

"Such as, dear lady?"  asked Professor Uptohn patronizingly.

"Oh, stop it, Hubert, you're not in a Cambridge classroom now," she
snapped.

"We're all searching."

"You obviously have an idea," said Witkowski with sincerity.

"What is it?"

"I don't really know, I'm merely struck by the French plural.

"Messieurs," not 'monsieur'; not one but more than one.  That's the
first time Water Lightning-if it is Water Lightning--has been described
in such a way."

"The French are inordinately precise," offered Dr.  Hubert Upjohn
acidly.

"They cheat so frequently, it's in their nature."

"Poppycock," said Mrs.  Graham, "we've both had our share of
subterfuge.  I submit to you the battles of Plassy, as well as Henry
Two's marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine."

"May we please stop this all too-un enlightening colloquy," said the
MI-6 director, turning to an aide.

"Gather up the materials, call Beauvais and Washington, and fax
everything to them.  Someone's got to make sense out of this."

"Yes, sir."

"Quickly," added the American colonel.

At the Dalecarlia reservoir in Georgetown, analysts from Central
Intelligence, G-2, and the National Security Agency studied the faxes
from London.  A deputy director of the CIA threw up his hands.

"There's nothing we're not prepared for!  I don't give a damn if the
attacks come from every point on the compass, we'll blow them away.
Like London and Paris, we've got the grounds covered, and our
heat-seeking rockets will knock any missiles out of the air.

What the hell's left?"

"Then why are they so confident?"  asked a lieutenant colonel from

G-2.

"Because they're fanatics," answered a young intellectual from the
National Security Agency.

"They must believe what they're instructed to believe, that's drummed
into them.  It's called the Nietzsche imperative."

"It's called crap!"  said the brigadier general in charge of
Dalecarlia.

"Aren't those bastards in the real world?"

"Not really," replied the NSA analyst.

"They have their own world, sir.  Its parameters are those of total
commitment, nothing else matters or can interfere."

"You're saying they're fruitcakes!"

"They're fruitcakes, General, but they're not stupid fruitcakes.

I agree with that Consular Operations officer in Beauvais.  They think
they've found a way, and I can't dismiss the possibility that they
have."

Beauvais, France.  Zero hour minus three.  It was exactly one-thirry
A.M. Everyone's eyes continuously darted to wall clocks and watches,
the tension growing as the minutes ticked by and four-thirty grew
nearer.

"Let's go back to the photographs, okay?"  said Latham.

"We've been over them and over them," replied Karin.

"Every question we've asked has been answered, Drew.  What else, is
there?"

"I don't know, I just want to look again."

"At what, monsieur?"  asked the major.

"Well ... . those silos, for example.  You said the local police had
investigated them.  Were they qualified?  Silos can be packed with feed
or hay and there can be something else entirely underneath."

"They were told what to look for, and one of my officers accompanied
them," said the general.

"The ground level contents were studied."

"The more I think about missiles, the more plausible they seem."

"We are as prepared as we can be," said the general's son.

"Mobile units with launchers for heat-seeking rockets surround the
reservoir, I've told you that monsieur."

"Then let's go back over the stuff from London.  For Christ's sake,
what's a Daedalus or Daedaluses?"

"I can explain it again, sit," offered Lieutenant Anthony.

"You see, according to the myth, Daedalus, who was both an artist and
an architect, studied the birds on Crete, mostly sea gulls, I guess,
and figured that if man could attach feathers to his arms, feathers
being close to air in density, and in motion almost as light as air-"

"Please, Gerry, if I hear that one more time, I'm going to burn every
Bulfinch I come across for the rest of my life!"

"We keep returning to air, don't we?"  said De Vries.

"Missiles, rockets, Daedalus or Daedaluses."

"4Speaking of air," the balding major interrupted witH a touch of
irritation, "no missile or rocket or plane can penetrate our airspace
without being detected far in advance and getting shot down either by
antiaircraft cannon fire or by our own missiles.  And as we've all
agreed, to carry out the objective of Water Lightning, there would have
to be several very large cargo aircraft or dozens of smaller ones,
sweeping down from nearby fields to achieve the element of surprise."

"Have you checked the airports in Paris?"  pressed Latham.

"Why do you think all the airlines' schedules are delayed?"

"I didn't know they were."

"They are, causing a great deal of anger among their assengers.

It is the same at Heathrow and Gatwick in England, and Dulles and
National in Washington.  We can't say why without risking riots and far
worse, but every Aircraft is being inspected before it's given
clearance to enter a runway."

"I didn't realize that.  Sorry.  But then why are the ncos so goddamned
sure they've figured it out?"

"That is beyond me, monsieur."

London.  Zero hour minus two and eight minutes.  It was 1:22A.M.,
Greenwich Mean Time, and the MI-6 director in Vauxhall Cross was on the
phone to Washington.

"Any developments over there?"

"Not a. wrinkle," answered an angry American voice.  (film beginning to
think this whole frigging exercise is a pile of shit!

Somebody's laughing his ass off in Germantown."

"I'm inclined to agree, old man, but you saw that tape and the
materials we sent you.  I'd say they were pretty convincing."

"I'd say they're a bunch of paranoid freaks, playing out some kind of
Gdtterddmmerung that guy Wagner wouldn't touch, or is it Vagner?"

"We'll know soon enough,-Yank.  Keep steady."

"I'll try to keep from falling asleep."

Washington D.C. Zero hour minus forty-two minutes.  It was 9:48 P.m."
the July sky overcast, the rain imminent, and the brigadier general in
charge of the Dalecarlia reservoir was pacing back and forth across the
floor of the waterworks office.

"London doesn't know anything, Paris is a bust, and we're sitting on
our duffs, wondering whether we've been conned!  This is one fucking
joke that's costing the taxpayers millions, and we'll be blamed for it!
God, I hate this job.  If it's not too late, I'll go back to school and
become a dentist!"

Zero hour minus twelve minutes.  It was 4:18 in Paris, 3:18 in London,
10:18 in Washington, D.C. Miles away from the reservoirs of the three
cities, and synchronized down to minutes, six powerful jets went
airborne, instantly sweeping away from their targets.

"Activitis inconnues!"  said the radar specialist in Beauvais.

"Unidentified aircraft!"  said the specialist in London.

"Two blips, unknown!"  said the specialist in Washington.

"Not in sync with Dulles or National communications."

Then, although separated by small and large distances, each spoke
seconds later.

"Superflu," corrected Paris.

"False alarm," corrected London.

"Forget it," corrected Washington.

"They're headed the other way.  Probably rich kids with their private
jets who forget flight plans.  Hope they're sober."

Zero hour minus six minutes.  In the dark skies over the outskirts of
Beauvais, Georgetown, and North London, the jets continued their
maneuvers, sweeping away from the three targets, climbing at incredible
accelerations, each millisecond counted off by the computers.  The
precomputed flight patterns were instantly activated.  The jets turned,
their engines cut back to minimum, and as rapidly as they had ascended,
they descended with equal speed, entering air corridors chosen for
their minimum populations, and that would lead them to the fields where
their tail hooks would lash out and down, snaring the heavy steel
cables that would pull the massive Messerschmitt ME 323 gliders
aloft.

There was one final command that each flight leader was prepared to
issue when deceleration was complete.  He would give it over a
determined radio frequency to each glider, his signal to deliver it
being a red light on his computerized panel.  It would come in one
minute and seven seconds, give or take seconds, due to airspeeds and
head winds or tailwinds.  Everything now was sheer distance.

Beauvais.  Zero hour minus four minutes.  Drew stared out the huge
window overlooking the reservoir, while Karin sat at the desk with the
major on a second red telephone, both linked to London and Washington.
The two commandos stood with the general behind the radar specialist
and his screen.

Suddenly Latham turned from the window and spoke in a loud voice.

"Lieutenant, what did you say about that Daedalus's wings?"

"They were made of feathers-"

"Yes, I know, but after that, something about the feathers?  What was
it?"

"Just feathers, sir.  Some people-mostly poets-liken their density to
air, the way they kind of float in the wind, born to the air, as it
were, which is why they're on birds."

"And birds swoop down silently, it's how the predators catch their
quarry."

"What are you talking about, Drew?"  asked De Vries, the red phone
still at her ear, as was the major's.  He looked up at the Cons-Op
officer.

"They glide, Karin, they glide!"

"So, monsieur?"

"Gliders, goddammit!  That may be it!  They're using gliders!"

"They would have to be extremely large," said the general, "or dozens
of them, perhaps more, far more."

"And they would have been picked up by the radar, monsieur," added the
major.

"Especially the airborne radar."

"They were, in the photographs!  Those two aircraft for Saudi
Arabia-how many times have end-user clearances been manipulated?  But
they wouldn't be picked up by your heat-seeking missiles.  There are no
engines, no beat!  Probably very little metal either."

"Mon Dieu!"  exclaimed the general, his eyes wide, intense, as if
sudden memories consumed him.

"Gliders!  The Germans were the experts, the final authority.  In the
early forties they developed the prototype for all the cargo gliders
the world over, far more advanced than the British Airspeed-Horsing or
the American WA COs  Actually, we all stole their designs.  The
Messerschmitt factories turned out the Gigant, a huge bird from hell
that could silently float over borders and battlefield, delivering its
deadly merchandise."

"Could there be any left, mon pre?  asked the major.

"Why not?  All of us, on both sides, have kept our fleets -sea and
air-in 'mothballs," as the Americans say."

"Could they be made operational after so many years?"  pressed Karin.

"The enemy notwithstanding," answered the old soldier, "the
Messersehmitt companies built for the ages.  Undoubtedly, certain
equipment would have to be replaced or upgraded, but again, why not?"

"Still, they would appear on the screen," insisted the' radar
specialist.  "But how strong?  How strong an image would you get on
that screen of yours with a flying object that has little or no metal,
no motors, the struts made of replaced bamboo, maybe, which in the Far
East they use for scaffolds they claim it's stronger and safer than
steel."

"My English is adequate, sir, but you speak so rapidement-"

"Someone tell him what I just said, just asked."

The major did so, and the radar specialist replied, never taking his
eyes off the screen.

"It would be less strong than that of a conventional aircraft, that is
true."

"I mean, even clouds can produce some image, can't they?"

"Yes, but one can tell the difference."

"And people who own boats carry radar reflectors on board in case they
get in trouble and want the radars to pick them up."

"Again, quite normal."

"So radar is basically interpretive, isn't it?"

"As are medical X rays.  One doctor will see one thing, another
something else.  Then there are experts, and I am one of them with
radar, monsieur."

"Good for you.  Could you possibly be distracted?"

"By what?  You become insulting, if I am permitted to say so."

"You're permitted, and, honestly, I don't mean to insult you-"

"Wait!"  said Karin, searching her pockets feverishly, finally yanking
out a torn piece of paper.

"This was in a carton from, I think, Jdger's outer living room.  I kept
it because I didn't understand it, it was only a partial sentence.  It
has just two words in German, "Aircraft made' .. the rest was ripped
away."

"Good God.  almighty," muttered Gerald Anthony, reaching into the
breast pocket of his Trench military fatigues and pulling up a scrap of
a wrinkled note.

"I did the same damn thing.  I found this in JAger's chapel, at the
foot of an altar that shouldn't be there.

Since then I've looked at it every once in a while, trying to figure
out the handwriting.  I did, and it fits with Mrs.  de Vries's
information.

These are the words: "Aus Stoff und Holz," that's 'of cloth and
wood."

""Aircraft made of cloth and wood," said De Vries.

"Gliders," added Latham quietly.

"Gliders."

"Arritez!"  cried the radar specialist, breaking off the
conversation.

"The aircraft have reentered our space!  They are within forty
kilometers of the water!"

"Prepare to activate the missiles!"  shouted the general's son into a
third telephone..

London.  Zero hour minus three minutes ten seconds.

"Unidentified aircraft reappearing on screen!  Direction, Code
Intolerable!"

Washington, D.C. Zero hour minus two minutes forty nine seconds.

"Son of a bitch!  The unknowns are back and heading our way!"

Beauvais.  Zero hour minus two minutes twenty-eigbt seconds.

"Scramble military aircraft everywhere!"  roared Latham.

"Get that to London and Washington!"

"But the missiles," cried the general's son.

"Blast them off!"

"Then why the fighter planes?"

"For what the missiles don't get!  Inform London and Washington.

Do it!"

"It is done."

In the dark skies above Beauvais, London, and Washington, the
computerized neo-Nazi jets swept down toward their respective fields,
their tail hooks released for the final approach.

"Fire rockets!"

"Fire rockets!"

"Fire rockets!"

Below, in three stretches of cut grass, there were instant explosions
ballistic fire below the wings of all six Messerschmitt cargo gliders.
Each reached a pre released ground thrust of four hundred miles an hour
as the jets raced above them, their hooks grappling the cables, the
huge gliders instantaneously matching the acceleration of their lifting
crafts.  Within seconds all were airborne, and at barely a hundred feet
the underside rockets were released into the fields.  Unencumbered, the
gliders above London, Beauvais, and Georgetown were pulled to the
prescribed, computerized altitude of twenty-seven hundred feet.  The
cables were snapped, the gliders free to begin their circling descents
to the targets.

Suddenly, at higher altitudes, the skies were lit up like compressed
bolts of lightning as the jets were blown out of the air, each
exploding in erratic splashes of fire.  Yet below, each glider pilot,
aided by his own computers, knew his mission well.  Ein Volk, ein
Reich, ein Fuhrer!

Beauvais.  Zero hour.

"We've got them!"  yelled the general as the splotches of white
appeared on the radar screen.

"They're utterly destroyed.  We've beat Water Lightning!"

"London and Washington agree!"  shouted the major.

"The results were the same.  We have won!"

"No, you haven't!"  roared Drew.

"Look at the radar grids!  Those explosions took place thousands of
feet above the initial entry level.

Look at them!  Tell London and Washington to do the same..  .. Now look
below at those far less visible, skeleton like images.  Look.

They're the gliders!  "

"Oh, my God!"  said Captain Dietz.

"Jeezus!"  exclaimed Lieutenant Anthony.

"What do you estimate the altitude, Mr.  Radar?"

"I can more than estimate, monsieur.  Those 'images' are between
eighteen and nineteen hundred feet.  They rotate in slow, descending,
wide circles of between three and four hundred feet-"

"Why would they do that, Radar Man?"

"One must presume for accuracy."

"How about the time to touch down?  Can you give us a figure?"

"The winds change, so here I will estimate.  Between four and six
minutes."

"That's four or six hours in jet time.  Major, alert London and D.C.
and tell them to get their fighter planes to circle the perimeters of
the reservoirs starting at fifteen hundred feet!  Yours too.  Now!"

"If they are there, we I will shoot them out of existence," said the
general's son, picking up his red telephone.

"Are you crazy?"  screamed Latham.

"Those aircraft are loaded with poison, probably liquid, and the
casings will self-destruct instantly when they hit water or land
Maneuver the fighters so their jet streams blow the gliders off course,
into unpopulated areas, fields or woods, but for Christ's sake, not
where there are people.

So instruct Washington and London!"

"Yes, of course.  Understood, monsieur.  I have both on a combined
line."

The next few minutes were like waiting for mass slaughter, everyone
present a part of that mass.  All eyes were on the radar screen, when
suddenly the skeletal images veered in different directions, violently
to the left and the right, away from the target zone, the Beauvais
reservoir.

"Check London," said Drew, "check Washington."

"They're on the line now," replied the major.

"They're experiencing precisely what we have experienced.  The gliders
have been blown away from the water reserves, and are being forced to
land in isolated areas."

"Everything was computerized down to minutes, wasn't it?"  said Latham
breathlessly, his face pale.

"Bless high technology, it microwaves a corned beef sandwich and melts
the plastic container.

Now, perhaps, we have won, but only a battle, not the war."

"You've won, Drew."  Karin de Vries walked toward him, placing her arms
on his shoulders.

"Harry would have been so proud."

"We're not finished, Karin.  Harry was killed from within, and so was
Moreau.  Each was betrayed.  So was I, but I was lucky.

Someone has a telescope that looks into the core of our operations.

And that someone knows more about the Nazi movement and the legacy of a
mad -general in the Loire Valley than all of us put together..  .. The.
strange thing is, I suddenly think I know who it is."

eauvais.  Zero hour plus twenty minutes.  The general's son arranged
for an army vehicle to drive Latham Karin, and the two commandos down
to Paris.  And, as insignificant things keep occurring during
cataclysmic events, their luggage had arrived from the K6nigshof Hotel
in Bonn.  It was in the back of a van that provided their
transportation to the City of Lights, a city that until twenty-one
minutes before would have been a city in panic.  "We'll stay at the
same hotel," said Drew as all bade good-bye to their French colleagues
in the Beauvais waterworks and started for the door and the ancient
elevator.

"And you two he continued, addressing Captain Dietz and Lieutenant
Anthony, "you can tear Paris apart, all expenses paid."

"With what?"  asked the captain.

"I don't think we have two hundred francs between us, and our credit
cards, along with any other means of identification, are up in
Brussels."

"In about four hours, a grateful government of France will supply you
with hard cash, say fifty thousand francs apiece.  How about it, think
it's initially enough?  More to come, of course."

"You're nuts," said Anthony.

"No, I'm not, I'm mad.  Mad as hell."

"Monsieur, Monsieur Latam!"  exclaimed one of the numerous military
aides, rushing out of the waterworks office into the dark stone
hallway.

"You are wanted on the tiliphone.  It is urgent, monsieur!"

"Wait here," said Drew.

"If it's who I think it is, the conversation will be courteous but over
quickly."  Latham returned with the aide and picked up a phone nearest
the door.

"Cons-Op here."  The gruff voice on the line told him it was not the
man he had expected.

"Well done, chlopak!"  fairly shouted Colonel Witkowski from London.

"Harry would have been proud of you."

"I've heard that twice too often, Stanley, but thank you.  It was a
team effort, same as in hockey."

"You can't really buy that horse shit."

"Oh, but I do, Stosh.  And it started with Harry, when he said to that
tribunal in London, "I brought out the data, it's your job to evaluate
it."  We didn't do it right."

"I'll let that pass until we're not on a phone."

"Good idea.  The thread's there and we missed it."

"Later," interrupted Witkowski.

"What do you think about Bonn?"

