Ultimate Issue

by

George Markstein


       Captain John Tower
The man who knows more than he should .
. .
           Tony Verago
The army attorney who smells a rat . . .
       Helga Braunschweig
An East German woman with secrets
          to hide . ..
      Captain Matt Kingston
An American electronics specialist whose spy
mission is covered up and who is presumed
dead until Tony Verago winds up in his
         prison cell. ..
         ULTIMATE ISSUE
 A thriller of Cold War intrigue
    with a shattering climax.
                
Also by George Markstein
Published by Ballantine
Books:
  CHANCE AWAKENING
     THE GOERING
TESTAMENT
       TRAITOR
          
         ULTIMATE
           ISSUE
     George Markstein
BALLANTINE BOOKS   NEW YORK
             
Copyright ›) 1981 by (George Markstein

All rights reserved under International and
Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published
in the United States by Ballantine Books, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York, and
simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada, Limited, Toronto, Canada.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:
81-69506
ISBN 0-345-2903 1-3
Printed in Canada
First Edition: January 1982

For Jacqui, because she first
sounded the alert and then kept it
going
             
  It is a political error to practice
deceit, if deceit is carried too far.

Frederick the Great, 1740

I have a rendezvous with Death At
some disputed barricade.

Alan Seeger, 188~1916

Lncs a buzzing hornet, the olive-green painted
Mi-1 helicopter with the colors of the German
Democratic Republic whirred its way over the
suburbs of East Berlin.

  The journey to the enclave would have taken
him only half an hour by road, driving at high
speed in the bulletproof Zis limousine with a
Volksarmee escort, but Walter Ulbricht preferred
traveling this way. A thousand feet up in the air.
It was safer.

  The helicopter was a present from the Kremlin,
for his personal use. He appreciated the gesture.
And the fact that it made him a more difficult
target.

  Below him he could see the Tetolow canal and
the S-bahn and the network of roads that led to
Bernau and the east. He watched a Russian army
convoy, looking like a collection of toy tanks.
There would be many more convoys soon.
Moving westward . . .

  Walter Ulbricht, the most powerful man in East
Germany, first Secretary of the Party, had plenty
on his mind. He was a short-tempered man, and
he hated wasting time. Now that the decision had
been made, he wanted to get things going. Of
course he understood that the complicated
preparations would take time, and he had agreed
to Moscow's schedule.

  But the August deadline still remained eleven
weeks away.

  He resented the hiatus the delay would cause.
The quicker the plan was implemented, the
better. Each week of inaction was costing the
Democratic Republic dearly, as he had pointed
out.

  Through the glare-proof plastic of the
observation window, he could see, far away on
the horizon, three MIG fighters in the clear early
June sky. They would keep well away, of course.
Air control at Schoenefeld had given the
helicopter a VIP air corridor all to itself. No
aircraft was allowed within ten miles of the
chopper.

He heard his personal pilot talking to ground
control,

                  1
                  
and as the Mi-1 started to descend he saw the
enclave spread out below him. The two
roadblocks that guarded the approaches. The
six-foot wall that surrounded the enclosure.
Floodlit at night, it was steel reinforced so that
even a tank would have difficulty breaching it.
And along the top ran a fine wire guaranteed to
electrocute anyone climbing over.

 Slowly the helicopter lost altitude and then,
gently, it touched down on the landing strip inside
the VIP compound. Steel-helmeted, jackbooted
Volksarmee soldiers, drawn up in a rigid rank,
sprang to attention.

 Ulbricht's aide, a captain, jumped from the
helicopter first and stood ready to help him
alight. Ulbricht, who prided himself on his
spartan fitness, ignored him.

 The captain handed him the slim, locked
briefcase, and the soldiers gave Ulbricht the state
salute, the sun glinting on their bayonets. The
men of the Wachtregiment, his personal
bodyguard, 150 dedicated volunteers, were the
elite of the entire People's Army. Ulbricht had
personally approved each man. He had followed
a good example for the unit, Adolf Hitler's
Leibstandarte.

 Ulbricht gave a curt nod and entered the shiny
black limousine, flying his own personal standard,
which had drawn up by the landing strip.
Although his villa was close by, he avoided
walking.

 The car drove past the tennis courts, the
swimming POOL the private cinema, the
kindergarten, the concert hall, and finally reached
the most exclusive part of the compound: the
residences of the state leaders.

 Smoothly the limousine halted in front of
Ulbricht's custom-built villa. The Volksarmee
captain who sat in front beside the NCO
chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for
Ulbricht.

 The two sentries in front of the villa presented
arms. Again Ulbricht just nodded, then walked
into his residence. He was carrying the locked
briefcase.

 In it was a sealed folder that contained a
document with the highest security classification
existing behind the Iron Curtain.

On the folder there was just one word: BERMS.

 She typed slowly and very carefully. The major
from security sat by her desk, watching her as she
transcribed her shorthand notes.

"How much longer?" he asked.

                  2
                  
  "I'm almost finished," she replied. The
memorandum of agreement was a short one. Only
half a dozen paragraphs. But there was no carbon
copy.

  Ulbricht himself dictated it ta her on his return
from the three-day summit meeting at Pankow. It
had been a very secret meeting, and throughout
the doors were guarded by Volksarmee, fingers
on the triggers of their submachine guns.

  The conference had been held in an ornate
room with glass chandeliers hanging from the
ceiling and thick carpets on the floor. In
deference to Ulbricht, nobody smoked though
ashtrays had been courteously provided. So had
bottles of mineral water.

  Not often had Pankow seen such a
high-powered delegation from Moscow. Marshal
Rodion Malinovsky, defense minister of the
Soviet Union had led it, and with him he had
brought the top brass, including Marshal Andrei
Grecho, Commander in Chief of the Warsaw Pact
forces. The East German contingent comprised
Grotewohl and Willie Stoph, the sinister one, as
well as Ulbricht himself.

  They had sat facing each other across a big
polished table, each man with a notepad and
pencils laid out ready for him. After every
session, the military aides made sure no
incriminating notes had been left on the pads.

  They had talked about Berlin, and several times
they had looked at huge, large-scale maps of the
city spread out before them.

  As soon as he'd returned to his villa, Ulbricht
called her into his private office and dictated the
aide memoirs.

  'Hype it on one page," he instructed. "No copy,
you understand."

  After that, the major never left her side,
walking along the corridor with her and not
taking his eyes off her as she removed the cover
from her typewriter, inserted the sheet of paper,
and started typing.

  Helga's face did not betray any emotion when
she saw what they had agreed.

  "Right," she said finally and stopped typing. She
took the sheet of paper out of the machine and
put it in a folder.

'All have that," said the major.

  "But . . . it's most secret," she protested. "It
must not be seen by anyone."

                  3
                  
  "Exactly," said the major, who was Ulbricht's
most trusted aide.

  Then he leaned over and ripped the page of
shorthand out of her notebook.

  "I don't have to remind you that divulging a
state secret is high treason," he said pleasantly,
"Do I, Fraulein Braunschweig?"

She shook her head and watched him leave

  But she remembered what she had typed She
remembered it very well.

  She looked at the calendar on her desk. It was
less than eleven weeks away.

She didn't have much time.

  On June 3, 1961, President John P. Kennedy
arrived in Vienna to meet with USSR Premier
Nikita Khrushchev

  The following day they issued a joint
communique reaffirming support for the
neutrality of Laos and stating they had discussed
disarmament, a nuclear test ban, and the German
question.

  Later, in the afternoon, President Kennedy flew
to London.

  Hours before his arrival, the crowds started
gathering in the streets. They stood patiently,
lining the pavements waiting for the presidential
cavalcade to pass. All along the route from
Heathrow, enthusiastic Londoners greeted his
arrival.

  The President and his entourage drove straight
into central London.

  That night, while the Kennedys stayed privately
in Princess Lee Radziwill's small town house,
across the street from Buckingham Palace, the
Soviets issued a memorandum urging the
demilitarisation of Berlin.

  At the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square
and in the Foreign Office in Whitehall, the lights
burned late.

  The next morning, a top Anglo-US meeting was
scheduled for 10:30 A.M. to discuss the
Khrushchev talks. But something went wrong. The
summit was suddenly canceled.

  Instead, unexpectedly, the President and Prime
Minister Harold Macmillan met alone for two and
a half hours behind closed doors. There were no
witnesses, and whatever they said was off the
record. To this day their discussion remains
secret.

That was on Monday, June 5, 1961.

                  4
                  
      Wednesday, June 7,1961
Mannheim

VERAOO was sweating. It was a warm, beautiful
summer's day, and the weather wasn't the reason
he felt uncomfortable. Private Pirst Class
Benjamin L. King was the reason. Verago wasn't
looking forward to their meeting.

  He hated stockades, especially the one at
Mannheim. He suspected the army encouraged
the reputation the place had. A spell inside
Mannheim was calculated to teach an errant
soldier the folly of his way.

  The tall guard towers dominated the square
complex. At night the surrounding spiked brick
walls were brightly lighted. The MPs who moved
around the penal barracks were unarmed, so that
if they were overpowered, the prisoners couldn't
seize any firearms. Mutinies were not unknown at
Mannheim. But the perimeter guards had guns,
and anyone foolish enough to make a break for it
would quickly find out they were loaded.

  Inside the place smelled of carbolic. The
provost lieutenant who escorted Verago to King's
cell block smelled of it too.

  He was aware how much the lieutenant
disapproved of him. The man was scrubbed and
spruce like the floors and walls of the barracks.
To him Verago looked like a civilian in uniform.
Too portly. Needing a haircut. Uniform
unpressed. Unpolished shoes. The lieutenant's
shoes shone like a mirror, his creases were razor
sharp, his figure athletic.

  "Is he your only client here, Captain?" asked the
lieutenant.

  "At the moment," grunted Verago. But he was
no stranger to Mannheim. In his tour of duty as
an army lawyer in Germany, he had had many
occasions to visit GIs in custody there. Too many
occasions.

  "I guess he'll be moved on soon," remarked the
lieutenant.

"I imagine so," agreed Verago.

"He hasn't given us any trouble. Not so far
anyway."

God help the poor bastard who does, thought
Verago.

A helmeted face peered at them through the
grille of a

                  S
                  
steel door, and then the door was unlocked and
they entered another corridor. It was lined by
cages, and in the cages were men. One of them
was King.

 "Open up," ordered the lieutenant, and the MP
unlocked the cage door. King was sitting on his
bed, in fatigues. He didn't stand up when he saw
Verago.

"Get up, soldier," ordered the lieutenant.

 King stared at them, then slowly got to his feet.
The movement was a study in dumb insolence to
rank.

"God damn it, stand straight," shouted the
lieutenant.

"It's all right," said Verago. "You leave me with
him."

 "Yes, sir," said the lieutenant. He gave King a
last angry look and slammed the door as he left.

 The cage was made of fine wire mesh. The
floor was spotless. On top of the locker, King's
toilet things were symmetrically laid out, like a
parade. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, rigid at
attention. The razor was missing. There was a
Bible.

 "Smoke?" suggested Verago, offering the soldier
his pack.

King shook his head.

 He doesn't look the part of a Gl caught trying
to rape a fraulein in the backseat of a car,
Verago thought yet again. A clean-cut, lanky
young man, studious, aloof. Not the type to spend
his time in a Kaiserlautern off-limits joint. But
after two years with the army in Germany,
nothing surprised Verago any more.

 "Sit down," said Verago, lighting his cigarette.
He pulled the single stool over and at down. King
perched on the edge of the bed.

"How they treating you, Ben?"

King shrugged. "Okay."

"Chow all right?"

"Okay." The same flat tone.

 "I got some good news," said Verago. All night
he'd been bothered just how he was going to tell
him. He knew what the reaction would be.
"They've cut your sentence." He didn't wait for
King to say anything. "By a third."

That sounded better, at least.

"Eight years?" asked King.

Verago nodded. "It's been reduced to eight
years."

"Well, Captain, I am very grateful to you. Yes,
sir."

The way it was said Verago winced.

"Eight years in Leavenworth, that isn't too bad, is
it?"

                 6
                 
King went on sarcastically. "I'd say you've done a
mighty good job."

 Verago stubbed out his cigarette. "You
should've considered the consequences before you
messed with her. You should have thought of it
then."

King looked at him gravely. "She wanted it."

  "Oh, sure," snarled Verago. He was angry.
"That's what every guy who tries to rape a woman
says. Afterward. She asked for it. She wanted it.
She liked it. Bullshit."

"But I wasn't trying to. It got out of hand."

  Verago sighed. "We've been all over that. You
hit her, you tore her bra off, you . . . hell, you
know what the MPs saw when they found you
two."

"She called me a black ape."

"You told me," said Verago, more gently.

"She said I was a black "

"Yes?"

"Forget it," said King. "Just forget it."

  'Yhat's mitigation, maybe, but no defence,"
Verago said patiently. "A deal was our best way
out under the circumstances. And we haven't
finished yet. It's still going through channels. I'll
do my best, Ben."

  King smiled coldly. "Don't you worry about me,
Captain. I'll survive."

  Verago had a growing sense of claustrophobia.
The wire of the cage was so finely meshed that he
couldn't see anything out of it. He felt trapped.
He could hear the prisoners in the other cells,
coughing, shuffling about, he felt their presence,
but he couldn't see them.

  "Is there anything you need?" asked Verago. He
felt the trickle of perspiration under his left
armpit.

"Yeah," said King. "A woman."

Momentarily, Verago didn't know what to say.

  "Sorry, that's against regulations," he finally
joked, weakly.

  King looked at him unamused. "When are they
shipping me out?"

  "I don't know. When the reviewing authority has
finished with your case."

  "I know it wasn't your fault, Captain," he said
unexpectedly. "I know you tried your best. Trouble
is, you made one hell of a big mistake."

"What was that?"

"You trusted them. You thought you had a deal.
You

                  7
                  
really believed that. I got a piece of advice for
you too, sir.''

Verago waited.

"Go fuckyourself, Captain."

It was said quite mildly, almost respectfully.

  Verago got up, the stool scraping on the floor.
He was pale. He wasn't a man who liked to
control his temper.

  "I'm sorry that's the way you feel, soldier," he
said at last.

  He turned and rattled the gate of the cage.
An MP came to unlock it from the outside.

"You all through, sir?" asked the MP.

"Yes," said Verago, "I'm all through."

        Friday, June 9, 1961

West Berlin

IDLY were just carrying the stretcher into the
ambulance when Pech arrived.

  He was driving himself, and he parked his
official black Mercedes between a Kripo car with
its blue light still flashing and the police surgeon's
Porsche. He slid into the gap neatly. Pech was an
excellent driver.

  He got out of the car and walked to the
ambulance. A Schupo barred his way.

  "Verfassungsschutz," Pech said crisply, and
flashed his ID card. The cop was vastly impressed.
The Offlce for the Protection of the Constitution
did not usually turn up within ten minutes of a
shooting.

  A doctor was bending over the body of a man
in a green suit. The blood from two bullet wounds
was spreading across the man's chest.

"Is he dead?" asked Pech.

"Nearly," replied the doctor.

  "Let me see," said Pech, almost brutally, and the
doctor reluctantly gave way to enable Pech to lean
over the stretcher.

The dying man's eyes were closed.

"Can you hear me?" asked Pech

The eyes stayed shut.

"Martin, can you talk?"

                  8
                  
  The doctor intervened. "There's no time for
that. He's got to get to hospital now," he protested
angrily.

  "I believe," said Pech, straightening up, "that he
just died."

  The doctor grabbed the man's wrist and felt his
pulse. "Right," he said, with finality. "Take him
away."

  Pech stood in front of the block of flats and lit
a cheroot.

  "Excuse me, sir," a Kripo officer said
respectfully. "Do you know anything about the
dead man?"

"Maybe," said Pech.

  The detective was holding a wallet. "According
to his papers, he's from the other side."

"Other side?" echoed Pech, amused.

"The Elast."

"Really?" remarked Pech.

  "If you could tell me anything about him . . ."
The detective found Pech's cold eyes
disconcerting. "To help my report...."

  "I don't think it will really matter what your
report says," said Pech.

  He started to walk to his Mercedes with the
official plates.

  The Kripo man always felt uneasy with the
people from security. "But the investigation . . ."
he started to say rather lamely.

  "I imagine you'll find that the case is closed,"
said Pech.

"The formalities . . ."

  "Don't worry about them," said Pech. "My
department will look after it."

  He got into the Mercedes, smoothly reversed it,
and drove into the Berlin night.

        Monday, June 12,1961

London

THE! moment the jury returned to the
courtroom, Daventry knew that he had won. It
was a kind of sixth sense he had acquired, and it
seldom let him down.

 Up on his dais, Mr. Justice Rodman sat
hunched, his fingers drumming impatiently.

                  9
                  
 "Members of the jury," said the clerk, "will your
foreman please stand."

 The bald man in the brown suit rose. Daventry
suspected it was the suit, reserved for the few
special occasions in his life.

 "Mr. Foreman," sang out the clerk, "are you all
agreed upon the verdict?"

 The bald man was nervous, but he tried hard
not to show it. At that moment, every eye in the
Old Bailey courtroom was on him, and to be the
center of attention was a unique experience for
him.

"We are."

"Do you find Michael Connor guilty or not
guilty?"

"Not guilty."

 Mr. Justice Rodman stopped tapping his
angers. He frowned.

"Do you find Kevin Connor guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty."

  Mr. Justice Rodman pursed his lips. His
normally thin face looked even more pinched. He
was angry. His summing up had been clear and to
the point.

  In the dock the two Connors broke into wide
smiles They turned to each other and shook
hands. Then one of them winked at Daventry. He
ignored it.

  "They are discharged," said the judge, and his
tone left no one in doubt of his disapproval. He
gave the jury a look of cold reproof.

  From the bench behind, Rippon, Daventry's
instructing solicitor, tapped him on the shoulder.

"Costs," he mouthed, "ask for costs."

  Daventry shook his head curtly. It would only
give the judge an opportunity to savage the
verdict. Anyway, the Connors could well afford
paying for their freedom.

  Mr. Justice Rodman stood up, and everybody
in the courtroom rose. The judge gave a cursory
nod and swept out.

  "Splendid work, Mr. Daventry," said Rippon.
He looked remarkably respectable for a solicitor
who was on retainer to a dozen of London's most
undesirable citizens. "Absolutely splendid."

  "Thank you, Mr. Rippon," Daventry replied
diplomatically. Rippon, after all, provided some
very lucrative briefs.

In the well of the court, Chief Superintendent
Lock

                10
                 
and his CID men were having a quick conference.
He glanced over and saw Daventry looking at
him.

  "Well, sir, are you pleased?" he asked, not even
attempting to hide his bitterness. The verdict had
destroyed three years of work, trying to break up
one of Soho's nastiest vice kingdoms.

  "That's hardly the question, is it,
Superintendent?" said Daventry coldly.

  "I only hope your clients are duly grateful,"
retorted Lock. Then he turned back to his men.

  Daventry gathered his papers together and put
them in his monogrammed leather attache case.
He knew they loathed him at Scotland Yard. He
got too many villains off for their liking. And they
knew he didn't lose a night's sleep over it.

  The younger Connor brother pushed his way
toward him.

  "You were fantastic, Mr. Daventry," said Kevin.
"Me and my brother, we're tickled pink. You had
that jury eating out of your hand."

  "Not really, Mr. Connor." He started to move
away. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

  He went out of the swing doors of Number 1
court, into the big main hall on the first floor of
the Old Bailey.

  Over on one of the benches, Mary Donovan,
the Crown's chief witness, sat pale-faced. Two of
Lock's detectives hovered around her protectively.
From the moment the jury had brought in their
verdict, she was a marked woman.

  She sat, her mascara smudged, tightly clutching
her handbag, nervously smoking a cigarette. She
knew what was in store. The Connors would pay
her back. Giving evidence for the prosecution was
the supreme betrayal; they had to show the other
girls that it wasn't worth it.

  In the robing room, Daventry removed his wig.
He was an unsentimental man, but the yellowing
horsehair meant a lot to him. It was his father's
old wig, and the judge had given it to him when
he was called to the bar in 1949. For twelve years
Daventry had worn it at every court appearance,
and it had almost become a talisman. It was
nonsense, of course, but it had brought him a lot
of good luck.

  Without the wig he seemed younger than
thirty-eight. He was a tall, thin man, with finely
chiseled features, aris

                 11
                  
tocratic looking. The eighteenth-century
barrister's costume suited him.

 He took off the black serge gown. Underneath
was the daily uniform, a Saville Row tailored
clerical suit. Daventry was an elegant man, in
clothes and manners, and studiously careful about
his appearance.

 He frowned. He wished he could stop thinking
about Mary Donovan. She wasn't attractive, and
her fingers were tobacco stained. She had eleven
convictions for soliciting, and, in the medieval
language of the law, she was listed as a "common
prostitute."

 But it had given him no pleasure to reduce her
to tears in the witness box and to insure the
Connors' acquittal by cutting her evidence against
them to shreds.

 Thornley, the Crown Prosecutor, came into the
robing room.

 "Ah, Gerald," the prosecutor said.
"Congratulations. Another good day's work, oh?"

 The sneer was implicit. Congratulations for
getting a bunch of pimps off the hook. Full marks
for making an ass of the law. I hope the fee was
worth it.

"I'm just leaving, Harold," said Daventry.

 Thornley slipped out of his gown. "Give my
regards to your father if you see him," he said.

"Of course."

 Daventry looked at himself in the mirror. He
was used to Thornley's dislikes. It was one of the
prices of success.

 He didn't have any qualms that a lot of villains
owed their liberty to him. Daventry had often
reflected about it, but he was always honest with
himself, and the truth was that he rather enjoyed
the reputation he had acquired of being one of
the best advocates in England to get a guilty man
off against all the odds.

 Maybe that was why he liked defending so
much better than appearing for the prosecution.

It also paid rather well.

                12
                 
       Tuesday, June 13,1961
The North Sea

THEY the man was a spook. He boarded the nu-
clear submarine, his face partially hidden by the
fur-lined hood of his parka, carrying a briefcase.

 All the 112 crew members were aware that
something out of the ordinary was happening
when they had received a signal to rendezvous
with a U.S. destroyer eighty miles off the Danish
coast.

 At that time the U.S.S. Sharkfin wasn't due to
surface for another nine weeks, and anything that
commanded the three-thousand-ton submarine to
the top during one of her classified patrols was
highly unusual.

 Down below the man took off his jacket. Under
it he wore a white turtleneck sweater and slacks.
He had curiously piercing eyes.

 "Welcome aboard," Commander Douglas, the
Sharkfin's skipper, said uneasily. He disliked
unexpected complications. The spook's arrival was
one.

 "My orders," said Clyde Unterberg, handing the
commander a sealed manila envelope. Douglas
tore it open and read the contents.

They confirmed his disquiet.

 "They're aware that the Baltic is a Soviet sea?"
he asked.

 "I don't think they're under any illusions, Com-
mander," said Unterberg.

 "And that the part we're supposed to search is
like crossing Red Square?"

"Correct."

 Commander Douglas shrugged resignedly and
gave orders to set the new course.

 Later, when it was night and the control room
illumination had switched to red, Douglas decided
he was entitled to know a little more.

"What exactly was this plane?" he asked.

 "An RB forty-seven H." said Unterberg,
surprisingly readily.

"And what the hell was it doing over the Baltic?"

"Ferreting."

                 13
                  
"Eh?"

 "Testing their radar defences. I guess that might
describe it."

"When did it go down?"

 "It didn't go down, Commander," said
Unterberg. "They shot it down."

"Jesus."

Suddenly Douglas felt cold. It had gotten to this.

"That's going to take some explaining."

 "Not at all," said Unterberg smoothly. "The
official version is that a plane is missing on a
training flight. Over the North Sea. Accidents will
happen."

 On the chart table before them lay the map,
with the search area marked out.

 "What precisely are we looking for, Mr.
Unterberg?" Douglas asked.

 "Anything. A rubber dinghy. Wreckage. Maybe
a body. We'd like to recover anything we can."

 "If there's anything, the Russians will have
picked it up."

 "Maybe they missed something," said Unterberg.
'fit had six men on board."

"Six?"

  "Three extra men. In a pressurised
compartment in the bomb bay."

  Douglas was about to say something, but
Unterberg cut him short.

  "Electronics specialists," he said briefly. His tone
was final. Explanations would now cease.

  On the Sharkfin, the crew had been on war
alert since they entered the Baltic. The search
periscope swept the surface, the sonar and sensor
operators watching, probing, listening They could
detect the sound of waves breaking on a beach a
hundred miles away.

They also knew the Russians were listening too.

                 14
                  
       Thursday, June 15,1961
Switzerland

AT noon the two men met at the secluded villa
overlooking Lake Geneva. They arrived within
four minutes of each other in cars not even
displaying diplomatic plates.

 The Russian looked like the chairman of a
successful business corporation, in a smartly cut
suit and a snowwhite shirt. His tie, like himself,
was immensely discreet.

 The American had rimless glasses and was
rather more casually dressed. But his clothes were
expensive. Had he been sitting in the Polo Bar of
the Beverly Hills Hotel he could have been taken
for a successful film producer.

 The villa was neutral ground. It belonged to a
Swiss millionaire who enjoyed playing a back-room
role in the intrigues of the super powers.

 "We have two of the bodies," said the Russian,
after the polite preliminaries. The two men were
sitting, facing each other alone. On the polished
table between them was a bottle of Vichy water
and two glasses.

"Only two?" The American frowned.

 "The other crew members...." The Russian
paused briefly. "I am sorry. There wasn't much to
pick up. It was a nasty accident."

 The American's face remained bland. It
wouldn't be playing the game to point out that the
air force had been monitoring the Soviet MIG-l9
that blasted the RB-47 out of the sky at forty-one
thousand feet.

Instead he said quietly, "We would like the
bodies."

 The Russian nodded understandingly. "Of
course. They will be handed over. I suggest at
sea."

 Circumspection was the order of the day.
Neither side wanted prying eyes to see what would
happen.

"Very well," agreed the American.

"Good."

 The Russian opened a silver cigarette case. It
had been given to him by Gromyko during a
session of the U.N. in New York. He had been
rather useful to Gromyko.

 "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked courteously.
He didn't offer a cigarette to the American; he
knew he didn't

                 15
                  
use them. They were wed acquainted with each
other's idiosyncrasies.

 "Perhaps your submarine could take the bodies
aboard," he said, lighting his cigarette.

 "Submarine?" echoed the AmeAcan, apparently
startled.

 "The one you have in the Baltic." The Russian
shook his head regretfully. "It was really a very
rash thing to send her."

"I haven't been briefed about this," lied the
American.

 'fit doesn't matter," said the Russian tolerantly.
"I suppose she was ordered on a search mission.
To see if she could find anything left of your
unfortunate plane. Military people have such
crazy ideas, don't they?"

 "As I say, it's news to me." The American
looked him straight in the eye.

 "Our navy has had her pinpointed for the last
twentyfour hours. At this moment she is
surrounded by our ships. They are poised to . . .
deal with her. You know how neurotic our
admirals get about any of your nuclear
submarines in Baltic waters. But don't worry. Our
governments hardly want a naval confrontation on
the high seas, do they?"

 "You have my assurance," said the American, as
he had been instructed to say when the matter
was raised.

 "Of course they don't," said the Russian. "Well,
that's settled then. You get your people to send
a signal, ordering her to surface, and a launch win
bang over the bodies from one of our ships."

"And then?"

 The Russian smiled benignly. "We will escort
your submaAne out of the Baltic." He saw the
American's expression. "Oh, relax, she can
submerge. Her dignity will not be bruised. We
will escort her on the surface."

"Is that really necessary?" asked the American.

 "We want to make sure she gets home safely,
don't we?" purred the Russian. "I am told that the
Baltic can be quite treacherous. We will see to it
that she does not meet with an accident."

"Okay," the American agreed. "I'll tell
Washington."

  "Excellent," said the Russian. "Isn't it marvelous
how we can cooperate? Have you ever thought
how easy it is to reach agreement if only we are
left to ourselves? Look how quickly we've been
able to resolve this little problem."

                 16
                  
 He reached over for the Vichy bottle and
looked at it in disgust.

 "Our Swiss host is very prim. I would like to
toast the successful outcome of our meeting, but
this stuff...."

He pulled a face.

  "You guarantee secrecy?" asked the American.
"No cameras at the exchange of bodies, no
announcements?"

  The Russian laughed. "Of course not. Who
needs to know?"

  "Well . . ." said the American. "We haven't got
it made like you. It's not easy for us to keep
things under wraps."

The Russian stood up.

  "You're doing all right, my friend," he said
jovially. 'I remember your communique. 'An air
force plane is missing over the North Sea on a
training flight') Very good, very good indeed. It
wasn't the North Sea, and it wasn't a training
flight, but you didn't tell them that. Very wise.
You're learning."

His eyes twinkled. "You're learning from us."

  Within half an hour, "eyes Only" code messages
reached certain desks in Washington and
Moscow, and shortly afterward a navy signal was
sent to the Sharkfin.

  The submarine surfaced at the prearranged
rendezvous sixty miles off the Lithuanian coast,
where the Soviet missile cruiser Kinda was already
waiting with an escort of four destroyers.

  A naval cutter came across carrying two metal
caskets in which the Russians had thoughtfully
packed the bodies of two Americans in dry ice.

  The Shark7in loaded- them aboard and
submerged again. It set course for the British
Isles.

  Three days later the widows of the two dead
crew members were officially notified that the
bodies of their husbands had been recovered from
the North Sea not far from the British coast.

  In all, the wing commander, Brigadier General
Croxford, wrote six letters of condolence by hand.
He paid warm tribute to the lost officers and
regretted their accidental deaths.

  The dead men's replacements arrived at the
plane's base at Laconbury, England, thirty-six
hours later.

                 17
                  
        Monday, June 19,1961

= . _

Frankfurt

COLONEL Ochs, VlCorps staff judge advocate,
preferred things neat and tidy. It was one of the
reasons he didn't like Captain Verago. Things had
a habit of getting fouled up when Verago was
involved.

 "Sit down, Tony," he invited cautiously. He had
asked Verago to his office, and it was not a
meeting he particularly relished.

"Thank you, sir," said Verago politely.

 The colonel's desk was bare except for three
things: his nameplate, complete with silver eagle;
the mandatory photo of Mrs. Ochs; and a folder.

 The two telephones were on a side table, at the
colonel's right hand.

"Well, how are things?" inquired the colonel.

 Verago eyed him moodily. He was still feeling
the aftereffects of a long session in the bar of the
Casino offlcer's club the previous evening.

 "All right," he said warily. The folder on the
desk worried him. It spelled trouble.

"Remember the King trial?" asked Ochs.

"Indeed I do."

 "I'm getting flak over it," said the colonel
reproachfully.

'`Oh?l'

 "Strictly unofficial, mind you, but I don't like
complaints about my officers."

 "Who's making them?" demanded Verago. He
wished his tongue didn't feel so thick.

 "Dan Worden. He says you behaved in an
uncalled-for manner after the trial. You
apparently abused him and used highly improper
language."

Ochs regarded Verago severely. "It won't do,
Tony."

"Captain Worden is a son of a bitch," said Verago.

 The colonel sighed. "Look, Tony, I'm trying to
do this as painlessly as I can. You can't go around
calling a fellow officer the kind of things you did."

"You know what he did, sir."

Ochs shook his head. "I read your report. And
your

                 18
                  
pleas to the reviewing authority. I do not think
you have any cause for complaint. Captain
Worden made no promise, gave no undertaking."

"Yes, he did, Colonel."

 "Not as far as I am concerned. Anyway, your
man's sentence got reduced, so there's no point
arguing."

Verago glowered at him, silent.

  "Try to remember that we army lawyers over
here are a tight little group, and we've got to stick
together. It's tough enough administering military
justice without getting in each other's hair."

  The colonel leaned forward in his chair. "You
see that, don't you, Tony?"

"I see it, sir, but I don't agree."

  The colonel tightened his lips. "What don't you
agree, Captain Verago?"

  Verago took a deep breath. "Your priorities.
Depends which comes first. The military or the
law. Being an offlcer or a lawyer. Are we here to
see justice done or uphold regulations?"

Ochs flushed. "Both."

  There was a knock at the door, and a WAC put
her head in.

  "Excuse me, sir, would you and Captain Verago
line some coffee?"

Ochs looked at Verago questioningly.

"Please," said Verago. "Make it black and strong."

She closed the door.

  'Us that why you wanted to see me, sir? To have
a little debate about the conflicts between the
Uniform Code and individual rights?"

"No," snapped Ochs. "Not at all."

  Verago knew he was right. The reason was in
the folder.

  "I think you could do with a change, Tony," said
the colonel.

  The WAC came back. She put a coffee mug in
front of Ochs. It had "Ochs" and a colonel's eagle
painted on it. It would have, thought Verago.

  She handed him his mug. "Hope it's strong
enough, sir." She smiled.

'Y'm sure it is," said Verago. "Thanks."

  She closed the door, and Verago drank deep.
The hot coffee flooded into him comfortingly. The
hangover was passing.

                 19
                  
'~at kind of change, sir?" he asked.

 "Well," said the colonel, "it so happens that your
services have been requested. As individual
counsel for the defenseatan air force
court-martial."

Verago sat up. "Air force?"

  "Yes, don't ask me why," said the colonel. His
tone indicated that anyone who asked for Verago
was crazy. "But as you know, it's perfectly legal
for an accused -t~request counsel from another
service."

  Verago put his coffee mug down on the
colonel's desk. Ochs winced. It might leave a
mark on the polished surface.

"What's the charge?" asked Verago.

"Article one thirty-four."

  It was an old friend. The catchall. Prejudice to
good order and discipline. Conduct of a nature to
bring discredit upon the armed forces.

"And the offecse?"

Colonel Ochs sniffed. "Adultery."

  Suddenly Verago no longer had a hangover.
'~You're kidding."

"It is an offence, Tony," said Ochs primly.

"Colonel, in that case they ought to try half the
army."

  Ochs was outraged. "That is not in good taste,
Captain," he grated.

  But Verago's mind was already on other things.
"Who's the guy?"

"The accused is an air force captain," said Ochs
stiffly..

''Why does he want me?"

  "I suppose," Colonel Ochs said meanly, "your
reputation has spread to the other services.
Maybe somebody heard of your enthusiasm for
tackling lost causes."

  Verago felt his temper rising. "Who says it's a
lost cause?"

  "I think you can take it for granted the military
doesn't charge an officer with adultery unless it
has all the facts."

"Well, I'll have to see what I can do," said
Verago.

  "Good," said the colonel. He opened the folder.
"The request has been formally approved. Your
orders are being cut now. I don't envy you, Tony."

"Sir?"

  "An army lawyer at an air force court,
surrounded by blue suits. I imagine you'll
encounter a certain degree of, er, hostility."

                 20
                  
 Ochshad difficulty in concealing his pleasure at
the thought.

"I'll feel at home," said Verago. "What's the
outfit?"

 "Oh, didn't I mention it?" Ochs opened the
folder and peered at its contents. "You're going
to England."

"England?" He was surprised.

 "Yes. The accused is at an air base called
Laconbury." He shut the folder.

"I guess it'll be a new experience for you."

He appeared to relish that idea too.

        Tuesday, June 20,1961

       -frankfurt

FouR days after being lifted off the deck of the
submarine Sharkfin by a navy helicopter, Clyde
Unterberg entered an office building in the center
of Frankfurt, off the Hauptwache.

  He went to the second-floor office of Euram
Marketing Inc., a business company incorporated in
Wilmington, Delaware.

  It was a comparatively shabby office, with a worn
green carpet in the entrance hall, flat white
lighting, and an anemic plant in a pot on the desk
of the girl who served as receptionist, switchboard
operator, and copy typist. Euram Marketing gave a
distinct impression of watching the pennies.

  Herr Weber, the caretaker downstairs, would tell
callers who had time for a little gossip that Euram
Marketing was pretty shaky financially. He believed
it was a business venture started by a couple of
Americans who had settled in Frankfurt with big
ambitions but few resources. The company was so
broke, he confided, that the staff even had to do
the window cleaning.

  And if anybody asked him what Euram actually
marketed, he was rather vague.

  '] think they're in the import business," he'd say.
"Or is it export? Something like that. I don't think
they make a lot of money. There's only a handful
of people working up there."

Some shrewder characters suspected that Euram
was
               21
               
probably the offshoot of a much bigger firm, and
really a cleverly manipulated tax loss.

