THE DOOMSDAY ULTIMATUM [028-037-4.7]

By: James Follett

Category: fiction thrillers

Synopsis:

It is the mid-1970s.  A group of disaffected politicians,businessmen,
and servicemen -- fiercely patriotic men and women with the right
skills and ambitions -- plan and execute a bizarre operation to stop
Britain sliding into what they see as anarchy.

They seize a nuclear power station as a means of holding the government
to ransom.  The twist ending comes as a complete surprise and
demonstrates this new author's mastery of indirection.

Once a general, now a terrorist, Conrad Pyne has delivered "The
doomsday ultimatum" to the Prime Minister in a last, desperate attempt
to save his protesting country from anarchy.  Pyne has seized a nuclear
power station on Canvey Island- and the Government has 100 hours in
which to respond.


1990 revision by the author of the novel first published by Weidenfeld
and Nicolson 1976

REPRESENTATION:

Jacqui Lyons Marjacq Scripts Ltd 32 Cumberland Mansions Nutford Place

W1A 5ZB

Tel: 071 724 0565 Fax: 071 723 3405

Prologue The army escort in the car park suspected nothing.

Suddenly a nerve-gas grenade exploded in their midst but they never saw
the figure that fired it.  Choking, they collapsed as the paralysing
fumes swirled round them.

And inside the "Westward Ho' transport cafe the staff and the handful
of late-night customers lay unconscious.

The attack by the armed group had taken only thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds is a long time in the application of chemical weapons.
The CIX nerve-gas grenades, shattering and scattering fragile capsules
in all directions, completed their task within five seconds.  Inside
the cafe the Special Air Service's captain who commanded the escort had
tried to stagger to the door and shout a warning to his soldiers in the
car park guarding the olive drab army transporter, but he collapsed
before he could croak a single word.

His NCO, a Royal Artillery sergeant, had tried to pick up a hissing
capsule from the floor and throw it out of an open window, but he too
had passed out.

The tray of coffee cups for the escort lay on the floor, the cups
broken.  All was silent.

Two men entered the caf‚.  They wore NCB protective hoods with integral
breathing sets, and held smoking grenade guns.  They walked through air
thick with nerve-gas fumes.  The hooded men glanced casually around the
confusion.  The taller man checked the time against the information
stored on his Psion Organiser pocket computer and pressed the "enter'
key.

"We're four seconds behind.  Go on Phase Two," he ordered.

His voice sounded flat and indistinct behind his faceplate.

The second man went to the mains switch.  He knew exactly where it
was.

The caf‚ lights flashed three times.  The taller man checked his Psion
again.  They had to work fast; every twenty minutes the army mobile
unit was required to enter a status green security code into their
radio facsimile unit.

At a signal a petrol tanker drove into the car park.  It stopped beside
the army transporter.

"Everything okay?"  asked a woman's voice from the driver's cab.

The tall man was cutting the lashings of the tarpaulins that covered
the army transporter's cargo.  "Tell him to hurry up in there," he
commanded.

The woman vaulted down from the tanker's cab and ran into the caf‚. 
She too was hooded, and wore a brown jumpsuit.

A mobile crane, parked under the trees, burst into life and rumbled
across the moonlit car park towards the tall man, who was now standing
on top of the army transporter, guiding the approaching jib with arm
gestures.

"Get the tanker opened," he yelled.

His manner was military.  He was used to giving orders and the others
obeyed without hesitation.

The woman and the other hooded man came running from the caf‚.

"Help him," ordered the tall man nodding at the crane driver.

He looked at his Psion Organiser again.

"You've got five minutes."  He was wearing a headset hooked up to a
portable AR1000 scanning receiver clipped to his waist.

It was programmed to all Thames Valley Police C Division repeater
output radio channels.  Right now most of the mobile channels were
taken up with a serious RTA on the nearby M4.  So far everything was
going according to plan.

It took longer than five minutes but finally the first tanker was
loaded and the two halves of the dummy petrol container were snapped
shut, The woman started the engine.  The tanker moved away to block the
entrance to the car park.

The tall man's scanner hung on a channel.  He checked the receiver's
display.  It was reading 451.475 megaHertz.  End stop signal strength.
"For God's sake get a move on!"  He hissed.

"We've got a unit working Burnham's channel 13 and he's nearly on top
of us!"

Working silently, every move planned ahead, every detail rehearsed,
they loaded the second tanker.

The captain who commanded the escort was the first to regain
consciousness.  His head felt as if an asteroid had fallen on it.

He staggered out of the caf‚.  The army transporter and escort vehicles
were still there.  The soldiers lay bundled inside.

The canvas covers of the transporter trailed on the ground.  There was
no sign of the vehicle's cargo.  The weapons had been old stock, on
their way to a Royal Ordnance Factory for dismantling and junking.

Nevertheless they were no less deadly.

The transporter had been carrying two surface-to-surface Honest John
missiles.

SUNDAY

At 08:34 hours precisely General Conrad Pyne's black official Rover 800
stopped outside the ugly wrought iron barrier that guarded the entrance
into Downing Street.  He sat perfectly still, barely acknowledging the
polite salute of the police officers who checked his driver's
credentials.  There was a three-minute delay as a truckle mirror and an
ion discharge explosives detector was passed under the vehicle.

Even at this hour on a hot Sunday morning there was a gaggle of
sightseers and tourists clustered along the pavement hoping to catch a
glimpse of the famous.  They ducked their heads and tried to peer
through the Austin-Rover's black-tinted glass.

Japanese tourists clicked Canons in polite salute as Corporal Ian
Garnet drove through the gates and into Downing Street.  He did
something unusual; instead of first dropping his passenger, he turned
the car around in the narrow cul-de-sac and eased it alongside the
kerb.

The wing-mounted pennants of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps furled
dejectedly in the oppressive heat around their silver stems.

Pyne made no attempt to move when the officer on duty opened the rear
passenger door.  The policeman was about to speak when he encountered
the hard grey eyes.

Pyne pressed the airmail envelope into his hand.  "See that the Prime
Minister's secretary gets that," he ordered.

Pyne jerked the door shut and tapped on Garnet's shoulder.

There was a click as the automatic transmission engaged.  The big car
pulled briskly away and swept through the gates, much to the surprise
of the police officers who had been told that Pyne's visit would last
at least fifteen to twenty minutes.

It was done.

The Doomsday Ultimatum had been delivered.

Pyne felt the constriction across his chest relax.  He eased himself
back into the soft cushions and glanced at his watch.

08:40.  So far, so good.

So far.... He looked back through the rear window; a police officer was
staring after him and another was yacking into his two-way radio.

The scene behind the black-lacquered door of 10 Downing Street ran
through Pyne's mind: using his official car would ensure the letter
went directly to Simpson and not down to the sorting-office.

The lightweight airmail envelope, containing a single sheet of closely
typewritten paper, was hardly likely to arouse suspicion as a possible
letter-bomb.  Simpson would be told who had delivered the letter, and
was probably opening it at this moment.

Corporal Garnet looked up at the frozen hands of Big Ben as he turned
on to Westminster Bridge.  From where he was sitting Pyne could see in
the driver's mirror the ugly scar that traversed Garnet's left cheek.
It was like a ragged furrow created by a drunken ploughman.  A lucky
escape from an Armalite bullet when Garnet had been serving in Northern
Ireland.

"Still stuck at half past three, sir."

Pyne made no reply.  A handful of striking maintenance workers had
achieved more than wartime bombs: the stationary hands were a symbol of
the anarchy that now gripped the country- schools working a three-day
week; water and electricity supplies frequently interrupted; sewage
overflowing into the streets; and a government hamstrung by the
reluctance of privatised public utilities to use what powers they had
against the trade unions.

In the 1980s the power of the trade unions had been broken by a
combination of high unemployment and punitive legislation.

In the zeal of social reform that had followed the repressive
government of the previous decade, many of the trade unions had
regained their traditional powers by shifting their headquarters to the
Netherlands and Belgium where they were beyond the direct jurisdiction
of British courts.  The will of national governments was thwarted by
fax machines and international credit transfers.

Adding to the government's problems was a plethora of militant social
unions: patients unions; telephone users' unions; the Green Warriors;
poll tax protesters.  Even more worrying was the wave of fundamentalist
Moslem movements that wanted to establish Moslem governed enclaves
throughout the United Kingdom- states within a state.

08:43.  The Rover was hissing over Westminster Bridge and away from the
stench of rotting refuse mountain in Trafalgar Square guarded by
thousands of strikers.

Corporal Garnet slowed to pass a ragged demonstration.

The marchers were not holding their banners properly, making it
impossible to read what they said.  The odd word unfolded briefly as
the protestors swayed and chanted.

"INFLATION... FOOD PRICES... POLL TAX... SAVE BILLIONS

WITH

THE EUROPEAN DEFENCE FORCE..."

The last phrase held Pyne's attention.  He studied the marchers more
closely as the car crept past them.  They looked like respectable
middle-class clerks with their wives and children -not the type who
would normally take to the streets.  A woman was carrying the EC flag.
She waved the blue banner with its circle of stars angrily at Pyne's
car.

The tightness across his chest returned.  He closed his eyes on the
symbol and pictured the events taking place in Downing Street.  Simpson
would now be rereading the letter.  Perhaps he was already reaching for
his telephone to ring the Prime Minister.

No.

Simpson was much too cautious: he would call the police and make doubly
certain it was Pyne who had delivered the ultimatum: As from 10:30
hours today, Vulcan Hall nuclear power station on Canvey Island is now
under the control of the recently formed United Kingdom Policy Control
Group.  The purpose of this group is to advise and co-ordinate the
activities of Her Majesty's Government.

How we will carry out this task and our specific longterm and
short-term objectives will be communicated to you later today.  For the
time being, it is sufficient for you to know that we are in possession
of two MGR-1B Honest John surface-to surface ballistic missiles in
addition to the large quantity of tactical hardware supplied to the Oil
Platform Defence Force which, as from today, is also under our command.
One of the Honest Johns is now trained on the East End of London and
any attempt to interfere with our operations on Canvey Island will
result in the immediate discharge of the missile.

Our first directive is that our ultimatum should not be made public
until our terms have been implemented by Parliament, and have received
the Royal Assent... There were certain conditions in the ultimatum that
Keller was unaware of.  Pyne frowned.  Keller had proved himself during
the raid on the Westward Ho transport cafe three months earlier; he had
obeyed orders without question, and had always shown respect for Pyne.
But there was something about him that Pyne disliked.

His unsmiling politeness at the planning meetings and insistence that
only extreme right-ring measures would cure the country's problems, had
forced Pyne to supply Keller with a phoney draft of the ultimatum to
keep him quiet.  Pyne disliked having to do it- the success of the
power station takeover depended on mutual trust between the four
members of the group.  Had there been time, Pyne would have looked
around for an alternative to Keller.  But there was no-one- Keller had
been responsible for the installation of the emergency radioactive
waste silos at the Vulcan Hall nuclear power station- he knew exactly
where to position the high explosive and how to shutdown the power
station's two gas-cooled nuclear reactors.

For the time being Keller would have to be tolerated.

Pyne was pushed gently into the cushions as the Rover accelerated
through the quiet Sunday morning streets.

Occasional wisps of smoke drifted across the road as householders
ignored clean air regulations in their efforts to dispose of rubbish.

Traffic lights obligingly winked to green at the car's approach -their
solid state relays triggered by the sonic beam from a

PATH

(Priority Alert Traffic Hold) transmitter concealed behind the Rover's
grille; a useful device fitted to all official cars used by government
ministers and high-ranking service officers.

By 08:55 the car was nearing Woolwich, and at 09:00 hours precisely it
was cleared by the civilian police and allowed to pass through the
ornate gates of the Royal College of Artillery.

The smartly turned-out sentries checked the documents Garnet handed
them and accorded Pyne smart salutes before raising the steel barrier
arm.  Although Pyne never wore a uniform, he always received a
salute.

Pyne walked across the sprawling, close-clipped lawn with Corporal
Garnet one step behind carrying the briefcase.  Someone had wiped the
dew off his Westland Scout helicopter so that it gleamed damply in the
early sun.  It was the last Scout still in service with the army; Pyne
had fought several battles with MoD Procurement to keep the machine in
service.  The faint circular scratch marks on the Perspex windows- the
result of carelessness with a hard rag -annoyed him.  He checked his
irritation.

Did it matter any more?

"Back to Weybridge, sir?"  inquired Garnet, unlocking the Scout's
door.

Pyne shook his head.  "I'll fly her, corporal.  I've not logged enough
hours this year.  I ought to keep my hand in."

"Yes, sir."  Garnet held the door open as the general climbed into the
pilot's seat.  Pyne waved away the offered briefcase.

"I don't need it any more."

The corporal looked uncertain.  "Do you want me to come with you,
sir?"

"No.  Take the car back to the depot.  Tell them I've finished with
it."  Pyne avoided his NCO's eyes- the savage scar seemed to glow in
the harsh light.

"Garnet, would you do something for me?"

"Sir?"

"Not as an order- I can't give orders now, but as a favour."

"I don't understand, sir."

"There's a buff envelope in the briefcase which contains your discharge
papers.  You've been a civilian since midnight.

That's why I can't give you orders."

Garnet looked astounded.  The briefcase nearly slipped from his
grasp.

"I'm going away on an important mission- possibly for a long time. 
It's not fair to expect my daughter to look after the house, so I'd
like you to do it."  Pyne paused and flipped the Scout's power
switches.  The toggle switches closed with soft clicks and the
instruments came to life.  "There's a copy of a letter in the briefcase
instructing the Midland Bank at Weybridge to make you monthly payments
as my caretaker. You'll also find a cheque in there payable to you so
you can have some plastic surgery for that scar, and there's some cash
for civilian clothes.  Will you do it?"

Garnet stood transfixed.

"Well?"  snapped Pyne.

The corporal nodded dumbly.

"If you see Maggie at the house, tell her I'm sorry to have missed the
birthday party she was planning for me."  Pyne paused to operate the
Scout's controls.  The rotors turned slowly.  "You can sell the boat
for whatever you can get."  Pyne wondered why he was telling Garnet
this.  He gazed at the unreal red-brick facade of the college.  It
looked like a film set dropped amid the disciplined flowerbeds.

"One last thing: don't think too badly of Maggie.  She's young and
thoughtless,; and doesn't mean to be cruel.  She still hasn't got over
her mother's death,"

Corporal Garnet stared at his general.

"And you're to tell no one what has happened to me," said Pyne.
"Absolutely no one.  Understand?"

Garnet found his voice: "How long will you be gone, sir?"

Pyne hesitated.  "Not more than twelve months if all goes according to
plan.  But it could be five years."

Pyne slammed the helicopter door shut before Garnet could reply.  The
rotors became an iridescent disc that bit into the hot morning air
until their downward thrust cancelled the Scout's weight.  The machine
lifted, and dwindled towards the Thames, watched by the bewildered
upturned face of Corporal Garnet as he clutched the black leather
briefcase with its gold E11R crest.

Simpson moved quickly after he had finished reading the ultimatum.

He knew exactly what he had to do.  He notified the valet to wake the
Prime Minister immediately and then called the duty air traffic control
officer at West Drayton to establish the whereabouts of General Pyne's
helicopter.

Simpson was certain he knew the answer, but with so much at stake there
was no room for mistakes- the call had to be made.

The officer returned his call two minutes later, confirming what
Simpson already knew.

Simpson opened a desk drawer and studied a computer print-out which
listed data on every helicopter pilot in the armed services.

He crossed the office and pulled a wall map of southern England down by
its tassel.  His finger traced the winding path of the Thames and
stopped at Chatham.  He smiled to himself and put a priority call
through to the officer in charge of helicopter air sea rescue
operations at Chatham naval base.  He kept his finger on the red button
so that the alarm would sound continuously in the commanding officer's
office until the telephone was answered.

He gave his emergency number and pressed the cradle to cut the line.

He remained impassive for some seconds with his outstretched finger
holding the line closed until the telephone warbled.  He removed his
finger and issued instructions in his curt, matter-of fact voice and
requested them to be read back to him.  He listened attentively and
carefully replaced the receiver.

The conversation was safely recorded on tape in case the Prime
Minister's enemies later accused the department of not trying.

The door opened Simpson looked up at the thickset figure standing in
the doorway.

"Good morning, sir.  I trust you slept well?"

It was a courteous greeting rather than an inquiry.

The Prime Minister always slept soundly.  But the week ahead would
change all that.

Pyne cleared his routing with West Drayton and passed over Woolwich at
a thousand feet.  He altered course above the Thames to follow its
molten silver path towards the estuary.  The free ferry was ploughing
across the current on its new restricted service.

Pyne felt a pang of regret at the passing of the old paddle steamers.

His greatest joy as a cadet from a poor background had been the daily
free trip across the river and back on the pounding old side wheelers

To the north towering office blocks stood like brooding memorials to
the prosperity of a bygone era.  Once the angular steel and concrete
stakes, driven indiscriminately into the dock lands clay, had pinned
down fat profits for their owners; now they scarcely acted as
windbreaks against the chill draught of depression that seeped and
spilled across the country.

Pyne settled more comfortably into his seat.

There was so much to be done.

And undone.

He glanced at his watch.  09:15 hours, The Thames yawned wider in its
lazy, indifferent sweep to the North Sea.  The helicopter's grounded
shadow chased vainly after its owner- occasionally racing up the sides
of slab-sided refuse barges now manned by the Royal Marines- fleeting
across cargoes of rotting vegetable waste and plunging back to the
gleaming, hammer-beaten water.

So much to be done.

Pyne squinted into the sun as the Thames Haven oil refinery came into
view thirty kilometres ahead.  Beyond the lace work of pipes and
distillation columns, and ten kilometres further eastward down-river,
he could just discern the salt-cellar cooling towers of the Vulcan Hall
nuclear power station on Canvey Island.  The pale structures shimmered
in the haze that was being sucked off the water by the strengthening
sun and smeared across the horizon like a ghostly shroud.

The power station could wait.  First, the refinery.

09:22 hours.

Pyne took the handheld Icom transceiver from its mounting clip and
pressed it his ear.  The two-way radio was already set to the correct
frequency.  He pressed the talk key.

"Pine Needle to Victor Hotel control.  Do you copy?  Over."

The direct, line-of-sight reply from the visible power station, ten
kilometres beyond the refinery, was loud and clear.

"Victor Hotel control to Pine Needle," said a voice in the headphones.
"Go ahead."

It was Keller.  The polite nasal accent with the faint American twang
he had acquired when working in Michigan for the US Atomic Energy
Commission was unmistakable.  At least the man was alert.

"I'm thirty kilometres west of the target," said Pyne.

"I'll remain in this area until after 09:45 hours.  I don't want to be
too close.  Over."

"Correction, Pine Needle, we have you positioned at twenty nine point
two kilometres west of the target according to our radar display,"
Keller answered with his customary politeness.

Pyne frowned.  He was never certain with Keller whether the man was
being supercilious or subordinate.

"Are you all set?  Over."  asked Pyne.

"All set," affirmed Keller.  "You should have a grandstand view.  Did
the delivery go as planned?"

Always so bloody polite, thought Pyne.  "Affirmative.  Any messages?
Over."

"Negative, Pine Needle, but we picked up Captain Stacy trying to
contact you.  It looks as if the camp is ready for inspection."

"I'll call him direct," said Pyne.  There was nothing more to be said.
He cut Keller off and set the tranceiver to scanning the 451 megaHertz
band.  There were the usual police reports in jargon from mobiles and
the occasional clear-language directive from their controls.  Nothing
about Pyne or the Scout helicopter.  He checked the air band with the
same result.  It was only to be expected.

He anticipated that the ultimatum would take at least an hour to sink
in, especially Article Two in the covering instructions: As a
demonstration of our determination, we will destroy the Thames Haven
oil refinery with one of the Honest John missiles at 09:45 hours.  Be
warned: Canvey Island is now equipped with the latest horizon
surveillance radar; the surrounding countryside is flat, giving us two
minutes' warning of any missile or low-level aircraft attack, and we
require only one minute to launch the second Honest John.

Any attempt to employ radar jamming or any form of ECM (Electronic
Countermeasures) against us will be regarded by us as a hostile move
and we will act accordingly.

Should you decide to sacrifice the lives of many Londoners by forcing
us to fire the missile, it would be best if you considered the
implications of an explosion from the hundred tonnes of Cyclonite high
explosive we have placed round Vulcan Hall's radioactive-waste storage
silos.

(signed) Conrad Pyne OBE (Major-General) Pyne remembered deleting his
rank and the letters after his name before signing the document.

Lieutenant Steven Thorne, RN, had been trained to do everything with a
helicopter except how to bring down another helicopter.

He debated the problem with himself as his Mark 10 Lynx, the fastest
rotary-wing machine in the world, thrashed westward above the Thames
from Chatham.

His one crewman was not much help either.

Marine-Sergeant Hopkins, secured to the floor of the open helicopter
bay by a harness and clutching a floor-mounted machinegun, had no
experience of aerial combat.

Thorne scanned the expanse of brilliant blue sky.  The sun was behind
him, so this terrorist, whoever he was, flying an old Army Scout
helicopter, should be easy to detect.  That's all they had told him: a
terrorist flying a stolen machine who was to be stopped at all costs.

"There he is sir!"  Hopkins' voice suddenly shouted in Thorne's
headset.

Thorne spotted the whirling splinter of sunlight immediately.

It was a Scout helicopter.  "Okay Hopkins.  I've got him!"

Thorne pulled his machine upwards to put himself into the sun.

It was a mistake.

In the Scout, Pyne squinted up as the shadow of the Lynx flitted across
the Perspex windows.  He cursed Keller for not warning him, and pushed
the cyclic pitch yoke forward.

Thorne slewed his tail-boom around and aimed his machine at Pyne's
Scout that was now windmilling low across the Thames leaving a wake of
flattened water in the downwash from its rotors.

The distance between the two machines closed rapidly.  The Lynx's
airframe shook violently as the screaming rotors sliced into the
haze-laden air.  Even if Thorne had lost the advantage of surprise his
Lynx was the fastest helicopter in the world- Pyne was finished- when
he got close enough.

And then Pyne did something completely unexpected- he swung his Scout
around like a cornered cat turning on a pursuing dog.

Thorne was forced to bank sharply to avoid a mid-air collision.

Pyne deftly leapt the Scout over Thorne's plunging Lynx, and stole the
larger machine's lift.  Thorne frantically increased pitch as the
Lynx's rotors failed to bite on the air already being forced downward
by the wash from the Scout.  For a sickening moment Thorne thought his
machine was going to plunge into the river.  The Lynx's wheels actually
dipped into the water before the flailing rotors jerked the helicopter
upwards.

Pyne spun the Scout around and flew backwards away from the Lynx- a
move which cost Thorne several seconds as he went plunging after Pyne
in the wrong direction.  Pyne continued to fly backwards, watching the
spinning ellipse of Thorne's rotors harden to a fine line as the
powerful Navy machine came roaring after him.

Pyne glanced over his shoulder; the main building of the Ford Motor
Company was racing towards him.

Pyne felt trapped.  Attempting to climb out of trouble would cost too
much in ground speed.  The distance between the helicopters narrowed as
they flew towards the giant car parks where Ford's stored their
thousands of unsold cars.

Pyne reached under his seat for the Verey signal pistol, slid a fat
parachute flare into the breech, and pulled back the hammer.

It was the only armament the Scout carried.

By now, Thorne had a healthy respect for Pyne's flying skill and
approached cautiously.

"Try now sir!"  said Hopkins urgently.  "I'm in range!"

Thorne brought the open bay to bear, but Pyne thwarted the move by
twisting his more manoeuvrable machine within the Lynx's turning
circle.

The two helicopters were like cats circling each other as a preliminary
to battle.  Thorne broke the rhythm.  The Scout slipped out of sight
down the starboard side of the Lynx towards Hopkins' field of fire.
Pyne did not hear the machine-gun, but saw darts of light flicker from
the barrel and felt bullets slam into the aluminium skin behind his
head.

On the ground Ford drivers pointed excitedly up at the sparring
machines.

There was no second burst of fire.  Hopkins swore and released his
safety harness to kick the jammed gun.  Pyne aimed the Verey pistol at
the big Navy machine, bracing his arm against the downwash from the
Scout's rotors.  His finger tensed on the trigger.

Another burst of fire as Hopkins freed the jammed ammunition belt.  The
flare arched gracefully towards the Lynx, but it was too high.  Pyne
cursed his mistake.

Thorne made another mistake: he saw the trail of the flare against the
sky and, thinking that it was coming straight for him, banked sharply.
It was over in a matter of seconds.  The wash from the Lynx's rotors
deflected the flare downward.  It blasted past Hopkins and exploded
like a miniature sun against the far bulkhead.

Hopkins screamed to Thorne and actually tried to pick the flare up.

He was too late.  The fireball melted through the bulkhead and
dissolved the fuel line from the armoured tank beneath the floor.

Blazing fuel sprayed on Hopkins as he rolled screaming on the floor.

The Ford drivers scattered as the blazing machine came skimming towards
them above the rooftops of the unwanted cars.

The last thing that registered on Thorne's mind before it ceased to
exist, was the kaleidoscope of brightly coloured metal boxes racing
towards him.

One wheel of the Lynx struck an Escort.  The impact sent the helicopter
somersaulting through the air.  The burning body of Marine-Sergeant
Hopkins was ejected fifty metres through the air.

He landed on the roof of a white Sierra and etched his outline in the
blistering acrylic paint,.

The Lynx ploughed upside down through the ranks of owner less cars, its
still flailing rotors scything saloons to instant mangled
convertibles.

The bewildered drivers, crouching behind tape-shrouded bumpers,
cautiously emerged and surveyed the blazing wreckage.

Two drivers tried to approach the helicopter but were driven back by
the heat.  More drivers stood up, then immediately dived for cover as
heat-fired bullets from Hopkins' machine-gun whacked into unscathed
cars.  Windshields shattered and tyres collapsed with reproving hisses
at the random onslaught from Lieutenant Steven Thorne's spiteful
funeral pyre.

Pyne wasted no time on regret for the unknown crew of the Lynx.  He
turned the Scout back towards the Thames.

A corner of his mind noted what a beautiful day it was.

The shock-wave from the exploding oil refinery which rocked the Scout
helicopter a hundred seconds after the flash was felt as far away as
Chelmsford in the north and Maidstone in the south.

Holidaymakers on the Kent beaches scanned the sky for a glimpse of the
aircraft that had caused the sonic boom.  A ten-tonne slab of metal
shaped like a segment of orange peel- part of a propane gas pressure
vessel- developed sufficient lift under its curved surface to demolish
a row of houses twenty kilometres away.

The intense heat fused sixty caravans on a site near the refinery to
neat rectangular blobs of solder.  The pulverizing shock-wave,
destroying everything in its path, originated from a single,
catastrophic explosion, but the squat containers spread out on the vast
tank farm adjoining the refinery site eliminated themselves one by one
with their own individual explosions.

One hundred and forty-five refinery workers were flashed to steam
before the sound of the blast reached them.  A colliery vessel
capsized, sank, poured a thousand tonnes of coal on to the river bed
and surfaced bottom-up.  A two metre tidal wave raced upriver.

It was destined to reach Teddington Lock after a journey of appalling
destruction where it would sweep away most of the vehicles parked round
the television studios, smash down the lock gates and dissipate its
energy against the unleashed flood of water raging through the ruptured
gates.

Pyne flew cautiously towards the devastated refinery.

Apart from the blazing containers on the tank farms round the site,
there was no fire amid the twisted, flattened remains of the
distillation columns and hydro-cracking towers; everything inflammable
had been swept away or vaporised by the blast.  The giant globular LPG
tanks were no more- they had been pricked out of existence like
balloons.  The approach roads were empty of traffic.  Despite the whine
of the gas turbine above Pyne's head, an atmosphere of stunned silence
and stillness pervaded the site.

A flash below caught his eye.  Seagulls were swooping down and settling
on agitated water round the sinking colliery vessel -even the few fish
in the Thames Estuary had been stunned by the blast.  Pyne watched the
birds screaming and fighting.  Perhaps it wasn't fish they were
interested in.

He switched on the radio to listen to any official announcements,
turned the Scout towards the four distant cooling towers of the Vulcan
Hall nuclear power station, and felt in his pocket for a cigar.  His
fingers encountered a piece of paper: "St Georges Hill New Golf Club.
Annual subscription.  Received with thanks."

He crumpled the link with the past and tossed it out of the window.

His watch said 10:00 hours.

The Doomsday Ultimatum was now in force.

There was one seat empty when the Cromwell Two Committee sat to
finalize details of their plan to seize power and install a temporary
military government.

"Where's Pyne?"  asked the chairman, a cabinet minister.

Sir Michael Powell, head of the Civil Service, looked up from his
notes.  "An apology for absence, Mr Chairman.  Pyne called me yesterday
and said he wasn't able to make himself available today."

The chairman nodded and glanced round at the ten faces.

"Shall we start, gentlemen?"

There was a murmur of assent.

The first item on the agenda was the list of two hundred names prepared
by the head of the Civil Service of people to fill the top
administrative posts in the new government.  Several of those present,
such as the head of the Special Branch, the chairman of the Governors
of the BBC, General Sir Richard Markham and Sir Oswald Fox, were to
retain their existing jobs.

"Supposing the Prime Minister recalls Parliament if Selkirk does call a
general strike?"  asked the chairman of the Independent Broadcasting
Commission.

The man at the head of the table shook his head.  "He won't do anything
to risk another defeat.  He's playing a wait-and-see game.

He daren't even declare a state of emergency for fear of the palace
turning it down."

"Surely he'll resign?"  said a voice.

The chairman smiled.  "Only when he really knows he's lost.  And that
may take another month.  By which time our gold and dollar reserves
will be exhausted and it will be too late.  Right now, the old
bastard's praying for a fairy godmother."  The expletive did not raise
an eyebrow in the select gathering.

"Very well then," said the chairman at the close of the meeting.  "We
move one week from today."

A bottle was opened and the company of distinguished conspirators drank
a toast to the Queen.

There were times when Howard Mitchell regretted the self-indulgent
impulse which had prompted him to import a Mustang from the United
States.  The left-hand drive car was often at a disadvantage when he
was trying to overtake on Great Britain's crazy, twisting roads that
seemed to go nowhere once and everywhere twice.

Mitchell shifted to a lower gear and crawled patiently behind an
electric milk float, grinding painfully up the hill leading to the golf
club.  At one point he was tempted to pass but was immediately,
deterred by an XJS which appeared from nowhere and boomed throatily
past in the opposite direction.

The milk float glided past the turning to St Georges Hill New Golf
Club, which belonged to one of the most exclusive housing estates in
the country.  There was no sign of black Austin-Rover when Mitchell
parked near the clubhouse and went in.

"Where's General Pyne, Harry?"  Mitchell asked the barman.

"I've no idea, Mr Mitchell," he replied.  "I don't understand it.
Hardly anyone here.  I wondered if it was Sunday when I unlocked this
morning.  Only three games out on the course."  The barman gloomily
surveyed the deserted lounge.  Sunday-morning tips were the only thing
that gave him a decent standard of living.

Mitchell ordered a lager and sipped it slowly.  "Did he leave a message
for me?"

The barman glanced at the shelf behind the bar.  "No.

Nothing, Mr Mitchell.  Had you arranged to play a round with him?"

"That's right.  The loser to vacuum both swimming pools."

The barman smiled politely.  God, how he hated these bastards with
money.  Nothing the government did seemed to strip them of their fat.
Even with the country in its present state they still had more than
anyone else.

Mitchell finished his drink and left the clubhouse.  He paused by his
Mustang.  It was a fine morning, so he decided to walk to Pyne's
place.

Pyne's house was one of the older, more conservative homes on the
expensive estate.  It had the traditional curved drive so that the
house could not be seen from the road.

He rang the doorbell and waited.

Mitchell was a shy, thirty-seven-year-old New Yorker who owned a small
but thriving shipping and forwarding agency.  The success of his
business sprang from his knowledge of the North Sea oil exploration
programme rather than a shrewd business brain.

People tended to think his easy-going nature disguised a degree of
ruthless.  They accepted his prices and delivery dates because his
prices were reasonable, and his dates always met.  Howard Mitchell was
not ruthless- he was efficient.

Pyne's daughter, Maggie, answered the door.

Mitchell had met her on a number of occasions when Pyne used to invite
him back to the house for a drink after their Sunday game of golf.  The
invitations had ceased with the death of Pyne's wife six months
previously.  The only times he had met the girl since then was in
Weybridge shopping.  She always seemed to have Corporal Garnet in tow
carrying her purchases.

Maggie gave the American a warm smile and pulled the door open.

"Hallo, Mitch.  I thought you'd forgotten me."

Mitchell almost laughed aloud at the spectacle before him.

Maggie Pyne's elfin face was streaked with flour.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Maggie.  But I'm supposed to be having a
game of golf with your father."  He looked at the girl with amusement.
"You seem to have had a slight disaster."

Maggie smiled, and held the door open.  "I've just lost an argument
with the food-mixer," she explained, leading the way to the kitchen.
"Would you like some coffee?"

"Only if you promise to make me four cups."

The kitchen was in a mess; every available square centimetre of working
space was piled high with evil-looking sandwiches, a chocolate clair
was floating in a bowl of punch and the floor was gritty with sugar.

"What happened, Maggie?"  said Mitchell as the girl held the kettle
under a trickle of water from a tap that was turned full on.

"It's to be a party for Daddy," said Maggie apologetically.

"It's his birthday today- his forty-fifth I think- so I thought I'd try
making some cakes."  She spooned ground coffee into an espresso
machine's strainer and latched it into place.  "I did everything by the
book and was getting along fine until I tried using the mixer."

Mitchell glanced at the food-mixer, and tried not to laugh.

"You used that glass jar?"

Maggie looked at the machine in concern.

"Yes."

Mitchell looked round the kitchen.  Everything was covered with a fine
film of flour.  "Without the lid?"  he inquired.

Maggie frowned at the gadget.  "Is there a lid?"

"Honey, that's the liquidizer attachment.  Anything you try mixing in
that without a lid immediately gets out."

"Maybe I should just stick to drink," said Maggie sadly.

"I

can manage a corkscrew.  I wish Corporal Garnet was here- he's good at
these things."

"Isn't your father around?"

The girl shook her head, and brushed cake ingredients from her T-shirt
and jeans.

"He and Corporal Garnet went off yesterday.  I haven't seen them yet. 
I hope Daddy comes home.  I want all this to be a surprise."

She saw Mitchell hiding his face behind his hands.  "It's not funny,"
she snapped.  "You try cooking in this weather."

Mitchell nodded soberly and made a strange noise in his throat.

He watched Maggie as operated the espresso machine's pump and wondered
what she would look like in a dress.  She had a figure that was made to
be expensively dressed: tall, slim with long dark hair.

Mitchell wondered why she didn't spend some of the money her mother had
left her on clothes.  Her first purchase with her newly acquired wealth
had been an MG sports car.  Mitchell remembered how Pyne had complained
during a game of golf.

"There's too many people with too much money," Pyne had said, "and far
too many with far too little."

Mitchell had laughed.  "A car, general?  You can't blame her.

It's what every kid wants."

"The latest thing is a house," Pyne had grumbled.

"You can't say she's wasting it."

"Well, perhaps not.  But it's made her independent.  When Helen died I
thought we'd get to know each other.  I've never had much time for
family life- and now, when I've decided to adjust to it, I've got no
family left."

"You should make a clean break," Mitchell had replied.

"Change your whole way of life before you discover you're too old to
change."

Pyne had nodded.  "That wouldn't be difficult.  I've considered
throwing up everything to do something really positive with my life."
He had dropped the ball neatly into the seventh hole.

Mitchell had looked puzzled.  "I would've thought being a major-general
was pretty positive."

Pyne had laughed.  "My entire army career has been spent in an office.
I'm an admin man" flying a desk" my R.A.F colleagues in Whitehall call
it.  I've never seen any form of active service, and I can't remember
when I last wore a uniform.  I'm not even certain if I've got one."

"But you're going to command this new oil platform defence unit?"

"Oh yes," Pyne had said lightly.  "One advantage of working in
Whitehall is that you're in the best place for a spot of wheeling and
dealing when a plum new job is in the offing."

Maggie's voice suddenly intruded on Mitchell's thoughts.

"Don't you want your coffee?"

Mitchell sipped cautiously.  Even with an espresso machine, Maggie
managed to louse things up; it was the worst coffee he had ever tasted.
He struggled to keep a straight face.

"If you laugh..."  Maggie said warningly.

Mitchell replaced the cup on the saucer "Believe me, Maggie- your
coffee's no laughing matter."

She stared at him for a moment and then laughed.  Mitchell joined in
when he felt he was on safe ground.

"If only you could've seen your face," said Maggie.

Mitchell nodded to the plates of sandwiches.  "What will happen to
those if your father doesn't show up?"

"Feed them to the birds, I suppose.  It'll be a nuisance if he doesn't
come home.  I've spent a fortune on food and drink.  And

I

got the corporal to clean and refill the pool."

"I bet he loved you for that," said Mitchell, "with temperatures
hitting eighty in the shade."

Maggie shrugged.  "It's what he's for."

The casual way in which she said it reinforced Mitchell's belief that
British class system still had a firm hold.

A dull boom rattled the windows.

"At least the R.A.F can still afford to make sonic booms,"

commented Mitchell.  "What time are you holding this party?"

"Eight," said Maggie.  "If you can drink the rest of that coffee
without pulling a face, I might add you to the twenty I've already
invited."

"Sure I'll come, sweetheart.  A party in the dark sounds like fun."

Maggie stared at the American.

"What do you mean?"

"The power cut for this area starts at nine."

Maggie looked alarmed.  "But it's this afternoon, surely?"

Mitchell shook his head.  "The electricity rot as are one thing I make
a point of knowing.  Today's Sunday.  The new rota started at midnight.
Check it out on the radio if you don't believe me' Maggie tuned the
portable radio to a local London station.  A news reader was describing
the latest government talks to avert the impending general strike.

"I'm surprised you haven't gone home, with the state the country's in,"
said Maggie.  "It's just like the Seventies all over again."

"Well North Sea oil isn't in a state," replied Mitchell.

"The new Hebrides field means that it's the fastest growth industry in
Europe.  Anyway, I'm one of the few who's keeping quiet about Britain.
Back home, they're all writing epitaphs.  Dangerous when the corpse
isn't dead.  They have a habit of suddenly getting better."

"What does your business do?  You don't smell of oil?"

"An oil rig needs a piece of equipment in a hurry, and I usually know
where I can lay my hands on it."

The news reader interrupted an interview with a trade-union leader.

"News is just coming in of a large explosion at the Themes Haven oil
refinery on the Thames near London," he said.

"Turn up the sound please, Maggie," Mitchell requested.

The girl did so.  "What's the matter?"

Mitchell gestured her to silence.

"The explosion was heard all over the London area,"

continued the news reader "Eye-witness reports say the entire refinery
was devastated in one catastrophic explosion.  The Thames Barrage was
raised for routine testing with the result that a two metre tidal wave
is now racing up the Thames through London..."

The news reader broke off.  Mitchell's attention was riveted on the
radio.

"Mike Bowden is on the phone from near the site," said the news reader
"Can you hear me, Mike?"

"Hallo, Ted," squawked a distorted voice from the speaker.

"The scene here at Thames Haven is unbelievable.  The entire refinery
has been flattened out of existence.  There's nothing left but a great
mass of smouldering wreckage.  Police are just about to evacuate the
area in case there are more explosions, but it's hard to believe
there's anything left to explode... About one hundred and forty-five
workers are believed to have been..."

Mitchell swore, and jumped to his feet.

"What's the matter?"  asked Maggie.

"Oh, shit.  My car's at the golf club.  Maggie, will you do me a big
favour and drive me to the Fairoaks Flying Club?"

Thirty minutes later they were airborne in Mitchell's pale-blue Bonanza
and heading east at five thousand feet.  West Drayton

A.T.C.

refused Mitchell's flight plan to approach the refinery from London. 
He studied the charts spread out on his knee and decided to follow the
M25 orbital motorway before turning north to intersect the Thames a few
kilometres downstream from the refinery.

Maggie watched him covertly.  He had ignored her questions during the
short car ride, preferring to hunt for news reports on her car radio.

There was a faint smell of rotting refuse in the aircraft.

"You can even smell it up here," said Maggie.  She stretched out in the
bucket seat and planted her feet on the instrument panel.  "People like
you are morbid."

"Why?"  asked Mitchell, looking up from a chart.

Maggie looked at him in mock surprise.  "Good heavens, it's alive."

"Any more of your bitchy comments and I'll push out so you can walk
home.  Why am I morbid?"

"Flying off to look at a blown-up refinery."

"It just so happens," replied Mitchell evenly, "that I've got a brand
new drill-string at Thames Haven waiting for shipment to Nordic Queen
platform tomorrow- when its UK insurance comes into force."

"What's a drill-string?"

"The lengths of steel that fit together to make a drill."

"Isn't that careless?  Not insuring it?"

"There was a shipping delay," said Mitchell.  "Your dockers at
Southampton refused to unload it.  A prefabricated import, they called
it- so I had to pay to have it sent on to the unloading facilities at
Thames Haven."

"How will you know from the air if it's okay?"  Maggie asked.

"I'll know sure enough.  It's two hundred tonnes of steel in three
stacks."

Maggie looked down at the main roads radiating from London.

The heat was tempting the unemployed to find money for petrol to drive
to the beaches.

"Are you better at loading cameras than blenders?"  asked Mitchell.

"Sure."

Mitchell jerked his head at the rear seats.  "There should be a camera
in that bag behind, and some rolls of film.  Maybe you'd load one for
me?"

"Say please."

"Will I hell.  You can earn the extra gas your weight is costing me."

Maggie sighed and eased her feet off the instrument panel.  Her heel
knocked against the toggle switch on the radiotelephone.

London Airport tried several times to contact the light aircraft that
was approaching the zone prohibited to all air traffic since 09:45 that
morning.  The green blip crawling across their radar screens was either
ignoring their calls or did not have its radio switched on.  Provided
it maintained its present eastward course, it would pass through the
outer periphery of the zone.  A computer was set to monitor the
aircraft's progress, and the Air Traffic Control officers returned to
their task of diverting incoming London flights to Manchester and
Luton.

Thirty minutes later the computer drew their attention to the blip,
which had altered course and was now on a heading which would take it
right over the Thames Haven prohibited zone.

Simpson had told London Airport that the Prime Minister was taking a
personal interest in the Thames Haven disaster and wished to be kept
informed of all developments- no matter how minor.

At twelve noon the A.T.C. Officer at West Drayton telephoned Simpson on
the special number and told him that an unidentified aircraft was
approaching the refinery.

Simpson sat at his desk pondering this unexpected turn of events.  He
decided to take no chances and reached for his telephone.

At 12:10 an R.A.F Tornado screamed down the runway at Manston and
lifted its graceful nose to the deep blue sky.  At two thousand feet
its attack radar locked on to the unauthorized blip, and the pilot
flipped the switches that primed the ignition circuits in the twelve
air-to-air missiles slung beneath the Tornado's wings.

Mitchell's navigation was better than he expected.  Straight ahead were
the giant cooling towers of the Vulcan Hall nuclear power station
standing like sole remaining rooks in a chess game of the gods.  To the
left, ten kilometres from the power station, were the scorched,
still-smouldering remains of the Thames Haven oil refinery.  As
Mitchell banked to turn upstream towards the refinery Maggie grabbed
his arm and pointed back at the power station.

"Look!  Those two helicopters!  One of them belongs to my father!  The
olive green one!"

Mitchell turned in his seat and looked back at the power station.  On
the concrete apron that separated the main building from the waterfront
stood two helicopters, a Bell JetRanger and a Westland Scout.  Mitchell
throttled back.

"Are you certain?"

"That's his registration.  And I think the other helicopter belongs to
Hugh Patterson."  Mitchell swung the machine round in a wide circle.
The Bonanza was about six kilometres from the power station- halfway
between it and the remains of Thames Haven.

He wasn't particularly interested in the machines at the power station,
but they seemed to worry Maggie.  A little way from the helicopters two
gasoline tankers were perked.  He could see figures near them.  Maggie
was right about the JetRanger.  It was definitely the one owned by
Patterson- he had often seen it dropping into the dense trees that
surrounded the industrialist's house on St Georges Hill.  Jet Rangers
were common enough in the United States, but quite rare in England.

"Doesn't Patterson's company make nuclear waste containers?"

asked Mitchell.  "Maybe he's showing your father his products that are
used in that power station?"

It wasn't a convincing explanation, but he was anxious to fly on to the
oil refinery.

He pulled the Bonanza out of the turn and flew on upstream towards
Thames Haven.

"There's a holiday camp or something beyond the power station," said
Maggie, craning her neck round to look back.

"The whole of Canvey looks like a holiday camp,"

commented Mitchell.  "One big shanty town of factories, beach huts and
caravans."

They flew on upstream.

When the Bonanza was two kilometres from the refinery Mitchell took his
first picture and wondered why the site wasn't swarming with rescue
workers.

"Can you see anything?"  Maggie asked.

Mitchell took another picture.  "Not yet."

The Bonanza swept over the devastated site.  There was no sign of his
drill-string amid the twisted, blackened wreckage.  It was all very
worrying.

He clicked the camera shutter four times and was about to take another
picture when Maggie touched him on the shoulder.

"Look."  She pointed to the north.

A Tornado jet fighter was about six kilometres away.

Mitchell recognised it by the wing configuration as it banked sharply,
turning towards the Bonanza as if closing in to attack.

Fifteen minutes after the explosion Pyne flew over the Vulcan Hall
power station for an aerial inspection of his new Oil Platform Defence
Force camp, which had been established the day before on Canvey
Island.

His hands were still trembling as they rested on the Scout's controls.
Partly because of his recent encounter with the Lynx helicopter, but
mostly with anger at the heavy casualties and devastation caused by the
Honest John.  Keller had assured him at the final planning meeting held
the week before that there would be no more than five of six
maintenance workers at the refinery on a Sunday morning.  The first
urgent police signals picked up on the radio suggested that nearer one
hundred and fifty men were in the refinery at the time of the explosion
and that several people whose houses were near the tank farm had been
killed.

Pyne looked down at the dazzling glass facade of the power station's
administrative offices, which presented a burnished face to the Thames.
Keller, Patterson and Louise Campion were probably watching him through
binoculars from the control room which covered the entire top floor of
the main building.

The power station's fifty-acre site was now enclosed by the horns of
the new camp that reached to the river on either side.

Operation Oilguard, launched the previous day to establish the camp,
had been used by the Royal Engineers, at General Pyne's suggestion, as
an exercise in speed.  Work had begun in the early morning with the
arrival of a convoy of Pickford transporters carrying six kilometres of
chain-link fencing with concrete posts already attached.  More trucks
had arrived ten minutes later, each one laden with fifteen tonnes of
barbed wire- enough to make an entanglement over ten kilometres long.

By 11:00 the fences had been complete.

The inner fence encircled the power station at a distance of a hundred
yards and the outer fence had been erected two hundred yards away.  Two
barriers had been constructed where the access road to the power
station intersected the two fences.  A number of caravan owners whose
trailers would have been trapped within the new camp had watched
helplessly as soldiers had hitched their holiday homes to Land Rovers
and towed them away.  A fork-lift truck had shifted a row of beach
huts.

By 11:45 bulldozers had been levelling uneven ground, followed by
soldiers spraying the earth with quick-drying asphalt.  One of the
army's cherished machines for making white lines had marked out the
positions of roads, crossings and buildings.

The real hardware which makes an army had waited for the afternoon-
after Pyne's second in command, Captain Peter Stacy, had inspected the
fences.

It had arrived in several trucks: Clansman communications equipment
from the Signals Research and Design Establishment; one tonne of night
optical and intruder surveillance equipment from the Central Inventory
Control Point; armoured cars from the Fighting Vehicles Establishment;
and two ex-army Hueycobra helicopter gun ships which had arrived in two
huge containers together with their grenade launchers and missile
armament from R.A.F Harrogate.

There had been a moment of confusion when two petrol tankers arrived
which were not included on the duty officer's list.

Fuel for the camp had already arrived.  The tanker drivers had
explained that their loads were for the power station, and shown the
soldiers their delivery notes.  The two tankers had been allowed to
pass through the camp and into the power-station compound.

The work had proceeded at an urgent pace through the hot afternoon. 
The soldiers had been too busy to wonder why the power station
decommissioning staff showed no interest in the developments going on
round them.

At 16:00 hours water purification equipment had arrived from the
General Stores Depot, followed by a long convoy of trucks laden with
two hundred tonnes of food and clothing- enough to last the camp five
years.

Captain Stacy had walked methodically round the camp at 17:30, holding
his indispensable clipboard.  He had been well pleased with what he
saw: the huts were in straight lines, the roads were neatly marked and
the flowerbeds were being dug.

He had telephoned Pyne's quarters at the artillery school and told him
everything was in order.

Pyne had thanked him and continued playing patience.  The airmail
envelope had stood on the mantelpiece.  He could hear Garnet moving
about in the next room.  Pyne had moved the telephone on to the card
table at 20:00 hours- thirty minutes before he expected another
unscheduled call from Stacy.  The telephone had rung as he was laying
the cards out for the twentieth time.  It was Stacy sounding slightly
agitated.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but we've got a problem."

"Nothing serious, I hope, captain?"

Stacy had paused: "Well I'm not sure, sir But a convoy has just turned
up from the Royal Ordnance Factory with a load of Cyclonite HE which
isn't on our procurement lists."

"Tell them to take it back," Pyne had snapped, wondering if his acting
was good enough.  Apparently it was, for Stacy's reply had sounded
hurt: "The drivers can't take it back, sir, because police escorts
haven't been arranged with county constabularies for the return
journey.  They were expecting to return with empty trucks."

"How much is there?"

Stacy had hesitated before answering.  "Twelve trucks."

"Fully loaded?"

"Yes, sir," Stacy had said miserably.  The complex operation had gone
so well until now.  "There's a hundred tonnes of the stuff and a dozen
cases of detonators."

Pyne had erupted: "Good God, man, who the devil signed the LPOs?"

"It looks like your signature, sir."

Pyne had thought a pause would be just right at this point.

"I see," he had said slowly.  "So it doesn't look as if you checked
them before releasing them?"

"I suppose not," Stacy had said.

Pyne had noticed a trace of insolence in the man's voice, for which he
couldn't really blame him.

"Have you signed the delivery notes?"

"No, sir.  I thought I'd better contact you first."

Another pause had been required before Pyne had said: "Well?

What do you propose doing with all this high explosive?"

"I don't know, sir.  I don't like having the stuff on the camp."  Stacy
had sounded hopeful, as if Pyne would have the answer.

Pyne had allowed himself a faint smile.  The conversation was going
extremely well.

"All right, Stacy," he had said at length.  "Leave it with me.

I'll call you back in ten minutes."

"Thank you, sir," Stacy had said with relief.