"What do you mean?  What about Bonn?"

"Haven't you been told?"

"Told what?"

"The whole damn Bundestag is in flames!  There are over a hundred fire
engines from all over the place trying to put it out.

Didn't Moreau call you?"

"Moreau's dead, Stanley."

"What?"

"Killed in his own impenetrable underground parking lot."

"Jesus Christ, I didn't know!"

"How could you?  You're in London, undercover, I presume."

"When did it happen?"

"Hours ago' "

"Still, the Deuxi@me is your alternate control.  You should have been
told about Bonn."

"I guess somebody forgot.  It was a crazy night."

"What is it, Drew?  You're not yourself."

"Who could be after tonight..  .. You asked me what I thought about the
Bundestag fire, so I'll tell you.  That son of a bitch Jager was
writing his own memoirs.  I've got to go, Stosh, there's someone I have
to see before the fires go out.  Talk to you in Paris."

The foursome had adjoining suites at the Hotel PlazaAth6n6e, where the
early sun broke through the drapes of the tall windows.  It was 6:37 in
the morning, Karin de Vries deep in sleep as Latham crawled silently
out of the bed.  He had hung up his civilian clothes before disrobing;
he put them on and walked through the door into the huge communal
sitting room where the two commandos were waiting, both in their
innocuous jackets and trousers.

"One of you has to stay here, I told you that said Drew.

"Remember?"

"We flipped for it," replied Dietz, "and you're stuck with the Thin
Man, although I think it's a bad option.  I'm the superior officer, for
God's sake."

"And your job may be rougher than ours.  The embassy marine unit is
outside, but they can't enter the hotel without tipping off the ncos,
if there are any.  If there are, you've got only your own firepower and
a radio to get our men up to the second floor very damn fast."

"You really think the ncos have gone so deep?"  asked the lieutenant.

"My brother was killed while under maximum security; Claude Moreau was
executed within his own secret environs.  What do you think

"I think we should get going," said Anthony.

"Watch that lady, Captain.  She's very special-in an academic way, of
course."

"Please don't break my heart," said Drew as he and the lieutenant
gathered up their weapons.

"The car's in back, we go through the cellar."

"Monsieur Latam!"  The guard at the underground parking area of the
Deuxi@me Bureau recognized the name on the clearance log and, was close
to tears.

"Is it not a terrible tragi die  And right here, where it could never
happen!"

"What do the police say?"  asked Drew, studying the face of the man.

"They are as bewildered as we are!  Our magnificent director, may he be
at peace with the almighty, was shot inside the gates yesterday
morning, his body found at the far end.  Everyone in the building was
questioned by the Sfiret&, their whereabouts examined; it went on for
hours, the new director like a furious tiger, monsieur!"

"Were your exit logs checked?"

"Certainement!  All personnel who had left were taken into custody, I
understand.  They say there is nothing to enlighten anyone."

"Are most of the people here now?  I know it's early."

"Almost everyone, monsieur.  I'm told that there are conferences on
every floor.  See, behind you, three other automobiles await entrance.
Everything is tohu-bohu!"

"What?"

"In chaos," said Lieutenant Anthony softly.

"Pandemonium, sit."

"Thank you, guard."  Latham pressed the accelerator of the rented car
and sped through the open gate into the cavernous shadows of the
underground parking area.

"Keep your hand on your weapon, Lieutenant," he said as he swung the
automobile into an open space.

"It's already on it, boss man."

"You know, that's an irritating title."

"I don't know why, you earned it..  .. Youthink a stray neo or two
could still be down here?"

"If I could call the hotel and talk to your buddy, I'd give you a
better guess."

"Why don't you?  You've got the cellular."

"Because I don't want to wake up Karin.  She'd barre lass down here',
and that's the last thing we need."

"Then I guess I ought to tell you," said Anthony.

"Tell me what?"

"A few hours ago, when we checked into that fancy hotel and you phoned
Deuxi@me security to say where we were, Dietz monitored every telephone
there with a little device we carry that picks up intercepts.  There
weren't any, so he pulled the plug on your bedroom phone-"

"He what?"

"We both agreed you two needed sleep.  I mean, look at the facts, we're
younger than you guys, and we're obviously in better shape-"

"Will you two Boy Scouts stop trying to help us across the street!"
exclaimed Drew, yanking the cellular phone out of his inner breast
pocket and dialing.

"I'm still running this opera, remember?"

I "If an important call came through, we would have woken you up.

Is that so hard to take?"

"Suite two-ten and eleven," said Latham to the hotel switchboard; it
was instantly picked up.

"Yes?"

"Dietz, it's Latham.  What's the status?"

"We think you were on the mark, Cons-Op," replied the captain, his
voice low.

"A couple of minutes ago the embassy gyrenes radioed me from the
street.  A heavy metal vehicle pulled around the east corner and two
gum balls got out and walked around to the front, separately.  They
just entered-"

"Are they ncos?"

"We don't know yet, but the desk is cooperating-hold it!  The hotel
override is lit up."  The seconds seemed like minutes to Drew until
Dietz came back on the line.

"Unless all statistics lie, you were on the mark.  They pressed the
button for the second floor."

"Get the marines in!"

"Youthink I won't?"

Suddenly a loud, echoing horn erupted behind Latham.

"I think you took someone's parking space," said the lieutenant.

"Tell them to shove it!"

"Hey, why don't we just move?"

"Then you hold the phone.  Christ, the ncos just went into the hotel!
The second floor!"  Drew backed out of the space.

"There's no one on the line.  The captain is a devious field guy;

if they come to the door, they'll wish they hadn't."

"Is the line dead?"  asked Latham, swinging into another space.

"He hung up, if that's what you mean."

"Get him back!"

"That's not a good idea, sir.  He's got work to do."

"Shit!"  exploded Drew.

"Now I know I'm right."

They were joined in the elevator by five other men and two women, all
speaking near hysterical French.  Latham kept staring at one face after
another, the blur of pinched features, squinting and then bulging eyes,
strained voices, and pronounced throat veins became a cartoonlike
montage Of screaming animals, each trying to out screech the other.
Without thinking, Drew reached over a shoulder and pressed the floor he
vaguely remembered having pressed before on Moreau's instructions.  Two
stops were made prior to the button Latham had punched; he and the
lieutenant were alone as they ascended to the top floor.

"What were they saying?"  asked Drew.

"I caught some of it, not much."

"They don't know what the hell is going on, but if you want to know the
bottom line, they're all concerned about their jobs."

"I suppose that's natural.  When this kind of thing happens, nobody's
above suspicion; and when that happens, the clean sweepers come out of
the government woodwork."

"You mean a lot of babies get thrown out with the bathwater?"

"That's exactly what I mean."  The elevator stopped, the door opened,
and both men walked out into the anteroom, whose various doors led to
the corridors and offices of the clandestine operations agency.  Latham
approached the middle-aged receptionist and spoke.

"Je mappelle Dreu,--"

"I know who you are, sir," said the woman pleasantly in English.

"You were here to see Monsieur le Directeur several days ago.  We are
all still in shock, I'm afraid."

"So am I. He was my friend."

"I'll inform our new director that you're here.  He came straight down
from Beauvais-"

"I'd rather you didn't," interrupted Latham.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Considering what's happened, he's got to be busy with so many
problems, he doesn't need any interference from me.  My coming here is
inconsequential; I left some articles in the Deuxi@me car.

Is the agent named Franqois inside?  I believe he drove the director
down from Beauvais."

"Yes, he is.  Shall I ring his office?"

"Why bother?  He'd probably call Jacques-forgive me, your new
director-and I really don't want to interrupt him.  Certainly not over
a pair of shoes."

"Shoes .. . ?"

"French, you see.  The best, and quite expensive but worth every
and."

"Naturellement."  The receptionist pressed a button on her desk;

a buzzer from a door on the far right erupted and there was the click
of a lock.

"His office is down that hallway, the third on the left."

"Thank you.  Excuse me, this is my associate, Major Anthony, United
States Army, Special Forces."  The lieutenant snapped his head toward
Drew in surprise as Latham continued.

"He'll remain here, if you don't mind.  He speaks fluent French .. .
and probably Urdu, for all I know."  '

"Bonjour, madame.  Mon plaisir."

"Je vous en pri .  e, Major."

Drew opened the anteroom door and walked into the narrow gray corridor,
moving rapidly to the third door on the left.  He knocked once, opening
the door quickly startling Franqois, who was as teep his head on the
desk.  He shot up, lurching back into his chair.

"Quest-ce que se passe?"

"Hello there, Wheelman," said Latham, shutting the door.

"Catching a little nap?  I envy you, I'm tired as hell."

"Monsieur Lat'am, what ate you doing here?"

"I have an idea you may know, Franqois."

"Mon Dieu, know what?"

"You were close to Claude Moreau, weren't you?  He knew your wife, her
name, Yvonne .. . your two daughters.  "

"Oui, on a less-than-familiar basis, monsieur.  We all know one
another, our families as well, but from a distance."

"And you're pretty tight with Jacques Bergeron too, Moreau's top
gun."

"Tight?,)

"You and Jacques, Jacques and you, chief driver and chief aide, always
together with your boss, the intrepid trio bound by years of working
together.  Regular "Mousquetaires."  So ordinary, so usual, so easy to
accept because you see them every day."

"Youtalk in riddles, monsieur!"

"Hell, yes.  Because it is a riddle, a riddle based in utter
simplicity.  Who would question the sight of the three of you or the
grief of the two who escaped being killed?  A couple of hours ago, when
I called here to tell Jacques where we were staying, guess who I
got?"

"I do not have to guess.  You spoke to me, Monsieur Lat'am."

"Everyone goes up a big notch, don't they?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about!"  said Fran@ois, leaning
forward, his right hand slipping across the edge of the desk to a
drawer.  Suddenly he yanked it open, but Drew lunged over, slamming it
shut with such force on the driver's wrist that he began to scream, the
roar cut short by Latham's fist smashing into Franqois's mouth.  The
Frenchman fell back, chair and body crashing to the floor.  Drew was
instantly over him, grabbing him by his throat and pulling him up,
slamming him against the wall, the weapon in the drawer now in Drew's
hand.

"We're going to- talk, Wheelman, and your conversation had better be
enlightening, or your life is over."

"I have a family, monsieur, a wife and children!  How can you do
this?"

"Have you any idea how many families-fathers, mothers ' children, and
grandchildren-were torn apart in the fucking camps, forced to walk
naked into cement compounds only to emerge as corpses, you son of a
bitch!"

"I was not even alive then!"

"You never heard of those things?  Thousands were French, rounded up
and sent to their deaths!  That never bothered you?"

"You don't understand, monsieur.  They have ways to make you
cooperate."

"Such as?  And if you lie, I won't bother to use your gun, I'll simply
snap the carotid arteries on both sides of your neck and it's finis
time.  You see, like the radar specialist in Beauvais when he looks at
his screen, I can tell by the eyes.  I hope I don't make a mistake.. 
.. Jacques Bergeron is a neo, isn't he?"

"Yes..  .. How could you possibly know?"

"When you're tired and you're lost, you go back over everything.

It had to be someone who had access to all the information, someone who
knew where the players were every moment.  At first we thought it was
Moreau; he was on a list that made us afraid to work with him; hell, I
couldn't tell him a damn thing.  Then he was cleared by the only man
who could clear him, my boss.  So who was it?  Who knew where I was,
whether it was a restaurant in Villejuif with my brother, or one hotel
or another when I kept moving?  Who knew that Karin and I were in a
sidewalk cafe one night with Claude, where we were all nearly killed
except the owner got us out of there?  Who faked the Metro incident
with Dr.  Kroeger, the gunshots, the man who claimed he saw "Harry
Latham' on the train that sped away?  There was no Harry Latham,
because I was Harry and I wasn't there!  The answer to every one of
those queries was a man called Jacques."

"I don't know of these things, I swear by the sight of a bleeding
Christ on a cross, I do not know!"

"But you know he's a neo, don't you?  A deep-perhaps the deepest
Nazi-in France.  Am I right?".

"Yes."  Franq'ois exhaled his breath until there was none left.

"I

had no choice but to keep silent and do his bidding."

"Why?"

"I killed a man and Jacques saw me do it."

"How?"

"I strangled him.  Try to understand, monsieur, I work long hours,
sometimes I am away for days at a time, my family is neglected-what can
I say?"

"A hell of a lot more," said Drew.

"My wife found a lover.  I could tell, as every husband can, when
darkness envelops the bed.  I used the resources of the Deuxi@me to
find out who he was."

"Not exactly official business, right?"

"Certainly not.  But what I did not know was that Jacques was
monitoring my every inquiry, my every telephone call..  .. I set up a
meeting with this individual, a rotten hairdresser with a record of
debts and failed salons, and we met in an alley in the Montparnasse. 
He made obscene references to my wife's behavior, laughing as he did
so. I went mad and attacked him, killed him viciously.  As I walked out
of the alley, Bergeron greeted me."

"So he had you."

"The rest of my life in prison was the alternative.  He had taken
photographs with an infrared night camera."

"Yet you and your wife are back together, isn't that so?"

"We are French, monsieur.  I am not a saint either.  We have made peace
with each other and our marriage is solid.  We have our children."

"But you worked with Bergeron, a Nazi.  How can you justi that?

"The rest of my life in prison-how would you justify it?  My wife, my
children, my family.  And, monsieur, I never killed for him, never!

He had others to do that, I refused."

Latham released the man from the wall and gestured for him to sit
down.

"Okay, Wheelman, you and I are going to make a deal or we're not.
Unless I'm really wrong, and I don't think I am, you and Jacques are
the only ncos here, and you are a reluctant one.  Any more would be too
dangerous.  One master, one slave, a perfect combination.  You can
prove your reluctance by doing what I say;

if you don't, you're dead meat and I'll blow you away myself.  Got
it?"

"What is it you want me to do?  And should I accept, what guarantee do
I have that those photographs will not send me to prison?"

"None actually, but the odds are on your side.  I have an idea that
Bergeron will be far more interested in saving his ass from a firing
squad than in condemning you to one."

"We have no such executions here in France, mons' cur

You're really an innocent, aren't you?  These things aren't formal,
Franqois, they just happen."

"What is it, then?"  asked the driver, swallowing.

"Jacques is in another wing on this floor, if I remember correctly."

"You do.  This section is for subordinate personnel.,"

"But you have access, don't you?  I mean, you have the run of the
place, am I right?"

"If you mean can I take you to his office, yes, I can."

"Without announcing either of us?"

"O f course, I am permanently assigned to him.  There is a rear hallway
in this section that is entered by a pass code; it leads to the high
executive offices.  I have it, naturally."

"Naturally.  Let's go."

"What am I to do, then?"

"Come back here, stay here, and hope for the best."

"And you, Monsieur Lat'am?"

"I'm going to hope for the best too."

Captain Christian Dietz put the handheld radio out of sight on a
bookshelf and positioned himself at the left side of the hotel suite's
central door.  His acute hearing picked up the sound of muffled
footsteps outside in the corridor, followed by silence.  His weapon at,
the ready, he wondered if the would-be intruders had procured a master
key somewhere, or whether they would chance an assault on the door.

The latter, apparently.  The silence was shattered by a thunderous
crash as the door was broken off its latch and smashed back into the
commando.  The two men rushed into the room guns in, their hands, their
heads turning right and left, left and right, unsure of what to do
next.  Dietz solved their dilemma by shouting, "Drop your weapons or
you're dead!"

The first man turned violently and a silenced spit exploded from the
barrel of his gun.  The commando lurched forward on the floor and shot
back, hitting the intruder in the stomach, causing him to double over
and collapse.  The second would-be killer, stunned, lowered his gun as
three marines burst through the open door.

Suddenly Karin de Vries ran out of the bedroom in her nightgown.

"Get back there!"  roared Dietz.

As Karin lunged toward the bedroom door, the second intruder raised his
weapon and fired.  Blood spurted out from the edge of her left shoulder
as the marines leveled their weapons.

"Hold it!"  roared Dietz.

"He's no good to us dead!"

"Neithet'are we, buddy!"  cried a marine sergeant, his Colt .45 aimed
at the neo's head.

"Drop it, you worm, or it's all over!"

The neo let the gun fall to the floor as Dietz got to his feet and
raced across the room to the prone, bleeding Karin de Vries, kicking
the Nazi's weapon away as he passed over it.

"Don't move," he ordered, tearing the nightgown strap off the shoulder
and cradling Karin.

"It's not bad," he concluded, studying the wound.

"The bullet creased the flesh, but that's all.  Stay put and I'll get
some towels."

"I'll find them," said the nearest marine.

"Where?"

"Through that door to the bathroom.  Pick up three clean small ones and
tie them together."

"A tourniquet?"

"Not exactly, but close.  We want to keep the skin flat.  Then get some
ice from the bar."

"On my way."

"Don't tell me you're a doctor too," said Karin, holding up the corner
of her nightgown and smiling weakly.

"This isn't brain surgery, Mrs.  de Vries, just a flesh wound.  You
were lucky; a second or two sooner and you'd have had a problem.

Does it hurt?"

"More numb than painful, Captain."

"We'll get you to the embassy doctor."

"Where is Drew?  That comes first.  And Gerry, where is be?"

"Please don't put me through this, Mrs.  D.V. Mr.  Latham gave us
orders and he's running the show.  He and

Anthony went to the Deuxieme Bureau-I lost the toss with Gerry."

"The Deuxieme?  Why?"

"Cons-Op told us he thought he'd figured out who the rat in the attic
was."

"The rat in the attic?"

"The Nazi mole who was wired into all of us."

"At the Deuxi@me?"

"That's what he said."

"He mentioned something in Beauvais, but when I questioned him in the
van, he shrugged it off, telling me it was only a guess.

But you knew?"

"I don't think he wanted you to be involved."

"Here are the towels, sir!"  said the marine, running from a bedroom
door, then turning quickly to help his colleagues with the two ncos,
one dead.  or unconscious, the other hostile, necessitating several
blows to his chest.

"We'll be in touch, Captain-you are the captain, aren't you, sir?"

"Rank doesn't count for much here, Corporal.  See you later."

"We've got to get the hell out of here, you understand that.

Sorry about the ice-"

"Then get-out!"  ordered Dietz as the marine unit fled down the hall to
the fire stairs with the two prisoners.  The telephone rang.