 They were partly right. Euram Marketing Inc.
was established in 1951, under a top-secret
directive 10-2 of the National Security Council. It
authorized the setting up of "special operations,
always provided they are secret, and sufficiently
diminutive in size as to be plausibly denied by the
government."

 The girl with the plant pot smiled at Unterberg
as he entered.

"Hi, Clyde," she greeted him. "Good to see you
again."

 She came from Arizona and was the wife of an
officer stationed across town in the IG Farben
Building. Her security clearance was formidable.

"You look great, Jeannie," said Unterberg. "Is he
in?"

"Waiting for you."

 He opened the door marked "Private" without
knocking.

 The only furniture in the room were three
armchairs and a round coffee table. There was
another undernourished plant in a pot similar to
the one outside. A TWA calendar hung on the
wall.

 "Make yourself at home," invited the man
already sitting in one of the armchairs. He wore
rimless glasses. He had recently returned from
Switzerland.

 Unterberg, a big six-foot two-inch 240-pounder,
eased himself into one of the other armchairs.

 "Boy, you must have been cramped in that sub,"
the man sympathised.

 Unterberg shook his head. "Plenty of space.
You'd be surprised how roomy those tin cans
are."

 "Rather you than me, friend," said the man.
"Stuck down there, it's one hell of a way not to
see the world."

 "l sent the report to Washington," said
Unterberg. "Including the autopsy findings on the
two bodies."

The man was interested. "Which were?"

 "The navy says they didn't find out much. The
poor bastards had burns and exposure."

 "You think they were dead when the Russians
fished them out?"

"It looks that way."

  "I hope so," said the man. "I'd hate to think the
Ruskis got hold of anything."

  He might have been talking about chess pieces.
It didn't surprise Unterberg. He knew the man
well, even before

                22
                 
they had joined the company. They were both
alumni of Stanford University and had been in the
same fraternities, Sigma XI and Phi Beta Kappa.

 Then their ways parted until they crossed one
another's paths in OPC, the covert, highly
classified Office of Policy Coordination. A
beautifully meaningless title. The man had
reached OPC's higher command level; Unterberg
worked in the field.

"How was Geneva?" asked Unterberg.

 "We reached an . . . arrangement of
convenience," said the man, "I'm sure the French
have a word for it, but I can't think what. Got you
out of a hole, didn't it?"

 "It wasn't my idea to go fishing in their
backyard." Unterberg snorted. "The navy swore
they could do it undetected."

 The man stretched himself. "Sometimes I worry
about the military. The air force thinks it can get
away with flying its tucking bombers over Russia,
the navy thinks it can go for pleasure cruises in
their waters, and they're surprised if people build
bomb shelters."

 The end of one of his shoelaces was hanging
loose and he started retying it. While he was
concentrating on his shoe he said, without looking
up, "Got any plans?"

 Unterberg became wary. "I've got thirty days
leave, if that's what you mean. Starting on
Monday."

"No, you haven't," said the man. "Sorry, Clyde."

 "The company's suddenly short of staff?"
Unterberg said sarcastically.

"Very." The man was not smiling.

 Unterberg knew the signals. "Let me guess.
Turkey. No, some real asshole of a place. Libya.
Iran? No, thanks."

"England," said the man.

  Unterberg was surprised. That's where I was
going. London."

"Good," said the man. "Any particular reason?"

"She's none of your business."

  A briefcase leaned against the man's armchair.
He picked it up, opened it, and took out an
envelope.

Unterberg took the sealed envelope. "Exactly
where?"

  "Laconbury," said the man. He indicated the
envelope. "It's all in there. Keep the travel orders.
Burn the rest."

  "Now, wait a moment." He took a deep breath.
"I don't like that. I don't like off-the-record
assignments. The last

                 23
                  
guy who was told to burn his documentation
was Brooke. And he never came back."

 "Well," said the man, "you'd just better make
surenothing unpleasant like that happens to
you, don't you thinks"

 The man's smile was famous. If piranha
smiled, thought Unterberg, they'd look just like
that.

      Wednesday, June 21,1961

London

IT was one of those paragraphs The Times
publishes as if it was trying to hide it because it
was trivial and hardly worth the record.

But the six lines had a big effect on Daventry.

 "What's the matter)" asked his wife, across the
breakfast table.

 Alex Daventry was an attractive woman, even
first thing in the morning. She was also very
ambitious for her husband, practical and deeply
loyal. Her life revolved around Daventry, and she
showed this in her thinking, her helpfulness, and
her total consideration of hirn.

 Without a word Daventry passed the paper over
to her, indicating the story, tucked away
insignificantly.

PADDINGTON MURDER read the tiny
heading.

Miss Mary Donovan, aged 26, received fatal stab

wounds when she was attacked by an unknown
assail

ant outside her basement flat in St. Stephens
Gardens,

W. She was recently a witness at an Old Bailey
trial

 Alex gave the paper back to him. "One of
yours?" she asked.

 "She gave evidence for the prosecution in the
Connors case." His mind's eye replayed the sight
of the girl after the verdict had come in,
fearstruck, terrified of what lay in store for her.
"She turned informer."

 "Well, couldn't the police look after her?"
demanded Alex.

"Apparently not." He read the story again.

"You're not blaming yourself, are you?"

"Of course not," said Daventry.

                24
                 
"Well, then . . ."

 "But if those bastards hadn't got off, she might
still be around. They couldn't wait to pay her back
once they had the chance."

"You can't help that," said Alex firmly.

"I put them back in circulation."

  She was getting annoyed. "For God's sake, don't
talk rubbish. It's your job, isn't it? You've always
said you'd rather get people off than send them to
prison. And hsten...."

He looked up at her.

  "I'd rather be married to a man who wants to
help people no matter what they've done than
some sort of avenging prig."

  The grandfather clock in the entrance hall
struck nine, its sonorous tones echoing.

  "I'd better get going," said Daventry. He took a
hasty sip of tea and got up.

Alex rose too and went over to his side of the
table.

"Promise me?" she said.

"What?"

  "Promise you're not going to go around blaming
yourself for what happened to that girl?"

"I'll try," he said.

  She kissed him lightly. "What would your father
say?" She smiled.

  Ah, yes. The old judge. Daventry knew perfectly
well what he'd say. He would peer at him over his
half moon glasses, snort, and growl, "Twaddle.
Absolute twaddle. I've hanged eleven men and
never lost a night's sleep. Can't afford this kind of
rubbish, damned self-indulgence. Forget about it,
and get on with the next case."

  "Have a good day, darling," said Alex at the
door of their house, just off the King's Road.

  At his chambers, when his clerk, Pettifer, put a
bundle of red-tape-tied documents on his desk,
Daventry said to him, "Have you read about the
Donovan girl?"

  "Indeed." Pettifer sniffed. Few things escaped
him. "Sad case. But then, she was no better than
she should be, was she, sir?"

  He shut the door, and Daventry wished he had
never heard of Mary Donovan and what had
happened to her.

  But what really annoyed him was that he felt
sorry for the girl. Mr. Justice Rodman would
disapprove wildly.

He reached over for one of the briefs and slowly
started

                 25
                  
to untie the red tape. It was perfectly true.
There was nothing he could do about it. No one
could help her anymore.

Pettifer knocked and came in diffidently.

 "I had Mr. Rippon on the phone, sir," he said.
"He wondered if you would care to have lunch
with him next Friday? At the Wig and Pen
perhaps?"

 His tone indicated that it was advisable to
accept. Rippon channeled a continuous stream
of cases to Daventry's chambers. Like the
Connors case.

"Tell him I'm busy," said Daventry curtly.

 "Perhaps I can suggest a convenient date?"
Pettifer offered hopefully.

"Not at the moment, I'm afraid," said Daventry.

He had other things on his mind.

       Thursday, June 22,1961

                          -Northolt

THERE were only two passengers on the air
force shuttle plane from Lindsey base at
Wiesbaden to Northolt. One was an armed air
force courier, the other Verago.

 The courier was a captain who was paying for a
weekend in London by carrying some classified
documents for the air force that could only be
transported in the custody of an officer. To
protect them he had a holstered .45 strapped
around his waist.

 The courier eyed the crossed sword and pen
insignia on Verago's lapel. Army lawyers were
unusual passengers on air force planes.

"Going on leave, Captain?" asked the courier.

 "No," said Verago. He had been wondering
what kind of man he was going to defend. And
something nagged him Colonel Ochs and his
warning about the hostility he would encounter.

"You going over for a trial?" inquired the courier.

 Verago didn't feel like small talk. He had a lot
to think about.

"Yes," he said curtly.

 The courier looked surprised. "Didn't know we
had any army courts in the UK."

"It's not an army trial," said Verago. He reached
for

                 26
                  
the copy of Stars and Stripes he had picked up at
Lindsey.

"What kind of court is its"

"One of yours," grunted Verago. "Air force."

 It left the courier even more puzzled. "Kind of
unusual, isn't it, army lawyers at an air force trial?"

 Verago shrugged and turned to the comics page.
He was a keen follower of Terry and the Pirates.

The courier gave up.

 Verago finished the comics. He wished there was
a crossword. He couldn't understand why Stripes
didn't carry one. Maybe the army doesn't approve
of crosswords, he thought sarcastically. Maybe
there's some general who considers they undermine
discipline.

 Verago gazed out the window. He was looking
forward to England. It would make a change. And
it would give him some satisfaction to defend a
man stuck with an adultery charge. All he knew
was that the man who had asked for him was a
Captain John Tower. He didn't even know his
outfit, other than he was stationed at Laconbury.
And he had never heard of Laconbury.

 It was about two hours from London, Colonel
Ochs had told him. A staff car would meet him at
Northolt and drive him straight there.

 Verago considered it an abomination that in 1961
a man could still face a criminal charge because he
had slept with a woman who was not his wife. He
had looked up the penalty. Dishonourable
discharge and confinement at hard labor for twelve
months.

"Here we are," said the courier.

  They were touching down. Compared to some of
the airfields he had seen in Germany, Northolt was
quite small. As the plane slid to a halt on the
runway, Verago caught a glimpse of a Battle of
Britain memorial, an old Spitfire.

  In the arrival hall an air force sergeant looked at
Verago's travel orders.

  "I'm going straight on to Laconbury," explained
Verago. "There's a staff car meeting me."

  The sergeant looked at a clipboard. "Captain
Verago?" he said. He sounded bewildered.

  "What's the problem, Sergeant?" asked Verago.
The courier had already passed through. Nobody
questioned his orders.

  "Just a moment, sir," said the sergeant. He went
over to a lieutenant standing by a door and spoke
to him.

                 27
                  
 The lieutenant looked across at Verago and
then came to the counter.

 "Did you say you were being met here,
Captain?" he asked.

 "I told the sergeant. There's a staff car from
Laconbury for me. I'm going straight there."

"No, sir," said the lieutenant. "There's no car for
you."

  Verago took a deep breath. "Well, Lieutenant,
you'd better start calllingsomebody," he said. "I
need transportation."

"I'm sorry, sir," said the lieutenant.

  Verago knew the familiar feeling. He was
starting to get mad. "What does that mean?" he
asked very quietly.

  "Well, sir, I guess it means that there's no
transportation."

"Who's in charge?" said Verago.

  "I am, Captain." The lieutenant smiled. It was a
selfassured, confident smile. "And I guess you're
all on your own."

  But Verago had already gotten the message.
They knew damn well he was coming, and that
was why there was no car for him.

London

  Feliks Petrov, staff officer of the Glavnoye
Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye at the Soviet
Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, was
pleased with himself.

  He was one of the six GRU men in London
under Deriabin, the head of the detachment.
Deriabin insisted that his GRU outfit kept its
distance from the vastly larger KGB section at the
London Embassy. The GRU's job was strictly
espionage, collecting military intelligence. He was
happy to leave the dirty stuff to the KGB, with
whom he worked closely, even sitting in on their
staff meetings. Deriabin also had the
ambassador's ear and was privy to the most secret
activities in the rambling Victorian houses
adjoining Kensington Gardens.

  Petrov's speciality was the American services in
England, especially the air force units. In his safe
he now had files with data on all the
bases Sculthrope, Wethersfield, Bentwaters,
Mildenhall, Woodbridge, Brize Norton, Greenham
Common, and the others.

  He had also started a little archive on other
American installations, from which no planes flew
but whose activities were of equal interest.

                 28
                  
  Petrov, a charming, pleasant man, found his
sources of information everywhere. He avidly read
the local papers from the districts where the bases
lay. He kept himself abreast of the activities of the
CND, the nuclear disarmers, whose
demonstrations and sitdowns at military installa-
tions provided him with a marvelous cover for
studying them more closely. And he had his
private informants.

  On his way to Deriabin's office, Petrov bumped
into Ivanov, one of the naval attaches. The two
men liked each other. They both enjoyed London,
lived in apartments near each other in Bayswater,
had even joined forces taking out current girl
friends. Ivanov knew a man who laid on parties
attended by gorgeous women and sometimes took
Petrov along.

  Ivanov was also grateful to him for providing a
contact who was now happily supplying useful
information from Holy Loch about the newly
arrived American nuclear submarines.

"You look happy, my friend," remarked Ivanov.

Petrov smiled. "Life could be worse," he said.

  "Have a good day," said Ivanov, giving an
excellent imitation of the Americans, and they
both laughed.

  Deriabin, who had the rank of a full colonel but
was listed as an economic attache, listened to
Petrov's morning report without comment. A
couple of times he made a cursory note on his
pad, but that was his only reaction.

"Good," he commented finally. "Proceed as usual."

  "I have one other thing," Petrov added. He knew
this one would please his boss. "About the base at
Laconbury."

"Yes?"

  Laconbury was high on the list of American
installations they had special interest in. After all,
it was the major aerial spy base in the UK, and
they monitored it as best they could.

  "A little piece of gossip, but interesting," said
Petrov. "Indicative perhaps of the state of morale
at the base."

"Get on with it, Feliks."

  "Apparently there's going to be some sort of
courtmartial because you'll never believe an
officer has been sleeping with his girl friend."

To his surprise Deriabin suddenly became tense.

"What else do you know?" he demanded sharply.

  "That is really all, Comrade Colonel, but
amusing, don't you think? Apparently it is a crime
in the American

                 29
                  
Air Porce to make love to somebody other than
your wife. "

  Deriabin sat stony faced. "What is the source of
your information?"

  "A contact in Cambridge. He was in a pub, and
an American airman was drinking too much. My
contact encouraged it, and the airman let it slip.
He is a clerk and heard about the court-martial
being set up."

  "Did you find out the officer's name? Anything
about him?" asked Deriabin sharply.

  Petrov was puzzled. Instead of enjoying the
little delicacy, Deriabin was almost reacting as if
he disapproved.

'No," said Petrov, "but I can try and pursue the
mat

"Don't, Captain," said Deriabin.

Petrov stared at him.

  "I do not wish this followed up or any attempt
made to get involved. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but " Petrov stared at his chief, astonished.

  "I am now giving you a formal order," said
Deriabin. "Do not concern yourself in this matter.
Leave it alone, do you understand?"

  "Naturally, if that is your instruction," said
Petrov. Greatly daring, he asked, "But may I
inquire why . . . ?"

  "There is no need for you to know," said
Deriabin roughly, and Petrov had never known
him to be so severe. "It is a matter of official
policy. You are to forget about this officer, about
the court-martial. You are not to record the
information or file it; you will keep it to yourself.
Is that clear?"

Petrov nodded.

  "And do not probe any further," added
Deriabin. "If your contact or any other source
wishes to dig deeper, discourage them. Order
them to drop it."

  "Very good," said Petrov. "But I must confess I
am a little mystified why "

  "Yours is not to question, Captain. I will tell
you only one thing, and that is most secret, you
understand?"

"Of course."

  "We are well aware of what is going on," said
Deriabin. "As a matter of fact, we know
everything about it."

Petrov stared at him.

  The colonel hesitated a moment. Then he
added, "It is very important that this court-martial
takes place. More I cannot say. But it must take
place."

                 30
                  
 After Petrov had gone, the colonel dictated a
secret memo ordering that Petrov was to be
immediately transferred back to Moscow for
reassignment.

 As he explained to the ambassador later in the
day, unfortunately the man knew too much for his
health.

South Ruislip

 Verago pushed open the door marked "Colonel
Raymond Kincaid, Staff Judge Advocate" and
dropped his carryall on the floor with a thump.

 A girl was typing in the outer office. She looked
up, startled at his unexpected entry. Army
uniforms were a rare sight in the headquarters of
the Third Air Force.

 "Anything I can do for you, Captain?" asked the
girl. She had short dark hair, and Verago found
her almondshaped eyes disconcerting. They're
violet eyes, he thought. He couldn't be sure, but
he knew one thing; he hadn't seen eyes like that
before.

"I want to see Colonel Kincaid," said Verago.

"He's tied up right now," said the girl.

"Now. I want to see him now," insisted Verago.

 "You are . . .?" She left the question in the air,
but her eyebrows were slightly raised.

"Captain Verago."

 She nodded, as if a missing piece in the jigsaw
had turned up.

 "Please sit down, Captain," she said, going to the
door Opposite her desk. She knocked. Verago
heard a voice, and then she went inside. She shut
the door.

 He looked around the office. So far he wasn't
impressed by Third Air Force.

 He had finally gotten a cab at Northolt and
arrived quarter of an hour later at the
headquarters complex in South Ruislip. It wasn't
very imposing, more like a used car lot than a
military nerve center.

 He had shown the white-capped APs his army
ID and asked for the SJA's office.

 "Building three," said the AP. He was chewing
gum and didn't even call him "sir." In the back of
the guard shack, two of his buddies were playing
cards.

It was a great start.

 The door of the colonel's office opened, and she
came out.

 "Go in, Captain," she said. He caught a whiff of
her as he came past. It was a nice scent.

                 31
                  
 He entered the office. Colonel Kincaid was in
his shirt sleeves, tiny silver eagles pinned to his
collar. He's surprisingly young for a full bird,
thought Verago.

 "How are you, Captain?" welcomed Kincaid,
holding out his hand. He was smiling, a frank,
boyish smile. "Make yourself at home."

 "I didn't intend coming here, sir," said Verago.
"But my arrangements seem snaffled. I guess the
lines got crossed?"

 The colonel looked concerned. "What's wrong,
Captain?" he asked.

 "I'm on Temporary Duty Assignment, sir. Just
arrived. I'm Captain Tower's counsel."

 "Oh, of course," said the colonel, as if a great
mystery had suddenly been explained.

 "My transportation doesn't appear to have
materialized," said Verago, choosing his words
carefully.

"I don't understand, Captain."

  "A staff car was due to meet me and take me
straight to Laconbury. There was no car.
Nobody's heard of me. Every call I make is a
dead end. So here I am. I want to know what's
going on."

  The colonel seemed amazed. "Did your office
tell us you were coming?" he asked.

  "They sent a TWX," said Verago. "Twenty-four
hours ago. It was acknowledged."

  "But nobody showed up?" The colonel frowned.
"Have you got your orders, Captain?"

  Verago handed him the envelope. He took out
the papers, read them.

  "Well, they're okay," he agreed. "I don't get it.
Excuse me."

He got up and opened the door.

  "Laurie, can you get us some coffee," he sang
out. He sat down behind his desk again.

  "I'm sorry about this," he apologised. "You must
think we got a hate on the army."

"Not at all, Colonel." Verago was being
diplomatic.

  "Of course, the whole thing may be a wasted
journey for you anyway." Kincaid was almost
casual.

"Sir?"

  "What I'm trying to say, Captain, is that,
speaking off the record, bringing you over here is
sort of superfluous. Captain Tower is already
represented by a perfectly com

                 32
                  
potent counsel. I appointed him personally. He is
a very able man."

 Verago took a deep breath. "Colonel, Captain
Tower is entitled to individual counsel and to
request the services of any legal officer he wants."

The colonel's eyes glazed over.

 "You don't have to tell me the regulations,
Captain," he said, the boyish charm evaporating a
little. "I'm sure the army has a lot of work for
you, and I simply thought I'd caution you that it
would be an . . . an unnecessary trip for you."

 The girl came in, with two mugs of coffee. She
put one in front of Verago, and as she bent down,
she looked him straight in the eyes. It disturbed
him.

 "Thank you, Laurie," said the colonel. He took
a sip of his coffee, staring at Verago across the
rim of his mug.

"Anyway," he said, "what is it you want?"

 "I'd appreciate you cutting some red tape,
authorizing transport for me and quarters."

"Of course."

 "Thank you, Colonel," said Verago. "By the way,
when is the Article Thirty-two set for?"

"The Article Thirty-two?" repeated Colonel
Kincaid.

 "The pretrial hearing," said Verago patiently.
"I'd like to know if there's a date yet."

"It's already taken place," said the colonel.

  Verago was staggered. "You've had the Article
Thirtytwo investigation without a defense
counsel?"

  "Certainly not," the colonel replied indignantly.
"I told you, Captain Tower already has a counsel.
His rights were well protected."

  Verago controlled himself. "I want the record of
the proceedings."

  "Sure," said the colonel. "Trouble is, I haven't
got a copy of the transcript here. I imagine you'll
get it at the base. "

  "And I'd like to talk to the officer who carried
out the Article Thirty-two hearing."

  Colonel Kincaid sighed. "I knew you'd say that,
but the problem is he's been transferred out of
England. I think he's in Turkey. Or is it Libya?
He's out of this command."

He looked out of the window.

  "You're certainly lucky with the weather. I hope
it keeps fine for you."

                 33
                  
 "Colonel," said Verago. "I'd like to get to
Laconbury as quickly as possible."

 The colonel nodded. "We'll check the motor
pool. But we're kind of short of staff cars these
days." He saw Verago'sface. "Don't worry,
Captain, we'll get you there."

He called out, "I aurie."

 She came in. She's put on some fresh lipstick,
Verago decided.

 "Ah, Laurie," said the colonel, "see if you can fix
up Captain Verago with some transportation. He
can't wait to get to Laconbury."

"Right away," she said, and closed the door.

 "You like the "heater, Captain?" inquired
Kincaid. "London's a great town for plays. You
ought to take in a couple of shows while you're
here."

"If I have time," said Verago.

 The colonel smiled dryly. Then a thought
seemed to strike him. "You've got a full security
clearance, of course?"

"To go to the "heater!"

 Kincaid did not seem amused. "How far are you
cleared? Top secret? Cosmic?"

 "They trust me," said Verago. The whole thing
didn't add up.

 "I have to ask," said the colonel. "We haven't got
your two oh one file over here, but I have to insist
that you are cleared for classified information all
the way."

 Verago's unease grew. "Colonel, this is an
adultery case. The guy's charged with sleeping
with the wrong woman, not trying to sell the
H-bomb."

 "Laconbury is a tight base," said the colonel.
"They're pretty security conscious." He switched
on his boyish, man-to-man smile. "I know it's a
pain, but they're mighty careful about the people
they let in there. Even the cooks are cleared right
up to "

"Cosmic?" interrupted Verago sarcastically.

"Well, maybe not that far, but certainly top
secret."

 "I look forward to eating their classified corned
beef hash," retorted Verago. His anger was
growing.

"Better take it seriously, Captain. They do."

  "Well, you can tell them I've got a total
clearance. Cosmic and all."

  "Excellent," said the colonel. But he had
difficulty hiding his disappointment. "I'd have
hated it to be a problem."

                 34
                  
  Verago stood up. "Thank you for your help,
Colonel," he said, straight faced.

  Colonel Kincaid also rose. "Tony," he said, and
Verago tried not to smile at the sudden cordiality.
"Feel free to contact me at any time. We're all
lawyers, and we have to help each other. You run
into any problem areas just come to this office.
That's what I'm here for. We'll do all we can to
make things easy."

I bet you will, thought Verago.

"Thank you, sir," he said again, and saluted.

  Kincaid acknowledged it. The last thing he did
was flash Verago an encouraging smile.

  In the outer office girl was just putting down the
phone.

  "Oh, Captain Verago," she said, "I'm sorry.
There's no transportation to Laconbury today."

He wasn't even surprised. "Why not?" he asked
curtly.

"They're clean out of staff cars. Everything's
booked."

"I'll hire a car," said Verago.

  "Your per diem won't cover that," she pointed
out. "But we can get you there tomorrow. Another
day won't matter, will it?"

The violet eyes were studying him.

  "You're a good secretary, Laurie," drawled
Verago. "Colonel Kincaid is a lucky man."

  There wasn't a flicker of resentment. "Thank
you, Captain," she said innocently.

  "Just one thing." He wondered why she intrigued
him. "Where the hell do I stay tonight?"

  "That's all settled, Captain," she said. "I've made
a reservation for you at the Columbia Club.
Downtown. You can get a bus from the base
here."

  "Well, you've certainly taken care of things," said
Verago.

"My pleasure."

  "I hope you like it," she said. "London can be a
lot of fun at night."

  Momentarily, the almond-shaped eyes regarded
him challengingly. They were alert, questioning
eyes.

He nodded to her, and left the offlce.

  As he walked along the corridor of Building 3,
he was wondering who she slept with.

                 35
                  
London

 "There's a Miss Howard to see you," announced
Pettifer, making no attempt to hide his
disapproval.

 Pettifer didn't appreciate unexpected callers. He
ruled Daventry's professional life: organized the
briefs, negotiated the fees, arranged the
timetables, booked the hotels, filled in the diary,
set up the appointments.

 He was a precise man, pedantic to a point. He
always caught the same train from Orpington in
the morning and daily had the same lunch, a glass
of white wine and a sausage roll, in the saloon
bar of the George, across from the Law Courts.

 And as clerk of Daventry's chambers Pettifer
did not take kindly to surprise visitors, especially
when their names meant nothing to him.

Daventry took off his reading glasses.

"Miss Howard?" he said, puzzled.

  Pettifer sniffed. "The lady says you and your
wife know her. She wonders if you could spare
her a few minutes."

  Daventry was trying to recall where he had met
her. The name was familiar, yet . . .

  "Shall I tell her you are busy, sir?" suggested
Pettifer hopefully. It would bring the situation
back onto its orderly rails.

"Did she say what it's about?"

  "No, sir." He looked over Daventry's shoulder.
'A gather it's personal."

The rebuke was implicit.

  Then Daventry remembered. The Howard girl.
Of course. She had been introduced to Alex and
himself at a Sunningdale garden party. Her father
was something at the Foreign Office. They had
made small talk for a few minutes. What on earth
did she want?

"All right, I'll see her for a minute," said
Daventry.

  "I can easily get rid of her, sir." Pettifer was
making his last stand.

  "Ask her in," Daventry said coldly. The way
Pettifer exercised his proprietary rights over him
sometimes got on his nerves.

  She came in nervously. She was blond and wore
little makeup. She seemed very tense. Last time
he had seen her it had been strawberries and
cream time in the lovely Sunningdale grounds.

                 36
                  
Daventry rose. "This is an unexpected surprise,"
he

  She gave a little tight smile. "I know this is
unforgivable," she said. "It's very kind of you to see
me, Mr. Daventry. You don't know . . . how much
I appreciate it."

"Sit down, Miss Howard."

  He tried to recall what her father did at the
Foreign Office. Something quite high up. One of
the Under Secretaries? He made a mental note to
ask Alex; she always remembered such things.

  She perched on the edge of the chair. "I " She
stopped. She was trying to pluck up courage to say
something.

"Yes?" prompted Daventry.

  "I feel so silly," she blurted out. Her eyes were
troubled. There were dark circles under them from
lack of sleep.

  "I'll get us some tea," said Daventry, and picked
up the old-fashioned house phone. The instrument
had been installed in the thirties, but few things
got modernized in the chambers. Pettifer didn't
believe in change.

"Two cups of tea, please," instructed Daventry.

  It had given her a chance to compose herself.
She took the plunge.

"I need some advice, Mr. Daventry," she said.

Daventry sighed. "Look here, Miss Howard "

"Please, Serena."

  He cleared his throat. He knew this was going to
be awkward.

  "If you want legal advice, I must tell you
straightaway that you shouldn't even be here. I am
not allowed "

  There was a tap on the door and Pettifer came
in, balancing two cups of tea on a tray. Normally,
Judy, the typist, would do it, but Daventry knew
Pettifer couldn't resist the chance of intruding.

  He put down the cups. There was a single
digestive biscuit in each saucer.

"Thank you, Charles," said Daventry.

  Pettifer removed himself, but not before he had
given the girl a hard look.

  "As I was saying," continued Daventry. "I can't
possibly discuss anything professional with you. We
have very strict rules. If you need a barrister, you
must go through a solicitor."

"I know that," she said in a low voice.

                 37
                  
 He frowned. "In that case, you will realize that
we can't discuss whatever it is any further."

She was silent.

 "How is your father?" asked Daventry, changing
the subject as quickly as possible.

 "Hess fine," she said in a dull voice. "He's in
Washington at the moment. But he'll be back
soon."

She was pale. "Mr. Daventry."

"What is it?"

 "Please help me. Please." Her eyes were
pleading too. She looked helpless, almost
trapped.

 "The best thing you can do is to go to your
solicitor," he told her. "Whatever it is, he'll help
you. Tell him everything, and leave it to him. It's
his job."

He smiled at her encouragingly.

"I can't," she said.

 "Nonsense," said Daventry. "A solicitor is like a
father confessor."

She bit her lip. "I haven't got a solicitor."

"Your father must have one. Go to him."

"That's not possible."

 "Well . . ." He paused. "I suppose I could give
you the name of somebody. Unofficially, of
course."

 She was holding herself upright and trying to
stop herself from crying.

 "I'm so sorry," she whispered. She reached for
her handbag, pulled out a handkerchief, and
started dabbing her eyes. Then she blew her nose.

 "I do apologize," she said She was embarrassed,
but she also trembled a little. "I'm not really a
crybaby."

"That's all right," he said gently.

 "I was thinking desperately who I could turn to.
There's nobody Then I remembered meeting you.
At the party. Somebody said you're a fantastic
lawyer. And . . ."

He waited, silent.

She blew her nose again.

"And, well, I thought I could trust you."

 Daventry always felt costly insulated from his
clients. He never saw them alone. Etiquette was
a very useful barrier. The fact that a solicitor was
always present at meetings insured his aloofness.

 But Serena Howard was having an effect on
him. Sitting there, trembling, begging him to help,
the tears she was trying to hold back, looking
lonely, vulnerable, afraid. He

                 38
                  
felt sorry for her. He wanted to help. As Pettifer
would have said, it was very unprofessional.

 "What is the trouble?" Daventry asked gently,
and the moment he said it, he knew he had gone
too far.

"You won't tell my parents?"

"Of course not. Now, what's this all about?"

 She licked her dry lips. "I've been having an
affair," she said.

 Suddenly he felt enormous relief. So that's all it
was! He had imagined something awful had
happened. She had committed some crime, stolen
something, run somebody down in her car, got
caught up in narcotics and drugs.

 He tried hard not to smile. Poor, frightened
Serena Howard, so secluded in her safe,
conformist suburban world that when she has an
affair she thinks it's the end of the world.

"That's not so terrible," said Daventry.

  She's become pregnant, of course, he decided.
She doesn't know how to tell her old-fashioned
parents. Silly girl, she doesn't need a lawyer. She
wants a doctor.

  She looked at him. "He's American," she said.
"An officer, in the air force."

  "Lots of English girls have fallen in love with
American servicemen," said Daventry
encouragingly.

She still had that ashen look.

"He's going to be court-martialed."

"I see," he said quietly. "What for?"

She swallowed. "Adultery."

'Yhat's the charge? Adultery?"

  She nodded. "It's a crime," she said. "In the
American forces."

"Good Godl"

  "I'm the woman," she said. "He committed
adultery with me.

"That's why I need help," she added.

  She leaned back in the chair, waiting for his
reaction. She was half afraid, half defiant.

  "But you're in no trouble, Serena," he assured
her. "I mean, they can't drag you into it."

"Oh yes, Mr. Daventry. They can."

"Who told you that?"

  He was fascinated by the ring she was wearing.
It was silver, a mask, leering. It was most unusual.
He wondered if it was some sort of engagement
ring.

                 39
                  
 "An American officer came to see me. He said
that John was going to be tried, and that the
prosecution might ask me to give evidence. I said
I wouldn't, and he hinted they could make me."

 It was ridiculous. "Nonsense," said Daventry.
"You're a British citizen, on British soil, adultery
is not a crime, and no foreign court-martial here
has jurisdiction over a British national. They can't
force you."

"That's not what he said." She swallowed.

'They're to bluff you," Daventry said firmly.

  "No," she insisted quietly. "I don't think so. I
think they mean it."

  He began to have nagging doubts. She was so
positive. He pulled a pad toward him. "What's his
name?"

"John."

He nodded, gold pencil poised.

"Captain John Tower."

"Where's he stationed?"

"In East Anglia. The base is called Laconbury."

He made a note.

  "This officer who came to see you. You know
who he was?"

  She shook her head. "I don't remember I was
in such a state. He may have told me his name,
but I've forgotten."

"Didn't Captain Tower tell you he was in
trouble?"

  She took a deep breath. "It all happened so
quickly. He was due to come to London that
weekend. He said he had something important to
tell me, but not over the phone. He never came.
Instead, this officer turned up and said he was
going to be court-martialed. For adultery." She
lowered her voice. "With me."

  "That must have been quite a shock," said
Daventry. "I'm sorry. But really, I'm sure you
don't have anything to worry about."

He smiled.

  "Tell you what, would you like to have lunch
with me tomorrow?"

  She stared at him. "You are going to help me?"
she asked optimistically

  "Not at all," he said stiffly. "I want to check up
on the law and set your mind at rest. I think it's
better if we meet informally. That's all."

"Thank you," she breathed.

"One o'clock," he said, writing it down in his
leather

                40
                 
desk diary. "The Isola Bella, in Frith Street. You
know it?"

"Don't worry," she said eagerly, "I'll find it."

He walked her to the door. She stopped.

"My parents . . ." she began. and faltered.

  "They don't know about you and Captain Tower,
correct?"

  "Please," she said. "I don't want them to find out
about this business."

"It might be better if you told them," he suggested.

"No," she said fiercely.

He regarded her gravely. "You sure?"

"Quite sure," she said firmly.

  She held out her hand. "Tomorrow. One
o'clock." Then she was gone.

  He returned to his desk. He sat down and
looked at the entry in his diary.

He knew one thing. He had made a big mistake.

London

  They're all alike, thought Verago, sitting at his
table in the corner. The Columbia Club was like
the Casino club in Frankfurt, and the Von
Steuben in Wiesbaden, and all the rest of them.
And the people were the same. Well scrubbed,
cast out of the same mold, talking the same talk,
eating identical food.

  When he first came to Europe, in fifty-nine, he
couldn't understand what a major had meant
when he'd said that if you stayed within the
confines of the U.S. military complexes it didn't
matter what country you were stationed in.
France, England, Germany, Italy, they all looked
identical from inside the fence.

  You could get born in the base hospital, be
educated at the base school, meet a girl in the
club or at the base movies, marry her in the base
chapel, break the law and get tried on the post,
serve your time in the stockade, die and have the
autopsy done on your body in the base mortuary.
You didn't have to leave to cash checks, or go
shopping, go bowling, go dancing, change your
religion, have an affair, or commit suicide.

  There was only one time you did have to leave
the base. When you died they didn't bury you. For
that you got shipped into the outside world.

  The major had been right, Verago thought as he
glanced round the room. Although Hyde Park was
out

                 41
                  
side the window, they could all be having dinner
in Heidelberg or Frankfurt.

  He finished his chopped steak and house salad
with roquefort dressing.

  "Was everything all right?" asked the waiter in
the red monkey jacket. Verago was a new face in
the officer's open mess and might be a good
tipper. One never knew. It was worth investing a
little special attention.

"Fine," said Verago.

"You care for some dessert?"

"Just coffee."

  There were a lot of civilians around. At least
they wore civilian clothes. English-type blazers
with brass buttons, club ties, and tweed coats.
They spelled "headquarters" in great big letters.
Verago had to grin.

  The waiter put the cup and saucer in front of
him, ready to pour coffee, but Verago stood up.

  "I've changed my mind," he said. "I think I'll go
to the bar."

  It was crowded. People were sitting in little
groups. A two-star admiral was holding court,
surrounded by a fawning group of naval officers
dutifully smiling at his jokes.

  Verago managed to find a niche at the bar.
"Scotch," he ordered. "Make it a double."

He felt restless. It had been a frustrating day.

  He wondered what sort of man Captain Tower
would turn out to be. Not popular, he was sure of
that. Nobody gets charged with adultery whose
face fits. Maybe the guy had fallen foul of
somebody. Maybe he had screwed the colonel's
wife. A sardonic smile crossed Verago's face at
the thought.