Pyne had replaced the receiver, waited seven minutes and dialled a
number.

"Keller?  Pyne.  The explosive will be delivered in about thirty
minutes.  Captain Stacy will be asking you where he can store it.

I suggest you get him to put it as near the access tunnels as
possible... And Keller did anyone get a good look at you when you drove
the tankers through the camp?"

Keller's answer had been satisfactory.  Pyne had cut the line and
called Stacy.

"I've been onto National Power and they say you can store the HE in the
power station until I arrange transport to have it moved.

The superintendent will show you where to put it."

Thirty minutes after the call the army had shifted five-thousand cases
of Cyclonite high explosive into the Vulcan Hall nuclear power station,
and so enabled Captain Stacy to enjoy a comfortable night, secure in
the knowledge that he had done his best.  He hadn't even considered it
odd the National Power should agree to storing huge quantity of high
explosive at a nuclear power station.

As Pyne looked down from his Scout he admitted to himself that Stacy
had done an excellent job establishing the camp.  The U-shaped
hundred-acre site was a model of what an army camp should look like.

Pyne set the Scout down in the exact centre of the landing pad and
studiously avoided the anxious face of Stacy standing back from the
downwash of the slowing rotors.  He held the door open as Pyne stepped
on to the compressed soil bearing the marks of yesterday's assault by
the bulldozers.  Pyne looked curiously about.

"You seem to have done extremely well, Stacy," he said after Stacy had
welcomed him.

Stacy's worried face eased slightly.  "It's been a hectic twenty-four
hours, sir."

"I can imagine," said Pyne, climbing into the waiting Land Rover.

Stacy hesitated before starting the engine.  "You must've seen the
explosion, sir?"

"Yes," replied Pyne noncommittally.

"We had a request from the police for assistance."

"Of course," said Pyne coldly.  He wanted to change the subject.  He
pointed.  "What are these men doing?"

"Testing the soil with pH meters, sir.  To see what sorts of plants and
shrubs will do well here."

Christ, thought Pyne.

The tour of inspection ended at the camp's nerve centre- the operations
room lined with radar screens and dominated by a floor to-ceiling glass
map of the North sea.

Stacy fingered his clipboard and nervously cleared his throat.

"Sir, you may remember I rang you last night about a quantity of HE
that arrived from Blackburn?"

Pyne regarded the captain coldly.  "So?"

"I'm afraid some more supplies arrived at midnight,"

Stacy confessed, as if it was all his fault.  "It was four large
containers from private contractors.  The drivers said it was more than
their jobs were worth to take the stuff back without a senior officer's
signature on the six-forty forms."

Pyne held out his hand for the sheaf of papers Stacy had removed from
his clipboard.

The first list covered a wide variety of tinned food, dried food,
clothing and personal effects.  The second list authorized the supply
of radar equipment, intruder surveillance equipment and a quantity of
small arms- all in addition to the stores already supplied from Central
Inventory Control Points.

"The superintendent at the power station is a decent sort,"

said Stacy, wondering if Pyne was about to explode.  "He said I could
store the stuff in the power station along with the HE."

Pyne thrust the papers in his pocket.  "Very well, Stacy.

I'll sort everything out tomorrow with the procurement people.  And now
I'd like to address the men."

"There's another thing you should know," said Stacy, avoiding Pyne's
eye.

Pyne sighed.

Stacy pressed on: "None of the power station staff has come through the
camp.  We haven't had to issue a single pass."

"That's right, Captain.  I didn't want them coming through the camp.
They were taken off by boat.  They won't be coming back because there's
still some construction work to be done and the engineers have gone on
strike.  The power station is being closed down.  That's why I've
decided to use the superintendent's quarters until my trailer
arrives."

Pyne addressed the soldiers for ten minutes.  He stressed the secrecy
concerning the camp's true function.  Although their job was to go to
the aid of any platform threatened by terrorists, it was anticipated
that the force would eventually become the long debated third force
similar to the French CRS.  For the time being the camp was under the
direct control of the Cabinet Office and could act only on their
orders.  At a nod from Pyne, Stacy produced an example of the new
uniform and outlined the pay structure; most of the men could expect a
fifty percent pay increase.  There were smiles all round by the time
Stacy had finished speaking.

"One last thing," said Pyne.  "In view of the civil unrest in the
country, you may be called upon to act at any moment.  The camp is now
on a twenty-four-hour alert, so I'm afraid leave is out of the
question, and you won't be able to telephone home."  Pyne smiled.  "The
weather is somewhat hot at the moment.  If you care to examine supply
item fifty-two in Hut..."  he broke off and glanced at Stacy's
clipboard, "...in Hut Fifteen, you'll find it's a large portable
swimming pool complete with filtration and purification equipment."

Only when he had reached Waterloo Station and locked himself in a
toilet cubicle did Corporal Garnet dare open General Pyne's briefcase.
Inside he found, as the general had said, his discharge papers and a
letter to the Midland Bank.  There was also a generous cheque, a letter
to the Thames Water Authority notifying them of the transfer of
ownership of Pyne's seven-metre Freeman cabin cruiser to Ian Garnet, a
bunch of keys and a wallet containing several credit cards, which were
useless to him, and 500 in cash.

Dazed, the former corporal stuffed the papers back into the briefcase,
pushed the money into his hip pocket and left the cubicle without
pulling the grubby piece of string that served as a chain.

He drifted aimlessly round the station, uncertain what to do.

Blackboards outside the platform barriers announced British Rail's
regret at their failure to provide normal service owing to continuing
industrial action.  Even their electronic arrivals and departures
boards weren't working.

The general had mentioned his daughter, Maggie.  Even thinking about
her made Garnet's toes curl in embarrassment at the way she used to
treat him- always taking it for granted he was her personal servant,
making him carry her shopping, clean out the swimming pool in
blistering sun.

Bitch, thought Garnet savagely.  Stinking, cock-teasing little bitch.

There were no trains to Weybridge until tomorrow.

Garnet decided to spend the night in London, He would find a woman- a
special woman who would do all the things they usually demanded extra
money for.  He touched the money in his pocket, savouring the
characteristic banknote texture.

He could afford that special woman now.

The general's daughter would have to wait.

Pyne's flight from the camp to the Vulcan Hall power station was only a
matter of lifting the Scout to two hundred feet, skirting the cooling
towers and landing between Hugh Patterson's JetRanger and the two
petrol tankers on the wide concrete apron that separated the power
station from the river.

He remained in his seat as the rotors slowed, and decided on an
immediate confrontation with Keller.  The nuclear physicist was in
charge in the control room: he should have warned Pyne about the Royal
Navy helicopter.  It would have to be now; there was no point in
letting the man undermine his authority over a period of several days
and then acting.

Louise Campion came out of the glazed front entrance to the power
station and walked across to the Scout helicopter.  Pyne watched her
approach while he thought about what he would say to Keller.

Louise Campion was the country's top radiation biologist.

She was a few years younger than Pyne.  She was always immaculately
dressed in well-cut clothes that disguised her slightly overweight
figure.  The long battle throughout her career to establish her
supremacy in a man's world had left her with a brittle personality and
an aloof nature.  Pyne felt that even after the many meetings when the
takeover was being planned he still knew very little about her.

"We were worried in case you were too near the blast,"

she said as Pyne climbed out of the Scout.

"Thank you, Louise.  But I was even nearer a Navy helicopter,"

Pyne replied sarcastically.  "The damn thing tried to blast me out of
the sky."

"Didn't Ralph warn you?"  She sounded genuinely surprised.

"I'm not prepared to discuss it now.  Tell Hugh and Keller that I want
to hold an immediate progress meeting."

The floor-to ceiling glass walls of the power station's control room
afforded a panoramic view of the Thames to the south, the four film
cooling towers to the east and the entire power-station complex the
north with the new army camp just beyond.  In the days when the power
station was fully operational, every function could be controlled from
the curved consoles grouped round the main console near the table where
the four terrorists were sitting.

A

radar repeater stood on a tubular trolley beside the table.

The beam of light sweeping round the screen created a glowing out line
of the Thames Estuary.

Pyne looked up from his check-list and met Keller's blue flecked
eyes.

"And the closed-circuit television is working satisfactorily?"

Keller smiled.  "Perfectly, general."

"And the radar?"

Keller nodded to the repeater.  "You can see for yourself," he said.

"If Mr Patterson and Miss Campion can answer questions properly,
there's no reason why you shouldn't."

Keller glanced at Hugh Patterson and Louise Campion.

"The radar is working, general."

"Then why the hell didn't you warn me about the Lynx?"

Pyne demanded.

"Is that what it was?  I tried to identify it from Jane's.

Keller pointed to an open book on the table.  He smiled at Pyne.

"We couldn't see it very well as you were too far off, but you seemed
to be giving it some trouble."

Keller's tone was infuriatingly smooth.

"You could've called me on the radio!  "snapped Pyne.

Keller looked hurt.  "I'm terribly sorry for what happened, general.
But how was I to know it would attack you?  I thought it was a routine
flight- it was so soon after your delivery, and too soon for the
government to close the zone to air traffic.

Which they have now done, of course."

Keller's mannered behaviour angered Pyne.  He checked an impulse to
reach across the table and hit him.  "I suppose you've heard about the
refinery?"  he said icily.

"Only that our aim was good.  You can see what's left from the fuelling
machine roof."

"One hundred and forty-five maintenance workers killed,"

said Pyne icily.

Hugh Patterson looked shocked.  Louise Campion's face went pale.

"It's terrible," said Keller before anyone could speak.  "But at least
they didn't die in vain.  Their deaths will prove to the government
that we mean business."  Keller looked down at the table, avoiding the
three pairs of eyes on him.  "We agreed a gesture was essential to
demonstrate our determination.  We couldn't afford for the government
to think we might be bluffing.  And besides, if you look at the
inspection tunnels, you'll see we've prepared to kill millions."

Pyne closed his eyes.

"Are you all right, general?"  asked Keller.

Pyne opened his eyes.  Keller was looking at him in genuine concern.
Pyne wished he could understand him.  He turned his attention to Hugh
Patterson, who had been waiting patiently to speak.  Patterson was a
large, powerfully-built man with a ready sense of humour.  His small
factory outside London had struggled to survive during the fifties
until Patterson had decided to switch to the design and production of
radioactive waste containers.

Since then his business had steadily grown and now was one of the
largest suppliers to the world's nuclear-energy authorities.  When
Keller had returned from the United States Patterson had offered him
the post of technical director- a task Keller performed well, apart
from his refusal to return to America.

"Hugh?"  invited Pyne.

Patterson cleared his throat.  "Everything went according to plan,
Conrad.  The explosive is all in place and the supplies are stowed
away- including all that bloody corned beef.  The supplies turned up
just as you said they would.  Captain Stacy was anxious to get rid of
them.  I must congratulate you on your choice of executive officer,"
Patterson grinned at Pyne.

"Where are the hostages?"  asked Pyne.

Patterson hesitated and glanced at Keller.

"I let them go," said Keller.

Stacy told me they hadn't been through the camp'.

"By boat," Keller replied, meeting Pyne's stare.

"Louise?"

"Radiation levels throughout the station are normal,"

said Louise Campion.  "I've installed the extra hazard monitors round
the reactors.  But I'd like to check all of us in two weeks when we've
had a chance to settle down and I've ironed the bugs out of my X-ray
equipment."  She smiled.  "I'll be pestering you all for urine, Blood
and lung tissue samples."

Pyne smiled, and looked down at his check-list.  "You've all covered
your absence?"

Louise Campion grimaced.  "I've taken a job with CERN.  I heard someone
in my department say at my presentation that I was probably off to look
for a husband."

Everyone laughed.

"Mind you, I could be tempted by the man who's rented my house."

"Ralph and I are on a round-the-world trip to seek new markets," said
Hugh Patterson.  " My ex-wife is acting chairman while I'm gone."

Pyne nodded.  He looked carefully at the three faces before speaking:
"We've discussed this several times already, but now we're actually in
the power station, have any of you got any doubts about what we're
doing?  Now is the time to say if you have."

No one spoke.

"And the length of time we might have to remain here?"

Again silence.

"God forbid that it should be five years," said Pyne.  "If all goes
well, we'll be out in a year, but if you're not prepared to accept five
years, then say so now."

Silence.

Pyne folded his check-list and stood up.  "Hugh, I'd like you to take
me on a tour of inspection, please."

"We found everything laid out exactly as per my plans," said Patterson,
leading Pyne down the stairs beneath the concrete apron.

He set the knurled wheel combination lock on the massive door at the
bottom of the rough-cast steps.  Both men grasped the spoked hand-wheel
and heaved backwards.

The circular, tapered door which fitted into its corresponding hole
like a giant plug swung open.  The opening was just large enough for
one man to climb through.  It reminded Pyne of a bank vault door.
Patterson went through first and helped Pyne to scramble in after
him.

"There's a safety interlock that prevents the door being locked on the
outside if anyone is in here," said Patterson as he pulled the heavy
door shut.

They were in a concrete-lined tunnel about two-me tres high.

Wall-lights in wire cages extended into the distance along each side of
the tunnel.  Armoured power cables snaked along the walls.

The footsteps of the two men sounded curiously muffled in the
claustrophobic surroundings.

"How does air get down here?"

Patterson pointed up.  An opening in the ceiling disappeared into the
darkness.  "Ventilator shafts," he said.

"Did you use the hostages to shift the Cyclonite as we planned?"  asked
Pyne.

"Yes," Patterson's voice sounded strained.  "Over here we have the--'
"Were they co-operative?"

Patterson hesitated.  "Yes.  Keller made certain they would be."

Pyne saw the fear in Patterson's eyes.  "What did he do?"

"Conrad, I--' "What did he do?"

Patterson looked down at the concrete floor.  "He shot one of them."

"Jesus Christ," Pyne muttered.  "Why?"

"A girl... Just here.  Look."  Patterson pointed to the floor.

There was a large brown stain that had spread over a wide area due to
the capillary action of the unsealed concrete.

Footprints, the same colour were etched into the surrounding floor.
They led away and disappeared where the tunnel branched to the right.

Pyne picked up some spent nine-millimetre shell cases.

"Why?"

he repeated quietly.

Patterson looked away, refusing to meet Pyne's eyes.  "I came down when
I heard the shooting.  According to the staff, she dropped a case and
caused a pile-up in the chain.  Keller said she tried to rush him."

"Who do you believe?"

"Keller.  I can't imagine him hurting anyone unless he was forced
to."

Pyne took in the bloodstains splattered on the walls and ceiling.
"Can't you, Hugh?  In that case you're a worse judge of character than
I imagined."

Neither men spoke for a moment.

"I'll show you the charges."  said Patterson at length, moving to a
branch in the tunnel.

The radioactive waste was stored in stainless-steel flasks housed in
three triple-lined containers whose total capacity was 100,000 cubic me
tres Each container was encapsulated in thick biological shields of
concrete and lead.  A system of high-pressure water pumps removed the
heat from the vicious liquid that seethed and boiled in their own
primitive energies.  A period ten times longer than the day since the
laying of the first stone of the Great Pyramid would have to pass
before the deadly plutonium and strontium isotopes could be released
into the environment.

"This is far more than was shown on the plans," said Pyne.

"I did warn you," said Patterson.  "The Green Warriors stopped half
this lot being dumped in its repositories.  It was moved here for
interim storage while the courts tried to sort out the mess."

Pyne nodded.  The previous month five Green Warriors had been killed in
a demonstration at a repository site in the Midlands.  As a result the
truck drivers handling the waste flasks had refused to deliver their
cargoes.

The inspection tunnel which skirted the periphery of the silos was
lined with hazard monitors which maintained a continuous check on
background radiation levels- a task they and their descendants would
have to carry out for the next forty-five thousand years.

Pyne followed Patterson down the sloping access tunnel beneath the
silos.  The faint noise he had noticed when he first entered the tunnel
was now much louder.  He asked Patterson what it was.

"It's the cooling water passing through the outer jackets,"

Patterson explained.  "Electricity for the pumps is on an
uninterruptable supply line with backups.  They won't risk cutting us
off therefore we've tapped into them for all our other supply needs."

"Odd that we should be occupying a power station and worried about our
electricity being cut off," Pyne observed wryly.

Patterson waved his hand round.  "So what do you think of our
arrangements?"

Pyne was impressed.  The cartons of Cyclonite high explosive were
stacked in neat rows along the inspection tunnel's inner wall.

The gap between each carton was bridged by a short length of wire
connected to a detonator on the side of each of the cartons.

Each case was marked with an ICI batch number and the chemical formula
for nit rated hexamethlenetetramine: one most powerful explosives in
the world.

The line of grey cardboard cases extended to the far end of the tunnel,
where it turned through ninety degrees.

Pyne noticed more of the bloodstains round a steel hatchway set into
the wall.  "What's in there, Hugh?"

"It's just a thousand mill pipe we've filled with Cyclonite."

The urgency in his voice alerted Pyne.  He placed his hand on the
hatch.  Patterson stepped forward and grasped him by the arm.

"It would be best not to, Conrad."

Pyne brushed Patterson's arm away, opened the hatch and peered into the
dark pipe.  He could see nothing.

"A torch please, Hugh."

Patterson reluctantly passed Pyne his torch.  The narrow beam of light
revealed a chain of the grey cartons disappearing into the darkness.
There were more of the bloodstains.  They were still wet and glistened
when the feeble light flashed on them.  Pyne crawled a little way into
the pipe and shone the light ahead.  Ten yards from the hatch the
cartons changed colour.  Something had been placed on top of them.  It
was a girl, lying face down.  Naked, with a line of nine-millimetre
perforations across her shoulder blades.

Pyne tried to turn her over but she seemed to be stuck to the cartons.
He pushed hard.  Her body came free with a sickly tearing sound.  There
was nothing left of the front of her body: the nine millimetre shells
had left a gaping hole where her rib-cage and breasts had been.  She
looked about Maggie's age.

Pyne felt the waves of exhaustion drain his vitality.  The shattered
body of the girl had, more than anything else, impressed upon him the
sheer magnitude of the irrevocable step he had taken.

He backed down the pipe.  Patterson watched him with concern as he
emerged.

"Is she there?"

"Yes- she's there all right."  Pyne handed the torch back to Patterson.
"Why is she naked?"

"One of them complained about the heat.  I think Keller made them all
strip."

Pyne clenched his teeth.  He had a vivid picture of the scene in the
tunnel the previous night: the silent, sweating power station
decommissioning staff passing the heavy cartons from hand to hand; the
girl who let one case slip from her exhausted hands and the thunderous
roar of Keller's Sterling in the confined space.

She weighed only about eight stone- the impact would have slammed her
against the side of the tunnel.

Pyne sat on one of the cartons.  "How long have you employed Keller?"

"Five years."

"And in that time, you never realized--' "He's a first-class
physicist," Patterson interrupted defensively.  "We needed him."  He
paused and looked at the hatch.

"Keller said the girl rushed him."

"She was shot in the back."

"Don't be absurd, Conrad."

"Take a close look.  Her chest is a mass of exit wounds."

Patterson sat beside Pyne and stared at the opposite wall.  He could
think of nothing to say.

"He's mad," said Pyne shortly.  "A fucking psycho."

Patterson turned to look at Pyne.  It was rare for the army officer to
swear.  "Aren't we all?"  he said quietly.

Pyne stood.  "Let's get the inspection over and done with," he said
brusquely.

The two men spent the next five minutes examining the

IRIS

(Infra-Red Intruder System) detectors that had been deactivated for the
inspection tour.  The sensors were positioned at regular intervals
along the tunnels.  It would be impossible for anyone to enter the
galleries without their body heat sounding the alarms in the control
room.

They were about to enter the last tunnel when a nearby public address
speaker clicked and hummed.

"There are two aircraft in the vicinity," Keller's voice grated
metallically.  "One is fifteen kilometres away and closing in fast, the
other is much nearer.  I can see it through binoculars.

It's a Beechcraft Bonanza, flying straight towards us.  It seems our
instructions are being ignored, so I'm proposing to launch the second
Honest John within five minutes.

Now that sex was beyond him, one of the few pleasures Arnold Cox
Spender had left was the ritual morning in bed reading the Sunday
papers, looking for his name.

He always read the colour supplements first in the way that a child
will always turn to the brightest pebble.  Maybe it was a blessing that
the Sunday papers were getting thinner each week -there was less to
search through.  But once again, his name appeared nowhere.

The smell of cooking wafted up the stairs.  He would get up in time for
lunch and remind his housekeeper to use the extractor fan.

A sudden dull boom shook the windows.

He was mentally composing a complaining memorandum to the Marshall of
the Royal Air Force when his bedside telephone rang.

It was a fast journey to London in the Downing Street car sent by the
despicable Simpson; all the traffic lights on the route changed to
green at their approach.  Cox-Spender reflected that it must be urgent
for the PM's private secretary to send a ministerial car.

He perched on the edge of his seat to prevent his suit sticking to him
in the heat.  He had been unable to have a bath because his housekeeper
had filled both baths to the brim to provide a drinking water supply
during the cuts.  He opened the window, but the stench from uncollected
refuse simmering in the sun was appalling.  He noticed that the fool of
a driver was taking him to the Trafalgar Square end of Whitehall.  He
tapped on the glass in annoyance several times before he noticed the
microphone.

"Downing Street's the other way," he said three times, remembering to
press the button only the third time, "opposite Richmond Terrace."  The
driver was obviously a Sunday standby who didn't know his London, "Yes,
sir," replied the driver, who knew London better than Cox-Spender. 
"But I was instructed to take you to this end."

The car stopped outside the Old Admiralty Building- a four-hundred
metre walk from Downing Street.  Simpson came out to meet him.

"Good morning, Spender."

Cox-Spender bristled.  He detested Simpson, if only because he never
used his full name, certainly never deigned to call anyone "sir' except
the Prime Minister.

"What's all this about, dragging me up here on a Sunday?"

demanded Cox-Spender, trying to shake off Simpson's grip on his arm as
he was led into the building.

"I'm afraid we'll have to use the tunnel, said Simpson apologetically.
"All the corridors are locked.  These new security precautions you
know."

Cox-Spender wondered if Simpson's mother had loved her son.

Halfway along the tunnel was a spur which branched under St James's
Park to Buckingham Palace.  Nobody could remember if it had ever been
used, and in any case it was sealed by a massive iron door whose key
had been lost in the days of empire.

After two hundred me tres Cox-Spender's legs were aching, but he strode
on grimly, determined not to show weakness in front of the disagreeable
Simpson.

"You've heard about the Thames Haven oil refinery?"  asked Simpson.

"No.  What about it?"

"It was blown up about forty-five minutes ago.  By terrorists."

Simpson smiled at Cox-Spender's horror-struck expression.

Ten minutes Cox-Spender was shown into the Prime Minister's private
office.  The politician was sitting at his desk.  He made no attempt to
rise to greet the Government's Assistant Scientific Adviser.

"I thought there was to be a meeting."  began Cox-Spender, sitting
suddenly as Simpson pushed a chair into the back of his knees.

"There is," said the Prime Minister.  "Right now.  Between the three of
us."  He smiled at Cox-spender.  Simpson was right, he thought.  Just
the manageable sort we need.

There was an opened airmail envelope on the politician's desk and a
single typewritten sheet of paper.  He pushed the document across desk
to Cox-Spender.  "Read.  Digest," he invited.  "And then bubble over
with brilliant suggestions."

Cox-Spender picked up the document and started to read:

POLITICAL MEASURES

Government to commit UK to the setting up of a single defence force for
the European Community by the end of the century.

2 Capital punishment to be re-introduced for murder and illegal
possession of hard drugs.

3 Capital punishment to be introduced for possession of all firearms
after a one month amnesty period for handing over of firearms to
police.

4 Trial by jury for terrorist of fences to be suspended.

Indictable terrorist offenses to be heard by tribunals and right of
appeal to be abolished.

5 Immediate withdrawal of armed forces from Northern Ireland.
Administration of Ulster to be transferred to Irish Republic.

6 Overseas aid to be suspended until further notice.

7 Public transport to be free and financed from central government.

8 500,000 hectares of land to be made available immediately and sold in
quarter hectare plots to enable people to build their own homes.

Cox-Spender reached the foot of the page and looked up at Simpson and
the Prime Minister.

"Where've you got up to?"  demanded the Prime Minister.

Cox-Spender's eyes scrabbled wildly over the sheet of paper.

"Number Seven," he said, barely able to choke the words out.

"Now turn over and read the economic measures," the Prime Minister
suggested.

Cox-Spender's near lifeless fingers fumbled turning the document
over.

ECONOMIC MEASURES

9 Government to participate in the negotiations for the setting up of a
central European reserve bank and the introduction of a common EC
currency before 31st December 1999.

10 Credit card and charge card purchases to be limited to 50.

11100% luxury duty to be levied on all manufactured goods imported from
outside EC.

12 Poll Tax and business rates to be scrapped.  All local government
funding to be from central government.

13 VAT to be raised to 25%.

14 Scope of VAT to be extended to include all retail goods including
insurance, domestic energy supplies and agricultural supplies.

15 Draft emergency bill embracing all these provisions to be submitted
to us for approval within a hundred hours of the time given on the
envelope.

(Signed) Conrad Pyne, formerly of "Sand Hills', St Georges Hill Ralph
Keller, formerly of "High Pine', Ashley Park Hugh Patterson, formerly
of "Brunel Hall', St Georges Hill Louise Campion, formerly of "Badger
Place', St Georges Hill Cox-Spender finished reading and looked up in
bewilderment at the two men who were watching him carefully.

"I don't understand it," he said.  "What is it?  A list of the
government's future plans?"

"It will be unless you come up with something," replied the Prime
Minister sourly.  "Read the last condition again."

Cox-Spender's eyes skated over Article 15.  It still didn't make
sense.

The Prime Minister sighed.  "Those four signatories have seized the
Vulcan Hall nuclear power station on Canvey Island.  The power station
is about to be decommissioned and by some administrative cock-up, the
nuclear police unit had been withdrawn.  The signatories claim to have
placed a large quantity of high explosives round the radioactive-waste
silos and have threatened to blow them up unless we introduce those
measures.  Now do you understand?"

Cox-Spender stared at the Prime Minister and Simpson in turn.

His eyes dropped to the sheet of paper that had slipped from his hand
and was lying on the table.

"But there's no radioactive waste stored at Vulcan Hall,"

he protested.  "Only empty silos.  The Chesire repository--' The Prime
Minister sighed.  "It was agreed that the Cheshire repository wouldn't
be used until the report into the riots was published.  The waste was
moved to Vulcan Hall for temporary storage "But... it's impossible to
blow-up those silos!"

"Why?"  demanded the Prime Minister.

"They're deep underground.  The sides, if they're to specification,
must be at least three-me tres of stainless steel, lead and concrete.
They've been designed to withstand a major earthquake."

"They couldn't blow them up?"  inquired the Prime Minister.

"You'd stake your professional reputation on that?"

Cox-Spender saw the trap.  "How much explosive have they got?"

Simpson smiled.  "A hundred tonnes of Cyclonite, whatever that is."

Cox-Spender began to sweat and wondered why it had to be him.

Why hadn't they called in the Chief Scientific Adviser?  It wasn't
fair.

The Prime Minister noticed the beads of perspiration with satisfaction.
They had chosen well.  "I don't know what this Cyclonite is," he said
smoothly.  "But if it's placed under the silos, would I be right in
assuming that a hundred tonnes is enough to blow not only them up, but
most of Canvey Island as well?"

Cox-Spender could only nod.  For a wild, escapist moment, he could
considered resigning on the spot, but his pension..."

"Maybe they're bluffing," he blurted out.

"It's possible," agreed the Prime Minister.  "But they certainly
weren't bluffing about Thames Haven."

"How did they do it?"

"With an Honest John missile."

There was total silence in the room apart from the refined tick of an
eighteenth century clock over the Adam fireplace.

"We'd have another Cheynobel on our hands," the Prime Minister
commented.

"It would be worse than Cheynobel," said Cox-Spender.

"There would be the fallout from the waste and the power station's
reactors."

"If only they were asking for something sensible,"

complained the Prime Minister.  "A million pounds would be much more
convenient.  I could call the governor of the Bank of England and get
him to produce it here.  That's if we've got a million pounds,"

he added as an afterthought.

"Perhaps they could be bought," said Cox-Spender hopefully.

"Take another look at those who signed," invited the Prime Minister.
"Hugh Patterson's got more money in Swiss numbered accounts than we've
got in gold and dollar reserves.  Also, one of his companies designed
and built the silos, so he probably knows the best place to position
the explosive for the best, or rather worst, effect."

"Conrad Pyne," said Cox-Spender, looking at the ultimatum.

"I've heard of him."

Simpson intervened: "He's in charge of the new oil platform defence
force which was set up at your suggestion, Mr Spender."

"Oh, now look.  I only suggested it.  The idea was approved by the
Policy Review Committee and the chiefs of staff.  You can't blame me--'
"Nobody's blaming you for anything," said the Prime Minister
soothingly.  "All we want you to do is to take a look at the Thames
Haven site and make plausible pronouncements on the possible cause.

I've had the area sealed off.  After all, we don't want DTI and health
and safety inspectors tramping all over the place picking up bits of
Honest Johns, do we?"

"I'll go first thing in the morning, Prime Minister,"

said Cox-Spender.

"First thing now, Cox-Spender.  After that, I want you to take a look
at the Vulcan Hall set-up and see how strong they are."

Cox-Spender was appalled.  "Go to Vulcan Hall?  But... but how do I get
in?"

The Prime Minister looked blankly at Simpson before turning to
Cox-Spender.  "Try the front door," he suggested.  "That is, if power
stations have front doors."

Cox-Spender had the feeling that powerful forces were being aligned
against him.  The ground was being sucked from under his feet Simpson
and the PM were smiling at him as if he could save the situation.  He
decided to show them the sort of person he really was.  He would be
like Harry Truman and rise to the task.  With a firm jaw he asked: "How
do I contact them?"

"Try the telephone," said Simpson.  "You'll probably find them listed
under Power Gen, or the Central Electricity Generating Board if your
phone directory's out-of-date."

"Are they armed?"  The question made him sound scared- which he was.

Simpson glanced at a paper on his desk.  "They've got command of two
hundred soldiers with full combat kit, several armoured personnel
carriers, God knows what in the way of small arms.

Oh yes- and a couple of Apache gun ships

Cox-Spender blinked.  The Harry Truman resolve melted.

"How did they--' "The new base depot and headquarters of the Oil Rig
Defence under the command of General Pyne were established yesterday by
the Royal Engineers," said Simpson.  "They're located on Canvey Island
because Pyne assured us it would be the best place for training
purposes and launching offensives against oil rigs that have been taken
over by terrorists."

All the fight went out of Cox-Spender.  "Don't you think the Chief
Scientific Adviser would be better able to deal with the situation,
Prime Minister?"

"He's in hospital," pointed out Simpson.

This was news to Cox-Spender.  "I didn't know.  Is he...?"

"It was a road accident.  Hit-and-run when he was crossing the Mall.
Nasty business, but he's expected to be up and about next month."

Cox-Spender felt the two pairs of speculative eyes boring into him.
"Well, I'd better be off then," he said lamely.  "May I use the front
door please?  It's rather a long walk to the Admiralty-- ' "I'm sorry
," said the Prime Minister.  "But your car will be waiting for you
there.  So perhaps..."

"Yes, of course, Prime Minister."

Simpson opened the door.

"One thing," said the Prime Minister as Cox-Spender turned to leave.
"Don't try any heroics will you?  We don't want you attempting James
Bond stunts on this job?"  He smiled at Cox-Spender and continued. 
"I'm the only one round her who's got the sort of licence he was
supposed to have, and if you mess things up, I might be tempted to use
it."

Cox-Spender had never read a James Bond book but the Prime Minister's
words carried an ominous impact.

After Cox-Spender had left on his long walk back to the Old Admiralty
Building the Prime Minister sat at his desk and toyed with the massive
amber paperweight presented to him by Welsh miners... what was left of
them.  Simpson watched him carefully.

"Do you think we've picked the right man?"  said the Prime Minister.

"Personally, I think he's ideal."  replied Simpson evenly.

The Prime Minister allowed the paperweight to slide from one hand to
the other.  "Too bad if we're wrong," he said.

"Disastrous.  But I don't think we are."

The paperweight spun on the blotter.  Yellow light flashed round the
walls.

"Let's hope so, Simpson."

Pyne was the first to leave the inspection tunnel and race across the
apron towards the two petrol tankers.  Then he hesitated, uncertain
which tanker still contained an Honest John.

Patterson followed only a few paces behind.

"Which one?"  yelled Pyne.

Patterson pointed to the tanker facing the Thames.

Pyne could hear the electric servo motors start as he dived into the
driver's cab.  "How do I shut it off?"  he shouted desperately at
Patterson.

"You can't!"  croaked Patterson, gesturing up at the power station.
"It's radio-controlled.  Keller has the control transmitter!"

Pyne cursed and jumped down.

In a few seconds the dummy five thousand-litre tank would be separating
into two halves and opening to the sky like a giant clam.  Pyne
experienced a wave of panic as a new sound was added to the steady
whine from the servo motors- the harsh growl of powerful motors
building up hydraulic pressure for the rams to thrust the Honest John
to its launch elevation.  The tanker had been parked with its tyres
positioned on carefully drawn chalk marks so that its concealed cargo,
when exposed, would be pointing at the densely populated East End of
London.

"A Sterling!"  Pyne yelled to Patterson.  "For Christ's sake hurry!"

Patterson disappeared into the power station.

Pyne stood staring helplessly at the tanker.  He could hear the piston
engine of the approaching aircraft.  Then there was another sound- the
metallic snap of the electric latches that held the two halves of the
dummy tanker closed.  The long, oval container began to shudder.

Patterson appeared carrying a Sterling submarine-gun.

Pyne snatched it out of his hands and raced towards the tanker.

A widening gap had appeared along the top of the tanker as Pyne threw
himself flat on the concrete and released the Sterling's
safety-catch.

The tankers's only source of power when its engine wasn't running was a
large lead-acid battery hanging in a cradle beneath the chassis.  Pyne
took careful aim and fired.  The battery exploded into shards of
bituminous compound that clanged against the underside of the petrol
container.

Pyne held the stream of fire steady his eyes tightly shut and face
turned away from the jets of acid spraying from the shattered battery.
Bullets tore into the battery cradle.  It fell.  The unrecognizable
bulk of the accumulator swayed drunkenly back and forth for a few
seconds before the remains of it's black casing fell to the ground
leaving only a cluster of riddled power cells hanging by the two heavy
power cables.

Pyne stopped firing.  His ears were ringing in the sudden silence and
his hands were burning painfully from the splashes of sulfuric acid.

The tanker was now impotent, as was the missile, The second Honest John
could never be launched.

The pale-blue Bonanza flashed past above the river- heading towards
London.

Simpson read the telex from R.A.F Manston at 13:15 -- fifteen minutes
after Cox-Spender's departure to examine the devastated Thames Haven
oil refinery.  For the first time that Sunday, he felt slightly uneasy.
He crossed the carpeted corridor and tapped on the door to the Prime
Minister's office.  He entered without waiting for an invitation- a
system devised many years before to let the Prime Minister know he had
an urgent message.

The Prime Minister looked up expectantly from the Sunday papers as
Simpson entered the room.

"I'm afraid an aircraft has penetrated the prohibited zone, sir," said
Simpson, without preamble.  "A Beechcraft Bonanza."

The Prime Minister's face showed a fleeting trace of alarm.

"When was this?"

"About forty-five minutes ago.  I don't think it's anything to worry
about, sir.  Not now, anyway.  Manston scrambled a Tornado to intercept
it, but they were too late.  The aircraft was too near the power
station--' "But Simpson," interrupted the Prime Minister.  "You issued
strict orders that no aircraft was to allowed in the vicinity of the
Thames Estuary- correct?"

Simpson fumed inwardly.  He detested mistakes.  "There was a breakdown
in communications, sir.  Manston said the Bonanza wasn't interested in
Vulcan Hall- it flew straight past."

"They didn't harass it, did they?"

"No, sir.  They told the Tornado to break off- on my orders."

The Prime Minister relaxed.

"Just as well.  Probably a Sunday joyrider.  Chase one with a Tornado
in a prohibited zone and it'll be all over the flying clubs in southern
England before nightfall."  The Prime Minister looked sharply at his
secretary.  "Did the R.A.F get its registration?"

"Yes, sir.  I'll see if I can get onto someone at the Air Registration
Board.  I'll have the owner's name and address on your desk in sixty
minutes."

"Thirty minutes please, Simpson."

Cox-Spender was hungry, thirsty, sweating profusely and feeling very
much aggrieved at having to spend his Sunday afternoon stumbling round
the wreckage of the Thames Haven oil refinery.

The only consolation was that it took his mind off his coming visit to
the Vulcan Hall nuclear power station.

He sat on a section of smashed pipe and wondered what sort of statement
he could issue that would convince everyone that the area was too
dangerous to allow rescue teams to start work.

As he gloomily surveyed the devastation he could hear the distant
arguments between the police and families of missing refinery workers
who were protesting because a search and rescue operation was not
allowed to start.  The strident voice of the chief constable of Essex
was telling the crowd over a loud hailer that work would start as soon
as the government's Assistant Scientific Adviser had declared the area
safe.  Fighting had broken out as the crowd tried to break through the
police cordon.

On the river, what was left of the Thames Division fleet of police
launches battled to head off an armada of small craft crowded with
sightseers whose boats had not been swamped by the tidal wave.

Cox-Spender climbed to his feet and stood forlornly amid the nightmare
of twisted pipes and flattened distillation columns.

Chemical engineering had not been his subject, and he suspected that
whatever he said would be torn to shreds by engineers and designers who
knew the refinery.

He walked slowly along an avenue that seemed reasonably clear of
debris- probably a road originally, but there was no way of being
certain, so total was the appalling destruction.

There was a sickening smell hanging in the still air.

Cox Spender shivered despite the heat.  Perhaps it was the smell of
death.  Cox-Spender did not know what death smelt like, but he was sure
if it smelt of anything it would be the suffocating stench that was now
clinging to the refinery.

A pale-blue Beechcraft Bonanza light aircraft circled above, drowning
the notes he was dictating into a pocket tape recorder.

He tried not to look at the far-off cooling towers of Vulcan Hall
standing to pale attention ten kilometres away in the heat-warped
distance.  His scalp crawled at the prospect of the forthcoming visit
and the people he would be talking to there.  In his mind was a picture
of ruthless terrorists with hard eyes staring through slits in black
hoods.

Half an hour later he returned to what had been the refinery's main
gate.

The chief constable came forward anxiously to greet him.

"We were getting worried about you, sir," he said, relieved that Cox
Spender appeared to be intact.

"I'm, quite capable of looking after myself thank you,"

Cox Spender replied acidly.  He enjoyed exercising authority over
important officials.  The Prime Minister had given him sweeping powers
and he intended making full use of them.

The chief constable ignored the childish jibe.  "There's a Mr Maynard
wants to see you urgently," he said.  "He's waiting in the trailer."

Ivor Maynard was a small, dapper man who came straight to the point.

"Thank Christ you've allowed no one on to the site," he said
breathlessly to Cox-Spender.

Cox-Spender blinked.

"We'd cleared out one of those fractional distillers to process some
special liquid rocket fuel, and now it's leaking out of the underground
storage tank.  If it combines with--' "How do you know it's leaking?"
demanded Cox-Spender, determined to remain master of the situation.

The little engineer stared at the Assistant Scientific Adviser.

"Christ man!  Can't you smell it?  We've got to get all these policeman
and people back another hundred yards!"

Cox-Spender beamed at Maynard and wondered if his visit to the power
station would be as successful.

"There's one thing you should know about me, Mitch," said Maggie,
setting the eight by ten prints on the general's dining-room table.

"In case you ever decide to propose to me, I'm warning you that I'm
better in a darkroom that I am in a kitchen."

"Don't worry, honey.  I'm a gifted cook.  It's just that I'm too modest
to boast about it."

Mitchell picked up the damp prints.  There was no sign of the
drill-string.  Nothing had survived that terrible explosion.

"Well?"  said Maggie.

Mitchell swore softly.  "Sabotage."

"How do you know?"

Mitchell jabbed at one of the photographs.  "I can't be absolutely
certain, but it looks as if that's the point where the explosion took
place.  Right at that hub.  One explosion- not the whole series of
explosions you'd expect when a place like that goes up."

Maggie studied the photograph closely.  Mitchell was right: most of the
wrecked, flattened columns radiated outwards from a central focal point
at one end of the refinery.

"Perhaps they had something special there which would've caused the
explosion?"

Mitchell shook his head.  "I know that refinery.  It looks as if the
explosion took place in the employees' car park.  That can only mean
sabotage.

There was silence for a few moments.  "Perhaps there's some more news
on the radio," Maggie suggested.

She went into the kitchen and returned with the portable radio.  The
news was still scant.  The government's Assistant Scientific Adviser
had just issued a statement saying there was a danger of further
explosions.  An interview followed with a senior engineer who
emphatically denied that further explosions would be as serious as the
first explosion.  No, he didn't know what had caused it.  No, he would
not comment until the Assistant Scientific Adviser had completed his
preliminary inquiries.

The news reader promised more information as it became available.

Maggie switched off the radio and picked up one of the prints.

"It doesn't look as if there's anything left to explode," she
commented.

Mitchell took the photograph and looked at it for some seconds.
"Exactly the same thought was going through my head."

he said.

She picked up another picture.  It was one of the first photographs
Mitchell had taken just before they reached the refinery to clear
possible fogged film at the start of the roll.

In the foreground were the Vulcan Hall nuclear cooling towers.

"I wonder what my father is doing there," she said.

Mitchell looked at the print over her shoulder.  At the edge were the
two helicopters standing near the petrol tankers.  The registration
letters on the American-built JetRanger were clearly visible.  The
figure of a man seemed to be running towards the tankers.

"Is he friendly with Patterson?"  asked Mitchell disinterestedly.

"Much more so lately.  I came home one evening a few weeks ago and
there were several cars parked outside.  One of them was Hugh
Patterson's.  I went away.  It's unusual for my father to entertain."

"Are you sure the JetRanger belongs to Patterson?  I know they're rare
over here, but it's just possible that it could belong to someone
else."

"I can easily check," said Maggie.  She crossed to a side board and
returned with a photograph album.  She placed it on the table and
leafed through the pages.  Some of the prints were not properly mounted
and spilled out.  She picked up one of the loose prints, compared it
with one of the pictured taken that morning, and pushed it in front of
Mitchell.

"Look."

The picture from the album showed a small crowd holding drinks, posing
beside a helicopter parked on the lawn before a magnificent
Moorish-style house: a St Georges Hill scene.

"I took that picture last year at one of Hugh Patterson's barbecues,"
Maggie explained.  "You see?  The chopper's registration letters in
your photo and mine are the same."

Mitchell's mind was on the problem of his lost drill-string, but he was
sufficiently interested in Maggie to go along with her concern about
the whereabouts of her father.  He looked at the party photograph.

"Who's the guy sitting in the chopper's door?"

"Oh, that's Ralph Keller- Hugh Patterson's chief physicist or
something.  He's rather nice.  He lives alone and is terribly shy with
girls.  The woman is Louise Campion.  She lives on the other side of
the estate.  I think there's something between her and Patterson- she's
often been over here with him for drinks."

Th girl's voice washed over Mitchell as he stared at the pictures of
the devastated refinery.

"Am I boring you, Mitch... Mitch?"  She put her arm round the American
and stood beside him looking down at the pictures.

"Was it worth a lot of money?"  she asked gently.

Mitchell nodded.  "It could be the end of my business."

"I'm sorry.  I should have realized.  There's me going on about my
father while you're--' "It doesn't matter, honey.  I guess I'll sort
something out."

He slipped his arm round her shoulder.  It was almost an unconscious
gesture.

"Are you hungry?"  Maggie asked.

Mitchell suddenly realized that he had not eaten that day.

"Yes, I'm starving."

"Would you like me to cook you something?"

"That would be--' He broke off and grinned.  "Hell, no.  I need to keep
fit if I'm to tackle this problem."

He propelled Maggie towards the french windows.  "I wouldn't be a
gentleman to let you cook in that mess.  You sit yourself down by the
pool, and I'll cook."

Maggie laughed.  "That's the sort of proposition I like."

Mitchell returned to the dining-room.  He gathered up the photographs
and thrust them into a yellow Kodak print envelope.

"Mitchell, Howard Steven, US citizen," began the Aliens' Register
report.  "Born Lower East Side, New York City.  No material advantages
as a child.  Parents deceased, formerly garment workers.

PS education.  Showed early abilities in engineering.  Studied chemical
engineering at MIT'.

The Prime Minister skipped the biographical details and turned the page
to study the r sum of Mitchell's recent activities while Simpson
watched him unhappily.

"Sole stockholder of Oil and Natural Gas Engineering Supplies Ltd.
Address: The Centre, Walton-on-Thames, Surrey.  According to the
Articles of Association (appendix 3), this firm is a shipping and
forwarding agent specializing in the supply of engineering materials to
oil companies operating in the North Sea.  Private address:
"Berrylands," St Georges Hill, Weybridge, Surrey.

Telephone number: Weybridge--' The Prime Minister stopped reading and
looked slowly up at Simpson.  Their eyes met.

"This Michell lives at St Georges Hill," said the Prime Minister
evenly.

"It could be a coincidence."

"Coincidence," snorted the Prime Minister, and returned to the
report.

Simpson wondered if he was going to read the last page.

The Prime Minister read the last page.

"Unmarried.  Lives alone.  Plays an occasional Sunday morning game of
golf with General Conrad Pyne.  CR: Several traffic offenses (Appendix
6).  Believed to be friendly with Paul Weiner, Industrial Liaison
Controller at the American Embassy'.

The Prime Minister read no further.  He dropped the report on his desk
and unwrapped a cigar.  "Mitchell appears to have a US Embassy
contact," he observed.  "Paul Weiner."

"There's nothing unusual about that, sir.  The nature of Mitchell's
business means that he's certain to an industrial liaison contact in
the embassy and we've no evidence that they've been regularly
meeting."

"Where does this Weiner live?"  the Prime Minister interrupted.

"Cumberland Mansions in Seymour Place."  Simpson's fingers drummed
lightly on the desk.

The Prime Minister watched him carefully through the flame of his table
lighter.  She knew Simpson well enough to guess that the report had
shaken him too.  It was an overlooked detail- perhaps more than a
detail.  Simpson did not like overlooked details and was usually
efficient enough not to have to worry about them.

The Prime Minister inhaled on the cigar.  "Has Weiner been kept under
normal surveillance?"

"Yes, sir."

The Prime Minister considered.  "Selective surveillance I suppose?"

Simpson nodded.  There were times when he resented the politician's
knowledge of security procedures.  A neat little trap had been laid; he
saw it coming.

The Prime Minister examined the glowing end of his cigar.

"In that case, Simpson, if Weiner has not been watched full time, we
cannot be certain that he and Mitchell have not been meeting
regularly... can we?"

"No, sir."

"And if I remember correctly, the Industrial Liaison Department at the
American Embassy covers a multitude of sins and sinners- CIA sins and
sinners especially.  Am I right?"

Simpson did not enjoy hot seats, even when they were only moderately
warm.

"We believe its function is to monitor the behaviour of overseas
American firms- to ensure they don't supply stategic materials to the
Middle East.  It's a negative activity which has suited our book."
Simpson's voice was edged with irritation.

"This fellow flying over Vulcan Hall power station is hardly a negative
activity, Simpson."

"He flew past it, sir."

The Prime Minister looked faintly contemptuous.

Simpson began to get annoyed.  "It could be merely a coincidence, sir.
We don't know for certain--' "Quite right," cut in the Prime Minister.
"We don't know for certain.  But we will know if we keep a close watch
on him.  I needn't remind you of the consequences if this business
blows up in our faces.  So I suggest we keep an eye on him for the time
being."

"Yes, sir."  Simpson reached for the telephone.

"Who are you calling?"

Simpson hesitated.  "Well, I thought the Special Branch."

"I see.  You think we can trust Sir Gordon Clement?"

Simpson considered for a moment and took his hand away from the
telephone.

"The only people we can trust," said the Prime Minister scathingly,
"are one another.  There's far too much at stake to involve anyone who
has an axe to grind against me.  It's going to be a damned nuisance
having you out of the office, but Weybridge isn't too far from London,
and I only want you to find out what Mitchell knows and what he's
passed on."

Simpson sat alone reading the file on Howard Mitchell for the umpteenth
time and decided that he had no intention of being out of London during
the crucial hours ahead.  On the other hand the Prime Minister was
right- Howard Mitchell was a problem: he was obviously working for the
CIA, but how much did he really know about the conspiracy?  And if he
did know anything, how much had he passed on?  Simpson sighed.  There
were so many imponderables.

Maybe it was merely bad luck that the CIA had an agent on St Georges
Hill where the terrorists had their homes but it seemed unlikely.

Simpson glanced through Howard Mitchell's company returns.  It must
have taken them a long time to set him up.  The thought gave him an
idea.  Supposing Mitchell was just nibbling round the edge and knew
only little of what was going on?  There was nothing that could be done
about the information already passed, but it would be possible to stop
him sniffing out any more.  If he was "deactivated' or otherwise dealt
with, it would arouse CIA suspicions, but it would take them months to
set up a replacement.

Time was the one thing that was vital now.

Time... Time... Simpson stared straight ahead, his shrewd brain turning
over the problem and possible solutions.

It made sense.  Removing Mitchell would kill two birds: it would stop
the CIA finding out more than they knew already, and it would mean that
Simpson wouldn't have to be out of London to watch him.

Simpson smiled.  He was wrong- his plan would kill three birds- one of
them being Mitchell.  He wondered how it could be made to look like an
accident.

The afternoon was suffocatingly hot.  The fifteen kilometer drive, in
what was nothing more than a perambulating oven, from Thames Haven to
Canvey Island was enough to make Cox-Spender forget the terrors
awaiting him at the power station.  The sweat rolled down the inside of
his unlaundered collar.  The car's air-conditioning couldn't cope.
Opening a window didn't help: a vengeful horsefly was sucked into the
car and bit him on the back of the neck.

The car crossed the road bridge on to Canvey Island.  The army waved it
through the checkpoints.  Its registration number was on their lists.
The barrier puzzled the driver, but he had been trained not to talk to
his passengers unless they spoke to him.

Holidaymakers and caravan owners were arguing with the soldiers.

The troops were indifferent; all traffic trying to get on to the island
was ordered into a field for a detailed examination.

The black government car drove across the island towing a cloud of
dust.  The driver followed the signs that indicated the way to Vulcan
Hall power station.  The signs were unnecessary because the four
cooling towers were visible from every part of the island.

The car stopped before a high steel-framed chain link gate that
stretched across the road.  Two soldiers emerged from the guardhouse
and checked Cox-Spender's pass.  The gate swung open.  The soldiers
told the driver to park beside an amphibious assault craft, and wait.
No one was to leave the car.