"I'm lowering you to the floor," said the commando as he secured towels
around her shoulder and gently placed her on the carpet.

"I've got to answer the phone."

"If it's Drew, tell him I'm furious!"

It was not Latham; it was the hotel's front desk.

"You must leave!"  shouted the concierge in French.

"We will cooperate with the Deuxi&me only so far!  The switchboard is
crowded with calls about loud crashes or gunshots!"

"La passion du coeur!"  replied Dietz firmly.

"Seal off the room and we'll cover you.  Give me five minutes and call
the police, but I need five minutes."

"We'll do our best."

"Come on," said the captain, hanging up the telephone and returning to
Karin.

"I'll carry you out of here-"

"I can walk, actually," interrupted De Vries.

"Glad to hear it.  We'll go down the stairs, it's only one flight."

"What about our clothes, our luggage?  Surely you don't want them here
for the police to find."

"Shit!  .. . Excuse me, ma'am, but you've got a hell of a point."

The captain raced back to the phone, immediately dialing the
concierge.

"If you want us out of here, send the quickest bellman up to pack the
suitcases and bring them to the departure area.

Also, tell him if he doesn't steal too much, he's got five hundred
francs!"

"Naturellement.

"D'accord.  "

"Let's go!"  said the commando, slamming down the phone and running
back to Karin, suddenly stopping and grabbing a man's raincoat off a
chair.

"Here, put this on, I'll help you.  Get up slowly, your arm around my
shoulder..  .. That's good, can you walk?"

"Yes, of course.  It's just the arm that hurts."

"It will until we get you to the doctor.  He'll take care of that.

Steady, now."

"But what about Drew and Gerry?  What's happening?- "I don't know, Mrs.
D.V."  but I'll tell you this much.  That Cons-Op friend of yours, who
I didn't think too much of, frankly, is first rate.  He looks beyond
the fogs, you know what I mean?"

"Not really, Captain," said Karin, being held by the commando as they
walked down the hallway toward the stairs.

"What are the fogs?"

"The smoke that covers the truth.  He shoots through it because he has
that gut instinct that tells him it's there."

"He's very thorough, isn't he?"

"It's more than thorough, Mrs.  D.V."  it's a talent.  I'd go
undercover for him anytime.  He's my kind of control."

"Mine too, Captain, although I'd prefer another title.".

Drew approached the unmarked door of the Deuxi@me Bureau's newly
appointed director.  Without knocking he opened it swiftly, stepped
inside, and closed it firmly.  Jacques Bergeron was standing by a
window, looking outside; he spun around, astonished at the sight of
Latham.

"Drew!"  he cried in a stunned voice.

"No one told me you were here!"

"I didn't want you to know."

"But why?"

"Because you might have found some reason not to see me, like when I
called you a couple of hours ago to tell you where we were.

I was put through to Franqois."

"For God's sake, man, I've got a thousand problems to attend to!

Also, I've made Franqois my temporary chief aide; he'll be moving into
the executive offices tomorrow."

"That'll be cozy."  I

"I beg your pardon..  .. Ecoutez, I apologize I offended you, but I
really think you should try to understand.  I've been forced to put my
calls on hold, except for the President and a few members of the
Chamber, for I simply cannot respond to everyone.  There are so many
questions I cannot answer until I put our investigative teams to work.
I must have time to think!"

"That's very good, Jacques, but I have an idea you've been thinking a
lot, for a long, long time.  For years, in fact.  Incidentally,
Franqois confirmed it for me.  You probably set up that hairdresser
Romeo with his wife-just one more expendable human being."

The soft, vulnerable face of the Deuxieme chief suddenly became mottled
granite, the pleasant eyes two glass orbs of loathing.

"What have you done?"  he asked quietly, so quietly he could barely be
heard.

"I won't bore you with the circuitous routes that led me to you, other
than to say it was kind of brilliant.  The Sancho Panza to Moreau's Don
Quixote, the adoring lackey who worshiped his master, who wormed his
way into his master's trust and affection, helping him with his daily
gchedule--every day and every evening.

No one but you could have known where I was at given times, where my
brother was, where Karin and Moreau's poor sec re-THE ApoCALYPSE WATCH
687 tary were, and you rolled fifty-fifty with the dice.  You killed
Harry and Moreau's secretary, but you blew it with Karin and me."

"You're a dead man, Drew," said the director of the Deuxi@me almost
pleasantly.

"You're in my territory and you're dead."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions if I were you.  Lieutenant Anthony-you
know the lieutenant-is outside with your receptionist.

By now I'm sure he's used her telephone to reach Ambassador Courtland,
who has requested an emergency conference with the President of France
and his Cabinet.  Sort of a power breakfast, I imagine you'd call
it."

"On what basis?"

"Because after I saw Fran@ois, I didn't come out and tell Anthony not
to.  We agreed on eight minutes; it was a safe number.

You know, you really blew it when you sent those goons to the hotel,
4gum balls the marine unit called them.  No one else in Paris knew
where we were except you, and, by extension, Franqois."

"A marine unit .. . ?"

"I don't believe in a hero's death, Jacques.  When you think about it,
it's stupid if you don't have to go through with it."

44 You have only your word, and against mine it is notb-ing!  The
President himself appointed me!"

"You're a Sormenkind, you bastard."

"Outrageous!  What evidence could you possibly have for such a
preposterous lie?"

"It's circumstantial, granted, but put together with other things, it's
pretty convincing.  You see, when I began to zero in on you, I gave you
the benefit of the doubt.  Last night, in that military van from
Beauvais, I got in touch with a whiz kid named Joel in our
supercomputer complex and asked him to run an eye-dent on you.

Fifty-one years ago you were legally adopted by a childless couple, a
Monsieur and Madame Bergeron in Lauterbourg, near the German border.
You were a terrific student, scholarships yours for the asking, right
through the University of Paris and its graduate school.

You could have gone into a dozen professions that would have made you a
very rich man, but you didn't.  You chose civil service, the
intelligence branch.  Not exactly a winner in the financial
sweepstakes."

"It was my interest, my profound interest!"

"You bet it was.  With time and the years you were in the right place
at the rigbt time.  You couldn't do anything about it because you'd
left before we figured out the gliders, but how did you take it when
Water Lightning fizzled?  Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein pissant."

"You are insane!  Everything you say is a lie!"

"No, it isn't.  It was in your own words, your humble confessional in
Beauvais.  One way or another you knew YOU had to get out;

sooner or later the rope would be circling around your neck.  You
really didn't expect to be named director of the Deuxi@me; it was the
only honest thing you said because you knew there were better men in
other intelligence agencies.  So you declared to all of us, "I am not a
leader, I am a follower who obeys orders."  .. . You were repeating, ad
nauseam, the terrible words we've heard too often, the Nazi credo.
That's what made me pull in our supercomputer expert, just on a
chance."

"I repeat," said Jacques Bergeron icily, "I was a war orphan, my
parents were French, killed in a bombing raid, and my academic records
are there for all to see.  You are nothing more than a paranoid
American troublemaker, and I'll see you expelled from France."

"Can't happen, Jacques.  You killed my brother, or, should I say, you
had him killed.  I won't let you go.  I'm going to jam your severed
head oh the highest pike of the Pont Neuf, just the way the fans of the
guillotine liked it.  For all your scholastic achievements, you
overlooked something.  Lauterbourg was never bombed, either by the
Allies or the Germans.  You were smuggled across the Rhine to start a
new life-as a Sonnenkind."

Bergeron stood immobile, studying Latham, a thin, cold smile creasing
his soft face.

"You're really quite talented, Drew," he said quietly.

"But, of course, you will not get out of here alive, so your talent has
been wasted, nest-ce pas?  A paranoid American, a man with a record of
violence, comes in to assassinate the director of the Deuxiemewho is
the Sonnenkind?  After all, my predecessor, Moreau, never trusted you.
He told me you lied to him consistently; it's in his notes which I
alone dutifully transcribed into his computer."

"Youtranscribed?"

"They're there, that's all that matters.  I am the only one who has the
access key to his classified material.  Whatever is there is his
alone."

"Why did you kill him?  Why did you have Claude killed?"

"Because, like you, he had begun to peel away the layers and was
centering in on the truth.  It started with the killing of Monique, his
secretary, and that ludicrous night at the cafe when a zealous idiot
shot the driver of the American vehicle.  It was a gargantuan error,
unforgivable, for Moreau came to realize that I was the only other one
who knew where you were..  .. Monique could have and would have-given
false information."

"Funny," said Latham, "that's when it began for me too.  That and the
fact that when my brother flew in from London, he was supposedly under
the Deuxieme's surveillance."

"Easily rearranged, as it was," said Bergeron, his pencil-thin smile
broader.

"Question," interrupted Drew angrily.

"When Moreau -and you learned that I was impersonating Harry, why
didn't you alert Berlinor Bonn?"- "Now you're foolish," replied
Bergeron.

"The circle was extraordinarily tight, especially here at the Deuxi@me.
Only Claude and I knew, and there was no way to tell how restricted it
was elsewhere.  A leak traced to the Deuxieme would compromise me."

"That's pretty weak, Jacques," said Drew, staring at the Sonnenkind.

"Again your talent shines through, monsieur.  Better that others make
mistakes, and one crashes through the mists of errors with the reality,
proclaiming himself the true Valkyrie..  .. Quite simply, I was waiting
for the proper time.  Your American politicians know all about that."

"Very good, Jacky-baby.  And suppose I told you that everything said in
here has been recorded, the frequency tuned to Lieutenant Anthony's
machine in the lobby.  High tech is wonderful, isn't it?"

 ac ques Bergeron, Sonnenkind, screamed hysterically while lurching to
his desk and picking up a heavy paperweight; he threw it into his
window, shattering the glass.  Then, with strength that belied his
medium-size compact physique, he raised his chair and hurled it at
Latham, who pulled Franqois's gun out of his belt.

"Don't do it!"  shouted Drew.

"I don't want to kill you!  We need your records!  For Christ's sake,
listen to me!"

It was too late.  Jacques Bergeron whipped out a small weapon from his
chest holster and fired indiscriminately, everywhere, anywhere.  Latham
dove to the floor as Bergeron ran to the door, yanked it open, and
raced outside.

"Stop him!"  roared Drew, lunging toward the hallway.

"No, wait!

Don't stop him!  He's got a gun!  Get out of his way!"

The corridor was in chaos.  Two more gunshots exploded as the crowds
streamed out of cubicles.  A man and a woman fell wounded or killed.
Latham got to his feet and ran after the Nazi, crisscrossing the
intersecting hallways, shouting, "Gerry, he'll have to get out through
there!  Shoot him in the legs, keep him alive!"

That order was also too late.  Bergeron crashed through the reception
room's door as an ear-shattering bell echoed off the walls and
Lieutenant Anthony emerged from the second elevator.  The Nazi fired;
it was the last shell in his magazine as the following clicks
announced, but the bullet pierced the commando's right arm.

Anthony grabbed his elbow, released it, and awkwardly, in pain, fumbled
for his weapon while the woman behind the desk hysterically dropped to
the floor.

"YoWre not going anywhere," yelled the lieutenant,

trying to reach his gun with his right hand, his arm in agony, "because
neither are those elevators!  I alarmed both of them."

"You are quite wrong!"  screamed the neo, racing into the nearest
elevator; in barely seconds the panels began to close and the deafening
bell was abruptly silent.

"It is you who are not going anywhere, monsieur!"  were the Nazi's last
words.

Drew burst through the anteroom's door.

"Where is he?"  asked Latham furiously.

"In that elevator," replied the commando, wincing.

"I thought I shorted both of them out, but I guess I didn't."

"Christ, you've been hit!"

"I can handle it, check the lady."

"Are you all right?"  said Drew, rushing to the receptionist, who was
slowly getting to her feet.

"I'll be better when I deliver my resignation, monsieur," she answered,
trembling and breathless as Latham helped her up.

"Can we stop the elevator?"

"Non.  Les directeurs-forgive me, the directors and their deputies have
emergency codes that put the lifts into express cycles.  No stops until
they reach their floors."

"Can we prevent him from leaving the building?"

"On what authority, sit?  He is the director of the Deuxi@me Bureau."

"II est un Nazi d'Allemand!cried the lieutenant.

The receptionist stared at Anthony.

"I will try, Major."  The woman reached for the telephone on her desk
and pressed three numbers.

"There is an emergency, have you seen the director?"  she asked in
French.  Merci  She depressed the lever, dialed again, and spoke,
repeating the same question.

"Merci."  The receptionist hung up and looked at Drew and the
commando.

"I first called the parking area where Monsieur Bergeron keeps his
sports car.  He did not go through the gate.  I then reached our
first-floor counter.

The guard said the new director just left in a great hurry.  I'm
sorry."

"Thank you for trying," said Gerald Anthony, holding his bleeding right
arm.

"If I may," asked Latham, "why did you try  We're Americans, not
French."

"Director Moreau held you in extremely high regard, monsieur.

He said as much to me when you came to see him."

"That was enough?"

"No..  .. Jacques Bergeron was all smiles and courtesy when in the
company of Monsieur Moreau, but by himself he was an arrogant pig.  I
prefer to believe your explanation, and, after all, he shot your very
charming Major."

They were back in Ambassador Courtland's private quarters at the
embassy, Drew, Karin with her wounded shoulder strapped, and Stanley
Witkowski, who had flown in from London.  The two commandos, the
lieutenant's arm attended to and in a sting, were at the hotel,
alternately resting and placing generous orders for room service.

"He's disappeared," said Daniel Courtland, sitting in a chair near the
colonel and opposite Drew and Karin on the couch.

"Every police and intelligence agency in France is looking for Jacques
Bergeron and nothing's turned, up.  Every public and private airport
and customs checkpoint in Europe has his photograph with a dozen
computerized composites of what he may be disguised as-not bing

He's no doubt safely back in Germany among his own, wherever they
are."

"We have to find out where that is, Mr.  Ambassador," said Latham.

"This Water Lightning failed, but what's next, and will it fail?  Their
long-range plans may be on hold, but the Nazi movement isn't stopped.
Somewhere there are records and we have to find them.  Those bastards
are all over our world, and they're not calling off their act.  just
yesterday a synagogue in Los Angeles and a black church in Mississippi
were burned to the ground.  Several senators and congressmen who rose
to denounce those incidents were accused of covering up their own
sympathies.  It's all a goddamn mess!"

"I know, Drew, we all know.  Here in Paris, in the predominantly Jewish
arrondissements, shopkeepers' windows were smashed, the word
Kristalinacht spray-painted on the walls. It's becoming a very ugly
world.  Very ugly."

"When I left London this morning," said Witkowski quietly, "the papers
were filled with the slaughter of several West Indian children, their
faces hacked off with bayonets-their faces.  The German "Neger' was
written in colored crayons around the corpses."

"In God's name, when will it stop!"  exclaimed Karin.

"When we find out who they are and where they are," replied Drew.

The telephone rang on the ambassador's antique table that he used as a
desk.

"Shall I answer it, sit?"  asked the colonel.

"No, thanks, I'll get it," said Courtland, getting out of the chair and
crossing to the table.

"Yes?  .. . It's for you, Latham, someone called Franqois."

"He's the last person I ever expected to hear from again," said Drew,
rising and walking quickly to the table.  He took the phone from the
ambassador.

"Franqois .. . ?"

"Monsieur Lat'am, we must meet somewhere privately."

"There's nothing more private than this telephone, believe me.

You just spoke to the American ambassador, and his phone is as sterile
as any can be."

"I believe you, for you have kept your word.  I am interrogated, but
only for everything I know, not for what I was."

"You were in a lousy, untenable position, and as long as you cooperate
to the fullest, you can go home to your family."

"My gratitude is beyond words, monsieur, as is my wife's.  We have
discussed everything-I withheld nothing from her-and together we
decided I must make this call, for what it may be worth to you."

"What is it?"

"I must take you back to the night old Jodelle killed himself in the
theater where the actor Jean-Pierre Villier was performing.  Do you
recall?"

"I'll never forget it," said Drew firmly.

"What about that night?"

"It was early morning, actually, when Sous-directeur Bergeron ordered
me to come immediately to his office at the Deuxieme.  I did so, but he
was not there.  However, I knew he was in the building, for the guards
at the gate made sarcastic comments about his rudeness to them, and how
he interrupted my sleep, no doubt to assist him to the toilet.  I was
afraid to leave.  I waited until he showed up; he did so carrying a
very old file from the cellar archives, so old it had not been entered
into the computers.  The iolder itself was yellow with age."

"Isn't that unusual?"  asked Latham.

"There are thousands upon thousands of files in the archives, monsieur.
Much work has been done in transposing them, but it will take years
before the job is complete."

"Why is that?"

"Experts, among them historians, are called in to validate their
inclusion, and as with governments everywhere, funds are limited."

"Go on.  What happened?"

"Jacques instructed me to take the file and deliver it personally to a
chateau in the Loire Valley, using a Deuxi@me vehicle with papers he
signed himself that overrode any police interference in the event I was
stopped for speeding, which he ordered me to do.

I'casually asked him why it was so necessary at this hour, could it not
wait until morning?  He became furious and shouted at me, yelling that
we-he and I-owed everything to this place, this man.

That it was our sanctuary, our refuge."

"What place?  What man?"

"Le Nid de IAigle is the chateau.  General AndrE Monluc, the man."

"The something 'eagle'

"The Eagle's Nest, monsieur.  Monluc, I'm told, was a great general of
France, honored by De Gaulle himself."

"So you think Bergeron may have escaped there?"  said Drew.

"Sanctuary and refuge are the words that come back to me.  Also,
Jacques is an intelligence expert; he knows the multiple barriers he
must surmount to leave the country.  He will need help from resourceful
associates, and the combinaison of a great general and a chateau in the
Loire would appear to fit his situation.  I hope this will be of some
assistance to you."

"It will, and I hope we won't have to see or speak to each other again.
Thank you, Franqois."  Latham hung up the phone and turned to the
others.

"We've got the name of the general jodelle was hunting, the traitor who
he said fooled De Gaulle.  Also where he lives, if he's alive."

"That was a pretty strange one-sided conversation, cb1opak.

Why don't you fill us in?"