  They were in a hurry to get him tried, that was
obvious. They had rushed through the Article 32
hearing, so that the court-martial could be set up
as quickly as possible.

"Give me another," Verago told the barman.

  He had an etiquette problem on his hands too.
The counsel Third Air Force had appointed would
hardly welcome his arrival. Tower was fully within
his rights to ask for his own counsel, and an army
lawyer at that. The other fellow was bound to
resent it.

  Verago had already decided to play it softly. He
didn't want to antagonize the man. He hoped they
could work

                 42
                  
together, it wouldn't do Tower any good to have
his de" tense feuding.

 He picked up his glass and then stopped, his
hand frozen halfway. At a table by the wall sat the
girl with the violet, almond-shaped eyes. Kincaid's
secretary.

 She was smiling at something the man sitting
opposite her was saying. He was a big, heavily
built man, and Verago disliked him instantly. He
didn't know why; maybe because he was with her.

 Since Verago had seen her that afternoon, she
had changed. She had more mascara on, and she
wore an eyecatching black-and-white dress, which
looked expensive. Verago studied her. She had
small breasts, a slim waist, and long attractive legs.

 What you should do. an inner voice told him, is
go up to your room on the third floor, go to bed,
read up the law on adultery, and have an early
night.

"One more," ordered Verago.

 The barman only started taking notice of his
customers when an officer had three or more
double scotches. An Officer of the Day roamed
round the Columbia Club, and it tended to be the
barman who got blamed if there was trouble.

"Yes, sir," he said, his eyes signaling caution.

  The big man at her table whispered something
to her and got up. He walked out of the bar. She
sat, still with a drink, smoking a cigarette.

  The bastard's coming back, thought Verago.
Probably just gone to the men's room, but he'll be
back. So what?

  Verago slid off his stool, glass in hand, and
moved between the groups to her table.

"Hello," he said.

  The violet eyes looked up at him and she gave
a smile. Maybe it was the scotch, but it seemed to
him to be a welcoming smile.

"Why, Captain Verago . . ."

He looked at the empty chair.

"Do sit down," she invited.

  "I don't want to intrude," he lied. "I know you're
with somebody."

  "That's all right," she said. She offered no other
explanation.

"Well, in that case...."

  He sat down on the other man's chair, feeling a
little awkward.

                 43
                  
"Can I get you a drink?" he volunteered.

"Tequila sunrise," she said.

He signaled a waiter and gave the order.

"And a double scotch for me," he added.

"How's the room?" she asked.

  'The roomy" Then he realized. "Oh, here? The
room's fined'

  "Good. That's the least we can do for you. And
I've ordered the car for tomorrow."

  "Thanks, Laurie." He added a little
apologetically, "I don't know your name...."

"Czeslaw," she said.

"Czeslaw?"

"It's Polish. My folks were Polish."

"Laurie's very American."

She stiffened. "I'm American, Captain."

  "Pardon me," he said. "And listen, my name's
Tony. Okay?"

  "Hi, Tony." She smiled, and he felt warm. He
didn't think it was just the whisky.

  He followed the sudden direction of her eyes
and saw the burly man making his way toward
their table.

Shit, thought Verago.

  "Clyde," she said, as Verago reluctantly stood
up. "This is Captain Verago. He's over from
Germany."

The man offered his hand. "Clyde Unterberg," he
said.

Verago took it. The man had a firm grip.

  "Glad to meet you," said Verago. He was doing
a lot of lying. "I'm sorry, I've taken your chair...."

  "Don't worry about it," said Unterberg. He
reached over and pulled a chair across from the
next table, braving the hostile look of a naval
commander.

  "Captain Verago is here to attend a
court-martial," said Laurie.

  "Is that so? Not yours, I hope?" And Unterberg
laughed.

  "I'm defending," said Verago, unsmiling. "A man
who's accused of a ridiculous charge."

Laurie put out her cigarette.

"Oh? What's that?" asked Unterberg.

"Adultery."

"You think adultery is ridiculous, Captain?"

  "I think to try a man for it and send him to jail
is ridiculous."

                 44
                  
 "Well," said Unterberg, "maybe with you
defending him, he won't go to jail."

 Verago sniffed. "Where the hell are our drinks?"
he demanded. He gestured to the waiter. "What's
yours, Clyde?"

"I like the same as you. Scotch."

 Verago was surprised that Unterberg knew what
he drank.

 "Where is this trial going to take place?"
inquired Unterberg.

"Laconbury," said Verago.

  "That's air force." Unterberg shook his head.
"What's an army lawyer doing at an air force
trial?"

  "Tony's been specially requested by the
accused," intervened Laurie.

  "You must have some reputation," said
Unterberg. "All the way from Germany! Or do
you know the man?"

  "Never met him, never even heard of him," said
Verago.

  "But you like fighting lost causes, don't you?"
Unterberg smiled.

  Again, Verago had a moment of unease. "Are
you in the service?" he asked.

"Clyde's a civilian," said Laurie, as the drinks
came.

"Technician?"

"Sort of," said Laurie.

"Lockheed?"

Instead of answering, Unterberg lifted his glass.

  "Success," he toasted. "How long are you
planning to stay?"

"As long as it takes." said Verago.

  "Well, good luck." He finished his drink and
pushed back his chair. "You'll have to excuse me.
I've got to drive to High Wycombe tonight. I'll
give you a call, Laurie." He pecked her cheek.
Then he nodded to Verago. "Nice to have met
you, Tony."

  Something doesn't fit, thought Verago, as
Unterberg made his exit. It doesn't seem right.
Had he really planned to leave her on her own
and take off? What if he hadn't shown up? Would
Unterberg still have left her high and dry? Why
the hell was he leaving the stage clear for some-
body else?

  "You're not very talkative, Tony," said Laurie. It
seemed to him her eyes were slightly mocking.
"Something on your mind?"

                 45
                  
"What does he really do?" asked Verago.

"Clyde?"

He nodded.

"He's a spook," she said quietly.

Suddenly he looked at her in a new light.

"That's what I thought," he said. "Thanks."

"What for?"

"For playing it straight."

 "Playing what straight?" she asked, surprised.
"Telling you he's a spook? Well, he is, isn't he?"

"Who for? Who with?"

 "Come on, Tony," she said, and again she was
slightly mocking. "Would I know?" She smiled.
"He's not with the Russians, if that's what you
mean," she said, laughing.

The idea really amused her.

  "CIA? OSI? he pressed. "Some outfit like
that?" He frowned. "How do you know him?"

  "Captain Verago," she said, sham serious, "this
is not a courtroom, I'm not on the stand, and
you're off duty. Agreed?"

  Damn it, she's attractive, he thought. She's not
beautiful, she's got more than that going for her.

He wished the chair was closer to her.

"Remember what you said today?" he asked.

She shook her head. "What?"

"You said 'London can be a lot of fun at night.'"

  "You want to go sightseeing right now?" she
teased him. "The pubs will be closed."

"I didn't have pubs in mind."

  The almond-shaped eyes flickered. "What do
you have in mind?"

"I leave that to you," said Verago.

London

  As Alex handed Daventry his drink he suddenly
asked her, "You remember the Howards? I met
their daughter today."

  "Oh?" said Alex. "And how is Serena?" She had
a fantastic memory for names. She had trained it.
She noted every address and phone number and
kept a special book with dozens of people's
birthdays in it.

  "Fine," he replied casually. It seemed to him his
tone was almost too casual.

"What's she doing now?"

"She didn't say."

                46
                 
"Wasn't she doing some modeling? At Fortnum's?"

"I don't know."

 "She's got a very nice figure." She took some
potato chips, then offered Daventry the glass dish.
"Which I won't have if I go on nibbling these. Do
you want one?"

 He shook his head as he studied her. "You don't
have to worry, Alex," he said, kissing her on the
forehead. She worked hard at keeping slim,
because she knew he disliked fat women.

 "They're nice people, the Howards." Her U-turn
back to the subject startled him slightly.

"Yes," he said rather flatly.

 "Don't say it." Alex smiled. "Too cocktail
partyish for you. They bore you."

"Alex, I don't even know them well enough for
that."

  "I'd have thought Serena would have been
married by now," she remarked, almost to herself.

He was curious. "Why?"

  "Well," said Alex, "she's very attractive, isn't she?
I shouldn't imagine she'd have any difficulty
finding somebody. Don't you agreed"

"Yes, I suppose so. If she wants to."

"She didn't strike me as being the career-girl type."

  It was the end of Serena as a topic of
conversation. Alex changed the subject with an
announcement she had been saving up.

  "By the way, I got the tickets. For the Kirov."
Her voice was triumphant.

  The Kirov season at Covent Garden was the big
sensation. There were all-night lines at the box
office, and getting seats was a major achievement.

"How did you manage that?" asked Daventry.

  "Ah." Alex enjoyed playing it mysteriously. "I've
got hidden talents."

"When are we going?" he inquired.

  "Next Tuesday. Put it in your book now.
Kolpakov is dancing Giselle. I think you'll enjoy
it," she said encouragingly. "They've got a dancer
called Nureyev, and he's supposed to be fantastic.
If only we had somebody like that over here. I
think I'll try for Sleeping Beauty as well," Alex's
voice continued, as if from a distance. "We might
as well make the most of it while the Kirov's in
London, don't you think?"

"Yes, why not?" he muttered, but he hardly heard
her.

                 47
                  
His mind was on his lunch date the following day.
He wished he knew how to get out of it.

The trouble was that Gerald Daventry was a
coward.

London

  Laurie lived in a furnished apartment in a
smart block of flats in Sloane Avenue. It was an
oppressively small place, almost cramped, but she
had given it some personal touches. Plants by the
window, a couple of modernistic prints, a ceramic
figure of a jester. They helped, but it was still an
anonymous, lonely habitation.

  "I'll fix you a drink," she said, and disappeared
in the tiny kitchen.

  On top of a bookcase was the framed
photograph of a lieutenant in the Marine Corps.

  "That's my brother," she said, coming in with a
tray, a bottle of scotch, an ice bucket, and two
glasses on it. "He won the Bronze Star in Korea."

"Where is he now?" he asked.

"Naples," she said, pouring the drinks. The ice
clinked.

"Your only brother?"

She nodded. "I have a sister, but she's a bitch."

  He wanted to know more, but her tone was
uninviting. Verago tasted the whisky with relish.
It was good, well matured, at least twelve years
old. He appreciated it. The effects of the drinks
earlier had worn off in the cab ride to her place.

"Where's your home, Laurie?"

"Chicago," she said. "What about you?"

  "New York." He didn't amplify. "So tell me,
what brought you over here?"

  "You are nosey, Gaptain Verago," she said.
"They sent me here. I'm a GS-eight, right. I work
for the Department of the Air Force, I go where
I'm sent. Satisfied?"

  She got up, went over to a drawer in the
sideboard, and brought out a box of cigars. She
held it out to him.

"You like Upmans?"

  He took one, incised the end with his nail, and
lit it. So, she kept cigars in her apartment. All the
home comforts for a man. What man? The
spook? Her boss?

She put the box of cigars back in the drawer.

  "You won't like Laconbury," she said
unexpectedly. She had kicked off her shoes.

"Oh? What's wrong with it?"

"You'll find out."

                 48
                  
 That annoyed him. "I don't go for riddles,
Laurie. What's wrong with Laconbury?"

"You ever heard of Detachment Seven?"

"No."

 She leaned across and poured him another slug
of whisky. "How do you defend a man charged
with adultery, Tony?" she asked.

 "Detachment seven," he insisted. "What about
it? What is it?"

 "Oh, I just wondered what you had heard of it,"
she said dismissively. She raised her glass. "Salut."

 They both drank. Then she repeated the
question: "You still haven't told me. How do you
set about defending a man accused of adultery?"

"Why do you want to know?"

  "I'm curious. We don't get many adultery cases
in the offlce."

  "Well," said Verago slowly, "there's only one
defence. That he didn't do it. Ii you can prove
that he didn't sleep with the other woman, or that
if he did, he wasn't married, and so he didn't
commit adultery."

"And if that doesn't work?"

  "You put your money on mitigation. You plead
an unhappy marriage, you say it's all washed up
anyway, the affair hasn't harmed anybody, we're
all men of the world, and isn't it kind of inhuman
to send a guy to jail for trying to Old a little
happiness with somebody else."

She pulled a face. "You make my heart break,"
she said.

"I know. It rarely works," he admitted ruefully.

  The phone rang. It startled him. He looked at
his watch. It was 1 A.M.

  "Excuse me," she said, uncurled herself from the
armchair, and went to the coffee table by the
window where the phone was and picked it up.

"Hello," she said, and listened.

  He wondered who would call her at this time.
Mr. Unterberg perhaps? To tell her he'd arrived
at High Wycombe and was costly tucked in?

"No, I haven't forgotten," she said.

  She glanced at Verago as she spoke. Then she
turned her back.

  "No, I appreciate that," he heard her say. "Don't
worry, I'll take care of it," she said, and hung up.

  "That was your favorite man," she announced,
settling herself back into the armchair.

                 49
                  
"Eh?"

"Colonel Kincaid."

"Really?"

 She laughed. "Oh, come on, Tony, you're dying
to know why my boss should call me at home
at" she glanced at her wristwatch "at one
o'clock in the morning."

 "It's none of my business, Laurie," he said
stiffly. "Anyway, I think I ought to go."

"It was about you," she said.

He sat very still. "Me?"

 "He asked me to make sure that as soon as I
get to the office in the morning I send a priority
TWX to USAREUR. He wants your personnel
file."

"What the hell for?"

 "He didn't say, but I guess the colonel wants to
know all about you."

 The violet eyes stared straight at him. "I guess
so do I," she added.

"It's very late," he muttered, thickly.

"Why don't you stay here tonight?"

"mere?" he repeated stupidly.

 "You can be back at the club for breakfast," she
assured him.

 Jesus, he thought, we haven't even touched
each other. We haven't even kissed. We haven't
. . . and here she is inviting me into the sack with
her.

 "I'd like that very much, Laurie," Verago said,
and meant it.

 "I know," she said. She got up and opened the
door to the other room. The bedroom.

 There were twin beds in it. But only one was
used that night.

       Friday, June 23,1961

London

LAURIE woke him up with a cup of instant
coffee. They looked at one another and smiled.
It had been a good night.

Then she nearly spoiled it all.

                50
                 
  "Here," she said, and handed him a razor and a
halfused tube of shaving cream.

  In the small bathroom, he scowled at the mirror
as he shaved. He didn't know which aggravated
him more: that she had a man's shaving things in
her apartment, or that she didn't care if he knew.

  He realized that what he felt was a pang of raw,
primitive jealousy, and that annoyed him too. It
was an emotion he detested.

  You stupid bastard, said his inner voice. You
sleep with a woman you haven't known for more
than twenty-four hours, and you get screwed up
because another guy's stayed in her apartment.

  But all the misgivings were swept aside when he
was ready to go.

"You think you'll get back to London soon?" she
asked.

  "Of course. The base is only a couple of hours
away, isn't it?" The robe she wore seemed to
accentuate her naked body underneath. The
dormant desire for her was beginning again. "Try
stopping me," he added, his voice husky.

"That's good," she said simply.

"I'll call you," he promised.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, she pressed her body to
his and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  "See you," she said a little breathlessly, pushing
him out the front door.

"Sure thing, Laurie."

  She stood in the doorway, watching him go to
the lift. He turned and she gave him a little wave
before shutting the door.

  He rode down from the third floor and
reflected how little he knew about her. Sure he
knew her body, the way she made love, her laugh,
those curious eyes, that she had a Polish surname,
came from Chicago, and was an air force
employee. But that was all.

  Yet he didn't care. He wanted to see her again,
he wanted to hold her once, more.

  You're making a big deal out of a one-night
stand, his inner voice cautioned coldly.

"Shut up," said Verago aloud.

  Outside the early-June morning smelled good.
A cab cruised toward him, its "For Hire" sign
illuminated. Verago flagged it down.

"Columbia Club," he instructed.

                 51
                  
The cab drove off.

 The two men in a black Chrysler parked
opposite the block of flats didn't follow. One of
them merely made an entry in a notebook:

"06:20 furs: Left the apartment."

London

"Here you are, sir," said Pettifer acidly.

 He put a copy of the Visiting Forces Act 1952
in front of Daventry. "Is there anything else you
require?"

"Not at the moment, thank you," said Daventry.

  Pettifer sniffed and went out of the study,
leaving Daventry surrounded by Orders in
Council and Crown Statutes, volumes of
International Law and now the Visiting Forces
Act for which he had asked urgently.

  No case that Pettifer had on his list for
Daventry required those legal authorities. He was
evidently reading up on something Pettifer did
not know about, which meant that he was putting
in valuable time . . . to do somebody a favor?
And being wily and shrewd, Pettifer immediately
suspected it had something to do with that
curious visit Daventry had received from the
Howard girl.

  She had preyed on Pettifer's mind. It wasn't
social, he was sure. And it couldn't have been
business because he didn't know about it. There
had been no preliminaries, no solicitors. And yet
. . .

  He had spent agonizing hours wondering
whether he should challenge Daventry about it
outright. As clerk of the chambers, he was not
only entitled to know what was going on, it was
his duty. Daventry's time was valuable. A
morning's deviling on a case was worth a
handsome fee.

  Not that Pettifer believed Daventry had taken
on a case without his knowledge. Accepting a
brief direct was the ultimate professional crime.
It would mean disbarment and disgrace. It would
be suicide, and he knew Daventry would never do
that.

  Pettifer sighed. He was indeed a worried man,
and he only hoped that Daventry knew what he
was doing.

  In his study Daventry read through the thin
1952 act a second time. He glanced at the notes
he had made.

It was bad news. Very bad news.

                52
                 
Essex

 The airman first class who drove the staff car to
Laconbury was not talkative. Verago sat in the
back watching the flat, monotonous least Anglian
countryside roll past, wondering why he had a
growing sense of foreboding.

 Kincaid's curious interest in his security
clearance, for instance. It had never happened to
Verago before. All because he was to defend a
guy who had cheated on his wife.

 "Are you stationed at Laconbury?" Verago
asked the driver.

The airman turned his head slightly. "Yes, sir."

"What's it like?"

The airman didn't take his eyes off the country
road.

II right, I guess."

"What do they fly there? Bombers? Fighters?"

Usir?~,

 "I'm army," explained Verago hastily. "We know
nothing about you people over here."

"Yes, sir," said the airman, and left it at that.

 It was like questioning a piece of wood. Yet the
airman was intelligent, alert.

 Verago decided to try again. "You know a
Captain Tower?" he asked.

He saw the airman's back visibly stiffen.

"Sir?" The same damn reaction.

"I just wondered if you'd heard of him."

 The airman kept his eyes straight in front. "I
wouldn't know, sir."

Verago sighed. "What's your name?"

"Flynn, sir."

"Your first name?"

  The airman frowned. Was this visiting fireman
going to make trouble? "Teddy, sir."

  "Well, Teddy, what does a fellow do for fun
around here?" Maybe, thought Verago, that's the
way to break the ice.

  "Not much, sir. Most of the guys go to London.
Or Cambridge. That's about it."

His tone was final.

  They drove through some small villages,
followed a bumpy minor road, then past acres of
farmland. They had left London two hours earlier.

Suddenly a sharp-nosed jet streaked past over a
wood.

                 53
                  
  "We're nearly there, sir," said the airman. It was
the only time he had volunteered anything. They
passed a tiny hamlet and a twelfth-century,
ivy-covered church.

"There's the base, sir," said Teddy.

  Verago didn't know what he expected, but it
wasn't this, Just hedgerows. A long line of them,
blocking the view of what lay beyond them. He
saw, in the distance, a couple of tall radio masts
and a high wire fence.

  "Welcome to Laconbury" proclaimed a notice
board at the entrance to the base. It had an
emblem, the head of a Cyclops, with one huge
staring eye in the middle of his forehead. And
there was a motto underneath: "Ever Vigilant."

  The car slid to a halt at the guardhouse. The
APs were smart, really smart. They had razor
creases, and their white-laced boots shone like
mirrors. Their cap covers were snow white, like
the lanyards of their pistols.

  They waved down the car. One AP came over,
the other two stood watching.

  Teddy handed the AP a slip of paper. The
guard peered at Verago and gave him a
copy-book salute. Verago had rolled down the
window and, awkwardly, saluted back.

  "You will proceed to headquarters, sir," the AP
said respectfully, very correctly, and yet giving a
firm order.

  The car entered the base, and Verago saw a lot
of anonymous buildings. And several of those
radio masts. The only sign that it was an air base
were a couple of men in flying suits. The flight
lines, the hangars, the planes, the runways,
Verago guessed, were at the other end, out of
sight.

  In front of the headquarters building were two
flagpoles. One flew the Stars and Stripes, the
other an RAF ensign. A lieutenant was already
waiting in front of the building, and when the car
stopped, he came forward and stood watching
while Teddy got out of the driver's seat and
opened the door for Verago.

"Thank you," said Verago.

  "Good morning, sir," said the lieutenant. "This
way, please. The general is waiting for you."

"The general?" repeated Verago.

  "General Croxford, sir," said the lieutenant.
"Our commander."

  He made it sound like their privilege. He was
Klein commander, nobody else's. He belonged to
them.

                 54
                  
 An airman walked behind them, carrying
Verago's carry-all.

 They turned into a carpeted corridor, to a outer
office. The lighting was soft, subdued. Here there
was air conditioning and silence. The airman
placed Verago's bag near a desk, then left.

The lieutenant knocked on a door.

"Yes," came a voice.

  The lieutenant went inside, came out after a
moment, and said, "Please go in, Captain Verago."

  Brigadier General Croxford did not get up. He
sat behind his desk in his smart, tailor-made blue
uniform, the single silver star gleaming on his
shoulder. He had four rows of medal ribbons
under the command pilot's wings.

  Behind him on the wall was a giant replica of
the Cyclops crest, and the lone eye seemed to be
staring straight at Verago. The flags were there,
standing by the desk, a Stars and Stripes and a
blue-and-yellow air force flag.

  The only pictures on the wall were black-framed
photographs. One of President Kennedy. Another
of a B29, and it was only later that Verago found
out it was a picture of the plane that dropped the
atom bomb on Hiroshima

  The general had three aircraft models on his
desk. One was a silver RB-47, another an RB-66.
Verago didn't know what kind the third was, a
needlelike, sharppointed plane with curious wings
that looked out of proportion.

  "Sit down, Captain," invited the general. He was
softspoken and had dark-brown eyes. His
complexion had a pasty pallor, as if he spent a
long time indoors, or underground. He looked
like a man who could do with a good vacation in
the sun.

"Thank you, sir."

  "I'm sorry about this affair," said the general,
without preliminaries. "I hope we can get it over
as quickly as possible."

Verago felt it wise to stay silent.

  "You will of course be given every facility to
defend this officer, and we'll try to make your stay
comfortable."

"Thank you, sir."

  The general contemplated Verago for a
moment. His brown eyes were quite unashamed in
their curiosity.

"I believe you don't know Captain Tower, is that

                 55
                  
"No, sir. Not yet."

 Verago tried to recall if he had ever heard of an air
base commanded by a general. He didn't know much
about the air force, but this place seemed heavy on top
brass.

 "It's an unpleasant business," went on the general. "I
dislike this kind of case in my command."

 Verago led with his chin. "I am not sure we should
discuss the case, sir," he said.

 "I see." The general was poker faced. "In that case,
Captain, we won't discuss it."

Verago waited.

  "But I think I ought to tell you that this installation
has a classified mission."

"I understand, sir."

  "This is a tactical reconnaissance wing, and we don't
talk about our activities, is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir," said Verago. The old unease started up
again.

  "Good. So neither of us will discuss certain sensitive
areas. Agreed?" The general allowed himself a cold smile.

"Very well, General."

  "You'll find Lieutenant Jensen has done an excellent
)ob."

"Who is Lieutenant Jensen, sir?" asked Verago.

  "1 thought you knew. Captain Tower's defense counsel,
of course. The one we appointed." The hint of impatience
was not disguised. "He's done all the groundwork. A
good lawyer. I guess you won't find much to do around
here."

Was it a hint? Or a warning?

  "I look forward to working with him," Verago said
carefully. "But first I'm going to see Captain Tower. I
think it's about time I met my client."

  "Sure thing," agreed Croxford. He shifted the model of
the RB-47. It had not been in straight alignment with the
other two planes. "As soon as we can fix it."

"What's the difficulty?" asked Verago, very quietly.

"Captain Tower isn't available right now."

  Of course. He should have expected something like
this.

  "I don't get it, General," said Verago. He sat up very
straight. "What's the problem?"

 -    General Croxford frowned. He was not used to
being

cross-examined.

"Your client is in the base hospital. I believe he's had

                   56
                    
some kind of nervous breakdown." The general
shook his head. "I'm sorry, but the doctors have
given orders he's not to see anybody."

He paused, but Verago just stared at him.

 "Obviously, we mustn't allow anything to happen
that could harm him. Like pressurising him. I'm
sure you concur with that, Captain."

 The ear-splitting roar of a jet plane flying low
shook the office. The noise made Verago wince,
but General Croxford tilted his head and listened
to it like a conductor appraising his orchestra.

 "You'll get used to that, Captain," he said when
the sound faded. "Leastways, I hope so."

 He brushed an invisible spot off his immaculate
uniform. "Hell, we don't want you to have a
nervous breakdown too."

 Verago wasn't smiling. "I don't think that's
likely, General. But I'd appreciate knowing how
long he'll be in there."

"Captain, I'm no psychiatrist. How do I know?"

"What about the trial?"

"That's for you to sort out. Anything else?"

"Not now, General."

 Croxford gave him a sharp look. He leaned
forward. His voice was softer.

"Say, Verago, what's your handicap?"

"Sir?" Verago was baffled.

"Don't you play golf?"

"No, sir."

  The general leaned back in his chair. "Pity," he
said coldly. "That's a great pity. Well, if you'll
excuse me now."

Verago stood up and saluted.

  The general saluted back, but he had pulled a
file in front of him, and he was no longer looking
at Verago.

  Only the baleful eye of the Cyclops on the wall
glowered at him. It was a cold, cruel eye.

London

  The Isola Bella was buzzing with lunchtime
conversation, and Daventry was glad, because they
could talk without being overheard.

  Serena looked fresher, less strained than the
day before. She wore a bright patterned dress, the
top three buttons undone. A tiny gold chain
circled her slim neck.

                 57
                  
"Any news?" he asked over the melon con
prosciutto. "No. I haven't heard a thing from
John."

"Can't you call him?"

  She shook her head. "He once said never to
phone him at the base. I haven't even got the
number."

  "Well," said Daventry weakly, "no news is good
news. At least, so they tell me."

  Why am I doing this? he asked himself. Why
am I getting involved in her problems?

  Could it be that for once he wanted to help
someone not because they paid him, not because
it was his job, not even because he knew them,
but to make amends to the likes of Mary
Donovan?

  But why put my professional ethics on the line
to do it? he asked himself.

  "How about you?" Her question interrupted his
thoughts.

  "Well," he said reluctantly, "I've looked up a
few things. Not that that means anything."

"No. Tell me."

"As far as I can see " He stopped.

  The waiter brought the polio alla Sophia
Loren. They were both having the same thing.
She ignored the food.

"Please. I want to know."

  "It seems they can call you to give evidence at
the court-martial. It appears that the general and
specific privileges applicable to the Crown have
been extended to visiting forces in the United
Kingdom."

  He was talking like a lawyer. It annoyed him.
She must think him very pompous.

  "In simple terms, Serena, it means they can
subpoena you."

Her face drained.

  "Your food's getting cold," he pointed out. She
picked up her knife and fork like a robot.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"And what does that mean?" she asked at last.

  "Well, a subpoena is an order to a person to
attend court and give evidence."

"And if I don't?"

  He took a deep breath. "You're in trouble.
Disobeying an order of the court is contempt.
They could even say you're deliberately
obstructing the course of justice by refusing to
testify. That's contempt too. You go to jail for

.

S8

  She looked incredulous. "You mean the
Americans can send me to prison? Here, in
England?"

  "Not the Americans. We can. Under the act,
the subpoena would be issued by an English judge
at the request of the Americans. And he would
deal with you if you disobeyed him."

"My God."

  She pushed her plate away. "I'm sorry," she
apologised. "I'm not very hungry."

  She fiddled with the wine glass. "How long is
the prison sentence]"

He raised his eyebrows. She sounded very
determined.

  "People stay locked up until they've purged
their contempt or done what they were ordered
to do. Actually, there's no time limit."

"It's medieval," she said.

  'Y agree. So is putting a man on trail for " He
was going to say adultery, but he changed it.
" for having a relationship."

  She raised her head, almost defiantly. "So," she
said with a thin smile, "I've had it."

  "No, of course not," protested Daventry. "I've
just told you what the law is. They may never ask
for you to be subpoenaed."

"They will," she said quietly.

  "Well, they haven't so far." Her fatalistic
acceptance of the situation aggravated him. "And
even if they serve you with a witness summons,
they have to give you at least fourteen days
before you appear in court. A lot of things can
happen in fourteen days."

  "Finished?" asked the waiter, looking
reproachfully at the half-fuU plates.

"Yes," said Daventry. "Very nice, thank you."

When the waiter had left, Daventry sipped some
wine.

  "May I ask something . . . rather personal,
Serena?" he said.

She nodded.

  "This American friend of yours~aptain Tower.
You've known him some time?" He felt awkward.
"I mean this relationship?"

  She was not embarrassed. "You want to know
whether we're serious or if it's just a passing
thing? A casual affair? Is that it?"

He shifted in his chair. "Well . . ."

"I got fond of John, and I ten you one thing.
Never

                 S9
                  
will I give evidence that can send him to jail.
Never. No matter what they want to do with me."

  If he had been in a courtroom, his next
question would have been: "You say you are fond
of him, Miss Howard. But do you love him?"

Here, In the restaurant, it remained unasked.

Instead she took the wind out of his sails.

"I might as well tell you. I am engaged."

"To him?"

  "Oh, no. My fiance is in the diplomatic service.
He is a junior attache at the British Embassy in
Tokyo. Tokyo is a long way away."

  Daventry put down the wine glass. She's
nice-looking, he thought, but she doesn't seem
the sort to be engaged to one chap and behind
his back have an affair with another one. She
looks so correct, so prim, so proper.

  "I know what you're thinking. I'm not a very
nice girl "

  "Not at all," interrupted Daventry. "If I have
learned one thing, it's not to make moral
judgments."

  He meant it well, but it came out sounding
patronising priggish. Momentarily he felt terribly
old-fashioned. It must be the influence ol: his
father, the judge.

  "I don't blame you," said Serena. "Things
sometimes get fouled up, as John would say. I
met him last autumn and . . . it just happened.
Philip's been abroad for almost a year so he
doesen't know a thing about it. He's not due back
until November, and then . . . well, anyway.
That's the position."

"And that's why your parents musn't know
either?"

  She hesitated. "It's one of the reasons. They
adore Philip. Oh, it's very complicated."

  "Are you planning to marry Captain Tower
eventually?" asked Daventry.

  "Mr. Daventry, he's married, remember." She
shrugged. "Isn't that what this bloody business is
all about?"

  She stared at the tablecloth. "I suppose I should
have been more honest. Written to Philip about
it. Told my parents. It's so easy to say that,
believe me, but to do it...."

  "I know," sympathised Daventry. "Try to forget
about it for now. Keep in touch. Nothing may
happen. But if you do hear something, let me
know. And Serena . . ."

She looked at him slightly watery-eyed.

                 60
                  
 "Chin up." Daventry could be very Eton and
Harrow at t mes.

'Thank you for being so understanding," she
whispered.

He paid the bill and then left the restaurant with
her.

  Unterberg made no attempt to follow them. He
had enjoyed his meal, and although he had not
been able to hear any of their conversation, he
had watched them with interest.

  Now he also paid. And as he walked out, he
stopped the headwaiter.

  "The couple who sat at that table," he said. "I
think I know the man, but for the life of me I
can't remember his name.7'

  "Table nine, Signor?" The maitre d' looked at
the reservations book. "That was Mr. Daventry."

"Oh,7' said Unterberg7 "of course. How stupid of
me."

He slipped the man a pound note.

~conbur'

  The hospital stood on the other side of the
base, sandwiched between the gym and the large,
supermarketstyle commissary.

  It had an antiseptic smell, and the first thing
Verago saw when he entered was a line of women
in various stages of pregnancy sitting on a row of
chairs. Baby producing was a side industry of
Laconbury, and the prenatal clinic was never
short of customers.

  "I'd like to see Captain Tower,7' Verago said to
the nurse at the main reception desk.

  "Visiting hours '7 she began, but Verago was
ready for that.

  "I7m over from Germany specially," he said. "I'd
sure appreciate it...."

  She consulted a revolving index and found the
slotted card.

  "He's in " she stopped. "Oh, I7m sorry,
Captain he's not allowed any visitors."

  "Is he that bad?" inquired Verago, sounding
very concerned. He had talent.

  "I wouldn't know," said the nurse. "I7m sorry.
You want to talk to somebody?77

  "No, thatts all right7" said Verago vaguely. He
gave the impression of a man collecting his
thoughts. But he knew already what he was going
to do.

He ambled over to the elevator. The nurse was
already

                 61
                  
busy with someone else. He pressed the button
for the second floor.

 He hadn't been able to read everything on the
card when he'd peered over the nurse's shoulder,
but he had seen a large number "12."

 There wouldn't be twelve wards in the hospital,
he figured. It wasn't that big, after all. But room
twelve. That was a possibility.

 He got out of the elevator and walked
purposefully along the corridor. There were wards
on either side of it, slid no one took any notice of
him. He came to some doors. "X-ray room" said
one sign. "Therapy" read another. There were also
some numbered doors, but none above eight.

 Verago took the elevator to the next floor. It
was quieter there. A nurse with first lieutenant's
silver bars passed him, but he walked on
unhesitatingly, as if he knew his way, and she
ignored him.

 The fifth door he came to had the number
twelve. Also a little sign hanging from the handle:
"No Visitors."

 Verago slowly opened the door. He didn't know
quite what to expect.

 It was a pleasant, airy room. The bed was made,
but it was empty. A captain's uniform jacket lay
on it. In a chair, by the window, sat a man in shirt
sleeves.

The man was reading, and he looked up.

"Captain Tower?" inquired Verago.

 The man put down the book. He had a scar
under his left eye. He was in his thirties, and the
touch of grey in his hair suited him well.

"Who are you?" he asked.

 Verago shut the door. "I'm Verago," he said.
"You sent for me."

 The man frowned. "Can I see your ID,
Captain?" he asked.

 Verago pulled out the AGO card with his
photograph and handed it to the man. Tower
studied it, then glanced up at Verago as if to
compare the face with the photo.

Then he gave the card back.

 "I'm sorry, Captain," he apologised, "I just don't
know who's who anymore. I want to be sure who
I talk to."

The way he said it did not sound irrational.

"You're satisfied?" asked Verago.

"Sure," said the man. "Thanks for coming. I didn't

                 62
                  
think you'd make it. What I mean is, I didn't
think they'd let you make it."

 Verago sat down on the bed. "Why are you in
here, Captain?" he asked.

 Tower smiled derisively. "Haven't they told you?
I'm supposed to be having a nervous breakdown.
I'm supposed to be in bad shape."

"Why no visitors?"

  "You don't know anything, do you, Captain?"
said Tower. "What this is all about?"

  "I'm trying to find out," said Verago. "Why
don't you fill me in?"

  "First you tell me. Do you think I've cracked
up? Look at me. Do I look like a guy having a
breakdown?"

"I don't think so," said Verago slowly. "I'd say no."

  "Thank Christ for that." A look of relief crossed
his face. "How come they let you see me?"

"They didn't," said Verago. "I sneaked in here."

  "Well, we'd better talk quick. When they find
you here, they'll throw you out. You'll get your
ass kicked, believe me, Captain, and I'll probably
get a guard on the door."

  "Listen, I'm your counsel. I've got every right to
talk to you. Nobody can come between lawyer
and client."

  "Oh, no?" Tower looked hard at Verago. Then
he reached over to his jacket and pulled out a
packet of King Edwards. He unwrapped one and
lit it with a silver lighter. Verago hadn't seen a
model like that.

"That's unusual," he said.

  "It's Russian," said Tower. "Oh, I'm sorry, do
you want one?" He offered the pack of cigars.

Verago shook his head.

  "I want to get some things straight," he said.
'They've had the Article Thirty-two, I
understand."

"Of course."