Cox-Spender waited as the dark car soaked up solar radiation.

A Land Rover driven by General Conrad Pyne arrived just as Cox Spender
was about to tell the driver to leave.  Cox-Spender remembered Pyne
from meetings when the Oil Rig Defence Force was in the early planning
stage.  He appeared to have aged considerably since he had last seen
him.

"Good day, Mr Cox-Spender," said Pyne opening the car door.

"Please come with me."  His voice was tired.  Neither friendly nor
unfriendly.  Just very tired.

"I expect you know who sent me," said Cox-Spender, sitting beside Pyne
in the open Land Rover.

Pyne let in the clutch.  Cox-Spender had to grab the top of the
windscreen to avoid falling out.

"There are several things I should like to see," said Cox Spender
opting for the direct approach.  "But first, I wish to examine the
reactors to ensure that are safe.  Then I should like to see the
power-station staff.  And then take a look at this high explosive you
claim to have placed round the waste silos."

Despite the knot of fear in Cox-Spender's stomach, he felt it was
necessary to assert his authority from the beginning and show these
people who they were dealing with.  The fact that no one had pointed a
gun at him gave him confidence.

Pyne drove through the inner camp gate and into the power station
compound.  He turned angrily to Cox-Spender.  "The reactor
decommissioning programme was started last week," he snapped.

"You'll see what we've decided you should see.  No more, and no
less."

All the fight finally went out of Cox-Spender.  He remained silent for
the rest of the brief journey.

The Land Rover drove across the shadow of the aluminium containment
dome that housed the nuclear fuelling machine perched on top of the
twenty-metre-high prestressed concrete reactor building.

Cox-Spender remembered that Pyne used to have considerable dealings
with the Prime Minister in the days when the politician had been
Minister of Defence.  There had been rum ours at the time that this had
something to do with Pyne's rapid promotion.  The two men had much in
common- they had come from relatively poor backgrounds and had risen in
their respective careers thanks to a combination of logic applied to
uncompromising ruthlessness.

They were men who liked to get things done.

Pyne swung the Land Rover on to the concrete apron and parked near the
two petrol tankers.

A man and a woman emerged from the power station and walked towards
them.  Cox-Spender guessed that they were Hugh Patterson and Louise
Campion.  He swallowed nervously.  From the way the Sterling
submachine-guns were slung casually from their shoulders, it looked as
if they knew how to use them.

One of the most beautiful sights man has ever seen is the heavenly blue
glow of Cerenkov radiation which occurs when high-energy particles pass
through water.

Whenever Cox-Spender had witnessed the strange, ethereal light he felt
he was witnessing the hand of God.  It was easy to believe that the
hypnotic glow suffusing the water in the fuel-element tank beneath the
high catwalk held the key to the secret of the creation.

But now Cox-Spender's sense of wonder, which marks the true scientist,
was no more.  In its place was a sense of deep foreboding that the easy
confidence of the three men at his side did not dispel.

"Gamma radiation is at zero."  said Keller politely.  "And we're
leaving the rest of the elements in the stand-pipes."

"You're following the decommissioning programme to shut down the
reaction?"  asked Cox-Spender.

"Yes, sir.  We've continued the staged reducion of boiler pressure so
that the coolant absorbs the neutrons and kills the reaction."

Cox-Spender nodded.  "I understand there's a thermocouple
temperature-monitoring computer in the main control room I should like
a print-out, please to check the reactor core temperatures."

"They're cooling nicely," said Keller respectfully.

"I should still like to see for myself," said Cox-Spender testily.  At
least this Keller seemed to know his place.

Keller exchanged a look with Pyne.  Pyne nodded.

"And now," said Cox-Spender, when he had finished examining a fan fold
computer print-out, "I wish to see the hostages."  He tried to make his
voice sound insulting.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," said Pyne.

"Why not?"

"Because I say so."

Pyne's grey eyes were hard and cold.  Cox-Spender decided not to press
the matter.  For a moment he could think of nothing to say.

"He's seen the ultimatum," Pyne said to the others.

"That should make our task easier," commented Hugh Patterson.

"Terrorism has never achieved long-term objectives,"

began Cox-Spender.  "You've only got to look at--' "I don't think you
were sent here to discuss politics,"

interrupted Pyne caustically.

"You can't possibly hope to succeed," Cox-Spender blustered angrily.
"There's only four of you.  Eventually, you will tire -your men will
turn against you."

"Perhaps they will," said Pyne, "but they've served their purpose, so
it doesn't matter.  As for tiring, I'll tell you this much, and you can
convey this to the Prime Minister when you go back; we will never tire,
and we will never give in.  I'd sooner commit suicide."

"It might just come to that," snapped Cox-Spender.

"And as for long-term objectives," continued Pyne, ignoring
Cox-Spender's outburst, "they've never been effectively attempted by
means of terrorism until now; no one has ever bargained with the lives
of fifty million people, with their eventual well-being as the
objective.  And another thing- you could hardly call the half-lives of
some of the isotopes in the silos as "short-term'.

Correct?"

Keller appeared with a sheet of paper which he pushed into
Cox-Spender's hand.  Cox-Spender gave it a cursory glance before
thrusting it in his pocket.  It was a list of radioactive materials,
beginning with the higher and most dangerous plutonium isotopes.

"The contents of Silo Three," explained Keller.

Cox-Spender looked at his watch.  Determined to sound offensive, he
said: "I've little time to waste talking to you thugs, so if you show
me the arrangements you've made with the high explosive, I'll be on my
way."

Pyne gave Cox-Spender a video cassette.  "That's for the Prime
Minister," he said.  "Before we go down, Mr Cox-Spender, there's
something you should know if you don't already: the radioactive waste
that's in storage here isn't just a the power station's spent fuel
rods, but waste that's been moved here from all over the country."

"I know that," said Cox-Spender frostily.

"Including some high-grade plutonium waste from Japan... Remember the
cargo ship that the press dubbed the "Flying Dutchman' last month
because no port would accept it?"

"Of course I remember!"  At that moment Cox-Spender defiance suddenly
melted.  He stared at Pyne.  "Are you trying to tell me that that
cargo's here?"

Pyne nodded and smiled bleakly at the scientist's thunderstruck
expression.

The Prime Minister looked up from the large-scale map spread out on his
desk.

"What about an attack from the river?"  he demanded.

"It would be most dangerous, sir," replied Cox-Spender.

"Even if the attacking group managed to get on to the apron, they'd be
detected by the IRIS system."

The Prime Minister picked up the Racal infrared sensor that Cox-Spender
had placed on his desk.  "How sensitive are these things?"

"The body heat from a mouse can set one off at fifty me tres sir,"
Cox-Spender replied.  "They even have automatic daylight compensators
so they don't react to the ambient temperature fluctuations between day
and night."

The Prime Minister wondered what Cox-Spender was talking about, but
remained silent.  He replaced the detector and toyed with his amber
paperweight.  "How about launching CS gas grenades through the
control-room windows?"

"That too would be most dangerous sir, CS gas or CR gas grenades don't
work instantly.  There would still be a few seconds for two of the
terrorists to operate the main detonator control."

"Nerve gas?"

Cox-Spender considered.  "It's quicker, but still not quick enough."

"What about stun grenades?  They were effective enough during the
Princes Gate siege."

"You're thinking of an SAS-style assault, sir?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"That would entail a helicopter assault, sir.  They've got radar, and
besides- the noise of helicopter engines--' "Yes.  Yes," said the Prime
Minister interrupted testily.

"I

had realised that."

For a while neither spoke.  The politician exhaled a thin stream of
cigar smoke.  It spilled across the map and pooled under the table
lamp.

Cox-Spender broke the silence.  "With respect, sir, don't you think it
would be a good idea to call a meeting of the Policy Review Committee
so that the maximum number of brains could be brought to bear on the
problem?"

"No," said the Prime Minister shortly.

"What about the chiefs of staff?"

"The army would want to storm the place, the navy sink it and the R.A.F
bomb it."

Cox-Spender smarted at the brusque dismissal of his suggestion.  It was
an unfair generalization, but he was uncomfortably aware of the
coolness, bordering on open hostility, that existed between the Cabinet
Office and the chiefs of staff over the recent and most sweeping
defence cuts.  Cox-Spender had even heard rum ours that a number of
army officers were seriously considering taking direct action to assume
power if the threatened talk of a centralised European defence force
became a reality.

Nevertheless, he decided to press the matter- the events of the day had
given him a new-found confidence.

"Even so, sir, there are a number of extremely capable brains on the
staff.  I'm sure they would come up with something."

A nerve in the Prime Minister's neck twitched.

Cox-Spender would have recognized the danger signal had he known the
politician better.

"The important thing at the moment, Cox-Spender, is to restrict
knowledge of this business to as few people as possible until we've had
a chance to examine all the options open to us.  We don't know yet if
these people are bluffing.  It is possible that the magnitude of their
enterprise will dawn on them, and that they will hesitate to press
their demands.  If that happens, as I suspect it will, then it follows
that they will not carry out their threat to blow up the waste
silos."

This was all too much for Cox-Spender.  "Sir, with all due respect,
I've seen these people.  They won't weaken- I'm absolutely convinced of
it.  They've committed themselves too far."

The Prime Minister banged his amber paperweight down on the desk in
fury.  "I selected you for this task, Cox-Spender, because I thought
you were the sort of man who wouldn't lose his head in a crisis.
Obviously, I was wrong.  I'm well aware of the situation, but I refuse
to be stampeded into taking ill-considered action on the say-so of
advisers who've lost their heads!"

Cox-Spender quailed.  The sudden tirade was wholly unjustified, but he
lacked the courage to say so.  All he could manage was a rather
shamefaced, "Yes, sir."

The Prime Minister relaxed.  "So you agree with me?"

There was no alternative, but to repeat the, "Yes, sir."

The Prime Minister smiled.  Cox-Spender's acquiescence was safely
recorded on tape.  "Did you give them the phone number?"

he asked in a more moderate tone.

"Yes, sir."  Cox-Spender resented having to keep uttering the two
words.  There had been moments during what had been the longest Sunday
of his life when he had thought he had finally broken the habit.

"In that case," said the Prime Minister, "we'll wait for them to make
the first move."

He glanced up at the eighteenth-century French clock.

23:05.

The Prime Minister tapped the video cassette from General Pyne.  "I
hope you haven't played this."

"No, sir.  I brought it straight to you."

The Prime Minister yawned.  "Very well, Cox-Spender.

You've done as well as can be expected so far.  I have a feeling that
tomorrow is going to be worse than the usual Monday.  It's time you and
I were in bed- I'm sure you must be exhausted."

Again Cox-Spender had to say, "Yes, sir."

The Prime Minister reached for a telephone.  "I'll have your car sent
round to the Downing Street entrance.  Save you that long walk, eh?"

The Prime Minister went to bed at 23:25 and slept soundly from 23:40.

MONDAY

Pyne slept badly during his first night at the power station.

He awoke after one hour's sleep and tried to orientate himself in the
strange surroundings.  His room had been the station superintendent's
office.  He could hear the throb of a passing ship.

He tried to go back to sleep but gave up.  He threw back the sheet,
swung his feet on to the coarse horsehair carpet tiles and switched on
the light.

03:00 hours.  Louise Campion would be on duty in the control room.

The corridor was silent apart from Hugh Patterson's snores from the
next office.  The pan and tilt servo of a heat-guided closed-circuit
television camera whirred briefly as its lens swung towards him.

Louise Campion was sitting at the central console with an open vacuum
flask before her.  She turned from the television monitors and smiled
at Pyne's approach.

"Couldn't you sleep, Conrad?"

Pyne sat near her.  "We should sleep in here, Louise- it's cooler."

Louise pointed to the computer cabinets.  "The air-conditioning is for
that lot.  Computers are fussy about their comfort."  She held up a
technical handbook.  "I've been reading all about them."

"Didn't you bring some books?"

"About a thousand on CD-ROMs.  I'm saving them.  Heaven forbid that we
should be stuck in here for--' "Louise," interrupted Pyne, "what
happened last night?"

"Hugh gave you a report?"

"I want to hear your version."

The radiation biologist looked puzzled.  "Well.  Ralph and

I

arrived at about 15:30.  He drove the first tanker, and I drove the
second- just as we planned."

"Where was Hugh?"

"Holding the staff in here.  About thirty of them."  She paused, "Look,
Conrad, if you've any questions about Hugh and Ralph, you should ask
them.  We agreed that mutual trust between the four of us was
essential.  Right?"

"Really, Louise?  What about the revised ultimatum?  Or have you told
Keller?"

Louise flushed.  "That's your job, Conrad."

"It's also my job to find out what happened to the hostages."

"Ralph sent them across the river by boat when they'd finished helping
to position the explosive."

Pyne watched her carefully.  She avoided looking at him.

"Did you see this boat?"

"Of course not.  It was dark."

"Or hear it?"

"I was too busy checking the supplies."  She poured a cup of coffee
without offering one to Pyne.

"Did you hear submachine-gun fire?

"There was some noise.  Ralph said he'd been testing some
detonators."

"Louise, among the power station staff, do you remember a girl of about
twenty?  A pretty little thing with fair hair?"

Louise continued to avoid Pyne's gaze.  "I may have seen her.

I can't remember."

"Keller shot her."

Louise looked up angrily.  "You're being absurd.  Ralph could never--'
"I've seen the body.  I didn't do it.  I'm certain that you and Hugh
didn't, so that only leaves Keller, The girl's body is in the
inspection tunnels, and only Keller had business down there at the
time."

Louise pushed the coffee to Pyne.  "You think Ralph killed all the
staff?"

Pyne accepted the cup and drank.  "I think so.  There're plenty of
hiding places down there."

There was silence.  Louise shuddered inwardly, then looked steadily at
Pyne and nodded slowly.  "I suspected something.

But why would he do such a thing, Conrad?  Why?"

Pyne shook his head.  "Christ knows.  I was going to tell him about the
revised ultimatum at the meeting, but decided to hold back for the
moment."

"You're going to have to tell him sooner or later,"

Louise pointed out.

Pyne stared at the detonator controls on a nearby console.

There were two simple combination switches three me tres apart screwed
to the plastic work surface.  To activate them required two people to
set the combinations and throw the switches simultaneously.

"There's plenty of time," Pyne said slowly.  He ran his hand through
his hair.  "If only I could understand him- if only he wasn't so damned
polite all the time."

"You should tell him about the changes we made to the ultimatum,
Conrad."

"No, Louise.  Let him find out when the Prime Minister announces the
new laws.  By then it will be too late for him to object."

Louise frowned.  "I wonder what the Prime Minister is doing now?"

Pyne stood.  "What I should be doing- sleeping."

"Even with the problem of us?"

"He'll sleep."  Pyne turned to leave.

"You used to know him, didn't you?"  Louise said, looking up at Pyne.

Pyne did not like the question.  "A long time ago when he was at the
MOD."  Pyne quickly changed the subject.  "Louise, destroy your copy of
the ultimatum.  I'll tell Hugh to do the same in the morning."

He was gone before Louise could reply.

From 10:00 that morning Howard Mitchell spent an hour on the phone
trying to discover the truth concerning the cause of the Thames Haven
explosion.  He desperately needed to know whether or not his
drill-string had been destroyed or moved.  No one could, or would, help
him.  The oil company's head office in London said the disaster was to
be the subject of a Department of Trade and Industry investigation and
would say no more.  The Department of Trade and Industry said they
could do nothing for the time being because there was a danger of more
explosions.  The Home Office said the area had been sealed off by the
police and would remain so until the site had been declared safe.  The
Ministry of Civil Aviation said the prohibited zone above the Thames
Estuary would remain in force until the Department of Trade and
Industry said the prohibition could be removed.

Despairing, Mitchell made one last call to his old contact, Paul
Weiner, at the American Embassy.  He left his office five minutes
later, telling his secretary he would be gone for three hours.

Ten minutes later he was driving towards London with Simpson following
at a distance in a ten-hundredweight Bedford van.  It was an ideal
vehicle for the job- the high steering position enabled the driver to
follow his quarry at a safe distance without losing sight of it.

Mitchell slid his Mustang tail first into a parking-meter bay near
Grosvenor Square.  Simpson cruised past in his van and was beaten to a
bay by a woman driving a Golf who dived in nose first.  By the time
Simpson had satisfied his male ego with horn and invective, Mitchell
had disappeared.

Simpson found another parking space and went into a McDonald's.  He had
lost Mitchell but at least he could keep the Mustang under observation
from a high stool near the window.

Mitchell found the "American Dream' without difficulty.

"Mr Weiner says he'll be along as soon as possible,"

said a waitress, showing him to a reserved corner table.

Weiner entered ten minutes later as Mitchell was starting his second
cup of cup of coffee.  The two men exchanged warm greetings.

Weiner ordered steak for both of them.

"Long time no see," said Weiner.  "I was wondering what had happened to
you."

"The political and physical storms in the North Sea have been keeping
me busy."

Weiner grinned impishly.  "And furnishing a new house on St Georges
Hill."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Weiner looked round with a gesture of mock secretiveness.

"We know all there is to know about our boys far from home.  Not many
make it to St Georges Hill.  The oil business must be doing fine."

"It won't be," said Mitchell shortly.  "That's why I've come to see
you."  He briefly outlined his account of the previous day's flight and
his concern about the missing drill-string.

"Wasn't it insured?"  asked Weiner.

"Not until today, and, in any event, not if the loss is the result of
terrorist activities.  British underwriters here have got the jitters
at the moment over oil platforms.  They're expecting some sort of
terrorist action in the North Sea any day now.

I've got to pay out a hundred thousand dollars next week for some
pumps.

I don't want to if I'm going to need the money to cover the loss of the
string."

The waitress brought their steaks.

"I saw on the news last night," said Weiner when she was gone, "that
there's a danger of more explosions."

Mitchell opened his briefcase and produced the yellow Kodak envelope.
He passed a photograph across to Weiner.  "You don't have to be much of
an expert to see there's nothing left to explode.

Just look at the place.  It's a ruin."

Weiner examined the print curiously.  It was an oblique shot of the
devastated refinery taken at a distance of two kilometres.

Mitchell was right- there was nothing left.

"There's something else," said Mitchell.  "You said you saw the
television news coverage last night about the explosion?"

Weiner nodded.  "I saw the commercial networks news when I got back
after a show.  Why?"

"I watched that and the coverage on both BBC networks and on Sky," said
Mitchell.  "None of them had cameras at or even near the site.  All
they had was a presenter sitting in front of an old blowup showing the
refinery as it was before the explosion.  Now I know British television
news coverage is crummy, but they're usually pretty good when it comes
to a major event just a few kilometres outside London."

"Sure, but the area has been sealed off," Weiner pointed out.

"No," said Mitchell.  "They could've easily staked out cameras with
long lenses on the opposite river bank, even though it's four
kilometres wide just there."

Weiner said nothing.  Mitchell gave him another photograph.

"If you look at that one, it's possible to tell roughly where the
explosion took place.  One explosion- right in the middle of the
employees' car park- the last place you'd expect an explosion to
happen."

"Strange," said Weiner looking up from the picture.

"You're goddamn right it's strange.  I'll show you something that's
even stranger."  Mitchell gave Weiner a third photograph.

"It's not such a good picture of the refinery- it was taken too far
off.  That complex looks like a power station, and those two choppers
parked in the front belong to neighbours of mine on St Georges Hill:
Hugh Patterson and General Conrad Pyne."

Weiner looked at the prints for some seconds and said: "Why should that
be strange?  I've heard of Patterson.  His firm manufactures
radioactive-waste storage tanks.  Maybe he's working extra time on some
project."

"Maybe," replied Mitchell.  "You once asked me to report interesting
developments in the oil business.  I thought the information would be
fair exchange if you could find out what's happened to my string."

Weiner gathered up the photographs.  "Can I keep these?"

"Sure.  You can have them all."  Mitchell handed him the yellow
envelope.  "There's a few more in there that aren't so good."

Weiner pushed the prints into the envelope.  "I'll see what I can de."
he said.  "I'll check these pictures out, but I can't promise
anything."

Simpson followed Mitchell's Mustang to the roundabout under the
Hammersmith fly over and decided he must be returning to Surrey.

Simpson had no intention of being out of London that day- not with the
events that were looming up.  Mitchell continued westward.

Simpson went right round the traffic island and headed back to
London.

When Weiner reached his office he tipped the photographs on to his desk
and examined each one carefully for some minutes.

Mitchell's theory about the location of the explosion appeared to be
substantiated by the pattern of twisted wreckage, but it was not
possible to say with certainty that it had taken place in the middle of
the car park- not without checking the pictures against library covers
taken of the refinery on the last UK aerial survey.

The pictures were interesting, but Weiner was not certain they were of
interest to the CIA- apart from providing another set of covers for the
print library.

He decided to make a few inquiries to satisfy Mitchell and then to
forget the whole affair.  He yawned and pushed the prints back into the
envelope.  Something was stopping them.  He peered into the envelope
and shook out a postcard size photograph that obviously didn't belong
to the batch taken by Mitchell.  It showed a group holding drinks
gathered round Bell JetRanger helicopter.

He was about to return it to the envelope, when something in the
picture triggered a memory chord.

He placed the photograph on his blotter and stared down at the vaguely
familiar face of the man sitting in the helicopter's open door.

Keller... Ralph Keller!  Jesus Christ!

Weiner picked up his telephone and dialled two digits.  He waited,
telephone pressed to his ear and the photograph between his elbows.

"Harry ... Paul.  Cast your mind back a few years to Libya.

Remember the guy who teamed up with Eric Hoffman and offered to build
the Libyans an atomic bomb?... Yeah... Well, you won't believe this,
but I think I've found him."

Two hours after Howard Mitchell had left Paul Weiner following their
lunch in the "American Dream'.  James Raven, the duty officer at the
Madrid Space Track Center, received a signal from the

USAF

base at Mildenhall in England.  When deciphered, the instructions in
the message were simple enough: CYCLOPS was required to take a
photographic "stripe' of southern England.

Raven decoded the positions and wondered why anyone should want to
waste the limited amount of film in the satellite's magazines on a
series of photographs of the Thames Estuary.

Once the magazines were empty CYCLOPS would be useless.  Unlike the
French SPOT series of satellites which used computer-enhanced high
resolution digital TV pictures for remote sensing of the earth, CYCLOPS
used film.  The problems with film justified the expense: film could
resolve down to the granular level whereas the quality of television
pictures, even with enhancing, was limited to the line scan rate.

He requested verification in case a cipher clerk had made a mistake.
Five minutes later an affirmative clattered out on the center's
teleprinter.  Raven did not bother to decipher the second message- the
code groups were a repeat.  He filed both messages in the day book, and
decided that whatever happened he wouldn't be held responsible for the
expensive operation he was about to undertake.

Raven sat at the CYCLOPS control console and pressed the button which
projected the low earth orbit satellite's path on to a fluorescent
screen.  The illuminated LEO trail was climbing towards the North Pole
across Siberia.  The computer forecast that in twenty minutes the
satellite would be sweeping down the western coast of Greenland- too
far west of the required target.

Raven tapped out the course-correction codes.  Thirty seconds later a
stream of telemetry signals from the Reykjavik relay station triggered
CYCLOPS's course-correction vernier rockets.

Raven checked the new orbit.

A few more squirts to orientate the satellite and it was set to pass
over southern England only a few kilometres east of the Greenwich
Meridian, and exactly over the remains of the Thames Haven oil
refinery.

The screen at Raven's elbow showed the required course and the
projected course- both lines overlapped exactly.  A winking light on
the glowing line indicated the satellite's position.

At 15:30 it was over Scotland.

Raven pressed the button that would start feeding the strips of film
through the camera-shutter gates and wind the protective visors away
from the lenses.

At 15:35 he sent a signal to Mildenhall giving them the position for
the recovery of the film capsule.  The information was radioed to
Colonel Donald Kaufmann, who was flying a Hustler bomber that had left
Mildenhall when the instructions to the Madrid Space Track Center were
first issued.

At 15:45 CYCLOPS was above its objective.

There was no sound in the still vacuum of space as the shutters on the
stereoscopic and infrared cameras opened and closed.

At 15:48 the satellite passed out of the "area of interest' determined
by the Madrid computer.  A final signal stopped the shutters.  The rest
was automatic: the capsule pulled away from its parent satellite and
began its long, five hundred kilometer fall to earth- its tiny rocket
motor burning brightly to cancel the orbital velocity imparted to it
by

CYCLOPS.

The capsule's parachute opened at 16:03.  Colonel Kaufmann's navigator
detected the faint radar echo at 16:15 and extended the Hustler's scoop
net.

A few minutes later the capsule was snatched out of the sky.

The Hustler touched down on the hot runway at Mildenhall exactly five
hours after Mitchell had handed his photographs to Paul Weiner in
London.

At 12:30 Simpson made six anonymous phone calls: five to the editors of
the national newspapers and one to the chief commissioner of the
Metropolitan Police.  Each time he identified himself with the codeword
"Moonflower' used only by the Provisional IRA to distinguish genuine
bomb-warning calls from hoaxes.  He spoke in a thick Irish accent and
announced that the Palace of Westminster was to be the target for a
bomb attack during the afternoon while it was being used for the
special meeting called by the Prime Minister with the 360 members of
his parliamentary party.

The police responded swiftly: the chief commissioner telephoned Simpson
urging that the meeting should be called off.

Simpson said that the meeting would have to go ahead- 360 telegrams had
been sent out to members of Parliament demanding that they should break
their holidays and return to London.  The best thing, Simpson
suggested, would be for the police to clear the Palace of Westminster
of everyone- even maintenance staff- and ensure that only MPs were
allowed to enter.

The meeting was due to start at 15:00 hours.  The police took no
chances.  They stepped-up their usual security measures to an
unprecedented level.  Arriving Members of Parliament were subjected to
even more strigent searches than usual and their identities were
double-checked before they were allowed through the cordon.

Not even ministerial cars, which were checked each day as a matter of
routine were allowed into the underground car park; drivers were
required to remove themselves and their cars once they had dropped
their passengers.

The MP's milled round the corridors trying to find out from one another
why the meeting had been called.  The chief whip's office checked every
new arrival, and telephoned Simpson when the number of MPs present
reached 345.

Simpson drove.  For once the Prime Minister sat in the front, obliging
his bodyguard to travel in the back.

"What have you found out about the American?"  The Prime Minister
demanded.

Simpson slowed in response to the upheld arm of a shirt sleeved armed
policeman who wanted to see their passes.  He examined it carefully,
and the two other occupants of the car, before waving it on to the
police equipped with ion charge instruments who carefully checked the
underside of the car.

"Well?"

"Nothing, sir.  I followed him from Walton to London this morning, but
was unable to discover whom he visited."

A knot of MPs gathered on the steps pressed forward as Simpson brought
the car to a standstill.  The Prime Minister had his hand on the door
lock.

"Don't forget what I said, Simpson.  Although I'd prefer to have you
with me, it's essential we find out what he knows."

The MPs, crowded into the largest committee room and spilling into the
corridor, fell silent when the Prime Minister rose.  He had
deliberately avoided speaking to his Cabinet colleagues; today they
were all equal.  Each man and woman present represented one vote - and
that was all that mattered.

"I'm sorry to call you all back from your holidays," he began.

"I wouldn't have done so, but at this moment our country faces the
gravest crises in its history.

"Yesterday a group of terrorists under the command of General Pyne
seized control of Vulcan Hall nuclear power station on Canvey Island.
They are threatening to blow up the radioactive-waste silos unless the
government adopt certain stringent measures which they believe will
solve the country's economic and social problems."  The Prime Minister
paused.  Every face in the room was turned towards him.

"My secretary will distribute copies of their demands, which I received
yesterday.  I want you to read the measures most carefully during the
next five minutes.  Each copy is numbered and will be collected
afterwards, so don't lose them please.  No one is to talk and no one
will be allowed to leave this room until all the copies have been
collected."

Simpson handed out copies of the ultimatum, including a copy for
Cox-Spender, who had been told to attend the meeting.  The gathering
read in stunned silence, apart from the occasional rustle of paper.  As
the minutes passed more and more of the ashen faces fixed their
horrified gaze on the Prime Minister.  He waited until the last man had
finished reading.

"Thank you," he said.  "Now in case any of you think these terrorists
are bluffing, they caused yesterday's explosion at the Thames Haven
refinery to show they mean business."

The silence in the room was total.  One MP lifted his feet off a table
and lowered them to the floor without making a sound.

"Vulcan Hall is not contributing to the national grid- decommissioning
was started when it was seized- but I understand that its waste silos
hold an unusually large amount of material at the moment as a result of
the Cheshire repository problems.

The so-called "Flying Dutchman' plutonium cargo is also stored there.

Indeed Vulcan Hall now holds the largest concentration of waste in the
country.

"Yesterday, Mr Cox-Spender visited Vulcan Hall.  The terrorists showed
him the arrangements they have made to carry out their threat unless
the government adopt their proposed measures.

I'm no scientist, so I've asked Mr Cox-Spender to tell you about his
visit... Mr Cox-Spender."  The Prime Minister sat down.

Cox-Spender felt Simpson jab him from behind.  He climbed reluctantly
to his feet.  He always felt hopelessly self-conscious when addressing
a crowd- even more so when the crowd was completely silent.  He spoke
hesitantly at first, gradually gaining confidence with the realization
that this wasn't a committee meeting and no one was likely to
contradict him.  The 345 faces watched him intently.  Cox-Spender
resolutely kept his eyes on his notes.  He spoke for fifteen minutes,
gradually lowering himself to his chair on his closing sentences.

"A question, please!"  The voice cracked out from the back of the room.
Cox-Spender looked at the Prime Minister for guidance, but the
politician's eyes were fixed pensively on the floor.

Cox Spender hesitation was a signal for everyone to start firing
questions.  The Prime Minister rose to his feet and held up his hand.
The babble died away.

"Mr Cox-Spender will answer your questions one at a time.

I

believe Mr Quentin Brieley spoke first."

Quentin Brieley, the member for Breckon Park, was a small, pugnacious
man.  Before becoming an MP he had been a physics master in his home
town of Cardiff.

He pushed forward until he was nearly face to face with Cox Spender

"What I want to know," he said, in his thin, reedy Welsh accent, "is
what is the exact nature of the radionuclides stored at Vulcan Hall,
and what will happen if they are released."

The use of the word "radionuclides' did not put Cox-Spender on his
guard.  Had it done so, he would not have said, "They are the
radioactive byproducts of the nuclear-fission process."

Brieley snorted.  "I know that.  What exactly are they and what can
they do?"

"Well, basically, the flasks in the central silo contain up to two
hundred isotopes which have been produced from uranium--' "Such as?"
demanded Brieley.

The MPs remained silent.  The small Welshman, with his implacable
opposition to the nuclear-energy programme, could be relied on to ask
all the pertinent questions.

Cox-Spender frantically tried to recall all the isotopes with short
half-lives.  "Er... Xenon one-three-three... Iodine one-three three--'
Brieley snapped out: "Wasn't that the stuff that escaped from Windscale
a few years back?"

"Yes."  Cox-Spender inwardly cursed the knowledgeable Welshman and
wondered why the Prime Minister wasn't coming to his rescue.

"But it didn't kill anyone," he added.

"Because it has a short half-life- right?"

Cox-Spender nodded.

"And there's the "Flying Dutchman' cargo.  Anything else brewing in
there you've forgotten to tell us about?"

Cox-Spender opened his mouth to protest at the man's offensive
attitude, but Brieley was too quick.

"What about strontium ninety, Mr Cox-Spender?  There'd be a lot of that
wouldn't there?  It's got a long half-life."

"There is a quantity of strontium ninety at Vulcan Hall."

Cox Spender admitted.

Brieley turned to face his colleagues.  "You've probably heard of the
stuff," he said angrily.  "It has a similar atom to calcium so it is
readily absorbed by the body to build bones.  It doesn't affect adults
much."  He turned to Cox-Spender.  "Tell them what it does to children.
Tell what happens to kids who've got bones made of strontium ninety."

The Prime Minister stood up.  "Mr Cox-Spender didn't invent the stuff,"
he said mildly.  Cox-Spender thought he was taking over the
question-and-answer session, but the Prime Minister avoided his
adviser's eye and sat down again.

Brieley remained staring fixedly at Cox-Spender with a mixture of
loathing and contempt.  "Iodine and caesium are nothing compared with
plutonium.  How much of that have you got at Vulcan Hall?"

Cox-Spender looked in vain to the Prime Minister for support.

"I'm not sure.  Not much."

"Christ!"  shouted the Welshman.  "It doesn't have to be much!"

He held up his fist.  "A lump that size could kill everyone in the
country!"

In the world, thought Cox-Spender, but he did not enlighten his
opponent.

"Inhale one particle of plutonium, and you get lung cancer.

After that, you get dead.  Right Mr Cox-Spender?"

"What's its half-life?"  asked a voice.

"Twenty thousand years," said Cox-Spender quickly, frightened that
Brieley would use a dramatic simile to express the period of time.

"What does that mean?"  asked another voice.

"It means," said Brieley, "that after twenty thousand years a few
pounds of the stuff can kill only half the world's population, and so
on.  And they're sitting on tonnes of it."

No one spoke.

"Shall I tell what will happen if those terrorists blow up the silos?
said the Welshman, turning to the gathering.  "Three Mile Island and
Cheynobel will be a kids' chemistry experiments going wrong by
comparison.  Everyone in the country- perhaps even in Europe, Asia and
America- will be dead within a few years, and the land uninhabitable
for the best part of a million years.

Isn't that right Mr bloody Cox-Spender?"

Cox-Spender nodded.  He could argue survival factors, but basically,
the Welsh MP was right.

Brieley was no longer angry.  "If the gates of hell do exist,"

he said sadly, "we will find they are made of plutonium."  He looked
slowly round at the sea of silent faces.  "It's even named after the
Lord of Darkness... Pluto..."

He sat down.

The silence continued for a few moments, then everyone was firing
questions.

The Prime Minister was on his feet again.  "If you will all be patient
for a little longer, please, I have something you're all to see.  After
that, you can ask Mr Cox-Spender as many questions as you wish."

Cox-Spender sat down.  There was a suspicion at the back of his mind
that he had been a useful whipping-boy.

Simpson had been busy during the precious few minutes setting up a
video recorder and a portable television receiver.  He nodded to the
Prime Minister that he was ready.

"You are about to see a video recording that the terrorists gave Mr
Cox-Spender during his visit," said the Prime Minister.

"All right Simpson."

The opening shot showed Pyne sitting at a desk in front of a bookcase.
The caption "MAJOR GENERAL CONRAD PYNE OBE' appeared briefly on the
screen.

Pyne interlocked his fingers on the desk blotter and leaned forward,
looking fixedly at the camera.

"By now," he said, in a flat, unhurried voice.  "You will know the
truth.  You are probably thinking that you face a terrible dilemma. 
But there is no dilemma, ladies and gentlemen, if you follow the
conditions we have laid down in our ultimatum.

Indeed you must follow them, because you have no choice.

"Through a mixture of greed and self-interest and a failure to
implement straightforward rem dial measures, this country is rapidly
becoming bankrupt.  This is many people's fault- but it is especially
yours."  Pyne pointed at the camera to emphasize his words.

"The public broadcasting of Parliament has proved to the British people
that the majority of you are an undisciplined collection of
self-interested egotists totally unfit to govern a nation of sixty
million people.  I ask myself- what has this country done to deserve
you?"  Pyne paused.  The MPs sat in shocked silence.

"Perhaps it is not your fault as individuals- it is the fault of your
constituency parties who weed out candidates of vision and return to
Parliament narrow-minded Union Jack-wrapped Britishers who seem
incapable of clear, logical thinking.  The sad result that we have a
hung parliament of weakness and mediocrity that lacks the drive,
initiative, and courage to tackle the country's problems with zeal and
determination.  As a consequence we have rampant inflation,
unemployment, virtual isolation from our partners in Europe, and a
tap-washer and Luncheon Voucher currency that's a standing joke in
Europe.

"You've constantly underestimated the British people with your insipid,
half-baked measures which merely irritate rather than inspire.  Just
one example but a vital one: look at the mess we in over house prices.
There's no shortage of land or building materials in this country!
Making people take out crippling mortgages amounts to a massive
self-inflicted wound.  We've built on only ten percent of our land!
Land is for people!  We should use it to allow them to build and
extended their own homes over a period as and when they can afford it-
not sell them cramped little ready-made hutches on vast, impersonal
estates at vast, inflated prices.  The amount of land we want released
and sold at realistic prices will serve our housing needs well into the
next century.

"The housing situation is a symptom of your failure to recognise real
needs.  Had you had the guts to introduce really tough controls,
instead of forever looking over your shoulder at the myth of empty
ballot boxes at the next election, you might have won broad support.
Instead you've wrung your hands and blamed everyone for our troubles
except yourselves.

"While the rest of the European Community has flourished -even former
East Germany is now doing better than us- we've had to listen to
successive governments prat ting on about sovereignty.

Substitute the word "power' for "sovereignty' in all the political
speeches we've endured over the past few years and they begin to make
sordid sense.  To you political power is more important than jobs,
housing, public health- everything.  And yet sovereignty does not
provide homes or jobs; sovereignty does nothing for our balance of
payments; sovereignty doesn't pay mortgages or provide hospital beds or
decent schools and motivated teachers.

Sovereignty is a negative force- it props up nationalism and greed and
inefficiency.  To sustain it requires high taxes to pay for independent
armies, navies and air forces.  It perpetuates the hideous costs of
duplication and even jeopadises air safety be causes because
sovereignty stands in the way of a Pan-European air traffic control
system.  For example: sovereignty provided us with the staggering cost
of two cellular telephone systems neither of which is compatible with
the rest of Europe.  The result is that we now have to scrap both
systems and write-off five billion pounds of capital investment.
Sovereignty gave us the absurd MAC television system which no one else
wanted and which contributed to the destruction of our television
manufacturing industry.

Small wonder the Japanese are walking all over us if we tie-up our best
engineering brains in electronics to design systems that are useless.
Sometimes I think you all forget that Britain is a tiny country that
you can drive across in a morning.  We can't afford to waste brains and
money and resourses on senseless duplication in the name of this
corrosive enemy of our future prosperity... this sovereignty..."

The last word was almost spat out.  Pyne paused and sipped from a glass
of water.  "From now on, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "this
country is on a war footing.  It has worked before against a visible
enemy- now we must strive together to ensure that it works against the
invisible enemies of greed and inflation which will destroy this
country just as surely as Hitler intended to, and just as surely as
Vulcan Hall's nuclear fallout will if we are forced to blow-up the
silos."

Pyne paused again and looked straight at the camera.  "I was wrong just
now.  You do have a choice.  You either accept our measures for five
years, or destroy our country for eternity."

The screen went blank.  There was a few seconds of stunned silence
broken by the video recorder switching itself off with a loud double
click.  The Prime Minister stood and surveyed the silent faces.  "You
now have an idea of the people we are dealing with -utterly ruthless
but efficient.  But terrorists none the less -no matter what their
motives.  That is one thing that we must not lose sight of.
Questions?"

"What have the armed forces got to say about this?"

demanded a voice from the back.  "When are they planning to break in
and get these people out?"

"I don't think you quite understand," said the Prime Minister.

"No move has been planned against them.  You are the only people in the
country who know anything about this.  Not even my Cabinet colleagues
were aware of the take-over until now.  I considered the situation so
serious that it must be revealed to all of you, so that we can all
discuss what is to be done, rather than recall Parliament and ask you
to approve Cabinet action."

"Easier to get us to agree to something than the Cabinet," a
backbencher remarked.

There were a few guffaws despite the seriousness of the situation.  The
Prime Minister smiled frostily.  "The diversions within the Party are
reflected at all levels," he remarked.

"Including the back benches Right now we need unity."

"What are the chances of launching a successful attack against them?"
asked the Home Secretary.

The Prime Minister nodded to Cox-Spender.

"A preliminary examination has ruled out the possibility that any
attack is likely to succeed," said Cox-Spender.

The Home Secretary was unimpressed.  It was clear that he resented not
being briefed or consulted before the meeting.

"Oh, really?  And who decided that?"

Brieley jumped up.  "What the hell are we arguing about?"

he demanded.  "We're carrying on as if we've got a choice."  He jerked
his thunb at the television.  "You saw that maniac.  We've got to go
alonf with him otherwise he destroys the country.  It's as plain and as
simple and as stark as that.  We've no choice.  We in what the
Americans call a zero options situation."

His words aroused everyone from their stunned stupor.  MPs were on
their feet, some shouting that Brieley was right, others yelling that
no government should yield to terrorism.  The scene was threatening to
degenerate into a familiar parliamentary uproar.  The Prime Minister
had to shout several times to command attention.

Gradually the tumult died away and the sea of faces turned to their
leader.

"Well now," said the Prime Minister.  "As Mr Brieley seems to have such
a lot to say on the subject, perhaps he would like to suggest a course
of action?  Mr Brieley?"

The Welsh MP was not inhibited by the Prime Minister's patronizing
tone.  His entire parliamentary career had been a tirade against
nuclear power.  Now every embarrassing question and every empassioned
speech was vindicated.  "I propose, Prime Minister, that parliament
should be recalled immediately to pass an enabling bill before the week
is out so that the measures demanded by those thugs can be
implemented."

"Brieley was in good form," the Prime Minister remarked, as Simpson
drove back to Downing Street.

"Well, it was rather expected," said Simpson.

"He more of less carried the show for us," said the Prime Minister,
relaxing into his seat.

Simpson kept his eyes on the road.  A series of shirt-sleeved policemen
held up traffic for the car.

"When do you start your intensive surveillance of the American?"

"Don't you think we should get someone else to do it, sir?

It's not the sort of work I'm used to."

"An excellent chance for you to learn, Simpson.  Such a talent might
come in useful in the future."

Simpson pressed his lips tightly together and said nothing.

Walter Innam's eyesight was such that he could not see the target on a
fifty-yard range, let alone hit it.  Without thick pebble glass
spectacles everything more than a metre from the end of his nose
disappeared into a vague blur of light and shadow.

But for close work, such as staring through the twin lenses of
stereoscopic viewers at aerial-reconnaissance photographs, their
performance was phenomenal.  Innam could pick out fragments of
information from the poorest photograph- frequently discovering details
that eluded everyone else.  It was as if nature had compensated him by
giving him the ability to see in reproduction what he could never hope
to see in real life.

In the air-conditioned darkness of the CIA's photo surveillance
laboratory he pressed his face to the eyepiece hood of a huge
stereoscopic viewer that resembled a submarine's periscope.  His left
hand grasped a small lever.  With this he could move the
three-dimensional scene before his eyes in any direction.

Pressing down on the lever brought the ground racing towards him with
the sensation of plunging earthward in a vertically diving aircraft.

He had been asked to prepare a report on the probable cause of the
explosion which had destroyed the Thames Haven oil refinery the day
before.  It was the sort of exercise he adored- the opportunity to
exercise his talent without having to wonder why anyone should want
such a report.

He spent several minutes ranging back and forth over the refinery,
merely getting the feel of the place.  As far as Innam was concerned,
he was not looking at photographs- he was actually there; revelling in
the heady sensations of his own private world in which he was flying an
aircraft that could dive to within ten me tres of the ground or soar to
five hundred kilometres at the touch of a lever.

Here, alone in the darkened room, he was the supreme being -far from
the painful memories of childhood filled with the cruel, taunting
refrains of schoolchildren determined to make the life of a
short-sighted eight-year-old abject misery.  Here he was God: an
omnipotent entity whose penetrating eyes stared down on the puny works
of men and sneered in contempt at their feeble efforts to conceal their
miserable secrets.  He, Walter Innam, had seen all there was to see-
couples copulating in corn fields Libyan engineers engineers building
rocket bases in craggy foothills; a European queen and her husband
walking in the grounds of their palace- nothing could be hidden from
his eyes.

Innam carefully cent red himself over the refinery at three thousand
feet.  The area of devastation filled his field of vision exactly.  He
twisted a knob and the view was replaced by a shot of the refinery
taken before the explosion- it was one of the many thousands of
photographs in the CIA library which had been taken on a survey of
British industrial installations two years previously.  By flicking the
knob back and forth Innam was able alternately to destroy and restore
the refinery.  It gave him the feeling of being a true god, but the
purpose of the "before' and "after' exercise, with what are known as
"comparative covers' in aerial-reconnaissance jargon was to determine
the approximate centre of the explosion.

Refinery- devastation- refinery- devastation-His hand flicked the knob
with increasing rapidity.

An impression began to form on his retinas; he began to see the
explosion.

Refinery- devastation-The coalescing images merged, like the
consecutive frames of a film.

Innam could see the explosion.  He could see the expanding shock-wave
racine outwards from the northern end of the refinery -from the car
park.  He could see the tall distillation columns splitting open before
the massive concussion and slamming themselves to the ground, only to
have their remains scooped up and flung hundreds of me tres through the
air.

The whole fleeting five seconds of appalling destruction was recreated
before Innam's eyes in total silence.

He had discovered the position of the explosion in five minutes.  Now
for the cause.

It would take a expert interpreter as much as two hours.

Innam settled more comfortably in his seat and began a painstaking
search.

He divided the refinery into a series of squares by superimposing a
grid on his field of vision.  He cent red himself exactly above the
square at the centre of the explosion and lowered himself until his
view was completely filled by the square.

The blur of twisted ironmongery resolved itself into separate but still
unrecognizable shards of technology.

Lower.  A hundred me tres The unblinking eyes bored down.

Fifty me tres Glittering highlights- undistinguishable from their
surroundings at a greater height- suddenly became fractured beams of
sunlight captured on the freshly torn edges of sheet steel.  The
remains of cars.

Innam made some fine adjustments to contrast and lighting levels.  He
started with the examination of welding seams.  The manner in which
they had been forced apart would tell him whether the explosion had
been inside a particular vehicle or outside.

He meticulously reversed every square centimetre of the grid square,
sometimes dictating notes into the microphone of a tape recorder whose
reels turned only when he spoke, sometimes pausing to study more
closely something that caught his eye- but never blinking.

The irregular piece of aluminium was about thirty centime tres square.
It was curved slightly and appeared to have been subjected to an
anodizing process during manufacture.  It was inscribed with white
stencilled stores reference digits that Innam recognized immediately.
During the next five minutes he discovered several more fragments from
the same piece of aluminium.

Innam stared down in astonishment for some minutes, then relaxed with a
feeling of satisfaction, tinged with regret now the operation was
over.

He looked at his watch.

Discovering the cause of the explosion had taken him fifteen minutes.

Ralph Keller sat alone with his thoughts in Vulcan Hall control room.

For the hundredth time he went over the options open to the British
Government, and for the hundredth time he decided there were none: they
had to accept the conditions in the ultimatum.

There was nothing else they could do- the power station was an
impenetrable fortress, sealed on three sides by the army camp and by
the river on the fourth side.  On the flat roof above his head the
radar scanner probed an inviolate bowl that nothing could enter without
sounding the alarms.  Even high-altitude bombers would have to rise
above the horizon.  The worst they could do was a launch a rocket
attack- that would give him thirty seconds warning.

After several weeks' practice he required only five seconds to pull the
modified pocket cell phone from his his pocket and tap out the
five-digit code on the keypad.

He smiled to himself and caressed the little folding phone.

The others didn't know about its secondary function.  The others were
sentimental fools.  When it came to action- doing what had to be done-
they couldn't be trusted.  Their attitude to those men killed in the
oil refinery had shown that.  It was as well he had taken
precautions.

He stroked the keys on the pocket cell phone They were hard and smooth,
yet yielding- like a woman's nipples... His mind drifted back to the
Saturday night.

There had been the blonde girl.  By the dim lighting in the tunnel he
had watched her breasts sway every time she reached down to pick up one
of the Cyclonite cartons.  He had absolute power over her.  This time
it would be right.

He pressed the Sterling into her side and gestured down the passage.
She didn't understand at first- her eyes were blank when he wanted her
to look frightened.  Perhaps he should choose another one?  No!  If he
did that, it would mean they were controlling him.

He prodded her before him and pushed her into a recess in the side of
the tunnel and positioned himself facing her so he could also see the
power station staff at work stacking the cartons.

She had long silky hair.  He liked long hair.  He held the gun in one
hand and stroked her hair with the other.  Perhaps she flinched when he
touched her.  He didn't know.  He was aware only of his own emotions-
the blood starting to roar in his ears like an express train.  He
lowered his hand to her breasts.  They had looked so promising when she
had been bending down.  But now, with her shoulder blades pressed
against the concrete, they were unsatisfactory; her nipples were merely
a change of skin texture beneath his fingertips.  The recurring rage
seized him.  He grasped her breast, twisted savagely and flung the girl
into the passage.

Her scream ended with the roar of the Sterling.  The impact from the
ten shells that poured into her back in one second lifted her bodily
and threw her against the sides of the tunnel.  She slid to the floor
and rolled over.

She had no breasts left.

Which was how it should be.

The late-evening sun streaming into the control room was hot despite
the air-conditioning.  His eyes closed.  Memories of the Saturday night
had stirred him He touched himself.

Then a shadow fell across his face.  He cringed.

"You disgusting boy!"  screamed his mother.  "Wait till your father
gets home!"

But the expected blow never came.

He opened his eyes.

Louise Campion was staring down at him.

"I've brought you some coffee," she said.  "I'm on watch in five
minutes."

Keller took the mug and thanked her.  She was wearing tight fitting
jeans and an expensive blouse that had been gathered at the front and
tied into a knot.

Keller sipped the coffee.  There was a stain on the mug but he said
nothing; the anger and tension were slipping away as they always did,
but he still felt uneasy in the woman's presence.

Why hadn't she sat down?  Perhaps she was trying to demonstrate some
form of superiority by standing while he sat- taunting him, just as all
women did.  Taunting him with the pale band of flesh below her blouse.
Now she was watching his whitening knuckles as the involuntary tension
tightened his fingers round the mug.  He forced them to relax.  Showing
outward signs of stress was a mistake he rarely made, but the
recollection of the girl in the tunnel had triggered the roller-coaster
rhythms that pulsed through his brain and occasionally threatened to
smash the delicate psychological mechanism that managed to keep him
teetering on the edge of sanity.

"You look as if you could do with some sleep," said Louise.

"Did you manage to sleep this afternoon in this heat?"

asked Keller.

"Oh yes," she answered lightly.  "Try counting sheep."

Keller nodded and stood.

Maybe her bed was still warm.

Her room had formerly been the office belonging to the power station's
chief maintenance engineer.

It was locked.

Keller slipped his Access card between the door and the surround. 
There was a light resistance as the stiff piece of plastic encountered
the convex brass tongue of the Yale lock.

He wriggled the cord up and down while easing it forwards.  The
resistance suddenly ceased and the card slid forward.  He pushed the
door open and returned the Access card to his wallet; the irony of its
name escaped him.  For a moment he stood on the threshold, savouring
the eager sensations of anticipation at what he would find, before
stepping into his childhood and closing the door behind him.  He would
have to be quick- his mother's shopping trips never lasted more than an
hour.