"Back off, Stanley, I made a deal.  That man's been living in his own
personal hell far longer than he deserved, and he never killed anyone
for the Nazis.  He was a water boy and a messenger with a gun to his
family's collective head.  Bottom line: I made a deal."

"I've made more than I can count," said the ambassador.

"Tell us what we have to know, Drew."

"The general's name is Monluc, AndrE Monluc-"

"Androi," interrupted Karin.

"That's where the code name came from."

"Right.  The chiteau's called the Eagle's Nest, in the Loire Valley.

Franqois thinks Bergeron may have fled there because he once called it
a sanctuary in a moment of anger and perhaps fear."

-When?"  Witkowski broke in.

"When did he call it that?"

"Very astute, Stanley," replied Drew.

"When Bergeron ordered an old, buried file on Monluc to be delivered
there -the night jo.delle killed himself in the theater."

"Thus removing any possible connection between jodel le and the
general," said the ambassador.

"Does anyone know anything about this Monluc?"

"Not by name," answered Latham, "because the classified files that
contained it were also removed from Washington.  But the preliminary
documentation on jodelle detailed his accusation, an accusation that
lacked any evidence, say nothing of proof.  It's why D.C. intelligence
considered him a madman.  He claimed that a French general, a leader of
the Resistance, was in reality a traitor who worked for the Nazis.  It
was Monluc, of course, the man who ordered Jodelle's wife and children
executed, and had Jodelle sent to a death camp."

"The younger child who survived being Jean-Pierre Villier," added
Karin.

"Exactly.  According to Villier's father-the only father he ever
knew-jodelle's suspicions obviously reached the unknown general, who
protected his cover while becoming rich with Nazi gifts of gold and
expropriated valuables."

"I think I should have that mythical meeting with the French
President," said Courtland.

"Write a complete report on everything, Drew.  Dictate it to a
secretary or two, whatever you need, just do it quickly, say in an hour
or so, and have it on my desk downstairs."

Latham and Witkowski exchanged glances.  The colonel nodded at Drew.

"That won't work, sir," said Latham.  What

"To begin with, there isn't time, and then we don't know who the
President will confer with, but we do know there are ncos in the Quai
d'Orsay, possibly in the President's inner circle.  We don't even know
who we can call for help, or who be might call."

"Are you suggesting that we take action ourselves, American Embassy
personnel in a foreign country?  If so, you've lost your senses,
Drew."

"Mr.  Ambassador, if there's anything to learn in that chateaus any
records, papers, telephone numbers, names, we can't take the chance of
their being destroyed.  Forget Bergeron for the moment, if that place
is a sanctuary or a refuge, there's got to be more than beer and
sausages and Horst Wessel songs.  We're not talking just about France
here, we're talking about all of Europe and the United

"I understand that, but we can't take unilateral American action in a
host country!"

"If Claude Moreau were alive, the situation would be different,"
interrupted Witkowski.

"He could and would accept the mantle of a French covert operation in
the interests of France.  Our FBI accepts that kind of thing all the
time!"

"Moreau's not alive, Colonel."

"I realize that, sir, but there may be a way."  Witkowski turned to
Latham.

"This Franqois you just spoke to, he owes you, doesn't he?"

"Get off it Stosh, I won't'involve him."

"I don't know why not.  You just made a pretty good case for serious
diplomatic interference, serious enough to have an ambassador
replaced."

"What's your point?"  said Drew, staring at the colonel.

"The Deuxi&me works with the Service d'Etrangerthat's the French
foreign service, Mr.  Ambassador-and their lines of authority
frequently cross, not unlike our CIA and FBI and DIA.  That's
understandable, isn't it?"

"Go ahead, Colonel."

"Both the blessing and the curse of all intelligence bureaucracies is
the confusion that results from these conflicts-"

"What the hell is your point, Stanley?"

"Simple, cb1opak.  Have this Franqois call someone he knows pretty well
at the Etranger and repeat, say, half the story he told you."

"Which half?"

"That he suddenly remembered that Bergeron, who everybody's looking
for, sent him with some old file to that chateau in the Loire.

That's all he has to say."

"Why wouldn't he give the information to his own people at the
Deuxi@me?"

"Because no one's in charge.  Moreau was killed yesterday, Bergeron
disappeared a few hours ago, and he doesn't know whom to trust."

"Then what?"

"I'll take care of the rest," replied Witkowski softly.

"I beg your pardon?"  said Courtland.

"Well, sit, there are always things a man in your position can
legitimately deny because he didn't know about them."

"Tell me about it," interrupted the ambassador.

"It seems I spend considerable time learning about those things I'm not
supposed to know about.  What can you tell me now that will still
support my deniability?"

"Very innocuous, sit.  I have friends, let's say professional
colleagues, at the higher levels of the Etranger.  There could have
been times when American criminals, say members of organized crime or
drug barons were in France, and we've kept better track of them than
they have..  .. I've been generous with our information."

"That's about as oblique as you can get, Colonel."

"Thank you, Mr.  Ambassador."

"To repeat," said an agitated Latham, "what's your point?"

"As long as the information comes from a French Intelligence source, I
can move in.  The Frenchies will jump at it, and we'll have whatever
support personnel we might need in an emergency.

Above all, we'll have the secrecy that's vital because we have to move
quickly."

"How can you be sure of these things, Colonel?"

"Because, sir, we in the clandestine services love, to propagate the
myth of our.  invincibility.  We especially' like it if we come up with
astonishing results when nobody knew we were there.  It's
idiosyncratic, Mr.  Ambassador, and in this case, that works in our
favor.  You see, we're on top of the information, we orchestrate, and
the French take all the credit.  It's heaven-sent."

"I'm not sure I understood a word you've said."

"You're not supposed to, sit," said the veteran G-2 officer.

"What about me?"  asked De Vries.

"I'll be with you, of course."

"Yes, you will, my dear."  Witkowski smiled gently, glancing at Drew.

"We'll study the area charts-the Etranger has every square foot of
France mapped-and find some high ground within sight of the chateau.
You'll be on the radio."

"That's nonsense.  I deserve to be with you."

"Don't be unfair, Karin," said Latham.

"You've been hurt and no amount of painkillers can bring you up to a
hundred percent.  In plain words, on the scene you'd be more of a
concern than, an asset.  Certainly to me."

"Do you know," said De Vries quietly, her eyes level with Drew's, "I
can understand that and accept it."

"Thanks.  Bes'des, our lieutenant will be of very little use and will
stay way back in the boondocks.  He's worse off than you; the only way
he can fire a gun is if it's cemented to his hand."

"He can be on the radio with Karin, a backup relay," added the
colonel.

"Coordinators, so we don't have to be in constant communication, just
open earplugs."

"That sounds terribly patronizing, Stanley."

"Maybe it is,

Karin, but you never know."

The career senior deputy of the Service d'Etranger was an ambitious
forty-one-year-old analyst whose good fortune was to know Fran@ois the
Wheelman.  He had been a suitor of Franqois's wife, Yvonne, before her
marriage, and although he had traveled faster and further up the
government ladder than Franqois, they remained friends and Franqois
knew why.  The opportunistic analyst never stopped probing about the
secretive Deuxieme.

"I know just the man to call," Franqois had said in answer to Latham's
request.

"It's the least I can do for you, and, I imagine, for him, after all
those expensive lunches and dinners where he learned nothing.  He's
paid very well, you know; he graduated from university and is quite
intelligent.  I think he'll be most enthusiastic."

They all knew that analysts were not field men, nor did they pretend to
be.  Even so, given a specific operation and hypothetical
circumstances, they could usually provide precedents and strategies
that were frequently very valuable.  Directeur Adjoint Cloche, for that
was his name and it fit, met with the N-2 unit at the Plaza-Ath6n6e.

"Ah, Stanley!"  he exclaimed, walking into the suite with a
briefcase.

"When you telephoned soon after Franqois's rather hysterical call, I
was so relieved.  It is all so tragic, so catastrophique, but with your
sense of control, well, I was relieved."

"Thanks, Clement, it's good to see you.  Let me intro-

duce you."  Introductions were made, and they all sat around the
circular dining room table.

"Were you able to bring what I asked you for?"  continued the
colonel.

"Everything, but I must tell you, I did so on the basis of fichiers
confldentiels."

"What's that?"  asked Drew, his tone of voice bordering on the
discourteous.

"The copies were made for Monsieur Cloche in terms of confidential
extrusion," explained Karin.

"What's that?"

"I believe your American agents call it 'solo,"

" clarified the senior deputy of the Etranger.

"I gave no reason for removing the ming concert with what my friend
Stanley told me.  Mon Dieu, neo Nazis in the most secret areas of the
government!  The Deuxi&me itself.  Incredible!  .. . I took
considerable risk, but if we can find this traitor, Bergeron, my
superiors can only applaud me."

"And if we don't?"  asked Lieutenant Anthony, his sling across the
table like a webbed claw.

"Well, I acted on behalf of a distraught subordinate of the leaderless
Deuxi@me and our dearest allies, the Americans."

"Have you ever been in deep-cover incursion, sir?"  asked Captain
Dietz.

"Non, Capitaine, I am an analyst.  I direct, I do not engage in such
activities."

"Then you're not going with us?"

"Jamais."

"C'est bon, sir."

"All right," Witkowski interrupted, flashing a disagreeable glance at
Dietz, "let's get down to business.  Have you got the maps, Cl@menff'

"More than simple maps.  Elevations that you asked for, faxed from the
zoning and assessment bureaus of the Loire."  Cloche opened his
briefcase, lifted out several folded pages, and spread them across the
table.

"This is Le Nid de IAigle, the chAteau known as Eagle's Nest.  It
comprises three hundred and seventy acres, certainly not the largest
but hardly the smallest of the inherited estates.

It was originally granted by royal decree to a minor duke in the
sixteenth century, to the family-"

"We don't need the history, sir," interrupted Latham.

"What is it now?  Forgive me, but we're in a hell of a hurry.  "

"Very well, although the history is relevant in terms of its
fortifications, natural and otherwise."

"What fortifications?"  said Karin, standing up, her eyes on the map.

"Here, here, here, and here," said Cloche, also standing, as everyone
else suddenly did, and pointing to sections on the unfolded map.

"They're deep-trenched, soft-bedded canals surrounding three-fifths of
the chateau and fed b@ the river.  They are filled with reeds and wild
grass, as i crossing the waters were simple, but those ancient nobles
who constantly were at war with each other knew the instruments of
defense when under attack.

Any army of bowmen and cannoneers who rushed into those seemingly
shallow streams sank into the mud and drowned, taking their artillery
with them."

"That's pretty damned strategic," said Witkowski.

"Kind of awesome for so many centuries ago," agreed Captain

"How many times have I told you to look at the past?"  said Lieutenant
Anthony, nudging the captain with his right arm and then wincing in
pain.

"They worked with what they had, and history repeats itself."

"I believe that's an oversimplification, Gerry," objected Karin, her
eyes still on the map.

"Those canal streams would have dried up years and years ago by
attrition and sediment because they were not natural.  They were dug
out and constantly re-dredged.  But you were right, Lieutenant, whoever
owns this chateau studied its history and channeled them again,
dredging out the old sources to the Loire River..  .. Am I right,
Monsieur Cloche?"

"It is what I determined, madame, but no one gave me a chance to
explain."

"You have it now," said Latham, "and I apologize.-We'll take anything
you can give us."

"Very well, merci.  There are basically two avenues of entry, the front
gates, of course, and the northeast side.

Unfortunately, at ground level, a twelve-foot-high stone wall surrounds
the entire chateau with only one break in addition to the gates.  It is
at the rear, a strolling path leading to a large open patio that
overlooks parts of the valley.  It is the wall that will give you the
most difficulty.  Incidentally, it was built forty-nine years ago,
shortly after the liberation of France."

"It's probably tripped at the top with angled barbed wire, possibly
electrified," mused Captain Dietz.

"Undoubtedly, Capitaine.  The assumption must be that the entire
compound, grounds and all, are heavily guarded."

"Even the old canals?"  interrupted the lieutenant.

"Less so perhaps, but if we learned about them, others could also."

"What about the strolling path?"  asked Drew.

"How can it be reached?"

"According to the elevations," replied Cloche, pointing to a
green-and-gray-striped area of the map, "there is a promontory, the
edge of a steep hill, to be exact, that looks down on the path roughly
three hundred meters below.  Crawling down it is one way, but even if
there are no alarm wires, which there probably are, there is still the
wall."

"How high is that promontory?"  pressed Latham.

"I just told you, three hundred meters above the path."

"What I mean is, could someone see over the wall from that vantage
point?"

The Etranger, deputy leaned forward and studied the geometries on the
map.

"I would say yes, but that judgment is based on the accuracy of what I
am reading.  If one draws a line from the height of the hill to the
elevation of the wall, a downward straight line, it would appear to be
so)

"I can read you like a book, boss man," said Lieutenant Gerald
Anthony.

"That's my perch."

"Right on, Thin Man," agreed Drew.

"Observation Post Number One, or whatever you military types call
it."

"I think it should be mine," said Karin with conviction.

"If there's trouble, I can fire a weapon, Gerry can barely hold one."

"Come on, Mrs.  D.V."  you got shot too!"

"My right shoulder, and I'm left-handed."

"We'll discuss that among ourselves," admonished Witkowski, turning to
Latham.

"It's my turn to ask what your point is."

"I'm surprised I have to explain it, Colonel Great Spy.  We're back in
the water again, only this time, instead of a big river, we're in the
narrow channel of an old canal, reeds and tall wild grass are our
cover.  We hit the bank below the strolling path, and our experienced
scout on the high ground lets us know when we can scale the wall
because no guards are patrolling beyond it."

"Scale it with what?"

"Grappling hooks," answered Captain Dietz.

"What else?  The solid, thick lucite types with hard rubber tips.
They're quiet, stronger than steel, and the ropes can be short, only
six to eight feet."

"Suppose the hooks hit barbed wire?"  said Witkowski, glowering.

"That wall's a bitch."

"It's not the cliffs at Omaha Beach, Stanley, it's only twelve feet
high.  Stretching our arms over our heads, our hands are within four
feet of the top.  Given ten or twelve seconds, Dietz and I can be over
and on the ground, takIng time to negotiate any wire."

"You and Dietz?"

"We'll discuss that later, Colonel."  Latham hurriedly turned to
Cloche.

"What's beyond the wall?"  he asked quickly.

"Look for yourself," said the Etranger deputy, again gesturing at the
map and leaning forward, his index finger poking at specific areas.

"As you can see, in every direction the wall is roughly eighty meters
from the chiteau's foundation, allowing for a pool, several patios, and
a tennis court, all surrounded by lawns and gardens.

Very civilized as well as secure, with what must be a lovely scenic
view of the rising hills beyond the wall."

"What's in the area behind the strolling path gate?"

"According to these schematics, there is the pool with a row of cabanas
on both sides, beyond which are three entrances to the main structure,
here, here, and here."

"Right, center, and left," said Lieutenant Anthony.

"Where do the doors lead to?"

"The right leads to what appears to be an enormous kitchen, the far
left to the closed-in north veranda, and the central door opens into a
very large common room."

"Like a big living room?"

"A very large one, Lieutenant," agreed Cloche.

"Are these schematics, as you call them, up-to-date?"  asked Drew.

"Within two years.  You must remember, monsieur, that under a Socialist
regime, the rich and especially the very rich are under constant
scrutiny by the Bureau of Taxation, which bases its levies on zoning
and assessment."

"Bless 'em," said Latham.

"The cabanas?"  mused Dietz.

"They'd be the first to be searched, with weapons on rapid fire," said
Anthony.

"Then once over the wall, the captain and I will head for the right and
left doors, keeping in whatever shadows we can find after throwing the
hooks back over the wall."

"What about me?"  said Witkowski.

"I just told you, Colone , we, is cuss t at r. What's our backup,
Monsieur Cloche?"

"As we agreed, ten experienced agents du combat will be concealed just
a hundred meters down the road, prepared to assault the chateau at your
radio command."

"Make sure they're completely out of sight.  We know these people; even
the slightest hint of intruders and they'll torch every document in the
place.  It's vital that we bring out whatever's there."

"I share your concerns, monsieur, but a two-man operation strikes me
as-how would you Americans say it?  the opposite of 'overkill."

"

"Underkill," said Dietz.

"He's right, Cons-Op."

"Who mentioned anything about a two-man operation?"  an agitated
Witkowski interrupted.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Stanley!"  Latham glared at the G-2 veteran.

"I checked.  You're over sixty and I'm not going to be responsible for
you catching a bullet in your skull because you didn't duck in time."

"I can take you on anytime, cblopak!"

"Spare me the machismo.  We'll signal you to come over when it makes
sense."

"May I return to my objection," broke in the deputy director of the
Etranger.

"I have managed like assaults in the Middle East Oman Abu Dhabi,
Bahrain, and elsewhere-when we employed the Foreign Legion.  At
minimum, you should have two additional personnel, if, for nothing
else, to cover your rear flanks."

"He's got a damn good point, sir," said Lieutenant Anthony.

"Anything less would be ludicrous, if not suicidal," added Karin.

"Drew looked up from the map at Cloche.

"Maybe,l wasn't thinking too clearly," he said.

"Okay, two others.  Who have you got?"

"Any one of the ten would be more than adequate, but there are three
recruited from the Legion who have worked for the United Nations
Security Forces."

6 4Pick two of them and have them here in a couple of hours..  Now,
let's get to our equipment, and help me out here, Stosh."

"Outside of the grappling hooks and the rope, those new MAC Tens with
auto-repeat silencers, thirty rounds a clip, four clips a man," began
Witkowski.

"Also a black PVC raft, small blue penlights, UHF military radios,
camouflaged fatigues, night binoculars, weighted hunting knives,
garrotes, four small Beretta automatics, and in case of real trouble,
three grenades apiece."

"Can you handle that, Monsieur Cloche?"

"If it is repeated slowly, it is done.  Now, as to when-"

"Tonight," Latham broke in, "when it's darkest."

 he ancient chateau was a Gothic remnant, an eerie silhouette against
the clear night sky, the moonlight Tof the Loire Valley glancing off
its turrets and spires.  It was, in essence, more a small castle than a
chateau, the egotistical manifestation of a lesser noble who as ired to
p greater lineage.  It was made of ragged stone interspersed with
precision brickwork, the centuries layered upon one another, constantly
remodeled as the generations progressed.  There was something hypnotic
about the juxtaposition of large, high television dishes with stone
walls built in the 1500s, something even awesome, as if civilization
were on an inevitable march from the earth to the sky, from crossbows
and cannons to space stations and nuclear warheads.  Which was better
and where would it end?