  "And Lieutenant Jensen had been handling
your defense?"

  "Jensen!" It was a snort of contempt. "Have you
met him?"

  "Not yet," said Verago. "I'm going to read the
record, of course, but what kind of evidence have
they got?"

  "Plenty." Tower curled his lips. "As much as
they need."

"Why did they put you in here?" ~

  "It's a nice way of keeping me out of circulation
until the trial. It might also help."

                 63
                  
"Help what?" asked Verago.

 "To discredit me. No smoke without fire, that
kind of thing."

"Just because you've been having an affair?"

  It was hard to take, and yet Verago believed
the man. But he had to ask.

They could hear voices outside, and Tower
tensed.

  Suddenly the door burst open. A man in a
white coat stood staring at them. On his uniform
collar were the oak leaves of a major.

"Who are you, sir?" he demanded.

  Verago stood up. "Captain Verago, Judge
Advocate's department. I am this offlcer's
counsel."

  "Didn't you read the notice?" asked the major.
'~This man is not allowed visitors."

  Behind the doctor, a flustered nurse appeared.
"I'm sorry, Doctor, I had no idea," she gasped.

  "He seems all right to me," said Verago. "As a
matter of fact, I want to talk to you, Doctor. I
want to know why you're keeping him like this."

  The doctor avoided Verago's eyes. "This is not
the place to discuss it, Captain," he said.

  Verago turned to his client. "I'll be back, John.
We'll get all this sorted out. I'll see you soon."

He tried to sound reassuring.

  Outside, in the corridor, Verago turned on the
doctor. '] don't know what the hell is going on
here, Doctor, but that officer is perfectly normal.
Who authorised that he can't see anyone?"

  The doctor bit his lip. "It's in his own interest,"
he said awkwardly.

  "Bullshit," snapped Verago. "I'm looking after
his interests, and I want him out of here. I want
to know who gave the orders."

  "Well," said the doctor uneasily. "We're only
trying to be helpful. We were asked to keep him,
well, away from people. As I said, in his own
interest."

  "And who asked you?" demanded Verago
dangerously. "Who wanted him locked away?"

  "His lawyer," said the doctor. "I mean, his other
lawyer. Lieutenant Jensen."

Laconbury

  First Lieutenant Cyrus Jensen was an
unfortunate man. He was short, baby-faced, with
thick bulbous lips that

                 64
                  
somehow made him look sullen. As if to make up
for his appearance he was also aggressive, except
to his superiors.

  "I'm glad to have you on this case, counselor,"he
said briskly when Verago walked into his room at
the base legal offlce.

  "That so?" It surprised Verago. He had already
convinced himself that Jensen would resent his
very presence.

"Yeah. Maybe you can make this idiot see some
sense."

"How's that?"

  "He'" wasting everybody's time. The case is
open and shut."

  They were words Verago loathed. Every
prosecutor he came across in the military
trumpeted he had an "open and shut" case. Only
this man was supposed to be defending the
accused.

  "It's solid, Captain," added Jensen, and pushed
a file across to Verago. "You just read the Article
Thirty-two."

"You were there?"

  "Of course," Jensen said indignantly. "I did my
best, but Jesus, you can't fight a brick wall."

  That was better. Jensen was living up to
expectation, after all.

"So what do you suggest?"

  "We've got no choice," declared Jensen, not
unhappily. "He's got to plead guilty and hope for
the best. Unless, of course . . ."

Verago's eyes narrowed. "Unless what?"

  "Unless we can get him boarded out.
Discharged for 'the good of the service '
Something like that."

  Verago's dislike of the man grew by the minute.
"That finishes him."

  Jensen laughed. "Well, he won't become a
United States senator, that's for sure, but he'll be
able to sling hash or clean windows. Better than
Leavenworth any day. Who wants a guy like that
in the service anyway?"

"I see," said Verago.

  "By the way, there's a second charge now.
Violation of Article One thirty-three."

  "But he's already charged with prejudicial
conduct," interrupted Verago. "What the hell are
they trying to do?"

  "Counselor, this is conduct unbecoming an
officer and a gentleman. It's quite different,"
Jensen said piously.

  "You mean they want to hang him twice." He
took a deep breath. "And what's the specification
this time?"

                 65
                  
 "The same. Having sexual relations with a
female not his wife." Jensen evidently liked the
sound of it.

 Verago leaned back. "Have you had many of
these, Lieutenant?"

"I don't get you."

  "Have a lot of men on this base been accused
of adultery?"

The thick lips pouted. "Er . . . no. I guess not."

"And how many men are stationed here?"

"That's classified," said Jensen hastily.

  "Bullshit. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Say three
thousand? Four thousand?"

"Well?" Jensen's annoyance was growing.

  "So, Lieutenant, here are hundreds, maybe
thousands of married men stuck in the middle of
nowhere, in a foreign country, for three years at
a time, and not one of them apparently has got
himself involved with a woman. It's a great outfit
you got here."

  "This isn't Germany, Captain, and we're not in
the army."

"And you don't tuck?"

  Jensen's babyish face reddened. "That's
uncalled for, sir; I heard about your reputation,
Captain, now I believe

  Verago smiled benignly. "No kidding? And who
told you about me?"

  For the first time, Jensen seemed embarrassed.
"I can't remember, but I guess somebody must
have said something when they heard you were
coming. You know how it is."

"I do indeed."

  "But I'm sure we can cooperate and look after
Tower's interests," Jensen added, suddenly
conciliatory. "Lees show them, right?"

  "Fine," said Verago. "And as a start you can get
our man out of that hospital. What the hell is he
doing there, anyway?"

"The doctors . . ."

  "The doctors nothing, Jensen." Verago stood
up. "You had him put in there. Either you or
somebody who told you to do it. Well, get him
out. Right away."

His anger was still controlled, but Jensen sagged.

  "It's . . . it's for the best, counselor. He's been
under a strain, and I thought it would help to
keep him out of the way."

                 66
                  
 "Sure," said Verago. "And it wouldn't do any
harm to plant the suggestion the guy is a psycho,
rights Needs mental care. Isn't responsible. What
a great way to have a man booted out of the
service."

"There's no suggestion " objected Jensen.

 "Okay. Just get him out. And listen, Lieutenant,
if you don't . . ."

 He stopped. From the outer office came the
clatter of typewriters, and in the distance the
sound of jet engines warming up. But Jensen was
transfixed by the man facing ~m.

 "If you don't, I'm going to fly in civilian
psychiatrists, the top men, people the military
can't fix. And they're going to look over Tower,
and then tear your medics apart, and God knows
what else." He paused again. "Capote?"

He picked up the Article 32 folder.

 "I'll see to it, Captain," said Jensen. Verago
wasn't sure, but momentarily those thick lips
seemed to tremble.

 "Good." Verago stopped at the door. "You've
fixed quarters for me?"

 "Well," began Jensen, and looked away. "We've
got a small problem." He saw Verago's look and
hastily added: "Oh, don't worry, we got you a
place."

"So what's the snag?"

 Jensen cleared his throat. "Fact is, we've got no
room on the base. There's a squadron in from
Edwards on TDY and all the BOQs are full.
They've got priority, you understand. Being
operational." He laughed weakly. "I guess we legal
eagles don't rate high on the list."

"Where am I staying?" repeated Verago, very
quietly.

  Jensen again avoided his look. "We were lucky."
He was nervous. "We booked you into the George
and Dragon. It's a nice pub. Seventeenth century.
Oliver Cromwell stayed there. You'll like it."

  "I'd prefer to stay on the base," said Verago. "I
like to be in the middle of things. It's more
handy."

  "Couldn't agree more, counselor," toadied
Jensen. "But we can't make space where there
isn't any. Can we? Anyway, the air force pays.
And it's only four miles away."

  Four milest With no car. The idea of a
four-mile hike to and from the installation every
day did not appeal to Verago.

'All need transport," be announced.

"Leave it to me," promised Jensen. "And listen,
if
               67
               
there's anything you require, this office is at your
disposal While you're over here, you're one of
us."

 Heaven forbid, an inner voice said to him, but
Verago curbed his tongue.

 "And when you've read the Article Thirty-two,
maybe we could have a little strategy meeting and
get it all sorted out," Jensen continued. "1 don't
imagine this case will keep you here long."

 Jensen gave what he firmly believed to be an
encouraging smile.

 Somebody must love you, thought Verago.
Your mother. A woman maybe. God knows why.

"You'll be seeing me," he said.

And he meant it.

 As soon as he had gone, Jensen went back to
his desk and sat scowling. Then he slammed down
his fist on the desk rattling his empty coffee cup
in its saucer.

 "Son of a bitch," he snarled to himself, and
though it was an impotent gesture, he felt better.

 He left the office, slamming his door, and
walked a few hundred yards to a little concrete
building with windows barred by steel grilles.

 He entered and came to another door that had
a sign on it reading: "Office of Special
Investigations. Restricted Area. Authorized
Personnel Only."

 Jensen pressed a buzzer, and a partition in the
door slid aside. A face peered out at him.

"Come in," said the face's owner.

 The door opened electronically, and Jensen was
admitted in a tiny hallway."

"Is Duval free?" he asked.

"Go right in, Lieutenant," said the man at the
door.

 Jensen was familiar with this place. He knew
exactly which was the office he wanted. He
knocked and entered.

 "Hi," said Duval. He wore a herringbone sports
jacket and well-cut flannel trousers from
Simpson's. He was a handsome man, with dark
wavy hair. "Take the load off your feet, Cy," he
invited.

"Boy, have they picked the wrong guy."

 "We didn't pick him," Duval pointed out gently.
He had a pleasant, resonant voice and could have
been a radio announcer. "Our friend picked him.
And that's his right."

 "I know, I know," said Jensen irritably. "But the
guy's a real pain."

                 68
                  
Duval settled back in his chair comfortably.

"Okay," he said, "tell me all about Captain
Verago."

Victor Alert

 The planes were clustered at the end of a long
concrete runway, more than a mile from the main
buildings of the base.

 Nearby were a couple of reconnaissance
bombers, Boeing RB - 7Hs, but these were
different. For one thing, they seemed lopsided,
their wings longer than their fuselage.

 They had no insignia. No air force markings, no
crests, no emblems. They were painted black all
over. They sat on the ground, brooding, like
sinister birds who had intruded in a nest.

 Verago stood at the far end of the flight line,
and he remembered where he had first seen that
strange shape. On General Croxford's desk. One
of the models looked like that.

 Verago screwed up his eyes. He wished he
could get a closer look. He could see some
figures bustling around, but from this distance he
couldn't make out what they were doing.

 He didn't notice the approaching jeep until it
pulled up behind him with a screech of tires.
Three airmen were in it, wearing combat kit. Two
of them had carbines. The third man, a master
sergeant, had a pistol holster. It was unbuttoned.

 The sergeant got out of the jeep. "Sir," he said,
"what are you doing here?"

"Looking around."

"Your ID, please," requested the sergeant.

 Verago showed it to him. The two men in the
jeep waited tensely. Their carbines pointed,
almost nonchalantly, in Verago's direction.

 The sergeant did not return the plastic-covered
card. Instead he asked, "What are you doing on
this base, Captain?"

 "Is that any of your business?"' snapped
Verago. What was the matter with this damn
place?

 "Everything is our business, sir," replied the
sergeant, unsmiling.

 He went back to the jeep. Its tall radio antenna
was waving in the breeze. The sergeant picked up
the radio phone and started talking quietly.

                69
                 
 Verago couldn't hear what he said, but the man
read the details on his ID card out aloud, looking
at Verago as he talked.

 Then he replaced the radio phone and walked
over to Verago.

'mere are, Captain," he said, and handed back the

 "Are you satisfied, Sergeant?" asked Verago,
and he hoped it sounded sarcastic.

"Sir," said the sergeant, "you are in a restricted
area."

 Verago looked around. "What area? There's
nothing here. They're a mile away, at least." He
nodded at the planes.

 "This whole section of the base is restricted to
outs~ders, sir, ' said the sergeant.

He made "outsiders" sound dirty

"What's your outfit?" asked Verago.

"Air Police, sir." The face was impassive.

 "Well, you tell your commander that I'm here
on official business, and Sergeant . . ."

"Sir?"

  "You tell him I'm a United States officer, and
I may not be air force but I'm certainly not an
outsider on an American military installation."

  "Yes, sir." The man was utterly unmoved. "But
if you want to enter this area, you'll need special
clearance. Otherwise we got strict orders. Prom
the general."

"What orders?"

  "If we find unauthorised persons trespassing in
certain parts of the installation, we can, if
necessary, shoot." He waited for the effect, then
he added, "If they fail to identify themselves or
attempt to elude us. And this is one of those
parts of the base."

  He saluted and climbed back into the jeep. But
it didn't drive off. The three airmen sat silent,
watching Verago. Slowly he began to walk away,
toward the main part of the installation.

  Then, suddenly, he recalled what those black
planes were. A year earlier, Gary Powers had
been shot down near Sverdlovsk in one.

They were U2s.

He needed a drink A strong one.

  In the officer's club, he ordered a scotch. It was
noisy, crowded, and he decided he wouldn't stay
long. Another thing annoyed him: Over the bar
was a replica of the

                 70
                  
wing crest, the one-eyed Cyclops. Like a constant,
nagging reminder.

"Another one, sir?" asked the barman.

"Why not?"

  Verago hadn't even been aware how quickly he
had gulped down his first drink. Inwardly he knew
the necessity for caution. He needed a clear head.
And this was certainly not the place to tie one on.
One more, and that would be the lot.

  He wished he could get rid of the psychosis that
he was being watched the whole time. Especially
since nobody in the chattering, laughing knots of
people around him even seemed to spare the lone
army officer standing by himself a second look.

"I'm imagining things," he said to himself.

But he knew he wasn't.

       Saturday, June 24,1961

Laconbuq

IT wasn't a cell, but it had the spartan austerity of
a confinement facility. Iron bedstead, a
hard-backed chair, a wardrobe, a wash basin, a
toilet. For light relief, there was a small radio and
a poster on the wall listing a PW's obligations.

  It sternly declared that rank, name, and service
number was all that a man in enemy hands could
honorably tell an enemy about himself; that to
aid, cooperate, give comfort, and above all betray
information was akin to treason. The posters had
first started appearing on military bases after
Korea, and Tower hadn't seen one for a long
time.

  The worst thing about the room was the heat.
It was next to some boilers, which not only made
a curious kind of rumbling noise, but turned it
into a mini oven.

  "I guess it's not as comfortable as the hospital,
but you can thank Captain Verago for that."
Jensen sniffed. "He insisted you get moved out."

"What's happened to my quarters?" asked Tower.

  "They got assigned to somebody else. I'm sorry
about that, John, but you know how crowded we
get here. Anxway, this is only temporary."

                 71
                  
 "Until when?" But Tower already knew the
answer, and Jensen only confirmed it.

"Until after the trial." He left the rest unsaid.

Tower sat on the bed. It had a wafer-thin
mattress.

 "You want anything from the PX?" offered
Jensen. "Cigarettes! Candy? Booze?"

'1hat's okay, Lieutenant. I can get it myself."

 Jensen shook his head. "I guess I didn't explain,
John. You're restricted to your quarters."

 Tower stood up and advanced on him. Jensen
retreated a step. He was reassured by the
presence of an AP at the door.

 "I'm sorry. General Croxford's orders," he
added hastily. "The general feels that pending
disposition of the charges you should stay in your
quarters."

To Jensen's relief. Tower sank back on the bed.

"Of course," he said quietly.

 "If you want to go for a walk or something, just
call the escort."

Tower nodded silently.

 "Here," said Jensen, handing him a Stars and
Stripes. "Maybe you'd like to catch up on the
funnies. I find my day isn't complete without Li'l
Abner."

"I'd like to see Captain Verago," said Tower.

 "Guess that'll have to wait, John," replied
Jensen care" fully. "He isn't around right now."

"Get hold of him. Please."

 "No can do." Jensen was enjoying it. "He didn't
tell me where he was going."

But he was curious.

"Anything I can do?"

 Tower started unwrapping a cigar. "No," he
said, 'I think you've done quite enough already,
Lieutenant."

 They didn't lock the door, but that was only for
appearances' sake.

       Sunday, June 25,1961

Huntingdon

OLIVER CROMWFLL may have stayed at the
George and Dragon, but Verago had never
known a more depressing hotel room.

                72
                 
 The ceiling had a big brown stain, where it had
been flooded from upstairs. The wallpaper, a
faded green, was torn in two places, the bed
creaked, and the chintzcovered armchair had a
lump in it.

 There were two prints to decorate the ghastly
walls, both Pickwickian hunting scenes. One
showed a redcoated huntsman falling off his
horse at a jump, with the inane caption
underneath: "Oops what a spill."

 But even more dispiriting was the Article 32
file. Verago read the record of the pretrial
investigation twice, and there was no doubt.
Captain John Tower had had it. They had got
him to rights.

 They seemed to know everything. Every time he
met the English girl they had known about it.
Every time they went out to dinner or a movie.
Every time they slept together.

It was almost like reading an itemized itinerary.

20:01 Both arrived at Kettneis restaurant, Romilly
Street. Had dinner, left in a cab.

22:51 Both returned to her apartment on Charlotte
Street.

23:22 Both seen to embrace.

 They must have been watching from the
outside, Verago thought with distaste. Somebody
must have stood in the street below and, seeing
through the window the outline of their bodies as
they kissed, reached for his notebook.

23:46 Lights out in the apartment.

06:15 Capt. Tower departed.

  And so on, after every tryst, noting the exact
minute when they held hands, when the curtains
were drawn, when the light was switched off,
when they were seen to kiss.

And that wasn't all.

  The OSI had produced a detailed record of
their trips together. A weekend on the English
channel coast at Brighton, with exact times of
arrival and departure, hotel room number, the
names under which they registered (Captain and
Mrs. Harry Brown). Who did they expect to fool,
poor idiotsl thought Verago.

There was sworn testimony by OSI agents about
the

                 73
                  
later visits, a trip to Stratford on Avon. They had
noted when Tower went into a florist on Berkeley
Square and ordered flowers for her.

  They had been there when the girl and Tower
met in Cambridge, and the pub outside Ipswich
where they spent a Saturday night.

  There were copies of prosecution exhibits
attached to the file.

  Photostats of the hotel bills where they had
stayed together, and of the hotel registry entries.
There were copies of statements by
chambermaids, waiters, cab drivers, identifying
the couple as being together.

  Christ, the OSI had worked hard on it. Verago
was almost impressed by the thoroughness. There
was even a photostat of Tower's pocket diary,
with the pages on which he'd noted a date with
Serena.

  And then there were the photographs. Pictures
of Tower and the girl laughing together,
swimming in a lido, leaving a hotel carrying
suitcases; enlarged photographs, taken from a
distance, of them kissing, even shopping in
Selfridges.

  Verago contemplated Serena's photo. This
particular one showed the sun on her face, it was
in her eyes, and she was making a grimace, but it
caught her freshness, her good looks.

Poor kid, thought Verago.

  He stretched out his legs and rested his socked
feet on the bed. The maid who wafted garlic and
had the makings of a moustache on her upper
lip had turned back the covers, but Verago
wasn't tired yet.

  The only thing they needed to hammer the
final nail in was an admission from Serena herself
that she had indeed slept with Tower. They had
everything else they needed, all the circumstantial
evidence, witness statements, documentary proof.
But to lock the door finally she'd be useful to
them.

  Well, baby, said Verago to himself, I hope they
don't get you. But whether they got hold of the
girl or not the evidence was absolute. He would
hardly be able to argue that on all those nights
alone together in hotels and her flat, all they did
was play chess.

  Almost irresistibly, he was drawn back to the
file. The Article 32 officers, whom they had so
conveniently shifted elsewhere, had, of course,
recommended courtmartial proceedings, Brigadier
General Croxford con

                74
                 
firmed and approved, and Third Air Force
ratified. It had all been done very quickly, very
neatly.

  He rubbed his chin. It had been a long day and
his face felt bristly. He wasn't even aware of it at
that moment though, because the obvious
suddenly struck him.

  God damn it, it was all too neat. Why go to all
the trouble? Why mobilise an army of air force
spooks to do nothing but keep on the tail of a
cheating husband? What the hell did it matter
that Captain Tower was screwing somebody?

  The file gave Mrs. Tower's address as New
York City; she wasn't even in Europe with her
husband. She wasn't even living with him there. So
she wasn't running around raising hell.

  They were all so damn keen to hang Captain
Tower it seemed a shame to cheat the hangman.
Verago grinned savagely. But cheat the son of a
bitch he was going to.

London

  All weekend he'd wondered whether he should
tell A1exandra. Perhaps he ought to keep it to
himself, but then again, the mere fact that he
wondered about it really made it necessary to tell
her. He didn't like having secrets from his wife,
and turning Serena Howard into one would be
absurd.

  "Alex," he said, when the moment came, 'Y
think I'd like a little advice."

  She was reading the Tatler, but she put it down
and looked up at him, a little astonished. They
shared confidences, and occasionally he used her
as a kind of sounding board, noting her reaction,
but seldom indicating whether he would take heed
of it. This approach she had not known before.

"Yes?" she said and waited.

  "It's the Howards' daughter." He paused. "She's
got herself into a pickle."

"And she wants you to help?"

He was grateful to her for making it easier.

  "Yes," he said. "That's the snag. I mean, you
know the position..."

  "Professional etiquette?" She was absolutely
matter-offact.

  "In a way, yes. I don't know quite what to do.
She asked me not to tell anybody. She's
desperately anxious

                 75
                  
that her family doesn't find out. It's really a bit
awkward."

"Don't tell me if you don't want to," said Alex.

 "No, I'd like to know what you think. She's been
having an affair with an American officer. He's
married, and they're going to court-martial him for
committing adultery.

"I don't believe it." She gasped.

 "I know, but it's their law. Bloody medieval. The
point is she's afraid they're going to subpoena her
and make her give evidence before the
court-martial. Make her tell how it all took place."

She was appalled. "That's barbaric. Why should
she?"

  "That's why she's asked me to help her," said
Daventry.

Alex frowned. "Can they make her?"

"They can, take it from me. I checked on it."

  "Well," said Alex, i'I think you should try and
help her as much as possible."

He waited a moment.

"You sure?" he asked finally, very quietly.

  "Of course," Alex said firmly. "You can't stand
by and watch the girl being hounded."

  "It's a little irregular. I've checked with Boulton
and the other authorities. I'm on thin ice, but the
rules say I can give advice, up to a point, to a
friend."

  "Then do it," said Alex. "Do what you can. But
be careful."

  "I don't think she's got any money," added
Daventry. Not that he cared, but his legal mind
insisted he raise the issue.

  "I think you can afford to give a little charity,"
smiled Alex. "We won't starve."

"Pettifer disapproves wildly."

"Be very nice to him and he'll get over it."

  She stood up. "I'm going to put on some coffee,"
she said.

He embraced her. The kiss left her a little
breathless.

"Wow," she gasped, and her pleasure was evident.

  "I think, Alex, you're a very wonderful woman,"
said Daventry.

"I'm obliged, your honor." She laughed.

  Later, in bed, he lay staring into the darkness.
He was still nervous about the whole business. He
still had the uneasy feeling that he was getting
himself into something that held many unknown
hazards for him.

                 76
                  
And perhaps the biggest one was Serena.

 But his gratitude to Alexandra for
understanding that he had to go through with this
was overwhelming. She felt his sense of outrage at
what they were doing. Maybe she sensed the risks
as much as he, but she had given him the strength
to do what he had to do.

 He turned toward her in the bed, and she was
waiting for him, warm, sensual, and very
abandoned.

Alex Daventry was a very shrewd woman.

        Tuesday, June 27,1961

London

PECH'S superior in department B1 had given him
strict instructions.

  "This cheese shop is in Jermyn Street, Helmut,
Picton's or Paxon's, something like that.
Marvelous cheeses. Bring me back a Stilton, a
little Cheddar, some Wensleydale, a little
collection of English cheeses. You'll have time to
do that, won't you?"

"Of course, Herr Unrnh," Pech replied
respectfully.

  But he had only a day in London, and cheese
shipping was not the primary object of his mission.
In the morning, after he landed from Tempelhof,
he made a courtesy call to the West German
embassy, then took a cab to an anonymous
building behind Artillery Mansions in Victoria
where he spent half an hour talking to a
tweed-clad man who until recently had been head
of the Foreign Office's intelligence section in
West Berlin.

  He and Pech had worked together, at
Marienfelde and elsewhere in Berlin, and had
established an easy professional relationship. Pech
felt that the man, for an English blimp, was a
useful ally, and the man had to admit that Pech,
considering he was a German, was a decent
enough cove.

  The only reason Pech went to call on him was
that if the man found out that B1 had had
somebody in London, however briefly, without
getting in touch, he would have resented it. It was
the man's personal pride that while in Berlin he
had sewn up B1 and that they wouldn't make a
move without telling him or keeping in touch.

Pech was not about to disillusion him.
               77
               
  The man invited him to lunch at his club, but
that was reserved for the real purpose of the trip.
To see Unterberg.

  By unspoken agreement, the German and the
AmeAcan had decided it would have to be a very
English restaurant. Pech wanted a change from
rouladen, rostbraten, and ragouts.

  "How's Berlin?" asked Unterberg after they had
settled themselves into Stone's and waited for the
roast beef trolley.

  "Beautiful, in the sunshine." Pech beamed. He
was enjoying his day in London.

"That's not what I meant," said Unterberg.

  "Oh, that." Pech shrugged. He was a thin man,
with bony shoulders. "Status quo. I think that
describes it."

The carver arrived, pushing his trolley.

  '~The mutton's excellent today," he promised,
sliding back the big lid.

"We ordered roast beef," said Unterberg.

  The carver was quite put out. "I'm sorry, sir," he
apologized. "I'll get the beef over."

  "Typical, is it not?" commented Pech, who did
not like the BAtish. "You ask for beef, and you
get mutton."

  "It's not the end of the world," said Unterberg.
He broke his roll. And he decided now was as
good a moment as any.

  "What's brought you over, Helmut?" he asked
cautiously. The classified TWX had not explained
anything.

  "To see you of course, my friend," said Pech.
"And to buy some cheese for my boss."

  Unterberg's chair creaked as he shifted his big
frame in it. "The real reason," he pressed.

  "Well," said Pech slowly. "You know how it is
when one is separated. Face to face, nothing is a
problem. One discusses everything, one reads each
other's minds. But from a distance . . . I think you
could say, B1 needs a little reassurance."

Unterberg frowned. "Whets wrong?"

  The roast beef trolley arrived, and after they
were served Unterberg tipped the carver.

"But he is not the waiter." Pech was quite
startled.

  "It's a tradition," said Unterberg, and felt
pleasantly smug.

"Excellent," said Pech, munching his food.

  "You still haven't told me what's bugging you
people."

                 78
                  
 'nothing said Pech. 'Eve only want to know from
your side that the Tower business is fully under
control." He picked something out of his tooth. "A
reassurance, as I say."

"You've got it," said Unterberg.

 "Good." Pech nodded. "Not that I had any
doubts. But you know what Karlsrnhe is like."

 His organisation, the Federal Republic's Office
for the Protection of the Constitution, as Bonn
liked to call its counterintelligence service,
operated from there. B1 was one of its classified
departments.

"Anything special worrying them?" inquired
Unterberg.

  "My friend, they always worry. It's their nature.
And this business especially."

  Unterberg piled the horseradish on a piece of
meat. He was wondering if the rumors about B1
were true. East German propaganda said it was a
nest of ex-Nazis. That even some of the secretaries
had worked for Goering and Himmler. The CIA
kept out of it; they hinted quietly, in highly
classified reports, that some of it might be true,
but they had no proof.

  He respected Pech as a professional. A damn
efficient guy. Aged about, he guessed, forty-one, so
he'd have been in his mid-twenties in the war.
Interesting. There had been Gestapo field officers
in their twenties.

  "Tell them to relax, old buddy. We've got a tight
rein on things here, believe me."

  He poured Pech some Chateau Nenf de Pape.
The wine waiter hadn't been watching the glass.

"Helmut, how's the girl?"

"Helga?"

"Who else?"

  Pech was still having trouble with the piece of
meat in his teeth. "Difficult," he said. "A very
difficult girl. She is so suspicious."

"Do you blame her?" Unterberg asked dryly.

  "She should trust us more. Doesn't she
understand that we are all on the same side?"

  "Yeah," said Unterberg. "But maybe she can't
work out which side that is."

Pech blinked.

"I'm not kidding," added Unterberg hastily.

  "She is making life very difficult for everybody."
Pech sniffed disapprovingly. "How about your
man? Is he behaving?"

                 79
                  
 "Captain Tower is well taken care of," said
Unterberg. He hoped he was right. "You want
dessert?"

Pech looked at his watch.

  "I think I'd better not," he replied. He patted
his stomach It was flat ILke an athlete's. He was
in good shape but he liked to make out he had a
weight problem. "Must watch it."

  "Me too." Unterberg was still trying to work out
if that was the only reason Pech had come over.
To ask him for a "reassurance."

  "Things still tight in Berlin?" he inquired gently.
It was only the second time Berlin had been
mentioned. Yet that was the thing uppermost in
both their minds.

  Pech lowered his voice. "It's getting worse,
between you and me, Clyde. We're bursting at the
seams. The office is drowning. You should see the
paperwork."

He finished his wine. "I must go."

  Unterberg paid the bill. Outside, in Panton
Street, as they waited for a cab, Pech explained:

  "I have to go and buy cheese. That is very
important. My plane leaves at five so I have very
little time. I'm sorry I can't stay longer."

  "So am I," lied Unterberg. Hoping it sounded
utterly distinterested,he added casually, "Anything
else you have to do before you leave?"

  "Only the cheese," said Pech, and stared him
straight in the eye.

"Well, I hope the trip's been worth it."

  "To make contact with you, my dear colleague,
is always worth it," said Pech.

  And he actually meant it, even if it wasn't for
the reason Unterberg thought.

      Wednesday, June 28, 1961

Molesworth

JOHN Tower faced the two men in the barely
furnished room to which he had been escorted.

"Who's he?" he growled.

 Lieutenant Jensen indicated the bald air force
officer with the captain's bars.

"This is Captain Perriton," he announced.

                 80
                  
The bald man smiled amiably.

 "What does he want?" demanded Tower. He
looked a little more careworn than when Jensen
had last seen him.

"Sit down, John," said Captain Perriton.

 There was a table in the middle of the room,
and three chairs, two on one side and the third
facing them. He indicated the third chair.

 Perriton and Jensen took their places opposite
Tower. On the table lay a briefcase. Perriton
opened it and took out a pack of cards. They were
much bigger than playing cards.

"~'hat's the idea, Jensen?" asked Tower.

 The small lawyer creased his thick lips into a
semblance of a smile.

 "It's a little test," he said reassuringly. "It might
be useful at the trial."

"Test?"

 "Captain Perriton is from Burderop Park,"
explained Jensen. "He's come up specially."

 Tower's eyes narrowed. He had heard about
Burderop Park.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked Perriton.

 "Sort of. But that isn't important, John." He laid
the stack of cards face downward. From his
briefcase he also produced a clipboard. "You just
relax and enjoy it."

"Where is Verago?" demanded Tower.

"We don't need him for this," Jensen said
soothingly.

"I want to see Captain Verago. Right away."

"Not right now," said Jensen.

  'let's all right," interrupted the bald man. 'Yt's
perfectly understandable. But we're doing this in
your interest, John. Lieutenant Jensen feels that
it will help your case. It'll give Captain Verago
more ammunition."

  He pushed the pile of cards forward. "Just look
at each card," he said. "You'll see a funny shape
on it. A kind of ink spot. Simply tell me what it
reminds you of."

  "I know about the Rorschach test," Tower said
curtly. "You're a psychiatrist, aren't you?"

  "Does that worry you?" asked Perriton. He had
the Korea ribbon on his uniform. Tower suddenly
wondered if he had been on the brainwashing
commission for the Pentagon.

Tower stood up. "That's all gentlemen," he said.

They stared, owlishly. Jensen's baby face had
darkened.

                 81
                  
 "Now just a moment, John " he began angrily,
but Perriton silenced him with a little gesture.

 "You've got it all wrong." He smiled at Tower.
"The air force has been using this test for years.
That's how combat air crews were assessed in the
war. It's perfectly routine."

"Not for me," said Tower.

 "Before you say no, you might consider one
thing," Perriton said, almost silkily. "It won't help
you if the court got to hear you'd refused to go
along with us."

 They were the enemy, of course. He knew that.
Jensen, in the guise of defense counsel, and the
bald man as the even-helpful psychiatrist. They
had picked a time and place when Verago wasn't
around to entangle him deeper still.

Tower smiled. It was a dangerous smile. He sat
down.

"Okay," he said, "let's play cards."

Jensen looked relieved.

 "Now," said Perriton. "Study each card. Tell me
what image it suggests to you. If you see more
than one shape, don't worry. Give me all the
pictures you see in your mind."

He turned up the first card.

"Mickey Mouse," Tower said without hesitation.

 Perriton made a note on the clipboard, then
turned up the next ink blot.

"Donald Duck," said Tower.

Perriton raised an eyebrow. "Is that all? Nothing
else?"

 Tower leaned forward and studied the card
again gravely.

"Yes," he said. "Positively Donald Duck."

The third card was exposed.

 "Ah," said Tower. "Now that could be a flat
lettuce leaf. Or maybe just an ink blot."

 Perriton was annoyed. "If you're not prepared
to do this seriously . . ."

"Oh, but I am. I really am," said Tower.

Jensen gave him a furious look.

"All right," said Perriton. "Try this one."

He turned up another card.

  "That's interesting," said Tower. "It's General
Croxford, upside down."

  "Right," said Perriton. He grabbed the pile of
cards and put them back in the briefcase. "I don't
think there's any point in going on with this."

                82
                 
"Neither do I," Tower agreed mildly.

 Jensen was biting his lip nervously, but Perriton
put his clipboard away resignedly.

 "Just what are you afraid of, Captain Tower?"
he asked.

"Bats and butterflies," said Tower.

"What's that?"

  "It'd make you happy, wouldn't it? If I played
the game and came up with fire-sprouting
dragons, and twisted faces, and poisonous insects,
then you could deduce that I hated my father,
never knew my mother and fell downstairs when
I was six." He paused. "Or better still that I was
mentally unstable, an advanced hysteric, obviously
unreliable. Wouldn't that make everybody
happy?"

"You've got a problem, John," said Perriton.

  "So who are you going to testify for, the defense
or the prosecution?"

  Jensen went to the door. Two white-capped
APs, both armed, were outside.

"Sergeant," he said, "escort Captain Tower back."

Perriton stood up and held out his hand.

  "Anyway, glad to have met you, Captain," he
said. "Anytime you feel you need any advice,
don't hesitate to let me know."

  "Sure,'" said Tower. "You've got a permanent
vacancy for me in Ward Ten."

He didn't take Perriton's hand.

  After he had gone, they were still trying to work
out how he knew that Ward 10 at Burderop Park
was always kept locked, day and night, because it
was reserved for very special cases.

       Thursday, June 29,1961

      =
London

THAT day at 5:10 P.M., Daventry received a
phone call at his chambers from Serena
Howard. "Can you come over?" Her voice a
little breathless. "Now?" He sounded somewhat
irritable. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important,"
she said. "Won't it keep?" he asked.

                 83
                  
"Something's happened," she said. "I need to see
you." He frowned. It was awkward. "Look here,
Serena, it's late. I'm sure it will keep. Perhaps we
could meet bAeDy "

 He hesitated. Tomorrow was Friday. He had a
busy day ahead. Then the weekend. That was
impossible.

"How about Monday?"

"Mr. Daventry, I'm frightened."

 "What on earth for?" Really, she was a curious
girt She sounded very apprehensive.

 "Couldn't you just come for ten minutes?
Please. It's only Charlotte Street. You've got the
number, haven't you?"

 He looked at his watch. He was about to leave
anyway. He might as well.

 In the cab, Daventry sighed. When Pettifer
arranged his life, everything was always so
uncomplicated. He missed his good offices.

 Her flat was on the first floor above a shop
displaying a huge photograph of Mao and giving
its window over to the writings of Marx, Engels,
and various Spanishsounding gentlemen Daventry
had never heard of.

 There was a Turkish restaurant opposite, and
parked in front of it was a black Chrysler. The
two men in it stared at him as he paid off the
cab.

 He rang the doorbell. Serena had on a sloppy
wool sweater and slacks. Her face was drawn.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

She led him inside and up the stairs.