But this wasn't his mother's room.  She always made the bed before
going out and she didn't sleep on a camp bed.

He kept very still for a moment, picking at the clinging barbs of
fantasy in his confused mind.

She was using a typist's desk as a dressing-table.  It had her things
on it; a hairbrush; a silver-framed head and shoulders of a man in
R.A.F uniform- he was leaning into the picture in the style favoured by
professional photographers of a past era.  So how old was she?
Thirty-five?  Forty?

He opened the bottom drawer first.  It contained an assortment of empty
typewriter-ribbon boxes, pencils and bottles of dried correcting fluid.
The middle drawer was the same.  He opened the top drawer without
closing the lower two.  It contained a wallet, some letters, and
inventory of medical supplies and a plan showing the power station's
radiation detectors.  The letters contained nothing of interest.

Keller slammed the drawers shut in frustration.

There were two large crates standing in one corner.  One contained
cartons of tampons and boxes of new shoes.  The other was filled with
unworn clothes still in the manufacturer's wrappings.

He pulled a small suitcase from under the camp bed; it contained
brassieres and panties- all clean and unworn.  His calm suddenly
ruptured under the pressure.  In fury he threw the underclothes across
the room and flung himself down on the camp bed.  For some minutes he
wept bitter frustration into her pillow.

Reason eventually asserted itself.  He picked up the garments and
folded them before returning them to the suitcase.  Then he sat of the
edge of the bed, gradually calming down.

The carpet tiles with the sun streaming across them caught his
attention.  They were all of a uniform colour, but a contrasting shade
effect had been created by laying them with the pile at alternative
angles to the light.  One tile was different- its pile lay in the same
direction as two adjoining tiles.

He reached down and picked it up by the horsehair tufts with the
intention of repositioning it.

Underneath the tile was a single sheet of typewritten paper.

It was a carbon copy- possibly a fifth or sixth copy because the words
were blurred and the surface was smudged with carbon.

Nevertheless the words sprang clearly off the page as he read them:
Government to commit UK to the setting up of a single defence force for
the European Community by the end of the century... Public transport to
be free... 500,000 hectares of land to be made available immediately
and sold in quarter hectare plots to enable people to build their own
homes... Disbelievingly Keller read the paper right through.  And then
a second time with consuming fury.

Conrad Pyne and Hugh Patterson were sitting in the common room when the
door burst open.  Keller advanced into the room, his face white with
anger.  Before Patterson could stop him he had yanked Pyne to his feet
by his lapels and was screaming: "Bastard!  Filthy, double dealing
bastard!"

Patterson tried to grab Keller but Pyne waved him away.

"What the hell's the matter?"  demanded Pyne, trying to pull himself
out of Keller's enraged grip.  But Keller seemed to have lost control
and continued shouting "bastard' over and over again.

"Look, if you'll just tell me what's wrong!"

Patterson lunged forward but was doubled up by a vicious blow in the
stomach from Keller who continued to scream his rage.

He released Pyne by thrusting him backwards into his chair.  He waved
the sheet of paper under Pyne's nose.

"We agreed the conditions.  We all agreed!"  Keller was shaking with
fury.

"Don't be stupid," gasped Patterson.  "What the hell are you talking
about?"

Keller held up the sheet for both men to see.

"Communists!"  His voice was a hysterical shriek.

"All right," said Pyne soothingly.  "Now just calm down and let me see
that piece of paper."

Keller quietened but his face was still deathly white.

"We all agreed on the conditions at the planning meetings.  Now I
discover you've--' "Now wait a minute," said Patterson.  "We couldn't
get you to agree to half the terms."

"Because they were communist-inspired!"

"Look', said Pyne in a reasoning tone.  "Some of the right-wing
proposals you wanted- which we all wanted- had to be balanced by
socialist measures if we were to win broad support from the people.  We
want to unite the country- not spark off a civil war.

The proposals to set-up self-governing Muslim enclaves within the
United Kingdom--' "Which the Asians want!"  Keller shouted.

"Which some Muslims want," Pyne corrected.  "The proposals were
mischievous and you know it.  You only insisted on them because you
knew it would drive a wedge between Muslims and non-Muslims."

"We don't want to usher in a system of apartheid," said Patterson.
"None of us want that."

"Look, Keller," said Pyne.  "We're extremely sorry for having deceived
you, but it's too late to change the proposals now- even if we wanted
to- which we don't."

"No, general.  That's where you're wrong."  Keller's voice was now
smooth and drained of anger.  He reached into his pocket and produced
the cellular phone.  "I suspected there was something

I

was being excluded from, so I took a simple precaution to make sure I
should always have a direct say in what was going on."

Keller held up the handset.  The two men stared at it in
bewilderment.

"Who are you going phone?"  asked Patterson.

Keller smiled icily at his former employer.  He pushed the slide switch
with his thumb and held the handset up so that the two men could see
the keypad.

"It's no longer a cell phone Mr Patterson, but it can still transmit.
All I have to do is switch it on- as it is now- press five of the keys
in a certain sequence, and it transmits a coded pulse which, when
picked up by a receiver I've hidden in one of the Cyclonite cartons,
will detonate the carton."  Keller smiled.

"And all the others, of course.  Your idea upstairs of two switches
three me tres apart which have to be activated at the same time by two
people is ingenious- but not as ingenious as this."

Keller turned the keypad towards himself and pressed four of the keys.
The tactile feedback bleeps were clearly audible in the quiet room.

Pyne held out his hand.  "Give it to me, Keller."  It was as if he was
talking to a small boy.

But Keller did not respond: not now he was in full control of the
situation.  It was only when he felt that outside forces were dictating
to him that the aggressive, repressed half of his personality assumed
control.  Now he was cold and unruffled- master of the situation.  He
merely shook his head and held his finger poised above the keypad.

"Take one step near me, general, and I press the key.

Possibly not all the cartons will explode, but I've made certain there
won't be any doubt about those under Silo Three- the one containing the
plutonium."

Pyne stared at Keller for some moments.  It was hard to reconcile the
coldly infuriated man standing before him with the usually quiet,
always polite Keller.  The only time he had ever displayed temperament
was during the planning meeting to draft the ultimatum, when he had
expressed his dislike of some measures Pyne had proposed.

Pyne decided that Keller was not bluffing- he had the knowledge to
modify the cellular phone and build a receiver.

Pyne inwardly cursed himself for including Keller in the group.  He had
never trusted him, but Keller had designed the silos- he knew their
weaknesses, and where to place the explosive.

"So what do you intend doing?"  asked Pyne tiredly.

Suddenly he wanted to put an end to the whole wretched business.  He
was not even aware that it was his sorrow at what was happening to his
country, and how he hoped to halt its decline, that prevented him
lunging at Keller: his supreme self-control had taken over.

Keller looked at the sheet of paper.  "I presume the deadline for the
government to agree to implement the ultimatum is still midday
tomorrow?"

"Yes," said Pyne dully.  "With another seventy-two hours to draft the
legislation."

"What else is there I should know about ?"

"Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Keller nodded.  "Very well, general.  But you'd better be telling the
truth, for all our sakes."

He spread the sheet of paper on the table and drew a series of bold
lines through some of the conditions.  He pushed the sheet across to
Pyne.

"I want you to call the Prime Minister now, and tell him about those
deletions."

There was a telephone on the table.  Keller picked it up and listened
before holding the receiver out to Pyne.

"There's a line on this extension.  I presume you've stuck to the
arrangement of using a secret number?"

Pyne took the receiver and slowly dialled Simpson's direct line number.
He waited, staring down at the floor.

"Don't say anything else."  said Keller.  "Just say what conditions
have been deleted, and make sure he understands."

Pyne wondered if Keller could hear the ringing tone.  He pressed the
telephone harder to his ear.

"Simpson?  This is General Pyne at Vulcan Hall... There have been some
alterations to the ultimatum we issued on Sunday... Yes... Certain
conditions have been deleted."  Pyne picked up the sheet of paper and
read out the numbers of the contentious demands.

The conversation took four minutes.  Pyne paused occasionally as if the
deletions were being read back to him.  Finally he said, "Yes.

That's the complete list as it now stands.  I want you to see the Prime
Minister is informed immediately... I'm sorry but I have nothing to
add."

Pyne was about to replace the receiver when Keller spoke: "Tell him all
future communications are to be on the Government's digitally encoded
cell phone TAC frequencies, so we won't be overheard."

Pyne repeated the instructions into the mouthpiece.

Keller took the receiver from Pyne's hand and dropped it on to the
cradle.

"I suppose you now wish to assume command?"  said Pyne.

"No, general.  You're the administrative type- you carry on running the
power station."  He tapped the handset.  "Just remember that I'll have
this little gadget with me at all times, and that I need less than a
second to press the keys.  Even if you were to shoot me, you can't be
certain that I'd die quickly enough to prevent me from destroying the
country.  And if you were to destroy this gadget with a well-aimed
shot..."  Keller grinned.  "Well -the way I've programmed it, that
would be the same as if I'd operated it."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

Keller held the handset up.  "Go ahead and shoot it," he invited.

"What about our guns?"  inquired Patterson, bewildered by the
transformation in an employee he had known and trusted for a number of
years.

For a moment Keller seemed uncertain.  Then he came to a decision.
"You'll have to keep them."  He looked at Pyne.  "I want you to issue
strict orders to the soldiers that they're not to enter the power
station complex under any circumstances.  We'll maintain boundary
integrity ourselves by increasing the number of IRIS detectors.  You
and Patterson will have to carry out the morning and evening patrols to
check their batteries and reset them, so you'll need your weapons."

Keller picked up the typed sheet and returned it to his pocket.  "I'm
going to move my things into the control room.  No one is to go near
the floor without my permission."

He moved towards the door.

"One last warning.  Neither you two or Miss Campion is to try escaping.
If anyone does, then it's up to the others to stop him.

I wouldn't be able to manage things by myself- or even with just three
of us, and as you now know- I don't like being a loser..."

He left the last sentence in mid-air and was gone.

Two hours later Keller released the safety-catch on his Sterling.

He relished the sensation of power that coursed through his fingers
whenever they closed round the crude but effective weapon.

There was no need to aim at such close range; the soldiers would hear
nothing- Pyne had ordered them back to camp and sealed the entrance to
the power station with detectors.

He fired from the hip.

The Ericcson switchboard exploded into shards of grey plastic that
skittered across the polished floor of the power station's reception
area.  The thunderous noise was like champagne.  He kept firing until
the unit was an unrecognizable mass of tangled wire and smashed
key-switches.  The pine panelling behind the switchboard splintered
under the impact of high-velocity ammunition.  A few minutes earlier he
had sabotaged the communication equipment in Pyne's and Patterson's
helicopters.

The noise attracted Pyne and Patterson who had been inspecting the
wrecked transceivers in their helicopters.  They waited until Keller
had gone and stood surveying the wrecked switchboard.

"That's put paid to our first idea," said Patterson.  "If Keller's
going to stay holed up in the control room we won't be able to get near
the radiotelephone.  So what do we do now?"

"Some how," said Pyne, "I've got to escape."

"What would be the point, Conrad?  The Prime Minister will be acting on
those changes."

Pyne shook his head.  "I didn't get through.  I was talking to
myself."

The big man looked at Pyne in surprise, and whistled.

"I didn't think Keller would fall for it," said Pyne.

"Christ --- it's such an old hat ruse and yet it worked."

"Why do it?"

"The opportunity presented itself.  I needed time to think."

Pyne gazed across at the far bank, four kilometres away.

"Hugh, you remember we showed Cox-Spender how the detonator control
worked, and how it could only be worked by two people?

Supposing we're now being watched through high-powered optical
equipment on that bank and they notice that from now on there's only
one person in the control room- never two?

Patterson stared at Pyne as the implication of his words sunk in.

"They'd... They'd plan a lightning strike, not knowing... not
knowing..."

"Not knowing that the silos can now be blown up by one man in less than
a second," Pyne finished.

Patterson looked thunderstruck.  He stared across the river, at the
haze hanging over the far bank.

"Put yourself in their position," Pyne continued.

"Wouldn't you be watching us?"

Patterson nodded.

"That's why I've got to escape."

Patterson nodded.

"That's why I've got to get word to the Prime Minister,"

said Pyne.  "Somehow, I've got to escape."

Patterson roused himself.  "But Conrad, we're in a hell of a cleft
stick.  If you were to try escaping.  I'd have to shoot you to prevent
Keller doing anything crazy."

Pyne nodded.  "Exactly, Hugh.  You'd have to shoot me."

The ten eminent members of the Cromwell Two Committee listened in
shocked silence as their chairman related what had happened that day at
the Palace of Westminster.

"And so," concluded the chairman.  "Pyne has stolen a march on us."

For a few moments there was silence.

"It's what I would've expected from him," said General Sir Richard
Markham.  "Pyne often confided in me that he thought this committee
would still be unable to deal with the racial problems unless we
revised our ideas about the sort of measures we were in favour of."

"You were the one who proposed his membership," the chairman pointed
out.

We needed that new force he's been given," replied Markham.

"I wasn't allowed to have any say in its formation and
administration."

The chairman sighed.  "What do we do now?"

"We'll have to cancel the takeover," said Sir Oswald Fox.

"Impossible," said the head of the Special Branch.  "We're ready to
move."

"Sir Oswald is right," the chairman interrupted.  "What point is there
in us taking over if we have to bow and scrape to Pyne and his thugs?
No, gentlemen.  I suggest we play the Prime Minister's favourite game
no matter how much we despise him for it- we wait and see.  We let him
sort out the problem of Pyne, and then we move.

In the meantime I'll keep you all informed of Cabinet meeting
developments."

There is no organization within the British Civil Service that resorts
to killing as a political function; there are no James Bonds or Boysie
Oakes subordinate to retired senior officers in the government's
machine.  Consequently, Simpson was at a loss when he decided that the
best way of dealing with Howard Mitchell would be to kill him.

Then he remembered a list of names and addresses the Special Branch had
once supplied to his office in the days when they could be trusted.

At 16:00 hours, he was studying that list intently.

He left his office at 16:05 and drove over Westminster Bridge in search
of a suitable telephone box.  There was one in an inconspicuous
position in the Waterloo Bridge Road.

Patrick Reagan was in his garden, spraying the black fly on his french
beans and reflecting that at least the vegetable crop this year was
saving a fortune in housekeeping during the hard times that were upon
him and his wife.

Reagan was an instrument-maker.  His employers, a small engineering
firm, had been forced out of business by spiralling costs.  During
better days Reagan had supplemented his pay packet by using his skill
with the watchmaker's lathe to manufacture bomb and timing mechanisms
in his small but well-equipped workshop.

Now the cells who had used his services had been mopped-up and the new
ones operating on the mainlain consisted of smart, well educated lads
who could build their own mechanisms by buying components over the
counter from model engineering shops and electronics shops.

Although things were bad for Patrick Reagan thy could be worse.  He
could be in prison.  Fortunately the evidence linking him to a the
bombing of an Aldershot public house had been too flimsy for the
Director of Public Prosecutions to proceed.

Reagan was refilling his garden spray when the telephone rang.

"Mr Reagan?"  said a voice he didn't recognize.

"Who's that?"

"Are you interested in earning a couple of thousand pounds, Mr
Reagan?"

"Doing what?"  said Reagan suspiciously.  The caller's accent was right
but it sounded slightly contrived.

"I want you to provide a special party for a friend of mine.

Using your special talents--' Fucking law, thought Reagan, and hung
up.

The telephone rang again.

"If you go to the telephone box outside Raynes Park Station."

said the voice, "I will ring you there and give you your
instructions... Two thousand pounds Mr Reagan.  Think about it."

Simpson saw Reagan's Nissan drive past the cafe .  He paid for his
undrinkable coffee and crossed to the telephone box.  From inside he
watched Reagan park his car and enter the telephone box outside the
station.

The telephone surprised Reagan by starting to ring just as he pulled
the door open.

"Mr Reagan," said the voice.  "Look up."

"What?"

"Look up above your head."

Reagan looked up and saw an envelope secured to the inside of the
telephone directory glass by its gummed flap.  It contained a number of
20 banknotes.

"Fifty of them," said the voice, as if its owner was reading his
thoughts.  "And another fifty when you've carried out the task."

"What do you want me to do?"  said Reagan.

Simpson told him.

Five minutes later Reagan sat in his car and considered his problem --
namely that he had only ten grammes of plastic explosive.

It was hidden in his garden under the compost heap to fool the trained
labradors.  Ten grammes wouldn't kill a man unless it exploded hard
against his body.  It was the right amount for a letter-bomb, but they
only maimed, and the man on the telephone had been quite clear about
the results he wanted.

Reagan turned the problem over in his mind.

Ten grammes exploding hard against a man's body... A traffic warden had
spotted his car and was approaching.

Hard against a man's body... ten grammes...?

Yes.  The answer was obvious.  Reagan grinned disarmingly at the
traffic warden and drove off just as she was preparing to swoop.

The large electronics hobby shop was about to close when Reagan
entered.  The assistant sulkily found the heat-operated switch he
wanted- one set for its contacts to close when the body of the switch
was heated to 30 degrees Centigrade- just a few degrees higher than the
temperature reached during the hottest part of the afternoon.

And a few degrees below the temperature of the human body.

Reagan was pleased with his purchase.  The 2000 was going to be the
easiest money he had ever earned in his life.

Corporal Garnet stumbled off the Waterloo train at Walton-on Thames and
was carried along the narrow and incredibly filthy pedestrian tunnel by
a wave of desperate homeward-bound commuters all determined to get away
from one another and into the metallic lava stream of wife-driven cars
flooding out of the station forecourt.  The train had been the only one
out of London on the line for an hour.  The journey had been a
nightmare with coaches holding four times their designed capacity.

Garnet stood blinking in the bright sun considering his next move.  The
suit he had purchased in a menswear shop off Piccadilly had been
expensive, but now it felt and fitted like a fetid scrotum.  He had
been lucky in managing to find a seat on the train.

A clerk sitting opposite had suspiciously eyed his scar and the
general's crested briefcase.  Garnet had divided his attention between
him and the girl sitting beside him with her skirt hitched round her
thighs to ensnare the cooling draught blowing through the open
window.

All but 5 of the money in the general's briefcase was gone.

A taxi took him into Walton town and dropped him outside the Midland
Bank.

The cash-dispensing machine spat out 100 in new notes after he had fed
it with the general's card and punched out the PIN number he had found
pencilled on a piece of paper in the wallet.

The corporal tried for another 100 but the machine refused to oblige.
It also kept the card.

He now had 105.  Enough for several drinks and one woman.

He badly needed both.

Late on Monday evening Pyne kept watch while Patterson worked at a
lathe in the power station's workshop.

The sweat running down the big man's face was due partly to the
suffocating heat and partly to fear of the consequences if Keller
discovered what he was doing, His discomfort did not prevent his
working quickly.  Fortunately his long-neglected skill with a lathe
hadn't atrophied over the years.

He gently tightened a nine-millimetre bullet into the jaws of the
lathe's bell-collet so that it was gripped evenly round the rim of the
case.  Next he opened the chuck jaws on the tail-stock and closed them
down on the nickel-jacketed slug.  The bullet was now firmly gripped at
each end.

He carefully rotated the lathe.  The entire bullet turned.

He cursed and wiped the sweat from his eyes before tightening the
tail-stock jaws a fraction.  He gingerly turned the lathe again.

This time the jaws held: the slug rotated in its case as the grip
between case and slug was broken.  Patterson continued turning the
lathe by hand, gently winding the tail-stock back at the same time.

The slug was drawn from its case like a tooth pulled from a socket.  He
removed the empty case and peered inside to ensure the propel lent
charge was still in place, then used the lathe jaws to crimp the open
end shut, taking great care not to distort the case which could to a
jam.

The case could be fired; it would make the normal amount of noise and
smoke and that was all.

Pyne studied Patterson's handiwork.

"Okay.  Fine.  You'd better do enough for a whole magazine."

Patterson's normally good-humoured face was creased with anxiety.  He
took the round from Pyne and examined it critically.

"What are the chance's of the magazine jamming, Conrad?"

"It's a chance we'll just have to take," Pyne replied unemotionally.

A committee of twenty Members of Parliament and the two government law
officers worked for five hours drafting the enabling bill that would
become law within twenty-four hours.

They left Downing Street at five minutes to midnight.  All the MPs were
also practicing lawyers.  Each one had been responsible for the wording
of a section, which in turn had been passed to two colleagues for
careful checking to ensure that the wording was one hundred per cent
watertight.

It had been an exhausting five hours.

The Prime Minister bade them goodnight and returned to the Cabinet
Office.  Simpson was poring over the sheets of paper written in a wide
assortment of handwriting.  Each sheet was a mass of amendments and
deletions.  Simpson held one up.

"The last clause.  Written by Beresford.  It requires the bill to lapse
automatically when pressure on the government has been removed."

The Prime Minister nodded.  "Provocative, wouldn't you say?"

Simpson fed the sheet of paper into a shredding machine.

"Do you know what the Attorney-General said when he left?"

inquired the Prime Minister.  "He said, "It's a good job we haven't got
a constitution and that the governments have always opposed a Bill of
Rights for the people."

Simpson looked surprised.  "That's exactly what you said when-' "I
shouldn't attach any importance to it, Simpson."

The Prime Minister yawned and looked at his watch.

Midnight.

He went to bed at fifteen minutes past midnight and was soundly asleep
ten minutes later.

At 23:00 hours Reagan reversed his Nissan behind a large rhododendron
within fifty me tres of Mitchell's house.  The baked ground was too
hard to leave tyre marks.

He closed the driver's window against the swarms of disturbed
mosquitoes before checking his set of watchmaker's tools and
transferring them to various pockets: tweezers into the handkerchief
pocket where the spikes would not dig into him; a multipurpose
screwdriver with a selection of blades in its handle transferred a
trouser pocket; a diamond file into his wallet with the tungsten-wheel
glass-cutters wrapped in a piece of self adhesive decorative plastic
film.  The small vacuum flask containing the components to make the
bomb made a conspicuous bulge in his jacket.  He wound a short length
of transistor radio earphone wire round the matchbox containing his
precious ten grammes of plastic explosive.  The wire was fine enough to
be cut with his folding nail scissors.

He removed the car ignition key from his key ring and placed it on the
floor.  If he had to make a quick getaway he would be able to pick the
key up without having to fumble with the other keys on the ring.
Leaving the key in the ignition was inviting trouble.

One of Reagan's recurring nightmares was being forced to flee from a
house he had broken into, only to find that his car had been stolen.

He left the car in gear with hand brake off and the driver's door
ajar.

He approached the house by skirting the edge of the lawn, keeping close
to the shadows and checking the lawn with quick stabs of light from his
torch for signs that meant dog.  There were none.

There was a light on in an upstairs room but that did not worry him:
his immediate concern was to get into the house as quickly as possible.
Once inside he could rely on his skill to avoid detection; outside he
was at the mercy of curious eyes.

The area round the kitchen door was screened from the garden and road
by rustic woven fence panels.  There were no feeding bowls on the
enclosed rectangle of concrete, no scraps of meat and no scratch marks
on the door.

Reagan relaxed a little.  The door was locked.  He pressed it at the
bottom with his foot.  It gave slightly.  That meant it had not been
secured on the inside with a bolt.  It was the same at the top of the
door- all he had to contend with was the mortise lock.

He shone his torch through the keyhole and noted with satisfaction the
gleaming end of the key's barrel pointing at him.

It took him two minutes to inscribe a circle on the door's glass pane
with the glass-cutters, peel the backing paper off the self-adhesive
plastic film and secure it over the circle.  The third blow with the
inside of his fist caused the disc to fracture from the surrounding
pane.  He quickly removed the plastic film with glass attached and
reached through the hole to unlock the door.

The first thing he did inside the house was to search for an emergency
hiding-place.  The instinct of a professional housebreaker when he
hears noises that suggest his presence is known is not to flee, but to
hide.  Most people fondly believe that making a noise is sufficient to
cause a burglar to leave- it works with amateurs, but not with
professionals.  And Reagan was a professional.

He found a broom cupboard leading off the hall.  He pushed a child's
rubber sucker onto the inside of the door so that he could pull it
closed behind him if the need arose.

The telephone was in the living-room on a low coffee-table.

Reagan positioned his torch and laid out his tools on a handkerchief so
that he could pick them up and put them down without making a noise. 
He could also gather them up quickly if he heard a sound from the floor
above.  He unscrewed the vacuum flask and shook the bomb components and
crushed ice into a clean ashtray.

Next he unscrewed the telephone's earpiece cover and placed it on the
handkerchief.  Using the tweezers to avoid heating the component, he
picked the thermal switch out of the crushed ice in the ashtray and
positioned it inside the earpiece cover.  He rolled the piece of
plastic explosive, the size of a thimble, into a slender sausage shape
between his palms and then placed it on the bed of ice for a few
seconds to cool before carefully tamping it around the inside of the
earpiece so that it held the tiny thermal switch in position, but with
its two fine wires protruding.

Buried in the ice was the pin detonator, which he fished out with
tweezers and dried with cotton wool before pressing it firmly into the
explosive.  The last component was a Mallory cell battery the size of
an aspirin.  Like the thermal switch, it had two fine lengths of wire
attached to its terminals.  There was a plastic cap at the end of the
wire which prevented the ends touching one another and draining the
current.  Reagan left it in place until he had pressed the battery into
the explosive.  Finally he connected the components together with short
lengths of the earphone wire.  He held the plastic earpiece cover
between thumb and forefinger and screwed it back on to the telephone's
handset.  He tested the weight of the instrument.  He doubted if
Mitchell would notice the additional weight when answering the phone.

Reagan replaced the handset on the cradle and surveyed his handiwork.
The two contacts inside the thermal switch would now be moving towards
one another.  But they wouldn't touch until they were exposed to thirty
degrees Centigrade- another six degrees --such as the human body was
capable of providing.  When Mitchell answered the phone the heat from
his body would cause the thermal switch contacts to close after ten
seconds, thus completing the circuit.

The resulting explosion, though small, smaller than even a letter-bomb
explosion, would be enough to blow Mitchell's brains out.

Reagan gathered his tools together and tipped the melting ice back into
the flask.  He dried the ashtray with his handkerchief.

The next phase of the operation was for him to earn the other 1000 he
had been promised.

And that required only a phone call.

Reagan was heading back towards the main road when he spotted the
orange-striped police car with its cherry-festooned roof lurking in the
trees.

He drove past, neither slowing not accelerating.  In the rear mirror he
saw the police car's headlights suddenly stab across the road then
sweep towards him as it pulled out from the trees.

The distance between the two blazing lights widened in his mirror.

Reagan tried to remain calm and drive normally despite the dazzling
lights reflected into his eyes.

The police car made no attempt to pass and wave him down -it seemed
content to sit on his tail.

Reagan began to sweat.  If they were after him it wouldn't take them
long to find the house with the broken window.  It would take them even
less time to learn some interesting facts about his spare-time career.
They'd go over Mitchell's house with a microscope.  They wouldn't find
prints, but the bloody junky labradors would soon sniff out the plastic
explosive.

Unconsciously, Reagan accelerated.  Why didn't the sadistic bastards
stop him?

The searing lights were now right behind him and blinding him.

If he moved his head more lights mocked him from the door mirrors.

Bastards.

All he could see ahead was a narrow band of glittering flint road
surface funnelling briefly into his field of vision before disappearing
under the Datsun's hood.  He did not see the approaching yellow flares
of the main-road street lighting until it was too late.

British Aerospace driver Peter Floyd was ferrying a spare Airbus tail
plane to London Airport.  The police required that such a load should
be moved only at night.  The road from the aircraft works was slightly
downhill.  He was doing forty-five miles an hour when his articulated
truck struck the car which suddenly shot across his path from a side
road.

There was no time for Floyd to transfer his foot to the brake pedal
before the front of his cab smashed into the car's rear.

The shattering impact spun the car round in the road, with petrol
flailing from its ruptured fuel tank.

Reagan might have lived had he driven straight into the side of the
truck instead of suddenly spinning the wheel in panic as the yellow
street lighting and the side of the truck burst upon his
consciousness.

In the time it took for his hand to drop to his seatbelt buckle the car
was engulfed by an incandescent fireball.

Reagan was still alive three seconds after impact- clawing at an
unyielding door welded firmly shut by the rapidly melting rubber
draught excluder.  He managed to wind down the heat-warped window a few
centime tres flames syphoned into the car, setting fire to the
headlining.  Then he was screaming as globules of falling molten
plastic set fire to his hair and clothing, and he knew he was going to
die.

TUESDAY

Corporal Garnet was at Reagan's death scene, but took no interest.

He pushed indifferently through the small crowd, making his way to
General Pyne's house on St Georges Hill.

He had been thrown out of a Walton pub at closing time.

The girl had been pretty; she had said nothing about his scar, which
pleased him, and had worn a short skirt, which pleased him even more.
Short skirts were rare in England, but the birds in Northern Ireland
wore nothing else as part of their cock-teasing campaign against
British soldiers.

He had bought the girl in the pub three rum-and-cokes.

Then she had leaned forward, kissed the scar and said she had to go to
the toilet.  That was the last he had seen of her.

He had gone to pay for another drink, and discovered the wallet had
gone.

So had the last bus, and he hadn't enough for a taxi.

He had walked the six kilometres to Weybridge, going first to the road
where the general's snooty bitch of a daughter had bought herself a
house with her mother' money.

She wasn't in.

He waited an hour, planning to slip into the house behind her when she
opened the front door.  The longer he waited, the more he brooded on
the treatment he had received at her hands.  Well, he was a civvy now-
the Redcaps couldn't touch him.  The courts would probably give him six
months- civvy style.

It would be well worth it.

He had sweated all Friday cleaning out the swimming-pool at her dad's
place.  When it was nearly refilled he'd asked her if he could cool off
indoors.  The bitch had turned round and said, "Not until you've mowed
the lawn."

Her father was decent enough.  The sort of man you could admire and
respect.  How'd he come to have a daughter like that?  Her dad had
helped him over the business of the teenage joyrider outside Corry's
timber yard in Belfast.  The stupid kid had driven straight through an
army roadblock.  The bloody car had backfired and Garnet, his nerves
keyed-up because he hadn't been in the province long, pumped five
rounds into the back of the receding Toyota.  It skidded, overturned
and burst into flames.

It was the third case of joyriders crashing roadblocks and the drivers
being wasted that year; they were going to hang everything on him. 
Make an example of him to appease a bloody minded populace.

Then they decided to hush things up and ship him home.  He'd still be
rotting in a military prison waiting for a court martial if the general
hadn't stepped in and said he needed a driver and Scout pilot.

He had enjoyed the new job until the general's daughter had heard about
his past.  He had been clipping the grass along the edge of the drive
when she had slowed down in her MG and said jokingly, "Just making sure
it doesn't backfire."

A police car cruised by.

Garnet decided to move.  Perhaps she was at her dad's home at St
Georges Hill.

Her car was outside the house.

Garnet let himself in through the front door with the keys in the
general's briefcase, pulled off his shoes and checked the house
downstairs.  There was no sign of her, although she'd left the kitchen
in a mess and there were photographs scattered all over the
dining-room.  There was one of her in a bikini.  A chinless twit had
his arm round her and was trying to get his fingertips round her left
tit.  Looking at it, and the thought that she was just upstairs, made
him tremble with anticipation.

But first a drink.

He found a half-bottle of whisky in the sideboard.

Thirty minutes later it was nearly empty.

Now for the girl.

He took off all his clothes in the hallway and mounted the stairs.  The
night air felt pleasantly cool against his body after the oppressive
stickiness of the suit.

Her bedroom door was ajar.  He pushed it slowly open.  For a moment he
thought she had a bedside light on, so bright was the moonlight
streaming into the room.

She was lying on top of the bed, curled into a foetal position, wearing
a short nightdress.  Her legs gleamed with erotic paleness.

Garnet stood trembling in the doorway- encouraging his erection before
following it across the room to the girl's bed.

His hand closed over her mouth.  She made a choking noise as he forced
her on to her back.  Her eyes were twin pools of terror that stared
wildly up at him from above his fingers- he could feel her teeth trying
to bite at the inside of his palm.  Her legs thrashed madly, making it
difficult to pin her down.  Then she was trying to tear his hair out.

He hit her hard on the side of the face.  Her hand tried to slide under
his elbow and he immediately pinned it against the bed.

He grasped her other hand and forced it back against the headboard.

Christ the bitch was strong.

He ground his knees viciously into her shins.  A cry of pain gurgled
from deep within her throat, and spent itself against the hand clamped
across her mouth.  The sound encouraged him to increased effort.  He
pounded his torso up and down- using his body as a pummelling wedge to
force her legs apart.  She tried to crush him with her hips, but the
feel of the inside of her thighs only increased his excitement.

The girl's hand groped on the bedside table.  Her fingers closed round
the alabaster table lamp.

She brought it down on his head with a wild blow that glanced off his
temple.  The body on her relaxed.  She smashed the lamp down again with
all her strength.

The body rolled on to the floor and lay still.

Only when Maggie had staggered across the bedroom and turned on the
light did she realize her assailant was Corporal Garnet.  A bloodstain
was soaking into her clothes under his head.

Her first thought was that her father had arrived home.

She ran downstairs calling for him, but there was only silence and hot
summer air in the big, still house.

She managed to reach the kitchen sink before being violently sick.  The
cold edge of the stainless-sink helped revive her.

She drank a cup of water, then went into the dining-room for her
father's gun.

There was a bottle of whisky standing on the scattered photographs, and
something else.  She stared at it- not understanding.  It was her
father's briefcase.

She found the Webley revolver in the sideboard.  The museum piece's
heavy coldness gave her confidence.  She went upstairs -stepping over
Corporal Garnet's clothes as if the untidy heap was a dead cat.

He was lying in the same position- completely naked.

The bloodstain was spreading to the carpet.  Fearful that he might
suddenly arise to renew his attack, she crept nearer.  His chest
appeared to be motionless.  There was something she remembered from a
television play.  She held a hand mirror in front of the corporal's
face, above the leering scar.

The glass remained clear.

Suddenly her body was racked with pain.  Still clutching the revolver,
she went downstairs.  She sat in the living-room staring at the
telephone, nerving herself to call the police.  She had heard about the
way police dealt with rape cases, or attempted rape.

There was the heap of clothes in the hallway; she'd have to say that
Corporal Garnet was not a stranger; Christ- they'd want her to be
examined.

Her father's solicitor was someone called Meredith.  She opened the
address book and punched his number.  A bloody answering machine
replied.  She slammed down the handset and tried to think calmly.

She saw Howard Mitchell's name and address on the open page.

He would help.  He would know what to do.

She called his number, praying he would be at home.

The ringing tone chirruped in her ear.  She almost wept with relief
when it stopped with the click of a receiver lifted off its cradle.

"Mitchell," said an American accent, heavy with sleep.

"Mitch!  Thank God!"  Her voice nearly broke into hysteria as the
tension of waiting for the telephone to be answered suddenly snapped.
"This is Maggie Pyne.  I--' She got no further as Garnet grabbed her
from behind.  She dropped the telephone and clawed desperately at the
hand that threatened to choke her.

"Bitch!"  screamed Garnet.  "Stinking, cock-teasing bitch!"

The receiver was swinging by its cord.  She could dimly hear the
puzzled, reedy, distorted voice: "Maggie...?  Maggie...?"

Garnet let go of Maggie's throat and hit her.

She fell to the floor, twisted round and snatched up the revolver.

Garnet was about to lunge at her.  He froze.

Maggie looked up in terror at the livid scar, and aimed the revolver
with both hands.  She pulled the trigger as Garnet dived sideways.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Bloody hell- an army daughter and she hadn't the sense to check if the
damn thing was loaded!

Garnet threw himself at her, but she rolled sideways.  He grabbed hold
of her hair, screaming obscenities as he tried to tear her nightdress
and climb on top of her.  She tried to hit him with the gun.  He
knocked it from her grasp so that it skated across the floor.  She
doubled her legs under and pushed him away.  The nightdress come away
in his hands with a loud, tearing noise.

Garnet grinned at her.  Blood was steaming down his chest from his
matted hair.  He wiped himself with the nightdress- his eyes never
leaving the naked girl cowering on the floor.

She started to crawl away.  He jammed her ankle painfully to the floor
with his foot so that she cried out.

"Come on, you bitch," snarled Garnet.  "Let's see you fight."

She answered by doubling forward and sinking her teeth into his calf.
The corporal drew back his other foot and kicked her hard in the
crutch- a lethal kick had he been wearing shoes.

Maggie's teeth did not relax their grip.  She could taste Garnet's
blood.

He swore and dragged her head back by the hair.  He slapped her hard
across the face.  She moaned in pain.

Garnet laughed.  He dropped beside her and put his hands on her thighs.
Maggie tensed, and drew her legs tightly together.  The corporal lifted
his fist menacingly.  She winced as Garnet dug his fingers into her
legs and forced them apart.

He moved over her, the hideous scar now above her face.

She stared up at him, unable to feel him because he had kicked her so
hard.

He began moving rhythmically, his elbows splayed out on the carpet and
his hands crushing feverishly into her breasts.

Garnet's pace quickened.  His whisky-laden breath rasped against his
teeth and the blood flowed faster from his torn scalp.

Maggie forced her hand down slowly between Garnet's body and her own.

Garnet felt uneasy as the gently questing fingers closed softly, first
round the base of his penis before moving delicately down to encircle
his testicles.

Maggie crushed, twisted and pulled with all her strength in one smooth,
totally devastating movement.  Garnet released a shrill, almost
feminine scream, arched backwards off the girl as if his spine was a
crossbow and Maggie had pulled the trigger.  He continued screaming
hideously and rolled himself into a tight, protective ball of personal
agony.

Maggie pulled herself to her feet.  She looked quickly round, grabbed
the revolver by the barrel and raised it above her head to hit the
corporal.

He looked up at her- his eyes glazed with pain- and pushed himself on
to one knee.  Maggie dropped the revolver in panic and raced into the
hall.  For a moment she was uncertain what to do.

Garnet was crawling towards her.  She flew up the stairs and locked
herself in the bathroom.  She could hear Garnet crashing about in the
kitchen before he came staggering up the stairs after her, bellowing
like an enraged bullock.

Then he was outside on the landing.

The lock on the bathroom door was designed to inform rather than to
withstand a determined assault.  The door splintered away from the
surround on Garnet's first charge.

The last thing Maggie saw before losing consciousness was the flash of
light on the raised bread knife Garnet was clutching in his hand.

The Prime Minister tossed Cox-Spender's phoney report on the cause of
the Thames Haven disaster on to the desk and lit a cigar.

He watched Simpson covertly through a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

"What are you working on now, Simpson?"

Simpson looked up from his desk and wished the Prime Minister would
return to his own office.  "I'm dealing with the discontented families
of Vulcan Hall staff who are complaining that their relatives haven't
returned home since Saturday night."

"What are you going to say?"

"I don't know," said Simpson sourly.

"Unusual for you to be at a loss, Simpson."

Simpson said nothing.

The Prime Minister stretched luxuriously and watched his cigar smoke
define the beams of early-morning sun shining into the room.

"You know, Simpson, were this not such a deadly serious business, I
might be tempted to enjoy it.  Does that sound callous?"

Simpson met the politician's gaze.  "How much longer do you think we
can keep the Civil Service at bay, sir?"

The Prime Minister grinned wolfishly.  "Just as long as I can keep up
the pretence that I'm dealing with party business."  He paused,
watching Simpson struggle with the report.  Simpson's trouble was that
he had little imagination.

"Supposing you tell the families that there was an accident with one of
the reactors and that the staff have been quarantined?"

"That would bring the press swarming around our ears."

"A row is inevitable, Simpson.  Rows we can deal with once the full
story is out.  What worries me at the moment are the imponderables."

"Such as?"

"Such as that American- Howard Mitchell.  What's happening on that
front?"

Simpson braced himself.  "I've organized a private investigator to
watch him' The nerve in the Prime Minister's neck twitched.

"Dangerous, Simpson."

"I've arranged everything by phone," said Simpson evenly.

"Not only dangerous, Simpson, but contrary to my orders."

"I wanted to be near at hand to assist you, sir.  I thought the Nelson
touch seemed appropriate."

The Prime Minister watched Simpson through a cloud of cigar smoke.
Simpson knew too much.  It would be wiser not to push him too far.

Simpson smiled thinly at the politician.  "I'll be calling him each
morning and evening for a progress report."

Simpson found it easy to lie.  His whole life was one huge, complex web
of deception.

It had been a dream.

Maggie hovered for some minutes in the half-world between sleep and
consciousness while one partially open eye and her drugged brain
sluggishly coordinated their respective images and sensations in an
effort to assemble the familiar surroundings into one continuous
tapestry, so normal that her reason, struggling up from the depths of
sleep, told her that the recent, hideous events uncoiling in her memory
had been a dream.

She pushed her feet into the cool corners of the bed and immediately
sensed that two things were wrong: the dull ache in her pelvis and the
smoothness of the sheets.  They were smooth only on Sunday mornings
because Saturday was the one day in the week when she made her bed
properly.

Then there was something else- she was wearing one of her mother's
night dresses She sat up and screwed her face up as a lance of pain
probed behind her temple.  Her fingers traced the outline of a sticking
plaster taped to the side of her forehead.

The bedside lamp was missing.  It hadn't been a dream.  Or had it?

Then she saw the bloodstain on the bedroom carpet and the flood of
vicious memories dropped into their slots.

Garnet was still in the passageway outside her door.  She pulled the
sheet protectively up to her chin.

The door opened.

Mitchell entered the room carrying a tray.  He looked at her in concern
and said: "I've been looking in every fifteen minutes to see if you
were awake."

He set the tray down on the bedside table and poured her a hot sweet
drink.

"It's tea.  Don't try to say anything- just drink it."

The drink scalded the back of her throat, burning away the taste that
lined her mouth.  Her hands began to shake.  Mitchell sat on the edge
of the bed and leaned forward to steady the cup and saucer.

"I'm sorry," she began, but Mitchell raised a finger to his lips.  "You
don't have to say anything.  The doctor said you were to get as much
sleep as possible."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly 8:30," said Mitchell, and added as an afterthought, "In the
morning."  He took the cup and saucer from her and placed them on the
tray.  "You need some more sleep, Maggie."  Mitchell gave her an
encouraging chuck under the chin and left the room, closing the door
softly behind him.

An hour later, with unanswered questions crowding out sleep, Maggie
went downstairs.  Mitchell was eating a sandwich in the kitchen.  He
smiled warmly at her.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Awful."  She sat at the table opposite him.

Bruises had appeared on her face that Mitchell hadn't noticed before.

"Maggie, you don't look well.  You ought to go back to bed."

His tone irritated the girl.

"I always look like this in the morning," she snapped, and immediately
regretted it.  "I'm sorry, Mitch.  Is that coffee?"

He poured her a cup.  "That was some party you were having last night.
The doctor said you were suffering from shock.  He's going to look by
this afternoon."

Maggie avoided Mitchell's eye.  "You know what happened?"

she asked.

"The doctor told me.  You were in a helluva state when I found you."

"You found me?"

"You called me, remember?  I don't know how long you'd been ringing
when I answered the phone.  I can sleep through anything - even with
the extension ringing by my ear.  I could hear you yelling so I dropped
the phone and got here as quickly as I could."

"Thank you."  said Maggie.

"He was standing over you with a bread knife shouting about his crown
jewels.  I hit him from behind and dumped him in here.  I guess I
should've tied him up, but I was more concerned about you.

By the time I'd cleaned you up, he'd gone."

God, thought Maggie bitterly.  You're attacked by one man, and end up
being pawed by two more.  It was an ungrateful thought, but she
couldn't help it.

Mitchell sensed her embarrassment.  He went to the sink and pretended
to wash his plate.

Maggie watched him.  She remembered the flashing bread knife

She went across to him.  "Mitch, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to sound
rude.  It was good of you to come so quickly."

He put his arm round her and steered her back to the chair.

"Don't worry about me, honey.  You just sit down and drink your coffee.
Then you should go back to bed.  I'll stay if you like."

Maggie allowed herself to be pushed gently on to the chair.

"Do you want to have him charged?"  asked Mitchell hesitantly.

"There would have to be an examination by a police doctor' Maggie shook
her head.  "I don't know."  Then she remembered her father's
briefcase.

Despite Mitchell's protests, she rushed out of the kitchen.

She returned, reading the various papers.

Mitchell read the letter Pyne had written to his bank about Corporal
Garnet.  "Why would he want to do a thing like that?"

he asked.

Maggie shook her head in bewilderment and held out another paper. 
"He's given him the boat, and told him to sell it for whatever he can
get... And these..."  She held up an envelope, "are Corporal Garnet's
discharge papers... And look- a cheque.

Made out to the corporal- for five hundred pounds!"

Mitchell took the papers and studied them.  "Why would your father do a
crazy thing like that?"

Maggie stared at the cheque.  She looked up at Mitchell.

"He's blackmailing him," she said, her voice low.  Then she was
screaming, "That filthy little trigger-happy runt's blackmailing my
father!"

Mitchell calmed her down.  "Now, honey.  You don't know that."

The telephone rang.  Maggie pulled away from Mitchell and went to
answer it.

She returned a few minutes later looking thoughtful.

"That was Weybridge Marina.  They said Garnet had just taken the boat
out and were checking to see it was okay... Mitch, you've got a boat,
haven't you?"

Mitchell looked at her.  The doctor was right- she was tough.

There was a hard light in her eyes.

"Now look, Maggie.  Don't you think you should wait for the doctor?"

"I want to find out about my father."

"We should call the police."

"No!  Not until we know what hold that bastard's got over my father!"

Mitchell decided not to argue.  He sighed.  "Okay.  I'll go home and
get the boat keys.  Give me thirty minutes."

There were a police car and a dog handler's van outside Mitchell's
house.

His first thought was that Maggie had changed her mind and had
telephoned them.

"Mr Mitchell?"  said the senior officer.

"Yes?  What's the matter?"

"We've been waiting for you, sir.  Were you aware your house had been
broken into last night?  Your paperboy reported it."

The policeman sounded suspicious, as if people who allowed their houses
to be robbed were instrumental in the crime.

The police spent fifteen minutes checking the house.  They even let the
labrador loose.  It sniffed round every room, returning to the
living-room several times, but found nothing.

Mitchell finally persuaded the policemen to leave, promising to call
them if he later discovered anything missing.  They drifted reluctantly
back to their vehicles and sat watching the house for some minutes
before driving off.

Mitchell ruefully examined the broken kitchen window.  He couldn't
leave the house empty without carrying out some sort of temporary
repair.  As he finished hammering the last piece of wood into place he
realized that the living-room telephone was ringing.

4.

The meeting in a cool, north-facing room above the reservation offices
of Mid-European Airlines in Oxford Street was due to start at 10:00
hours.

Walter Innam arrived at 10:05 carrying a briefcase and wearing a
ten-year-old suit.  The receptionist pointed to the lifts and told him
he was expected in Room 101.  Innam spent an unhappy five minutes
peering at room numbers until he was rescued by a typist.

Paul Weiner arrived by taxi at 10:10.

A man in his early forties, wearing a check suit, arrived on foot.  He
nodded to the receptionist and went straight to Room 101.

Weiner and Innam were already seated at the long conference table.

One wall of the room, was occupied by a beaded glass screen with
loudspeaker enclosures mounted on each side.  A selection of film and
slide projectors stood on a long shelf at the opposite end of the
room.

"I presume you've converted the pictures to slides?"  was the first
thing the man in the check suit said to Weiner.

"Yes."  Weiner nodded to Innam.  "Mr Innam has them."

The man in the check suit seemed to notice Innam for the first time.
Then he smiled, and shook Innam warmly by the hand.

"Good to see you again," he said.  "How are you keeping?"

"Very well," said Innam, trying to peer closely at the vague face
without appearing to be rude.

"We met in Washington a couple of years back.  You did some
verification work on some suspicious construction work in Iraq."

"Oh yes," said Innam politely.

"And now you've found some more surprises for us right here in
England?"  The man in the check suit looked at Weiner expectantly.
"Right.  Shall we start?"

"I think we should wait until Hendricks arrives," replied Weiner.  "He
should be here any moment."

The man in the check suit looked surprised.  "He's in the country?"

Weiner nodded.  "He flew in from Langley two hours ago."

"What made him decide to come?"  The man in the check suit regarded
Weiner accusingly.

Weiner shrugged.  "Hendricks is entitled to do as he pleases."

"Something must've touched a nerve to drag him across the Atlantic."

"I sent him Mr Innam's report as a matter of routine,"

said Weiner.

"Which I haven't seen yet," the man in the check suit said pointedly.

"I thought Hendricks should see it first."

The man in the check suit looked at Innam speculatively.

"It must be something pretty spectacular you've got in that
briefcase."

"Pretty spectacular," said Weiner, answering for Innam.

The door opened and Hendricks entered.  He was a tall, gaunt man with a
long craggy face completely devoid of humour that inspired profound
gloom and a deep sense of foreboding in everyone with whom he came in
contact.  There was a rumour circulating in the "firm', the
headquarters of the CIA at Langley in Virginia, that he had once
smiled.  But it was one of those events, like the falling of Jericho's
walls, for which the evidence was slight and largely circumstantial.

Weiner's attempts to introduce him to the other men were waived
brusquely aside.  He sat at the head of the table facing the screen,
positioned his gold pen carefully parallel to the sheets of paper
already provided and looked up at the three men.

"Good morning, gentlemen.  Shall we begin?"  The question was expressed
as a command.

Weiner and the man in the check suit looked uncertainly at one
another.

Weiner cleared his throat.

"Well, sir, as you know, last Sunday the big oil refinery here at a
place called Thames--' Hendricks held up his hand.  "Quite right,
Weiner.  I do know.

Therefore there seems little point in going over it.  I've come all
this way to see your covers because I couldn't make much sense of the
faxes.  I want to hear your interpretation and decide what should be
done.  So I suggest we get on with the task in hand without preamble."
The sentences were delivered in short, grating bursts in a Harvard
accent.

Weiner looked uncomfortable.  He muttered a "yes, sir' and crossed to
the windows to close the venetian blinds so that Innam had to grope in
near-darkness as he struggled to load his slides into the projector.

The first picture showed the remains of the refinery from an apparent
height of a thousand feet.  It had hardly been on the screen for five
seconds when Hendricks clipped accent rapped out: "Next."

It was the same with the following three slides.  Each one was allowed
barely five seconds on the screen, and the long face would say,
"Next!"

The fifth slide was a close-up of the piece of aluminium which had
first captured Innam's attention the previous day.  The stencilled
white characters were indistinct.

"Do you have a closer picture?"  Hendricks asked the darkness.

"There's a zoom attachment on this projector, sir," said Innam.

"Then use it, please."

The picture sprang at the audience- the edges spilled on to the ceiling
and over the loudspeakers.  The white letters and numbers were now much
clearer and could be read without difficulty.