It was shortly before two o'clock in the morning, the breezes soft, the
sounds of nocturnal animals muted, as the N unit plus two agents du
combat, formerly of the French Foreign Legion, moved into their
positions.  Following a terrain map under the dim blue wash of his
penlight, Lieutenant Gerald Anthony led Karin de Vries through the
underbrush of the steep hill toward the promontory.

Along the way Karin whispered, "Gerry, stop!"

"What is it?"

"Look, down here."  She reached into the branches of-a shrub and pulled
out a soiled old cap, more rag than headpiece.  She turned it over, her
blue penlight shining inside the torn lining.  She gasped at what she
saw.

"What's the matter?"  whispered the lieutenant.

"Look!"  Karin handed the cap to Anthony.

"Jesus!"  gasped the commando.  In shakily written print, inked deeply
as in an act of intense possessiveness,

was the name jodelle.

"The old guy had to have been up here," whispered the lieutenant.

"It certainly fills in a few empty spaces.  Here, give it back and I'll
put it in my pocket..  .. Let's go!"

Far below, in the shallow, swamplike marshes and hidden by the reeds of
tall grass, the five men huddled together in the cramped black rubber
life raft.  Latham and Captain Dietz were at the bow, behind each his
Etranger agent du combat, named simply One and Two, as such personnel
preferred anonymity.  At the stern of the small craft was an angry
Colonel -Stanley Witkowski, and if looks could explode an environment,
they would have been blown out of the marsh water.

Drew parted the bulrushes, his eyes on the promontory of the steep
hill.  The signal came.  Two flashes of dim blue light.

"Let's go!"  he whispered "They're in place."

Using the two miniature black paddles, the Etranger agents propelled
the PVC raft through the reeds and into the relatively open, shallow
stream of the ancient canal.  Slowly, stroke by stroke, they made their
way to the opposite embankment roughly sixty yards away, past a
circular brick tunnel that allowed the diverted water from the Loire
River to flow into the marsh.

"You were right, Cons-Op," said the commando captain, his voice low.

"Look over there, two strings of wire on the poles going across the
opening.  Five'll get you ten both are tripped with magnetic fields.
River refuse can get through, but not the density of a human body."

"It had to be, Dietz," whispered Latham.

"Otherwise there was an open route along the bank to this crazy half
medieval-castle, half estate

"Like I said to Mrs.  D.V."  you've got the real smarts."

"The hell I do.  I had a brother who taught me to study a problem, then
study it over and over, and finally to look at it again and figure out
what I missed."

"That's the "Harry' we've heard about, isn't it?"

"That's the Harry, Captain."

"He's why you're here, right?"

"Half right, Dietz.  The other half is what he found."

The PVC raft pulled into the embankment.  Silently, the unit lifted the
coiled ropes and grappling hooks out of the bottom and waded into the
muddy bank of the marsh canal below the strolling path roughly twenty
feet above them.  Drew pulled the UHF radio out of the side pocket of
his camouflage fatigues and pressed the transmission button.

"Yes?"  came Karin's whispered voice over the tiny speaker.

"What's your visibility?"  asked Latham.

"Seventy, seventy-five percent.  With our binoculars we can scan most
of the pool area and the south section, but only a partial on the north
side."

"Not bad."

"Very good, I'd say."

"Any signs of movement?  Any lights?"

"Affirmative to both," the lieutenant's whisper broke in, "Like
clockwork, two guards lockstep around the rear area then circle back to
the mid sections of the north and south sides.  They're carrying small
semis, probably Uzis or German adaptations, and have radios attached to
their belts-"

"What are they wearing?"  interrupted Drew.

"What else?  Paramilitary black trousers and shirts and those crazy red
armbands with the lightning bolts through the swastikas.

Regular delinquents playing Soldaten, butch haircuts and all.  You
can't miss 'em, boss man."

"Lights?"

"Four windows, two on the first floor, one each on the second and
third."

"Activity?"

"Other than the two guards, only the kitchen area, that's the south
side, first floor."

"Yes, I remember the maps.  Any ideas about our penetration?"

"Definitely.  Both patrols head into the midsection shadows out of
sight for not less than thirteen seconds nor more than nineteen.

You get by the wall, I give you two shots of the transmitter, and you
go over-fast!  There are three open cabanas, so I take back what I said
before; split up and head into them.  Wait for the guards to return,
6kc them out however you can, and hoist the bodies over the wall or
drag 'em into the cabanas, whatever's the quickest and easiest.

When that's done, you've got limited free access and can signal the
colonel."

"That's damn good, Lieutenant.  Where are the delinquents now?"

"Separating and heading back to the sides.  Get up to the wall!"

"Be careful, Drew!"  said De Vries.

"We'll all be careful, Karin..  .. Come on."  Like disciplined ants
climbing a mound of dirt, the five men scrambled up the embankment to
the high brick wall and the even higher iron gate of the strollers'
path.  Latham crawled forward and examined it; the "gate" was made of
thick, heavy steel, rising above the wall, no slits or spaces for keys.
It could be opened only from inside.  Drew lurched back to the others,
shaking his head in the moonlight.  Each nodded, accepting the foregone
conclusion that the wall had to be scaled.

Suddenly they heard the sound of boots on stone, and then two voices
floated above them.

"Zigarette?"

"Nein, ist scblecbt!"

"Unsinn.  "

The tattoo of boots continued; the French agents du combat stood up,
stepped back, and lifted the grappling hooks and the short coils of
rope from the ground.  They braced themselves and waited; silently,
without breathing, they all waited.  Then it came, the two short, muted
bursts from Latham's radio.  The Frenchmen hurled the solid plastic
hooks over the wall, tugged at them, then held the ropes taut as Drew
and Captain Dietz lunged up like primates, their weapons strapped
across their shoulders, climbing hand over hand with pounding knees
against the brick until their bodies disappeared over the top.  The
instant they did so, the Etranger agents leapt up, clamoring after the
Americans; four seconds later the grappling hooks came flying back,
embedding themselves in the moist dirt of the embankment and narrowly
missing a furious Witkowski.

On the other side of the wall, Latham gestured for the American
commando and his French backup to head for the farthest open cabana as
he and his agent raced into the first.  The cabanas were simple
wood-framed structures, tentlike, and covered with brightly colored
striped canvas, the entrances no more than weighted flaps that could be
pushed back and remain open for ventilation.  The pool itself was dark,
the sound of the filtering machinery barely a hum in the distance.
Inside the first cabana, Drew turned to Etranger One.

"You know what comes next, don't you?"  he asked.

"Oui, monsieur, I do," said the Frenchman, unsheathing his long bladed
knife from its scabbard as Latham did the same.

"S'il vous plait, non," added the agent, holding Drew's wrist.

"Vous ites courageux, but my colleague and I are more experienced in
these matters, monsieur.  Le capitaine and we discussed this.  You are
too valuable to take the risk."

"I wouldn't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do!"

"You've displayed that, but you know what to look for, we do not."

"You discussed this .. . ?"

"Shhh!"  whispered the agent.

"Here they come."

The following minutes were like a marionette show performed at three
speeds: slow motion, stop, and fast forward.  The two Etranger agents
crawled slowly out of their respective cabanas, moving around them, and
staying close to the ground until each was behind his target, like two
stalking animals.  Suddenly the north guard spotted the south side
agent du combat and made a mistake.

He squinted to make sure his startled, unsuspecting eyes were not
playing tricks on him.  He swung the semiautomatic off his shoulder and
was about to shout, when Number Two was on him, his clawlike left hand
around the patrol's throat, the knife surgically penetrating his back.
The astonished south guard spun around as Number One raced forward, his
knife held head high, cutting off all sound as the blade slashed
through the Nazi's throat.

All movement stopped, those seconds so necessary to assess the moment.
Silence.  Results positive.  The Frenchmen then began to drag the dead
guards to the edge of the wall nearest each, prepared to shove the
bodies over it, when Latham ran out of the first cabana.

"No!"  he whispered so loudly it could have been a roar.

"Bring them both back here!"

Inside, the three men stood around Drew, bewildered and not a little
angry.

"What the hell are you doing, Con sOp  said the American commando
Dietz.

"We don't want anybody to find these jokers, for Christ's sake!"

"I think you missed something, Captain.  Their sizes."

"One's pretty big, the other isn't.  So?"

"You and me, Captain.  They won't be perfect fits, but I'll bet we
could squeeze into those idiot uniforms-over our fatigues.  Even the
shirts-it's dark out there."

"I'll be goddamned," said Dietz slowly.

"You may have a point.

In this light they'd be better camouflage than what we're wearing."

"D,@picbe-toi-hurry!"  said Etranger Number One as he and his colleague
knelt down and began stripping the bloodstained Nazi uniforms off the
corpses.

"There's a problem," interrupted the captain, all eyes riveted upon
him.

"I speak German, they speak German, but you don't, Cons-Op."

"I don't intend to play bridge or have a drink with anybody."

"But say we're stopped, these aren't the only clowns on guard here,
take my word for it, dark or not."

"A moment, please," said Number Two.

"Monsieur Lat'am, can you say the word "Halsweh'?"

"Sure, halls-fay."

"Try again, Cons-Op," said Dietz, nodding approvingly at the
Frenchmen.

"That's terrific, guys..  .. Halsweh, go on."

"Halls-way," mumbled Latham.

"Good enough," said the commando.

"If anyone stops us, I'll talk.  If they specifically address you, you
cough, strain your voice, hold your throat, and scratch out the word
"Halsweh," got it?"

"What the hell have I got?"

"It is German for sore throat,

Monsieur.  The pollen season, you know.  Many people come down with
sore throats and wet eyes."

"Thanks, Two, if I need a doctor, I'll call you."

"Enough.  Put on the clothes."

Four minutes later, Latham and Dietz were reasonable facsimiles of the
neo-Nazi patrols, bulges, bloodstains, and all.  Neither would fool
anyone in a harsh glare of light, but in shadows and quasi darkness
both could get away with the ruse.  Discarding the German semiautomatic
weapons, they replaced them with their own silenced equipment,
switching to single-shot action in case a situation called for a lone
kill, not rapid fire.

"One of you get Witkowski," ordered Drew.

"Caw once like a bird and watch out or a grappling hook will crash down
on your neck.

He's not a happy camper."

"I'll go," said Dietz, starting out of the cabana.

"No, you won't," said Latham, stopping the commando.

"He sees that uniform, he might blow your head off.  You go, Number
One.

You and he talked a lot during our session this afternoon; he'll,know
you."

"Oui, monsieur."

Ninety-six seconds later, the imposing figure of Colonel Stanley
Witkowski entered the cabana.

"I see you've been occupied," he said, glancing down at the two
stripped corpses.

"What are those silly costumes for?"

"We're going hunting, Stosh, and you're going to stay with our French
buddies here.  They'll be on our rear flank, and our lives will depend
on the three of you."

"What are you going to do?"

"Start looking, what else?"

"I thought you might screw it up without specific references," said
Witkowski, yanking a large folded piece of paper out of his jacket and,
rather obscenely, unfolding it and placing it over the back of one of
the corpses.  He switched on his blue pencil light;

it was a reduced diagram of the Eagle's Nest chateau.

"I had our Deputy Cloche make this for me in Paris.  At least, you
won't be hunting blind."

"You son of a bitch, Stanley!"  Drew looked gratefully at Witkowski,
"you had to one-up me again.  All those put-together pages came down to
this.  How did you figure?"

"You're good, chlopak, but you're behind the times.  You need a little
help from the old mastodons, that's all."

"Thanks, Stosh.  Where do we start, give me a clue?"

"The optimum would be to take a hostage and learn whatever you can. 
You need more than two-year-old plans on a piece of paper."

Latham reached under the black Nazi shirt and pulled out his radio.

"Karin?"  he whispered, pressing the transmission button.

"Where are you?"  answered De Vries.

"We're inside."

"We know that," the lieutenant broke in, "we watched that little
exercise our new recruits pulled off.  You still around the pool?"

"Yes."

"What do you need?"  asked Karin.

"We want to take a prisoner and ask some questions.  Any warm bodies in
sight?"

"Not in the open," said Anthony, "but that kitchen's got two or three
inside; they keep passing by the rear window.  It looks pretty busy,
kind of strange for this hour."

"Berchtesgaden," said Witkowski, his voice low and hollow.

"What?"  said Dietz as he and the others looked at the colonel.

"It's a replication of Hitler's Berchtesgaden, where the Oberfribrer
studs and their multiple mistresses romped night and day, not knowing
that Hitler had their rooms wired, listening for traitors."

"How do you know that?"  asked Drew.

"Testimony from the Nuremberg trials.  That kitchen won't close down;
the party boys need a break now and then and they're always hungry."

"Out," said Latham into the radio and replacing it under his shirt.

"Okay, fellas, how do we pull someone out of there?"

"It has to be me," replied Dietz, turning on his penlight and studying
the plans of the chateau.

"Whoever they are in there, they're either German or French.  You don't
speak German and your French is barely understandable, and the others
are dressed wrong..  .. There's a door here on the side.  I'll stick my
head in and ask for a cup of coffee, for someone to please bring it out
to me.  In German-the two patrols were German."

"Suppose they see you're not the same guard?"

"I'll say the other guy got sick and I'm relieving him.  It's why I
need the coffee, I'm still half-asleep."  Dietz hurriedly left the
cabana and walked rapidly down the south area toward the kitchen door,
Latham and Witkowski crouched in front of the tentlike flap, watching
him.  The commando abruptly stopped, froze, as two bright floodlights
on the side of the chateau suddenly came on.

Dietz was fully exposed, the black shirt and trousers revealed for the
misfits they were.  A couple strode into the wash of bright light from
the cavernous shadows beyond, a young miniskirted woman and a tall
middle-aged man.  The man reacted to the sight of the captain with
alarm, then fury.  He reached under his jacket; the commando had no
choice.  He fired a single silenced round into the man's head as he
rushed to the woman whose scream was aborted by Dietz's chop to her
throat.  As she collapsed, the commando raised his weapon; two more
spits exploded the floodlights.  He then lifted the woman, throwing her
over his shoulder, and started back to the cabana.

"Get the casualty!  "'whispered the colonel sharply, pulling the flap
back, addressing the Frenchman.

"I'll go," said Drew, racing forward.  He reached the shadows;

the body of the dead man was vaguely outlined by the moonlight, which
was in large measure blocked by the rising sides of the castle.  He ran
to the corpse as the door to the kitchen crashed open.  Latham spun
away, out of the line of sight, his weapon gripped firmly, his back
against the wall.  A face beneath a chef's hat peered outside and
squinted at the darkness; the head shrugged and the cook went back into
the kitchen.  Perspiring, Drew strapped his gun over his shoulder and
ran to the fallen man;

he leaned down, grabbed his feet, and started to drag the body back to
the cabana.

"Que faites-vous?"  said a female voice from the darkness.

"Halls-way," answered Latham haltingly, out of breath, adding hoarsely,
"trop de whisky."

"Ah, un allemand!  Votre fran@ais est mMiocre."  A woman dressed in a
long white diaphanous gown emerged in the dim moonlight.  She laughed,
staggering slightly, and continued in French.

"Too much whisky, you say?  Who hasn't?  I've a mind to throw myself
into the pool."

"Gut," said Drew, understanding half of what she said.

"Shall I help you?"

"Nein, danke.  "

"Oh, it is Heinernann you have there.  He's a bull of a German, a
perfect boot."  Suddenly the woman gasped as Latham dragged the man
named Heinemann into the open area, where the moonlight was brighter;
she saw the blood-drenched head.  Drew dropped the dead man's feet and
yanked the small Beretta out of his pocket.

"You raise your voice, I'll have to kill you," he said in English.

"Can you understand me?"

"I understand perfectly," answered the woman, her English fluent, her
weaving all but absent with her terror.

The two Etranger agents rushed up to them.  Without speaking, Number
Two pulled the corpse to the side of the wall, removing items from its
pockets, while Number One walked behind the woman and shoved her toward
the cabana, his hand gripping her neck.  Latham followed, startled to
realize that the bodies of the dead neo guards were no longer inside.

"What happened .. . ?"

"Our ..ors had urgent appointments," regev'ous visit replied
Witowski.

"They flew away."

"Damn good work, Cons-Op," said Captain Dirtz, sitting next to his
captive, both in striped canvas chairs, the small enclosure dimly lit
by upturned blue penlights.

"Real cozy in here, isn't it?"  he added as Etranger Two came back
in.

The two women stared at each other.

"Adrienne?"  said Latham's prisoner.

"Allo, Elyse," Dietz's prize responded despondently.

"We are finis, nest-ce pas?"

"You're Nazi whores!"  accused Number One.

"Don't be foolish!"  objected Elyse.

"We work where the money is best, politics have nothing to do with
us."

"Do you know who these people are?"  said Number Two.

"The beasts of the world!  My grandfather died fighting them!"

"History," dismissed the cool, gowned Elyse.

"Decades before either of us was born."

"You haven't heard the stories?"  Number One spat out.

"They're history also, and they also happen to be the truth.  They're
Fascists, they slaughter whole races of people.  They would kill me and
my entire family if they could, simply because we are Jews!"

"And we are merely temporary companions, here for a week or so every
few months.  We never discuss such issues.  Besides, I frequently
travel to many cities in Europe, and most of the Germans I've come to
know are charming, courteous gentlemen."

"I'm sure they are," interrupted Witkowski, "but these aren't..  .
We're wasting time.  We were looking for a man who worked here and
instead we ended up with two females who are visiting the place.  Not
very encouraging."

"I don't know about that, Colonel."  Drew gripped his captive's arm.

"Elyse here said that she, and I assume her friend, visit here for a
week or so every few months, isn't that right, lady?"

"That is the arrangement, yes, monsieur," agreed the woman, shaking off
Latham's hand.

"Then what?"  pressed Drew.

"After proper medical attention, we go elsewhere.  I know nothing-we
know nothing.  Our job is to provide companionship, which, I trust, you
will not be so tasteless as to inquire about."