  "I've got some coffee on," she said, as he sat
down. The floor was covered by multicolored rugs
with weird patterns. On the wall hung three
primitive, garishly hued masks. She seemed to
have a penchant for Mexican art. At least
Davenry thought it was Mexican. He wasn't sure.

  "I can only stay a few minutes," said Daventry.
"Now, what's all this about? What's happened?"

  "Look," she said, going over to the window. She
stood a little to one side, so that the curtain
concealed her from the street.

He got up and looked out of the window. "What
is it?"

  "I'm being followed," said Serena. "You see that
car. The men in it. They've been following me."

  "Yes. I saw them when I arrived," he said.
"They don't look very suspicious to me."

"They're watching me," insisted Serena

                 84
                  
"How do you know?" asked Daventry.

She poured him some coffee from a small
percolator.

 "I know," she said, as if that was final proof.
"Milk? Sugar?"

 "Just a drop. One lump. Why should they be
following you?"

 "They're there, keeping an eye on this flat.
Seeing who goes in and out. Taking pictures."

"What?"

"They're photographing me with a telephoto lens."

 He stirred the coffee slowly. "I see. And they
trail you?"

 "Not exactly trail me." She brushed an errant
blond hair away from her brow.

 "You said they followed you?" repeated
Daventry, as if he was questioning an uncertain
witness who kept changing her facts.

 "They turn up where I happen to be.
Sometimes. It's horrible."

 He sipped the coffee and leaned back in the
wicker chair. "Have you told the police?"

"Yes.',

"And?"

"They said thank you."

"That's all?"

 "They hinted I was seeing things. That it didn't
matter. They weren't very interested."

 "Of course their presence may. not have
anything to do with you at all, Serena," he said,
putting down the cup.

"I don't understand."

  "Well, you seem to have a rather, er, radical
establishment downstairs."

  Her eyes opened wide. "You mean Ron? The
Maoists? Oh, they're absolute sweeties."

  Daventry put his fingertips together. '] don't
doubt they're very nice people, Serena, but the
authorities do keep an eye on extremists and
radicals. I mean, it's quite possible that well,
perhaps the Special Branch is watching these
premises. And you simply happen to live on the
first

  "And that's why they take my picture? Or
suddenly show up in Petty France when I renew
my passport? Or lurk out there right now?"

  Daventry liked commonplace explanations for
uncommon happenings. "What do you suggest it's
all about?"

                 85
                  
  "It's to do with John," she said firmly. "I know
it is. It's something to do with the court-martial.
I'm convinced of it."

  Daventry got up. "There's not much more you
can do about it. You've told the police. If they
continue to annoy you, tell them again. Make an
official complaint. Personally, I can't see how it's
got anything to do with the other business."

  She came closer to him. "Can't you find out?
It's terribly worrying. I feel . . . it makes me so .
. . uneasy."

  "I'd just try to forget about it. Take no notice.
I think it's your friend below they're interested
in." He did his best to sound reassuring. "By the
way, have you heard anything more?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing from . . . Captain Tower?"

"No," she said. "And that's worrying me too."

  On the TV set stood a framed photo of a man
in U.S. Air Force uniform. There was the faintest
trace of scar under his left eye. She followed
Daventry's look.

"That's John," she said.

"He's not a pilot then?" asked Daventry.

"How do you know?" She looked surprised

"No wings on his uniform."

"I never noticed," she said.

  At the door she turned to him. "I really am
most grateful to you for coming over," she said.

  "That's all right, Serena, but there really wasn't
any need for panic. You mustn't start imagining
things. It'll all get sorted out."

  It was as much for his own sake that he wanted
to put her mind at rest.

"Gerald," she said.

  He froze. For some reason he was taken aback
at her using his first name.

  "You will stand by me, won't you? You will
help me if they come for me?"

Her eyes were wide, pleading.

  "If you have any legal problems, well, phone
me," he said, and fled.

  "Thank you again," she called after him, as he
went down the stairs. In the hallway he became
aware for the first time of a strong aroma of
curry. Ron must be having a cook up, he thought.

He stood in the street, troubled. Whatever he was
get

                86
                 
tiny involved in, it did not fit the nice regular,
predestined pattern of his life. Personally or
professionally.

 He also wondered why, if she had a photo of
the American, he hadn't seen a single picture of
her diplomatic fiance. Or perhaps she kept that in
the more intimate surroundings of her bedroom.

 Daventry hurried down to the junction of
Mortimer Street to get a cab, never noticing that
one of the men in the black Chrysler had
photographed him several times with a
long-lensed camera

 "He was only up there fifteen minutes,"
remarked the man who had taken the pictures.
"You think he fucked her?" He unscrewed the
telephoto lens and put it in its case. It was an
expensive piece of government property.

 Unterberg didn't particularly like the OSI
photographer.

 But all he said was "I don't think Mr. Daventry
works that fast, Alvin."

        Saturday, July 1,1961

London

"WBRB YOU followed?" was the first thing Laurie
asked. "No." Verago frowned. "I mean, I don't
know. I didn't look. Who should be following
me?"

"I thought you might know by now," she replied.

She was tense, almost nervous.

 He took the glass she offered him. "Know
exactly what?"

 Her beautiful antique whisky still tasted superb,
and she looked as good as ever, but over her
shoulder, on the shelf, the ceramic jester
intruded. Last time he had just been an
ornament, now he jarred. His hunched back, his
big nose, the lewd grin, there was something
obscene about him.

She saw his reaction. "You don't like Smiley?"

"Not my favorite."

"He's very special," she said.

  Verago raised his tumbler, "Skol. I'd rather
look at you. You're prettier than General
Croxford, and you got much better legs than
Lieutenant Jensen. Even when

                 87
                  
you're being aN mysterious." The second swallow
was even more warni ng. "What are you trying to
tell me?"

 She sat in the armchair opposite him, so near
and yet so far.

 "Tony," she said gravely, "have you got any idea
what you're into?"

"You fin me in."

  She hesitated. She tapped her cigarette
nervously on the ashtray that rested by her arm.
Then she stubbed it out. She seemed to have
reached a decision.

  "I've found out something. About you. You're
under surveillance, Tony. Everywhere you go.
Everything you do. Everybody you see. You're on
the list."

If she expected him to be shaken, she was wron&

"I see" was all he said

  "A blue file came into the colonel's office. Blue
for top secret. The OSI's marked your card."

He still sat impassive.

"You watch yourself," she added.

"Maybe you ought to," said Verago.

She raised her eyebrows.

  "You ten me I'm being shadowed. That they
know everything I do, everywhere I go. So you let
me come here, right to your apartment." His lip
curled. "What's the matter, you tired of your
job?" She flinched, and he went on. "You know
you can't get away with it. They'll know you saw
me. Maybe they've even bugged this place. Maybe
he's recording every damn wordl"

He scowled at Smiley.

  "They don't need to listen." She paused. "You
see, I tell them everything."

  He picked up his whisky glass and took a hasty
sip. It still tasted nice, but he felt he had had
enough.

"Everything," she repeated.

"You tell the OSI?" he croaked.

  "I report everything." She got up and, without
asking, refilled his glass. "I,ike the other night
when you stayed here. And I'll report tomorrow
that you came around. And that we slept together
afterward."

  She had that mocking smile again. "Because
isn't that what we're going to do?"

"I " he began, and stopped, confused.

It amused her.

  "You should see yourself, Tony," she exclaimed.
"Mouth open, as if the ceiling's fallen in on you.
Relax."

                 88
                  
She bent down and kissed him. Her lipstick tasted
nice. "I'm only saving the government money," she
added. "They'd know all about us anyway, so I got
in first. I like to help them keep the files up to
date."

She lit a fresh cigarette and exhaled a cloud of
smoke.

"Maybe with any luck they'll ask me to spy on
you."

"And will you?" he asked coldly.

"Of course." She smiled. "Every little inch."

 She settled back in the armchair and stretched
like a cat. It accentuated the contours of her
breasts under the tightness of her silk shirt.

"Shocked, are you, Tony?"

 "It's a little hard to take. You forget I'm just a
simple country lawyer."

"Oh, yeah," she remarked sardonically.

"Anyway, just how much do you feed back?"

"Exactly what I want," she replied. "Okay?"

 He got up and walked over to the window.
Nobody seemed to be watching the apartment
block as far as he could see. Nobody was loitering
in a doorway, no car stood with two occupants
never taking their eyes off the building.

 "I told you," called Laurie. "They probably
followed you here, but as soon as they saw where
you were going, they called it off because they
knew I'd be a good girl."

 She was standing up too. He wanted her, badly.
He walked toward her and kissed her, long and
hard.

"I hope you can stay tonight," she whispered in his
ear.

 "I I ought to get back to the base," he
murmured, and he knew that was true, but he
also knew he didn't care at that moment. "I've got
lots to do."

 "Stay," she urged. "They'll be pretty
disappointed if you don't, I suspect."

She pressed him to her body.

"So will 1," she added.

 "Well," said Verago, and started unbuttoning
her silk shirt, "I hate disappointing people."

                 89
                  
        Sunday, July 2, 1961
Probe

 kE ugly misshapen plane, with its curious
outgrowth on top of its fuselage, flew 26,000 feet
above Czechoslovakia, the thirty-strong double
crew at action stations.

  Inside the aircraft, a transformed Super
Constellation few unauthorized people ever got
close to, seven and a half tons of special, most
secret electronic equipment was listening,
watching, recording, supervised by the men in
flight suits.

  Some were air force personnel, others civilian
technicians. None of them ever talked about their
job, but they had a cover story. They were
"meteorologists." They chased the weather. All
they were interested in, they said, were cloud
formations, high-pressure zones, depressions,
wind, and rain.

  The WV-2E was doing a dangerous job. The
only guns she carried were the side arms some of
the aircrew wore. She had no defense against
attack, other than some electronic gadgets to
confuse and mislead enemy radar.

  And it didn't fool the thirty men crouched at
their posts. They knew that, thousands of feet
below, invisible eyes were following them. That on
radar consoles and flight-plotting screens, they
were being trailed. That was the mission. To test
reaction.

  This night, July 2, 1961, O for Oboe's mission
was another move in a mutual chess game in the
skies over Europe. For high above the British
Isles, a Tupolev TU-16 was being tracked by
NATO's silent defences.

  The Badger, cruising at 31,000 feet, had had a
busy night, scouting across East Anglia, making
electronic recordings of the U.S. bases dotted
about the Hat countryside, and was now swinging
northwest for a quick peep at Holy Loch and a
few other interesting locations on the way.

  The twin-engined turbo prop TU-16's crew of
ten had made the flight before. To them, like the
men of the WV2E, it was almost routine.

Lately, of course, there had been a certain unease

                 90
                  
among some of the flyers on the illicit
long-distance ferret missions.

  Like spies on the ground, the game had a set
protocol. CIA men did not, on the whole, kill
KGB men in Paris or Rome or London. Nor did
the KGB, its rival professional colleagues. That
kind of viciousness only led to reprisals and cost
both sides valuable operatives. It was messy and,
in the long run, unproductive.

  By the same token, ferrets on both sides were
generally allowed to do their snooping
unhindered, providing the ground rules were
obeyed.

  A couple of U2s had overstepped them and
never returned home. So not long afterward a
Myasishchev M ~ Molot strategic radar plane
disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic. The
message was mutually understood.

  For months now the game had been played
strictly by the rules. But then came the RB-47H.
She must have done something that annoyed the
Russians to get shot down over the Baltic.

  It worried some of the men on Oboe as they
watched the blips and indicators and radar sweeps
on their equipment. They had no idea what the
other plane's mission had been, but its loss served
to remind them that game though it was, the
pawns died if somebody made the wrong move.

  It was usually just a gesture, but that didn't
make the thought of being blown apart by a
missile or torn to pieces by
twenty-three-millimeter cannon shells any more
attractive.

  There was another reason why the lost RB-7H
was on their minds.

  It had been based at Laconbury. And that was
Oboe's home too.

Laconbury

  The unhurried, cathedral-like calm of the
operations room wasn't disturbed by the arrival of
Brigadier General Croxford.

  Thirty feet below the base of Laconbury,
nuclear-war proof, this nerve center was manned
twenty-four hours a day. And to the Cyclops wing
it was the focal point of the universe.

  As if to prove it, the clocks on the wall gave the
simultaneous times in Omaha, New York, Los
Angeles, Tokyo, Sydney, London, Berlin, and
Moscow.

                 91
                  
  Omaha time was especially important. A
bright-yello~v phone linked them directly with
the heart of a mountain in that state. And in that
mountain was the voice that could start World
War III.

  High in his chair, the duty controller, a
lieutenant colonel, surveyed his silent cohorts. In
front of him was the status board, showing at a
glance the instant readiness of the units that
would begin that war.

  There was a huge electronic map of Europe,
little lights blinking on it from time to time, and
another large board that had black curtains drawn
across it. Every man in the room was cleared to
see that board, but, like a holy shrine that must
only be uncovered on special occasions, the
curtains remained closed.

  Behind them, on the board, were the targets.
The places on the map that would evaporate in a
few minutes after Omaha had given the word.

  There were other wall displays. They indicated
weather conditions, the status of missions in
progress, expected arrivals at the base from others
abroad, the names of squadron and flight
commanders on standby at that moment.

  And there were phones. Batteries of them.
Apart from the yellow one, a whole array, in
different colors. Duty officers sat at curved
consoles, each with a panel of switches and knobs
and buttons in front of him, and his own private
allocation of phones.

  Most of the people in the room were in shirt
sleeves. All of them had plastic badges hanging
from a button; ordinary ID cards did not gain
entry here.

  Occasionally a low voice spoke softly into a
phone. A computer screen glowed. In one corner
teletypes periodically coughed out short messages.
Nothing was rushed. Nobody raised his voice. The
carpet on the floor was dark blue; the lighting
pleasantly subdued; the air, carefully filtered,
clear; the temperature just right.

  The general quietly walked over to the
controller. The lieutenant colonel handed him a
situation clipboard. Croxford glanced at it.

"Good." He nodded, giving it back.

"How long was the Badger overhead?" he asked.

  "Just passed by, General. They got him tracked
over the Irish Sea right now."

"Hmm."

                 92
                  
 Croxford looked at the controller's log. "What's
the status of Oboe?"

 The controller leaned forward and tapped a
keyboard. Some electronic letters flashed across
a screen in front of him.

"Over Austria, sir."

"No problems?"

"None we know about, General."

"Who's the commander?"

"Colonel Mason, sir."

  The controller was puzzled. Croxford usually
knew that kind of detail. He was famous for
remembering names, knowing every man's job,
even the squadron nicknames of individual pilots.
The general must have something on his mind.

  "You ever sat on a court-martial, Bob?" asked
Croxford.

It took the controller completely by surprise.
"Sir?"

"I asked if you had ever sat on a court."

"I was on a couple of Specials. In the States."

"We're going to have a general soon," said
Croxford.

"Is that so? I heard something mentioned...."

"What did you hear?" Croxford demanded
sharply.

  One of the duty officers looked up from his
console. He couldn't make out what the old man
was saying, but the general didn't often indulge in
chats in the command post. He wished he was
closer.

  "Just scuttlebutt, General," the controller said
hastily. "Bar talk."

  Croxford grunted. "I don't want any gossip
about it. Is that clear?"

"Understood, sir."

  Croxford prepared to go, then paused. "I want
a good board," he said. "A smart court. You get
me?"

"Yes, sir."

  Croxford nodded. "Keep me posted on Oboe.
I'll be in my quarters."

  The blue phone buzzed softly. The controller
picked it up, listened. He handed it to Croxford.

"For you, sir."

  The general took the phone. They usually didn't
bother him when he was down in the command
post. Unless it was very urgent.

"Croxford," he said.

"General, it's Duval."

                 93
                  
"Well?"

'`There's no sign of Tower, sir."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I guess he's gone, sir."

 The controller had no idea what it was about,
but the last time the general had such a look on
his face was when Gary Powers failed to take the
death pill and allowed himself to be captured by
the Russians.

L~conbury

 Tower stood in the shadow of the warehouse,
watching the AP jeeps race past. They were
buzzing all over the base like angry bees. The
white hats waved down cars driven by the wives,
held up supply trucks, checked the family housing
area, searched the bowling alley, and swarmed all
over the barracks and the mess halls.

 The gates to the base were double-manned and
any veLciles that left were searched. And they
had the dogs out.

 The dogs were out looking for him. Tower
feared them. The AP squadron prided itself on its
canine unit. Sergeant McKluskey, the man in
charge, had a special technique. Everybody hit
the dogs, except their handlers. His men would
walk down the lines of kennels, and when a
Doberman stuck out his head, he'd be whacked
across the nose with a gauntlet.

 So they hated every human being. Their
handlers they just about tolerated, because they
fed them and were the only people who didn't
hurt them. Every other person was an enemy.

That was the way McKluskey wanted it.

  The dogs roamed loose in certain parts of the
highsecurity zone, where no one was supposed to
enter. McKluskey sometimes wished somebody
would try a little sabotage in the
maximum-security compounds. It would give his
pets some exercise.

  Tonight was the big event for the dog section.
Tower was their quarry.

  Getting out of the cell-like room by the boiler
house had been no problem. He had carefully
picked his moment and simply walked out.

  He wore uniform, and the airmen he passed
gave him cursory salutes but no second look. He
walked along Texas Street, the thoroughfare in
the middle of the dependent housing area, and
made his way to the car park alongside the NCO
club.

                94
                 
  His only plan was to get out. To reach London.
And there . . .

  But London, right now, was on another planet.
He had to get off this sprawling, huge triangular
complex, surrounded by hedges, and behind them
ten-foot-high wire fences.

  Whatever he did, he knew he had to avoid the
operational area of the base. That was always
tightly guarded, and tonight the sentries would
really be on their toes. They'd enjoy it too. Guard
duty was monotonous; at last there was something
to watch for.

  He had a vague idea to steal a car and
somehow drive off the base. Bluff his way past
the guardhouse. Try to pull rank on the APs.
Crash his way through. Anything.

  But when he got to the car park, he found the
APs were already there. Shining flashlights into
every car, standing in a group. He heard
walkie-talkies chattering. Hastily, he turned the
other way.

  He tried to recall, in his mind, the layout of the
base. The flight lines and runways stretched to
the east. The administrative areas were ahead of
him, the big sprawling family complex at his back.

  To the south alongside Laconbury was the
highway to London. A busy route, with constant
traffic. cars. Trucks. If he could reach it, he could
hitch a ride. They'd be surprised to see an
American air force officer thumbing a lift, as
every Yank was believed to have his own huge
limousine, but they'd certainly pick him up.

He had to get to that main road.

  Tower began to walk, hugging all the buildings
along the way, staying in the shadows as much as
he could. The part oPthe airfield he was making
for was open country and grassland. Just the
occasional storehouse. There was nothing
sensitive, no special guard posts.

  He was on open ground now, but if he was
lucky nobody would see him in the dark. He
started running toward the wire fence a mile
away.

  Suddenly he heard barking behind him, and
when he looked around, two shapes were
streaking toward him. He ran faster. He wasn't
just running to get to the fence, he was running
to escape the dogs.

  He was afraid. Recently fear had been a
familiar companion. It was almost as if he was
reenacting a movie. Fleeing for his life, the dogs
behind him, and the men behind them.

                 95
                  
  It had been a wood in Germany last time, not
an airfield in rural England, and the uniforms had
belonged to a different country. But the fear
tasted the same. His throat tightened with panic
as the dogs came nearer and started to catch up
to him.

  His face was a grimace of pain as he put all he
had into escaping, his heart pounding so hard that
he knew soon, any moment, it would explode.
Christ, those dogs. They were gaining on him.
Closer. Closer . . .

  Reality and nightmare, the present and the past
were madly somersaulting round his mind. The
scar on his face, the panic, the desperation to get
away, to escape.

  They had to get him, to stop him. But they . . .
who were "they" this time? Had it all happened
before or was it the same moment, over and over
again?

  A stack of empty oil drums, shaped like a
pyramid loomed in front of him. Last time it had
been trees, the wood . . . or was it back streets
and dark alleys?

  Oh God, he had no strength left. He knew it
was useless. Now the dogs were snapping at his
heels. He stumbled, like a crazy drunken man,
and fell against the drums, just as the whistle
shrilled.

  There had been a whistle last time. But this one
sounded different.

  The dogs froze, their eyes red, crazed with fury,
shining brightly in the dark, saliva dripping from
their jaws, panting with eagerness to tear his
flesh.

  But they obeyed the whistle. McKluskey had
trained them well. They stood over Tower,
waiting, hoping he would move, so that they'd
have their excuse.

  For a fleeting moment, Sergeant McKluskey
had the insane idea of giving them their reward.
He allowed himself the pleasure of savoring the
sight of the exhausted, cowering fugitive,
mesmerised by the Dobermans. He relished the
idea of giving them a taste of the real thing,
instead of the man-sized dummies they usually
savaged in training.

But, like the dogs, McKluskey was well
disciplined.

  He gave another whistle, a different note, and
they stood back.

  "Well done, you beautiful bastards," crowed Mc-
Kluskey. "Now sit."

He lifted the walkie-talkie.

"Post Eleven," he said. "We got your man."

                 96
                  
        Monday, July 3,1961
Laconbury

Ike cab he had taken from the station dropped
Verago at the gates of the base next morning at
8:40 A.M.

 The AP checked his ID again, but then, instead
of waving him through, said, "You'd better get
out, Captain."

And he opened the door of the cab for him.

"Hey," said Verago.

"Pay the man, sir," ordered the AP.

Verago stared at him in disbelief.

  "Who the hell do you think you're talking to . .
. ?" he began.

  "Five pounds," said the cab driver. He didn't
know what the fuss was all about, but he wanted
to be out of it. He made a good living
overcharging Laconbury Yanks who had no cars.
If he had trouble with the APs, he'd lose out
badly.

  Verago paid him, and the cab reversed out of
the gate and drove off.

"Step this way, please," said the AP.

  In the guardhouse, the staff sergeant behind the
desk got up slowly as they entered. He sauntered
over to the counter, eyeing Verago with some
curiosity.

  Maybe I'd better start teaching these bastards a
little military courtesy, thought Verago. He wasn't
a spit-andpolish fanatic at the best of times, but
this studied insolence was too much even for him.

"Sergeant," he snapped.

"Yes, sir?"

"You know who I am?"

  "You're Captain Verago," the sergeant replied
nonchalantly.

  "And don't you forget it," whiplashed Verago. It
was unusual for him to browbeat an enlisted man,
but when he did his victim seldom forgot it.

But not this time.

"Wait here, Captain," instructed the sergeant.
"What for?"
The sergeant was dialing an extension on the
phone.

97

He turned his back. He said something into the
phone, hung up, and sat down.

 "Do you always sit down when an officer is
standing?" grated Verago.

 The sergeant got to his feet. "Sorry, sir," he
mumbled. "They'll be here in a moment."

The other AP still stood by the door, gazing into
space.

 Verago turned to go, but the AP moved so that
Verago couldn't pass him.

"Give me the phone," said Verago tersely.

 "I'm sorry about this, sir," said the sergeant, "but
we got orders."

"Just give me that phone," ordered Verago.

 The sergeant swallowed. He saw Verago's
expression, and whatever the guy had done, he
had those captain's tracks on his shoulders. You
could never win an argument with an officer.

The car saved him.

 It pulled up outside the guardhouse with a
squeal of brakes and they all heard a door slam.

Duval came in.

"Come with me, please," he said to Verago.

"Who are you?"

"Duval. OSI."

 "Well, Mr. Duval, you'd better tell me what's
going on here," said Verago.

 "Let's go to my place," said Duval, as if he'd
issued a dinner invitation.

They got into the car, and the driver started the
engine.

"Did you give them orders to detain me at the
gate?"

 "The APs were told to report the moment you
stepped on the base, Captain," replied Duval.

"Why?"

 But the car had already arrived at its
destination inside the base, the concrete building
with the barred window.

 "Come into the office, please," said Duval,
pressing the buzzer. The door swung open.

 "Sit down, Captain." Duval placed himself
opposite Verago. "We've been very anxious to
talk to you, but we didn't know where you were."

 You tucking liar, thought Verago. You know
I've been in bed all night with Laurie Czeslaw in
London.

"This is not formal, Captain," said DuvaL
"Nothing's

                 98
                  
being written down. Not a word recorded." He
held up his empty hands like a conjurer at the
begin of his act. "You can walk out any time you
want."

  Somewhere close by a teleprinter was stuttering,
and a phone rang briefly. But Verago's mind was
on other things.

  "When outfits like the OSI say something's off
the record, I shut up on principle," he said.
"Nothing personal, Mr. Duval. But you'd better
tell me quick what's going on before I "

  "I understand your indignation," interrupted
DuvaL "At the same time, you'll appreciate what
a sensitive installation this is, and when something
like this happens "

"Like what?"

  Duval regarded him in disbelief. "Oh, come on,
Captain. You don't know, I suppose, that your
client tried to go absent during the night?"

Verago sat very still. "Go on."

  "He broke restriction. He tried to get away and
almost made it. The APs just caught him. Near
the perimeter fence. We think " Duval stopped,
and then continued slowly, " we think a car was
waiting for him."

"And you're suggesting?"

  Duval was chilly. "I'm suggesting nothing. Our
job is security. And, well, let's say you didn't
exactly go by the book when you smuggled
yourself into his room at the hospital. You've
gotten yourself a reputation for welt playing it by
your own rules."

"Unlike you fellows, of course."

  Suddenly Duval grinned. "Listen, I don't hold it
against you." The grin vanished. "But I've got a lot
of unanswered questions."

  Verago looked at his watch. "I'd like to see
Captain Tower," he said.

  The noise of an aircraft stopped Duval
answering right away. Then he said, "I'm sorry.
Right now he's in close confinement."

  "Duval, you don't seem to get it," grated Verago.
"I'm his attorney. You can't stop me seeing him."

"No?" inquired Duval.

"I'll take it to the top."

"Your privilege," said Duval coolly.

  They stood face to face like two antagonists
about to come to the confrontation they had both
expected,

                 99
                  
 "All right," said Verago, "you asked for it,
friend." He reached for the phone.

 Suddenly a siren started shrieking. Somewhere,
simultaneously, a bell rang stridently.

"What the hell is that?" demanded Verago.

"That," said Duval, "is the war alert."

  And in the distance they could hear the planes
starting to take off.

Red Alert

  At 1005 hours Laconbury air base was
completely destroyed by a multimegatonweapon
dropped from a Soviet bomber that was
subsequently listed as probably shot down by an
F-111 from Bentwaters.

  But although Brigadier General Croxford and
his command ceased to exist, on paper, in what
would be one sudden, fiery bright flash, the
exercise was rated a big success.

  All Laconbury's serviceable aircraft had been
airborne within six minutes of the alert, allowing
them to disperse all over the map, as laid down
in the contingency plans.

  It was a very good performance, as they told
the general on the hot line, after he had been
informed he and his outfit were dead.

  By t600 hours, the alert was over. The air force
children in the dependent school no longer had
to lie flat on the classroom floors, the
commissariat was open for business again,
outgoing calls were allowed once more, and
servicemen could enter and leave the base.

  Captain Verago would have died a split second
earlier than some other people on the base,
because the focal point of the bomb's explosion
was the spot where the OSI building stood.

  It was an academic point, since the effect of the
blast would also have destroyed a substantial part
of Cambridge, Huntingdon, Peterborough, St.
Ives, Ely, and other towns in the East Anglia
area.

  Verago never knew any of this, because the
report on the alert had the highest security
classification.

  Captain Verago spent a good part of the seven
hours of the alert in the officers club and, by the
time he was technically reduced to cinders, was
already pleasantly drunk.

  His greatest achievement, he felt, was being
able to somehow persuade the barman to keep
serving him

                100
                 
drinks during the alert. He congratulated himself
for having entered into the spirit of the event. If
it ever happened for real, that's the way he
wanted to go.

       Wednesday, July 5,1961

Laconbury

THEY had cut off Tower from the outside world,
no doubt about it.

  The place, outwardly, wasn't as forbidding as
other stockades Verago had known, but then he
had never been in a lockup on an air base. At first
glance Laconbury's confinement facility merely
consisted of a couple of brick buildings adjoining
the dog kennels, standing in an open space,
surrounded by an innocuous-looking wire fence.

  But they were taking no chances. The fence had
a little sign fastened to it, with two red lightning
flashes and the word "Danger." And two armed
APs with walkie-talkies hovered around.

  Verago had protested at Tower being locked up,
but the AP commander shrugged it off.

  "What do you expect? He broke restriction. The
book says we've to insure the presence of the
accused at his trial. That's all we're doing.
Insuring. Don't worry, he's pretty comfortable.
And he gets the same chow as everybody.~,

  At least they didn't search Verago when he
came to see him. After his run-in with Duval,
nothing would have surprised him.

Tower was Iying on his bunk when Verago was let
in.

"Well," Tower said, "l didn't expect to see you
again."

Slowly he rose from the bunk.

  "Make yourself at home, counselor. It isn't the
Ritz, but they keep it clean." He stretched himself.

  "You're a dumb son of a bitch, you know that?"
said Verago irritably. "What was the idea of trying
a stunt like that?"

  The sun shone brightly through the barred
window, and in the light, the man suddenly looked
different to him. The mouth was weak, the eyes
shifty. Or was he just sick of the guy?

                 101
                  
"I got fed up. Okay?"

 "Oh, great. A real smart thing to do. Just
calculated to help your case."

 By the pillow on the bunk lay a packet of cheap
PX cigars. Tower took one out and lit it with his
lighter. It was Russian, Verago remembered.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Tower.

 Verago stopped halfway in the act of opening
his briefcase.

 "Mister, I'm your attorney, remember? You're
supposed to confide in me." Verago allowed
himself a wry smile. "To trust me."

 "I don't trust anybody. Not anymore. Nothing
personal." Tower's statement was matter-of-fact,
without heat.

 Verago snapped shut his briefcase. "I guess
that's it," he said. He started to go toward the
door.

"What's that for?" demanded Tower.

"You just fired me "

  "Oh, for Chrissake, don't start acting the big
lawyer. Just get on with the case. Do your best.
With what you've got."

  Verago snorted. "Which isn't much." He opened
the briefcase again, slowly. He pulled out a yellow
legal pad. It was covered with notes. He had been
doing a lot of work, and he didn't have good
news.

  "I've studied the Article Thirty-two hearing and
the exhibits and all the rest of the evidence
they've piled up, and their case is solid. You
committed adultery."

  "I never denied it." Tower blew out a cloud of
smoke.

  Verago took a deep breath. He felt like
throwing his pad in the man's face. He hated
clients who played games.

  "So our best line of defenseis that you have
commited a purely technical offence.. You and
your wife have lived apart for so long now that
this is not a case of flagrant adultery, but the
natural behavior of a man who is virtually
married in name only." He paused. "You go along
with that?"

Tower shrugged. "Does it matter?"

  "Well, you're not helping, that's for sure,"
snarled Verago. He controlled himself. "So I'll try
to make my big pitch when it comes to
mitigation. I don't think we

                 102
                  
can stop you being convicted, but maybe I can
save your career."

Tower laughed in his face.

"What's so funny?' asked Verago, angry.

 "Save my career. I love that. You're a great
trier, Captain."

 The walls started to shake as the thunder of jet
planes taxiing on a runway reverberated across
the base. The sound grew, until it swept over the
buildings like a thunderclap, making it impossible
for them to talk.

Tower sat, puffing, avoiding Verago's eyes.

  Then, as the roar receded, and the planes were
airborne, Verago added, "That way Miss Howard
shouldn't have a tough time on the stand. We'll
concede that that you two had a relationship. It
should be over pretty quick for her."

  "Good" was all Tower said. Verago shot a hard
glance to him. Didn't he care more than that?

  "Of course, you're being optimistic," added
Tower. "Mighty optimistic."

  "What about?" He was getting under Verago's
skin. In his anger, he broke the point of his
pencil. "Shit."

"I'm going to get put inside, you want to take a
bet?"

'Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Verago.

  "I'm sorry." He leaned over and offered Verago
one of his cheap cigars, as if to make amends.
"Here."

  "Thanks," growled Verago, as Tower lit it. Then
he asked, "Can I see that?"

Verago turned the lighter over in his hand.

"Russian, you said?"

Tower nodded.

"How did you get it?"

  "A present," said Tower. "Not much to look at,
but it's pretty tough. Never lets me down."

"Souvenir?"

  Tower had a curious smile. "Yes," he said
slowly, "I guess you could call it that."

He took the lighter back and looked at it.

"Yes" he nodded- "a souvenir. Not worth a
damn."

Except to you, thought Verago.

L:aconbur,

  Verago had just come out of the Class VI store
clutching his forty-ounce bottle of duty-free
whisky that would console his night when Jensen
pounced on him.

                 103
                  
 "Ah, counselor," he said, his thick lips curled
into a sluggish smile. He eyed the brown paper
bag Verago was carrying; its contents were not
concealed.

 That's right, Verago felt like saying to him, I'm
a solitary drinker, a lush. I keep the stuff in the
lampshade and the drawer and under the bed,
bottles all over the place, and the idiot would
believe every word.

 "I hear you've had a session with our client,"
Jensen continued, falling into step with him.
"Don't you think both counsel should be present?"

 Maybe Verago was mistaken, but Jensen's lips
were greasy. As if he had been eating something
and then forgotten to wipe his mouth. In such a
hurry, perhaps, to catch up with him.

 "We were talking about cigarette lighters," said
Verago.

"Is that all?" The sarcasm was heavy.

"Oh, and a few routine matters. Nothing special."

"And?"

 "What else did you expect, Cy?" inquired Verago
arn~-ably.

 "Well," said Jensen, a little nervously, "I think
we ought to work very closely together on this
case. A team. You and me."

"But I thought we were already." Verago smiled.

 "Of course, of course." He was wary of Verago.
He cleared his throat.

 "I had a run-in with the OSI about you," he an-
nounced.

"Really?"

  "Yes. After our client tried to go AWOL. They
started asking me questions. About you."

  "You're kidding." Verago made a good job of
sounding astonished.

  "Yes," said Jensen with mock indignation. "And
I gave them a real blast. I'm not going to be
interrogated about a colleague."

  "Good for you," Verago said approvingly. He
was keeping his face very straight. "And what did
they want to know about me?"

  '~They were working on some crazy theory that
Tower had a car waiting for him outside the base,
and the whole thing was some kind of . . . well, I
don't know what."

  "And how did I figure in that?" Verago asked
innocently.

                 104
                  
 "Well, they wondered if you were around, and if
you could know something...."

He was perspiring a little.

"And you said?"

 "I told them to go jump in a lake," Jensen said
virtuously, "and that in any case, they had the
wrong guy, because you weren't around here at
all, you were in London."

 "That was a swell thing to do." Verago could
have fooled a lot of people.

"We've got to stick together, haven't we?" said
Jensen.

  It was a good try, thought Verago, after the man
had gone. Trouble was the OSI hadn't worked out
the script with Jensen too well.

  Because at no time had he told Jensen about
being in London.

New York Cite'

  The two men, wearing grey suits, button-down
collar shirts, and sober ties, looked almost like
identical twins. They had neatly cut short hair and
both smelled of aftershave.

  They entered the brownstone on West Thirtieth
Street, near the junction with Fifth Avenue, and
took the elevator to the sixth floor. Neither spoke
as they slowly rode upward.

  When they got out, they walked along the
corridor, past several doors, until they got to
apartment 6D. They pressed the doorbell.

  From inside the chamber music ceased abruptly.
Then the door opened to the maximum possible
on a safety chain. A woman peered out through
the gap.

"Mrs. Tower?" inquired one of the men politely.

"Yes," she said warily. She kept the door on the
chain.

  "FBI," said the man. He and his companion
produced wallets and held up their identification
at her eye leveL

"What do you want?" she asked.

  "We'd like to come in," the man said
courteously. "It's about your husband."

  Momentarily she hesitated. Then the chain was
slipped, and the door opened wider.

  The two men stepped inside the entrance hall of
the small apartment. A cat quickly scuttled out of
their way.

  "Is he all right? Has anything happened?" the
woman asked a little nervously. She must once
have been very

                 105
                  
good-looking, but she had put on weight, her eyes
were puffy, and her chin was now too fleshy.

 "There's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Tower,"
said the FBI man. "I'm Special Agent Sullivan,
and this is Agent Mattingly. We have a few
questions we'd like to ask you. It won't take
long," he added, like a dentist before a tooth
extraction.

 "You'd better sit down," she said, indicating the
living room. It was untidy, a newspaper on the
floor, a shopping bag on the table, a coat flung
over the back of a chair.