"That, gentlemen," said Hendricks waving his bony hand at the screen,
"is a Federal Stock Number issued from a block of numbers assigned to
the Marine Corps by the Defense Logistics Center at Battle Creek,
Michigan.  The first two digits- one-four- are, as you correctly
pointed out in your report, the Federal Supply Classification group for
guided weapons.  Before leaving, I was able to establish that the rest
of the number is the stores identification reference for the
after-fairing of an Honest John missile.  The number was stencilled on
the section in accordance with the Marine Corps normal policy for the
identification of spares."

Hendricks paused, leaned back in his chair and hooked his long fingers
behind his head.  "The general consensus of opinion at Langley is that
it was most astute of you gentlemen to detect this peculiarity, for
which I am asked to thank you."

A nice back-handed compliment, thought Weiner.

"My own opinion," continued Hendricks, "is that fulsome praise should
be reserved for when you find out who has been firing American-made
missiles.  Among other things, you are paid to solve mysteries- not
merely find them."

There was a silence in the room, then Weiner spoke: "According to the
statement issued by the British government, the explosion was an
accident."

"All part of the same mystery," said Hendricks slowly.

"There's no doubt that the destruction of the refinery was the result
of terrorist activities, and that the British government know that.
Terrorists do not keep their acts a secret."

Hendricks smiled thinly.  "Otherwise there wouldn't be much point
committing them.  The questions we must ask ourselves, gentlemen, are-
firstly, who and what are these people who have fired an Americanbuilt
missile; and secondly, what are the demands they are making on a
friendly government?  Demands that the government is apparently keeping
secret."

"Do we know how the missile came to be in the country in the first
place?"  asked the man in the check suit, wondering what all this had
to do with power stations.

"Yes," said Hendricks un helpfully He paused, and continued: "We
believe it must have been one of ten that were sold to the British
government some years ago.  Very old stock.  A truck taking two of the
missiles to a Royal Ordnance Factory for decommissioning was hijacked
three months age."  Hendricks looked at Weiner.

"You may remember the incident."

Weiner nodded.  He remembered submitting a report to Langley that had
resulted in a sharply worded note being sent by the United States
Secretary of State to the British government.  It criticised the lack
of security arrangements for the transport of missiles by road.

"Normally," said Hendricks, "I am reluctant to draw conclusions, but
it's reasonably safe bet that the missile used to blow up Thames Haven
was one of those that disappeared."

Hendricks looked round the room, as if inviting a challenge.  None
came.

"It would be interesting," he continued, "to know where the missile was
fired from.  We can draw a radius of thirty kilometres around the site
of the explosion, which gives us an area of about four thousand square
kilometres as a hunting-ground.  We need suggestions on probable sites
we can work on first."

This was the opening Weiner had been waiting for.

"Mr Innam has discovered more information from his study of the covers
since he filed his report," he said quickly.

Hendricks turned to Innam.

"Is that so?"

Innam saw a patch of light above Hendrick's shoulders facing in his
direction.  "I think I can tell you exactly where it was launched
from," he said nervously.

"Please do," said Hendricks.

"If I could change the slide..."  Innam clicked rapidly through the
slides.  A succession of images flashed on the screen until he reached
one that showed the Thames Estuary in strange contrasts.

The river was bright green, and the surrounding countryside was a
mottled patchwork on various shades of red ranging from pale pink to
vivid scarlet.

"An infrared picture converted to false colours," Innam explained. 
"The shades of red are caused by foliage.  If we zoom in closer..."

The strange scene moved nearer the four men.  Weiner experienced the
god-like sensation that Innam enjoyed whenever he plunged towards his
reproduction earth.

Weiner looked at the screen with professional interest, but could make
no sense of the riotous hues spread across the landscape.

"That's Vulcan Hall nuclear power station in the middle of the
picture," pointed out Innam.  "It's only ten kilometres from the
refinery.  Those squares are two tanker trucks."

Weiner studied the picture closely.  He could distinguish a stain round
one of the vehicles.

"What's that mark?"  asked Hendricks.

"A heat blister," said Innam.  "The sort of thing you get following an
explosion.  There's a much bigger one around the refinery."

"And this... heat blister was caused around the tanker when the Honest
John was launched?"  asked Hendricks sceptic ally

Innam sensed the disbelief in Hendricks' voice, and bristled - his
professional ability was being challenged.  "Yes, sir.

I'm absolutely certain of it because there's an unfired Honest John in
the tanker on the right.  There's a gap along the top of the tanker if
you look closely.  Inside it's just possible to see the nose of an
Honest John.  It must be an Honest John because the measurements fit
exactly!"

There was a silence following Innam's outburst.

Innam's hand was shaking.  He wondered what would happen to him.

Hendrick's craggy face turned away from the screen.

"Okay.

Let's have some light in here."

Weiner rose and flicked the blinds open.

"Tell me about this power station," said Hendricks.

The man in the check suit opened a man illa file and pushed it towards
the long talons drumming impatiently on the table.

They stopped drumming and picked up the plans and photographs in the
file.

"It's a thirteen-twenty megawatt unit powered by two gas cooled
fast-breeder reactors," said the man in the check suit.

"It's only just been pulled from production and was scheduled for
de-commissioning.  Yet according to the infrared pics, two of the
cooling towers are still chucking out heat- more than the residual heat
you'd expect from even recently closed-down reactors.

There's a heat cloud spreading right across the North Sea.  My guess is
that the British have shipped a helluva lot of nuclear waste to Vulcan
Hall for temporary storage.  They've run into political problems with
their repositories in Cheshire."

Hendricks tapped the plans.  "In that case, how much waste do you
reckon there is at Vulcan Hall?"

The man in the check suit hesitated.  "I've only been able to make a
rough calculation based on the size of the heat cloud, but I'd say in
the region of two-point-five billion curies, plus."

"What does that mean in terms of quantity?"  Hendricks demanded.  "I'm
not a nuclear physicist."

"It means the largest concentration of nuclear waste in the world,"
said the man in the check suit.

No one spoke.  The walls of Jericho suddenly cracked: Hendricks
smiled.

"I have formed a theory, gentlemen," he said, "one which ties all these
seemingly disjointed facts neatly together."  He turned to the man in
the check suit.  "What would be the effect of releasing all that waste
into the environment?"

The man in the check suit scribbled on his paper and looked up.  In a
tightly controlled voice he said, "It would be another Cheynobel only
worse... Much worse..."

An hour later Hendricks was sitting in Paul Weiner's chair studying the
photograph of Ralph Keller taken at a St Georges Hill garden party.

He dropped the picture on to the desk and looked up at Weiner.

"Odd that he should turn up."

"We don't know that he's involved," Weiner replied.

"We do if my uncanny sixth sense says he is," said Hendricks, picking
up the St Georges Hill electorial register and idly turning the sheets.
His shrunken eyes flicked down the printed columns of names and
addresses.  Several entries were underlined.  He pointed a gnarled
finger to one and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"People with strong right-wing views," explained Weiner.

"Strong right-wing views- not extreme.  We've eliminated the crackpots
and only classified those possessing a degree of sobriety -- those who
have the ability to form the nucleus of a resistance movement."  Weiner
paused.  "Should the need for such a movement ever arise."

Hendricks studied the list is silence.  "Where's Pyne's name?"

he inquired at length.

"Sheet seven.  Patterson's name is on sheet five.  Louise Campion's
name is on the same page.  She's the woman in the photograph."

Hendricks turned the pages.  "What does Pyne do?"

"He's the British government's Logistics Liaison Officer -their hatchet
man for supervising the run-down of the armed services.  All the
defence-cut recommendations carry his signature.

He's a leading advocate of a central European defence force."

"A carpet warrior?"

"A pretty efficient carpet warrior.  The Treasury Department like him-
that's why he's made the rank of major-general at forty-five."

Hendricks nodded.  "And it's definitely his helicopter at Vulcan
Hall?"

"Yes."

"How well does your contact- this Howard Mitchell- know him?"

"He plays golf with Pyne on Sundays.  Nothing more than that.

Howard never used to make friends easily."

Hendricks stood up.  "I want to see this Howard Mitchell.

Call him up and have him come here... Like now, please."

It was a woman's voice who answered the phone.

"May I speak to Mr Reagan, please?"  said Simpson.

There was a pause, then the woman said: "Who's that?"

"A friend ," replied Simpson.

Another pause.  "I'm taking messages for Mrs Reagan," said the woman.
"If you could tell me who you are..."

Her tone worried Simpson.  "I want to speak to Mr Reagan,"

he interrupted, keeping his voice calm.

"Mr Reagan... He was killed last night in a road accident."

The last sentence came out with a rush.

Simpson placed his hand on the coin box.  "Really?  How?"

The shock in his voice was genuine.

"It's terrible," said the woman.  "Mr Reagan was such a careful driver.
Always so careful with everything he did.  The truck driver said he
came straight out of a side road..."

"Where did this happen?"

"Weybridge.  None of us can think what he was doing there.

His wife's in a dreadful state, poor soul..."

Simpson let the woman continue for some moments- his mind racing, as
one improbable theory after another clamoured for attention.

"Can I say who it was?"

"No.  It doesn't matter."  He replaced the handset and stared at the
telephone for some seconds, considering his next move.

He called Directory Inquiries and asked for the telephone number of
Weybridge police station.  Two minutes later he was talking to the desk
sergeant.

"I can give you no more information than we've released to the press,"
the police officer told him.  "A Patrick Reagan was killed last night
at the junction of Brooklands Road with St Georges Hill Road.  I can
give you the exact time if you hold on a minute..."

"Can you tell me which way he was heading at the time?"

asked Simpson.

"He was turning out on to the Brooklands Road from St Georges Hill. 
His car was struck by a British Aerospace truck."

"Thank you, officer," said Simpson, and hung up.

He left the public telephone box looking uncharacteristically
worried.

Keller was woken by the hot morning sun streaming into the control
room.  He had slept badly during his first night in charge at the power
station.  Several times he had woken suddenly and reached for the
cellular phone in the belief that someone was approaching his camp bed
but each time there had been no one.

He crossed to a control console and bent the gooseneck microphone stalk
to his mouth.  "I would be most grateful if someone would kindly
provide me with breakfast," he announced with impeccable manners.  He
could hear his voice booming through distant corridors as a variety of
loudspeakers reproduced his nasal accent with varying degrees of
accuracy.

"Perhaps Miss Campion would oblige, please?"  said the speakers in the
staff rest-room where Pyne and Louise were eating a cold breakfast.

Louise looked up at a speaker and grimaced.

"He can get it himself," she said.

Pyne carefully replaced his cup on the saucer and placed his hand over
Louise's wrist.  "It might be a good idea, Louise.

Especially if you could get him to eat it near one of the front
windows."

She looked down at the hand covering her hand, and up at the grey eyes.
Pyne pulled his hand away.

"How would I do that, Conrad?"

Pyne looked faintly embarrassed.  "Well... feminine guile."

Louise smiled.  "Have I got any, Conrad?"

Pyne avoided her gaze.  "Well, of course."

"Perhaps I should practise on you first?"

Pyne began to wish he hadn't made the suggestion.

Louise said nothing.  She crossed to a small counter and began cutting
some corned-beef sandwiches.

"Perhaps we could poison him?"  she said.

"We could."  agreed Pyne.  "But you'd have to cook something that could
kill a man in one second flat."

She looked up at Pyne, but the remark was made without humour.

His hands were clasped together on the table.  He was staring at the
far wall with an expression of utter dejection.  Several times during
the night, when the three had discussed possible ways of overpowering
Keller before he had a chance to use the cellular phone, she had wanted
to comfort him- to tell him that he was not to blame for the unexpected
turn of events.  But his unresponsive facade and complete acceptance of
responsibility deterred her from making such an approach, Even Hugh
Patterson had tried to persuade Pyne against an escape attempt by
volunteering to shoot Keller, but Pyne had rejected the suggestion.

"All we've got is these Sterlings."  Pyne had said.

"I thought they were lethal."  said Louise Campion.

"Not lethal enough.  The first round has got to kill him outright and
you can't be a hundred per cent certain of that with a Sterling.  They
slay rounds all over the place.  Okay in close combat but not much use
for picking a man off with a hundred per cent certainty of killing
him."  Pyne had paused.  "And we have to be a hundred per cent
certain."

The debate had dragged on all night.  By 8:30 when Patterson left to
check the IRIS detectors on the western perimeter, it was decided that
Pyne's original plan, using a Sterling filled with blank cartridges,
was the one that offered the only chance of success.  Pyne had stressed
the importance of someone escaping to warn the government of the
changed situation in the power station in case they were planning a
break-in.

Hugh Patterson entered the rest-room as Pyne was finishing his second
cup of coffee.  He perched his massive frame on a chair and looked in
alarm at the sandwiches Louise Campion was preparing.

"They're not for me...?"

"They're for Keller," said Pyne.  "He wants Louise to take him some
breakfast.  Have you checked the detectors along the river front?"

"No.  I've come back for some batteries.  I thought I smelt coffee."

Pyne stood.  "It's time to put the plan into operation."

He picked up a Sterling and held it by the open frame towards
Patterson.  "Come on.  You can have your coffee later."

Patterson looked first at the offered submarine-gun and then at Pyne.
He shook his head slowly.  "Now?"  he queried.

"We all agreed to move when the first opportunity presented itself.
Louise will take his breakfast up and get him to eat it near the
windows so he can watch you and me checking the detectors."

Patterson took the weapon and examined it in concern.

"It's too dangerous, Conrad.  Supposing it jams?"

Louise Campion finished preparing Keller's breakfast.  She watched the
two men, making no attempt to intervene.

Pyne shrugged.  "I've never pretended the idea was without risks.  I'd
rather take a chance that sit about doing nothing."

"You must let me do it."

"It was my idea," Pyne replied firmly.

"And my fault Keller was included in our group."

Pyne looked at his watch.  "We'd better synchronize.  I make it 9:17."
He looked at Louise.  "Do you think you could get him to the windows by
9:30?"

Louise checked her watch.

"Yes."

"That's settled then.  Come on, Hugh."

Patterson sighed and followed Pyne out of the room.

Louise Campion stopped outside the door leading to the control room and
set Keller's breakfast tray down on the floor.  In the stillness of the
corridors she had heard the faint whirring of the heat guided
closed-circuit television cameras following her progress from the
restroom.  Now she was standing directly underneath a camera and, she
hoped, out of its field of vision.  Its lens was tilted towards the
floor at the maximum angle the tilt head would permit.  It was not the
thought that Keller had been watching her that made her tremble, but
what she had to do next.

Her fingers fumbled at her blouse until the top five buttons were
unfastened.

She looked at he watch.

9:21.

She knocked loudly on the double doors leading to the control room,
picked up the tray and pushed the doors open with her hip.

Keller was standing a few me tres away holding his Sterling at a casual
angle with the cellular phone hanging from his wrist by a short strap.
He smiled and came forward.

"Miss Campion.  This is extremely kind of you.  Let me take that for
you."

Louise moved towards the windows.

"Here?"  she asked, watching Keller's eyes to see if they dropped to
the unfastened blouse.  They didn't.

He took the tray from her and sat at one of the consoles.

"It's much too hot to sit in the sun, don't you think?"  he answered
with his customary politeness as he sipped his coffee appreciatively.
"This is excellent, Miss Campion.  I am most grateful."

Louise pushed a strand of hair away from her face so she could look at
her watch.

9:22.

She had eight minutes to get Keller over to the window.

At 9:22 Howard Mitchell dropped the hammer he had been using to nail
pieces of timber across his broken window and raced into the
living-room to answer the telephone.  It stopped ringing just as he
picked up the receiver.  It started again as he was halfway up the
stairs.

He answered it in his bedroom.  "Hello?"

He could hear breathing over the line.

"Mr Mitchell?"  said a man's voice.

"Yes.  Who is this?"

The line went dead.

Mitchell frowned to himself and replaced the handset.  He went into the
bathroom for a quick shower and shave before returning to Maggie with
the keys to his boat.

The telephone rang for the third time as he was returning his electric
razor to its case.  As before, he took the call on his bedroom
extension.  It was his secretary, wondering why he had not put in an
appearance at the office.

"It's nearly half past nine, Mr Mitchell," she said reproachfully. 
"You said yesterday you wanted to make an early start..."

Mitchell cut her short.  He said he had changed his plans and wanted to
spend the morning on his boat.  Urgent calls could be referred to him
via the boat's cell phone

He drove away from the house a few minutes later with the boat keys
digging into his hip.

Simpson walked thoughtfully away from the public telephone box.

Obviously Reagan had failed in his mission.  The Howard Mitchell
problem would have to be shelved.  If the CIA did find out about the
power station... Well, it was a problem the Prime Minister could sort
out.

"I suppose," said Keller, finishing the first sandwich, "that we'll
have to eat the corned beef first because it has the shortest storage
life?"

"I suppose so," said Louise.

Six minutes.

Keller saw her look at her wrist.  He smiled.  "I wonder what being
cooped up in here will do to us?"

She realized that his eyes were fixed on her.  It took a supreme effort
of will-power to resist the automatic impulse to close the partly open
blouse and so reveal her embarrassment.

"I

don't know," she replied.

Keller continued eating in silence.

"May I sit down?"  she asked.

He looked surprised.  "I'm sorry.  I should have said."  He waved his
hand round the control room.  "I didn't think you would want to stay.
Be my guest."

Always perfect manners, she thought.  It was hard to believe the man
was unbalanced.  But then, he had fooled everyone- even the shrewd Hugh
Patterson.  She wandered to the windows overlooking the river and sat
down.

Five minutes.

Keller seemed to have lost interest now that she was some distance
away.  General Pyne and Patterson emerged at the far end of the apron
to check the first of the IRIS detectors that guarded the power
station's waterfront.  Each one was mounted on an aluminium pedestal
about two-me tres high.  The pedestal bases were weighted with a lead
plate.

Louise pursed her lips and blew a stream of air up her face so that it
ruffled her hair.  "Ye gods, it's hot."

Keller started on the second sandwich.

"It certainly is," he said noncommittally.

Four minutes.

She fanned herself with her hand, and pumped her blouse.

She stretched her legs and repeated the gesture- enjoying the brief
surges of air against her hot skin.  She was careful to pull the
material out far enough so that Keller would have a glimpse of her
body.  The behaviour was alien to her nature.  It reminded her of her
girlhood when she had discovered the sexual powers that girls could
exercise over boys.  She closed her eyes.  Those days were now far
away.  There had been Clive when she was in her late teens.

The halcyon days with him had ended and the memories had begun when he
had misjudged an approach, and his Tornado jet fighter had become an
incandescent ball of fire in some thick trees at Biggen Hill R.A.F
base.

"Yes, indeed, Miss Campion.  Very hot."  The refined, polite voice was
immediately behind her.

She opened her eyes and turned slightly.  Keller was standing over her
staring down.  His Sterling was drooping towards her pelvis.  A feeling
of nausea rose like a poisonous vine in her throat and blossomed into a
smile.  She glanced casually out of the window.  Pyne and Patterson
were checking the third detector.

Patterson disguised a glance up at the window in a general survey of
the power station.

"What are they doing?"  asked Keller lightly.

"Checking the IRIS detectors, I suppose."

"They checked them last night."

"I think they have to be reset each day because of the heat."

Three minutes.

Patterson paused to tie a shoelace while Pyne moved on ahead.

"Odd."  said Keller casually.

"General Pyne likes to be careful," Louise replied, hoping her voice
was calm.

"I wasn't thinking of that."

Two minutes.

"You look frightened, Miss Campion."  The voice was flat with a
disinterested tone.  He rested his hand gently on her shoulders so that
his fingers were resting near the top of her arm.

She tried not to shiver, and dared not look up to see if he was looking
at her or at the two men below.  The sun was glinting on her watch face
making it impossible to read the time.  She tilted her head slightly
towards Keller's hand.

One minute.

The movement was a mistake; Keller thought it was one of affection. 
His fingers tensed and moved down to the start of the soft skin below
her collarbone.

Patterson straightened from tying his shoelace.  Pyne was thirty me
tres from him, walking along the top of the concrete capped pilings and
the water five me tres below.

Thirty seconds.

She was certain Keller must be aware of her increased pulse rate
beneath his fingertips.

"Can you remember the type of shoes Patterson wears?"

said Keller.  His voice was soft and gentle, but his nails were now
sinking into her flesh like the claws of a mechanical grab.

Twenty seconds.

Pyne was looking down at the water, waiting for Patterson to catch up
with him.

"I've worked for him for five years now," said Keller.

"He wears nothing but expensive elastic-sided shoes."

She risked a quick glance up at Keller.  He was no longer interested in
her but watching the two men intently.  He suddenly released his grip
on her shoulder, swung his Sterling up by the webbing strap and grasped
the magazine.  For a wild moment, as his attention was fixed on the
scene below, she considered trying to snatch the weapon from him. 
There was a metallic click as his finger released the crude
safety-catch.

Then Pyne was running as Keller stepped nearer the window.

"Stop!"  screamed Patterson, his alarmed yell carrying plainly into the
control room.  "For Christ's sake, Pyne!  Stop, you bloody idiot!"

But Pyne didn't stop.  He raced along the pilings with Patterson
running after him.  Patterson stopped chasing Pyne and raised his
submachine-gun.  His next shout was drowned by the sound of breaking
glass as Keller slammed the open frame of his Sterling against the
control room window.

"Stop him!"  Keller screamed at Patterson through the jagged hole.  "I
can't do it at this range!"

Patterson looked quickly up at the broken window and took careful aim
at Pyne.  He fired a long burst which used two-thirds of the ammunition
in the magazine.  The impact seemed to spin Pyne round; he teetered on
the edge of the pilings before falling out of sight to the water.
Patterson ran to the edge and poured a stream of fire into the river.

Two minutes later Keller stood panting beside him at the water's
edge.

"Where is he?"  demanded Keller, squinting at the dazzling sunlight
reflected off the water.

Patterson shaded his eyes and pointed downstream towards the low sun.
Keller could just distinguish a shapeless form drifting past the edge
of the pilings.

He raised his submachine-gun.

"That's not necessary," said Patterson sharply.  "He's dead."

Keller ignored him.  He fired a single shot.  The water spat near
Pyne's body.  The recoil jerked the suspended cellular phone strapped
to his wrist, but he was unable to see clearly the miniature plumes
that spluttered round the floating shape.

Keller lowered the smoking Sterling and turned to Patterson at his
side, who seemed too paralysed to move or speak.

"You've employed me long enough, Mr Patterson, to know that I always
like to be certain.  Just as you like to be sure you're not walking
about with loose shoelaces."

Patterson said nothing.  He turned on his heel and walked towards the
main entrance, where Louise Campion was staring at the two men in
horror.  As he walked towards her he half-expected Keller to shoot him
in the back.  He stopped and looked back at Keller.  The nuclear
physicist was shading his eyes and staring across the bright water at
the lifeless form drifting towards the sea.

It was then that Patterson decide that somehow he would kill Keller
before nightfall.

"What does your father's boat look like?"  asked Mitchell as he
inserted the key to start his Chris Craft's diesels.

Maggie surveyed the rows of boats at their moorings.

"Like that one over there.  A Freeman."  She pointed to a smart blue
and white fibre glass cruiser.  "Except ours has a white hull and a
pale-green cabin."

Mitchell nodded and pressed the starter buttons in turn.

He grinned at a boat owner sitting in a nearby cramped cockpit and
called out to Maggie: "Okay.  Untie up front."

He liked to use non-nautical expressions just to irritate the
pretentious yachtsmen, some of whom even wore peaked caps to sail pram
dinghies.

The two engine temperature gauges were nearing the normal mark as the
big cruiser slipped through the marina gates and out on to the
Thames.

Mitchell settled into the comfortable helmsman's seat on the flying
bridge, while below in the wheelhouse, the stainless-steel wheel and
Morse engine-control levers appeared to move of their own accord- as if
a ghost were at the helm.

Maggie joined Mitchell and perched on the navigator's seat beside
him.

"Do you like boating?"  he asked, to make conversation.

"Yes."  Her answer was flat.

Mitchell looked sideways at her.  Her face was still lined with the
tension of the previous night's ordeal.  There was an ugly red mark
across her cheek where Garnet had hit her.  She had made no reference
to the attack during the short drive to the marina.

"How are you feeling now?"  It was a stupid thing to say.

Why was he always so nervous with women?  Why wasn't he able to bubble
over with witty remarks that would make her laugh and help her
forget?

"Better," Maggie answered.

"Would it help if you talked about it?"

"No."  Then: "Can I navigate for a bit?"

The question provided an opening which he seized.  "Do you really think
we can get lost on this river?"

Maggie's laugh was immediate and gratifying.  "Idiot.  I mean steer
it."

"Sure."  He relinquished his seat and stood behind her.  He noticed
that she didn't over-correct the steering, as most people do when
handling a boat for the first time.

"You've done this before?"  he remarked.

Maggie nodded.  "When mother was alive we'd all go on weekend fishing
trips to Windsor."

"With your father?"

"Yes.  Always.  We were a close-knit family.  He always found the
time."

"But not any more?"

"He's been too busy lately."

They passed a Thames Division motor launch riding at its moorings
outside the river police station.  An overweight policeman was sunning
himself on the bank.

The Thames widened and bisected itself against a tongue of land.  The
left fork led to Shepperton Manor, the right fork was the Desborough
Cut.

"Which way?"  asked Mitchell.

Maggie considered for a moment.  "We'll go down river first, and then
come back up the cut.  That way we won't waste too much fuel."

"I'm not worried about that.  But supposing he's gone further down
river?"

Maggie swung the helm gently to port before replying.  "He wouldn't get
through Molesey Lock.  The registration plate is out of date.  We
hadn't bothered to renew it."

"Maggie, look.  There's a police station back there.  Don't you think
it would be better to let them deal with him?"

"No, Mitch.  Not until I find out if he's blackmailing my father."

She looked determined.  Mitchell decided not to argue.

The muted splutter of the water-cooled exhausts and the subdued mutter
of the twin diesels steadily easing the long white hull through the
water were not enough to disturb the wildlife thronging the wooded
banks and small inlets choked with reeds.

Mitchell had journeyed along this stretch frequently- the first time
was shortly after his arrival in England.  It was that trip, and the
discovery of the tranquil magic of the river, that had prompted him to
import the Chris Craft when his business prospered.  His great regret
was that the increased demands of the business did not allow him to
make more use of the boat.  The business had also prevented him from
making friends.  The large house on St Georges Hill had been a mistake:
with the exception of General Pyne, the neighbours had not been
particularly friendly.

And as Mitchell now realized, even Pyne's friendship, slight though it
was, had been cultivated only because Pyne was keen to learn about the
North Sea oil business.  Mitchell suddenly realized as he stood beside
Maggie that apart from his secretary, who was wrapped up with her own
husband and family, Maggie was the first woman he had become involved
with since leaving New York.  Perhaps if he had worked and lived in
London he would have met more people socially,.

But after a childhood spent on the Lower East Side he had resolved
never to live in a city again.

"Would you like something to drink?"  asked Mitchell.

"At this time?"

He smiled.  "Okay.  How about a Coke?"

"Something stronger might wake me up.  Mitch, I'm sorry I'm being so un
talkative

"It's a virtue," said Mitchell, and went down the companionway into the
well-equipped galley.  He was poking at the ice-cube tray welded into
the refrigerator when the engines slowed.  At first he thought
something had fouled the screws.  Then the refrigerator door swung shut
as the boat gently heeled.

"Look," said Maggie when he returned to the bridge.  She pointed to the
reed-encrusted bank where the roof of a cabin cruiser was visible above
the tall fronds.

Mitchell placed his palm over Maggie's hand holding the spoked helm.
She withdrew it as though she had been stung.

"I'm sorry," said Mitchell.  "I was steadying her."

"It's not your fault," said Maggie shakily.

"Can you manage?"

"Yes."

The transom of the smaller boat came into view as Maggie nosed the
Chris Craft towards the reeds.  Corporal Garnet was dozing in the
cockpit.  A fishing rod had slipped from his fingers.  He did not stir
at the sound of approaching diesels- it was the shadow falling across
his face that woke him.  He opened his eyes and looked up at the
towering flying bridge, blinking in surprise, and then in alarm when he
saw Maggie at the controls.  He stood up just as she sent the big
cruiser surging forward with a sudden burst of power that jammed its
bows into the reeds, cutting off the smaller boat's escape route.

Garnet considered jumping over board.  He had one leg over the coaming
when Mitchell appeared in the Chris Craft's lower cockpit.

"I shouldn't," said Mitchell, menacingly.  "It's about three me tres
deep here."

Garnet hesitated.  He felt the general's daughter's eyes on him.

"What do you want?"

"A word with you."

"Fuck off.  You're blocking my view."  Garnet tried to cover his fear
with belligerence.

Mitchell stepped on to the Freeman's transom.  The sudden motion caused
Garnet to lose his balance.  Mitchell hit him as he jumped into the
cockpit.

The exhaust pipes were the first thing Garnet became aware of when he
regained consciousness.  His legs were splayed wide apart and crooked
over the pipes with his ankles drawn painfully together by a length of
rope passed under the exhausts.

The Chris Craft's fully soundproofed engine-room was a ready made
torture chamber.

He cautiously opened his eyes.  The engine-room was illuminated by a
single lamp enclosed in a wire cage.  Mitchell was standing over him.
Garnet closed his eyes and braced himself for a kick in the
testicles.

"You'd better answer a few questions," snarled the American.

Garnet mouthed a profanity, but the outward display of bravado was
diminished by the beads of sweat that appeared on his forehead.

He tried to pull himself into a sitting position, and grimaced as the
pipes dug into the back of his knees.

"Why did you do it?"  demanded Mitchell.

"Do what?"

Mitchell gritted his teeth and hit Garnet.  The corporal's insolent
expression eased the surprisingly difficult task of hitting a bound
man.

"She encouraged me."  Garnet spat.

Mitchell hit him again.  It was easier the second time.

"That's not what she says."

"Then it's my word against hers.  For fuck's sake, why am

I

tied up like this?"

"You'll find out soon enough if you don't answer my questions."

"Look," said Garnet.  "Do you know her?  She's nothing but a
cock-teasing little bitch."  He paused and glanced round the engine
room crammed with expensive machinery.  "I don't suppose she treats you
like she used to treat me."

"How did she treat you?"  asked Mitchell, this time resisting the
impulse to hit Garnet.

"Like dirt."

"Maybe there's a good reason for that."

The sweat trickled down Garnet's face.  "At first I thought it was
because I was only a bloody corporal- not her class, but it wasn't
that."

"What was it then?"

Garnet told Mitchell about the Tuesday afternoon in Belfast - about the
joyrider's car that had backfired and how General Pyne had stepped in
when he heard Garnet had been trained on Scout helicopters.

"You're fond of General Pyne?"  asked Mitchell when Garnet had
finished.

"He helped he when I needed help.  If you can call having to wait on
his daughter hand and foot being helped."

"If you're fond of General Pyne, why are you blackmailing him?"

Garnet stared at Mitchell.  "Don't talk crap.  What the fuck are you
talking about?"

The third blow jerked Garnet's head back and tore the skin on
Mitchell's knuckles.

"For Christ's sake!"  Garnet pleaded.  "I don't know what you're
talking about!"

The two men glared at one another in the dim light.

"Where's the general now?"

"I don't know," said Garnet.  Blood was trickling from the corner of
his mouth.

Mitchell looked at his own bleeding hand.  He straightened and lifted
an intercom microphone off its hook.

"Okay, Maggie.  Start them up.  In neutral.  Nice and slow."

As he returned the microphone to its hook there was a loud hiss of
compressed air followed by a harsh, metallic grating noise that
resonated painfully against the eardrums in the confined space.

The port diesel engine rumbled into life and trembled on its mountings.
The noise was repeated until the starboard engine was turning fast
enough to run under its own power.  The diesels settled down to a
regular beat.

The pipes pressed against the inside of Garnet's legs began to get
warm.  His expression changed from arrogant defiance to fear.

Mitchell forced a smile.  There was a difference between hitting a man
and what he was about to do now.

"The exhausts are water-cooled so they don't get very hot,"

said Mitchell, raising his voice against the reverberating rhythm of
the two heavy diesels, "provided this is turned on."  He pointed to a
hand wheel "But if I was to turn the water off, even slightly, like
this..."  He rotated the hand wheel a turn.

Garnet felt the pipes getting warmer.  He wondered if the American was
bluffing.  Mitchell's hard expression was not reassuring.

"Why do you care about the general?"

"His daughter wants to know?"

Garnet was about to risk a grin, when the American turned the hand
wheel slightly.  He felt the temperature increase immediately from the
hot gases streaming through the two pipes.

"So why are you blackmailing him and where is he?"

"He told me to say nothing," Garnet choked out.

Mitchell turned the hand wheel a few more degrees.  He didn't enjoy
what he was doing but the bastard deserved it.

"When did you last see him?"

"I promised to say nothing."

Garnet sucked in his breath as the pain bit into his tendons.

"Why did he make you promise?"

The hand wheel was turned a little more; not much but enough to make
Garnet feel that his legs were being amputated at the knees by the
searing heat.

"I don't know, for fuck's sake!"  he screamed.  He tried to arch his
back off the engine-room floor, but the tension only pressed his calf
muscles harder against the burning pipes.

Mitchell looked at the writhing corporal in concern.  He had dropped
back on the deck and was twisting his body first one way, then the
other, in a fruitless effort to relieve the agony tearing at his legs.
Low moans of pain mixed with obscenities escaped from his lips.

Mitchell decided to give up.  He was about to restore the cold water
when Garnet said: "All right.  Fucking well untie me, and I'll tell you
what

I

know."

Fifteen minutes later Mitchell dumped Garnet back in the Freeman's
cockpit.

"Stay away from St Georges Hill and Maggie, otherwise I'll do a helluva
lot worse," he warned.

"The general said I was to look after his house," said Garnet
sulkily.

"Don't argue with me.  Just do as I say!"

Garnet glanced up at Maggie Pyne's cold eyes staring down at him from
the flying bridge.  He nodded.

Mitchell waved to Maggie to go astern as he stepped over the coaming
and back into the cockpit.  The screws churned white water under the
Chris Craft's hull as they hauled the big cruiser out of the reeds.
Maggie swung into midstream and pushed the control levers forward.

"What did he say?"  she asked when Mitchell rejoined her.

He related Garnet's scant story about Pyne's Sunday-morning drive to
Downing Street.  "He said your father handed a letter to the police
officer outside Number Ten.  Maybe he's resigned or something,"
Mitchell concluded.

Maggie looked puzzled.  "Even if he had, he wouldn't hand it in to the
Prime Minister."  She frowned.  "Although, he did once know him."

Mitchell looked at her in surprise.  "Your father knows the Prime
Minister?"

"He used to.  I don't think he's got much time for politicians now."
She turned to Mitchell.  "Is that little bastard blackmailing my
father?"

"No."

"You believed him?"

"Yes."  Mitchell paused.  "Maggie, what could your father be doing to
be blackmailed?"

She turned her attention back to the river.  "Nothing."

Her tone aroused Mitchell's suspicions.  "Look, Maggie.  If you think
Garnet hasn't told me everything, then we'll turn back and' "No!"  said
Maggie sharply.

"Then why--' "Mitch, if I tell you something, will you swear never to
repeat it?"

Mitchell stared at the bruised face turned earnestly towards him.

"Well, sure--' Maggie paused while she marshalled her thoughts.  "I
think daddy's involved with some sort of fraud over government
equipment with Hugh Patterson."

Mitchell looked at her with astonishment.  "Your father?

But that's not possible."

"That's what I would've thought.  But he's being seeing a lot of Hugh
Patterson lately, and I once overheard Hugh mention something about
military supplies when I took them a cup of tea in the garden.  If
something is going on, that corporal could've found out easily."

Mitchell was silent for a few moments.  "And you really think your
father is doing something like that?"

"I don't want to think it," Maggie replied angrily.  "All

I

know is that daddy's been acting differently lately."

Mitchell shook his head.  "Garnet would've told me.  And besides, he
respects your father."  He hesitated.  "You're the one he hates Maggie.
He said used to treat him badly."

Maggie's face went pale with anger.  "He killed a woman.

If it hadn't been for my father the ungrateful little bastard would
still be in prison."

Mitchell was unable to think of an immediate reply.  He wondered what
Maggie knew about service life- real service life, not hunt balls and
parties in the officers' mess.  Mitchell felt a twinge of sympathy for
Corporal Garnet; he had reacted to a car backfiring as he had been
trained to.  The memory would be with him for the rest of his life.

"Did you hurt him?"  Maggie asked.

"Did you want me to hurt him?"

"What do you think?"

"He was drunk," said Mitchell.

"That makes it all right, does it?"

He was about to reply when the telephone in the wheelhouse emitted a
shrill buzz.

It was his secretary.  Paul Weiner wanted to see him in London as soon
as possible.

"Okay," he said.  "We're just coming into Walton.  Come and pick me up
at the Eastwood Marina in ten minutes."

He explained the situation to Maggie.

"I could take the boat back to Weybridge for you," she offered.

Mitchell hesitated at leaving his precious boat in the girl's hands.
She correctly interpreted his doubtful expression.

"Oh come on, Mitch.  I brought it here.  You know I can handle it."

He smiled.  "Sure, better than I can."  He gave her the keys to his
Mustang.  "You'll need some transport when you get back to
Weybridge."

"What time will you be back?"

"I'm not sure.  Paul's an old school friend

"Ring me before you leave London, and I'll try to cook you some
supper."  Maggie looked down to avoid his surprised look.

"Thank you.  I'd appreciate that."

Maggie smiled- for the first time that day.

She dropped Mitchell on the towpath at Eastwoods and swung the Chris
Craft back upstream, enjoying the sensation of sitting in the sun,
controlling a magnificent cruiser on the river she loved, where her
father had taken her to feed the Queen's swans when she was a child.

Then she thought of Corporal Garnet also enjoying the river - sitting
in her father's boat, fishing with her father's rod.

She wondered if Mitchell had hurt him.  No, she couldn't imagine it.

Mitchell was too kind.  It hadn't been him having to stare up at that
scar... Five minutes later she came to the island that divided the
Thames from the river.  She didn't take the Chris Craft up the
Desborough Cut but followed the original course of the river towards
her father's cabin cruiser.

Pyne's immediate concern when he hit the surface was to avoid
swallowing the heavily polluted water.  The second worry was whether he
could swim far enough under water to be out of range of submachine-gun
fire if Keller decided to rush out on to the apron.

Before his fake fall he had breathed deeply for some minutes so that
his bloodstream would be saturated with oxygen, to enable him to remain
submerged for as long as possible.  The plans he had discussed the
night before with Hugh Patterson and Louise Campion -- the long
underwater swim, the face-downwards drift when he surfaced- began to
evaporate as he fought to remain conscious against the numbing shock of
the cold water.  Luckily the impact had not forced the air out of his
lungs as he had feared it might.

As he went under he managed a few feeble strokes with no certainty that
he was moving in the right direction- he could be swimming against the
current and so remaining stationary.  Then his brain, with its own
indifferent survival instinct, drained his blood of oxygen and
clamoured for more.  After only thirty seconds beneath the surface he
was fighting his way upwards.

As he rolled over he was horrified to see how close he still was to the
pilings.  He thought he saw Patterson emptying his Sterling into the
water.  Pyne sucked down one deep breath and allowed himself to drift.
He kept his feet low in the water and kicked them in an attempt to move
faster than the current.

Another deep breath.

He turned slightly.  The pilings had disappeared.  He was moving faster
than he expected- he was as one with the great mass of water surging
towards the estuary.

He felt rather than heard the whack of a bullet striking the water.
There was no way of judging how far away it was.

There was no doubt about the next one: it raised a spurt of water a
yard from his head.  Then he was surrounded by shots smacking into the
water.  Each one sounded like a thin cane being struck on the surface.
He blew the precious air out of his lungs and allowed himself to
sink.

There were no more shots.

Pyne surfaced, gulped down air and continued to drift.  It was ten
minutes before he risked looking back at the power station.  He was two
hundred me tres downstream.  The apron, from this angle, was
deserted.

And so was the four-kilometer wide expanse of the Thames.

There was a bright orange marker buoy at least four hundred me tres
downstream and near the far bank.  The current was drawing him into
midstream.  If he could reach the buoy, it would be some thing to hang
on to until he was spotted by a passing ship.

He swam with a slow breastroke -- a style he found difficult enough in
the ideal conditions of his swimming pool.  He dared not risk the
faster crawl in case Keller was watching through binoculars.  The glare
off the water had been one factor in favour of this method of escape,
but he couldn't take chances.

He stopped swimming and trod water.  The power station was dwindling
rapidly now that he was being carried along by the swifter midstream
current.

He didn't hear or see the tug hauling a line of refuse barges until it
was only thirty me tres away and bearing down on him.

He stared in bewilderment at the massive coir fender wrapped round the
tug's snub bow, and then saved his life by panicking.  He struck out
for the far south bank just as the tug's bow wave shouldered him aside.
He managed to push himself away from the hull as it swept past.
Fortunately there was sufficient towline between the tug and the first
barge to give Pyne a chance to get clear of the rapidly approaching
slab-sided hull.  The rusting steel plates tore the skin from his hands
as he fought to fend his body away sufficiently to avoid the second
barge.  He was well out of danger by the time the third barge was
passing him.  The eddying backwash swept him into the wake behind the
last barge.  Something caught against his arms and then snaked past his
body.  It was a long length of mooring rope trailing in the water
behind the last barge.

He felt it coiling round his ankle.  The jerk as the rope tightened
would have dislocated his leg had he not grasped it in his lacerated
hands to absorb the shock.  He held on grimly.  The torrent raging
against his chest threatened to break his hold.  He had to hang on at
all costs and drag himself along the rope until his body was clear of
the water.

It was that or drown.

By a supreme effort he managed to haul himself four me tres along the
rope.  He tried to rest by wrapping the rope round his body, but it
kept pulling straight in the wash from the barge.

Pyne's arms were aching from the strain of hanging on in the boiling
wake.  He remembered the trick PT instructors had taught him when he
was a cadet: he gripped the rope between his instep and ankle, and
pushed with his leg muscles.

A few minutes later he was under the barge's raked stern with the rope
hanging straight down under his weight.  He began to lift his body
clear of the water.  The rope was dry a metre above the surface; red
stains showed where his hands had gripped it.

The motion of the barge swung him from side to side- increasing the
load his wrists had to bear.  He swung his legs over the remains of a
rusting iron pintle projecting from the stern and reached up to grab a
bollard before thankfully releasing the rope.

He rested for a few minutes, then carefully balanced on the pintle.  As
he straightened his head cleared the top of the barge coamings.  He
could see the other three barges obediently following the tug line
astern.  Almost fainting with fatigue, he pulled himself on to the
narrow side deck.  The stench of decaying refuse from the open hold was
the most beautiful smell he had ever encountered.

He tried to stand when a sudden heavy wave caused him to overbalance.

It was only a two-metre fall to the refuse hold, but he struck his head
on the side of a bottle and lay still.  A steady avalanche of wrapping
paper, plastic egg boxes and vegetable waste slithered down causing a
depression caused by his fall and covered his body.

The crew of the tug were unaware that one of their refuse barges was
carrying a passenger.

In five hours they would be in Dover, where a Dutch floating plant
would deal with their cargo.  Huge vacuum pipes would be lowered into
the barge holds and would suck them bare in a matter of minutes.  The
refuse would be conveyed to hydraulic crushers for compressing into
neat one-metre cubes which would end up as backfill for a Dutch dyke.

Paul Weiner introduced Hendricks to Mitchell in his office at the
American Embassy as "my boss'.  Hendricks was sitting in Weiner's
chair.  He waved a gnarled hand at an empty seat.

"Sit down, Mr Mitchell.  I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

He studied Mitchell like a vulture contemplating a piece of meat, and-
not being a man to waste time on table manners- got straight to the
point.  "Tell me about General Pyne."

The question surprised Mitchell.  "What about my drill-string?"

"What about it?"  inquired Hendricks.

Mitchell glanced at Weiner and then back at Hendricks.

"Isn't that what you dragged me up here for?"

"I daresay it will be possible to see that you're fully compensated for
the loss of your equipment, Mr Mitchell," said Hendricks carefully.
"Provided you tell us what you know about this man Pyne."

Maggie's right, thought Mitchell.  Her father is in trouble.

He tried steering Hendricks away from the subject.  "Do you have any
idea how much a drill-string is worth?"

"No."  said Hendricks, "but I expect--' "More than a million
dollars."

Hendricks nodded.  "Tell me about Pyne."

Mitchell told him what he knew, but said nothing about Maggie's fears
and Corporal Garnet's attack.  It was his account of Pyne entrusting
his property to Garnet that convinced Hendricks that his theory might
be correct.

Hendricks listened carefully, making frequent notes, and produced the
photograph of the group standing before a JetRanger helicopter.
Mitchell looked at the print in surprise.

"How did you get hold of this?"

Weiner opened his mouth, but Hendricks waved him into silence.

"Do you recognize any of those people?"  inquired Hendricks, in an icy
tone that discouraged Mitchell from pressing his question.

"No," said Mitchell, "But, Mag-- General Pyne's daughter showed me an
identical picture the day before yesterday.  She said the chopper
belonged to Hugh Patterson."

"What about the woman?"  asked Hendricks, noting that Mitchell had
nearly said, "Maggie' when referring to Pyne's daughter.

"Louise Campion.  A neighbour, and a friend of Pyne's family."

Hendricks nodded, and turned the picture towards himself.

"And the man is called Keller?"

"Yes.  I think that was the name."

"First name?"

"I don't know."

Hendricks stroked his nose with a bony forefinger.

"What's all this about?"  asked Mitchell.

Hendricks watched Mitchell's fingers on the arm of his chair.

"Mr Mitchell, we would like you to maintain your liaison with General
Pyne's daughter, and use it to obtain all the information you can from
her about him."  The involuntary movement of Mitchell's fingers
confirmed Hendricks' suspicions.  "We're prepared to pay for your
drill-string, so you can't complain that we're being ungenerous."  He
sat back and smiled frostily at the man sitting opposite him.  If he
was any judge of character, there would be a reaction now.  It came
immediately.

"What liaison?"  snapped Mitchell.

Hendricks sighed.  "Mr Mitchell, it would be the easiest thing in the
world for us to ship you back to the United States, if we so wished.  A
word in the right ears and the British could withdraw your work permit.
I believe you would find it most difficult running your business here
from the other side of the Atlantic."

He paused.  "Naturally, I'm confident that we won't have to resort to
such measures."

Mitchell looked at the cold, sunken eyes, and decided that Hendricks,
whoever he was, was not bluffing.  Also, the promise to cover the lost
drill-string would lift a major financial burden.

"Okay then."

Hendricks stood up.  He held out his hand.  "Thank you, Mr Mitchell.
You will of course contact Mr Weiner if you have any news."

Mitchell was at the doorway when Hendricks said, "Just one more thing,
Mr Mitchell.  Do you know if Pyne was the sort of man to have strong
views on the mess this country is in and how to put it right?"

"Yes," said Mitchell after a pause.  "His daughter said he often
discussed economic affairs with Hugh Patterson."

Hendricks nodded.  "Not a word to anyone about this meeting, please, Mr
Mitchell."

As Mitchell unlocked his office car he remembered his promise to call
Maggie before leaving London.  He was about to punch the last digit of
her number on his car phone when he suddenly wondered what the hell it
was all about, and what he was letting himself in for.

Then the sound of her voice made him forget.

Hendricks picked up the photograph.

"So he's changed his name to Keller?"

Weiner nodded.  "It was the name he used at Oak Ridge."

Hendricks pressed the intercom key.

"I want to speak to the Secretary of State.  Tell them it's extremely
urgent."

"Should we tell the ambassador?"  asked Weiner.

"I expect so," replied Hendricks.

Police Sergeant Harry Snowdon of Thames Division was resting his
fourteen and a half stone- two of them surplus- on the grassy river
bank outside his headquarters, having exerted himself for thirty
minutes trying to clear the patrol boat's blocked fuel injector.

It was peaceful on the river.  On the opposite bank, the Weybridge
side, a number of anglers were illegally fishing from the public
mooring.  Thames by-laws were the province of the water authority, so
Harry Snowdon was content to let them continue.

A

few me tres from his large feet the disabled patrol boat rocked gently
against the slippery jetty.  To his left a weeping willow lazily dipped
long tendrils into the water.

It was a perfect afternoon; too hot for messing about in boats.

A cruiser gracefully entered his view.  Snowdon recognized it as the
Chris Craft owned by the American who lived on St Georges Hill.  He
watched the boat enviously.  In his twenty years with the river police
he had learned to judge countries by the luxury cruisers they built.
The Americans were high in his estimation, with the Dutch a close
second.

There was something familiar about the girl at the controls on the
flying bridge.  Then he recognized her: General Pyne's daughter.
Alone.

Harry Snowdon climbed to his feet and ambled into the headquarters
building.

"General Pyne's daughter is out with that big American job from
Weybridge Marina," he announced.

"That's right," said the duty sergeant, not looking up from his
newspaper, "I saw it go off this morning."

"With the American?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't look like he's on board now."

The duty sergeant stood and looked out of the window over Harry
Snowdon's shoulder.  Then his face went white.

"Christ!"  he yelled, throwing the newspaper on the floor.

"Look!"

Both men dashed out into the sun just as the Chris Craft grazed into
the side of the moored patrol boat.

"My boat," moaned Harry Snowdon.

Maggie cut both engines and leaned over the side of the flying bridge.
Harry Snowdon clambered into the patrol boat and fended the cruiser
away with a boat hook

"I'm sorry," said Maggie.  "I'm not used to this boat."

Harry Snowdon mopped his brow in relief while the duty sergeant made
the cruiser secure.

"What can we do for you, miss?"  asked Harry Snowdon, looking up at the
flying bridge and noticing the bruises on the girl's face.

"I want to report an assault," said Maggie quietly.

In Harry Snowdon's vocabulary, the journey in the Chris Craft to where
the girl said Corporal Garnet could be found was "hairy'.

The girl had said little during the first ten minutes, then she had
turned in her seat and said, "Would you like a drink?"

Harry Snowdon eyed the approaching bank, and wondered why river users
didn't have to take a test like road users.

"You'd better straighten up, miss," he said politely, noticing that the
girl's hand resting on the controls was trembling.

She was suffering from delayed shock.  Now that Mitchell had gone, she
was unable to ward it off any longer.  She didn't want the policeman
watching her.

"If you'd like a drink, you're welcome to go below and see what there
is," she told Harry Snowdon.

"I think I'd better stay up here, miss," said Harry Snowdon.

"There're several tins in the fridge," said Maggie, grasping the helm
tightly to stop the shaking.  "I'd like one if you wouldn't mind,
please."

Harry Snowdon looked at her pale, drawn face.  He moved to the
companionway.

"Thank you very much, miss.

The roof of the Freeman cabin cruiser came in sight a hundred me tres
away.  Maggie suddenly wanted to be sick.

"Sergeant," she called out, "he's over on the left."