"Don't trust anything, lady.  They killed my brother, so I haven't got
much trust left."  Latham again gripped the woman's arm, now far more
firmly, viselike.  The plans of the chateau were on a hastily retrieved
drinks table from the poolside area.  Drew swung her toward it, grabbed
a penlight, and angled it down at the diagrams.

"You and your friend are going to tell us exactly who and what's in
every room, and let me explain why you'd better not lie or be evasive..
.. Less than a minute away, down the road, is a French intelligence
assault team ready to blow up the front gates, run in here, and take
into custody everyone on the premises.  I'd advise you to help us, and
you might live long enough to make a deal for yourself since you've
been traveling the circuit.  Entendu?"

"Your French improves, monsieur," said the gowned courtesan, her cold,
frightened eyes locked with Latham's.

"It's all a question of survival, isn't it?  .. . Come, Adrienne, study
these plans with me."

The innocent-looking miniskirted girl beside Dietz got out of the chair
and joined her associate.

"Incidentally, monsieur," said Elyse, "I will read these quite easily.
Mes etudes at the Sorbonne were in architecture."

"Holy shit," exclaimed Captain Dietz quietly.

Minutes passed as the former Sorbonne student examined the diagrams.
Finally, she spoke.

"As you can see, the first floor is obvious-the north veranda, the
large common area in the center which also serves as a dining room, and
the kitchen, large enough for a popular restaurant on the Rive Droite.
The second and third floors are suites for visiting dignitaries, which
Adrienne and I can describe down to a mattress."

"Who's in them now?"  asked Witkowski.

"Herr Heinemann was with you, Adrienne, right, mon chou?"

"Oui," said the girl.

"Such a bad man!"

"Two other suites on that floor are occupied by Colette and Jeanne,
their companions are businessmen from Munich and Baden-Baden; and on
the third floor there is myself and a terribly nervous man, so upset he
drank himself into a stupor and could not perform.  I was grateful,
naturally, and decided to go for a walk where I met you, monsieur.  The
other rooms are not occupied."

"The man with you, what does he look like?"  asked Latham.

Elyse described him, and Drew said quietly, "That's our man.  It's
Bergeron."

"He's terrified of something."

"He should be.  He's a liability and he knows it..  ..

You've described three floors; there's a fourth.  What's up there?"

"It's completely off limits to everyone but a select few who wear black
suits with the red swastika armbands.  They're all tall, like you, and
their bearing is quite military.  The help, even the guards, are
frightened to death of them."

"The -fourth floor?"

"It would appear to be a tomb, monsieur, the living grave of a great
pharaoh, but instead of being buried in the bowels of the pyramid, it
is at the highest point, nearest to the sun and the heavens."

"Clarification, please?"

"I said it was off limits, verboten, but I should also add that it is
sealed off.  This very-much-inhabited tomb comprises the entire top
floor and every-door is made of steel.  No one goes in there but the
men in dark suits.  They insert their hands into spaces in the walls
and press their palms down for a particular door to open."

"Electronic print-scan releases," said Witkowski.

"There's no way to bypass those photoelectric cells."

"If you've never been up there, how do you know all this?"  asked
Drew.

"Because the front and back staircases to the top floor, as well as the
hallways, are constantly patrolled.  Even the guards need relaxation,
monsieur, and some are very attractive."  ,

"Ah, oui," piped the young miniskirt brightly.

"The blond Erich asks me to please see him whenever I am free, and I
do."

"It's an unfair world," mumbled Dietz.

"Who's the pharaoh on the top floor?"  pressed Latham.

"That is no secret," answered Elyse.

"An old man, a very old man they all worship.  No one is permitted to,
speak to him other than his dark-suited aides, but every morning he's
brought down in an elevator, his face shrouded in a heavy veil, and
wheeled to what they call the 'meditation path," beyond the pool.  They
open the gate and he dismisses everyone, orders them away.  He then
gets out of his chair, stands erect, denying his years, and literally
marches out to a place none of us has ever seen.  It is said he calls
it his 'eagle's nest," where he can contemplate and make wise decisions
while having his morning coffee and brandy."

"Monluc," said Drew.

"My God, he's still alive!"

"Whoever he is, he is the treasure they keep alive."

"Is he a treasure?"  asked Witkowski.

"Or in reality a figurehead to be manipulated for their own
purposes?"

"I can't presume to give you an answer," said the educated, highpriced
call girl, "but I doubt he's manipulated by anyone.  just as the help
are frightened of his aides, those same aides appear to be terrified of
him.  He constantly berates them, and when he threatens them with
dismissal, they virtually cower before him."

"Could they be playing their roles?"  Latham studied the courtesan's
face in the dull blue light.

"If they are, we'd know it, for we must constantly play our own parts.
Impostors can rarely fool other impostors."

"You're impostors?"

"In many more ways than you can imagine, monsieur."

"Still, there has to be talk.  That kind of behavior doesn't go
unnoticed."

"Gossip, yes.  The most persistent rumor is that the old man controls
enormous wealth, extraordinary funds that only he can disperse.  It's
further said that he wears electronic devices under his robes that
monitor him constantly, sending signals to medical equipment on the
fourth floor, which in turn are relayed to unknown locations in
Europe."

"At his age, I can understand it.  He's got to be over ninety."

"They say he's over a hundred."

"And still with all his faculties?"

"If he plays chess, monsieur, I would not wager heavily against him."

"The relay machines, chlopak," interrupted the colonel.

"If they're programmed to retransmit, they can be torn apart and those
unknown locations traced."

"If nothing else, they'd lead us to the money sources, the transfer
points.  That's why he's monitored wherever he goes.  If he drops deep
dead, the vaults slam shut until other orders come."

""And if we can trace the locations, we'll know where those orders come
from," added Witkowski.

"We've got to get up there!

"

Drew turned to the cool but still frightened Elyse.

"If you're lying, you'll spend the rest of your life in a cell."

"Why would I lie at a time like this, monsieur?  You've made it clear
that I will be pleading for my freedom in any event."

"I don't know.  You're bright, maybe you figure we'll be killed. trying
to get up there, your fall-back position being well-paid whores who
don't know a damn thing.  That could play."

I "Then she will be dead, mon supirieur," said Etranger Two.

"I will strap her to the gate in the wall with plastique between her
legs, exploded by my electronic contrOleR."

"Christ, I didn't know you had that sort of thing!"

"I added a couple of things, chlopak."

"I offer you a better solution," said the courtesan, reaching out and
holding the young girl's shoulder.

"I offer you both of us."

"Et moi?"  squeaked the miniskirt.

"What are you saying, Elyse?"

"Be quiet, ma petite..  .. You wish to get into the Eagle's Nest,
nest-ce pas?  I suggest it would be easier with us than without us."

"How so?"  asked Latham.

"We are familiar-accept that as you care to-with many of the help and
most of the guards.  We can get you through the kitchen and into le
grand foyer, where the main staircase is.  The backstairs, as you can
see by the plans, are through lesser parlors on the right.

We can do this much and something more, something most vital.

You will need one of the old man's aides to get into the top floor-if
you even reach it.  There are five, all armed, and their quarters are
also on the fourth floor, but one or another is always on duty.  He
stays in the library, in the front of the chateau, where he can be
reached instanth by y the patron, or anyone on the staff.  I'll point
out the door to YOU."

"What about us?"  said Etranger One.

"How do you explain us?"

"I've been considering that.  The security here is immense and varied.
Technicians and others arrive and depart to check the equipment.  I
will say you are exterior patrols who have been sent to cover the
grounds outside the wall.  Your clothing will support the lie."

"Sehr gut, " said Dietz.

"You speak German?"

"Einigermassen.  "

"Then you tell whoever may ask, it will be more authoritative."

"I'm not dressed like them."

"You obviously are under those clothes you removed from the guards."  -
"Jean-Pierre Villier said Drew, as if the name had suddenly struck him
out of thin air.  "

"Clothes are the chameleon," or something like that."

"What are you talking about, chlopak?"

"We're going about this the wrong way..  .. Strip, Captain, down to
your shorts!"

Four minutes later, Latham and Dietz, minus their fatigues, were in the
far-better-fitting paramilitary uniforms of the neo-Nazi guards.

The black cloth covered the bloodstains and the single rip in the
commando's back, while the webbed belts accommodated both their knives,
garrotes, and small automatic Berettas.

"Tuck in your shirts, especially the rear," ordered the colonel.

"Looks more tailored that way."

"Heil Hitler," said Dietz, glancing approvingly at what he could see of
himself in the dim blue light of the cabana.

"You mean Heil J@ger," Drew corrected him, equally pleased with his
appearance.

"The only thing you say is Valsweh," Cons-Op."

"Remember, Frenchmen, I'm your commanding officer," said Witkowski.

"If any questions are asked, I answer them."

-Tr@s bien, mon Colonel," agreed Etranger Two.

"Ready, guys?"  said Dietz, picking up the two semiautomatics and
handing one to Latham.

"As ready as we'll ever be."  Drew turned to the women, who rose
together from the canvas chairs, the young Adrienne frightened,
trembling, the older Elyse pale and resigned.

"I don't make judgments, only practical observations as I see them,"
continued Latham.

"You're afraid, and so am I, because what these two younger fellows do,
I usually don't-I've been forced to.  Believe me, somebody has to,
that's all I can tell you.  Remember, if we get out of this, we'll be
on your side with the authorities..  .. Let's go."

he first of the kitchen help to see the uniformed Latham and Dietz come
through the door were two Tmen at a long butcher-block table, one
chopping vegetables, the other straining liquid through a sieve.
Startled, they looked at each other, then back at Drew and the captain,
who instantly separated in military fashion, permitting the camouflaged
Witkowski to walk and stop between them.  Grimfaced, they bent their
elbows quickly in the informal Nazi salute, as if the colonel were a
man of considerable stature, an impression the G-2 veteran
reenforced.

"Sprechen Sic Deutsch?  Falls night, parlezvous fran@ais?he barked.

"Deutsch, mein Herr!"  said the astonished vegetable chef, continuing
in German.

"This is a place for food, sir, and only we can be trusted..  .. If I
may, sir, who-who are you, sir?"

4 1This is Oberst Wachner of the Fourth Reich!"  announced Dietz in
clipped German, his eyes looking straight ahead.

"He and his security colleagues were ordered by Berlin to inspect the
outer grounds without notification.  Kommen Sic her!"

On command, the Etranger agents, gripping the arms of the two
courtesans of the.  Eagle's Nest, marched through the open door.

"Can you identify these women?"  fairly snarled Witkowski.

"We found them walking freely around the pool and the tennis court.  It
is very lax here!"

"We are permitted to do so, you fool!"  cried the white gowned Elyse.

"I don't care who you are, tell your apes to take their hands off us,
or start paying money!"

Well?"  shouted "Oberst Wachner," staring at the kitchen help.

"Oh, yes, sir," said one chef, "they are guests here."

"And our contract does not include servicing strangers, only other
guests to whom we have been properly introduced!"  Elyse glared at
Witkowski.  The colonel nodded; the agent du combat removed his hand,
as did One from the miniskirted Adrienne.

"I

believe you owe us an apology," said the older, far more intelligent
call girl.

"Madame."  The colonel elaborately clicked his heels and bowed his head
barely an inch or two, immediately turning back to the cooks.

"As you may gather, our assignment here is to analyze the security
measures without interference from those who would cover up the flaws
if they knew we were here.  If you like, call Berlin to verify our
presence."

"Ach nein, mein Herr!  This happened before, several years ago, and we
certainly understand.  We are merely kitchen chefs, and would never
interfere."

"Sehr gut!  Are you the only ones on duty?"

"At the moment, yes, sir.  Our associate, Stoltz, left for his room an
hour ago.  He must be up at six o'clock to prepare the breakfast
buffet-what we have not prepared for him."

,iVery well, we shall continue our inspection beyond here.

Should anyone inquire about us, you don't know what they're talking
about.  Remember that, or Berlin will remember you."

"Wir ha ben verstanden," said the vegetable man fearfully, nodding
repeatedly.

"But, if I may, mein Herr, for I wish to cooperate fully with Berlin,
the guards inside are trained to fire on unannounced intruders.  I
would not care to have your lives on my conscience-or on my record.
Verstanden?"

"Don't be concerned," replied Stanley Witkowski, whipping his American
identification out of his pocket and proclaiming with the panache of a
long-ago Polish royal, "If nothing else, this will put away their
weapons."  He swiftly re pocketed his U.S.A. embassy credentials.

"Also, we'll take the ladies with us.  The big bitch has a sharp, loud
mouth.  We'll be fine!"

Latham and Dietz leading the procession, the French American invaders
walked through the double doors into the great hall of the chateau.  A
circular staircase, dimly lit by wall sconces, rose from the center of
the huge, polished wood foyer.  There was an archway straight ahead
leading to other darkened, high-ceilinged rooms, and on the right, to
the left of the large double doors of the entrance, a smaller door,
light shining through the space between the lintel and the bottom
panel.

"That is the library, monsieur," whispered Elyse to Drew.

"Whatever aide is on duty will be in there, but you must be quick and
cautious.  There are alarms everywhere.  I know, for I have frequently
thought of using several of them myself."

"Halt!"  cried the voice of a silhouetted figure emerging on the first
landing.

"We are a special force from Berlin!"  exclaimed Dietz, sotto voce in
German as he raced up the staircase.

"Was ist los?"  The guard raised his weapon as the commando fired two
silenced rounds in rapid succession, and without breaking his stride
reached the fallen patrol, dragging him to the steps and rolling him
down the staircase.

The library door opened, revealing a tall man in a dark suit, a long
cigarette holder in his left hand.

"What is the racket?"  he asked in German.  Latham yanked the garrote
from his belt, instantly arcing it over the head of Monluc's aide,
twisting it and pivoting the man's body so that he was behind the Nazi.
He loosened the leather strap and spoke.

"You do exactly what I tell you to do or I roll the straps and you're
dead!"

"Amerikaner!"  choked the neo, dropping his holder.

"You are the one who is dead!"

"Oberst Klaus Wachner," said Witkowski, approaching the aide and
staring at his contorted face.

"The stories of your obscene security appear to be true," he continued
in harsh German.

"Berlineven Bonn-knows about them!  We penetrated your measures, and if
we could, our enemies can do so also!"

"You're insane, a traitor.  The man choking me is an American!"

"A prized soldier of the Fourth Reich, mein Herr.  A Sonnenkind!

"

"Acb!  Nein!"

"Doch.  You will follow his orders or I will let him have his way with
you.  He loathes incompetence."  Witkowski nodded for Latham to further
unloosen the straps of the garrote.

"Danke," coughed Monluc's aide, grabbing his throat.

"Two," said Drew, nodding at the second Etranger agent.

"Take over this clown!  Go up the backstairs; they're through those
other rooms-"

"I know where they are, monsieur," the Frenchman broke in.

"I

simply do not know who is there."

"I'll go with him," said Dietz.

"I speak the language and my semi's in front of us both."

"Put it on rapid-fire," ordered Latham

"It's on it, Cons-Op."

"According to the plans," continued Drew, "there's a walled corridor
a-round the entire floor.  Once you're up there, bring him around to
the center."

"Unless we're all in trouble," countered the commando.

"What do you mean, Captain?"

"You don't know what's up those staircases any more than I do.

Say you catch total fire, one of us has to blow the place apart.  I
shove this bastard's hand into a door slot, open it, and throw in
grenades."

"You can't do that, and that's an order!"

"It's standard, Cons-Op.  We don't risk our lives to come up with
zero!"

"We've got to get whatever's up there, goddammit, we can't blow it
apart!  Before I do that, I'll radio the assault unit down the road."

"There won't be time, for Christ's sake!  The ncos will do it
themselves!"

"Stop, both of you!"  cried Elyse.

"I offered you the two of us and that offer remains.  Adrienne will
precede your captain and the Nazi on the backstairs, and I shall climb
in front of you, monsieur.  The patrols will hesitate to shoot either
of us, for there are constant assignations between men and women
here."

"Berchtesgaden," said Witkowski quietly.

"An alpine whorehouse run by a Fuhrer who claimed to be purer than a
newborn lamb..  ..

She's right, chlopak.  The sight of the girls gives us the split-second
advantage, front and back.  Take it."

"Okay!  .. . Let's go, and I hope to hell I'm giving the right order.

""You don't have a choice, young man," said the colonel softly.

"You're the leader, and like all leaders, you listen to your staff,
evaluate, and make your own decision.  It's not easy."

"Cut the military bullshit, Stanley, I'd rather play hockey."

Elyse, in her diaphanous white gown, started regally up the circular
staircase; Drew, the colonel, and Etranger One followed ten steps
behind her in' the shadows.

"Liebling!"  whispered a guard in the hallway beyond the landing, his
voice exuberant.

"You got rid of that drunk from Paris, no?"

"ja, Liebste, I came only for you.  I am so bored."

"All is quiet, come with me-ach, who are they?  Behind you!"

Etranger One fired a single silenced shot.  The guard collapsed on the
railing, fell over it, and plummeted down to the marble floor below.

The backstairs were dark; the only light, far above, created shadows
within darker shadows.  The terrified Adrienne climbed step by quiet
step up the steep staircase, her body trembling, her wide eyes filled
with fear.  They reached the second floor.

"Was ist?"  came the strident voice from above as the sudden glare of a
powerful flashlight filled the entire staircase.

"Liebchen?  .  Nein!"

Etranger Two fired; the Nazi guard fell over, his head caught in the
banister.

"Go on!"  ordered Captain Dietz.

"Two more floors to go."

They crawled ahead, the child-whore named Adrienne crying copiously,
blowing her nose on the cloth of her blouse.

"It is not that far, ma chirie," whispered Etranger Two gently to the
young girl.

"You are very brave and we will tell everyone that."

, "Please tell my father!"  whimpered the young girl.

"He hates me so!"

"I shall do so myself.  For you are a true hero of

France."

"Am IPI

"Keep going, child."

Latham, Etranger One, and the colonel stopped abruptly on the staircase
at the sight of Elyse's hand waving behind her; it was a warning.  They
stepped back on the descending steps against the dark shadowed wall and
waited.  A blond guard walked rapidly out on the third floor landing;
he was agitated, angry.