 "I'm sorry, it's not " she began, but didn't
finish. She appeared tense. "I wasn't expecting
anyone. I only just got in from work."

"Don't worry about it," said Sullivan. "May I?"

  She nodded and he sat down in one of the
armchairs Mattingly sat on the couch.

  Mrs. Tower perched on the edge of a chair by
the dining table.

  "You're FBI?" she repeated, as if she had only
just realized who they were. "What does the FBI
want with me?"

  Mattingly took out a notebook and a ballpoint
pen. He sat at the ready, like a stenographer
about to take dictation.

  "It's routine," Sullivan said crisply. Everything
about him was crisp.

  "You're Mrs. Marion Louisa Tower, and you're
married to Captain John Herman Tower?"

  "Yes," she said, puzzled. Then she thought. "At
least " She stopped.

"Yes?"

  "My husband and I, we . . . well, we've been
separated since fifty-seven."

  "But you are still married to him?" Sullivan
asked sharply.

"We're not divorced," she said. "Not yet."

`'You are married?" he repeated insistently.

  "I told you." She was getting annoyed. "What's
this about? Why these questions?"

fAnd you are receiving a marriage allotment from
the

"Of course."

 Mattingly was making careful notes. He wrote
shorthand.

                 106
                  
'5No children?"

"No," she said curtly.

 The cat crept into the room and eyed the two
strangers suspiciously.

 "How often do you hear from your husband?"
asked Sullivan.

"Why do you want to know?"

 "I'm sorry," said Sullivan. "It would help if you
just answered the questions. I don't have many."

 "John is stationed in England. He goes where he
is sent. Germany, France, what do I know?"

"But you keep in touch?"

She raised her head, and there was anger in her
look.

 "Sometimes," she said in a low voice. "Not often.
Like I've said, we are separated."

"He writes to you?"

She nodded. "Now and then."

"When did you last hear from him?"

 "Oh, months ago. I don't know. March. April, I
don't know. Just a short letter."

"Have you still got it?"

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"What's it got to do with the FBI?" she demanded.

 "Captain Tower is currently facing court-martial
proceedings. The air force has asked us to make
some routine inquiries."

 She sat frozen. "Court-martial? I don't
understand. What for?"

 Sullivan glanced at Mattingly. He was getting it
all down.

"Adultery," he said at last.

 "No, it can't be," she cried. "It's crazy. We've
split up. We lead our own lives."

"Mrs. Tower, he is married to you."

She was flushed with indignation.

 "Don't you understand?" she almost shouted.
"We've split up. We . . . reached an arrangement.
I do my thing, he does his."

"But you are married," insisted Sullivan.

 "Whose god damn business is it?" Her fists
clenched. "It's private between him and me."

 "You are not divorced," said Sullivan, almost
accusingly. Mattingly made the note.

 '`That's our business." She stood up. "I think you
ought to leave."

                 107
                  
He remained seated.

  "I'm going to raise hell about this," she added.
"What's our relationship got to do with the air
force, with Washington, with the FBI? Who
brought the charges? Why is he being tried?"

  "It is an offence for an officer who is legally
married to commit adultery with another woman,"
said Sullivan. "That's the law, ma'am."

  "And the FBI gets involved?" She was breathing
heavily. "I want to know why. After all, if I don't
care what he does, why should anybody else?"

  "You don't seem very surprised he's been
committing adultery," said Sullivan. "Or did you
know about it?"

"Go to hell," she said, and her lips were
trembling.

Now he got to his feet.

  "We need the letter he wrote to you. And any
other correspondence you've had with him."

"Too bad," she said.

"You've still got the letters?"

"I'm not answering another question."

  Sullivan pulled a folded paper out of his inner
breast pocket.

  "Mrs. Tower, this is a search warrant. We have
authority to search this apartment and everything
in it and to take whatever is material evidence.
Now, will you cooperate, or do we have to take
the place apart?"

She gaped at him.

  "Please," he offered. "Read it yourself." He held
the paper out to her. She took it, unfolded it, and
scanned it with almost unseeing eyes.

"Why?" she asked. "Why?"

"That's what the air force asked for."

"Who in the air force?"

  "The Office of Special Investigations. The OSI.
We're only doing a job for them. We're not
involved. Now, Mrs. Tower, let's see the letters."

  She walked slowly to a door leading to her
bedroom. It stood open, and they saw her go to
the dressing table and open a drawer. She took
out three letters.

  "Here," she said, when she came back. "I hope
you think they're worth it."

  She sank down on the chair and buried her face
in her hands.

"There're only three letters here," said Sullivan,
looking

                 108
                  
at the envelopes. "February 1961. December 1960.
May 1960."

  "That's all I've got," came her muffled voice.
"Look for yourself if you think I'm Iying."

  "No, that's an right, Mrs. Tower," said Sullivan.
"These will do."

  Out of one of the envelopes dropped a small
snapshot. It was a picture of a man in civilian
clothes.

"Is this your husband?" asked Sullivan.

She didn't even look up. "Yes."

"Where was it taken?"

"Berlin, I think," she said.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Tower," said Sullivan, and he
paused. "We appreciate your cooperation."

Mattingly stood up and folded his notebook.

  "Don't disturb yourself, please," added Sullivan.
"We'll let ourselves out."

  Even after she heard the door slam, she sat
there for a long time.

  At last she got up. She went over to a cupboard
and took out a bottle and a glass. Slowly,
deliberately, she filled two thirds of the glass with
vodka. Then she drank it, in big gulps.

  She held up the glass against the light and
stared into it, like a fortune teller into a crystal
ball.

  Then she hurled the glass right across the room,
and it smashed against the wan.

Marientelde

  On the edge of the Soviet sector, the camp
sprawled over an acre of West Berlin territory.

  "Warning!" cautioned the big sign inside the
entrance. "Beware of Spying and Abduction!"

  Pech drove his Volkswagen past the main gate
of Marienfelde reception center and showed his
pass to the guard. The man nodded and waved
him on.

  Department B1 had its own office in the camp,
tucked away between the administrative buildings,
the dormitory area, the medical division, and the
big central dining had where meals were served in
shifts.

  Marienfelde was bulging with 3,000 refugees
from the east sector, but Pech was concerned with
one girl.

  They had her in custody, and she wasn't
permitted to go anywhere unless accompanied by
a plainclothes man from B1.

                 109
                  
  Chaperoned, she was allowed to stroll in the
fresh air, and she was given five marks a week
pocket money. Sometimes her escort bought her
a Coca-Cola from the little stand in the camp. She
liked Coke; it was a forbidden drink where she
came from.

  Pech parked the car in his own reserved space
in front of the B1 building. He got out and walked
toward a hut.

  "Attention," called out the camp loudspeakers.
"Will the following please report to
administration: 2690, 6498, 7125, 8843."

  No names were allowed inside Marienfelde.
Everyone was a number, because names betrayed
identities, and those became secret once inside
the gates.

Helga was 6221. And she was very special.

  Most of those who got across the border stayed
in Marienfelde for two or three weeks only, while
they were vetted, interrogated, debriefed, and
assigned to other locations inside West Germany.
The average investigation lasted twelve days, while
stories were checked, relatives in the West
contacted, and clearances given.

But there were some who didn't move on.

Like Helga.

  The hut that was her home in Marienfelde
stood in a little enclosure surrounded by a wire
fence, and the gate was guarded. There too they
knew Pech.

  She looked up when he entered. She was pale
with sunken eyes, her straight hair tied in a bun,
wearing a reefer jacket and shapeless trousers. On
the table in front of her stood a mug of cold
coffee, a tin plate with a piece of garlic sausage,
two thick slices of bread, and a pat of butter.

  "You haven't touched your breakfast," observed
Pech reproachfully.

"Any news?" she asked. "Is there any news?"

She twisted her fingers nervously.

  Pech sat down on a stool. "Not yet," he said.
"You have to be patient, Helga."

"How much longer?"

  "These things take time, my dear," said Pech.
"We're trying to process you. We have to be
careful. It takes time. We can't just go across over
there and ask them about you. We have to check
things by other means. And you're not helping us
by refusing to cooperate."

  Outside they could hear the PA system calling
for more numbers to report immediately.

                 110
                  
'I want to see Captain Tower," she demanded.

"Well, you can't," he replied curtly.

"Where is he?"

"In England," said Pech.

'Yell him I want to see him. He'll understand."

 "I regret that's impossible." Pech sighed. "How
often do I have to explain to you that the
Americans have officially handed you over to us?
Forget about them. You are our responsibility."

 He smiled at her encouragingly. "Why don't you
tell us the whole story? Why don't you tell us what
you told Captain Tower?"

"Do you know where we are?" she asked
unexpectedly.

For a moment he looked puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

  "This camp? Marienfelde. This reception canter.
Where is it?"

  "I don't understand you," said Pech, baffled.
"This is Berlin. The western sector. What do you
mean?"

"The other side of the camp," she said. "Where is
that?"

"Helga, I don't follow."

  "It's five meters from East German territory,"
she said slowly. "That's why I won't talk to you."

  Pech smiled again. "I assure you, you are
perfectly safe. They can't touch you here. You are
under official care. You have the department's
assurance."

  For the first time, Helga smiled too. A wry,
cynical smile.

Pech found it quite disconcerting.

  Hans Jurgen Kohl, alias 9684, leaned against the
wail of one of the twenty-five residential blocks
and watched Pech leave the wired enclosure.

  Kohl knew who Pech was and who he had been
to see in the guarded hut.

  That was the reason Kohl was in Marienfelde.
His orders were explicit, and they only concerned
the girl whose number was 6221.

  Kohl, freckle-faced and slightly built, was
regarded by the SSD, the East German security
service, as one of its up-and-coming young men.
He had the rank of lieutenant, and he specialized
in cross-sector operations.

  It had been no problem for him to pose as an
east zone fugitive and get into Marienfelde for
processing.

He had been very well briefed. He knew about
Pech,

                 111
                  
where B1hadits office, and the location of the
security compound. In fact, curiously enough, the
whole sprawling camp, with its teeming mass of
refugees, held little mystery for him.

  Kohl had a good story ready for anyone who
wanted to know what made a young man like him
commit the heinous sin of Republikflucht
(desertion). He was about to be called up for
Volksarmee, and no way, he explained, was he
going to become one of Ulbricbt's goose-stepping
soldiers.

  He was admirably convincing, and people were
quite sure that he'd make a good living for himself
once he settled in West Germany. They didn't
know, of course, that he was in no hurry to leave
Marienfelde.

  "Attention," blared the loudspeaker. "Will 9684
report to Room Nine, Building Seventy-seven,
immediately."

  He heard the announcement, and then he froze.
96841 That was him.

  Building 77 was an administration block, so what
did they want? He had already been debriefed,
had his medical, and received his money
allowance....

  He walked along the corridor and found room 9.
It gave no clue about its occupant.

He knocked on the door.

"Come in," answered a voice.

  Kohl entered and stopped. There was only one
man id the office, sitting behind a trestle table on
which lay a single file.

  "I said come in," repeated Pech. "Come in and
sit down."

  Warily Kohl pulled a wooden chair forward and
sat down facing the desk.

  "You know who I am," said Pech. "And I know
who you are, Lieutenant."

  Kohl's mouth felt dry. "Lieutenant?" he echoed.
"I am a civilian. Somebody has made a mistake."

  "No mistake," said Pech. He was quite cheerful.
"It is all here." He tapped the unopened file. "You
are an offlcer of the Staats Sicherheits Dienst of
the DDR."

Kohl decided to stay silent.

"And people like you are not welcome in
Marienfelde." Maybe it's a test, Kohl thought
desperately. Maybe they're trying it on.

"This is nonsense," he said. "I have no idea what
you
              112
              
are talking about. I fled to avoid conscription. I
would like to go to Bavaria Anywhere far away
from the DDR."

  "I'm sorry, Kohl," said Pech. "You've been
rumbled. It was a nice try, but it didn't work. I
know this will be a blot on your excellent record
sheet, but that can't be helped."

The sarcastic bastard, thought Kohl.

  "I am not the only SSD man in Marienfelde," he
said maliciously.

"But you're the one who's been spotted."

Kohl scowled. "So what happens now?"

  "Back you go to Herr Ulbricht," Pech said
jovially. "I'll even get a driver to drop you at
zonal boundary."

"That's all?"

  Pech's eyes gleamed. "What do you want me to
do? Have you shot? That's not the way the game
is played, Hans. If we all started shooting each
other . . . well, I ask you I"

Kohl sniffed.

  "Just for the record," added Pech, "would you
formally like to tell me who you were sent to spy
on in here?"

  "I think you know the answer I'll give you,"
Kohl replied dryly.

  Pech shrugged. "I had to ask you, of course. It's
routine."

  "I hope your boss is pleased," said Kohl, with a
touch of bitterness.

"Well," said Pech, "I try to keep him happy."

  Half an hour later Kohl was on his way to SSD
headquarters in East Berlin.

  And Pech called his boss in Karlsrube and
reported on events.

  Unruh congratulated him. It proved that B1 was
very alert.

"What about the girl?" he asked.

  "Ah, the girl," reflected Pech. "She is still a
problem, I'm afraid."

"Damn."

  "She seems to be afraid something might
happen to her. But I reassured her."

"You did?"

  "Yes, sir," said Pech. "I promised her that she
was quite safe."

                 113
                  
London

 The Bryanston Mews party was in full swing
when he came up to her.

 "Are you the remarkable American girl
everybody been telling me about?" he asked.

"Remarkable," she echoed, eyebrows raised.

 He was very tall, but good-looking, with tousled
dark hair and laugh lines around his mouth. He
wore a turtleneck sweater and his Rolex watch
was twenty-one-carat gold.

"A girl of many talents, they say."

  "You can only be Gene," said Laurie, and she
couldn't help smiling at the tmabashed cheek of
his approach.

  "We obviously have mutual friends," said the
man in his curious accent, a mixture of American
and central European.

  "I was looking out for you," he added, gently
steering her to the punchbowl on the big table at
the side of the room.

"Really?" said Laurie.

He ladled some of the liquid into a glass for her.

  "I think they've put everything including
aftershave into this," he cautioned, "but it doesn't
matter anymore. Two sips and you don't care."

  There were about twenty people in the room,
chatting and laughing to a background of records.
Nina and Frederick's latest recording was fighting
a losing battle amid the hubbub.

He filled his own glass and raised it.

  "This is my third," he confided. "It makes the
world look beautiful."

He took her arm and guided her into a corner.

  "Tell me," he said, "what have you heard about
me, Laurie?"

  Her almond-shaped eyes twinkled. "You really
want to know?"

  He held up one hand. "No, I will tell you. This
man, Ivanov, don't trust him an inch. He is a
lecher. He chases women. He adores pretty girls.
They're not safe with him." He became mock
serious. "They're quite right."

  "You have a high opinion of yourself, Gene,"
remarked Laune.

  "Can I help it if I am so attractive to them?" he
grinned. He saw her raised eyebrows.

                 114
                  
 "Don't worry, I never force myself on a lady.~'
He paused. "Except maybe in the line of duty."

 Laurie put her glass on top of a cabinet
containing a collection of Chinese figurines.

"Are you on duty now?" she asked.

"No more than you, Miss Czeslaw," be said
genially.

 He finished his drink. "Excuse me," he said. "I
must get another. Would you like a refill?"

 She shook her head and watched him make his
way through the crowd to the punchbowl. So this
was Yevgenni Ivanov, Captain 2nd Rank, Soviet
Navy, assistant naval attache, Russian Embassy,
London. Man about town, official playboy,
assigned special duty.

Very special duty.

 Ivanov came back to her. His face was slightly
flushed. He likes drinking, she noted.

 "Stephen gives good parties, don't you think?"
he commented, looking around the room. "He has
this knack of always inviting the most unexpected
people."

"Like you," said Laurie.

 "Or you," said Ivanov. "Maybe we should both
be grateful to him."

 He took a drink from his glass. "I think they've
added some deodorant," he said, pulling a face.

"So why do you drink it?"

 He lowered his voice, confidentially. "Because,
my beautiful Laurie, Stephen is too mean to serve
decent drinks. That is his one great failing, I have
never seen a drop of champagne at one of his
dos. One is left with this."

"You come quite often?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It passes the time," he airily.

 Near them a girl suddenly raised her voice in
protest. "Look what you have done," she cried
accusingly, holding out her skirt, soaked with the
drink a man had spilled over her.

 "I'm ever so sorry, darling," mumbled the man,
swaying slightly. He was in shirt sleeves, his eyes
slightly glassy. "Buy you a new one. Ever so
sorry."

He took a handkerchief and started to dab her
skirt.

"Oh, go away," the girl snapped irritably.

 "You see that man?" said Ivanov sarcastically.
"Pillar of Fleet Street. Peter Dawkins. Always
good for a scoop if you can pour it into him."

                 115
                  
  "For a navy man, you're well informed about
journalists," remarked Laurie.

  He smiled. "No more than you, I imagine. Tell
me something. Your name, Czeslaw. Interesting.
Eastern European."

"American," she said shortly.

  "But originally.... My grandfather was a Tzarist
grand duke," he went on. "He loved good
restaurants, parties, the ballet, the good life. He
adored the ladies. He took to luxury like a duck
to water." He winked. "Just like me. It's in the
blood."

"even though you're a good communist."

  "Of course. Not only good. A trusted one. You
understand?"

  The atmosphere was getting smokier, the noise
louder, the music shriller.

"I think," said Laurie, "it's time for me to go."

"So soon?" he protested.

"I have an early start in the morning."

  He was charming about it. "I understand.
There'll be plenty of other times. I'll call you at
your flat."

"You have the number?" she asked, surprised.

  "Of course." The smiling eyes stared straight
into hers. "And I look forward to seeing quite a
lot of you, Miss Czeslaw."

  At the door, she glanced back and saw him
watching her across the room. He raised his
hand, blew her an extravagant, continental kiss.
He was still smiling.

Yes, decided Laurie, it had all gone like
clockwork.

        Thursday, July 6,1961

London

SBRENA Howard lay back in the bathtub,
luxuriating in the warm, perfumed water.

  She stretched her long legs and relaxed. She
was a girl who enjoyed pleasant physical
sensations. Like silk against her skin. A man's
hands exploring her body.

  And here, immersed in the scented bath, she
felt secure, safe.

She always took her time over her bath. It had
become

                 116
                  
a ritual, and part of the pleasure was that she
could linger as long as she liked.

  Sometimes she indulged herself by having a cup
of coffee in the tub, or even reading the paper.
Often she smoked a cigarette. But mostly she just
lazed.

The door buzzer sounded.

  She lay rigid for a moment. Living alone, it was
the thing she loathed most that the phone
should ring or somebody come to the door while
she was having her bath.

  She had taken off her watch, but she had gotten
up late, and she knew it must be around ten
thirty. In the sitting room, the radio was playing
softly. She wasn't expecting anyone.

Again the buzzer sounded.

  "Go away," said Serena to herself. It was too
late for the postman, she had paid the milkman
last week. She was suspicious of these unexpected
callers anyway. A couple of Sundays back she'd
been roused from a deep sleep by a man and
woman with toothy smiles offering to "discuss a
Bible message."

  She'd slammed the door in their faces rather
more forcefully than was necessary and swore
next time she simply wouldn't answer.

  Stick it out, ignore them, and they'll finally give
up, she assured herself.

  But not today. This time the buzzer was pushed
impatiently, three times in succession.

  "Shut up," shouted Serena, but she knew that
she couldn't be heard by anyone outside the front
door.

  Then the knocking began. A couple of sharp
raps, finally a peremptory thumping.

  "God almighty," she swore, raising herself and
stepping out of the bath, her naked body
dripping. She had a slim, boyish figure, a tiny
waist, small, firm breasts, and very good legs. But
she didn't even look at herself in the long
bathroom mirror. She briskly towered herself dry.

  "Yes, damn it, I'm coming," she called out
furiously as the banging continued. She wrapped
a bathrobe around herself and went to the front
door.

  "You don't have to knock the house down," she
said angrily.

  A shabbily dressed man in a grubby raincoat
smiled at her nervously. Incongruously, he had a
bowler hat on.

                 117
                  
  "I'm sorry, miss," he apologised, "but I knew you
was in and I thought maybe you hadn't heard."

She caught a whiff of his stale breath.

  "What do you want?" she demanded, pulling the
robe closer around her.

  "Miss Serena Ann Margaret Howard?" he
inquired, rattling off the string of names on her
birth certificate.

"Yes," she confirmed nervously.

  "Here you are, miss," he said, and handed her
an envelope. It was buff, and it had "OHMS" on
it. Before she could even look at it, the man held
a book and pencil in front of her.

"Sign here, miss."

  Despite his shabby looks and bad breath, his
tone had become authoritative.

  "It's just a receipt," he added, and, hardly
thinking, she scrawled her name.

  "Thank you," said the man. He raised his
bowler hat politely. "Sorry to trouble you."

"What is this?" she asked as he started to go.

  "Just a witness summons," he said. "Nothing to
worry about. Good day."

  She closed the door and stared at the envelope
in her hand.

  OHMS. On Her Majesty's Service. And in the
bottom left hand corner, "Lord Chancellor's
Office."

  Suddenly the feeling of well-being that she
always had after a bath disappeared. Her stomach
was tightening into a knot.

  She ripped open the envelope. The paper was
a printed sheet and only some particulars had
been typed in.

  It ordered her to appear in person at RAF
Station Laconbury on Tuesday, July 25, at 9 A.M.,
to attend in the matter of the [Jnited States v.
Tower and to give and render such particulars as
may be required of her.

  She put the paper down and went over to her
handbag. She took out a small pocket diary.
Today was the sixth. Her hand trembled slightly
as she counted the days. They had given her just
under three weeks.

  She sat down and tried to think rationally.
Nineteen days. Two weeks and five days. Oh yes,
that was right. Daventry had said they had to give
at least fourteen days' notice in a subpoena. They
had been very generous.

  Serena looked in her diary again. She found the
number she wanted, and she reached over and
put the phone

                 118

-
on the floor next to her. She dialed the number
and held on while it rang.

Finally it answered.

"Mr. Daventry, please," she said.

The voice at the other end asked something.

 "It's Miss Howard," she said rather formally.
Then she added, 'Yell him it's very urgent."

 Two miles away, in a tall building in Holborn,
a red light flashed on a control panel in a room
that at first glance looked a little like a recording
studio.

 A spool began to revolve slowly. This was one
conversation that was going to be transcribed in
full as soon as it had been recorded.

South Ruislip

In her office, Laurie's phone rang.

 "Colonel Kincaid's office, Miss Czeslaw
speaking," she announced.

 "Hi, Laurie," came the familiar voice. "Listen,
you free Saturday?"

"I can be," she said.

 "Let's meet at our little French restaurant. Or
you got any better ideas?"

"No, that sounds fine," she said. "I look forward
to it."

"Eight o'clock then. I've got a few things to talk
about."

He hung up.

 She had been expecting Clyde Unterberg to
call. In fact, if he hadn't, she would have called
him. She too had a few things to talk about.

Burderop Park

 Duval was enjoying his day out to Wiltshire
driving an unmarked OSI car from the motor
pool. He relished the green English countryside in
the bright July sun.

 Outside Swindon he got lost, but the policeman
he stopped to ask the way to Burderop Park
USAF Hospital gave him excellent directions, and
he arrived only half an hour later than he had
arranged.

 He parked the car by the administrative
building and walked up the path, lined on either
side by neatly trimmed six-inch-high hedges. They
and the closely cropped lawn gave an impression
of almost fastidious tidiness.

 Duvat wondered, idly, who kept it all so
orderly. Some of the patients, maybe, but
certainly not inmates of Ward 1Q

                 119
                  
 He found Captain Perriton waiting in his office
a little impatiently.

 "Sorry I'm late, Doc," apologised Duval. It was
the most familiar he had been so far with
Perriton and he registered an immediate
resentment. He made a mental note always to call
Perriton doctor, or by his rank. Funny people,
these psychiatrists.

 "Let's go and eat," said Perriton. His bald head
gleamed. Almost as if it had been polished.

 "I passed a cute little pub on the way here.
Looks two hundred years old. Why don't we take
my car and have a beer there," suggested Duval.

 He had decided during the drive that it would
be much better to have his discussion with the
captain off base. It somehow made it less official.

 "I've got a lot of patients to see this afternoon,"
Perriton grumbled unhelpfully.

"That's okay. It's only ten minutes from here."

  The pub was the ideal place for a private little
chat. It had a huge lawn at the back, with benches
set far apart.

"What will you have?" asked Duval.

"A shandy."

"A what?" Duval had never heard of it.

  "Lemonade and beer. It's sort of peculiarly
English," explained Perriton. He also liked
buttered scones, crumpets, and little pork pies
because he prided himself on getting to know a
country's way of life.

  "Sounds it," said DUVAI doubtfully. He walked
into the saloon bar, ordered a scotch and soda
and a shandy.

"With ice," he added.

  Although Duval was in civilian dress, he might
as wed have worn a uniform. His suit was
American, like his shirt, his tie, and his shoes. In
the village bar, he stood out.

  The fat girl behind the counter carefully
dropped one lump of ice in each glass. Duval still
couldn't believe it. He had been in many pubs
and bars since arriving in England, and the
English reluctance to serve anything iced always
amazed him.

"Give me a little more ice."

  If his clothes and his accent hadn't branded
him, this would have been it.

He carried the drinks out to the garden.

  "Cheers," said Perriton, to underline his
acclimatization.

                 120
                  
 "Nice part of the country you got here,"
remarked Duval. He wanted to play it gently.

 "Mr. Duval," said Perriton, "you haven't come
all this way to talk about the scenery."

"No," said Duval. "It's about Captain Tower."

"Of course."

 Duval shot him a quick sideways look. Just how
much did this trick cyclist know?

 "I'm sorry he was so uncooperative at the test,"
said Duval. "He wasted everybody's time."

 "You haven't come just to tell me that either,"
Perriton said testily.

 Damn, thought Duval, he got out of the wrong
side of bed today.

"No."

"Well?"

"Doctor, this is absolutely unofficial," said DuvaL

"Aha."

"And absolutely off the record."

"So?"

  "We're very concerned about Captain Tower."
Duval juggled his glass, but the ice had melted
and there wasn't the clinking sound he usually
enjoyed. "He's in a lot of trouble. And we hate to
see a good man in trouble."

"What are you trying to say?"

  "Well," said Duval, "he goes on trial soon, as
you know, and he looks like going straight into
the hoosegow. Hell of a shame. I'd hate to see
my worst enemy in Leavenworth."

  "I didn't know the OSI cared so much,"
commented Perriton.

  "Sure we do. We look after our own. Now, I
appreciate that the test you made was
inconclusive. But we think Captain Tower has
problems. So I want to have your advice."

The bald man stared at him.

  "It wouldn't be too difficult to set up a board,
would it?"

"A board?"

  "Section One twenty-one. If certain
observations of a man's behavior are reported
through channels, regulations provide an inquiry
into his mental condition may be appropriate. It
only needs two medical officers. One of them
should be a psychiatrist. You follow, Doctor?"

"For what purpose?" asked Perriton. His look was
cold.

                 121
                  
 "Well, procedure lays down that the accused can
be placed under observation, examined, and
further investigated. Right here, for example. At
Burderop."

"WhyI"

 "Supposing," said Duval, looking into the
distance, "supposing you find an accused may
have, er, difficulty to inteDigently cooperate in his
defence. I'm quoting the book, of course.
'Intelligently cooperate in his defence."'

"I know the book," said Perriton.

 "If that were the case, it would not be fair to
subject such a man to a court-martial. I'm sure
you agree, Doctor."

 "Guess so," said Perriton slowly. He had worked
with the OSI before.

 "So, if the poor guy needs help, the right thing
is to ship him out and confine him in a place until
you people can shape him up again, wouldn't you
say?"

 It was restful on the lawn. Birds sang and a man
lay on the grass, his eyes closed. Two benches
away a young couple had their heads together and
were laughing, oblivious to their surroundings.

 "Have you got evidence that there is something
wrong mentally with Captain Tower?"

 Duval stared straight at Perriton. "You saw him.
Donald Duckl Mickey Mouse! The guy was
irrational. Wouldn't cooperate. You said so
yourself. And Lieutenant Jensen agrees. He's
trying to help the man, but he just won't listen.
Wants to plead not guilty against the best advice."

 He leaned closer. "Look, Doctor, what I'm
saying is, we want to help him. He's done great
work. I can't talk about it, but he's risked his
neck. He's been under terrific strain. Never knew
when he'd get a buDet in his back."

Perriton raised his eyebrows.

 "You've got no idea what Captain Tower's been
through. The pressure on him . . . Jesus, I'd crack,
that's for sure. I can't ten you more. It's highly
classified. You can guess how secret. But the least
we owe him is to try and help him."

"So why try him at all?" reasoned Perriton.

 "He broke the law." Duval sighed. "Crazy guy.
Gets involved with this English girl, shacks up
with her. The whole thing leaves a bad taste, but
we've got to enforce the law. If every married guy
in the service thought lee could get away with
adultery "

                 122
                  
 "A lot do and nothing happens," interrupted
Perriton. His smile was chilly.

 "Poor Tower got caught. But we want him off
the hook."

 The bald man looked at his watch. "What
exactly are you asking me?"

 "All I'm trying to find out, strictly unofflcial1y,
is if you'd cooperate?"

"To find him mentally unstable?"

 'Do take the appropriate action so we can get
him out of trouble."

"I don't know...."

 "It would also protect national security," Duval
added softly.

Perriton looked up. "How is that?"

  "I can't tell you any more, Doctor. But believe
me, it might be very much in the interests of the
United States."

  Perriton stood up. "I've got to get back," he
said. "Anyway, I can't answer hypothetical
questions. If a request for a board comes through
channels, I'll consider it. That's all I can say."

"That's all I wanted to know, sir," said Duval.

  He drove the psychiatrist back to the hospital.
Ho nearly asked if he could have a look at Ward
10, but he realized they wouldn't want visitors
there at any time. What happened behind its
locked doors was not discussed outside Burderop
Park.

  He was pleased with himself on the return drive
to Laconbury. After all, it was a basic military
principle to have a contingency plan. You never
knew when you might need it.

  Although he knew that the file he never saw
also had other proposals about how to deal with
Captain John Tower.

  He was almost relieved that he didn't have to
know about them.

London

  It was twelve forty when Arthur Rippon got out
of the cab. Not only the invitation but the venue
puzzled him. Cushion Street was not lawyer's
locale, and the Mirabelle certainly not their
stamping ground.

  Daventry was already sitting in the lounge when
Mr. Rippon entered, and welcomed him with a
charming smile.

                 123
                  
 '1 hope the traffic wasn't too bad," Daventry
greeted the solicitor. "Do sit down. What would
you like?"

 Mr. Rippon blinked. Daventry was always polite,
correct to him, if somewhat distant. This
friendliness was something quite new.

"Gin and dry ginger," said Mr. Rippon.

Daventry did not even wince.

  "Well, this is a pleasure, Mr. Daventry," said the
solicitor. "Especially," he added pointedly, "as
you're always so busy."

  "Yes, I'm sorry we haven't managed to do it
before." Daventry nodded. He was very much at
ease.

  The menus came, and Mr. Rippon opened his.
He was impressed.

  Daventry was an attentive host, chatting
urbanely about all kinds of insignificant topics. As
Mr. Rippon toyed with his Dover sole, and he ate
almond trout, Daventry spiced the conversation
with a few gossipy bits about legal figures and
court gaffes that both amused Mr. Rippon and
gave him a growing sense of equality with the
barrister.

  "A little Armagnac perhaps? Or a Napoleon?"
suggested Daventry over coffee.

  "I have to work this afternoon," said Mr.
Rippon. But he quickly added, "Yes, please. I'd
find Napoleon brandy very agreeable."

  It was a double in the big balloon glass, and
then Daventry signaled for cigars. Mr. Rippon
found himself puffing a huge Havana torpedo.

  "I must say, this has been most pleasant," he
said, his face slightly flushed with good living.

  "My dear Mr. Rippon, that's the idea," said
Daventry truthfully, "I am so glad you've enjoyed
it."

  Mr. Rippon blew out some heady Bolivar
fumes. 'I think I may have something quite juicy
for you soon," he confided, lowering his voice. "I'll
be in touch with Pettifer."

"Oh, really?" remarked Daventry.

  "You're very much in demand with my clients,"
continued Mr. Rippon. "I think some of them say
a little prayer at night that you won't start
accepting prosecution briefs."

  He laughed a little throatily. Daventry ordered
another Napoleon. He felt the moment had come.

                 124
                  
 'Y wonder if you could do a little thing for me,
Mr. Rippon," he said.

 "Anything, anything." Mr. Rippon was warm, con-
tented.

"I'd like you to brief me on behalf of a client."

Mr. Rippon stared at him. "What client?"

"A Miss Howard."

 Mr. Rippon's brow furrowed. "Howard1 Miss
Howard? I don't think I "

"No," interrupted Daventry. "You don't know her."

 Mr. Rippon sipped the brandy, but his eyes were
surprisingly alert. "What is the case?"

 "She would like me to represent her in an
application to a judge in chambers."

Mr. Rippon waited.

"To set aside a subpoena," added Daventry.

"She'd better come and see me," said Mr. Rippon.

  "Well," said Daventry, "as it so happens, I have
all the facts. She's already consulted me. Quite
unofficial, you understand."

"Oh, yes?"

  "But I feel that as I will act for her, it is time to
regularize the position. I should now be formally
instructed. So if you could oblige me...."

  "Hmm," said Rippon, savoring the delight- of
being asked to do Daventry a favor. "Rather
unusual, is it not? A member of the bar asking a
solicitor to brief him?" He winked. "Not that I
mind, of course. Not among colleagues."

  "It's perfectly correct procedure, I assure you,
Mr. Rippon," said Daventry, and for the first time
there was a hint of the old formality in his tone.
"As you know, it is no breach of etiquette to advise
a personal friend."

  Mr. Rippon's eyes narrowed. "The lady is a
personal friend, then?" Daventry regarded him
stonily. "Not that that is my business, of course.
Perhaps I should know what this subpoena is all
about?"

  "It is a witness summons for her to give evidence
at an American court-martial."

  "Oh, really? A British national?" Mr. Rippon
swallowed some more brandy. "What is the case?"

  "An officer is being tried for adultery," said
Daventry almost reluctantly.

Mr. Rippon exposed yellowing teeth in a wolfish
smile.

                 125
                  
"Goodness met If our courts could try people for
adultery, I'd have to treble my practice. What a
lark."

 "Anyway, she doesn't want to give evidence,"
said Daventry.

 "Naturally not." Mr. Rippon nodded as if he
knew everything. "Well, I'll get in touch with
Pettifer . . ."

"No," said Daventry. "I will not require that."

"Oh."

 "But ~ assure you that you will not be out of
pocket, Mr. Rippon."

"The lady has means?"

"All your costs will be met," Daventry assured
him.

 "Well, then...." Mr. Rippon hastily gulped down
the remainder of the brandy.

 "Good," said Daventry. "That's settled then.
You have formally instructed me."

 "Yes." Mr. Rippon inclined his head. "On behalf
of Miss . . . oh yes, Miss Howard."

 "And I accept your instructions," said Daventry.
"And I am now acting on her behalf."

He signaled the waiter for the bill.

"I would like to meet the lady," said Mr. Rippon.

 "Perhaps there'll be an opportunity," Daventry
replied carelessly, and regretfully Mr. Rippon
started to feel shut out again.

 "Does Pettifer know about our . . . er . . .
arrangement, Mr. Daventry?"

"He will," said Daventry. "He will."

       Friday, July 7, 1961

London

"I don't understand what this is about,"
protested Serena Howard, staring from one to
the other.

  "It's at the request of the American
authorities," explained the shorter of the two
Special Branch men.

"The American authorities . . ."

  "Well," he went on, with just the hint of a
sneer, "you;ve had a G] staying here quite a lot,
haven't you

She flared up.

                126
                 
  "I have a friend, yes," she retorted. "He's an
American officer. What's that got to do with you?"

  "We've been asked to search your flat at the
request of their authorities. Since you're a British
national, it has to be done by us," stated the short
one, as if that answered everything.

  In the corner of the room,
remarkably-inconspicuous for a man of his bulk,
stood Unterberg. Despite his size, he had a knack
of merging with his surroundings.

She moved toward the phone.

"I want to call my . . . my lawyer," said Serena.

  The taller Special- Branch man was there before
hen "Certainly, miss," he said, "but not right now.
We only want to look around. It won't take long."