Harry Snowdon shut the refrigerator door.  "All right, miss,"

he shouted up to the flying bridge.  "You take her in alongside, and
I'll talk to him."  He slid the wheelhouse door open and stood watching
the Freeman.  He corrected the girl's approach slightly by touching the
duplicate helm.  The wheel suddenly jerked beneath his fingers and the
boat heeled.  Harry Snowdon nearly lost his balance.

"Sorry," Maggie called down.  "Are you all right?"

"Yes, miss," was the sorrowful reply.

From her position Maggie could see Garnet dozing in the cockpit.  She
pressed the horn button.  The twin-tone blast woke the corporal.  He
stared up at the Chris Craft in fear.

"You stay just where you are until I come aboard,"

commanded Harry Snowdon across the narrowing strip of water between the
two boats.

Garnet's terrified eyes went to the uniformed police sergeant and back
to Maggie, who was throttling back.

She leaned back and tossed the stern line to Garnet.  He was too
surprised to react- the rope fell into the water.

"Let me do it," offered Harry Snowdon, calling up the companionway.

"It's okay," said Maggie, coiling the line and tossing it again.  The
rope fell short as the cruiser drifted.  Garnet lunged at the flailing
end.  His hands suddenly lashed out to grab at the coaming to regain
his balance, when his foot slipped on the edge of the Freeman's smooth
fibre glass transom.  He let out a yell as he fell into the deep
water.

For the rest of her life, Maggie was to wonder what really happened
during the next few minutes.

"Pull her over!"  yelled the sergeant's voice from below, as he dashed
along the side deck, looking for a line to throw to the man struggling
in the water.

Harry Snowdon suddenly remembered seeing the ropes coiled on the flying
bridge.  As he shouted, the Chris Craft's hundred horsepower diesels
erupted with a roar of unleashed energy.  He dived back into the
wheelhouse and saw from the positions of the two Morse levers that the
girl had thrown one engine into forward gear and the other one
astern.

The big cruiser's stern was swinging towards Garnet, who was screaming
that he couldn't swim.

"What shall I do?"  Harry Snowdon heard the girl cry out.

He grabbed the two levers and tried to reverse their positions.

As the Chris Craft's stern swung towards him Garnet grasped the
mahogany rubbing strake protecting the hull where it joined the
transom, His feet encountered one of the under-hull brackets that
supported the balanced rudders.  He braced his weight against it in
relief and stretched an arm out to the swimmers' boarding ladder
attached to the big cruiser's transom.  The enraged water from the
madly spinning propellers boiled past his body, threatening to dislodge
him.  He was only dimly aware of the girl screaming at the top of her
voice.

"Let go of the controls!"  shouted Harry Snowdon, but his voice was
drowned by the girl's hysterical sobbing as she wrestled with her pair
of Morse levers.

"There's something wrong with the controls!"  he heard her yell.

For a wild moment Harry Snowdon was undecided whether to climb on to
the flying bridge and pull the girl away from the helm, or try to gain
control in the wheelhouse.  He decided to stay in the wheelhouse- he
was stronger than the girl.  He hauled with all his strength on the
port throttle lever and managed to drag it back to the neutral
position.

The roar of one diesel died away.

By now the Chris Craft had rammed its bows into the reeds and was
unable to move forward.  Harry Snowdon released the lever.

It suddenly slammed to the full astern position.  The Chris Craft
heeled violently as the engine twisted the hull savagely out of the
reeds.

The unexpected motion caused the policeman to lose his balance.  He
reached out to grab at something, and snatched the starboard lever
back.

The Chris Craft seemed to leap astern out of the water.

Garnet nearly lost his grip on the boarding ladder.  His feet slipped
off the rudder bracket, and the wash from the Chris Craft, surging hard
astern, swept his legs under the hull.

The bronze three-bladed port screw sliced into flesh, bone and marrow,
severing his right leg cleanly from his body just above the knee, and
flung the limb aside.  His unbalanced body slipped sideways from the
boarding ladder and was sucked under the hull.

The starboard propeller reaped through his torso.

Starting at his groin, it smashed his pelvis, hacked through his spine
in several places and scythed his kidneys, liver, heart and lungs to
shreds of pulverized tissue.

The spinning remains of his body thundered against the underside of the
hull before being snatched back by the port propeller.  It continued
its work by threshing his arms and skull to pulp.  For an encore, it
wound several me tres of intestines round its shaft.

A marauding pike, undeterred by the presence of the Chris Craft's hull,
snapped up drifting threads of spinal cord.

Sergeant Harry Snowdon and Maggie were taken to a local hospital
suffering from shock.  Despite a heavy sedative, Harry Snowdon kept
repeating that it was all his fault.

Three hours after being admitted, Maggie refused all offers of further
help.  She made a brief statement to the police and was allowed to
return home.

She sat by the telephone waiting for Mitch to call.  She shivered
occasionally despite the heat.

Pyne knew exactly where he was the moment he regained consciousness;
the smell of rotting garbage was immediate and overpowering.

He pushed himself into a sitting position.  Cans and bottles cascaded
from him.  He groaned and cradled his aching head in his hands.  There
was a strange roaring noise that seemed to be getting louder.  He
looked up at the puzzling shadow snaking about in the darkening sky.
The strange shape was twisting and pulsing.  He could see the open
struts of a crane jib high above him.  The refuse was moving beneath
him.  Suddenly he was sliding deeper into the garbage.  Then he
realized what the noise was- the shape hanging from the sky and burying
itself in the barge's hold was a giant vacuum pipe; the roaring noise
was caused by refuse thundering into the pipe's metre-diameter
opening.

One of the crewmen, perched on the edge of the hold with a shotgun at
the ready to shoot rats, thought he saw a movement in the refuse at the
far end of the barge.

He peered into the gloom and raised his gun.

Pyne desperately embraced the massive flexible pipe near its consuming
maw and cried out as a frenzied stream of broken bottles and jagged
cans hurled into the pipe and swept his feet from under him.

The crewman heard the cry and ran down the barge's side deck.

He saw a man clinging to the rim of the pipe.  One leg had been sucked
into the opening.  The man was on the verge of losing his grip.

The crewman frantically waved his arms three times to the jib operator-
the signal to cut power.  The distant howl from the gas turbine which
powered the vacuum pump died away.

The man jumped down into the garbage, and went to Pyne's aid.

Simpson's phone rang at 20:35.

He listened to the Permanent Under-Secretary with an impassive
expression which he allowed to change to one of surprise because no one
was in the room with him.

"Surely he gave some indication?"  he said when the civil servant had
finished speaking.

Simpson pressed his lips together as he listened to the reply.

"Very well," he said.  "I'll see if he's free."

Simpson knocked on the Prime Minister's door and entered without
waiting for an invitation.

"I'm sorry to disturb you sir, but the American ambassador wishes to
visit you this evening on an urgent matter.

For the third successive evening the fall in temperature brought the
race-rioting mobs out on to the streets of London.  This time their
numbers were swelled by the arrival of thousands of marchers from
Wales- Asians who were demanding their own schools, housing estates and
legal recocnition of their Muslim courts.  The police tried to halt the
human tide as it neared Heathrow Airport at a steady three miles an
hour along the main A4 trunk road, but a determined vanguard of veiled
wives with children in push chairs and prams forced the Home Secretary
to order the police to allow the marchers to pass.

Never had so many children taken part in a march.  A journalist phoning
a report to his editor said it was as if the entire under sixteen
population of Wales had taken to the road.  "It's their future we're
marching for," the journalist had been told.  "So it's only right they
should come."  The journalist completed his story by comparing the four
leaders of the march with the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

The head of the procession was within twenty kilometres of Hyde Park
Corner when the leaders revealed their closely-guarded secret that the
marchers were to invade the gardens of Buckingham Palace for a silent
sit-down protest.  They deliberately kept their plans to themselves
until the last minute to thwart army and police intelligence.  They
believed that communication along the twenty mile column would be
straightforward and made no allowance for fatigue, which would distort
the word-of-mouth massage.

By 19:00 hours half the weary marchers shuffling along on the outskirts
of London believed they were to occupy Buckingham Palace.

At 19:15 the distorted story was picked up by army intelligence.

General Sir Richard Markham, commander-in-chief of UK land forces, with
twenty thousand men at his disposal, decided to act - implementing his
powers to take unilateral action when the life of the monarch is
endangered.  His orders were received and acted on by the Aldershot
garrison commander.

The London-to-Guildford road was cleared of traffic to provide a free
passage for the tanks, personnel carriers and armoured cars that
swarmed out of Aldershot and thundered northwards to London.

A second wave of Chieftain and Scimitar tanks abandoned their exercises
near Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain, and returned eastward at the
maximium speed they could muster.

The commander-in-chief planned and executed his campaign against the
marchers with speed and efficiency.  No one was to be hurt if it could
be avoided, but protection of the monarch was his paramount duty.

The second phase of the operation was to contain the protesters in a
square kilometer of West End streets in an attempt to separate them
from a mass of National Front agitators who were planning an assault on
the Asians.  That the American Embassy was right in the middle of the
proposed compound did not worry the commander-in-chief; his main
concern was to get his men and armour in position before the head of
the procession reached Hyde Park Corner.

He achieved his objective with ten minutes to spare.

By a combination of speed and superbly disciplined coordination the
army, reinforced by units already in London, succeeded in diverting the
marchers along Park Lane, and away from Buckingham Palace.  Then the
heavy battle tanks, belching clouds of blue smoke and pirouetting
gracefully on their tracks with incredible speed for their seemingly
ponderous bulks, split the angered column into manageable groups for
the anti-riot-dressed soldiers to herd into side streets.

In the ensuing confusion, with parents separated from their children,
banners forcibly taken from the marchers, the fighting broke out The
Asians, with their wives, families and supporters found the soldiers to
be a different proposition from the police.

The troops, professionally trained to deal with street riots, did not
hesitate to use tactics entirely alien to those employed by the police.
A particularly violent battle in Upper Grosvenor Street ended when the
soldiers formed themselves into a "turtle' -- a tight group surrounded
by riot shields, which waded into the midst of the rioters, seized the
ringleaders by their waistbands and retreated, dragging the leaders
backwards.

In Berkeley Square Corporal John Stevens flipped up the rearsight leaf
on his anti-riot gun, pointed the weapon at the road in front of a
chanting mob of National Front supporters and became the first soldier
to fire and kill a protester with a plastic bullet under riot
conditions in England.  The unstable missile, nearly the size of a Coke
bottle, rebounded from the kerb and smashed against the chest of a
schoolgirl he had not intended to hit.

The crowd erupted with renewed fury and stormed the line of soldiers
that retreated behind a line of army trucks.  The ambulance summoned to
attend to the girl was set on and overturned.

By 21:00 hours the new CR gas canisters had arrived from a factory at
Newdigate and were being issued to the soldiers.

The main advantage of the experimental gas was that it could be
dissolved in the tanks of water cannons, so the that "riot barriers'
could be created across the path of advancing street fighters, although
little was known of its long-term effects.

At 21:45, with the battles raging round Grosvenor Square, a Detroit
limousine, with eight men crammed inside, pulled away from the American
Embassy.

The ambassador dismissed pleas that he should call off his visit to the
Prime Minister, but agreed to wear a bullet-proof waistcoat and have
extra bodyguards in the car.

Five men sat pressed together in the back- the ambassador, with two men
on each side of him.  Hendricks sat in the front between Paul Weiner
and the marine driver, his bony frame digging painfully into the two
men.

The car had just left Grosvenor Square when the driver was forced to
brake suddenly as an armoured personnel carrier roared across his path.
Missiles struck the side of the car.  The ambassador leaned forward to
see who was throwing them.

"Keep back, sir," said a bodyguard politely.

The car was prevented from turning into Oxford Street by a line of
steel-helmeted troops, their batons drawn and riot visors down.  There
were no markings on their mottled combat uniforms to distinguish
officers from other ranks.  A soldier approached the stationary car
with his rifle resting on his hip.  He looked curiously at the USA 1
number plate and the eight men crowded into one car.

"I'm very sorry, gentlemen," said the soldier in a refined accent, "but
you'll have to turn left here."

"We want to get to Whitehall," said Hendricks.

"In that case I think your best plan is to head north, and try and work
your way down from there.  We're containing the trouble between Green
Park and Hyde Park, but it's okay to the north."

The embassy car was driving northwards when rioters broke through the
army and police cordons and charged across Oxford Street.  There was a
sudden harsh rattle of gunfire.

The driver did not hesitate.  He swung the car to the right and
accelerated down a side street.  A tide of yelling rioters storming
down another street forced the car to stop.  The driver was about to
reverse when a convoy of army trucks roared past the stationary car.

"Follow them!"  urged Weiner.

The covered trucks, laden with riot troops, turned left with the
ambassador's car close behind, then came to an abrupt halt.

The street ahead was seething with street fighters.

The marine driver stopped in response to the upheld arm of a riot
soldier.  At that moment more army trucks appeared at the far end of
the street, effectively cutting off the horde of fighting Asians and
National Front supporters.  The troops in the trucks near the
ambassador's car jumped down and began preparing their equipment.  The
crowd charged but were driven back by a volley of CR canisters.  The
pale grey clouds were sucked straight up by the warm air rising off the
streets, which had been baked all day by the sun.

"You'd better turn back," Hendricks said to the driver.

"Wait," intervened the ambassador.  "I want to see how the British
manage."

"They'll manage," said Hendricks drily.

"We're late," commented Weiner.

"Then a few more minutes won't make that much difference,"

said the ambassador.

The troops were uncovering their equipment truck to expose a squat,
ugly barrel that was like no gun the ambassador had ever seen.

"What is it?"  said Hendricks.

"A tasser," said Hendricks.

"What does it do?"

"Rioters," Hendricks replied caustically.

More troops arrived and formed a shield-to-shield line to thrust the
rioters back.  Soldiers suddenly fell back to their former positions.
The crowd surged forward.  The concealed soldiers charged from their
hiding-places, seized the ringleaders from behind and continued their
headlong gallop through the line of their own men.

"Clever," commented the ambassador.

The loss of their ringleaders did not quieten the mob.  A voice boomed
out, warning people hanging out of windows watching the battle to get
back.  Few people took any notice.

The men tending the tasser rammed a large package down its muzzle.

"It'll be over in a minute," remarked Hendricks quietly.

There was a dull boom.  Smoke swirled across the street.

Troops dashed forward and disappeared into the drifting clouds, which
quickly dispersed to reveal a transformed scene.  The rioters nearest
the tasser were writhing on the ground, shrieking in agony.

The others standing further down the street had stopped fighting and
were staring at their fallen comrades in shocked disbelief.  The troops
quickly snapped shackles attached to long lengths of webbing on to the
wrists and ankles of stricken rioters.

"What happened?"  breathed the ambassador, not taking his eyes off the
troops.

"That gun fired a charge of two or three thousand metal barbs attached
to lengths of fine wire," said Hendricks.  "The electrified barbs snag
in skin and clothing."

A power winch started.  The webbing straps tightened and began hauling
the ensnared rioters towards the trucks.

"It's just like fishing," Hendricks concluded.

The remainder of unaffected street fighters started throwing anything
they could lay their hands on.  The soldiers fell back.  A large,
flat-topped truck loaded with what appeared to be racks of lights and
loudspeakers swept past the ambassador's car and stopped near the army
trucks.

Hendricks studied the equipment thoughtfully, and turned around.  "Mr
Ambassador, I think we should make a move now."

"What is that stuff, Hendricks?"

Hendricks' reply was drowned by the loud hailer telling people to close
their windows.  The soldiers had pulled right back to the trucks and
were putting on what looked like headphones.

"Ear defenders," said Weiner in surprise.

The flat-topped truck reversed down the street, its lights and
loudspeakers trained on the crowd.  There came a deep, disturbing sound
that seemed to pervade the air from all round.

"Shut the windows!"  snapped Hendricks.

Weiner realized that the terrible noise must be coming from the
loudspeaker horn mounted on the truck.  A red flashing light pulsed
out, illuminating the rioters.  Each flash seemed to jar Weiner's
brain.  The deep, mind-chilling noise and flashing light were designed
to induce epileptic fits.  The note was rising to a shriek.  Weiner
began to feel sick.  The rioters were collapsing in the road and
vomiting; some were screaming as the advancing flashing light dealt
repeated hammer-blows to their brains; some were suffering convulsive
attacks and were uncontrollably jerking their limbs and emptying their
bowels.  All were affected in some way.

"Let's get the hell outta here!"  snarled Hendricks.

The driver slammed the limousine into reverse and gunned the
throttle.

"I told you the British would manage," Hendricks commented some minutes
later when the car was clear of the riot zone.

"What the hell was that device?"  the ambassador wanted to know.

"A photic driver and curdler," Weiner answered, recovering from the
waves of nausea that had assailed him when he was within earshot of the
ultimate anti-riot weapon.

"An appalling device," commented the ambassador.

He remained silent for the rest of the journey.

After his third swallow of whisky, which Simpson poured for him, the
ambassador began to feel better.

Witnessing a proud city on the verge of civil war had shaken him
badly.

"I'm sorry you had such a bad journey," said the Prime Minister,
concealing his anxiety to find out what the ambassador had come about.
"I understand it's now quiet, so your return should be less hectic."

The ambassador replaced his glass on the coffee-table and took stock of
his surroundings.  The Prime Minister was seated opposite in a deep
leather armchair.  Simpson was standing near the door.

After the initial pleasantries the ambassador had asked if he might
speak to the Prime Minister alone.

"You don't mind if my secretary stays?"  the Prime Minister had
asked.

Hendricks and Weiner were shown to an outer office.

The ambassador picked up his glass and put it down again.

He might as well get the business over and done with.

"Mr Prime Minister," he began, "the question of terrorism is one which
concerns our respective governments.  And, of course, both our
countries are signatories to the new agreement aimed at stamping it
out."

The two men watched the ambassador in silence.  I'm making a mess of
it, he thought to himself, wishing he had stayed in industry rather
than allowed himself to be tempted by the offer of his present job.

"Mr Prime Minister," he began again, "we have information that suggests
one of your nuclear power stations has been seized by a group of
terrorists."

There was dead silence in the room.

The Prime Minister smiled warmly, but a nerve in his neck twitched. 
"Oh yes.  That's right.  I heard there was something of the sort, but
the police now have the situation under control.

Isn't that right, Simpson?"

"Yes, sir," replied Simpson promptly, although his stomach had turned
to water at the American's words.

"Fellows wanted a half million pounds," said the Prime Minister,
drawing on skills acquired during thirty years in politics.  "They'll
be in Brixton prison by this time tomorrow."

Either you're a goddamn fine actor, or Hendricks is getting excited
over nothing, thought the ambassador.

He checked himself; what he thought didn't matter.  He had a job to do,
and Hendricks wouldn't hit the panic button without a good reason.

"The purpose of my visit is to deliver a verbal message from the
President," said the ambassador.

The silence on the room was disturbing.  He pressed on: "The President
has told me to say he is most concerned about the possible effects of
another power station disaster such as Cheynobel.  He has instructed to
say that if Her Majesty's Government is ever subjected to extreme
threats or pressures imposed by a fanatical group seizing a nuclear
power station, he pledges that the United States, with all its
resources, is at the disposal of HM government to help end such threats
or pressures."

"However," he continued, "the President has asked me to stress that
such whole-hearted, unconditional support can be successfully
implemented only if there is the fullest co-operation and frankness
between us.  Such frankness is essential to unable the President to
reject any direct course of action he may be advised to take to
safeguard the security and well-being of the United States and her
people."

The Americans left Downing Street at 23:10.

The Prime Minister and Simpson listened to a recording of the
conversation.  They played the closing words of the message three
times.

The Prime Minister sat silently for some minutes after the last
playback was over.  Then he looked up at Simpson, and said softly,
"Christ Almighty.  What the hell have we let ourselves in for?"

It was the first time since he had known him that Simpson had heard the
Prime Minister swear.

The Prime Minister went to bed at midnight.  For once in his long
career he was unable to sleep.

The supper Maggie cooked for Mitchell tasted of bomb shelters and
abandoned basements, but he ate it cheerfully with a straight face.

The forlorn, elfin face watched him across the kitchen table.

Maggie looked exhausted.

Mitchell pushed the empty plate away and smiled at her.

"That was fine, honey, but you shouldn't have bothered."

"It took my mind off things."

"Did you see the doctor this afternoon?"

"Yes."  said Maggie truthfully.  She tried to summon up the courage to
tell Mitchell about Garnet.

"Mitch..."

"Yes?"

"Mitch, will you stay the night, please?  You could sleep in Daddy's
room," she added hastily.

"Wouldn't you rather I ran you back to your place?"

Maggie shook her head.  "I want to be here in case he comes home."

"Supposing he does, and finds me here?"

Maggie exploded.  "Christ!  All I want is someone in the house!

Can't you understand that?"

Wednesday It was the large, hole in one of the power station's
control-room windows, smashed by Keller during Pyne's escape bid, that
suggested to Hugh Patterson a method to kill Keller when darkness
fell.

At 1:30 Louise helped him climb through a window in the
air-conditioning room, which was on the same level as the control
room.

She passed him his Sterling submachine-gun, gave him a light kiss on
the cheek and held his hand tightly for a moment.

Patterson avoided looking at her pale face.

"Good luck," she whispered, and closed the window softly.

Patterson padded silently along the narrow roof of the visitors'
viewing balcony, which extended along the side of the power station,
past the base of the fuelling machine towers perched on top of the main
building.

Patterson cautiously approached the corner of the building where the
balcony roof stopped.  The moon shone from a clear sky, carving a path
of flecked light across the oil-black river.

He knelt down and sat on the edge of the roof.  Twenty me tres below
the moonlight gleamed on the dummy petrol tankers and on two
helicopters parked on the concrete apron.  Patterson had a poor head
for heights.  His confidence deserted him.  The twenty metre drop
looked worse in semi-darkness.  He shone a pocket torch up at the
closed-circuit television camera mounted on a projecting bracket three
me tres above his head.  Its lens was staring across the dark Thames.
He directed the torch at the horizontal ledge that traversed the front
of the building.  It was nothing more than a continuous aluminium
box.

Higher up, between each window, was a stout window-cleaner's hook.
Patterson reached forward, grasped the first hook and transferred half
his weight on to the aluminium ledge.  He shuffled his foot along until
there was room for the other foot.  The ledge seemed strong enough, but
he preferred to support most of his weight with his hands.  He
stretched out an arm, reaching as far as possible until his fingers
curled thankfully round the next hook.

He worked his toes slowly along the ledge- not daring to move them more
than a few centime tres at a time- until his body was in the centre of
the window section.  There were thirteen such sections between him and
the broken pane of glass- he had counted them that afternoon when he
had first discussed his plan with Louise.  She had been firmly opposed
to the idea.

"Supposing he's moved his camp bed?"  she had asked.

"Why should he?"

"It's a crazy idea, Hugh.  And Conrad said you couldn't be certain of
killing him outright with a Sterling."

Louise had paused.  Hugh Patterson, normally good-natured, was
proposing the cold-blooded killing of a sleeping man.  "You could do
that?"

Patterson thought of Pyne's floating corpse.

"Yes," he said.

"You'd be aiming into a pitch-black room.  You'd be using one hand to
hang on.  You'd be exhausted."

"Louise, it's a chance we've got to take.  The only chance we'll ever
have."

For a while they remained silent.

"What if you succeed?"  Louise had asked.

"We give ourselves up."

Patterson thought she might argue.  She had nodded, and said, "Okay
then.  How can I help?"

By the time Patterson reached the third window section sweat was
streaming down his face.  He hung on with one hand and wiped his sleeve
across his forehead.

Thirty minutes later, with only three more sections between him and the
jagged hole, he rested.  His arms were numb with pain.

Sweat was forcibly pumped into the palms of his hands, making it
difficult to grip the hooks.  He wiped a hand on his trousers.

The webbing strap on the Sterling suddenly slipped down his body.

He grabbed at it.  The weapon's frame clattered against the glass.

He waited, counting slowly with his cheek pressed hard on the cool
window.

Ten me tres away the closed-circuit television camera stirred.

Patterson did not hear the faint whir as it swung its lens inward
towards the power station's facade.

Patterson resumed his shuffling movement, forcing himself to keep going
until the sharp edges of broken glass cut into the inside of his
fingers.  The sudden jolt of pain nearly caused him to lose his
footing.

The smashed hole in the window was before him at last.  He closed his
eyes tightly for some seconds to adjust his night vision to the control
room's dark interior.

He opened them.  Stray shafts of moonlight gleamed on IBM machines
along the far wall.  The horseshoe-shaped main console dominated the
scene like a surrealist electronic organ.  The shapes in the room were
regular, with sharp corners.  There was one exception- the shadowy,
humped outline of Keller's camp bed.

Patterson carefully supported himself by hooking an elbow over the edge
of the broken glass.  He slipped the Sterling from his shoulder with
his free hand and grasped the magazine awkwardly with the other hand.
He released the safety-catch and aimed the submachine-gun at the camp
bed.

He fired one long continuous burst.  His body shuddered with the
hammering recoil.  The broken glass gripped between his elbow and
stomach began to splinter and pull away from the frame.  He felt
himself falling backwards and was forced to drop the Sterling and grab
at a hook in panic.  The gun clattered on to the concrete apron twenty
me tres below.  The smoke stung his eyes and filled the control room,
obscuring the dark shapes.

A polite voice not two me tres away said, "I should come in if I were
you, Mr Patterson, before you fall and have a nasty accident."

Simpson's bedside telephone rang at 3:00, when he was staring at the
ceiling trying to sleep.

He picked up the receiver and didn't say who he was; his number was
known to less than a dozen people.  There was something familiar about
the tired voice which said, "Simpson, I've just discharged myself from
Dover General.  You'd better get over here and pick me up."

"Who's speaking?"  asked Simpson, mentally running through the list of
those who knew his night number.

"Pyne, you idiot!"  snapped the voice.

Simpson's mind reeled.  "Pyne?"  Then he recognized the voice.

"Listen," said Pyne.  "And try to grasp what I'm telling you.

There's been a major reshuffle.  Keller's taken over as chairman.

Do you understand?"

Simpson sat up.  "Did you dial through the nine-three-o-level?"

"Yes."

"You're not on a cell phone

"No!"

Simpson relaxed; there was little danger of the conversation being
overheard so he risked firing questions.  A lot of questions.

Simpson made his way up to the Prime Minister's flat.  He could have
used the internal phone, but the walk gave him time to think.

He entered the private sitting-room and paused outside the bedroom
door, wondering how to break the news.

"There's no need to creep about out there, Simpson," said the Prime
Minister from the other side of the door.  "I'm not asleep."

Simpson entered.  The light was on.  The Prime Minister knew
immediately from his secretary's face that something was seriously
wrong.

Simpson started to repeat the conversation with Pyne.  He was on his
third sentence when the Prime Minister swore, threw back the covers and
started to get dressed- his fingers fumbling at his clothes.  Simpson
helped him while relating the rest of the conversation.  The Prime
Minister was thrusting his feet into this shoes by the time Simpson was
listing the deleted clauses in the ultimatum.

He stopped getting dressed and stared at his secretary.

"We're going to have to get them out of that power station, Simpson.

No matter what the cost."

Simpson swallowed.

"We agreed that was impossible, sir..."  he began.

The Prime Minister feverishly fastened his tie.  "You're to call a
meeting for nine o'clock this morning.  Get on to the best brains in
the country.  Tell them the security of the country is endangered.
Don't tell them more than that.  Use the police to drag them here by
force if necessary."

Simpson gaped at the Prime Minister.

"What's the meeting for, sir?"

The stocky figure rounded on Simpson in fury.  "To find a way of
getting those bastards out, you idiot!  You better have about twenty
sets of the power station plans made ready."

Simpson was rooted.  "Whom shall I ask to attend?"

"Christ, I don't know.  Use your imagination."  the Prime Minister
stopped dressing and glared at his secretary.  "That's one thing we'll
need now Simpson.  Imagination.  People with plenty of imagination.  No
more lackies.  The head of Defence Studies; someone from the Institute
of Oceanographic Sciences; the retired officer who's written that book
on terrorism.  Get 'em all here.  The whole bloody lot."

Simpson was halfway across the sitting-room when the Prime Minister
called him back.  "You better get on to the Americans and tell them the
whole story.  They seem to know it anyway.  Bloody

CIA,

pretending to be a bunch of morons while running rings round us."

Simpson looked aghast.  "The whole story, sir?"

The Prime Minister gestured in exasperation.  "You know what I mean.
For Christ's sake stop sounding like a bloody butler and get moving!"

"Do we ask the Americans to the meeting, sir?"

The Prime Minister paused.  "Yes.  We might need that help they
offered.  Hendricks struck me as a shrewd bastard.  He might be
useful."

"What shall we do about Pyne, sir?"

The Prime Minister sat on the bed.  "Christ, yes Pyne."  He thought for
a moment.  "We'll have to keep him under wraps.

That house at Inverloch or somewhere.  Where is he?"

"Dover."

The same idea occurred simultaneously to both men: the Prime Minister's
holiday bungalow at Broadstairs.

"Ideal," he said.  "The housekeeper is on holiday for three weeks.
There'll be a bobby hanging about, but the place is empty.

Get the meeting fixed up first and then go down to pick up Pyne and
take him to the bungalow.  He's to stay out of sight until we decide
what to do with him.  Try and be back here before the meeting.  I don't
think there's anything else."

The Prime Minister finished dressing when Simpson had gone.

there was something else- something to do with the CIA.  He frowned,
trying to remember what it was.  Normally, his memory never betrayed
him.  He wondered about Pyne and reflected wryly on the best-laid plans
of mice... What the hell was it he wanted to remember about the CIA?

He shrugged at his reflection in the dressing-table mirror.  Maybe it
wasn't important... Even so, it was worrying.

The peasant girl had the most sumptuous breasts Cox-Spender had ever
seen.  They swayed with their own hypnotic life beneath her thin cotton
blouse as she crawled across the bistro floor towards his table.  Her
long dark hair trailed in the bloodstained sawdust strewn on the
floor.

Cox-Spender considered her the best so far- much more beautiful than
the three girls he had possessed that night.

Brutal men in berets and striped jerseys looked on from the shadows
with hate and jealousy smouldering in their eyes as the girl slid her
long, sensuous fingers up Cox-Spender's legs.

He smiled down, drew back a foot and kicked her.  She fell back
scowling, her dark eyes flashing angrily as her fingers curled into the
sawdust.  A gypsy band gathered round Cox-Spender's table, not missing
a note of the savage Slavonic dance as they sawed demoniac ally at
their shrieking violins.

The girl spat at Cox-Spender and reached up to loosen the laces at her
throat which held the front of her blouse together.

She was about to rip the flimsy garment open when the bedside telephone
rang and woke Cox-Spender.

It was Simpson.  Cox-Spender decided he hated Simpson.

"An important meeting at Downing Street," said the despicable Simpson.
"In five hours.  Nine o'clock.  Use the Old Admiralty Building
entrance."

"What about a car?"  asked Cox-Spender.

"Your local police station will send a car round to your house at eight
o'clock," replied Simpson, and hung up.

Cox-Spender fiddled with his telephone and eventually managed to
program a Star Service 07:00 alarm call.  He replaced the handset and
lay pondering before drifting back to sleep.

But he was too late: the surly, unshaven musicians had packed their
fiddles and gone, taking the beautiful peasant girl and the noisy
bistro with them.

Mitchell was woken by a noise in the bedroom.

It was Maggie standing in his doorway.

"I couldn't sleep, Mitch."

Mitchell groped for a light switch, but Maggie came forward and placed
her hand over his.

"What's the matter?"  Mitchell asked.

Maggie told him about the accident with the boat.  She talked haltingly
for five-minutes, keeping a tight rein on her emotions.

"Jesus," Michell breathed when she had finished.  "You poor kid."  He
put his arm around her.  She shrank away from his touch, then
relaxed.

"The police will want to see you tomorrow," said Maggie.

"I

told them they'd find you here."

"What will they want me for?"

Maggie paused.  "I don't know.  I suppose because it's your boat.
They'll probably ask you if I could handle it properly."

Mitchell remembered the way she had steered the boat without
over-correcting.

"Maggie..."  he hesitated, but the question had to be asked.

"Maggie.  It was an accident?"

There was no reply.  He wished the light was on so that he could see
her face.

"Maggie?"

"I don't know, Mitch.  I keep asking myself.  But I swear

-- I

honestly don't know."

Mitchell pulled her back until her head was resting on the pillow.  He
stroked her hair away from her forehead.

"I'm scared, Mitch," her voice trembled.

"I'll tell the police the truth- that you had never handled the boat
before and that I didn't want to leave you alone with it."

The girl did not answer.  Mitchell moved his arm slightly, and realized
she was asleep.

"Cox-Spender," said the Prime Minister, pausing outside the panelled
double doors leading to the Cabinet Room and tapping the list.  "Why
him?  He's incompetent."

"With respect, sir," said Simpson evenly.  "I don't agree.

He has a capable intellect despite his unfortunate personality.

Also, he's the only man who has been into the power station.  Exclude
him and someone would be bound to ask why.  And besides, you'll have
someone to steer awkward questions at."

The Prime Minister grunted and resumed his study of the list of twenty
people now waiting on the other side of the door.

They included the Ministers of Defence; senior officials from Power
Gen; a professor from the Atomic Energy Authority; James Reynolds from
the Institute of Oceanographic Sciences; Brigadier Michael Rawlins, who
had written the book Counter-Terrorist; some well-known engineers, and
the two Americans- Weiner and Hendricks.

Simpson noticed the rings under the Prime Minister's eyes.  The loss of
one night's sleep showed.

"What about the Chief Scientific Adviser?"  demanded the Prime Minister
testily.

The question surprised Simpson.  "The accident in the Mall,"

he said politely.

The Prime Minister folded the list.

You really are losing your grip, aren't you?  thought Simpson as he
pushed the doors open.

Twenty faces round the long table turned expectantly as the two men
entered the room.  Only Cox-Spender, Hendricks, Weiner and the
ministers knew what the meeting was to be about.

The Prime Minister greeted the gathering and apologized for the abrupt
summons to Downing Street.  After introductions had been made he
quickly outlined the events since Sunday, omitting Pyne's escape and
the revised nature of the ultimatum.

There was no reaction from Hendricks and Weiner when the Prime Minister
listed the names of the four holding the power station.

The brigadier was the first to speak, He was about to refer the
gathering to his book and say, "I told you so," but decided the comment
would be inappropriate.  Instead he said, "Why isn't someone from the
Special Air Service here?  Those boys might have some bright ideas.
This sort of thing is right..."

"Unfortunately," interrupted the Prime Minister, "the Special Air
Service has been integrated with the Oil Rig Defence Force under the
command of General Pyne.  Pyne has been a great advocate of the merging
and the rationalization of various armed services units, and has had
the drive and personality to push them through."

"He wouldn't have been able to do so if you hadn't been so keen to
rubber-stamp his proposals," replied the brigadier.

"Damned fellow was a leading advocate of this unified European defence
force nonsense."

The Prime Minister looked frostily across the table.  "I was hoping,
brigadier, that you might have constructive suggestions to help with
this present problem."

And then the discussion began in earnest.  Simpson distributed sets of
the power-station plans.  Hendricks and Weiner did not join in.  They
sat listening as proposals were suggested and dismissed.

"Nerve gas is quick," said Cox-Spender in reply to one idea, "but not
quick enough for us to be a hundred per cent certain that we could
prevent the terrorists from activating the detonators."

He described the system Pyne had shown him during his Sunday visit to
the power station.  "A pre-emptive strike would have to succeed in four
seconds," Cox-Spender concluded.

Less than that now, thought the Prime Minister.  Only he and Simpson
knew that Keller was now in control.  They'd decided that if anyone
came up with an idea, that they would insist on certain success in one
second as a safety factor before agreeing to the plan.

The arguments and counter arguments dragged on.

"Let's consider the problem on the assumption that they're bluffing,"
said Peter Harvey, the Minister of Defence for the Army."

Christ, we're getting nowhere, thought the Prime Minister.

Harvey saw the Prime Minister's expression and said quickly, "We must
look at every angle, Prime Minister.  Starting with the
improbable..."

"I'm not up on these things," said the Minister of Defence for the
R.A.F. "My experts would know, but couldn't we use an American
laser-guided

"Smart" bomb aimed precisely on the quarters occupied by the
terrorists?"

Hendricks regarded the speaker with icy contempt.  "Sure.

We could drop one from seventy thousand feet with an error of fifty me
tres That's pin-point accuracy.  But a fifty-metre error is enough to
put the bomb plumb through the silos."

The fruitless discussion went on.  After an hour there were ten
proposals on Simpson's pad.  All had been crossed out.

"Have the Americans got a contingency plan for dealing with similar
occurrences in their country?"  inquired Peter Harvey.

"Sure," said Hendricks.  "The main one is making certain all power
stations have proper security arrangements.  I'm amazed that your
nuclear police weren't on duty at the station when it was seized.  It's
not my place to criticize, but had the British government heeded the
warnings of our Atomic Energy Commission, this might not have
happened."

"You're quite right," said the Prime Minister.  "It's not your place to
criticise."

Hendricks' gaunt face was impassive.

Cox-Spender broke the silence that followed.  "Some sort of unmanned
attack through the power station's foundations," he said to himself.

Everyone stared at him.

The sudden silence caused Cox-Spender to look up from his set of plans.
Someone must have said something he had missed.  He looked round the
table and was horrified to discover twenty-one pairs of eyes on him.

"What was that?"  someone said.

"Well," said Cox-Spender, looking down in terror at his plans.

"I thought some sort of unmanned penetration of the galleries round the
radioactive-waste storage silos..."  His voice trailed away.

"Why unmanned?"  asked James Reynolds of the Institute of Oceanographic
Sciences.

"It's a silly idea.  I was merely thinking aloud.  It occurred to me
that an unmanned machine might be able to cut the detonator wires
without activating the IRIS detectors, but then of course, if there was
such a machine, it would probably generate more heat than several
humans."

"It would have to be a pretty fantastic machine," said the brigadier
caustically.  Something straight out of science fiction."

"GOPHER," said Cox-Spender suddenly.

Everyone looked at him again.

"What's a gopher?"  asked someone.

"A North American burrowing animal," said Weiner.

"An acronym," contradicted Cox-Spender excitedly.

"A what?"

"I don't know what the letters stand for," said Cox-Spender, "but I
remember reading about it some years ago."

"What exactly did this device do, and how can it help us?"

demanded the Prime Minister.

"If I remember correctly, sir."  said Cox-Spender, controlling his
excitement, "it was a one-man machine that could bore through rock."
Cox-Spender leaned across the table and pointed to the Prime Minister's
plans.  "If we could get hold of such a machine, we could burrow under
the riverbed from the opposite bank, and bore right through the power
station's foundation.  Of course, we'd have to fix up some sort of
inertial guidance system for the pilot so he'd be certain of coming up
in an inspection tunnel.  He could then leave the machine and cut the
wires to the explosives."

There was a silence.

"You've forgotten something," said the Prime Minister.

"Surely these IRIS detector things they've installed would sound the
alarms as soon as they picked up the heat from the man's body?"

Cox-Spender nodded glumly.  Then he brightened.  "Not if we were to
dress him in a suit that was a perfect insulator so that none of his
body heat escaped."

"Is there such a suit?"  inquired the Prime Minister, looking at each
man in turn.

"I've heard," said Hendricks slowly, "although I'm no expert, that the
spacesuits developed by NASA are perfect insulators."

"No machine is capable of boring such a distance," said James Reynolds.
"The river is four kilomtres wide at Canvey Island.

And there's another problem.  This machine, if it exists- which I
doubt- wouldn't be able to bore more than a few me tres He looked at
Cox-Spender.  "Presumably it loosens soil or rock and pushes it behind
as it moves forward?"

Cox-Spender nodded.

"Then after a few me tres concluded James Reynolds, "there wouldn't be
any more room behind for the debris it had removed from in front?
Yes?"

Hendricks was scribbling as Cox-Spender nodded sadly.

"Shall we move on to the next idea?"  asked the Prime Minister.

But the ideas that followed were variations of schemes already
suggested.  All were rejected after a further hour's discussion.

"So what do we do now?"  asked the Prime Minister.

Hendricks looked up from his notes.  Without humour he said, "I suggest
we look for gophers."

Mitchell woke up at 9:00 hours.

Maggie had gone.  The bedroom was filled with sunlight and the smell of
burning breakfast.

He went downstairs.

"Good morning, Mitch," said Maggie brightly across the smoke filled
kitchen.  "I thought I'd surprise you with breakfast."

Mitchell was so pleased to see her looking much better that he raised
no objection to bacon that looked like fragments of the Dead Sea
scrolls and toast like little squares of midnight.

The bruise on her face was subsiding.  She chatted away during
breakfast as if she were making a deliberate attempt to sever herself
from the events of the previous day.

Mitchell was nerving himself to taste the coffee when she said, "I'd
like to go to London to find out what's happened to Daddy."

"I think you should rest, Maggie."

"It would be best if I did something," she said with a trace of
defiance.

"The police are coming today you said," said Mitchell, adding quickly,
"I'll do a deal with you.  You rest today and I'll call my secretary
and tell her I'm taking the rest of the week off, and I'll go with you
to London tomorrow.  How does that grab you?"

Maggie smiled and nodded.  "You can take me to an expensive
restaurant."

The electric fan the Prime Minister stood on his desk cooled his coffee
in two minutes so it was undrinkable.  He sipped it, swore and picked
up his telephone to order some more.

There was a tap on his door.  Simpson entered.

"I've spoken to Keller by radiotelephone," he said.  "He's agreed to no
more than a seventy-two-hour extension to the deadline from midnight
tonight."

The Prime Minister groaned.

"What use is seventy-two hours?"

"I did my best," said Simpson, "I explained that a lot of clauses
needed rewording to make them watertight.  He was extremely polite and
accepted that the bill was the most complicated piece of legislation in
history, but insisted that it should receive the royal assent and
become an Act of Parliament by midnight on Saturday."

The Prime Minister stared down at his blotter and twiddled nervously
with the smooth amber paper weight.  His palms were soaked in sweat
despite the cooling air from the fan.  The paperweight skipped across
the desk and fell to the floor.  He made no attempt to retrieve it.

"Hendricks wants a week," he said dully, "and then he wants us to bluff
Keller into agreeing to another week."

Simpson smiled thinly and noted the proximity of the electric fan.  The
old rogue was gradually losing his cool.  "Seventy-two hours from
midnight might be enough.  The CIA have found the magazine article
Cox-Spender remembered seeing," he said.

The Prime Minister frowned.  Simpson's mention of the CIA -what was it
he was trying to remember that morning?  Suddenly it came to him.

"Mitchell!"  barked the Prime Minister.  "Howard Mitchell.

How is it the CIA haven't mentioned him?  What's happened to him?"

The question took Simpson by surprise.  "Nothing, sir."

Simpson realized he had made a mistake.  He was about to amend his
answer hastily, but the Prime Minister was too quick.  He pounced with
all his old parliamentary skill.

"Nothing?  What the hell do you mean?  How could anything happen to him
if you've only had him watched?"

"What I meant was..."

"What the hell have you done with him?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Did you have him watched?  Well?"  The Prime Minister sighed.

"Look, Simpson.  It would take me an hour to get the truth out of you,
and time is precious."

Simpson decided that he might as well tell him about Patrick Reagan.

The Prime Minister listened.

"Why?"  he said when Simpson finished.

"We needed time.  Just as we need time now.  If Mitchell was working
for the CIA, as we know he was, then it was important that I should
have him dealt with before he learned too much."

"Christ Almighty!  Didn't it occur to you that removing him would only
arouse CIA suspicions still further and bring them crashing down on our
necks?"

"Mitchell was a plant- a resident, I think they call them.

It would take them many months to establish a new one- fix him up with
genuine cover.  I thought that having Mitchell out of the way would
give us the time we needed.  Anyway, what does it matter?

Reagan was killed in a genuine road accident."

"Reagan was a bomber?"

"Yes."

"You gave him Mitchell's address?"

"Yes."

"Then how the hell do we know there isn't a bomb sitting in Mitchell's
house?"

The interrogation irritated Simpson.  "I'll make an anonymous call to
Weybridge police and tell them there might be a bomb in Mitchell's
house."

The Prime Minister lost his temper.  "You'll do no such thing, you
bloody idiot!  We'll keep this to ourselves.  You're to go to Weybridge
and check Mitchell's house and car yourself!

Understand?"

Simpson's face was white.  He clenched his fingers together and kept
his voice steady.  "I don't know how to look for a bomb, and what if
Mitchell is in the house or using his car?"

"That's your problem.  You created it.  But I'll tell you this much,
Simpson, if anything happens to Mitchell at this stage -there'll be one
hell of a row with the Americans and I'll see that you carry the can.
After that, I'll make damned certain you're finished.  Now get out."

Simpson made no attempt to move.  "With respect, sir.  I don't think
you could afford to do that."

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Cox-Spender hated flying.

He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help it.  The most civilized
form of transport was the TGV express that carried him four times a
year from Paris to Marseilles, to his beloved bistros and the girls
lying topless on the beaches.

Knowing he was going to New York didn't help.  He had never been to the
United States, but he knew all about New York from the television cop
series which he watched religiously and found utterly convincing.  He
would be mugged as he stepped off the aircraft.

Consequently, by the time he was sitting next to Hendricks in a British
Airways Concorde at Heathrow waiting to take off he was a nervous
wreck.

Hidden loudspeakers welcomed Cox-Spender aboard and advised him that he
would be landing in New York in three and a half hours.

"Great airplane," said Hendricks.

"Yes," said Cox-Spender weakly.

A few minutes later he prepared himself to meet his maker as the
spindly-legged monster hurled down the hot runway and lifted its
drooping nose to the darkening sky.

By the time Simpson had purchased new shoes and socks, his inner rage
at the way he had been treated was beginning to die down.

He paid the shop assistant out of the 1000 he had drawn for Patrick
Reagan and added the purchases to the new suit, shirt, gloves and
underwear crammed into the second hand travelling bag.

He went by bus to Waterloo Station and changed into his new outfit in
the men's toilets.  His original clothes went into the travelling bag.
He went to the British Rail Red Star counter and arranged for the bag
to be sent to his flat.  There was nothing on him that would link him
to the Prime Minister's secretary should he be caught breaking into
Mitchell's house at Weybridge: no keys, no credit cards or letters-
nothing.  Even the wallet holding in old notes was new.

The only available train was packed.  Every time it stopped passengers
had to disembark so that those who wanted that station could struggle
off.

He found a second hand car dealer within a hundred me tres of Surbiton
Station.  One of the offerings outside the seedy parade of shops was an
elderly Sierra.  He examined it with a calculated lack of enthusiasm.
He argued the price with he salesman and secured a reduction of 200.

He told the salesman that he would have to draw the money from the bank
and would be back in an hour.  The salesman promised to have the car
ready but insisted on Simpson leaving a 10 per cent deposit.

Simpson went away and sat in a cheap cafe drinking coffee.  He decided
that he would wreck the Prime Minister as soon as the three terrorists-
if they could be called that- were out of the power station.

He had known the Prime Minister for twenty years; he could tell stories
to the press- especially the latest story- that would bring the whole
rotten structure crashing down about the Prime Minister's ears.

And why not?  Why not pay back the old bastard for not even giving him
a lousy OBE?

But he would need General Pyne's help.

He would drive down to Broadstairs that evening as soon as he had
finished at Weybridge.

Simpson finished his coffee.  He found a public telephone and called
Mitchell's home.  There was no answer.  He rang Mitchell's Walton
office.  His secretary did not know where her boss was -only that he
wouldn't be in the office for the rest of the week.

Simpson gave the car salesman a false name and address and paid the
balance owing on the Sierra.  The car had seen better days, but it
handled well and seemed to be in reasonable mechanical condition.  He
drove cautiously to Weybridge, observing the speed limits.

By the time he was driving into the outskirts of Weybridge he had
worked out a detailed plan of action against the Prime Minister with
which he felt certain Pyne would agree.

Simpson was pleased with himself.

It was, he thought, an extremely clever plan.

Mitchell's house was deserted.

Breaking in was not the problem Simpson expected: there were several
pieces of rough timber nailed across a broken window in the kitchen
door- probably where Reagan had broken in.

Simpson pulled on his new gloves and prised the lengths of wood away
with a garden fork.  He levered the remaining pieces of glass out of
the frame and climbed into the kitchen.

Simpson set about looking for the bomb.  It was a terrifying business:
he pulled doors open with pieces of string; he threw books into rooms
before venturing in just in case there was some sort of detonator under
the carpets; he even turned the electricity off at the mains switch and
went round turning on every electrical gadget, pausing occasionally-
listening for the sound of a returning car.  He restored electric power
at the mains switch.

The house filled with the sound of radios, televisions, a food mixer,
tape recorder and several fans.

Nothing happened.

After two hours' painstaking search Simpson was convinced that there
was no bomb in the house.  Reagan must have planted it in Mitchell's
car- if indeed he had planted a bomb at all.

Simpson left the house by the kitchen door.  He was about to walk down
the drive, when he saw two men unloading a new television from a van
parked outside the house opposite.  He quickly returned to the house
and watched them from Mitchell's living room- standing well back from
the window.  The men disappeared into the house.  Simpson decided to
wait until they drove away.  The bitterness he felt at being put in
such an absurd situation was offset by the thought of his plan to pay
the Prime Minister out.

The nagging doubt was, would Pyne agree?

There was a telephone on a low coffee table.  He sat in one of
Mitchell's armchairs and picked up the handset.

Supposing Mitchell had itemized phone bills?  If so it would be certain
to show the number he had called and the time.  It could be very
embarrassing.

Simpson replaced the handset.

What the hell- the chances were that Mitchell wouldn't be receiving his
phone bill for several weeks.  He lifted the handset and sat with it
pressed to his ear while fumbling awkwardly through the dialling code
booklet with gloved fingers, looking for the number of the exchange
near Broadstairs.

Thirty seconds later, he discovered Reagan's bomb.

He also discovered that death could be a mind-blowing experience.

A kilometer away, Mitchell lifted his head off the aluminium and
plastic bed beside General Pyne's swimming pool.  He reached out a foot
and prodded Maggie.

"Did you hear that?"

She didn't move.

"Did you?"  prompted Mitchell.

She yawned.

"What?"

"A bang," said Mitchell.

"Later," said Maggie, and went back to sleep.

Thursday Summer was upon New York like a ravening beast that devoured
the slight breeze that barely stirred the fringed sunshade above Cox
Spender head.

He was sitting at the nearest table to the Prometheus Fountain in the
Rockefeller Center.  Even at 10:00 the appalling heat seemed to be
rising out of the ground.  The orderly lines of United Nations flags
surrounding the humid sunken basin seemed to be too exhausted by the
physical effort of hanging from their poles to make any unnecessary
move.

Cox-Spender looked at his watch.  Hendricks had been gone fifteen
minutes.  He squinted up at the dazzling golden statue of Prometheus
beneath the soaring RCA Building and reflected that had the god known
about New York summers, he might have reconsidered his plan to steal
fire from the heavens.