"Frdulein, have you seen Adrienne?"  he asked in German.

"She's not in the room with that pig, Heinemarm.  He's not there
either, and the door is open."

"They probably went for a walk, Erich."

"That Heinemann is an ugly fellow, Elyse!"

"Surely you're not jealous, my dear.  You know what we are, what we do.
Only our bodies are involved, not our hearts, our feelings."

"My God, she's too young!"

"Even I've told her that."

"You know Heinemann is a pervert, don't you?  He demands terrible
things."

"Don't think about them."

"I hate this place!"

"Why do you stay?"

"I have no choice.  My father enrolled me when I was in 'ddle school
and I was very impressed.  The uniforms, the camaraderie, the fact that
we were outcasts together.

They said I was special and selected me to carry the banners at the
meetings.  They took photographs of me."

"You can still leave, my friend."

"No, I cannot.  They paid for my years at university and I know too
much.  They would hunt me down and kill me.  ),

"Erich!"  shouted a male voice from a hallway beyond the landing.

"Kommen Sic her!"

"Ach that one, he's always yelling.  Do this, do that!  He doesn't like
me because I went to university and I really don't think he can
read."

"When I see Adrienne, I'll tell her you are---concerned.

Remember, young man, it is only the body, not the heart."

"You are a good friend, Fraulein."

"I hope to be a better one someday."  The guard named Erich ran off the
landing as Elyse came down several steps and whispered to the three
intruders against the wall.

"Don't kill that one.  He could be of use to you."

"What's she talking about?"  said Drew.

The colonel explained as Elyse continued up the staircase.

"She said not to waste him, and she's right."

Ct Why P9

"He wants out of here and he knows a lot.  Go on!"

The fourth-floor landing was not, to use Witkowski's words, very
encouraging.  A large twenty-foot archway was the open space between
the wall that wrapped around the entire top floor.

Presumably, it was the same for the back staircase.  Two guards stood
in the frame, another visible behind them, seated on a bench.

Again Latham, E-One, and the colonel stayed out of sight as Elyse
stepped up into view of the guards.

"Halt!"  roared the neo patrol on the right, whipping his pistol out of
its holster and aiming at the call girl's head.

"What are you doing up here?  It is forbidden for anyone to come up
these stairs!"

"Then you had better check with Herr What's-hisnarxie in the library.
He called me away from the new man from Paris and ordered me to be here
as soon as I could disengage myself.  What more can I say?"

"Was ist los?"  yelled the guard in the rear bench, rising and rushing
forward between the two men.

"Who are you?"  he shouted.

"We are first names only, you know that," replied the courtesan
angrily.

"I am Elyse, and I will not tolerate your discourtesy!  I was
instructed by that ghoul of a man in the library to come here, and,
like you, I follow orders!"  Suddenly Elyse sprang away from the line
of fire and shouted, "Now!"

The repeated spits of muted explosions filled the upper regions of the
chateau as the three guards fell.  The assault team, led by Drew, raced
up the stairs, checking each body for signs of deadly life.  Satisfied,
they waited, their backs against the inner wall.

"Get out of here!"  ordered Latham, addressing the white gowned Elyse,
who had crawled up the steps to the archway.

"You've got your freedom, lady, if I have to blow up the Quai d'Orsay
to get it.  ""MerO monsieur.  Your French improves with every hour."

"Go back to the kitchen," said Witkowski.

"Tell them funny stories about us, and keep everyone calm."

"It is not a problem, mon coloneL I will sit on a table and raise my
skirt.  They will be calm on the outside, preoccupied on the inside..
.. Au revoir."

"As your capitaine said, it is definitely an unfair world," mumbled
Etranger One as Elyse disappeared.

"Where are they?"  said Drew.

"They should be here by now!"

On the narrow backstairs, Etranger Two, harnmerlocking General Monluc's
aide, the garrote in place, propelled him up the staircase after Dietz
and the child prostitute.  They came to a stop.

"Bist Dues Adrienne?"  said the quiet voice on the third floor.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you, Manfried," whined the girl.

"Everyone is so mean to me and I knew you were here."

"How could you know that, Liebste?  The posts are secret."

"The aides talk when they have too many schnapps."

"They will be disciplined for it, my lovely little girl.  Come up here,
there is a soft rug and we will make use of it.  Did I tell you that
your breasts grow more beautiful each time you come here?"

"Kill him!"  screamed Adrienne, flattening herself against the wall of
the staircase.

Two muted gunshots and the guard named Manfried fell.  The garrote
tightened, they proceeded to the last and final floor.  At first sight
the approach -appeared to be insurmountable.  Around the corner of the
staircase there was a ten-foot archway, a single guard stationed in the
center, another behind him, dozing on a bench.

"Do you know him?"  whispered Dietz in French into Adrienne's, ear.

"Non, monsieur.  He is new.  I have seen him, that is all."

"Do you know if he's German or French?"

"Most definitely German, sir.  Almost all of the guards are German, but
many speak French, the more educated ones."

"I'm going to do something that may shock you, but I want you to stay
calm and quiet, do you understand me?"

"What will you do?"

"There'll be a big, bright fire, but it won't last long, it was the
colonel's idea."

"Le colonel?"

"The big fellow who speaks German."

"Oh, oui!  What is it?"

"It's called a flare," said Dietz, pulling out a short cardboard
covered tube from his right pocket and lighting the fuse with a cupped
match.  He peered around the corner banister, paused, his eyes on the
fuse, then heaved it up the narrow steps past the guard's body.
Stunned, the neo Nazi whipped around at the sound of the flare passing
him and hitting the floor; before he could adjust, the blinding
explosion of a thousand white-hot sparks penetrated his eyes and his
flesh.  He screamed as the dozing guard behind lurched to his feet in
consternation, his figure outlined beyond the moving sheets of flame.
In panic, he fired repeatedly with his semiautomatic, the' bullets
filling the narrow staircase.  The girl, Adrienne, yelled in pain; she
had been hit in the leg.  Dietz pulled her back as Monluc's aide, held
firmly by Etranger Two, released all breath sharply, his head failing
forward; he had been shot in the skull.  The commando angled his weapon
around the banister, his gun on rapid-fire, spraying the opening.  The
second guard spun around in circles, finally collapsing on the flare
itself.  Swirling black smoke was everywhere as Dietz grabbed the young
girl by the legs, carrying her up the steps cradle-fashion.

"Bring that son of a bitch up here!"  he ordered Etranger Two in
French.

-II est mort, mon capitaine."

"I don't give a damn about his future, I just want his hand, and not
too cold either!"

In the fourth-floor corridor, the backstairs detail raced to their
left, Dietz throwing Adrienne over his shoulder, the French commando
dragging the Nazi at his side.  Six seconds later they came to the
central archway that broke the wall.  Latham, Witkowski, and Etranger
One were waiting.  Dietz gently lowered the girl to the floor;
mercifully, she was unconscious.

I "It's nasty," said the colonel, examining the wound, "but the blood's
not gushing."  He yanked out his garrote, and swiftly wrapped it around
the girl's leg and tightened the straps.

"That'll hold for a while."

I Etranger One and Two had pinned the dead Nazi aide against the inner
wall to the left of what had to be the electronic print-scan release, a
dimly lit space large, enough for a hand to be inserted, the palm
pressed downward.  If the imprint matched a computerized previous
entry, the huge steel door would presumably open.

However, if a mismatched imprint were made, an alarm would go off in
the thick-walled, vaultlike quarters beyond.

"Ready, monsieur?"  asked E-Two, gripping the neo Nazi lifeless right
wrist.

"Wait a minute!"  said Latham.

"Suppose he's lefthanded?"

"So?"

"The photoelectric cells would reject it and the alarm would go off.
That's the way these things work."

"We can't wake him up to ask him, monsieur."

"That cigarette holder-it was in his left hand..  .. Let's look in his
pockets."  The search of the dead man proceeded.

"Coins and money clip-left trouser pocket," continued Drew, "pack of
cigarettes, left jacket pocket; two ballpoint pens, right inside jacket
pocket, and the suit's custom-made, not off the rack."

"I don't understand-" -"Left-handed people prefer to reach for pencils
and pens on their right side, just as someone like me, who's
right-handed, reaches over to the left.  It's easier, that's all."

"Your decision, monsieur?"

"I've got to go with my gut on this," said Latham, breathing deeply.

"Move him over to the other side and I'll stick his left hand in
there."

The Frenchmen slid the corpse along the wall to the right side of the
space.  Drew grabbed the left wrist, and, as though he were dismantling
a complicated bomb, he inserted the hand and slowly, cautiously,
pressed the palm down on the inside surface.  No one breathed until the
large steel door silently opened.  The dead Nazi fell to the floor and
the four men walked inside.  The chamber they entered was more a
horrifying nightmare than someone's living quarters.

The massive room was octagonal in shape with a glass dome that let the
moonlight stream through.  The courtesan, Elyse, had called it a
pharaoh's tomb, an inhabited grave, and in several ways she was
correct.  It was eerily silent, no sound permitted from the outside,
and instead of a pharaoh's 'possessions to see him across the river of
death, there was a wall of medical equipment to prevent him from
entering those waters.  There were eight doors, one for each immense
panel of the octagon.  Elyse had told them that General Monluc's aides
had their rooms within the tomb; five door shad to belong to the dark
suits, leaving three unknown, one presumably a bathroom, two ..
question marks.

All this registered upon second and third glances, but what first
assaulted the eyes of a stranger were the grotesquely enlarged
photographs on the walls everywhere, all bathed in bloodred light that
shone up from the baseboards.  The were a record of Nazi atrocities; it
was like a

I y , dark corridor in a Holocaust museum-the horrors visited upon the
Jews and "undesirables" by the madmen of Hitler's messianic hordes,
with photographs of dead naked bodies piled in heaps.

Next to them were pictures of blond men and women-presumably
traitors-hanging by their necks from ropes, the faces contorted in
agony, reminders that all dissent, no matter how minor, was prohibited.
Only the sick est of minds could wake up in the night and be instantly
gratified by the obscene panoply.

The most mesmerizing sight, however, was the night shirted figure on
the bed.  It was bathed in dull white light."  in contrast to the
magenta-red wash illuminating the walls.  A very, very old man reclined
on soft pillows that dwarfed his body, his wizened face sunk in the
billowing silk as if he were in a casket.  And that face.

The closer one looked, the more hypnotic it became.

The sunken cheeks, the deep-set eyeballs!  Both skeletal with age The
short mustache beneath the nostrils, now snow white but clipped
precisely; the pale face, easily remembered as having been flushed with
oratorical rage-it was all there!  Even the famous twitch in the right
eye that had developed after the assassination attempt at Wolfsschanze.
All there!  It was the aged face of Adolf Hitler!

"Jesus Christ!"  whispered Witkowski.

"Is it possible?"

"It's not impossible, Stanley.  It would answer a lot of questions that
have been asked for over fifty years.  Especially two: Who really were
the charred bodies in that bunker pit, and how did the rumor start that
the FiMrer had made it to an airport disguised as an old woman?  I mean
how, why?  .. . No time now, Stosh, we've got to secure this pharaoh's
tomb before it becomes one."

"Call in the French unit."

"Not until we make sure nothing here can self-destruct.  Because if
there is anything here, it's in these rooms..  .. We'll pull our
pharaoh's four other aides out."

"How do you propose to do that, chlopak?"

"One customer at a time, Colonel.  The doors have knobs and you can bet
your ass they're not locked on the inside.  Not in the Fourth Reich,
where privacy is hardly a priority in the upper ranks, specifically as
Monluc-or whoever he is-is surrounded by them."

"Good point," admitted Witkowski, "you're growing

up, lad, getting pretty damn smart."

"I'll treasure that comment."  Latham silently signaled for Dietz and
the French agents to join him and the colonel by the steel door.

He whispered his instructions and the three men went to work as a team.
One by one the doors were opened and closed, the beams of dull blue
penlights crisscrossing one another while the doors were being closed.
When the- last of the eight had been visited, Captain Dietz reported to
Drew.

"None of those mothers will move for a couple of hours."

"You're sure of that?  Are they tied securely, no glass or knives or
razors around?"

"They're tied all right, Cons-Op.  but we really didn't have to."

"What do you mean?"

The commando removed a hypodermic needle and,a vial of liquid from his
pocket.

"About a quarter of an inch apiece, right, Colonel?"

"What?"

"Well, you can't think of everything, cb1opak.  It was just a backup..
.. Into the left-arm arteries, correct, Captain?"

"Yes, sir.  Number Two squeezed 'em so I couldn't miss."

"You're very big with surprises, Stanley.  Anything else you haven't
told me?"

"I'd have to think about it."

"Please, forget it," whispered Latham, turning to the commando.

"What was in the other three rooms?"

"The one nearest the bed is the biggest bathroom you've ever seen,
chrome bars everywhere so the old guy can get around.  The other two
are actually one room.  The wall's been taken down, and it's loaded
with computer stuff."

"Bingo," said Drew.

"Now all we need is an expert with that equipment."

"I thought we had one.  Her name's Karin, in case you've forgotten."

"My God, you're right!  Now, listen to me, Dietz.  You, our Colonel
Great Spy here, and E-One and E-Two, stay on both sides of old Monluc's
bed-"

"You say he's Monluc," interrupted Dietz, "but I say he's somebody
else, and I don't even want to think about it!"

"Then don't.  just flank him and if he wakes up, don't let him touch
anything.  Not a button, a switch, a wire he might pull out, anything!
We've got to invade those computers and learn whatever's there."

"Why not use the colonel's magic needle, Cons-Op?"

"What .. . ?@l -"Instead of a quarter of an inch, maybe an inch."

"I don't know, Captain," said Witkowski, "I'm not a doctor.  At his
age, that stuff might not be exactly restorative."

"So we go back to a quarter, what's the difference?"

"Not a bad idea," whispered Drew.

"If you can do it."

"Hey, that Number Two's a whiz with the veins.  I think he must have
been a medic."

"All Foreign Legionnaires have medic training," explained the
colonel.

"What are you going to do, Mr.  Cons-Op?"

"What you want me to do.  I'm closing that steel door and calling in
the assault unit.  Then I'll reach Karin and our lieutenant and tell
them to follow."  Latham pulled out his radio, switched military
frequencies, and ordered the French Etranger unit to blow out the front
gates and use its loudspeaker equipment before attacking the chateau.
He switched back to the promontory.

"Listen up, you two

The French are coming in.  When the place is secure, I'll call you
back; and, Karin, come up to the top floor as fast as you can, but only
when everything's under control!  Not before!  Understood?"

it?"  , "Yes," replied the lieutenant.

"Then you guys made

"We made it, Gerry, but it's far from over.  These people are Fascist
maniacs; they'll hide in corners just to take one of us out.

Don't let Karin get ahead of you-"

"I'm quite capable of making those decisions-"

"Oh, shut up!  Out!"  Drew raced over to Monluc's bed as Etranger Two
and Dietz prepared to fully sedate the withered old man.

"Now!"  said the commando.  E-Two gripped the thin left arm, pressing
the flesh of the inside elbow.

"Where's the vein?"  cried Dietz in French.

"He's old.  The first blue you see, hit the center!"

"Mein Gott!"  screamed the bedridden ancient, his eyes suddenly
bulging, his mouth twisted, the twitch in his right eye going
spastic.

What followed caused Witkowski to blanch, his whole body trembling. 
The diatribe in shrieking German was electrifying, the voice strident
beyond any normal use of vocal cords.

"If they will bomb Berlin, we shall destroy London!  They send a
hundred planes, we will send thousands upon thousands until the city is
no more than blood and rubble!  We shall teach the English a lesson in
death!  We shall-" The old man collapsed back into the silk pillows.

"Check his' pulse!"  said Latham.

"He's got to stay alive."

"It is rapid, but it is there, monsieur," said Etranger Two.

"Do you know what that son of a bitch just recited?"  asked Stanley
Witkowski, his face pale.

"He gave Hitler's response to the first bombing of Berlin.  Word for
word!  .. . I can't believe this."

Below, outside on the road in front of the chiteau, armored trucks of
the assault unit fired their rockets, blowing apart the gates.  A voice
from a loudspeaker filled the night, heard thousands of yards away.

"All inside throw down your arms or be killed!  Come outside and show
yourselves without your weapons!  The government of France has so
ordered and our men will sweep this chi- 9 teau, firing on any
personnel who remain inside.  You have two minutes to comply with our
demands!"

Slowly, in fear, dozens of men and women walked out, their hands raised
in surrender.  They lined up in the circular drive, guards, cooks,
waiters, and whores.  The voice from the loudspeaker continued.

"If any are left inside, we tell you now-you are dead!"

Suddenly a blond man broke a window on the third floor and shouted.

"I will come down, sirs, but I must find someone.  Shoot me if you
will, but I must find her!  You have my word, my weapons!"

A further crash of glass preceded the hurling out of a pistol and a
semiautomatic; they crashed on the drive and the figure disappeared.

"Entrez!"  cried the voice on the loudspeaker as eight men in combat
gear raced into the various entrances like spiders crawling swiftly
toward insects caught in their webs.  There was sporadic gunfire, not a
great deal, as a few fanatic diehards died in pursuit of the obscene.
At the last, an Etranger officer emerged from the front doors, a
drunken Jacques Bergeron stumbling before him.

"We have our traitor from the Deuxi@me!"  he announced in French.

"And he is as drunk as a politician."

"Enough.  Let the two others inside."

Karin and Lieutenant Anthony ran through the shattered dual gates
heading for the central entrance.

"He said to go up the staircase!"  yelled De Vries, in front of the
lieutenant.

"For Christ's sake, will you please wait for me?  I'm.  supposed to
protect you!"

"If you're slow, Gerry, that's not my fault."

"If you get shot, Cons-Op will blow my privates off!"

"I've got a gun, Lieutenant, don't you worry about a thing!"

"Thanks a bunch, amazon.  My God, this arm hurts!"  Suddenly they both
stopped, arrested by what they saw on the third-floor landing.  A
blond-haired guard held a young woman in his' arms carrying her down
the staircase, tears in his eyes.

"She's hurt quite badly," he said in German, "but she is alive."

"You were the man in the window, ja?"  asked Anthony, also in German.

"Yes, sir.  She and I were friends, and she should never have been in
this terrible place."