"Have you got the right?"

"Yes, miss. We have a warrant."

She sat down, pale-faced.

Unterberg sat down opposite her, uninvited.

  "It's nothing to do with you at all," he confided,
leaning forward almost conspiratorially. "I'm sorry
you're being inconvenienced. All we're interested
in is Captain Tower."

  "Who are you?" demanded Serena The shock
was be. ginning to wear off a little.

"My name is Unterberg."

  "Well, Mr. Unterberg, I am not going to answer
any questions. I want you people out of here. I "
She paused. "Do I make myself clear?"

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the taller
policeman pulling out books and shaking them,
opening sideboard doors and drawers.

  "Tell him to keep his bloody hands off my
things," she shouted, half rising.

The short one sighed. "We do have a search
warrant."

  "You're the bastards who'vebeen plaguing me,
sneaking after me, following me," she burst out.

  "I'm sorry," said the short one, "l don't know
what you're talking about."

Unterberg said nothing. His smile was very faint.

  The short one waved a hand at the Mexican
masks. "Do you smoke?" he inquired, almost
casually.

  "You're all crazy," cried Serena, her hand
nervously ruffling through her blond hair. "Do I
smoke? What's my private life got to do with you?
What do you care?"

  Unterberg did his confidential act again. "These
are British police officers, Serena," he said in a
low voice. "I

                 127
                  
guess they're interested to know If Captain Tower
brought you any class-six liquor. Or PX goods.
That's an offence, possessing our duty-free stuff if
you're a British national So of course is smoking
marijuana"

Her eyes widened.

 "My God," she said. "You're trying to frame me.
You're going to plant something on me!"

 The short one drew himself up to his
inconsiderable height. It did not make him look
much taller.

 "Now, look here, Miss Howard," he began in an
offlcial voice, "that's a very serious charge to
make but I will overlook it. The purpose of our
visit is to see whether Captain Tower left anything
on your premises which might . . . might be a
breach of security. Now let me ask you, did
Captain Tower, to your knowledge, give you
anything classified? Papers, notebooks, photos,
documents? Did he ask you to keep anything for
him?"

She just shook her head.

 "You're sure? You won't be in any trouble, I
promise you. If he gave you anything you
shouldn't have we just want it, that's all."

"No," she said quietly. "He did not."

  "I don't have to tell you that Captain Tower is
facing court-martial charges, and it would be an
offence for you to withhold evidence."

  The taller one had picked up Tower's framed
photograph. "That's him, isn't it?" he asked
Unterberg.

  "Put that down," hissed Serena. She rounded on
the smal! one. "He's not being tried for espionage,
daron you.

She was breathing heavily, furiously.

  "Nobody's mentioned espionage," said
Unterberg. "Why do you?"

  "Oh, God," she cried, and clenched her hands
until the knuckles were white.

  She sat slumped, watching them go about their
business, swiftly, expertly, and yet she felt they
weren't as thorough as they could be. If they were
looking for documents, or photographs, they
didn't look under the mattress of her bed, or
under the carpet, they only casually looked over
the luggage in her wardrobe. In her distress, and
her indignation, she still found time to wonder
why.

  All the time Unterberg sat next to her, not
taking his eyes off her.

"I don't know if it's any consolation, Serena," he
said

                 128
                  
unexpectedly, "but you're not the only one who is
going through this. His wife had a visit from the
FBI."

"His wife?"

 "Yes," he said suavely, "you know about his wife,
of course. The lady in New York. Or didn't he
mention her?"

"I told you, I'm not saying one word."

  Unterberg inclined his head. "Your privilege,
Serena." Then he added, "At the moment."

  Two hours later they left the flat, and all they
took with them was the framed photograph of
Captain Tower.

Huntingdon

  The moment Verago returned to his room at the
George and Dragon he knew someone had
searched it. The notepad he had left on his
bedside table lay at a different angle. His ballpoint
pen, which had been on top of it had rolled onto
the threadbare carpet.

  "Shit, ' swore Verago. They had gone through
the wardrobe and the two shirts and underwear in
the drawers of the tallboy.

  His carryall had been moved, and when he
unzipped it, he was sure somebody had gone
through it. He hadn't stuffed the three
handkerchiefs in like that. The bookmark in his
law manual had been stuck between the wrong
pages.

  "Inefficient bastards," growled Verago. He was
almost angrier that they cared so little they hadn't
even bothered to put things back as they had
found them than at the intrusion itself.

Verago thumped heavily down the creaking stairs.

  He found the landlord sitting in the cubbyhole
that passed for an office, talking to somebody on
the phone.

  "Yes," he was saying, "beautiful countryside all
round. And home cooking. You and your missus
will love it here. I'll have your room ready."

  The landlord hung up, and Verago thought what
a pity he couldn't warn the couple what they had
in store.

"Somebody's been in my room," complained
Verago.

The landlord blinked. "Who?" he asked bovinely.

  "Listen, friend," said Verago, "if I knew that I
wouldn't be asking you. Did you see anybody go
up?"

  The landlord belched. He shook his head.
"Anything been taken?" he asked, easing his bulk
out of the chair.

                 129
                  
 "Not that I know." He stopped. 'Y`ellme, have
any Americans been here? Civiliansl"

 "You know how close the base is," he said. "I
don't notice any more who comes and goes."

"Has anybody asked for me? Or what room I'm
in?"

 Even as he asked, Verago knew it was
pointless. The OSI wouldn't need to ask. They'd
know it all.

 "Maybe you made a mistake," said the landlord
"Seeing nothing's gone. Maybe it's Ethel. She may
have moved something."

Ethel was the garlic maid.

 "Nobody's just moved things. My room's been
searched."

 "I can tell you, nobody's had your key while
you've been out. I don't see no way they could
have got in." The landlord sniffed. "Anyway, I'll
tell the missus and Joe to keep their eyes open."

 Joe was the handyman also the porter,
barman, and waiter.

"Thanks," said Verago.

 "By the way," said the landlord, "you asked for
three eggs this morning."

"So?"

 "I'll have to charge you extra," said the
landlord. "Set breakfast is two eggs and one
rasher."

"Home from home, isn't it?" Verago grunted.

 Two jets roared over the neighborhood, so low
that a lantern hanging from the gabled ceiling
shook.

"Ah," said the landlord. "They're busy at the
base."

"Yeah." Verago nodded. "They're very busy."

Karlerahe

 The afternoon Verago's hotel room was
searched, Helmut Pech had a meeting with his
chief of section Bl.

 Herr Unruh looks tired, thought Pech. The
department was, of course, under great pressure,
and his boss had evidently been working long
hours.

 "I have heard from the Americans," said Herr
Unrnh. "He goes on trial on July twenty-fift!l"

"Excellent," said Pech.

  "I have always admired Yankee ingenuity,"
commented Herr Unrnh, who had been a junior
Waffen SS staff officer in the war, but whose
De-Nazification file had fortuitously gone astray
after VE day. "They are very efficient people. I
think they've handled it beautifully."

                130
                 
"Absolutely," Pech agreed respectfully.

 "However . . ." Herr Unruh looked at his
subordinate across the desk, suddenly gloomy.

"A problem?" ventured Pech.

  "The woman, Helga. Just how secure is she in
Marienfelde?"

"Very,"

  "You appreciate the problem she could present.
If she eluded us, if she managed somehow "

  "I don't think there's the slightest chance,"
insisted Pech. "If I may say so, camp security is
tight. I myself have given special instructions.
Somebody always keeps an eye on her."

  Herr Unruh put his fingertips together. He was
about to deliver a little homily.

  "I was taught never to take a chance. I have
always followed that principle. In our work,
Helmut, we must assume the worst and act as if it
could happen any moment. You follow me?"

"Of course," said Pech, "but I assure you "

  "We are dealing with an unusual problem, and it
red quires an, . . unusual approach. You
understand? Of course you do. Now, we have
nothing to worry about with the American. As for
that man " Herr Unruh clicked his finger. "You
know the one I mean."

"Martin," volunteered Pech, "Martin Schneider."

  "Yes. Well, somebody did us a favor. He is dead.
So we've no more worry on that score. Which
leaves us Helga. I think we should make sure that
even if, by some bad luck, she managed to, er, to
get out and about she'd be stuck, unable to go
anywhere."

Pech waited.

  "And Helmut, I need not remind you that it
must be done legally. We are bound by democratic
laws." The smile was a very thin one. "We have to
obsene every dot and comma of the citizen's rights.
We must adhere at all times to our constitution."
The smile became broader. "Indeed, I stress that
our organization is charged with its protection."

"No question, sir," said Pech.

"So I suggest we use a purely administrative
method." Pech liked Herr Unruh. The man really
knew how to run his section. Everything could be
tape-recorded because everything always appeared
perfectly legal.

"Have you seen her passport]"
              131
              
Pech shook his head.

 "Or any other of her papers? Birth certificate?
Driver's license?"

"No," said Pech. "You know the state she arrived
in."

 "Of course. No papers. No identification. So in
truth you do not know who she really is, do you?"
said Unruh, beaming.

 "Oh, we do," Pech said. "We know everything
about her. She " Then he stopped. He stared at
Unruh.

 "My dear Helmut, you are so trusting," said his
boss. "Sometimes I think much too nice to deal
with the kind of people who are our customers.
The fact is, isn't it, that we have no proof that
Helga Braunschweig is who she says she is. Why,
we don't even have evidence that she is German.
East or West. Everything is her word."

"You are trying to say "

 "I'm saying, Helmut, that for all we know she
might be Russian, Polish, anything." He laughed.
"She could have been born in Warsaw or Kiev.
She could be a very dangerous security risk. And
certainly not a German citizen."

"She has a number."

"Yes, 6221. Which we gave her. That's all she
has."

  He opened a drawer and pushed a thin file
across to Pech.

  "This is an administrative order declaring her
stateless. It should clip her wings a little, don't
you think, even if she tried to leave the nest?"

  "Can we do that?" asked Pech, but already his
face was full of admiration.

  "It is our duty, Helmut. B-One has to sort the
wheat from the chaff. The impostors from the
genuine article. The phonys they try to plant on
us, the fifth column they send across the zonal
boundaries. In the absence of valid documents,
we must grade a suspect stateless. No passports.
No visa. No travel permits. Stuck in Berlin."

He could not disguise his pleasure at the idea.

  "Perfect, don't you think? A very good way of
keeping her in . . . isolation, don't you agree?"

  Pech reached for the file. "Herr Unrnh," he
said, '] will see to it forthwith."

  After Pech had gone, Herr Unruh basked in a
glow of self-satisfaction. It was really remarkable
how with a clean and final stroke of the pen and
the right rubber stamp, he could reduce someone
to the status of nonbeing.

                 132
                  
 In a way, lie was sorry for Helga, of course. The
existence of Displaced Person was something he
wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, and he had
nothing at all against the girl.

It just had to be done.

 On his desk calendar, Tuesday, July 25, had
been ringed in red pencil.

 Herr Unruh was counting the days to the
court-martial of Captain Tower.

        Saturday, July 8,1961

London

THB next night Ivanov called Laurie at 10:50
P.M.

 "You are a very popular woman," he said.
"Every time I phone, you're out."

"Only sometimes."

 "I would like to see you again, Laurie." He
paused. "Can it be arranged?"

"What did you have in mind?" she asked.

 He laughed, and she could visualise his smile.
"You sound so suspicious. What do you think?"

"No," said Laurie. "You tell me."

 "How about going to see a showy Is that
innocent enough?"

This time she laughed.

"You free Monday evening?" he went on.

"What's the play?"

  "No play," said Ivanov. "The Palladium. Second
house. I'll meet you there. Eight o'clock. How's
that for you?"

  "The Palladium," she said, surprised. "All right.
I'll be there."

"Fine." There was faint music in the background.

  "Where are you? Where are you calling from?
I can hear 'My Fair Lady.' "

  "Oh, I'm over at Stephen's," he said. "Want to
come across?"

  Oh, yes, she thought, you do spend a lot of
time with Stephen.

  But aloud she said, "No, thanks, Gene, not
tonight. I'm too tired."

                 133
                  
  "You don't need to get up early for work," he
said, sounding a little mocking. "Tomorrow's
Sunday."

  "I'm just tired. Thank you for calling. See you
Monday evening."

  "You bet," said Ivanov, in his best American,
and he hung up.

  "That was him?" asked Unterberg, sitting in
the armchair opposite her.

Laurie nodded. "He's taking me to a show
Monday."

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"What do you think?" she said.

  Unterberg sat studying her for a moment.
Then he asked, "You know what you're doing,
sweetheart?"

"You tell me."

"Getting away with murder."

And her smile worried Unterberg for a long
time.

        Sunday, July 9, 1961

Czechoslovakia

O for Oboe exploded 29,000 feet up, eleven miles
from Bratislava, at 0415 hours.

 Just as the electronics specialist who spotted the
telltale blip was about to warn the commander,
the missile struck the lumbering plane. There
wasn't even time to send an emergency signal to
Laconbury.

 The aircraft disintegrated in a ball of fire,
momentarily lighting up the night sky around it.
Then it was all over.

 For once, ironically, Oboe's crew had been
reasonably relaxed. It was their third ferret
mission in two weeks, and they were on the
return run to the United Kingdom. They were
looking forward to breakfast at Laconbury and
seventy-two hours in London.

 Nobody had talked about it, but they had
started to convince themselves that this latest
batch of spy missions had turned into something
of a milk run.

 As always, Oboe's men knew, the Russians were
keeping electronic eyes on them, but perhaps they
had gotten used to Oboe's visits. Maybe the
Russians weren't all that worried about nosey
intruders over Czechoslovakia and Hungary.

Not that these missions weren't important.
General

                 134
                  
CroxfordSimself had attended their last two
briefings at the base, before takeoff. He had sat,
hunched on a chair, while the intelligence officer
had outlined their flight plan and, as he put it,
"special areas of interest."

  They also knew that the electronic radar
pictures they took, and the information the
intricate gadgets on board recorded, were always
rushed away, as soon as they had landed.

  But they'd gotten used to it, like the SAC
bomber crews at Brize and Heyford got used to
getting hourly weather reports about their alert
targets and the bomb technicians at Wethersfield
and Bentwaters had become unmoved by the
loading of nuclear weapons aboard the standby
aircraft

  It was all part of the daily routine, although for
ferret crews it meant a little more.-They, after all,
had to fly over enemy territory.

  Before the attack, the misshapen, ugly WV-2E
had had an uneventful night. A couple of times
the probes had picked up enemy aircraft, but that
wasn't out of the ordinary. There had been some
unusual radio transmissions at one point, which
they recorded for analysis back home.

  As always Laconbury was monitoring them,
even though radio silence was the order of the
day. It would Save to be something mighty special
to start them chattering.

  The actual blast that was Oboe's heavenly pyre
had been picked up by various monitoring
facilities on the other side of the border, and by
the time Oboe was due to touch down at
Laconbury again, General Croxford already knew
what had happened.

  When daylight came, a few pieces of wreckage
lay scattered over a wide area, across the fields
and in the woods, but that was all that was left of
the big spy plane. And its crew.

  Czech army trucks soon arrived, and the
soldiers cordoned off the area. A couple of hours
later two carloads of Soviet air force experts
turned up, and every scrap of burned, twisted
metal was carefully examined and then taken
away for further scrutiny. The Russians searched
hard and long for any piece of electronic
equipment, but the explosion had not left much
for them to find.

  The curlew thing was that nobody said a word
about the destruction of O for Oboe. The U.S.
Air Force did not announce the loss of its plane
and crew, and the Russians

                 135
                  
stayed silent. No communique was issued by
either side, no hint given to anyone, and no one,
East or West, knew it had ever happened.

 If there was a cold war going on, at that
moment in time it was apparently by mutual
agreement that certain things were kept secret.
Even things they did to each other.

       Monday, July 10,1961

London

IT'S like sitting in a mausoleum, she thought.
Outside it was a brilliant July day, the sun blazing
down from a cloudless sky, the girls in the Strand
wearing their bright summer dresses, the
pavements hot and sticky.

  But there, in the Law Courts, it was dark and
cold. Footsteps echoed in the big Gothic marble
hall, and people held whispered conversations
outside the courtrooms, dike intruders at a
funeral.

  Serena Howard sat at the end of one of the
interminable mazes of corridors, hands clenched
in her lap. A few feet away was a door, and on
the handle an usher had hung a card reading "In
Chambers." Behind that door Daventry was
asking one of Her Majesty's judges of the
Queen's Bench to set aside Serena's subpoena

  Momentarily she considered running out of this
vast medieval undertaker's palace, into the fresh
air, running as fast as she could, anywhere,
anyplace, to an airport, getting on a plane, fleeing
to some faraway country, just to escape from all
of this.

  "I'm sorry I've been such a time" came
Daventry's voice, and there he stood, looking
down at her.

  "He . . . he said no?" She tried to keep the
tremor out of her voice.

  "I explained the situation," said Daventry,
sitting down beside her. He had three law books
under his arm, and now he put them on the oak
bench. "His lordship was very understanding."

"But he won't "

  "Look, Serena," said Daventry, "he's bound by
the law."

"What happened?" She was twisting her silver
ring.

                136
                 
"I'm afraid he's declined to set aside the
subpoena."

She simply nodded.

 "His point is that under the Visiting Forces Act
an allied military tribunal in this country trying
one of its own servicemen is entitled and
empowered to summon any civilian witness it
needs and that he could not really go against
that."

"But adultery," said Serena.

 Daventry shrugged. "He took the point. But he
said it is not up to him to pass judgment on
another country's laws.',

 "My flat was searched," she pleaded. "Did you
tell him that?"

 "Serene, they were entitled to do it with a
warrant. It was quite legal."

"So," she said slowly, "there's nothing else I can
do."

"Not at the moment."

"I have to go to the trial."

"Yes."

"God." She bit her lip.

 "What we can try," said Daventry, "is to talk
them out of it."

6`what?''

 "I will attend the court-martial with you. I will
try to submit that to make you give evidence is .
. . well, unreasonable. Unfair. I will ask them not
to call you."

"Can you do that?" she asked.

 "I can try," said Daventry. "If they'll let me
appear before them. I'm an English barrister, you
see, and it's an American court. But I'll do my
best."

They made their way into the sunshine outside.

"Serene," he said suddenly.

"Yes?"

 They were standing by the arched entrance to
the Law Courts.

"The judge asked a curious question."

"What?"

 "He asked me if I had any reason for thinking
this case involved . . . well, security."

She stared, wide-eyed. "Security?"

"He didn't take it any further."

"I don't understand."

 Daventry looked around. "You don't think your,
er, boyfriend is involved in espionage?" He
lowered his voice as he said it.

                 137
                  
"John? Of course not."

  For a moment he thought her voice lacked
conviction. Then he felt ashamed for doubting
her.

  "Judges get ridiculous bees in their bonnet
sometimes," remarked Daventry.

  They walked across the zebra crossing to the
other side of the road.

  Duvaldid not follow them. Instead he waved
down a cab.

"U.S. Embassy," he said. "Grosvenor Square."

Karlsrahe

  The little light glowed on Pech's secure phone,
and he picked it up at once. It was the direct
connection to the chief's office at B1.

"Pech here."

'This is Fraulein Scholtz."

  She was Herr Unrnh's confidential secretary,
and always very formal. She did not believe in
first name departmental relationships.

  "Yes, Friulein Scholtz?" said Pech respectfully.
His boss's secretary rated deferential treatment.
Pech, as the Berliners say, knew which side his
bread was buttered on.

"Has Herr Unruh left yet?" she asked.

"Herr Unrnbl" he repeated dumbly.

  "Yes," she said, with a hint of impatience. "Is he
on his way back yet? I have an urgent message
for him."

Pech collected his thoughts.

  "I'm sorry, Fraulein Scholtz," he said at last,
"but I haven't seen him. Are you sure he was
coming here?"

  "Of course I am sure," she snapped. "He was
due at your office at ten A.M."

"Nobody told me," said Pech.

  "He wanted to see you personally. It was
something important."

  You bet it was, thought Pech. If the boss
decided to turn up out of the blue, the ceiling
must be caving in. Herr Unrnh was a stickler for
protocol and the privileges of rank. He
summoned subordinates, he didn't call on them
unexpectedly.

  "You mean you haven't seen him1" asked
Friulein Scholtz.

  "I regret, no. Ike been here since eight twenty
this morning, and Herr Unrnh certainly hasn't
been here."

It was now just after four.

                 138
                  
 "I don't understand it," she said. For the first
time her voice was a little uncertain. "It isn't like
him. He told me he would be back by lunch. I
can't keep stalling Bonn."

"Bonn?" echoed Pech, interested.

  "Yes, the minister wants him." In her dismay,
Fraulein Scholtz was being more indiscreet than
she would normally ever allow herself.

  "Oh." Pech thought for a moment. "What about
Herr Unruh's chauffeur?"

  "He drove himself this morning," said Fraulein
Scholtz. The disapproval was clear.

  "Have you tried the radio?" Like all B1 cars,
Herr Unruh's Mercedes was fitted with two-way
shortwave radio.

  "Of course," she snapped. "I would hardly be
calling you if we had made contact."

  Pech decided to be greatly daring. "Do you
happen to know what it was Herr Unruh wanted to
discuss?"

  "No, Herr Pech. It was obviously urgent and
highly confidential. But Hern Unruh did not
enlighten me. In any case," she added severely, "it
would hardly be up to me to discuss it."

  "No, you're absolutely right. I wonder if he
mentioned it to anyone else?" He was so anxious
to know that he pressed his luck.

  "I have no idea," she said. "He did mention that
he wanted to talk to the Americans urgently. He
had put in a call to Mr. Unterberg in London just
before he left to see you."

"And?" Pech asked eagerly.

  "He didn't reach him. Mr. Unterberg was not in
his office." She sniffed. "I only mention it because
I know you have been working with Mr.
Unterberg."

  "I'm very grateful, Fraulein Scholtz," said Pech,
and he was.

  "Well, obviously you can't help me. I will try
elsewhere. If by any chance you hear from Herr
Unruh, kindly ask him to contact me at once. You
can say that Bonn has called twice."

  "Of course, I will," said Pech. "I'm sure he'll be
in touch quite soon."

  "Good-bye," said Fraulein Scholtz coldly, and
hung up. The light on the phone went out.

But Pech was wrong. Two hours later Herr Unruh
was

                 139
                  
found. He was Iying slumped in the driver's seat
of his Mercedes. It was parked in a laybyon the
autobahn.

  He had a bullet hole in his right temple, and
his right hand was still holding a Luger, with one
bullet spent.

  It was clearly a case of suicide, decided the first
detectives to examine him. But then investigators
from B1's parent, the Offlce for the Protection of
the Constitution, took over.

  And they remembered that Herr Unruh was
lefthanded.

London

  The phone started ringing just as Daventry and
his wife began eating dinner. Daventry answered
it in the halL

"Sloane 7937," he said.

There was no one at the other end.

"Hello," said Daventry, a little irritably.

But there was only silence.

"Who is it?" Alex called from the dining room.

  "Who's there?" demanded Daventry, but the
silence continued and then, suddenly, there was
an abrupt break and the dial tone returned.

  Daventry slammed down the receiver. "Bloody
idiot," he said.

  "That was short and sweet," Alex commented
when he came into the room.

  "Wrong number," said Daventry. "But I wish
they'd have the courtesy to say so. Rude bastard
just hung up."

"Hmmm," said Alex.

  He looked at her sharply. "What's that
supposed to mean?" It had been an aggravating
day, and he had a lot on his mind.

"The phone's been behaving rather strangely
recently."

He frowned. "In what way?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

  "Perhaps I'm imagining it, but I'm sure I've
heard some curious noises. Like . . . the odd
click."

"Go on," said Daventry, a little tersely.

  "This morning, for instance. When you called
me from your chambers. A sort of . . .
background noise, and that wasn't the first time.
I had it last week. During a couple of calls."

"Did you report it?"

Alex shook her head. "I just wasn't sure. I mean,
the

                 140
                  
phone's working all right. Sometimes, thought,
there's the odd little tinkle. As if it's about to ring.
When I pick up the receiver, there's nothing. Just
the dial tone."

 "How long has this been going on?" said
Daventry slowly.

 "Oh, just a few days. They must be working on
the line or something."

He was silent.

  "I think," he said at last, "that perhaps our
phone is being tapped."

  Alex's eyes widened. "Good God, why on earth?
Who by?"

  Daventry reached for his wine glass. "I don't
know," he said. "At least, I don't think I do."

"But you've got an idea."

  He drank from the wine glass. "I could be quite
wrong," he said.

  Alex was not being put off. "No, you do know.
Who is it? Who could possibly be interested in
eavesdropping on us?" She was becoming
indignant. "How dare they?"

  "It could be a case," he said, almost casually.
"Maybe that business with Serena Howard."

"Why, for heaven's sake?"

  "Well, she thinks she's been kept under
surveillance. She says somebody's been watching
her. Over that courtmartial."

"That's crazy," said Alex. "And why tap your
phone?"

"I made an application in chambers on her
behalf."

"You didn't tell me."

  "It was just a routine thing. To get her subpoena
put aside. So they know I'm involved in her case."

"They?"

  "Whitehall," said Daventry. 'The authorities.
You know how it's all hush-hush with the
Americans. They're security crazy."

  "Give me some wine," said Alex. He got up, and
white he poured it out, she said firmly, "Well, you
must take it up with somebody. It's outrageous.
They can't just start listening in on you. What's
next, steaming open your mail?"

  He sat down again. "There's not much point in
raising a stink," he said. "If they are tapping the
phone, they'll never admit it. It's all kept very
secret."

"My God, Gerry, this isn't 1984, it's England, it's
1961.

                 141
                  
It's . . . it's like the Gestapo." She was irate. "Go
to the Bar Council. Raise hell."

 "Look," said Daventry, "leave it to me. It won't
go on for long, if it's going on at all. We may just
be imagining it. One wrong number tonight, a few
noises on the line, and we're getting all worked
up. Don't worry about it."

 She looked unhappy. "You're going to represent
her at the court-martial?" she asked.

"I may do. Yes."

  She nodded. "And you think our phone's being
tapped because of her? It's getting a bit sinister,
isn't it?"

  "I'll talk to the GPO tomorrow," he assured her,
but inwardly he knew he would not even try
because it was pointless. He had experience of
Home Office orders. "It's probably all a mistake
anyway."

  What he didn't tell Alex was that Pettifer had
come plained about the phones at the chambers.
He had said jokingly that it almost sounded as if
they were being tapped.

London

  They came out of the second house at the
Palladium, and Ivanov took her by the arm and
steered her through the crowd into Oxford Street.

  He had a knack, Laurie discovered, for catching
cabs, while others stood around waving in vain.
He spirited one up, under the nose of the
competition, and they got in.

"Where are we going?" asked Laurie.

  "A little place you'll love," he said. "It is very
intimate."

And he grinned at her.

  He was fun to be with, and so completely
un-Russian. At least, thought Laurie, unlike the
popular conception of the Russian heavy.
Dangerous he might be, one of their top men, but
his manner was charming, lighthearted. She
actually enjoyed his company, and that made it
doubly hazardous.

  He had picked a small restaurant in
Marylebone High Street, where they obviously
knew him and had reserved a table for him in the
corner.

  "Stephen introduced me to this place," he
explained. "He often brings his girls here."

"His girls?" said Laurie. "It sounds like a harem."

Ivanav merely smiled.

                 142
                  
"I'm sorry about the show," he said during the
meal. "Why, I enjoyed it."

 "Good," he said. "Personally, I didn't think it
lived up to its title."

 The show was called "Let Yourself Go," and the
program described it as a "revusical."

 'A thought it was very provincial," he added. "I
shall have to take you to something really exciting,
to make up for it."

"Gene, I've had a very nice evening," said Laurie.

 He poured her some Chianti. "'I'm having a very
nice one,' " he corrected her.

Then, a little later, he got down to business.

  "We can be very useful to each other," he said.
"Have you thought about it?"

  She studied him across her wine glass. "Are you
making me some kind of offer, Gene?"

  "You work for the Americans. Out at Ruislip.
You know what I do. It seems to me we have
mutual interests."

"Are you trying to get me into trouble?" asked
Laurie.

  "Oh, please, my darling, don't be funny. We
have the same rules, don't we? For instance, they
must always be told if we meet anyone from the
other side. Isn't that so? If you, who works for the
Americans, come out with me, who works for the
Soviet government, it can only mean two things...."
He paused, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
"Either you have fallen madly in love with me and
don't care, or they know all about it and you have
your uncle's blessing."

"My uncle?"

"Uncle Sam. A cunning gentleman."

  The espresso coffee came, and they waited until
the waiter left the table.

"Is that why you asked me out?" she said at last.

  To her surprise, he took out a little piece of
paper and slipped it under the saucer of her coffee
cup.

  She took it. It was folded in two, and when she
opened it, one line was written in ink:

"I find you most desirable."

  Laurie read it and then suddenly glanced around
the restaurant.

"Are you looking for somebody?" Ivanov asked.

"Yes, a man with a camera."

"Please," he said, "I don't understand."

"It would be a useful photo for you to have, would
it

                 143
                  
not? An air force secretary receiving a piece of
paper from a Soviet diplomat in a discreet little
restaurant," Laurie said coolly.

 He appeared shocked "Laurie, my beautiful,
how can you believe I would stoop to something
so low. Look around, if you're so suspicious.
Where is your man with the camera? I am very
upset."

She nearly laughed at the schoolboyishsulk he put
on.

 "You see, I am really very shy," Ivanov said
earnestly, and now she did not attempt to disguise
the smile. "I wanted to tell you that, but I did not
know if I would have the courage. So I wrote the
note, to give to you at the right moment."

"And this is the right moment?" murmured
Laurie.

 He sighed. "The two things are separate. In our
official capacities, we can establish a useful line of
communication. These days it is very important
that there is direct contact through all kinds of
channels, in our mutual interest. You and I, we
can be a link between our people."

 "I think you've got the wrong party," said
Laurie. "You need somebody pretty
high-powered."

 "And I think you're just the right party," Ivanov
retorted quietly.

"I'm just a secretary."

"Of course," he said smoothly.

"You're crazy, Gene, you know that."

  "Humor me," he said. Then he reached across
the blue tablecloth and took her hand. "So much
for the official business. But I mean what the
note says. I desire you very much."

  Laurie withdrew her hand slowly. "I am sure
you know your reputation, Captain Ivanov," she
said lightly. "Why don't we leave it at that?"

He wasn't put out.

  "For the moment, why not?" He shrugged. "We
will meet again, and then we will see. I think
tonight is the start of a beautiful relationship. I
am very excited."

"Business and pleasure?"

  "That is up to you, Laurie. But I think we
should both be very grateful to Stephen. Afer all,
if it wasn't for his party, we might never have
met."

"Yes," said Laurie. "Wasn't that a coincidence."

He didn't even blink.

"I hope you'll come to the next one he gives," said

                 144
                  
Ivanov. "You might have some fun. Something unex-
pected always happens at Stephen's parties."

He signaled for the bill.

 "Now what would you like to do, Laurie? A little jazz
at Ronnie Scott's maybe? A night club?" He paused. "A
drink at my place, perhaps?"

 "The next stop is over there," said Laurie, nodding at
the door marked "Ladies."

 She was lucky. In the powder room was a phone box.
She put in her two pennies, dialed, and pushed the
button.

 She came out of the powder room with fresh lipstick
and a whiff of the perfume Verago liked so much
around her.

"Why don't we listen to a little jazz?" she said.

Ivanov smiled.

She never mentioned the phone call she had just made.

 I          Tuesday, July 11,1961

London

TWICE Verago pushed the bell marked "Howard" but
nothing happened. The front door next to the Marxist
bookshop remained closed.

 He knew from the OSI reports that Serena Howard
lived on the first floor, over the bookshop, and he
stepped back, looking upward to see if he could spot
anyone in. But no activity was visible.

 Verago stood undecided in Charlotte Street. He liked
the neighborhood. First appearances pleased him. The
Greek restaurants were a tempting sight. Verago's
ancestry was dormant in all but his tastebuds, and he
would go far for a good moussaka or a well-done
steftilia. But nationalism aside, even the Turkish
restaurant looked like a place Laurie might like. He
made a mental note to get to know this part of London
better.

 He had been hanging around now for about ten min-
utes, wondering why he had taken it for granted that the
Howard girl would be in. The surveillance reports de-
scribed her as a part-time model, and he realized he
didn't really know much about her. But he had assumed
for some reason or other, that she might be at home if
he showed up.

                   145
                    
 Verago looked at his watch, chewing his lip.
Then he made up his mind. He went into the
bookshop.

 A serious-looking girl with glasses and no
makeup was just hanging up a poster declaiming
"No U.S. Bases." It didn't surprise Verago. He
had seen Mao in the window and the array of
Marxist literature.

 He wasn't in uniform, but he looked American.
He felt slightly embarrassed.

"Excuse me," said Verago.

  "Yeah?" The girl was just climbing on to some
steps to get the poster in position. She wore
shapeless trousers.

  "Do you know Miss Howard? The lady who
lives upstairs?" asked Verago.

  "Ron7" yelled the girl. Her nose was shiny.
Hanging the poster was also giving her trouble.

  The man who appeared from behind a
bookshelf had shoulder-length hair, wore denims,
and sprouted three badges. One said "No H
Bomb," another "Workers Solidarity," and the
third "Yanks Out." "Yanks Out" was a big, round
badge, and Verago was very conscious of it.

"What is it?" asked Ron, shuffling forward.

"Bloke asking about upstairs," said the girl.

Ron regarded him balefully. "What do you
want?"

  "Is the lady usually in during the day? Do you
know if she'll be back soon?"

Ron sniffed with disdain. "Yank, are you?" he
asked.

  "When would be the best time to find Miss
Howard in?" said Verago.

"What do you want her for?" inquired Ron.

  Puck community relations, thought Verago.
Aloud he said; "None of your business, buddy.
You want to help or

  "Not particularly, mate," said Ron, and grinned.
One of his front teeth, noted Verago with
satisfaction, was black.

"Thanks a lot."

"Pleasure," Ron said sarcastically.

  Verago turned his back, walking out past the
glowering images of La Passionara, Che Guevara,
Lenin, and thought he'd like to buy a couple of
the posters and stick them in Jensen's office.

  But instead he stepped into the street just as a
cab drew up. He immediately recognized the girl
who paid off the driver. The OSI photographs
had been very good.

"Miss Howard," said Verago.

                146
                 
 She turned, startled. She was carrying a
shopping bag, and when she heard his accent and
saw him, her eyes opened wide. He didn't know if
it was surprise or fear.

"Who are you?" she asked.

  "I'm Captain Tower's counsel," he said, sensing
her hostility. "I would like to talk to you."

  "Are you from the air force?" she demanded
suspiciously.

  "I'm an army lawyer," he said, and threw in for
good measure: "I'm nothing to do with the air
force. My job is to defend Captain Tower."

  She put down the shopping bag on the
pavement. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't want
anything to do with the Americans."

  Ron had come to the door of the shop and was
watching with interest.

  "Listen, Miss Howard," said Verago. "I'm sure
we're on the same side. You can help me a lot.
But we can't talk on the sidewalk. Can I come up
to your apartment?"

  He bent down and picked up her shopping bag,
and smiled.

"Please," he added.

She hesitated.

"I won't keep you long," he assured her.

  She got out her keys, unlocked the door, and
led the way upstairs into the flat.

  "Sit down," she said coldly, as he placed the
shopping bag on a table.

"What do you want with me?" she inquired tersely.

  "I'd like to ask you a few questions," replied
Verago. "I think they're going to call you as a
witness, and we ought to get a few things straight."

  She sat down opposite him, perching on the
edge of the sofa.

"What is your name?"

"Captain Verago."

"You say you are defending John?"

"I'm trying to."

  "What exactly do you want to know?" she asked
without warmth. Her enmity came across to him
in waves.

  "Did you know that you and he were being
watched? That you were under surveillance when
you were together?"

"I know now." She was bitter, hard.

"Have you any idea when it began?"

                 147
                  
"No.',

"Have you any idea why they were watching you?"

  "Yes, Captain Verago," said Serena acidly.
"Because in your armed services it is apparently
a crime for a man and woman to have a
relationship."

- He cleared his throat. "Er . . . not exactly like
that." She glowered at him. "Look, believe me, I
hate this kind of case as much as you do. My sole
object is to get him off as lightly as possible."

 "I see," she said. It was so unforthcoming it
disconcerted him.

He tried again. "Have you any idea what his job
was?"

"No."