A waitress served him with his morning coffee.

Cox-Spender watched the people milling round the Plaza's perimeter. 
Not one of them was being robbed, except those buying pretzels and
ice-cold Cokes from a stand.

He was beginning to like New York: his room a few streets away at the
Hilton, was comfortable, and the television seemed to have an
inexhaustible number of channels filled with his favourite cops.

What little he had seen of the city suggested that it had everything he
could wish for, maybe even a bistro.  After London, Midtown Manhattan
was surprisingly clean, littered with fountains, crammed with plenty of
buses and taxis.  And there was no piles of dog shit on the sidewalks.
It was very different from London.

Hendricks returned and sat down.

"Delmar Hydraulics is now run by one of Jack Delmar's sons - Henry.  He
knows nothing about the GOPHER so I've fixed up for us to fly up to see
old Jack Delmar at his lodge in the mountains."

Cox-Spender hung grimly on to his seat as the helicopter threatened to
shake itself to pieces in what appeared to be a desperate battle to
remain airborne.

He was forced to jam his tongue against his false teeth to prevent the
terrifying vibration from dislodging them.

Hendricks sat next to the pilot.  He turned his craggy face round to
Cox Spender

"Are you okay?"

Cox-Spender nodded and mumbled something past his mouthful of tongue
and oscillating dentures.

"The flight will take a couple of hours.  We'll be there by two."

Cox-Spender looked down and wished he hadn't.  The helicopter was
flying due north, gaining height as it followed the valley of the
Hudson River.  He looked longingly back at the Manhattan skyline,
dominated by the bland twin towers of the World Trade Center.

Straight ahead was the distant smudge of the Adirondack Mountains.

In a land of rich men, Jack Delmar considered himself to be one of the
richest.

He had six sons- one to run each of his corporations; several homes
across Europe; an apartment on Park Avenue; a photographic memory and a
powerful sex drive.  Both the latter were still in good shape despite
his seventy years.  He also had an engaging personality, which he used
on the two visitors sitting on his veranda overlooking the lake.

Normally he never entertained strangers, and he wouldn't have been
seeing these two had it not been for a call from the White House asking
him to meet them.  The White House rarely asked favours these days.
Maybe they were too scared, or didn't trust so many as they used to. 
An hour before his guests had arrived Delmar had called up some friends
in the Pentagon and given them the names the White House had given him
and asked who the hell they were; it was a simple request from an old
buddy.  He was surprised when they refused to oblige.  It also aroused
his curiosity.

"Sure I remember GOPHER," he said to Cox-Spender.  "Must be all of
twenty years ago- maybe more.  When I was fifty.  Crazy things we do
when we're young."  He grinned disarmingly at his visitors.

Hendricks showed him the magazine article.  Jack Delmar laughed at the
pictures.

"Isn't that the weirdest machine you ever saw?  This magazine promised
to send me some complimentary copies.  They never did.

A

few words to some friends and the editor suddenly found his advertising
space hard to sell."  Jack Delmar paused.  "Why are you interested in
my GOPHER, Mr Spender?"

Cox-Spender had a story ready.  "A sonar check has revealed what may be
an unexploded wartime bomb under Greenwich Observatory.

We're hoping it will enable us to recover the bomb without having to
disturb the observatory's instruments."

Jack Delmar threw back his head and laughed.  "GOPHER wouldn't be any
good to you.  That thing couldn't even cut through warm butter."

Cox-Spender looked at the industrialist in alarm.

"But these photographs show..."

"They show GOPHER drilling down and coming up a few me tres away," said
Jack Delmar, grinning broadly.  "That demo was staged on a rented
construction site.  I had a few hundred tonnes of debris spread around
and levelled so GOPHER wouldn't find the going too difficult."

"What happened to it?"  asked Cox-Spender despairingly.

"It was blown up."

"Do you still have the drawings?"

"Drawings?"  Jack Delmar's blue eyes twinkled in amusement.  "In those
days we built a prototype first and only drew it up if it worked so we
could make another one."

Hendricks looked at this watch.  "I guess we'd better get back to New
York."

"Do you still have any of the major components?"  asked Cox Spender
frantically casting about for even a slender straw.

"Some went into GOPHER 11."

Cox-Spender gaped at the old man.  "GOPHER 11."

Jack Delmar's grin broadened.  "Worked like a dream.  Could bore its
way through twenty me tres of Manhattan rock.  No problem."

Hendricks had half-risen.  He sat down again, letting Cox Spender ask
all the questions.

"Have you still got it?"

"Sure thing.  And I'm still sitting on the patents.  I figured they
might come in handy some day."

Cox-Spender sat on the edge of his chair.  "Mr Delmar, could GOPHER 11
Bore under a four-kilometer-wide river, and then through, say... two me
tres of rock?"  Cox-Spender nearly said "concrete'.

Jack Delmar shook his head.  "Four kilometres?  That would be asking a
lot of any machine."

"But the article in that magazine said that a later version would be
able to bore under the Hudson or East River to rescue trapped subway
passengers."

Without looking at the magazine Jack Delmar said, "If I remember
rightly, it said, bore through the riverbed."

"Then how...?"

"When we got GOPHER 11 working properly, we presented the Port
Authority with a complete scheme, and laid on a demonstration.

We made several dozen thirty-metre lengths of two-metre diameter
plastic pipe- once we had the mould we could punch out as many lengths
as we wanted.  They were made to be easily joined together to form a
watertight seal.  A team of scuba divers fitted them together on the
bed of the Hudson.  They started on the West Side and pushed out until
they were over on the New Jersey side.

They sealed a prefabricated dome to the submerged end of the pipeline
with the open base of the dome held against the riverbed by water
pressure.  Takes some doing.  Once everything was ready the City Fire
Department pumped the pipeline and dome dry."

"So after that, you were able to take your GOPHER along the pipeline to
the dome, and bore down from there?"  said Cox-Spender excitedly.

Jack Delmar grinned.  "You've got it.  The GOPHER operator went
straight down, levelled out and broke through into the side of the
Lincoln Tunnel within a few me tres of the spot marked by the railroad
engineers."

"When was this?"

"Fifteen years back."

"I never heard about it," said Hendricks.

"Washington asked me to put the lid on the story as a favour.

They were worried in case someone thought of using the idea to break
onto bank vaults- or even missile silos.  I was angling for a big
government contract at the time, so I agreed."  Jack Delmar grinned at
his visitors.

"Have you still got GOPHER 11 and the pipe sections, Mr Delmar?"  asked
Cox-Spender, trying to control his eagerness.

"Sure.  And the prefabricated dome.  They're in our West Fiftieth
warehouse, unless Henry's had them shifted.  I don't run things now."

Cox-Spender mentally crossed his fingers before asking the next
question.  "Can you remember how many lengths of pipe there were, Mr
Delmar?"

Jack Delmar looked curiously at the British civil servant.  He wondered
why everyone was getting so excited over an unexploded German bomb.  It
had to be one helluva bomb.  He noticed that the Englishman's hands
were clenched tightly together.  Hendricks was gazing boredly across
the lake.

"A hundred and sixty lengths," said Jack Delmar.  "Enough to construct
a five kilometer line.  The sections split into halves so they can be
stacked and not use too much room.  They snap together under water with
special latches on the inside."

Cox-Spender edged forwards until he was nearly falling off his chair.
"Mr Delmar, the British government would like to purchase your GOPHER
and its ancillary machinery together with the pipe sections and the
prefabricated dome.  I'm empowered to negotiate on their behalf."

Jack Delmar shook his head.  "I wouldn't sell it."

Cox-Spender goggled at him.  "But you must!"  he blurted.

Annoyance flicked across the industrialist's wrinkled face.

"Now see here..."  he began.

Hendricks intervened.  "I think the British government would be willing
to pay substantially for the equipment."

Jack Delmar gestured round him.  His hand encompassed the air
conditioned lodge, the lake and a twin Mercruiser boat.

"When you get to my age, you discover that friends, and maybe a little
excitement to relieve the boredom, are more important than money.  I
was about to say you can have the stuff in return for two small
favours."  He studied Cox-Spender.  "Have you the authority to grant
favours, Mr Spender?"

Cox-Spender nodded.

Jack Delmar sat back and gazed up at the trees.  "One of my boys- Carl-
runs Delmar Instruments in the UK.  Carl's been having a struggle
lately to keep the business going.  It's not his fault- he's a good
kid, works hard- but he can't raise cash for investment, and he won't
come to me.  But he would accept a two million dollar grant from the
British government- without strings, and without my name being
mentioned.  Okay?"

"Okay," said Cox-Spender, using the affirmative for the first time
since he was a boy.  "And the second condition?"

"That you ship me to the UK with the equipment and two of my engineers
to help run the operation."

Cox-Spender agreed with alacrity; Jack Delmar's condition was to have
been a Cox-Spender proposal.  He felt he had scored a point over the
shrewd industrialist.

"One thing, Mr Delmar.  How long did it take to break into the Lincoln
Tunnel?"

"Twenty-six hours from starting to put the pipeline together to when
GOPHER showed her nose to the Penn railroad engineers.

Do you know what GOPHER stands for?  Geophysical Orbital Power Head
Earth Explorer."  He grinned and stood up- eager for action.

"When do we get to ship the stuff?"

"Within the next twenty-four hours," said Hendricks, uncoiling his
frame.  "Sooner, if I can get the transport fixed in time."

The featureless concrete prongs of the World Trade Center were in sight
when Jack Delmar yelled to Cox-Spender above the noise of the
helicopter's motor, "That story about a German bomb is a load of
crap?"

"Yes," Cox-Spender agreed solemnly.  "A load of crap."

Jack Delmar grinned delightedly at the British civil servant.

The police were very considerate to Maggie and even allowed Mitchell to
be present when they questioned her about the accident with Mitchell's
boat.

The detective-sergeant closed his notebook and stood up.

"Thank you, Miss Pyne.  We'll have this typed out then we'll be asking
you to sign it."

"What will happen next?"  Maggie asked.

"There'll be an inquest early next week.  The coroner will no doubt
have something to say about the responsibilities of river users, then
record a verdict of accidental death.  It won't take more than fifteen
minutes."

"What happened to the river policeman?"

The detective-sergeant looked levelly at Maggie.

"Sergeant Snowdon?  He's still suffering from shock."

When he had gone, Maggie said to Mitchell.  "I'd like to go to London
now, Mitch."

"Why not call his office and ask them where your father is?"

"You promised, Mitch."

Mitchell looked at his watch.  15:00 hours.  "Yes, but look, honey.  We
didn't know the police would be so late coming.  It's going to take at
least an hour to get into London- there are probably road blocks after
yesterday's rioting."

But Maggie was determined.  "In that case, we'd better leave now."

She marched out of the room.

Mitchell sighed, and followed her out to the car.  He wanted to go back
to his place and change, but decided against upsetting her.

It took two hours of driving along nerve-racking police and army
diversions before Maggie and Mitchell reached the Ministry of Defence
overlooking the Thames in London.  The rioting was over but obviously
there was still a major alert on.

"Sorry," said the security officer.  "But everyone's gone home now."

"But you can at least call his office!"  said Maggie angrily.

"Room 1702."

"It's gone half past, miss.  They've all cleared off."

"Look," said Maggie calmly, "my father often works late.

You could at least ring his extension."

The security officer glowered at the angry girl, and decided it would
be best not to have a row with a general's daughter.

He called the extension.  No one answered.

"Do you know where this new camp is that my father's in command of?"
demanded Maggie.

"I wouldn't know things like that, miss.  Your best bet would be to
come back first thing tomorrow morning."

Mitchell and the girl walked out into the early-evening sun.

They crossed the Victoria Embankment and stood leaning against the
parapet, looking down at the Thames, swollen with drifting islands of
rat-infested refuse.

"God.  Just look at it," said Maggie bitterly.

"What?"

"Everything.  When my father came back from a visit to Singapore, he
said how clean it was because they had such tough penalties for
dropping litter.  He said that that was half the trouble with this
country- that we don't crack down hard enough to solve problems."

Mitchell slipped his arm round her and steered her back to the car.
"Come on, honey.  We'll find a hotel, and give those bureaucrats hell
in the morning."

New Yorkers are more accustomed to helicopters than most inhabitants of
large cities.  At most times of the day the air space above and round
their city is thick with twenty to thirty helicopters either
pleasure-tripping tourists round Manhattan, ferrying mail and
passengers to La Guardia and Kennedy airports, or just hanging about
making a noise.  But the spectacle of fifteen in-line Sikorsky S61s,
painted in the mottled green and brown camouflage of the US Air Force
Recovery and Rescue Service, thundering across Manhattan from the
direction of Queens caused many of the late home-going crowds thronging
the sidewalks to look up.  The immense machines ignored city ordinances
controlling the movement of helicopters; they swept across Central
Park, turned sharply above the Parks Department Boat Basin on the
Hudson and formed an orderly line of disciplined, hovering thunder
between the basin and the Dwight Eisenhower Passenger Terminal.

The Circle Line Ferry nosing towards its berth after the last trip of
the day listed dangerously to port as excited passengers swarmed to one
side.

Ex-Sergeant Dean Forester from Colorado Springs, pointed out the
machines to his son.

"Know what they are, Ben?"

"A lot of noise and lot of pollution," said Ben distastefully.

"Jolly Green Giants, we used to call them.  One of those whirlybirds
picked up your Pa when he was shot up bad.  If it wasn't for them, you
wouldn't be here.  What do you think of that, hey?"

It was one of those statements that parents are wont to make for which
their unsuspecting offspring have no ready answer.

The first Sikorsky swung towards the West Side waterfront, lowering its
cargo hoist to the men clambering over the stacks of thirty-metre pipe
sections.  It hovered for thirty seconds.  The whine from its turbines
deepened.  The heavy machine lifted, swinging away from the waterfront
with a cluster of pipe sections suspended from its hoist.  The
helicopter thrashed down river and the second machine in the line moved
in to take its place.

Don Marchant of Oklahoma was on second honeymoon with his second wife
and his three cameras.  Even on the balcony of the observatory on the
eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building there was no wind to
upset his shutter finger.  The second honeymoon had been a
disappointment, but he was amply compensated by his magnificent
Polaroid shot of fifteen big helicopters flying in line towards Kennedy
with the setting sun flashing on their twisting, suspended cargoes.

Operation GOPHER was underway.

Paul Weiner was shown into the emergency operations room at five
minutes to midnight.  His heart sank when he saw the number of people
present.  Senior army officers were gathered round a large
plotting-table bearing a huge large-scale map of the Thames Estuary.
Engineers were aiming spluttering soldering irons into the maze of
coloured wires sprouting from the end of a massive cable that entered
the room through a ragged hole in the wall.

A

man was mounting a public address speaker on a wall bracket.

Girls were hovering near the officers with shorthand pads at the
ready.

The Prime Minister was at the centre of a huddle grouped round a
television monitor showing a surprisingly clear picture of the Vulcan
Hall nuclear power station.  Another engineer had the back off a second
monitor and was probing its innards with a test meter.

Two senior police officers were playing Star Glider III on a
microcomputer.

No one took much notice of Weiner.  He had passed through five security
checks to get near the room.  He stood looking round.

The windows were shut and the blinds pulled down.  There was no
air-conditioning.

Weiner pushed his way across to the Prime Minister.

"May I have a quick word with you, please, sir?"

The Prime Minister looked up from the monitor.  Weiner was surprised by
the transformation in the man's face since he had last seen him.  He
had an expression of elation- the look of a soldier eager for battle.

"Ah, Weiner.  What do you think of the picture from opposite Vulcan
Hall?  We've set up hidden cameras fitted with something which lets
them see in the dark.  Image intensifiers or something."

The politician left the huddle and drew Weiner into a corner.

"How's everything going?"

"All the equipment has left New York.  It's on its way."

The Prime Minister looked surprised.  "Already?  I'll introduce you to
the Marshal of the Royal Air Force so you can arrange for Biggin
Hill..."

"It's all arranged," said Weiner.  "But we're not using Biggin Hill. 
It can't handle the long-range strategic heavy transports we're flying
in."

"We agreed it was the best place."

"Our air crews were against the idea.  They've suggested Dunsfold."

The Prime Minister had never heard of the place.

"It's owned by British Aerospace and has one of the longest air strips
in the South of England," explained Weiner.  "So we'll need all the
helicopters diverted to Dunsfold."

The American's attitude had annoyed the Prime Minister all through the
day during their frequent telephone conversations.

The Americans were trying to take over the entire operation.

"We've decided against helicopters," said the Prime Minister firmly.

The statement astounded Weiner.

"But we decided..."

"You decided."

"But Prime Minister, helicopters are the most logical way of
transporting the pipe sections to Chatham Dockyard."

The Prime Minister grasped Weiner gently by the elbow and steered him
into the corridor.  "Listen, Weiner, dozens of helicopters buzzing
across the country with thirty-metre lengths of pipe hanging from their
hoists will start a whole spate of rum ours which it will be impossible
to suppress.  If the story about the power station gets out, it could
easily start a panic.

Naturally, we're extremely grateful for all the help your country is
giving us, but we're the ones who have to govern here when this
business is over.  Not your President, and certainly not the

CIA."

The Prime Minister gave Weiner no time to reply.

"You give Sir Dudley McBryan full information on when and where your
transport is expected, and he'll arrange for them to be met by the
fleet of trucks and low-loaders he's laid on.  How far is Dunsfold from
Chatham?"

"About a hundred miles."

"What time will your transport be arriving?"

"Ten hundred hours."

"Then there's no problem.  The navy say the ship won't be ready until
sixteen hundred hours so there'll be plenty of time to shift the stuff
from Dunsfold.  There's no point in a lot of unnecessary panic, Weiner.
We British are used to keeping cool in adverse circumstances."

And being offensive, Weiner wanted to say, but he managed to remain
silent.

"What about this GOPHER contraption and the spacesuit?

When's that arriving?"

"They'll be on the transports arriving at Dunsfold in the morning."
said Weiner.  "The team of technicians will be arriving with them; two
men to look after GOPHER; the NASA spacesuit experts and, of course,
the GOPHER operator.  He's our only astronaut who's also a first-class
marksman."

"I've changed my mind about that, too.  The operator who breaks into
the power station will have to be British."

Weiner was appalled.  "We can't change the plans this late in the day,
sir.  besides, he's on his way."

"Maybe you can't change the plans, Weiner, but we can,"

said the Prime Minister smoothly.  He was gratified by Weiner's
expression.  The CIA man was badly shaken.

"We can't substitute the operator," Weiner nearly shouted.

"Jesus, he's a trained astronaut.  He's accustomed to working in a
spacesuit.  He's been shown how to operate the machine--' "According to
Cox-Spender's last instruction," the Prime Minister interrupted,
"operating the machine is relatively simple."

"You don't understand.  We have to use an old pattern spacesuit because
they've got a hundred per cent heat-insulating properties.

Those spacesuits were individually made.  You can't just get anybody to
wear one!"

"I'm sorry, Weiner.  But my colleagues and I have made up our minds.
The man who breaks into the power station must be British.

On that we are firmly decided."

The American shook his head in disbelief.

"Christ.  What does the man's nationality matter?"

"It matters to us."  The politician paused and patted Weiner
patronizingly on the shoulder.  "As a matter of interest, I've already
made a personal choice of the officer who is to break in.

He's a capable man and, I understand, an excellent marksman."

Weiner saw no sense in arguing further.  He merely said, "The agreement
was that we supply the equipment and the specialized personnel.  In
view of this change, we will have to revise downward our estimates of
the probable success of Operation GOPHER."

The Prime Minister grinned.  "So you've taken it upon yourselves to
allocate a code name?"

"It's necessary for communication purposes."

"Have you read Churchill's memoirs on the Second World War?"

Weiner moved towards the operations room.

"No."

"I think it was Volume Two," said the Prime Minister, now enjoying
himself.  "In it, he published the directives he issued to be applied
when deciding the code names to be used for wartime operation.  He
stressed that the name selected should not be trivial -- it would not
do, he said, for the relatives of those killed in a particular action
to have to recall an operation with an absurd name.  He also said the
name should in no way reflect the nature of the operation."

"I'm surprised that you should concern yourself with such minor points,
sir."

"Churchill also said that the greatness of an organization manifested
itself in its attention to detail."

Weiner choked back an impulse to tell the Prime Minister what he
thought of a country that allowed its nuclear power stations to be
seized by a handful of terrorists.  Instead he said coldly, "If it's
detail you're concerned about, you'd better let me have the
measurements of your operator so we can have another spacesuit flown in
from Houston."

With that, Weiner turned and walked away.

The Prime Minister spent another hour in the operations room.

He left at 2:30 and went to bed at 3:00 hours.  As he undressed he
reflected that here were only forty-five hours left before Keller would
carry out his threat.

He lay awake for some minutes wondering what had happened to Simpson,
and then fell soundly asleep.

Friday The Lockheed Galaxy's wings drooped as it lost speed, lowering
its twenty-eight landing wheels to Dunsfold's runway.  By the time it
had rolled to a standstill the tips appeared to be touching the ground.
Then the massive transport kneeled by partly retracting its
undercarriages into their vast pods.

The load master wasted no time.

The Galaxy's nose swung upwards like the visor on a suit of armour, and
the two Queen Mary vehicles reversed smartly up to the yawning
cavern.

Beads of sweat rolled down the soldiers' faces as they laboured to load
the curious lengths of half-section plastic pipe on to their long
trucks.  The vehicles were quickly loaded to safe height and moved away
to allow two more to take their place.

After thirty minutes under the dawn sky eight low-loaders were loaded
to capacity.  The last two pulled clear as the great visor swung
down.

The ponderous bulk of giant freight aircraft heaved itself up from its
kneeling position and taxied away to the far end of the long runway.  A
few minutes later the great shadow swept over a farmhouse, its engines
bellowing at the sustained effort required to keep the improbable mass
in the air.

The next arrival at Dunsfold was a flying nightmare: a hideous bloated
Super Guppy Owned by Aero Spacelines Inc.  of Santa Barbara,
California.

The Super Guppy had started out to be a graceful Boeing Stratocruiser,
and then things had gone badly wrong for it.

The wings and the underside of the fuselage were Stratocruiser, but its
upper half was a grotesque swollen balloon that swept up from the nose
until its height matched the tail plane The sides bulged sickeningly
over the wings and continued bulging until they reached the tail, where
sanity was restored.  The weird aircraft had been designed to transport
the top stage of the Saturn/ Apollo moon rocket, and was now available
to anyone with a bulky load that required urgent transportation.

The monstrous creation sat pregnantly on the runway while its crew
performed a Caesarean section on its fuselage.  The opening disgorged
more of the pipe halves, a large crate, several giant reels of flexible
hose, a number of smaller crates and ten passengers.  All were spirited
away in the remaining trucks.

The Guppy waddled to the end of the runway and waited while the
airfield-control officer nerved herself to give it permission to take
off.

Hendricks arrived in London at 8.00 hours.  He went straight to Paul
Weiner's office.  Weiner was asleep on a folding bed.  Hendricks shook
him roughly.

"What's this bull about the British wanting to use one of their own
men?"

Weiner sat up yawning and rubbing his eyes.  Hendricks repeated the
question.

"National pride," sid Weiner.  He looked at his watch.

"Jesus, I need more sleep than this."

The long bony fingers hooked the covers on to the floor "You've had
some, which is more than I've had.  Come on.  We're going to make them
change their minds."

Weiner shook his head.  "We'd be wasting our time.  I've tried.

The Prime Minister won't budge."

Hendricks sat in Weiner's chair.  "You told him we had someone lined
up?"

"Sure."

"An astronaut who's a marksman?"

"Yes," said Weiner wearily.  "He said he too had picked an ideal
man."

"The British don't have astronauts."

"You tell him."

Hendricks drummed his talons on the desk.

"Does it matter?"  asked Weiner.  "The machine isn't difficult to
operate.  All we need is for NASA to get off their asses and fly out a
spacesuit that matches the measurements I've faxed them."

"That's the whole goddamn trouble," growled Hendricks.

"Haven't they got one?"

Hendricks gazed at Weiner sadly.  "Sure they got one.  But nothing less
than a personal directive from the President will persuade them to part
with it, even for a week.  I got their message an hour before I landed.
I thought, in a moment of rashness, that I could leave you to look
after things at this end."

"What's so special about one lousy spacesuit?"  demanded Weiner, stung
by Hendricks' comment.

Hendricks picked up the phone and fished in his pocket for a piece of
paper, which he tossed to Weiner.

"That is what is special about it."

Weiner read the slip.  He looked at Hendricks with a mixture of
surprise and dismay.  All he could think of to say was, "Oh shit."

"My reaction precisely," said Hendricks, and gave the switchboard the
day code that would put him through to the White House.

By noon, the seven-thousand-tonne ore-carrier Barrow lying at the navy
dockyard at Chatham was beginning to look like a ship again.

Most of the two hundred skilled dockyard workers who had been swarming
over her since she had been commandeered the previous night had
completed their frenzied operations and were clearing up the mess. 
They had laboured first under floodlights and then under the hot
morning sun to cut a three-metre diameter hole in her side into the
midships hold. The position of the hole had been carefully calculated
so that it would be well below the waterline when the forward and aft
holds were laden with gravel and equipment.

When everything was ready the signal was given to the cranes that were
holding the Barrow at a thirty-degree list.  The ship slowly righted
herself.  Water roared through the gaping hole.

A

steel hawser parted with a sudden twang, The Barrow heaved herself over
on to an even keel and settled lower and lower as water continued to
flood into the midships hold.  The engineers looked on anxiously. 
Their main concern was whether the reinforced bulkheads separating the
hold from the rest of the ship would withstand the water pressure
normally directed on the hull.

The Barrow stopped sinking and rode serenely at her mooring.

No one went near her for thirty minutes- there was a chance that a
bulkhead might collapse without warning.

Two dockyard engineers ventured cautiously aboard.  They looked down at
the flooded hold.

"Just like a bleedin' swimming-pool."

"I reckon there's enough freeboard for the gravel."

"I wouldn't go out on it.  Bloody dangerous with this lot sloshing
about in any sort of chop."

"I've heard they're taking it up river- not out to sea."

"Why do they want them extra anchors then?"

"Nice ship until we buggered her up."

"Wonder what it's for?  I've not heard there's a market of ships with
bleedin' great three metre holes in their side."

"Maybe it's a new method of fishing.  They sit up here waiting for a
fish to swim through the hole them chuck gavel at it."

The first engineer spat into the brimming hold.

"Why should we worry?  Just so long as they pay us that bleedin' treble
time they promised.  Come on.  Let's get the gravel loaded before that
stuff turns up."

"Do you know what's it's all for?"

"Dunno.  Who cares?"

The first engineer nodded to one of the many closed-circuit television
cameras recently installed on the Barrow's bridge.

"Not me.  But someone does."

"I'm sorry, Miss Pyne," said the principal officer at the Ministry of
Defence.  "But I'm afraid I cannot disclose where your father is."  He
smiled sympathetically at Maggie, finding it hard to believe that she
could have been responsible for all the scenes throughout the building
which resulted in him agreeing to see her personally.

The American with her seemed to be embarrassed by the whole business.

"General Pyne is in command of the new oil and gas platform defence
force?"  said Mitchell.

The principal officer nodded.  "Quite right.  There's no secret about
that.  But I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose where the camp is.
Not until the minister decides to release the press statement."  He
nodded to Maggie.  "As the daughter of a senior army officer, Miss
Pyne, you must be accustomed to your father being called away on
business."

Maggie stood.  "He's always told me when he would be away, and when he
would be returning.  If you won't help me, then I'll find him by
myself."

She turned and marched out of the office.

Mitchell looked at the principal officer in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry."

The civil servant smiled good naturedly.  "Don't worry, Mr Mitchell.
You'd better go after her.  A few more like her and we wouldn't need an
army."

"Take me home Mitch," said Maggie when they were outside the
building.

"Hey.  I thought you were a fighter?"

"I'm sick of London.  I never thought I would be- but I am."

"It's possible," said Mitchell slowly, "that Paul Weiner might know
where your father is."

"Your friend at the American Embassy?  How could he?"

Mitchell considered telling her about his interview with Hendricks and
Weiner and their interest in Maggie's father.  He recalled Hendricks'
threat and decided against it.  Still- it wouldn't hurt to take Maggie
to see Weiner.

"Maybe not," he said in answer to Maggie's question.  "But it might be
worth looking him up."

Mitchell steered Maggie back to the Mustang.

The officer the Prime Minister had selected to break into Vulcan Hall
nuclear power station was one of the few in the country who knew about
the terrorist takeover.

He was watching a television programme when two plain-clothes men
called for him.  They were polite, but firm.  They allowed him to
change out of his shorts, then pushed him into the back of a two-door
sports car.

"Where are you taking me and why?"

"We only know where, sir."

And that was all they said during the entire journey.

They took him to a drab, inhospitable mansion in a tree-lined road off
the Bayswater Road and left him to contemplate the view across
Kensington Palace Gardens from a comfortable flat on the top floor.

He sat on a window seat wondering what was going to happen next.

He was a lean, muscular man with grey eyes and dark wiry hair that was
beginning to go grey at the temples.  After five minutes in the flat he
crossed to the door.  It was unlocked.  two soldiers were standing on
either side of the door.

"Can we help you, sir?"  one of them asked.

The officer returned to the window seat.  He was still sitting there
when the Prime Minister walked into the room, sat in an armchair and
proceeded to unwrap a cigar.  The officer gaped at him in surprise.

"You know about the power station takeover, of course,"

said the Prime Minister, as if unaware of the impact his appearance had
had on the officer.  "What you don't know is that with a little
American help, I've devised a scheme to get them out."  The Prime
Minister paused to light his cigar before explaining about the Barrow,
the prefabricated riverbed tunnel and the GOPHER boring machine.  The
Prime Minister concluded by saying that the officer would have to go to
the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough to be shown how to use
the spacesuit and to check that it was effective against the IRIS
detectors.  He was about to enlarge sightly, when the officer
interrupted him: "You said "me", sir."  The officer was puzzled.

The Prime Minister examined the glowing end of his cigar.

"That's right.  As one of the most loyal officers in the country,
you're going to be the one to break in."

The officer stiffened.  "Whose idea was this?"

"Mine," said the Prime Minister, grinning.  "Rather ingenious, don't
you think?"

The officer's face relaxed.  He nodded slowly and allowed himself a
faint smile.

"There is one thing," said the Prime Minister.  "If you were unable to
cut all the detonator wires, you'd have to find this Keller and be
absolutely certain of killing him with your first shot before he saw
you.  There'd be no second chance.  Could you do it?"

"Yes.  I'm a good shot."

The officer had misunderstood the question, but the Prime Minister let
it pass.  There was a silence, then the politician said, "I've told my
Cabinet colleagues that the identity of the officer carrying out this
task must remain a secret known only to me.  If you succeed- well and
good.  But if you don't... Well,

I

don't think it fair that your name should be remembered in history, if
there is any history should you fail, as the man partly to blame for
the death of millions of people."

The officer nodded.  The explanation made sense.  "And that view has
been accepted?"

"Yes," said the Prime Minister.  "For that reason, I've decided you
should have a code name- Phoenix."  He paused.  "Your identity will
never be known.  You're prepared to accept that?"

"Yes."

The Prime Minister nodded.  Loyalty was a commodity to be exploited
first, and respected second.

The two men discussed details for an hour.  At the end the Prime
Minister crossed to a cocktail cabinet and poured drinks.

They drank a silent toast to their plan's ultimate success.

"I must go now," said the Prime Minister, "and you must get down to
Farnborough to see about that spacesuit."  He paused at the door.  "One
thing, for God's sake be careful with it.  The Americans are rather
attached to it.  It was the suit worn by Neil Armstrong when he took
his giant leap for mankind.

Cox-Spender dragged his suitcase off the circulating conveyer and
tottered towards the customs hall.

He was not feeling his best.  He had persuaded Hendricks to allow him
to return on a slower aircraft than Concorde.  The flight from New York
had taken nine hours instead of the usual seven.

There had been storms all across the Atlantic.  Belts of severe clear
air turbulance from all over the ocean had gathered in the path of his
Boeing and lain in ambush- arranging themselves so that each succeeding
air pocket was worse than the previous one.

On top of that a baby had been sick all over his suit.

Two men approached him.  One was wearing a sailcloth suit which
Cox-Spender thought he must have purchased in a dark boutique during a
power cut.

"Mr Cox-Spender?"  Sailcloth suit smiled disarmingly.

"Yes?"

"Will you come with us please."

It was an order, not a question.

They were very kind to Cox-Spender.  They told him that they had been
told to say what a magnificent job he had done, and that he was to be
rewarded with some well-earned leave at Inverloch in Scotland.

"Inverloch?"  echoed Cox-Spender.  "You mean the safe house?"

"I expect so, sir,"

"But it's been closed since the war!"

"Deliberate rum ours Mr Cox-Spender.  You'll find it cooler that
London."

"What would I do there?"

"Well, there's golf."

"I don't play golf."

"We'll teach you."

"And Commander Crabbe will teach you fly fishing," said the second man.
"He's an expert now."

"A trout stream prima donna," said sailcloth suit, taking Cox Spender
case.

Ten minutes later Cox-Spender was sitting between the two men on a
flight bound for Edinburgh.

The navy dockyard at Chatham had not seen so much activity since the
war.

At 14:00 hours a convoy of low-loaders, with tarpaulins covering their
loads, rumbled along the naval town's sun-blistered streets and into
the dockyard, where cranes transferred their loads on to the thousand
tonnes of gravel spread evenly in the Barrow's forward and aft holds.

The level of the gravel was three me tres below deck, so there was
plenty of room for the pipe sections, the pumps, the prefabricated dome
and the GOPHER boring machine.

A team of shallow-water divers arrived from the navy's

HMS

Vernon underwater training school, followed by trucks loaded with
oxygen re breathing sets and additional equipment delivered from
Westlands in Yeovil.

The Prime Minister watched the final preparations with ill concealed
satisfaction on the monitor screens in the operations room.

Hendricks was standing beside him.

The politician waved a hand at the tiered television screens fed from
cameras mounted on the Barrow.

"Supposing all this hadn't been possible, would you have carried out
that veiled threat?"

"I can't speak for my government," replied Hendricks.

"Your ambassador had no inhibitions on Tuesday night."

Hendricks watched a crane lowering a cluster of plastic pipe
sections.

"That was Tuesday night," he replied.

"Would you wait in the outer office please, Miss Pyne," said Weiner.

Maggie made no attempt to move.  "So you won't help?"

Weiner glanced at Mitchell.  "We don't know where he is.

I'd like to speak to Mr Mitchell alone.  It won't take a minute."

Maggie regarded Weiner coldly.  She left the room without speaking.

"Now see here Mitch," said Weiner when the door closed behind her.  "Do
you want us to cover your drill-string or not?"

"Sure."

"Then why bring her here?  You heard what Hendricks said."

"I've told her nothing.  We were in town, and I thought you might be
able to help.  Why are you interested in Pyne?"

"I can't tell you that."

"This fraud or whatever it is he's mixed up in, does it involve
American equipment?"

Weiner came around from his desk.  "Listen Mitch.  Take the girl home.
Take her away on vacation somewhere- anything to stop her worrying
about her father.  She'll find out soon enough, but I can't tell you
anything at this point."

"Can I tell her that?"

Weiner shrugged.  "Why not.  Just take her away somewhere where the
press and the crackpots won't be able to give her a hard time."

"So he is involved in a serious crime?"

Weiner nodded.  "In a way- yes.  But don't for Chrissake tell her."

Saturday: The final hours "Phoenix' arrived at the Royal Aircraft
Establishment at 00:15 hours.

The untidy test laboratory was busy with technicians milling round a
spacesuit suspended from a frame.  A long bench against a wall was
strewn with the component parts of the suit's backpack.

A loud Texan accent was yelling for a six-mill wrench.  A white coated
man was chipping at a block of ice.

Earl Kramer's name was embroidered on his coveralls.

Phoenix introduced himself.  Kramer stared at Phoenix, then yelled,
"He's here!"

Everyone stopped work and gathered around.

"How's it going?"  asked Phoenix.

"Lousy," said Kramer.  "Come back next week."

"What's the trouble?"

"Heat absorption."  Kramer looked at Phoenix curiously.

"This thing you've got to do.  Could you do it in an hour?

Phoenix was surprised by the direst, no-nonsense approach.  "I don't
know.  Why?"

"We have a problem with your body heat.  Come over here, and I'll show
you what I mean."

Kramer stepped across to the bench and picked up a garment that
resembled long underwear to cover arms, legs and torso.

"Feel," he said, as if he were a tailor trying to convince a customer
about the quality of some material.

Phoenix could feel minute tubes sandwiched into the material.

The entire garment was a mass of them.

"Water-cooling tubes," explained Kramer.  "You wear this next to your
skin over the absorbent underpants, and these tubes carry your body
heat to the PLSS on your back, where it's pushed through an exchanger
out into the environment.  Now as I understand it, we can't do that."

"That's right," said Phoenix.  "No heat must escape."

"So what the hell do we do with it?"  demanded Kramer.

Phoenix shrugged.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not an engineer.  What do you do
with it?"

"Instead of getting rid of it, we absorb it- into crushed ice.  We've
modified the PLSS--'

"PLSS?"

"Personal Life Support System," explained Kramer patiently.

"The backpack.  We've modified it so you'll have a an insulated flask
containing thirty pounds of ice.  Ice can absorb a helluva lot of heat,
but as soon as it's all melted, its temperature starts to creep up.
That's why you only have a hour to do whatever it is you've going to
do.  Maybe two hours if you take it easy, but we can't be sure, so
we've fixed you up with an ice-weight indicator.

That way you'll know when you're heading for trouble."

Phoenix frowned.  No one had mentioned this problem during his long
telephone conversations with various experts.

"Couldn't you provide more than thirty pounds of ice?"  he asked.

Kramer shook his head.  "We've tried, and run up against a law of
diminishing returns.  The more ice you carry, the more heat you
generate having to hike it around, and the faster the ice melts.

Besides, thirty pounds is half the weight of the suit.  You'll have
ninety pounds over your body weight to shift around.  It's enough."

"One hour?"

"Two if you don't rush around.  Okay, let's get you suited up.

The guys in the next lab want to run some tests."

Phoenix found the spacesuit, or "extra vehicular mobility unit', as the
NASA technicians called it, was surprisingly comfortable and permitted
an unexpected freedom of movement- the one thing that had worried him
since he had learned he was to wear one.  The only uncomfortable
feeling was caused by the urine tube fitted to his penis and leading to
a bag on the right leg of the suit above the knee.

"The absorbent underpants will cope with anything else,"

Kramer said.

Phoenix commented on the crude arrangement.

"If you can come up with an improvement on diapers," said Kramer,
grinning, "then we'd be glad to hear about it."

The first garment had been the one-piece cooling suit.

This was followed by he eighteen-layer "integrated meteoroid suit' with
an outer covering of non-flammable Beta cloth, finally the
abrasion-resistant Teflon fabric covering designed to protect the suit
against mishaps on the rugged lunar terrain.

Tinted pull-down visors were provided on the helmet to protect the
astronaut against ultra-violet and infra-red radiation, and
micro-meteoroids.  It was impossible to see the wearer's face when they
were lowered.

Kramer secured the backpack and connected the water cooling, oxygen
purge and communication umbilicals.  He guided Phoenix's gauntleted
hands to the control box on the suit's chest.

"I'm going to switch you on now," he said into a two-way radio.

Phoenix suddenly felt water flowing through the tubes next to his skin.
It was like being plunged into a cool bath.  The sensation was a
welcome relief from the heat building up in the suit.

"How does it feel?"

"Great."

Kramer grinned.  "For the first time in your life, you're completely
independent of Mother Earth in your own little selfcontained
space-ship.  If this planet was to blow apart suddenly, you'd outlive
everyone.  But only for a few hours."

Kramer checked the suit's controls.  "Okay.  Try moving about a little,
but lean forward- remember, you've got a high centre of gravity."

The backpack was a deadweight on Phoenix's back.  The straps dragged at
this shoulders.  He took a few unsteady steps.  Sweat streamed down his
face despite the cooling system.

"Well?"

"God, it's heavy."

Kramer nodded sympathetically.  "Yeah.  They're not designed for EVA in
one gee.  And you've got an extra thirty pounds of ice."

"Why are you using pounds instead of kilos?"

"Because all this kit was designed before NASA adopted the metric
system.  What's the gauge reading?"

Phoenix looked at his right wrist- holding it high in front of the
visor.

"Twenty-nine pounds."

"You see?  You've melted a pound of ice already, and you've hardly
started moving about."

Kramer's easy-going manner annoyed Phoenix.  "Why the hell couldn't you
arrange something better than this ludicrous system?

Christ, even a sixth-former would've thought of refrigeration."

"Easy on," said Kramer's voice inside the helmet.  "All refrigeration
does is move heat from one place to another: it doesn't get rid of it.
Ever put your hand down the back of an icebox?"

"I'm sorry."

Kramer brushed the apology aside.  "Don't let it bother you.

You'd better get next door."

"Just as I am?"

"Sure.  It's meant for moving about in.  Through the door.

First door on the right."

As Phoenix swayed unsteadily towards the door, he heard a click in his
helmet as Kramer cut communications.  He did not hear him say loudly
into a telephone for the benefit of everyone: "One astronaut on the
rocks coming up, fellers."

Phoenix turned in the corridor and saw the technicians mouthing silent
laughter.

The space suited figure shuffled towards an IRIS detector.  His
external microphone was switched on so he could hear the sounds in the
laboratory.  Four men and a woman doctor were watching his progress
from behind a glass panel set into the wall.  A loud speaker relayed
their talk.

The detector was mounted on a pedestal.  The dome on top of the unit
discarded ambient heat radiation, and concentrated on any dense sources
of heat that moved.

"Hold it a minute," said the loudspeaker.

Phoenix paused.

"Okay.  Carry on.  We thought we were getting a reading."

Phoenix moved nearer the detector until he could reach out and touch
it.

"What do you want me to do now?"

"Move a hand in front of it."

Phoenix waved a gauntlet up and down a few centime tres from the
detector.

"Fine," said the loudspeaker.  "Now turn around slowly, and put your
face near it."

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Phoenix did so.

"Now push one of the visors up."

Phoenix complied.

"Now the other one."

He had only just pushed the visor halfway when the loudspeaker shrilled
with a continuous, discordant note.

"Just thought you'd like to hear the result," said the loudspeaker.

"How much ice is left?"

"Nineteen pounds."

"Right.  There's just one more test, then you can get some sleep."

The four men and the woman entered the laboratory.  They guided Phoenix
to a cycling machine and helped him on to the saddle.

He had to hang grimly on to the handlebars to prevent the backpack's
weight from toppling him off.  He was unable to see his boots, so they
secured them to the pedals with straps.

"Just pedal slowly," said the doctor.  "As if you were cycling along a
flat country lane and enjoying the view."

While Phoenix busily pedalled nowhere, the laboratory staff surrounded
him with a fence of detectors before returning to their booth.

"How much ice now?"  said the loudspeaker ten minutes later.

"Thirteen pounds."

"Slow down a little."

The needle on the wrist gauge crept downward.  After twenty minutes it
was hovering over the figure five.

"Ease up little," said the loudspeaker after Phoenix had relayed the
information.

Phoenix slowed the pumping action.  The movement of his legs was
causing the urine attachment to chaff painfully on his penis.

Fifteen minutes later the needle was on zero.

"It'll take a while for the water to warm up and trigger the
detectors," said the loudspeaker.

Phoenix continued pedalling.  The heat in the suit began to rise.

"Speed it up a little," said the loudspeaker.

He pedalled faster, tightening his abdomen muscles against the desire
to urinate.

Another five minutes passed.  There was no sound in the laboratory
apart from the creak and whir of the cycling machine and the rustle of
Teflon fabric.

Then the room suddenly filled with a violent shrieking tone from the
loudspeaker.  The mind-numbing noise caused Phoenix to relax his
stomach muscles.  Hot urine coursed through the tube and gurgled into
the bag on his thigh.  The shrieking rose to a deafening crescendo.

"Christ," breathed one of the men in the control booth.

"He's set them all off.  Every fucking one."

At 2:00 hours, Jack Delmar was hardly able to contain his excitement.
He leaned on the bridge rail beneath a bright moon and breathed deeply,
savouring the feeling of anticipation now that the operation was about
to begin.  God, how he hated retirement.

There was a flooding tide, the Barrow's navigation lights were switched
on and her mooring lines singled up.  A tug eased across the still
water and between the dark shapes of moth balled warships.

The shallow-water divers sat in orderly rows on polythene sheeting
spread over the gravel in the aft hold.  They were dressed in neoprene
wet suits and wearing oxygen re breathing sets.

Their masks hung down on their chests.  Some passed the time threading
weights on to their quick-release belts, a few smoked.  None talked.

A chief petty officer checked the spare lithium hydroxide canisters the
divers would be using to purify the oxygen in their re breathing sets.
He was unhappy having so many men on oxygen.  He preferred aqua lungs
which used compressed air and were much safer.

Oxygen under pressure could kill a man in a few minutes, especially if
he had to be dragged out of a four-kilometer long underwater
pipeline.

"Scubas are out," Jack Delmar had told the chief petty officer.  "We
don't want exhaust bubbles pooling in the pipeline and forcing it to
the surface before we've pumped the gravel in."

The chief petty officer moved across to his men.  "You okay, Jones?"

The diver he addressed nodded nervously.  "Fine, thanks, chief."

The chief petty officer grunted and moved on.  Jones was recovering
from a perforated eardrum after diving with a head cold he had not
reported.  Normally he wouldn't be allowed near a pair of flippers for
another month, but those in charge, whoever they were, sitting God
knows where, and watching every move with the television cameras,
wanted every diver they could lay their hands on.

The tug left the Barrow when the two ships reached the widest part of
the River Medway.  The bridge rang down "slow ahead both' to the
engine-room.  White water boiled under the ore-carrier's stern.  Black
water heaved in the flooded hold as she moved down river alone.

In one hour she would be entering the Thames Estuary; and another
hour's steaming up river towards London would bring her to Canvey
Island.

Keeping well over to the south bank, away from the power station, she
would gradually lose way, pay out her anchors and use her engines to
drag their flukes deep onto the mud until the Barrow was held firmly
fore and aft.  Then, below the high sides of the holds and screened
from the distant power station, everyone on board would start work.
Even the Barrow's original crew had a task to perform: they were to
laze in the sun in full view and show no interest in the power station
whatsoever.

While Barrow was lifting her bows to the gentle waves, Phoenix was in a
sedative-induced sleep at the Royal Aircraft Establishment.

A pilot boat would take him to the Barrow when everything was ready.
That would be at 14:00 hours if everything went according to plan.

Ten hours before Ralph Keller's Doomsday Ultimatum deadline.

Phoenix raised the M1 automatic rifle and fired three times.

The first round tore a piece off the top of his target's skull, the
second smashed through the back of the neck and the third shattered the
remains of the head.

"Not bad," said the major grudgingly.  "You're getting the hang of it
now.  The first one would've been enough."

"I like to be certain," said Phoenix, pulling off the space helmet and
gauntlets.  They were the only part of the spacesuit he had been
wearing.  He examined the rifle.  "Sawing off the trigger guard was a
good idea."

The major looked curiously at the strange gauntlets.

"Damned difficult shooting with those things on.  Is it absolutely
essential?"

"Yes."

The major walked down the indoor firing range and collected the
fragments of wax.  He assembled the skull in his hands and showed it to
Phoenix.  There was a neat hole where the second shot had penetrated
the back of the neck, but at the front was a crater the size of a man's
fist.  The major put the skull down and examined one of the un jacketed
bullets disapprovingly.

"Nasty things," he said.  "Don't know why MOD buy them.  A bullet goes
in and an express train comes out."

A nice way of putting it, thought Phoenix.

"I suppose you'll be shooting the real target from behind?"

The telephone rang.

"For you," said the major, holding out the receiver.

Phoenix took the telephone and waited for the major to move away.

"How's it going?"  asked the Prime Minister.

"Very well indeed, sir."

"You're now going to have to deal with Keller no matter what happens.
The Americans know something about him.  It's his presence which has
caused all the trouble."

Phoenix was intrigued.  "What do they know that we don't know?"

"A hell of a lot.  It seems he was involved in some mischief concerning
nuclear fuel when he was working in the United States.

It's something we should've known about.  Anyway, the important thing
now is for you to deal with him so that we can make them a present of
his body.  That way, they'll lose interest and go home.

Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll wish you the best of luck," said the Prime Minister.

"See you on television."

The line went dead.

The major lifted the space helmet off his head.

"Will you be wearing the rest of it?  A full spacesuit?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly is the target?  On the moon?"

"Somewhere just as difficult to get to," said Phoenix, and changed the
subject.

With six anchors dragged deep into the riverbed, the Barrow's captain
was satisfied it would be impossible for the ship to move, apart from
up and down with the tide.

He glanced at the bridge chronometer: 4:45 hours.  Fifteen minutes
ahead of the operations schedule on the chart table.

He gave the order for work to begin.

On the word from Jack Delmar, the chief petty officer herded the first
team of twenty divers into the flooded hold.

The black-clad figures guided the lower half of the first pipe section
into the hold and through the hole in the Barrow's side without
difficulty.  Three divers swam out into the Thames and supported the
end of the pipe while their fellow-divers pushed out the upper half and
allowed it to settle on the lower half.  A diver swam along the inside
of the pipe fastening the latches that pulled the two halves tightly
together against their seals.

An inflatable collar was pushed round the pipe so that it was trapped
evenly between the pipe opening and the side of the hole in the hold.
The collar was inflated slowly, with divers pulling out the creases
until a tight seal was formed.

The Barrow now had a flooded thirty-metre length of plastic pipe
protruding from her side into the Thames three me tres below the
surface.

"Current's dragging it a bit," said Jack Delmar.  "Get another five
sections in position right away so we can anchor them to the
riverbed."

The first team worked well.  By 5:20 ten sections were in place and the
pipeline was three hundred me tres long.

"I'm going to have to rest them," said the chief petty officer.

"Okay, chief.  Put your next team down," said Jack Delmar.

"I'm sorry, sir.  But I've put my most experienced divers into the
first team so they'll know all the snags that are likely to crop up.
Each one of them is to be a dive master for the other teams, so I can't
put any more men down until they've rested."

Jack Delmar nodded.  "How long do you need?"

"Thirty minutes, sir."

"Thirty minutes then chief.  But no more."

The second, less experienced team tired in forty-five minutes and
managed to increase the pipeline by only five sections.  It was
exhausting work: each new length added sixty me tres to the distance
the divers had to swim from the Barrow's hold to the end of the
pipeline, and back again.

The third team tired in thirty minutes and succeeded in adding only
four sections.

"It's this business of having to shove the sections along the tunnel,"
said the chief petty officer despondently.  "Each section makes it more
and more difficult.  It's a six hundred metre swim as it is, without
having to handle the pipes."