"Take her downstairs and tell the others to get her to a doctor," said
the lieutenant.

"Hurry up!"

"Danke.  "

"Sure, but if you're a liar, I'll kill you myself"

"I am not a liar, sir.  I have been many bad things, but I do not
lie."

"I believe him," said Karin, "let him go."  They reached the top floor,
but there was no way to open the steel door, no bell, no signal,
nothing at all.

"Drew was emphatic, he wanted me here, but how do I get in?"

"Trust a young old lieutenant," replied Anthony, having spotted the
palm-release space in the wall.

"We're going to set off an alarm.  . These things were old hat a couple
of years ago."

"What are you talking about?"

"Watch me."  Gerald Anthony inserted his hand in the opening and
pressed his palm down.  In.seconds the steel door was opened by a
startled Latham, the alarm inside ear-shattering.

"What the hell have you done?"  shouted Drew.

"Shut the door, boss man, and it will go off."

Latham did so and the bell went off, "How did you know that?"

he asked.

"Hell, it's not even high tech.  Simple circuit breakers that don't
roll over."

"How did you know that?"

"I didn't actually, but rollovers in these systems are relatively new.
This is a pretty old place, so I took a chance.  What the hey, we've
got the place secured anyway."

"Don't argue with him, Drew," said Karin, briefly embracing Latham.

"I know, I know, it's no time for emotions.  Why do you want me here so
quickly?"

"There's a room-two rooms actually-all filled with computers.  We have
to break into them."

An hour passed and a perspiring Karin de Vries walked out of the
door.

"You caught it in time, my dear," she said, standing in front of
Latham.

"On the premise that this isolated chateau in the Loire Valley could
never been unearthed, all the records are kept here.

There are nearly two thousand printouts, who is and who isn't a member
of the Nazi movement.  All over the world."

"Then we've got them!"

"Many of them, yes, my darling, but not all, never all.  These are
merely the leaders who shout and scream, rousing crowds to hate, to
despise anyone but their own.  And many do it in subtle ways,
pretending generosity on the surface but hating underneath."

"That's philosophical, lady, I'm talking about indictments, goddamned
Nazis!"

"Those you now have, Drew.  Go after them, but understand what follows
them."

In a topsecret government laboratory in the hills of the Shenandoah
Valley, a be smocked doctor of forensic pathology looked across the
table at his much younger colleague, both studying their computer
screens.

"Are you coming up with what I am?"  asked the first pathologist
quietly.

"I don't want to believe it," said the second.

"A switch, the switch of all history!"

"The reports from Berlin can't lie, young man, they're right before our
eyes.  DNA wasn't known in the forties, it is now.  They match..  ..
Start the fires, Doctor, the world doesn't have to put up with this.
We'd only fuel a legend, and that obscene old man died last night."

"Exactly my thoughts.  You fuel a legend, you only transfer the fuel,
giving rise to other legends."

"Worse you glorify them, immortalize them."

"Right on, Doctor.  Hitler shot himself in that bunker over fifty years
ago.  We're all screwed up enough without believing the impossible,
which the fanatics would latch on to in a second, glorifying it.  The
worst son of a bitch in the world swallowed cyanide and put a bullet in
his head when the Russians were outside of Berlin.  Everyone believes
it, why contradict accepted history?"

The contrary evidence was destroyed by two Bunsen burners in the
Shenandoah Valley.

 EPILOGUE

he, directors.  of the intelligence agencies of France,

England, Germany, and the United States, under the Tinstructions of
their civilian leaders, moved swiftly, silently, and finally
efficiently throughout their countries, for they had the truth, not
speculation.  Over two thousand computer printouts identifying the bona
fide adherents to Die Brziderscbaft der Wacbt.  According to the
combined agreements among the four nations, the government press
releases would essentially say the same thing, as exemplified by the
Paris edition of the Herald Tribune.  Backbone of Neo-Nazi Movement
Broken.

All the articles went on to report that numerous men and women in and
out of governments had been taken secretly into custody, their names,
known only to a few, withheld until indictments were returned.  The
frenzied media went briefly apoplectic, "but the government authorities
would not budge in the area of naming names, which only the few could
provide but did not, and eventually the frustrated media went on to
other, more fruitful "exposes."

Within two months the attention spans' of their readers, listeners, and
watchers waned, and the Nazi witch-hunts withered as rapidly as had the
paranoid search for Communists when the loathsome McCarthy fell from
power.  The entrepreneurs understood that you did not get advertisers
or ratings when you bored the public.

So it was back to partisan political-bashing, and maybe that was Elvis
Presley in a cornfield!

"I'm a goddamned millionaire!"  exclaimed Drew Latham, walking hand in
hand with Karin up the dirt road in Granby, Colorado.

"I still can't get over it!"

"Harry loved you very much," said De Vries, looking above, awestruck at
the majestic Rocky Mountains.

"You never doubted that, did you?"

"I never verbalized it either.  Except for a few hundred thousand for
Mother and Dad, which they'll never use, he left it all to me."

"What surprises you so?"

"Where the hell did he get it?"

"The lawyers explained that, my dear.  Harry was a single man with few
expenses, studied the various markets both here and in Europe, and made
some rather brilliant investments.  That's not unlike him."

"Harry," mused Drew quietly, drawing out the name.  ""Kroeger implanted
that goddamned awful thing in his brain.  The autopsy said that it was
a new science and could be duplicated.  Then it blew his head
apart-after he died.  Suppose he hadn't?"

"The doctors and the scientists say it could not be perfected for
decades, if ever."

"They've been wrong before."

"Yes, they have..  .. I forgot to tell you, we received a telegram from
Jean-Pierre Villier.  He's reopening Coriolanus and wants us both there
in Paris on the first night."

"How can you put it gracefully that a lot of French caterwauling
doesn't exactly thrill me?"

"I'll phrase it another way."

"Christ, there are still so many questions!"

"You don't have to burden yourself with them, my darling.  Ever.

We're free.  Let others do the cleanup, your work is finished."

"I can't help it..  .. Harry said a nurse in the Brotherhood valley
alerted the Antinayous that he was coming out.  Who was she, and what
happened to her?"

"It's in the Mettmach report, the one you only glanced at-' I

"It was too painful," Latham broke in.

"I will one day, but all that medical stuff about my brother-well, I
just didn't want to read it."

"The nurse was an assistant to Greta Frisch, Kroeger's wife.  She had
been forced to sleep with von Schnabe, the commandant, on orders from
the new Lebensborn.  She got pregnant, and took her own life in the
Vaclabruck forest."

"The Lebensborn, such a lovely pastoral sound, yet so brutal, so
warped..  .. Still, we found Mettmach in the Vaclabruck.  My God,
almost a full-blown military base in a backwoods wilderness!"

"It's become a five-thousand-acre penal colony where the prisoners,
male and female, are issued only neo-Nazi uniforms, red armbands
included.  The armbands, however, are sewn in the front of their
clothing, not on their arms, the way they made the Jews wear the Star
of David during the Third Reich."

"It's wild, really wild."

"It was Ambassador Kreitz's idea.  He said it will remind them why they
are there as prisoners, not privileged members of society."

6 "Yes, I know, and I'm still not sure I buy it.  Couldn't it work the
other way, uniformed prisoners of war bonding together?

Swearing undying loyalty to their cause?"  .

"Not with their workloads, schedules, and constant lectures about the
Nazi past which are accompanied by films and slides of the most brutal
atrocities.  They're instructed to write papers on what they observed.
We hear that many come out of those lectures weeping and falling on
their knees in prayer.  Remember, Drew, the heavy work aside, no one
acts harshly, toward the inmates.

Everything is completely firm but courteous."

"The head doctors are going to have a prolonged psychiatric field day.
It could be the beginning of a whole new prison system.

"Then something decent could come out of an indecent madness."

"Maybe, but don't count on it.  There are always others waiting in the
wings.  Their names may be different, the cultures different, but the
common denominator is always the same.

"Do it our way, under our authority, no deviations permitted."

"

"So we must, all of us everywhere, be on the alert for such people,
such causes, hoping our leaders will perceive them and have the courage
to move swiftly, but not irrationally."

"Don't you get tired of always summing things up so well?"

"My husband-when he was my husband in the early days-usually said,
"Will you please stop being so boringly academic."  I guess he was
right.  The only life I ever had was academic, it was all that was
offered me."

"I'd never say anything like that to you .. .. @ By the way, you did
more of the follow-up than I did-"

"Naturally," interrupted Karin, "you had to fly back to your mother and
father.  They need their surviving child in their grief."

"Yes."  Latham looked at her in the bright afternoon Colorado
sunlight.

"Yes..  .."  He took his eyes off her and continued.

"Did Knox Talbot find out who broke into the AA computers" - "Of
course, they were on the Eagle's Nest printouts.  A I man and a woman
who'd worked their way up for sixteen years in the Agency.  Boy Scouts,
Girl Scouts, church acolytes, one from a farm-Four H, whatever that
is-and the other the offspring of a suburban couple who taught Sunday
school."

"Sonnenkinder," said Drew.

"Precisely.  Right down to choir practice and your Rotary Clubs."

"What about the files on Monluc that were stolen from the OSI?"

"One of the directors who posed as a Jewish historian.  Who could
suspect him?"

"Sonnenkind."

"Naturally."

"What about that financial shark in Paris who was buying up real estate
in the Loire Valley with German money?"

"His house of cards collapsed.  Bonn stepped in with some very creative
foreign accounting procedures that saved a lot of German money.  He was
a swindler praying upon old misguided loyalties."

Karin glanced up at Latham.

"Why are you looking at me like that?  So questioningly?"

"A moment ago you mentioned my mother and father, and that made me
suddenly think.  You've never told me about your parents, your mother
and father, who gave you all that academic training.  I don't even know
what your name is, your maiden name.  Why is that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Hell, no!  But I'm curious, isn't that normal?  I guess, in my
imagination, I always thought that when and if I was ever going to ask
a woman to marry me, I'd have to go to her father and say something
like, "Yes, sir, I can support her and I love her'-in that order.  Can
I do that, Karin?"

"No, I'm afraid you can't, so I might as well tell you the truth..  ..
My grandmother was a Danish woman, abducted by the Nazis and forced
into the Lebensborn.  When her daughter, my mother, was born, she stole
her away, and with a tenacity that is beyond understanding, she made
her way back into Denmark with that child, and hid herself in a small
village on the outskirts of Hansthohn on the North Sea.  She found a
man, an anti-Nazi, who married her and accepted the child, my
mother."

"So what you're saying-" "Yes, Drew Latham, but for the driven
stubbornness of a woman's ferocity, I might have become a Sormenkind,
not unlike Janine Clunes.  Unfortunately, the Nazis kept meticulous
records, and my grandmother and her husband had to keep running, never
having a permanent home of their own, or access to normal educational
facilities.  Finally, after the war, they moved to Belgium', where the
barely literate child grew up, got married, and had me 1962.

Because my mother had been denied any formal education, my schooling
became an obsession with her."

"Where are they now?"

"My father deserted us when I was nine years old and, looking back, I
can understand why.  My mother had my grandmother's intensity of
purpose.  As her mother had risked everything, including a public
hanging, to steal her own child away from the Lebensborn, my mother was
consumed by me.  She had no time for her husband, her whole focus was
on her daughter.  I had to read constantly, feverishly, attain the
highest grades of anyone in the academies, study, study, study, until I
myself caught the fever.  I became as obsessed with my scholarship as
she was."

"No wonder you and Harry got along.  Is your mother alive?"

"She's in a nursing home in Antwerp.  You could say she burnt herself
out, and now barely recognizes me."

"Your father?"

"Who knows?  I never tried to find him.  Later I thought often of
trying, for, as I say, I understood why he le .  At the first chance,
you see, I myself left before I was completely smothered, and how
accurately does the English language create that word.  Then Freddie
came along and I was 'out like a shot," as you Americans say."

"Well, that's over with!"  said Drew, smiling and squeezing her hand.

"Now I feel I know you well enough to carry on the Latham dynasty."

"How generous of you, I'll try to be worthy."

"Worthy?  For you it's a step or two down, but I want you to know that
the first thing I'm ordering for the library is a set of
encyclopedias."

"What library?"

"In the house."

"What house?"

"Our house.  Right around the bend on this old road, which, naturally,
I'll have surfaced now that I can afford to.  @9

"What are you talking about?"

"This is kind of a back entrance to the property.

"What property?"

"Our property.  You said you liked mountains."

""I do.  Look up there, they're so grand, so breathtaking!  "

"Then, come on, mountain lover, we're almost there."

"Where?"

"Well, you see," said Drew as they walked left around the dirt curve,
"I have a friend in Fort Collins who told me about this place.

"Nails' is really rich-we called him Nails in college 'cause he could
nail down anything, from a date to a deal and he said it was the only
acreage left, if I could come up with the price.  Then, also very much
like Nails, he added that he could help me if it was a problem."

"What does he do?"

"I don't think anyone really knows.  He has a bunch of computers and
deals in stocks and bonds and commodities, those kinds of things.  But
the proudest moment came when I said to him, "It's no problem, Nails.
If I like it, I'll buy it."

"

"What did he say?"

"

"On a government salary, buddy?"  And I said, "No, old buddy, I've put
a lot of my per die ms into the European markets, and he said, "Let's
have lunch, or dinner, or stay at my place for as long as you like."

"

"You're shameless, Drew Latham!"  They rounded the bend in the road,
and what lay before them caused Karin to flush with astonishment.  It
was a huge, pristine bluegreen lake, several white sails skimming the
water, and in the distance a number of exquisitely designed houses with
protruding docks below their manicured lawns.  Above, glistening in the
sunlight, were the receding mountains, like heavenly fortresses
protecting a beautiful earthly enclave.  And to their right was a large
expanse of lakefront fields, uninhabited, filled with high grass and
wildflowers.

"There you are, lady, that's our house.  Can't you see it?  A couple of
miles over there is the southwest entrance to the Rocky Mountain
National Park."

"Oh, my darling, I can't believe it!"

"Believe, it's there.  It's ours, And in a year the house will be
there-after you approve the plans, of course.  Nails got me the finest
architect in Colorado."

"But, Drew," laughed Karin, racing down the hill of grass toward the
water's edge and the stream that bordered the property.

"It will take so long, what are we going to do?"

"I was thinking of pitching a pretty big tent, like squatters, but it
wouldn't work!"  yelled Latham, catching up with her.

"Why not?  I'd love it!"

"No, you wouldn't," said Drew, breathless, holding her by the
shoulders.

"Guess who's flying out to oversee the initial construction because the
chlopak isn't capable?"

"The colonel?"

"Right on, lady."

"He, too, loves you very much."

"I think you've got an edge in that department.  He was granted his
full pension, but he hasn't anywhere else to go.  His children are
grown, with kids of their own, and after a few days with them, he's at
a loss.  He's got to keep moving, Karin.  Let him stay with us for a
while until he has to move again, okay?"

"I could never say no."

"Thank you.  Nails rented us a house about ten miles down Route 34, and
I've agreed to fly to Washington for five days a month, no more than
that.  Only consultation, no field duty."

"Are you sure of that?  Can you live with that?"

"Yes, because I've done my best and I have nothing else to prove-to
Harry or anybody."

"What will we do?  You're a young man, Drew, and I'm younger than you.
What are we going to do?"

"I don't know.  First, we build our house, which will take a couple of
years, actually, and then-well, then we'll have to think about
things."

"Are you really going to resign from Consular Operations?"

"That's up to Sorenson.  Outside of five days a month, I'm on leave
until March of next year."

"Then you haven't made up your mind.  It's not Sorenson's decision;
it's yours."

"Wesley understands.  He's been where I've been and he quit."

"Where is that?"  asked Karin softly, holding Latham, her face against
his chest.

"I'm not sure," replied Drew,.his arms around her.

"Thanks to Beth's genes, I'm a pretty big guy and relatively capable of
taking care of myself, but I _also learned something over the past
three months, and you're part of it, a major part..  .. I don't like
being afraid for both of us around the clock.  To tell you the truth, I
really don't like guns, although they've saved our lives more than
once.  I'm sick of the dictum Kill or be killed.  I don't care to play
anymore, and I sure as hell don't want you to

"It was war, my darling, you said that yourself and you were right. 
But for us it's over, we're going to live like normal human beings. 
Also, I can't wait to see Stanley!"

As if on a perfect cue, an agitated figure appeared on the dirt road
above.

"Son of a bitch!"  'roared Colonel Stanley Witkowski, perspiring and
out of breath.

"The damned taxi refused to come up here!  .. . Nice terrain, not bad.
Already I've got some ideas-lots of glass and wood.  Also, cblopak, Wcs
Sorenson phoned me.  We're a pretty good team, the three of us, and
there's a situation he thought we might find interesting under your new
arrangement with Cons-Op."

"Nothing changes," said Latham, still holding Karin..  .

Forget it, Colonel!"

"He was thinking of you, young fella, we both were," continued
Witkowski, walking down the hill of grass, wiping his forehead.

"You're too young to retire, you've got to work, and what the hell else
do you know?  I'd say the hockey rink's pretty much out of the
question; you've been away too long."

"I said forget it."

"I'm flying back with you next week and Wesley will lay it all out.

It sounds like a piece of cake, damn fine per die ms and contingency
funds, and we can all take turns coming back to check on the
construction here."

"The answer is no, Stanley!"

"We'll talk..  .. My dear Karin, you look wonderful."

"Thank you," said De Vries, embracing the colonel.

"You look a bit tired."  '

"It's a hell of a walk.3'

"No, no, no!"

"We'll just talk, cb1opak..  .. Now, let's survey the grounds."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROBERT LUDLUM is the author of nineteen novels published in thirty-two
languages and forty countries, with worldwide sales in excess of 200
million copies.  His works include The Scarlatti Inheritauce, The
Osterman Weekend, The Matlock Paper, The Rhinemann Exchange, The Gemini
Contenders, The Chancellor Manuscript, The Road to Gandolfo, The
Holcroft Covenant, The Matarese Circle, The Bourne Identity, The
Parsifal Mosaic, The Aquitaine Progression, The Bourne Supremacy, The
Icarus Agenda, Trevayne, The Bourne Ultimatum, The Road to Omaha, and
The Scorpio Illusion.  He lives with his wife, Mary, in Florida and
Connecticut.