"The pipeline is going to be four thousand me tres long, chief," Jack
Delmar pointed out.

The chief petty officer nodded glumly.  "We'll have to think of another
way of getting the sections out to the end, sir.  At this rate, all the
men will be exhausted with only half the sections in position."

The American considered the problem.  "Okay, chief," he said.

"You carry on, I'll see if I can up with something."

As each new section disappeared into the hold a girl in the operations
room stretched a rod across the plot-table and pushed another length of
plastic on to the end of the line that was creeping from the model of
the Barrow towards a replica of the power station.  The Prime Minister,
Hendricks and senior officers watched the agonizingly slow process in
concern.

Weiner had disappeared in response to an urgent telephone call from his
office.

"Ten past nine, Prime Minister," said Hendricks.  "There should be
fifty sections out."

The Prime Minister picked up a telephone and pressed the button that
would sound the buzzer on Jack Delmar's two-way radio.

They talked urgently for five minutes.

"They need another two hundred divers," announced the Prime Minister
when he had replaced the receiver.

There was very little of Simpson's face left, but enough for Paul
Weiner to recognize him as he gingerly turned the body on to its back
in Howard Mitchell's sitting-room.

"Do you know who it is?"  asked Mitchell.

Weiner stood up and stared down at the body, baffled.

Mitchell repeated his question.

"No," lied Weiner.

"I thought you might," said Mitchell coldly.  "That's why

I

called you."

"Why should I know who it is?"  demanded Weiner.

"Come on, Paul.  I wasn't born yesterday.  You call me up to London.
You tell me I'm to spy on General Pyne in return for covering my
drill-string which would cost you a helluva lot of money."  Then
Mitchell was shouting, his face a few centime tres from Weiner's.  "And
now I find this on my carpet, and my telephone blown to bits by what
looks like a bomb!"

Weiner groped for words.  The bedroom telephone rang.  He followed
Mitchell upstairs and stood in the doorway.  The telephone call had
given him time to think.

Mitchell picked up the receiver.  "Yes?"

It was Maggie.  Excited.  "Mitch!  I've found Daddy!  I was an idiot
not to have realized before.  Those photographs you took last Sunday.
I've just made another print from one of the negatives.

You remember all those huts and things at the back of that power
station that I thought was a holiday camp?  Well, it's an army camp!

Daddy's new camp!  It must be!"

Weiner could hear an excited voice from where he was standing but was
unable to make out what was being said.  He was grappling with the
mystery of Simpson's body, and suddenly realized that Mitchell was
speaking to him- his hand cupped over the mouthpiece.

"You know London, Paul.  That power station near Thames Haven: is it
called Vulcan Hall?"

Weiner was too shaken by the question to speak.  He could only nod
dumbly.

"Yes," said Mitchell into the mouthpiece.  "And you couldn't?

Sure you dialled the right number?"

Weiner tried frantically to attract Mitchell's attention.

Mitchell turned his back on him.

"Sure.  I'll take you there, honey."

Weiner thought he was going to have a heart attack.  "You can't!"  he
shouted.

Mitchell finished talking and replaced the receiver.  He looked up at
Weiner.  His friend's face was ashen.

"You can't go to Vulcan Hall, Mitch."

"Sure I can.  Who's going to stop me?"

Weiner grabbed his arm.

"Mitch!  You can't!  You've got to keep away.  Both of you!"

Weiner was scared.  Mitchell knew him well enough to know that he
didn't scare easily.

"Supposing you tell me what all this is about, Paul?

Right from the beginning."

Weiner hesitated, then nodded.  "Okay," he said reluctantly, and sat
down.

Half an hour later Weiner was driving fast back to London, wondering if
he had done the right thing.  The car clock said noon.

Weiner shrugged inwardly.  In twelve hours it wouldn't matter what
Mitchell knew.  It would all be over.

One way or the other.

Charlie Davidson was the secretary of the West London branch of the
British Sub-Aqua Club.  The police called for him at his Ealing office
and drove him home through the streets of Acton with sirens howling and
lights flashing.

He searched through his club papers and gave the police a list
containing the names and addresses of every first-class and second
class diver who was a member of the branch.

"Are any of these people experienced in the use of oxygen re breathing
sets?"  asked the police officer, reciting a question he had been told
to ask.

Charlie stared at the policeman.

"Hell, no.  We only use compressed-air aqua lungs Oxygen sets are too
bloody dangerous."

Charlie followed the policeman out to the car.

"Look," he said, as the officer called his headquarters.

"None of these people will be any good to you.  They know nothing about
diving with re breathing sets."

"Looks like they're going to get the chance to learn,"

said the policeman, and started reading out the names and addresses.

The spacious modern bar on the lower deck of the Thames pleasure boat
Chay Blyth was crowded with over a hundred bewildered members of the
British Sub-Aqua Club who had been ruthlessly press ganged into leaving
their homes or places of work and driven to Westminster Pier.

The Chay Blyth's master cut his engines and allowed the vessel to drift
so that it would pass between the anchored Barrow and the south bank.
As the Barrow's bulk obscured the distant power station, the divers, on
a signal from the plain-clothes policeman, filed quickly out of the bar
and jumped into the water.

Although they were all good swimmers and covered the thirty me tres to
the Barrow's side without difficulty, some of them were not so good at
climbing scrambling nets and had to be helped aboard.

The chief petty officer divided them into teams and appointed a navy
shallow-water diver to put each group through a crash training course
in the use of oxygen re breathing sets.

The Chay Blyth continued down river for a little way before turning in
a wide circle and pushing her way back towards London to collect
another party of reluctant, shanghaied day-trippers.

Phoenix helped Kramer and two of his NASA technicians to manhandle the
crate containing the spacesuit on to the pilot's boat at Greenwich
Pier, under the eyes of indifferent tourists who had grown bored with
the Cutty Sark and were waiting for the return boat to London.

The pilot's boat pulled away from the pier at 14:10.  The crate was
carried below.  Kramer helped Phoenix into the suit and connected it to
a portable air-conditioning unit.

The afternoon was heavy with heat and humidity.  Hot diesel fumes
soaked through the boat's lower decks.

"You're better off than us," said Kramer to Phoenix.  "At least you're
in the cool."

Phoenix said nothing.  A fan in the air-conditioning whirred quietly as
it removed the heat from his spacesuit.

By 13:30 the pipeline was over three thousand me tres long and was
within a kilometer of the power station.

"Okay," said Jack Delmar.  "Let's get some more ballast pumped in."

Gravel hurtled along the flexible pipes that snaked through the flooded
pipeline.

Barrow was shedding her cargo at a rate of thirty tonnes a minute.  The
marks painted on the sides of her hull climbed slowly out of the
water.

A member of her original crew finished his cigarette and flipped it
over the side.  He watched the butt curving down.

Something caught his eye.  He leaned over the rail.

"Christ," he whispered to himself.

Jack Delmar and the Barrow's captain leaned over the rail and tried to
look casual.

"So what do we do now?"  asked the captain bitterly.

Jack Delmar looked at the power station crouching beneath its four
ghostly cooling towers and then down at the first two pipeline sections
extending from the Barrow's side.  They were awash on the surface like
an elongated drugged whale.

"Once all the gravel is in the pipeline, we can flood the fore and aft
holds so we ride lower in the water."

"Can't we do it now?"  asked the captain.  "Will it matter if the
gravel gets wet?"

"We can't pump wet gravel," said Jack Delmar.  "We'll just have to take
a chance that they can't see anything."

"A hell of a chance," said the captain grimly, and gave the order for
work to resume.  He looked up at one of the television cameras.  "I'd
better tell them the good news."

Weiner slipped unnoticed back into the operations room and looked at
the plot table in concern: 18:00 hours was the latest time for the
pipeline to be completed and pumped dry.  He was about to whisper to
Hendricks about his trip to Weybridge, when the Prime Minister spoke:
"This business of sending divers along the inside of the pipeline with
the sections seems slow and cumbersome."

"It prevents divers getting lost," said a naval officer.

"And it prevents them being swept away by the current, sir.  The tide's
just turned, so it's going to get worse."

The Prime Minister pursed his lips.  "Surely they won't get lost if
they follow the pipeline?  We could have one team pushing the pipe
halves through the pipeline and two teams on the outside at the some
time.  Treble the speed at which we're getting the damned thing
assembled."

"Visibility is under a metre, sir," said the naval officer, trying to
keep his voice polite.  "I'm sure the men on the site would suggest the
idea if it were feasible.  And besides, if divers were to be swept
away, it wouldn't be possible to rescue them."

"Divers are expendable," said the Prime Minister.  "Time is not."

He reached for his telephone.

Between 14:30 and 15:20 the Barrow lost two naval divers and five
members of the British Sub-Aqua Club team.  The water was too turbid
for anyone to have seen them disappear.  The divers.  struggling with
the long plastic pipes in open water, soon learned to recognize the
sudden increase in their burden as a sign that another of their
comrades had lost his hold.  They tried lifelines, but there was
nothing to fasten them to- only thirty-metre lengths of plastic pipe
endowed by the current with a malignant life force of their own.  Three
lengths were lost- swept away by the strengthening black tide with
divers secured to them.

At 15:50 the Barrow's captain counted the remaining halves of pipe, and
calculated that the pipeline now only three sections short of its
required length.  A quarter of an hour later a dive master surfaced in
the hold, spat out his mouthpiece and yelled that the last section
ferried out couldn't be fitted because it fouled against the power
station's steel and concrete pilings.

There was a half-hearted cheer from the exhausted divers huddled in the
holds.

A diver manning an electric underwater scooter was sent along the
pipeline to count the reinforcing buttresses between the pipeline
opening and the western extremity of the pilings.  He returned with the
figure fifty-one.

The pipeline opening was in the correct position.

The final task of swimming out with the twelve curved petals that
comprised the dome was assigned to a team who had not dived for five
hours.  They had spent most of the time practising assembling the dome
in the aft hold.

The heavy steel petals were lifted over the side of the Barrow away
from the power station, and passed under her hull.

Plastic floats neutralized 95 per cent of each petal's weight.  One of
them had a hole cut in it to accommodate the pipeline opening.  This
petal would be positioned first and the others bolted to it to form a
dome, with the open base sealed to the riverbed by an inflatable skirt.
When the water was enventually pumped out, the pressure of the Thames
bearing down on the dome would be greater than the dome's buoyancy.

By the time the under water convoy had set off from the Barrow, with
each petal assisted by four manned scooters, operation GOPHER was
thirty minutes behind schedule.

Jack Delmar was helping to break open the crates that contained the
electric golf carts for use in the pipeline after it had been pumped
dry, when the pilot's boat was sighted.

Phoenix and the NASA technicians were welcomed aboard the Barrow at
17:25 by Jack Delmar.  He looked curiously at the impenetrable visors
and wondered why they were down.

"You might as well take your helmet off," he told Phoenix, gesturing to
the throbbing diesel pumps.  "We won't have the pipeline pumped dry for
another half hour.  Maybe more."

"I prefer to keep it on," said Phoenix.  "It's air-conditioned in here.
Why the delay?"

"I couldn't even begin to tell you," replied the American.  "As soon as
we'd shifted some gravel into the pipeline, the ship began to lift.
That's why we're pumping the pipeline water into the holds.  Do you
want to meet the captain?"

"I'd sooner see your boring machine."

"It would be better if you'd come earlier to get the feel of the
thing."

"I was told it was simple to operate," replied Phoenix.

The GOPHER was resting on the ramp with most of its weight supported by
the outstretched arm of a derrick.  It was an odd looking machine about
four me tres long and just over a metre in diameter.  One third of its
length consisted of the spiral cutting head

Phoenix leaned into the open hatch.  Jack Delmar joined him and pointed
out the controls.

"That lever at the side controls the cutting speed and the column in
the middle is for going up or down or turning."  He spoke for five
minutes, with Phoenix listening attentively.

"How do I control the forward speed?"  asked Phoenix, when Jack Delmar
had finished.

"You don't.  The cutting action of the head pulls you forward.

The faster you turn the head the faster you move forward."  He pointed
to a group of digital displays.  "That's your INS navigation computer.
All you've got to do is keep the displays reading zero, otherwise
you're off course.  It's been programmed so you'll come up in the power
station's Number Three inspection tunnel."

Phoenix nodded.  He had been over the maps of the galleries until he
knew them by heart.

"Do you want to see the cutting-head working?"  asked Jack Delmar.

"Yes, please."

Jack Delmar had to yell above the noise from the pumps to attract his
engineers.  He gave then orders.  They connected hydraulic hoses to the
couplings at the rear of the GOPHER.  A hydraulic pump started up,
adding its noise to the existing racket.

"GOPHER's like a road-drill," Jack Delmar explained.  "It has to be
connected to a separate power plant by those hydrualic hoses."  He
reached into the cockpit.  The massive cutting-helix started turning
with a loud clanking.

"Don't worry about the row."  he yelled.  "It quiet ens down when it's
biting into something."

He shut the machine off and waved to the men manning the hydraulic pump
to do the same.

Phoenix noticed that the water level in the midships hold had dropped
two me tres since he had come aboard.  The top of the pipeline entrance
was visible above the surface.

The chief petty officer bullied a reluctant team back into their rubber
wet suits.

A third of the opening was visible by the time the first diver edged
past the GOPHER, gave Phoenix a curious look and dropped into the hold.
He swam into the gaping hole; the last diver was able to wade in
carrying a powerful lamp.

"This is the dangerous part," said Jack Delmar.  "There's plenty of
gravel in the pipeline, but if it's not properly distributed a section
could be buoyant and suddenly break loose.

If that happens, we cash our life insurance and go out on the town."

The chief petty officer allowed three more divers into the tunnel when
the first diver reported that the first ten sections were holding.  By
the time the entire four-kilometer length of pipeline had been
inspected, the bottom of the hold was covered with only a few centime
tres of water.  The two-metre diameter tunnel entrance in the Barrow's
side yawned dark and forbidding.

Alan Roberts of the British Sub-Aqua Club was fixing a portable lamp to
the smooth inner surface of the pipeline when he thought he heard a
faint creaking noise.  He lifted the lamp off its hook and shone it on
the nearest seal between two sections.  It was weeping discoloured
Thames water, but then so were many of the seals.  The American had
said some seepage was inevitable.  He heard the noise again and
experienced a twinge of alarm.  He tried calculating the water pressure
bearing against the outside of the pipeline while straining his ears.
There was no more noise.

Perhaps his ears were playing up after all the diving he had been doing
that day.

He finished connecting the lamp and climbed onto the electric golf
cart.  Its tyres crunched on the gravel floor as he drove back to the
Barrow.  The strange noise was forgotten by the time the pipeline floor
was sloping upwards to the daylight.

Maggie fell silent.

No matter how much she screamed at Mitchell, swore at him and heaped
abuse on him, he remained steadfast in his determination to keep her a
prisoner.

She decided on a different approach.

"Mitch?  I'm sorry if I was rude."

He smiled faintly, but still looked extremely worried.

"Forget it."

She sat on his knee and lifted his forearm on to her shoulder.

"It's hot.  How about a swim?"

"Okay.  But only if you promise not to try anything."

"I promise."

Maggie's timing in the swimming-pool was superb.  She grasped the
waistband of Mitchell's trunks and heaved just as he was pushing off
from the side.  He turned over in the water spluttering in fury.

"Hey!  Gimme my shorts!"  he bellowed.

Maggie hopped out of the pool and ran towards her car, clutching
Mitchell's trunks like a trophy.

Mitchell dived naked into his Mustang just as Maggie' sMG disappeared
out of the drive.

The Mustang was the more powerful of the two cars.  He overtook Maggie
on the golf club road.  He gave her a safe stopping distance, then
swung his car sideways, blocking the road.  Maggie responded by
swinging on to the golf course and accelerating down the fairway,
scattering a foursome teeing up for the fourth hole.

Mitchell swore and shot after her.  In the four-minute chase round the
golf course Maggie tried several times to turn back to the road only to
be headed off by the Mustang.  Mitchell eventually forced her into a
bunker.  He yanked the MG's door open as its back wheels spun uselessly
in the soft sand.

"I'll take you after midnight, you silly bitch!"  He yelled at
Maggie.

"Now!"

"Midnight!"

They both stopped arguing, aware of four pairs of eyes watching them.

"You'll be hearing from the club secretary about this, Mr Mitchell,"
said one of them, whose game had been interrupted.

He turned to his three guests who were regarding Mitchell solemnly.

"An American," he explained.

The three guests nodded sympathetically.

The dank interior of the dome, pressed against the riverbed like a
giant rubber sucker, was lit by a string of battery lamps.

Perforated steel plates had been placed over the mud to distribute the
GOPHER's weight.

The machine was now upended- its cutting-head buried in the mud at a
carefully calculated angle.

Jack Delmar was sitting in its inclined cockpit carrying out a
last-minute check when the one diver who had remained with him said he
could see lights approaching along the tunnel.  The golf carts stopped
near the dome.  Kramer and a NASA technician entered, supporting
Phoenix between them.  Jack Delmar scrambled out of the cockpit and
pulled the GOPHER's power hoses that snaked down the tunnel to one
side.  The two NASA men helped Phoenix into the GOPHER's cockpit.  He
kneeled awkwardly on the sloping floor while Kramer attached his
backpack and connected the spacesuit to the spare pack Phoenix was to
use during the journey under the power station's foundations.  A loaded
M1 rifle was placed in the cockpit.

A pair of wire-cutters and a cold-light discharge tube were stowed in
the spacesuit's utility packets.

"We thought we heard a noise back there," Kramer said to Jack Delmar
without stopping work.  "A sort of creaking noise."

"You'd better take a look," Jack Delmar said to the diver.

"Use one of the carts."

The diver drove along the tunnel.  After five minutes he too could hear
the noise.  He slowed down and steered the golf cart with his knees
while directing a portable lamp on the sides of the pipeline.  He found
the broken seal immediately.  It was halfway up.

Water was running down the tubing and being absorbed into the gravel.
The creaking was caused by fractured plastic surfaces being slowly
forced inward.  Even as the diver watched with mounting concern, a new
fissure crept hypnotically across the concave surface.  Beads of water
appeared along the crack and began to swell.

Phoenix stretched out on his stomach.  The GOPHER's steep angle caused
him to slide forward over the controls.

"Grip the restraint-bar with your feet," Jack Delmar advised.

Phoenix eased himself back and hooked his boots over the bar.

Jack Delmar picked a field telephone to call an engineer standing by on
the Barrow.  "Okay.  Give us power."

The hydraulic hoses connected to the GOPHER stiffened.

"Test the rams," said the industrialist.  "One at a time."

Phoenix operated the burrowing machine's controls.

Rectangular sections set into the GOPHER's body extended slowly.

"Okay.  That's fine."

The steering pads were withdrawn until they were once again flush with
the GOPHER's skin.

Kramer made some final adjustments to the backpack and rapped
affectionately on the space helmet before stepping back.

"Good luck," said Jack Delmar, shutting the hatch.

Darkness closed in on Phoenix.  He twisted round, fastened the latches
and looked at the luminous watch Kramer had given him.

Operation GOPHER was forty-five minutes behind schedule.

The diver picked the golf cart up by the rear and swung it round.

He was about to climb back on to the seat to warn the men in the dome,
when the pipe suddenly caved in with a tremendous roar and inrush of
water that swept the golf cart over and threw the diver against the
opposite side of the tunnel.

The men working in the dome looked anxiously down the pipeline as the
sound of the imploding water echoed out of the black opening.

"What the hell was that?"  asked Kramer.

Jack Delmar plugged a communication-jack into a receptacle on the
GOPHER's side.

"Okay!  Get going!"  he barked.

The machine's cutting-head began churning down into the mud before he
finished speaking.  The sound of the GOPHER's hydraulic motor mixed
with the thunderous noise booming out of the tunnel.

It was getting louder.  Kramer was about to speak when the tidal wave
boiled into the dome and swept him off his feet.  The wave scoured the
perimeter of the dome as if seeking a way of escape.

"Full speed!"  Jack Delmar screamed into the communicator.

"We've had a cave-in!"

Kramer and the technician struggled to their feet.  The water was
swirling round their waists.  They tried to push their way to the
opening against the black torrent surging into the dome.

Kramer's assistant became ensnared in the thick coils of hydraulic hose
and started screaming.  Kramer fought his way to the opening.

Jack Delmar grabbed him.

"You've got to stay and help me pay out the hoses!"

GOPHER was driving down into the riverbed.

"Christ no!  We'll drown!"

"We can't drown, you fool!  There'll be a pocket of air trapped at the
top of the dome!"  Jack Delmar gripped Kramer by the shoulder.  "You
must stay and help me!  Please!"

Kramer looked wildly round.  Water was creeping up the tunnel opening.
There was no sign of his assistant.  "You can stay!"

he shouted.  "I'm getting out!"

Jack Delmar hung on to Kramer with both hands.  "Please,"

he implored.  "You must stay!"

Kramer tried to pull away from the old man's clutching hands which were
gripping like claws.  "For Chrissake leg go the water was up to his
chest.  He swung his fist back and hit the elderly industrialist in the
face with all his strength.

Jack Delmar released his grip and sank slowly beneath the black,
swirling water.

Louise Campion stared across the water.  She reached out and touched
Patterson.  He was awake immediately.

"What's the matter?"

Louise glanced round the canteen and pointed across the river.

"There's a whirlpool out there.  Right in the middle.

About halfway between us and that ship."

Patterson shaded his eyes against the burnished glare of the evening
sun shining on the river.  "A whirlpool?  Are you sure?"

Then he saw it: a whirling vortex spiralling around a hole in the
water.

"What do you suppose would cause that ?"  asked Louise.

Patterson shook his head.

"I've never heard of them on the Thames."  He turned his attention to
the Barrow anchored on the far side of the river.

"That ship's been there all day.  Do you suppose something's being
hatched?"

Louise stared at the strange pattern of circling water.

"If there is, it looks as if it's just gone wrong."

Hendricks was quietly telling the Prime Minister about the discovery of
Simpson's body when the sudden silence in the operations room made him
break off.

Everyone was staring at the television monitor that showed Barrow's
midships hold filling with water.  The Prime Minister was about to pick
up his telephone when it rang.  He listened, his eyes fixed on the plot
table with its miniature pipeline extending across the river from the
model of the Barrow.  He replaced the receiver and looked at the
anxious faces waiting for him to speak.

"There's been a collapse in the pipeline.  It's now flooding very
quickly.  There was a message from Jack Delmar a few minutes before the
collapse, to start the pumps that power the GOPHER.

The captain said the pumps are still operating, so it's possible
they're still connected to the GOPHER.  Whether or not it started on
its journey before the collapse, we can't tell.  The captain will send
a diver along the pipeline when it's fully flooded to inspect the dome.
We won't be certain until then."

Phoenix wondered what had happened in the dome as he drove the GOPHER
downward through the mud.  He heard Jack Delmar's voice in his helmet
yell: "Full speed," and then the communication link was cut.

He concentrated on keeping the inertial-navigation displays showing a
zero reading.

The machine continued to burrow downward smoothly with all deviation
displays showing hypnotic rows of glowing zeros.

Sometimes the cutting-head slowed with a deafening noise as it chewed
its way through a layer of gravel.

Suddenly the forward display flashed a positive reading.

Phoenix pulled the control column yoke.  The reading still glowed
mockingly at him.  He hauled the column back even further.  He felt the
machine level out and the strain on his feet relax.  The digits on the
forward display winked back to zero.

The GOPHER had bored successfully down until, if the miniature on-board
navigation computer was correct, it was now at a greater depth than the
lowest part of the power station's foundations.

The machine levelled out forged steadily through the million year-old
deposits.

The illuminated rows of zeros continued to glow out of the darkness.

Phoenix became troubled by his imagination.  He found himself
contemplating the tonnes of concrete above him and wondering what would
happen if something went wrong with the machine.  "The only real
problem is making sure your power hoses don't get tangled."

Jack Delmar had said.  "But we'll be in the dome paying them out to
make certain that doesn't happen."

Supposing something went wrong with the inertial-navigation computer?
Supposing he bored right up into one of the radio-active waste silos?

The rear display was showing a reading.  Phoenix stared at it.

How long had it been like that?  In his confusion, he pushed the
control yoke forward.  More digits flashed up on the display.

He slowed the cutting-head until it was barely turning so that he could
unravel the sudden whirl of confused thoughts.

When the rear display showed a reading, you pulled the column back!

The rams set into the GOPHER's side pressed out, nudging the machine
upward.

The digits started sliding back to zero.

He hauled the column right back against his visor until the display was
once again showing a neutral reading.  His weight slipped back until
his lunar overshoes rested on the restraint bar.

GOPHER was now driving upwards- aiming for the metre thick concrete
floor of Number Three inspection tunnel.

Phoenix looked at his watch.  21:25.  Two hours thirty-five minutes
before Keller's deadline, and he still had to break into the power
station.

Suddenly the GOPHER gave a shuddering jerk and came to an abrupt
standstill.

The underwater scooter purred smoothly along the flooded pipeline,
towing the outstretched body of a diver.  He steered the machine by
gentle twists of his body.  The powerful headlight on the front of the
scooter was virtually useless in the opaque, polluted water.

A faint trace of daylight marked the rupture where the section had
collapsed.  He slowed to pass the sharp edges of torn plastic, and sped
on towards the dome.  A white hand reached out.  The fingers hooked on
to the scooter's propeller guard, upsetting the steering.

The corpse of the NASA technician was dragged fifty me tres before the
diver managed to release it.  The diver pressed on- gathering together
the shattered remains of his nerves.

Jack Delmar was waiting for him in the dome.  The diver kept the
headlight away from the dead, watching face.  The body performed a slow
somersault as he pushed it to one side.  The diver explored the mud
floor.  There was no sign of the GOPHER.  He found a shallow depression
where the hoses disappeared into the yielding ooze.

Grimacing with distaste he pushed an arm into the mud until his probing
fingers encountered one of the golf carts.  A hydraulic hose was wound
tightly round it and had pulled the vehicle down into the riverbed.  He
thrust his arm deeper feeling with his fingers until they closed round
the hydraulic hose below the golf cart.  It felt like an iron bar so
tightly had it been stretched, He pulled his arm out of the mud and
returned along the pipeline with scooter's motor set at maximum
speed.

"It seems," said the Prime Minister, replacing his telephone, "that the
GOPHER managed to get away before the collapse, but one of its hoses is
tangled round an electric golf cart.  A team of divers is now on its
way to the dome with cutting equipment."

Hendricks looked up from his copy of the Operation GOPHER schedule. 
The wall clock said 22:30.  "It would also seem that we're now too
late, Mr Prime Minister."

The politician sat silently for a few minutes.  The room was now
crowded with cabinet minsters and service officers.  The American
ambassador had arrived at 22:00 hours.

"I'm going to ask Keller for a three-hour extension,"

said the Prime Minister.

Phoenix gave up wondering what had happened and resigned himself
quietly to fate.

The whole scheme had been absolutely crazy, he thought.

Doomed to failure from the start.  He should've told the Prime Minister
what he thought of the idea when it was first put to him.

Breathing was getting difficult.  He fumbled in the cramped darkness to
switch his cooling and oxygen systems over to the backpack.  The wave
of coolness travelling down his body as the ice absorbed his body heat,
and the fresh oxygen flooding in to the space helmet, cleared his
head.

He had kept the cutting-head turning slowly: first in the hope that the
GOPHER might free itself and suddenly and lurch forward; and then, as
that hope faded, because the GOPHER would be as quiet as a tomb without
the gentle vibration.

He wondered what future archaeologists would make of his body mummified
in eternal Teflon.  At least they would know his name: Neil A.
Armstrong.

It said so on his shroud.

Phoenix started laughing.

"No," said Keller's polite voice in the Prime Minister's ear.

"I'm extremely sorry, sir, but I cannot permit another extension.  I
take it the bill has now received the royal assent?"

"No yet," said the Prime Minister testily.  "The palace have raised a
number of queries.  All I'm asking for is three hours to resolve
them."

Keller sounded concerned.  "I appreciate the difficulties, sir, but I
earnestly implore you to sort them out within the next hour.

Fifty-five minutes to be exact.  I've got a portable television set and
I'm looking forward to your appearance at midnight when you announce to
the nation the terms of the new Act of Parliament based on my
ultimatum.  If you do not appear, then I will not hesitate to blow up
the silos."

The line went dead.

Keller replaced the radiotelephone microphone on its hook.  He turned
and looked thoughtfully at Louise Campion and Hugh Patterson.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to lock you two up- just in case you have
any more ideas.  I'll let you out after midnight."  He paused.  "If
there is an after midnight."

He waved his Sterling towards a door at the back of the control room.

Phoenix had dozed off to sleep because there was nothing else to do and
it conserved oxygen.  He was woken by a sudden lurch- the one thing he
had ceased praying for an hour earlier.  He touched the sides of the
cockpit.  He wasn't dreaming- they were vibrating with renewed vigour.
Another lurch, and the note from the cutting head deepened.

The GOPHER had resumed boring and was now being dragged upwards by the
action of the cutting-head.  The displays winked.  He automatically
corrected course, too dazed to realize what he was doing.

The machine continued driving smoothly upwards through the compressed
mud and gravel beneath the power station.  Phoenix steered to one side
and pulled back on to the correct course.

Everything was working perfectly.

His feeling of exhaultation ended when the cutting-head rammed into
concrete with a terrible scream.  The noise frightened and confused
him.  He thought the gods were striving to make him mad before they
destroyed him.  He shut the power off and the noise stopped.

Concrete!  He had reached concrete!  All he had to do now was run the
head very slowly until he broke through.

"It's no good driving vertically up through concrete,"

Jack Delmar had told him, "otherwise the cutting-head goes through, and
you're trapped, unable to open the hatch.  You've got to go through at
a shallow angle- like a jet taking off."

For fifteen minutes the massive helix bored relentlessly.

Rubble and debris rattled along the side of the cutting-head and was
ground to powder.

He looked at the watch 23:23.  He was too late.  Even if he got into
the inspection tunnel within the next few minutes, there wouldn't be
enough time to cut all the detonator wires.

Suddenly the GOPHER was turning about its axis.  He was rolling
sideways off the mattress and on to the side of the cockpit.

He fought back waves of panic and tried to reason out what was
happening.  Another spasm shook the GOPHER.  It twisted again with a
sickening noise as its unprotected flanks grated against the side of
the hole it was cutting.  He suddenly realized that the entire machine
was trying to rotate about its axis while the jammed cutting-head
remained stationary.

He pressed the control yoke down as Jack Delmar had told him to do. 
All four steering rams extended simultaneously and arrested the turning
motion.  He waited until the cutting-head was turning freely again
before easing the pressure off the yoke.

There was something he had to do.  He slowed the cutting-head and
wrestled with his memory.  Cooling water!  He thankfully turned the
control that would pass water to the cutting-head to prevent it
activating the IRIS detectors when it broke through.

He eased the GOPHER forward very slowly, centimetre by centimetre.

The GOPHER was through.

Phoenix cut the power, For the first time since he had climbed into the
machine there was silence.  Complete and utterly overwhelming silence.
He twisted around, released the cockpit latches and pushed.  The hatch
remained firmly closed.  He pushed harder.  It yielded slightly, but
snapped shut when he lowered his arms.  He turned carefully and pressed
his foot against the hatch.

He tensed his thigh muscles and heaved.  He placed both feet on the
hatch and heaved again.  The hatch opened slightly and snapped shut.

Another hard push that caused something to break in the backpack and he
succeeded in forcing the hatch open a few centime tres

He grasped it and jerked it from side to side, easing it forward at the
same time.  It suddenly fell away into the darkness with a loud
clatter.  He lay quietly for a few moments while the spacesuit's
cooling system drained the excess heat generated by his exertions.

He climbed stiffly out of the cockpit, feeling in a utility pocket for
the cold light discharge tube.  He broke the seal.

The clinical light from the reacting chemicals filled the inspection
tunnel.  Grey cartons of Cyclonite were stacked four high along one
side for as far as the light could reach.  An IRIS detector gleamed
menacingly less than a metre away.  He was about to unfold a small
sketch-map to check his position, when he suddenly remembered that he
was existing on the backpack.  He raised his wrist to his visor and
gazed at the reading in numbed disbelief.

There was less than five pounds of ice left.

The watch said 23:40.  There was no time even to think about cutting
the detonator wires.  He snatched up the automatic rile and stumbled
along the tunnel as quickly as the unwieldy suit would permit.

At 23:42 the Prime Minister sat calmly before the hastily installed
television cameras.  Engineers buzzed round making final adjustments to
microphones and lights.  The closed folder before him contained two
speeches: one based on the ultimatum General Pyne had delivered, and
the other based of the ultimatum imposed by Ralph Keller.  The Act of
Parliament which had just become law was modelled on Pyne's ultimatum.
Now that Simpson was dead, only he knew that Pyne had escaped.

The red telephone was connected direct to Keller.  The chances that its
red light would flash with a message from Phoenix to say he had gained
control now seemed extremely remote.

At 23;43 Phoenix discovered the riddled bodies of the power station
staff piled on top of one another.  He leaned against the side of the
tunnel and tried not to be sick.  It could be fatal in a spacesuit- he
could drown in his own vomit.  He had no choice but to climb the
terrible heap to reach the lower rungs of the shaft.

His lunar overshoes slipped several times on the rigid corpses.  The
bodies sighed as his weight forced air from their lungs.

He fastened the rifle to a clip and started to climb the fifty steel
rungs set into the side of the shaft.  He wondered which would run out
before he reached the top- his strength, the ice or time.

At 23:51 Phoenix pushed the steel cover open at the top of the shaft
and looked quickly around.  There was no ice left, and no point in
waiting.

He heaved himself on to the concrete and staggered to his feet.  He had
no way of knowing whether the IRIS system had detected his presence.
The alarms would sound in the control room- not down here.

He shuffled quickly across the apron towards the main entrance.

It was unlocked.

Heat was beginning to build up in the spacesuit now that the ice was
gone.  He mounted the stairs.  The lunar overshoes slipped on the
smooth marble.  He fell backwards, crashing the backpack against the
railings.  He picked himself up and continued up the stairs.  Sweat ran
down his face.  Something was wrong with his breathing system.  He
twisted and pulled the oxygen-purge controls.

A small quantity of oxygen trickled into the helmet, but not enough to
sustain him as he climbed the stairs.  The heat was getting worse.  A
film of mist began to form on the inner fixed visor.

Keller wouldn't have moved IRIS detectors into the power station - they
would've caused too much nuisance.  He paused on the second floor to
unfasten the space helmet.  The restricted field of vision through the
visors and a spreading film of mist prevented his seeing the detector
of the wall beside him.

Ralph Keller picked up his modified cell phone cum detonator and
switched it on.  A portable television standing on the console was
showing a late-night film.  He looked at his watch.

23:55.

He stood watching the television- his fingers caressing the cell
phone

Phoenix gave up fumbling at the space helmet- the clumsy gauntlets made
the task impossible, and removing them would waste valuable seconds.
His aching lungs sucked painfully at the meagre oxygen supply as he
raced up the stairs.  The mist spreading across the inner visor was now
much worse.  He paused outside the control room, fighting for breath
and pressing his hands together to stop them shaking.

Christ!  What the hell was he to do about the helmet misting up?  How
long would it take to get it off?

There was a circular window in the control room.  Through the fogged
visors he could just make out Keller at the far end near the main
console.

By now Phoenix was in despair.  His hands were shaking uncontrollably-
he aimed the M1 experimentally down the stairs.

The foresight waved all over the place.

23:59.

His breath rasped out of his lungs- fogging the helmet until Keller was
a blur.

Too bloody bad.

He kicked the door open, launched himself into the control room and
fired.

Keller turned, his finger reaching automatically for the cell phoner

Phoenix emptied most of the M1's magazine at Keller before collapsing
on to one knee, his blood pounding in his ears from lack of oxygen.  He
was vaguely aware of noise all round him as bullets from Keller's
Sterling smashed into the steel filing cabinets near the door.  A
ricochet shattered the space helmet and three bullets tore into his
stomach just as his lungs clawed down acrid, cordite impregnated air.
He slipped to the floor and lay face down.

At five minutes past midnight the red telephone flashed.  The Prime
Minister snatched it up and, remembering eyes were upon him, placed it
casually to his ear.

"Yes?"

He listened.

The television director in the outside broadcast van noticed a nerve in
the Prime Minister's neck that twitched.

"I see," said the Prime Minister.  He listened for a few seconds, then:
"How badly?"  Another pause.  "Very well."

He replaced the receiver slowly and looked at the faces round him.

"Phoenix has failed," he said in a flat, unemotional voice.

"He's been shot.  Keller wants me to go down to the power station
alone."

There was a deathly silence in the room.

"You can't, sir," said the Home Secretary.

The Prime Minister stood, and gave the Home Secretary the speech based
on the original ultimatum.  "I've got no choice,"

he said.  "You're to do the broadcast for me."

The Home Secretary took the document with trembling hands.

"Let me go, sir," he begged.

The American ambassador spoke.  "You shouldn't go, Mr Prime Minister.
You'd be--' "It must be me."  said the Prime Minister, moving to the
door.

He called one of the armed marines into the room and told him to allow
no one near the red telephone.

"I'll give you that, he's got guts," the ambassador said quietly to
Hendricks when the Prime Minister had left.

Hendricks nodded.

The lungfuls of air revived Phoenix.  It was quiet in the control room.
There was a terrible pain in his stomach.  He picked at the smashed
fragments of visor and tried to pull himself up.  His legs wouldn't
work.  There was no sign of Keller.

He looked at the watch.  Three minutes past midnight.  He hauled
himself across the control room floor by his elbows.  There was a good
deal of blood splattered over the main console and the remains of
Keller's cell phone detonator on the floor.  Phoenix grimaced when he
saw it.  Keller had been wrong that destroying it would detonate the
explosives.  He crawled to the radiotelephone and dragged the
microphone off its hook.

"Yes?"  crackled the Prime Minister's voice.

"Phoenix, sir.  I've shot Keller..."  He broke off as the pain in his
stomach racked his body.  "The cell phone detonator didn't work." There
was blood rising in his throat, choking his exultation.  "But the
danger's over."

"I see," said the Prime Minister's voice.

"Keller's gone- he's wounded, but--' "How badly?"

The Prime Minister's voice seemed to fade as the control room spun
round.  "There's a lot of blood... Must be badly hurt..."

Phoenix's voice was a whisper.

"Very well," said the Prime Minister.

Phoenix was about to speak again, but realized the line was dead.  He
became dimly aware of hammering on a door at the back of the control
room.  Patterson and Louise Campion.  Keller must have locked them up.
It would be best if they remained out of the way until he had dealt
with Keller.

He turned away from the radiotelephone and saw the thick trail of his
own blood across the control room floor.

The Prime Minister sat silently in the darkness in the back of his
chauffeur-driven car.  He unwrapped a cigar and reflected that
everything seemed to be turning out well.

It was the whine of the fuelling machine that attracted Phoenix.

The sound of the giant machine that lowered the nuclear-fuel elements
into the two reactors could be heard all over the power station.

Doomsday Captain Stacy clutched his clipboard protectively.

"Miss Pyne, your friend's car is blocking the road.  If you aren't gone
within thirty seconds I shall have both of you arrested."

Stacy nodded to the soldiers.  They gathered closer round the Mustang
that was parked in the road outside the main gate leading to the new
Oil and Gas Rig Defence Force camp.

"Come on, honey," said Mitchell, "He's not going to let us in."

"I'm not leaving until I've seen my father," said Maggie firmly.

Stacy peered into the darkness and thought he could see headlights
approaching.  He turned angrily to the Mustang.  "For the last time,
Miss Pyne, he's not here.  I'm expecting an important visitor and I
want this car out of the way!"

"You're lying!"  snapped Maggie.  "I know he's here, and I'm staying
here until you agree to let me see him!"

The headlights were now within four hundred me tres

"Take them away," said Stacy urgently.  "And shift this car."

Mitchell did not argue with the submachine-gun pointing at him.  He
opened the door and stepped out.  Maggie refused to budge.

A soldier opened her door and gestured with his gun.

"You'll have to drag me out," said Maggie defiantly.

The soldier reached into the car.  Maggie bit his hand when he tried to
grab her.

Stacy groaned.  The car was fifty me tres away and slowing down.

Three soldiers dragged Maggie from the Mustang.  Mitchell took a step
towards her as she fought and yelled, but was pushed back by the
soldiers.

"Get the car shifted!"  barked Stacy.  The headlights stopped a few me
tres behind the Mustang.  Goddamit -- a ministerial car.  Its rear door
opened and slammed before the chauffeur could move.

Footsteps approached.

Maggie nearly broke away.

"What's the trouble?"  asked a voice that Stacy recognized immediately
from the radio and television.  It was the Prime Minister.

"I just want to see my father!"  Maggie yelled.

"Let her go," said the Prime Minister.

"She's creating a disturbance, sir," said Stacy, cursing inwardly.

"Let her go, Captain Stacy."  The voice car was quiet and
authoritative.

Stacy ordered the soldiers to release Maggie.

The short, stocky figure moved forward.  "Miss Pyne, isn't it?

I'm the Prime Minister.  How do you do?"

"I don't care who you are," retorted Maggie.  "All I want is-' "To see
your father.  And so you shall.  I'll take you to him.

But first, I have some urgent business to attend to."

The Prime Minister turned to Stacy and issued a series of orders.

Ralph Keller's right shoulder was a mass of blood and the arm hung
uselessly at his side.  He was standing on the catwalk watching the
fuelling machine lower the deadly uranium rods into the reactor.

He stared across the great vault of the power station with mad
fascination as the machine completed the loading operation.

The cluster of mechanical claws released the rods and began lifting
themselves clear.  An electric motor started.  The machine, suspended
from overhead rails whirred towards Keller to collect the last of the
rods hanging in the circular water-tank ten me tres below the catwalk.
The heavenly blue glow of Cerenkov radiation from the immersed rods
bathed his face.

The great machine clanked nearer, its empty claws hanging down between
the overhead rails like obscene ruptures.

Just these ten more rods, thought Keller.  Just these ten more rods
lifted out of the tank and lowered into the reactor with its cooling
system switched off, and there would be an uncontrolled chain-reaction.
The concrete and steel round the reactor core would hold for a few
seconds, but nothing could withstand the terrible unleashed energies.
The catastrophic explosion would blast radioactive particles across the
face of Europe.  It was a pity his clever methods of overriding the
safely devices wouldn't survive; but it didn't matter- the memorial to
his genius, the poisons that would fill the air and seep into the
ground, would last for generations.

The machine was nearly over the tank- the cluster of claws level with
Keller's eager eyes.  He moved to a control board and pressed a button.
The machine stopped within a few me tres of the catwalk.  The hum from
the motors changed.  The claws opened, and the whole machine began
sliding gently down the four gleaming shafts that suspended it from the
overhead gantry rails.

There was something wrong with the shafts.  Thick red fluid was running
down them and turning blue as it neared the glowing water.  Keller
looked up at the top of the descending machine.

Phoenix was aiming a rifle at him.

"Switch it off, Keller."

Then, for the first time.  Keller saw Phoenix's eyes- staring at him
past the shattered visor fragments, moving nearer, growing larger.
Keller's surprised expression changed to terror.  It was as if all the
screaming monsters of his savage nightmares had risen as one to torment
him.  He backed across the catwalk, away from the terrible, approaching
apparition and turned to run.

Phoenix fired.  It was a difficult shot from a moving platform at a
moving target.

The bullet tore into Keller's thigh.  It flattened and became an anvil,
smashing and tearing its way through bone and tissue.  The impact spun
Keller round and threw him against the safety rail.

His fingers clutched at the side of the fuelling machine as he
over-balanced and fell ten me tres into the shining water.

Phoenix pulled himself to the edge of the machine and looked down.
Keller was struggling in the flowing water, trying to climb the smooth
sides of the tank.

Phoenix felt the machine stop.  The twenty claws, each with three open
steel fingers extended downward to the water on the ends of long
shafts.  Keller saw them coming and screamed.  Although the tops of
uranium rods were twenty feet below the surface of the water, the
fingers were designed to shut when they encountered an obstruction.

They closed on Keller.  They closed on his arms, his legs and his neck.
The shining water seemed to burn with increasing intensity as it rose
round his body.  His screaming stopped abruptly as he was pushed under.
The terrified face staring up at Phoenix receded into the iridescent
depths until his entire body was obscured by the swirling clouds of
blue smoke rising from his thigh.

The top of the fuelling machine had stopped level with the catwalk.
Phoenix grasped the safety rail and hauled himself on to the narrow
walkway.  It took ten minutes of superhuman effort to drag himself to
the control panel and push the button that stopped the fuelling machine
from completing the loading cycle.

The whine from the electric motors died away.

Phoenix leaned against the railings, too weak from the loss of blood to
make another move.  He was cold.  Numbing fingers of death were probing
his body, exploring his bowels, moving through his organs.

He became aware of footsteps echoing across the open vault of the power
station's central gallery.

A short stocky figure was mounting the steel steps to the catwalk.
Phoenix watched the Prime Minister approaching.  The polished shoes
stopped near his outstretched legs.  The Prime Minister knelt down.

"Well, Pyne, you seem to have managed better than I thought you
would."

The man who was Phoenix nodded weakly.  "Be able to--' His face twisted
with pain.  He moved a gauntleted hand over his stomach.  "Be able to
pick up from where I left off."

"No, Pyne.  I don't think that's necessary now."

Pyne tried to struggle up.  "But the bill, sir," he whispered.

"You need me to carry on here."

"The bill became law at midnight, Pyne."

Pyne shook his head inside the helmet.  His lustre less grey eyes
stared up at the politician.  "I thought you'd scrapped it after
Keller's takeover?"

The Prime Minister smiled at the dying man.  "After all that planning,
Pyne?  You misjudge me.  Just as you misjudged Keller.

That was the one mistake Simpson and I made when we planned all this -
letting you choose your team.  By the way, where are the other two?"

"Locked in a room off the control room.  They know nothing about this.
I never told them."  Pyne's words were a whisper.

"I didn't think you would," said the Prime Minister easily.

"You're much too loyal to disobey orders."  He felt in his pocket and
produced a sheaf of papers which he held out to Pyne.

"There it is, Pyne.  A copy of the Special Powers Act which makes me
the most powerful man in Europe.  Just think, Pyne; no more forced
divisions in the House; no more worrying about legislation being
watered down in committee; no more worrying about which way rebel
backbenchers are going to vote.  There it is, Pyne.  Doesn't it seem
worthwhile after the worrying time we went through when you told me
about the existence of the Cromwell Two Committee, and our arguments
over which power station should be seized?"  The Prime Minister laughed
easily.  "I'm more powerful now than Cromwell ever dreamed possible."

Pyne fell back, his body drained of strength and blood.

The cold was reaching into his chest.

"What's going to happen to me, sir?"

The Prime Minister glanced at the blood on the top of the silent
fuelling machine.  "Well, it looks as if you're going to die, Pyne.
I'll keep you company until you do."

Pyne looked up into the calculating eyes and began to understand.
"You're forgetting something, sir."  The "sir' was automatic- the
product of Pyne's loyalty, which even the approach of death could not
entirely eradicate.  "Simpson hates your guts.

He'll tell everyone."

"Simpson is dead, Pyne.  Just as you will be in a few minutes."

Pyne shook his head disbelievingly.  "You need the threat from the
power station to stay in office.  You said that when you wrote the
ultimatum.  I remember your words..."

The Prime Minister smiled.  "Read the bill, Pyne.  It's been drafted by
the best legal brains in the country.  It's one hundred per cent
watertight.  It sailed through the House and now it's received the
royal assent.  There was a clause that required the act to lapse once
the threat from the power station was removed, but it was deleted.
That's why I don't need you any more."

Pyne said nothing.  His eyes were closing.  Air rattled noisily past
his lips as his lungs laboured against the blood flooding into his
throat.  The Prime Minister made himself comfortable while waiting for
Pyne to die.

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot.  Your daughter's outside."

Pyne's eyes opened and flickered with eagerness.  "Maggie?

She's here?"  He tried to pull himself up.  "May I see her, please?"

The Prime Minister shook his head.  Pyne summoned his strength and
leaned forward.  The politician pushed him back.  He looked at the
blood on his hand with distaste and wiped it off on his handkerchief.

"You're a true bastard," said Pyne softly, barely able to move his
lips.

"At last you're beginning to understand me, Pyne.  But when I walk out
of here, I'll be the biggest hero in the country."

The Prime Minister's voice was fading.

"But you, Pyne, will be remembered as a traitor.  A traitor who was
given the chance to redeem himself, and failed.  You won't even get the
credit for shooting Keller."

Pyne only heard the words "a traitor' before he died.

The Prime Minister leaned forward.  "Are you dead yet, Pyne?"

he asked softly.

He placed his ear near the smashed visors.  Pyne's lungs were silent.

The Prime Minister waited ten minutes to be certain, then stood up.

Maggie was waiting by the main entrance with Mitchell when the Prime
Minister emerged.  Stacy's men were holding her back.

A pretty little thing, thought the Prime Minister.  Had her father's
looks.  If she had half his loyalty, she'd make the American a good
wife.

"Is he in there?"  she asked.

The Prime Minister smiled warmly at her.  "Yes, my child.

you can go in and see him now.  Straight down the corridor and into the
main reactor room.  He's at the top of an iron catwalk waiting for
you."

"May I go with her, sir?"  asked Mitchell.

The Prime Minister gestured expansively.  "If you wish."

He waited until the couple had entered the building and turned to
Stacy.

"Captain Stacy, do you know what's been going on here?"

Stacy fingered his clipboard and nodded.  "I saw the Home Secretary's
broadcast, sir."

The Prime Minister unfolded a piece of paper and gave it to the
officer.  "You and your men are in for a busy night, Stacy.

That's a warrant for the names on the attached list.  They're all
members of a group calling themselves the Cromwell Two Committee.

You're to round them up."

Stacy looked at the list aghast.  "These people?"  he croaked.

"But they're all--' "Politicians, top civil servants, service
officers.

Pillars of society.  I don't care what they are," interrupted the Prime
Minister.  "All I know is that they're traitors."

"But one of them is the Home Secretary," Stacy protested.

"The ringleader.  You'll also find two of the terrorists in there." 
The Prime Minister jerked his head at the power station.

"I've locked them in a room off the control room.  A man and a woman.
Arrest them too.  When you've done that, send a bomb disposal team into
the silos to remove the high explosive.  Have you got all that?"

Stacy repeated his instructions in a trembling voice.

"Excellent, Stacy.  One more thing.  I've a sense of the theatrical in
me tonight so haul them all off to the Tower of London.

The Prime Minister did not wait for a reply, but turned and walked to
his car.  The driver jumped out and opened the rear door.

"Downing Street," said the politician.

He paused before getting into the car and looked up at the stars.  The
clear sky was tinged with the first flush of dawn.

He inhaled deeply.

There was the smell of a new day in the air.