  "Did he ever talk about his trips? What he did?
Berlin?"

'`I think you'd better leave, Captain Verago," she
said.

  He remained seated. "I haven't even started yet,
Miss Howard," he said gently.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "If you want to know
anything else, talk to my lawyer. Mr. Gerald
Daventry, of Lincoln's Inn."

  "You don't seem to understand," protested
Verago. "I'm working against time. There's a lot
I "

"No," she said. "I don't want to discuss it.
Good-bye."

  Slowly he got to his feet. "I wish you'd listen,
Miss Howard," he said. "Captain Tower isn't
exactly helping me, and now you...."

"Good-bye, Captain Verago," she said again.

  She watched him from the landing as he walked
down the stairs and let himself out.

  In the street, he took out his little memo pad
and noted Daventry's name and address. Then he
got a cab.

  Ron, leaning against the door of the bookshop,
watched him until the cab turned into Percy
Street.

Chobham

  Joe Pryor stretched his long legs and settled his
lanky frame more comfortably into the deck
chair. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

  He was sitting on the lawn of Welk's house,
half shaded by a big elm tree. The only irritation
was the buying of an insect, and once or twice he
opened his eyes to see if the enemy was in sight.
But the wasp was more interested in raiding the
flowers.

It was an impressive, mock-Tudor-style residence
with

                 148
                  
a large rose bushes, flowerbeds, and a little foun-
tain with a thin trickle of water. Sometimes Pryor
wondered how Welk could afford it, and the
Daimler in the garage, on his civil service salary.
Air force information officers were hardly
overpaid.

  But right now he couldn't care less. The warm
July sun, the fragrance of the garden, the summer
stillness were much too pleasant to worry about
Welk's bank balance.

  That was Pryor's trouble. He was too lazy.
Working for Stars and Stripes was a cozy niche.
The paper had a huge circulation, from Norway to
Turkey, and was read by virtually every American
serviceman and dependent in Europe. But it never
carried an editorial, and all controversy was taboo.
What cam you expect, Pryor sometimes asked
himself wrily, from a newspaper edited by a
colonel?

  The barbeque started to sizzle and Pryor half
opened an eye. Welk, a blue-striped apron tied
around him, was broiling the steaks.

  On his way down to Chobham, Pryor tried to
work out why Welk had actually invited him for
dinner. They saw a lot of each other, but not
socially. He didn't really like Welk, but the man
was the air force mouthpiece at headquarters in
South Ruislip, and Pryor played along.

  "Come and get it," called Welk, just as Pryor
started to doze off again.

  Jennifer, Welk's English wife, had set the table
on the portico that overlooked the lawn.

  Pryor shambled over. He lived a bachelor
existence, and any meal eaten outside a restaurant
was an attractive proposition.

  "I've put you here, Joe," said Jensifer, indicating
his chair. "You don't mind eating strictly al
fresco, do you?"

  It was a typical English remark. The table was
well laid, with side plates, napkins, wine glasses,
and even a vase of flowers. Jennifer, though she
had been married to Welk for more than four
years, had never stopped being strictly suburban
London. It was remarkable how she didn't seem
to have assimilated any American touches.

  "I think I missed my vocation," said Welk, when
they sat down. "I should have been a short-order
cook. Maybe I'll quit when we go home and open
a diner."

  "Oh, Jack," protested Jennifer. Even as a joke,
she felt it was in bad taste.

  Pryor was enjoying his air force commissary
steak, twice the size of anything he could buy in
England. The

                 149
                  
charcoal flavorbrought back memories of beach
parties at San Diego.

Then Welk spoiled it.

  "Al is coming round later," he announced. "Just
for a drink."

  "That's nice," lied Pryor. Al was Major
Longman, the air force chief of information at
South Ruislip. He was Welk's boss, and a time
server. His ambition was to go to the Directorate
of Information at the Pentagon, and he intended
his UK tour to be the steppingstone.

  "He couldn't come for dinner, because he's over
at the general's," explained Welk. His tone
indicated that, to an extent, the kudos of being in
the general's favor extended to himself, because
the general's guest was coming straight to his
house.

  Pryor couldn't resist it. "I hear the general's wife
is a lousy cook," he said.

  Welk looked pained and Jennifer hastily
intervened: "Some more wine, Joe? '

  After the meal, they returned to the deck chairs
on the lawn and had coffee. One thing Pryor did
have to admit, Jennifer had learned to make
decent coffee.

  "Well," Welk said contentedly, "this is the life,
oh?" He glanced around the lawn. "I guess I must
have been a feudal baron in another existence.
You want some French brandy the real stuff?"

  Jennifer got up at once. "I'll get it," she said and
went into the house.

This was as good a moment as any, decided Pryor.

  "You heard anything about a court-martial at
Laconbury, Jack?" he asked casually.

  Welk took a long drink of coffee. Then he put
the cup down. "Can't say I have."

"Some officer being tried. For adultery."

Welk frowned. "Who says that?"

"Oh, just scuttlebutt," said Pryor.

  "Haven't heard a thing," replied Welk. "Anyway,
what's your interest? Siripes would never run a
thing like that."

  "I like to know what's going," said Pryor. Almost
defiantly he added, "It is my job."

  "Joe, you don't want to bother yourself with
scandal stories." Airily he continued, "Anyway, you
know latrine rumors. Nobody told me about any
guy being tried for

                 150
                  
hanky panky. And we get to know it all. Believe
me, buddy."

"You checked with Colonel Kincaid?"

 "Don't have to check," Welk said curtly. "We get
the SJA's list of trials every week."

 Jennifer appeared with a tray. On it were
balloon glasses and two very expensive bottles of
antique brandy.

Welk poured them all triples.

"Salut," he toasted.

  "You got good stuff here," said Pryor, the
Armagnac warming him.

  A man appeared at the other end of the lawn
and waved. He came toward them.

  "Hi, fellows," said Major Longman. "And how is
the gorgeous Jennifer?"

He kissed her. Then he saw the brandy.

  "Guess I'm just in time," he said amiably. "Start
pouring, Jack."

  Welk stood up. "Al, can I just have a quick
word?" he asked.

Longman looked surprised. "Sure," he said.
"Now?"

"Yeah. Let's go in the house."

  Longman winked at Pryor. "Secrets, secrets, all
day long." He laughed. "Don't drink all the
brandy."

  They walked across the lawn and disappeared in
the house.

  "Oh dear, Jack never stops working." Jennifer
sighed. "Sometimes I hate his job."

"Yes," Pryor said thoughtfully.

"More coffee, Joe?"

He nodded, and she poured him another cup.

  "Have you had your leave yet?" she asked.
'~We're thinking of going to Garmisch."

She was making hostess talk.

  Welk and the major emerged from the house
and began coming toward them. Whatever Welk
had to discuss so urgently evidently hadn't taken
long.

"So, where's that drink?" asked Major Longman.

Welk gave him a triple and topped up Pryor's
glass.

  The major took a deep swig. "What's all this
crap, Joe?" he asked.

"Come again?"

"Laconbury. What are you after?"

  Jennifer rose. "I'll clear up in the kitchen," she
murmured, excusing herself.

                 151
                  
 'All and help you, honey," said Welk, following
her.

 "I'm not after anything, Major," said Pryor. "I
just asked Jack if he knew anything about a
court-martial. What's so strange about that?"

 "That's not the kind of news your paper wants,"
declared Longman. "Don't waste your time on it.
Besides, who says there's any court-martial?"

Pryor shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask."

 "And Jack told you. We know nothing about it.
I'll give you some advice for free though. Do
some positive stories, Joe. Sports, lots of sports.
Travel features, so the guys know where to spend
their leave. Hobbies. That kind of stuff."

 The major took another sip of brandy and then
leaned forward confidentially.

 "A word to the wise, Joe. You've got a good
berth here. Nobody bothers you. You're doing a
fine job, and we all like you. I'd hate to see you
recalled to Darmstadt and put on the rewrite
desk. I'm sure you wouldn't like it either." He
smiled. "Would you?"

 "I get the message," said Pryor, and hated
himself for playing along.

 "Good," said the major. "As I told the general,
we're all one big happy team over here. Let's
keep it that way."

 The sun concealed itself behind some clouds.
Suddenly it had definitely gotten much colder,
decided Pryor.

New York City

 Lou Conn returned to his law office on the
nineteenth floor of the black skyscraper at the
corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-second Street
from lunch to find an unexpected message.

 "You had a call from England," said the note
his secretary had left on his desk. "It was a man
called Verago. He said he'd call back."

 In his office he sat down, looking at the piece
of paper in his hand.

 Tony Veragol It was like turning the clock
back. Back to their days in law school and the big
plans they had to form a partnership. It had
never worked out, and they had gone their
separate ways, but they remained good friends.
The kind of friends who didn't see each other

                 152
                  
for years but immediately took up where they had
left off when they met again.

 The last he had heard of Verago was that he
was an army lawyer, somewhere in Germany. He
looked at the note again. What was he doing
calling from England? It must be something
important. Even urgent, if Verago was going to
call back.

 He wondered how Kathy was. He liked
Verago's wife. She had gone to Germany with
him, but he couldn't quite see the ebullient,
bubblinigKathy, a fun-loving madcap of a girl,
settling into the staid routine of being an army
wife, living in dependent housing, holding bridge
parties, spending an afternoon a week on Red
Cross work.

 Maybe she and Tony, he figured, took
advantage of traveling a lot. Rome, Paris,
Vienna Kathy would like that, and even on a
captain's pay, they'd be able to afford to.

The phone buzzed, and Conn picked it up.

"Your call from England," said the switchboard
girl.

He recognized the voice immediately.

"Lou," said Verago, "how are you?"

It was a good, clear line. Verago sounded very
close.

 "Tony, for heaven's sake, what a surprise,"
called out Conn. He was genuinely delighted.
"What are you doing in England? How's Kathy?"

 There was a silence. It seemed a very long
silence. Then came Verago's voice, strangely
subdued.

 "I'm sorry. I never told you, did I? Kathy and I
were divorced last year."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

  "It was for the best, believe me. Anyway, listen,
Lou, the reason I called you is I need a favor,"
Verago said, and his tone made it clear that
Kathy as a topic of conversation was over. "Can
you help me out?"

"Sure," agreed Lou.

  "I got myself a court-martial over here, and it's
a bitch. The guy I'm trying to defend committed
adultery. I need the wife to say it was all over
between them, it doesn't maker to her, she
doesn't feel sore. Could you fix it for me?"

  "Fix it?" asked Conn. Sometimes Verago was
difficult to keep up with. Just like the old days.

  "She lives on your side. West Thirtieth Street.
Number one, apartment six D."

                 153
                  
 Almost automatically, Conn jotted it down. It
came of long habit.

 "Could you be a pal, go and see her, get her
affidavit the way I've suggested, and find out if
she's willing to come to England to testify for
him?"

"Is that all?" Conn inquired dryly.

"That's it, Lou. I really appreciate it."

"You might tell me her name," said Conn.

  "Mrs. Marion Tower. Her husband is a Captain
John Tower. He's with the air force over here.
They're trying to shaft him, Lou. But if you can
get her to say the right thing, maybe I can do
something...."

  Trust Verago. He made it sound so simple. Just
get her to say the right things.

  "I'll try, Tony," said Conn. "But what makes you
think she'll play?"

  "Don't see why not" came Verago's voice.
"They've not made it together since 'fifty-seven or
'fifty-eight. She doesn't hate him. I think she'll
play along. You tell her it's the only thing that
will keep him out of Leavenworth."

Verago heard Conn's intake of breath.

  "It's that serious?" said Conn. "Just because
he's been playing around?"

  "It's that serious, Lou. They got the rope ready
for him."

  "Okay," said Conn. "You picked a hell of a
time, I'm up to here in work, but okay. I'll try...."

He could sense Verago's relief.

  "You've got no idea how I appreciate this, Lou.
If there's anything I can do this end...."

  Conn smiled. "I'll let you know," he said. "Send
me some fish and chips."

  "You got it." Verago laughed. "Here. This is
where you can reach me."

Conn made more notes.

"You'll hear," he promised.

  The last thing Verago said was: "Lou, I hope it
works out with her. It's the guy's only chance.
Without her, I'm sunk. I've got nothing. You're
my only hope."

  After he had hung up, Conn sat reflecting for
a little while. He had a feeling that there was a
great deal Verago hadn't told him.

                154
                 
Windsor

  After dinner Mr. Justice Daventry led his son
to the library, leaving Alex and Lady Daventry to
themselves in the lounge.

  The seventy-four-year-old judge, twenty years a
member of the High Court, was a firm believer
that the kind of things men discussed were of no
interest to women, who didn't understand them
anyway.

  Indeed, Sir Frederick had never made any
secret in his courts that simply because i woman
passed certain exams, put on a gown, and wore a
wig didn't automatically make her a barrister. Not
a proper one.

  "Cigar?" offered the judge, opening the big oak
humid don

"Thanks," said Daventry.

  He sat down in one of the two leather
armchairs by the fireplace. Although it was July,
a fire was burning in the hearth. The old judge
felt cold very easily.

  "Well, my boy, how is life treating you?" asked
his father, from the armchair opposite. Daventry
might be a successful and distinguished counsel in
his late thirties, but his father tended to address
him like a schoolboy just up for the summer vac.

"All right," replied Daventry. "Everything's fine."

  "You look tired," grunted the judge. Old he
might be, but he was still very alert.

Daventry shrugged. "I've got a lot of work on."

  Sir Frederick exhaled some Havana smoke.
"The right kind of work, I trust?"

"What do you mean, Dad?"

  The judge cleared his throat, as if he was about
to give a ruling. "I saw Pinnemore at the club the
other day. He tells me that your application for
silk looks like being favorably received. Despite
your youth."

"WelL that's good to hear."

  The judge raised a hand slightly. "But it's not in
the bag, Gerry. You must never forget that, in a
manner of speaking, you're on probation at this
time. Getting silk is a high honor, it's not only
recognition of your legal prowess, it confirms
your impeccable standing in the profession."

  "I know that." Daventry was trying to work out
what the old boy was getting at.

"I am sure you do," the judge went on, darting a
keen

                155
                 
look at him. "But there are times when it needs
restating. You mustn't put a foot wrong. Not at
this time."

"I don't intend to," said Daventry, a little
uneasily.

"Good," said the judge.

"You're trying to tell me something, aren't you?"

  "I've read you my little homily." His third lips
smiled. "Here endeth the first lesson."

  "No, Dad," pressed Daventry. "You've got a
reason for mentioning it."

  The judge sniffed, the way he did when a
barrister started arguing law with him in court.

  "I have a reason for everything I say," said Sir
Frederick. "I have seen, in my time, a few
ambitious advocates fall at the last fence. I don't
want it to happen to you."

Daventry had to laugh at his solemnity.

  "Don't worry, Dad, I don't intend to get drunk
in Piccadilly, or run away with the Lord Mayor's
wife."

  "Don't be stupid," snapped the judge. He was
irritated. "I simply want to emphasise that, for
example, the kind of cases you appear in might
well be taken into consideration. There's nothing
wrong with defending villains, but some cases "

"Such as?"

  The judge waved his cigar. "Borderline. You
know what I mean."

"Is there something you've heard? That worries
you?"

"Of course not," said the judge. "But . . ."

"Yes?"

  "Are you involved in some stupid proceedings
in some American case?"

  "I tried to get a witness summons set aside.
What of it?"

  The judge peered at him. "I should think it's
hardly likely to advance your career."

"Who told you about it?" Daventry asked quietly.

  "Never mind that," said the judge. "The point is
that I don't see why you should get mixed up in
some sordid little American court-martial. Leave
it to the Americans. I'm surprised your clerk let
you take the brief. Normally Pettifer's judgment
is sound. Very sound."

  "It's got nothing to do with Pettifer." He put his
cigar in the marble ashtray. "Somebody's been
getting at you, Dad."

"Of course not. But ours is a small world, Gerald.
One

                156
                 
hears things. And, as I said, people are keeping
tabs on you."

"I'm sure," Daventry remarked bitterly.

The judge stood up.

 "I think it's time we joined the ladies," he
announced, leading the way to the door. Then he
turned and looked straight into Daventry's eyes.

 "All I'm saying, my boy, is to think twice. Affairs
of state, security, diplomatic considerations, all
kinds of things like that can come our way. It
behooves the wise man to step warily. Or if I may
put it more bluntly, in the modern style, mind
your own business."

 The judge was renowned for his sharp, succinct
summings up. And Daventry was left wondering
where the next threat would come from.

       Wednesday, July 12,1961

London

"DBAR comrade," said the assistant stage
manager of the Leningrad State Kirov Ballet
Company, clasping the hand of Yevgenni Ivanov.

  Ivanov rose with a smile when Grigorovich
entered the Monmouth Street coffee shop. But
his cordiality was tinged with just the right degree
of respect, seeing that Grigorovich was a senior
member of Glavnoye Razvedyvatelooya
Upravleniye, the Chief Intelligence Directorate.

  Grigorovich, whose passport gave him another
name, and his department found the Kirov's tour
of the West exceedingly useful. He had suddenly
been appointed assistant stage manager on the
eve of the company's departure and, as a mere
face in the ensemble, could travel throughout
England and the United States to see certain
things for himself without raising the slightest
suspicion.

  The Operations Department had decided before
he left Moscow that Ivanov would be his only
direct contact while the Kirov appeared at Covent
Garden. They had further instructed that such
meetings as they did have should be in
out-of-the-way places and after insuring that
neither of them had been followed.

  "Are you enjoying your stay?" asked Ivanov as
they were served their coffee.

                 157
                  
 'tremendously," GAgorovich. '~You should see
the audiences. Every seat sold, and the
enthusiasm! Who said the English are
cold-blooded?"

 He pulled out an envelope. "Here," he said,
offering it to Ivanov. "I know the embassy has its
quota, but I thought perhaps you would like a
couple of extra tickets. For the gala program. I
gather they're worth their weight in gold."

 "How kind of you, Sergei," said Ivanov, allowing
himself great informality because they both liked
each other, despite Grigorovich's seniority. "And
I have a little present for you."

 He also handed over an envelope. Inside was a
roll of thirty-five-millimeter film that, when it was
developed, would provide the Russians with their
first really good photographs of the new
American nuclear submarine base just established
in Holy Loch.

"Thank you," said Grigorovich. "I will treasure it."

 He spooned sugar into his espresso and stirred
it. "How is the other matter?" he asked.

"You are up-to-date?"

 GAgorovich nodded. "Your reports have been
a model of clarity and conciseness, as always. No,
I meant in the last few days." He smiled
apologetically. "My communications at this
moment are a little convoluted."

'The court-martial is set," said Ivanov.

"Have you heard any more about it?"

"I hear things all the time."

"And?"

"I don't think there will be any problems."

"Sometimes I wonder...."

 "What is it?" asked Ivanov, concerned. He
respected Grigorovich, and his judgment. If he
was uneasy . . .

 "Maybe you can explain. You know these
people so much better than I do. You fit in. But
I have been asking myself, why is it that if they
are so anxious to put this man out of circulation,
they don't get rid of him? Would it not be so
much simpler? You understand me?"

 "Perfectly," said Ivanov. "But you see that is the
difference. It is their system. We can deal with
people. We can . . . remove them. It's very
difficult for them."

 Grigorovich frowned. "But why? They are
authority. They are government. Surely they have
every power. If an individual threatens us, we
eliminate him. For the good of all. They can do
the same."

                 158
                  
 "They prefer doing it legally. Because of public
opinion," explained Ivanov. "Public opinion, or
democracy as it's known in the West" he
smiled "can ask questions, demand explanations,
perhaps bring down governments. It's like a
sleeping giant, quite harmless, but once
aroused...."

 The man from the Kirov ballet shook his head
incredulously, then looked at his watch.

 "Very well," he said. "You clearly understand
our friends and their reasoning. I'm delighted
you're posted here."

He got up and Ivanov immediately stood up too.

 "Thank you," said Grigorovich. "The coffee is
very good here."

 He left first.-Ivanov stayed behind and took his
time paying the bill. It was several minutes before
he wandered out into Monmouth Street. He
strolled around the corner, onto Shaftesbury
Avenue, glancing into several shop windows to
see if he was being followed, and finally hailed a
taxi.

 Grigorovich really is a nice man, he reflected as
he settled back in the cab. He wondered if it was
true that he was the one who had been
responsible for having a GRU man executed
recently. He must have gotten on the wrong side
of him, Ivanov decided. That was a mistake he
would not make.

Laconburl'

 Breakfast was a time when Verago liked to be
alone. It wasn't until he'd had his third cup of
coffee that he felt fully equipped to face the day.

 When he saw Jensen approach, carrying his
tray, breakfast was already spoiled. And when the
man sat down, uninvited, at his table, breakfast
was ruined.

 Jensen nodded to him briefly. "You heard who's
going to be prosecuting?" he asked happily.

"Surprise me," said Verago.

  "Colonel Apollo," Jensen announced
triumphantly, and shoveled a forkful of scrambled
egg into his mouth.

  "Never heard of him." Verago grunted. He was
fascinated by a piece of egg stuck on Jensen's
chin.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Dean Apollo. Sharpest trial
counsel in the command," he said with his mouth
full.

  Verago drank some coffee. "You sound very
happy about it, Cyrus," he growled.

                 159
                  
 "He's one guy you won't be able to push
around," Jensen remarked pointedly. "He knows
the book backward."

 Verago buttered a second piece of toast. It was
a sign of his aggravation. For his waistline's sake,
he limited himself to one piece at breakfast, but
when he got annoyed, his good intentions slipped.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?" asked Jensen, slurping his coffee.

 "Which team you're on? You're supposed to be
helping the defence. Remember?"

 Jensen nodded. The piece of egg was still stuck
to his chin. Verago hoped it would dry there and
stick all day.

 "Trouble with you, counselor, is that you've got
no feeling for this outfit. We're a community
here and you don't even belong to the air force,"
complained Jensen. "I hope you don't mind my
plain speaking," he added, almost as an
afterthought.

"No, go ahead. Makes a nice change."

 "I think Captain Tower was crazy to ask for
you. The whole thing could have been over like
that." He snapped his fingers. "It hurts, this kind
of scandal, and we don't need it. You shouldn't
be on this case because it doesn't matter to you
how many people get hurt, how much un-
pleasantness there is, what harm will be done or
even what's at stake."

"What is at stake?" asked Verago quietly.

 "I don't doubt you're a good lawyer, but I tell
you you're wasting your time," Jensen went on,
ignoring Verago's question. "Our client is guilty
as charged, and you should leave it to the air
force to let us look after our own."

 'What, counselor," said Verago, pushing back
his chair and standing up, "is exactly what I'm
afraid of."

"Captain Verago!"

 It was a command, peremptory, angry, sharp. It
said stop, stay where you are, not another step.

 Verago had just been about to enter the PX
when he heard it. He turned and saw General
Croxford.

 The general was sitting in a gleaming red
open-topped sports car, a spotless MG.

"Over here, Captain," ordered Croxford.

 The general was wearing civilian clothes, a
tweed jacket, an open-necked shirt. Attached to
the breast

                160
                 
pocket of the check shirt was a bleeper. Wherever
he went, he was never out of touch. Propped up
on the seat beside him was a bag of golf clubs.

 "Shift those," commanded Croxford when
Verago came over. "And get in."

 Verago moved the bulky bag and squeezed into
the seat beside the general. He was
uncomfortable, sharing the tight space with the
golf clubs.

 Croxford accelerated, and the MG shot across
the base. At the main gate, he slowed down, and
the APs snapped to attention like an imperial
guard. Croxford acknowledged their salute and
then turned onto the highway.

 He drove the car at high speed, ignoring
Verago. Apart from the bleeper, a two-way radio
was fitted to the MG's dashboard. A lone red
light indicated it was switched on, and from a
loudspeaker near the steering wheel came the
crackling of atmospherics.

 "How are you getting on, Captain?" the general
asked suddenly.

"Sir?"

"Are you getting a lot of flak thrown at you?"

 You should know, thought Verago. You've
been throwing some of it. Aloud he said,
"Nothing I can't cope with sir."

 Croxford grunted. He kept his gaze on the road
in front of him. "I guess you think we're a pretty
hostile bunch We must seem a little inhospitable
at times."

"At times, yes, sir."

 The general nodded. "I don't like this whole
business. I don't mind telling you I'd be very
happy to see the back of you, your client, and the
whole shebang."

"I'm sure of that."

 "Let me tell you something, Captain, just
between us. Don't make snap judgments. There's
more than one side to any story. Sometimes the
good guys wear black hats too."

 The car was going faster, and the wind beat
against Verago's face.

 "General," said Verago, "I'm simply over here to
do a job. But if you think there's something I
should know . . ."

 Croxford turned his head and glared at him.
Then he stepped on the accelerator once more
and the car speeded up. They had left the
perimeter of the base well behind now, and
Verago wondered just how fast the general

                 161
                  
would go. Speed limits didn't seem to concern
him. And there wasn't another car in sight.

  "Don't make out you're a dumb son of a bitch,
because you're not," said Croxford. "You ever
considered that sometimes things have to be done
for the good of everybody? Things nobody likes
doing?"

"Such as?" Verago looked grim.

  The car swerved. Croxford glanced at him and
swore, "Jesus Christ, Captain, don't play the
innocent with me. You are a member of the
Judge Advocate General's Corps, an army officer,
on active service, and we are at war."

"Sir?"

  "In war you have to sacrifice people for the
general good. It's not a cold war, Verago, that's
newspaper talk. It's hot. Men are getting killed,
killed in action. On missions from this base. My
men."

  "I know, sir," said Verago quietly. "But what's
that got to do with adultery?"

  "I'm not talking about " began Croxford. and
then stopped. "My mistake. I thought you got the
point."

  They swung violently round a corner, the tires
screaming.

  "General, you haven't answered my question,"
pressed Verago.

  "You're getting mighty close to insubordination,
Captain."

"I thought this was between us," replied Verago.

  "The trouble with you, Verago, is that you're
really not a military man at all. You're a civilian
in uniform. You'll never understand what
sometimes has to be done in the line of duty. I'm
sorry for you."

  Verago flushed. He started to say something
but, without warning, the general stopped the car.
He braked so sharply Verago was nearly thrown
against the windshield.

Croxford didn't apologise.

  "You said you didut play golf, as I remember,"
he remarked instead. "Pity, I'm just going to play
a couple of rounds. I'd have enjoyed testing your
handicap, but there's no point, is there? You
might as well bail out here."

  "General," Verago protested quite mildly, "I
haven't got transporation."

"Well" Croxford smiled "it's only five or six
miles

                 162
                  
back to the base." He sniffed the July air. "I'm
sure you'll enjoy a little exercise. It's good for the
soul."

Slowly Verago climbed out of the MG.

  "Have a pleasant walk, Captain," said Croxford,
and with a rich roar of its engine the
superpowered MG raced off.

  But the expression on the general's face stayed
with Verago a long time. And he was to
remember it when he knew much more.

Riga

  The man with the shaved head had not touched
his breakfast. It stood on the tray, next to his
bed: a plate of congealing semolina; coffee,
actually a substitute made from acorns; three
lumps of sugar; fifteen grams of butter; and two
thick slices of black bread.

  Daylight penetrated into the small, cell-like
room, but he could not see out, for the window
had been painted over in white.

  The man lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't shaved for a couple of days, and there
was a stubble on his chin. That, the shaved skull,
and the shapeless green pajamas he wore gave
him an emaciated, haggard look.

  A key turned in the lock of the door, and a
woman in a white coat entered, followed by a tall
man in Soviet uniform. He stood aside as the
woman approached the bed, smiling.

  "And how do we feel today?" she asked
cheerfully, in English.

  The man with the shaved head did not even
blink. His eyes continued to gaze into
nothingness.

  Dr. Helena Narkowska, of the Serbsky Central
Scientific Research Institute of Psychiatry, was
not disconcerted. In her duties as a specialist for
the KGB, she frequently had uncooperative
patients.

  "You are very naughty," she chided the man on
the bed, nodding at the uneaten breakfast. "You
need nourishment. Don't you like it?" A thought
struck her. "Maybe you would prefer some
American cereals?"

The man said nothing.

  The officer drew her to one side. "Is he
shamming?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't believe so."

"But you're not sure?"

                163
                 
 "Major, all I can tell you is that physically he
has fully recovered. Naturally the mental
consequences of such an experience.... Who
knows?"

 Major Alexis Fokin frowned. The detailed
interrogation of this prisoner was long overdue.
The High Command had a lot of questions for
him.

"Let me try," he said.

Pokin drew up a chair next to the bed and sat
down.

 "Listen to me, my friend," he began, also in
English. "You are now perfectly fit, and it's time
we had a little talk."

The man continued to stare at the ceiling.

 "You're just being obstructive," Fokin went on.
"You understand perfectly well what I'm saying to
you."

Dr. Narkowska touched his arm. "If it is amnesia
. . ."

  "It's an act," Robin cut her short. "He wants to
play dumb."

  He took a cardboard-tubed cigarette from a
packet, lit it, and sat thoughtfully smoking for a
moment. The doctor watched him nervously.
Fokin had a formidable reputation for breaking
people.

  But when the major spoke, his tone was gentle.
"You have been well treated, haven't you?"

The man lay motionless.

  "You've been given the best of medical care.
When we picked you up, I wouldn't have given
you five kopecs for your chances, and look at you
now, strong, healthy. But it can only go so far,"
continued Fokin. "Now it's your turn to do
something for us. We want a lot of answers from
you. Technical answers."

Dr. Narkowska looked away.

  "Damn it," cried Fokin, reaching forward and
grabbing a pair of dogtags hanging from a chain
around the man's neck. "You know who you are
and where you are." He jangled the doglegs in
front of the man's face. "You are Captain Matt
Kingston, electronics specialist, based at
Laconbury in England, and your RB-47H was
shot down by us on a spy mission over the Baltic.
There were six of you. We gave back a couple of
the dead ones, but we picked you up half frozen
and we have looked after you well. There is
nothing wrong with you. Stop play acting."

  'Please, Major," intervened Dr. Narkowska.
"Don't pressure him too much. It could "

  Fokin turned on her. "Until now he's been your
patient, Doctor. Now ~ have taken over.
Understand?"

                164
                 
There was no reaction from the man on the
bed,

 Fokin stood up. "All right, Captain, have it your
way. But I warn you that things will get more
uncomfortable. Perhaps you need a stricter
regime to make you talk. And remember, you are
officially dead, so nobody cares a damn what
happens to you. Don't think General Croxford is
going to come to your rescue."

 He peered at the man, wondering if casually
slipping in his commander's name would have any
effect. But Kingston continued to stare blankly
into space.

 "Think about it." Fokin turned to Dr.
Narkowska. "I've finished, Doctor. For the time
being," he added, the menace implicit.

 They left the room, and she locked the door.
"What happens to him now?" she asked.

 "He's going to have a change of scenery,"
replied the major, and his smile made her feel
cold.

       Thursday, July 13,1961

Laconbury

PRYOR drove down to Laconbury, half
wondering why he was bothering. Maybe it was to
regain a little pride. They were starting to take
him for granted. The way Major Longman had
warned him off the court-martial had rankled and
made him face a question he had long tried not
to ask himself: just wheat kind of newsman had
he become.

 His Defense Department ID card, one of the
privileges of being the military's tame journalist,
got him on the base without difficulty, and as
soon as he had parked his maroon car, also
supplied by the military, he went to see Ryan in
the wing information office.

 Ryan, a freckle-faced lieutenant, had one
mission: to keep Laconbury out of the news. He
had acquired the knack of seemingly helping
press people all the way, while making sure,
behind their backs, that they got nowhere. When
things became tough, he referred them to Ruislip
and Major Longman.

He received Pryor genially.

  "Hi, old buddy," he greeted him. "What brings
you to this neck of the woods?"

                 165
                  
  Pryor'sunexpected arrival didn't worry him.
Stars and Stripes could be relied on to toe the
line.

  "You know me," said Pryor, dumping his lanky
frame in a chair, "always looking for the Pulitzer
Prize."

  "You won't find it here, man." On his wall
Ryan had a framed photograph of General
Croxford and a replica wing's emblem. He also
favored slogan stickers: "You Needn't Be Crazy
to Work Here, But It Helps" was the latest one.
It showed visitors that he was One of the Boys.

  "Tea?" he asked Pryor. Among his ancillary
duties, he was in charge of Laconbury's
community relations, and he had decided it was
fitting to offer callers in his office tea instead of
coffee.

  "No, thanks." Then Pryor took the plunge.
"What about this court-martial, Phil?"

"Eh?"

"The guy who's charged with adultery."

  Ryan's eyes widened in innocent surprise. "In
this outfit?"

"That's right. What can you tell me about it?"

"First I heard about it, old buddy."

"He's an officer," said Pryor.

"Where did you hear all this?"

Pryor smiled thinly. "Maybe a little bird told me."

  Ryan picked up the phone and dialed the outer
office. "Do we know anything about a
court-martial, Sergeant?" he asked his clerk. He
listened and then hung up. "You're out of luck.
Nobody knows a thing about it."

"Quit bullshitting," Pryor said crisply.

  Ryan began to study him warily. Something had
needled the guy. He wasn't his usual amiable,
complacent self.

"Have you asked headquarters? The major?
Welk?"

  "I'm asking you," said Pryor, beginning to feel
like a reporter.

It's time to be One of the Boys, decided Ryan.

  "Look, Joe, this is a big outfit. You got any
idea how many men we have here? I don't know
everything that goes on. Things happen, and
nobody tells me. I'm in the same position as you,
old buddy. Really I am," he said earnestly.

  "You're the base information officer," retorted
Pryor. "You can ask. Why don't you start asking,
Phil?"

  Not since the day a correspondent from The
New York Times had come by and begun asking
awkward questions

                166
                 
about the wing's mission, and whether it was true
that the U2 flew from Laconbury, and had the
Russians shot down one of their planes, had
Ryan experienced this kind of thing.

"Ask who, Joe? I'm just a peon."

 "How about the legal office, for a start? They
should know."

 Headquarters would soon deal with this guy,
reflected Ryan. As soon as he had gone, he
would get on the hot line to Ruislip, and they'd
set things in motion. Meanwhile, he said to
himself, make it look like you're cooperating.

 file picked up the phone again and asked for an
extension. A voice answered.

 "Lieutenant Jensen," said Ryan, "I'd appreciate
your cooperation. I have a man here from Stars
and Stripes who's asking about some
court-martial. Do you think you could deal with
him? Gee, I'd sure appreciate that."

 He put the receiver down and smiled at Pryor,
his sunny, Californian surt-rider smile.

 "Jensen is our legal eagle, Joe. He's a real
square shooter too. You'll like him. If there's any
trials pending, he'll tell you."

 Pryor was taken slightly aback. It seemed to be
getting too easy.

 "He's waiting for you at the officer's club,"
added Ryan. "He'll give you a straight deal. Just
ask him what you want to know."

 Pryor slowly untwined his lanky frame.
"Thanks," he said a little awkwardly. Maybe he'd
got Ryan all wrong.

 Ryan rose from behind his desk and put his
arm around Pryor's shoulder as he led him to the
door.

 "You come and see me any time, old buddy."
He beamed. "It gets kind of stuffy in here, and
it's nice to see a friendly face. And remember,
Joe, you're always welcome. We got no secrets
from you."

 Then, as soon as Pryor had left, he called
General Croxford.

Frankfurt

 "To me he is a soldier who died on the field of
battle," said Pech solemnly. "Like your airmen
shot down over Czechoslovakia, or the Baltic."

"Er, yes," agreed Unterberg, a little reluctantly.

                167
                 
  He had arrived in Frankfurt to confer with
Pech after Herr Unruh's demise.

  "Of course, coming at this time, with so much
at stake, it is rather worrying," added Pech. "But
the machine is running so smoothly that I don't
see anything can go wrong."

  "It had better not," Unterberg said irritably. He
had flown in at short notice and had had little
sleep the previous night.

  "Even such a sad occasion has its
compensations," rurninated Pech. "It has brought
you over, Clyde, and you know how much I like
to see you."

"Yeah."

  "But nevertheless, it is a tragedy. Such men are
hard to replace."

  "Who takes over B-One?" asked Unterberg.
There were a few things he wanted to get settled.

  Pech spread his hands. "Ask Bonn. I have no
idea I just do my job. Marienfelde keeps me busy.
The refugees. The border crossings. Internal
security."

"Will you?"

  "Oh no, Clyde, I am a field man. I go out and
do things. I leave others to give the orders." He
smiled deprecatingly.

"Don't blame you."

"How long are you staying?" asked Pech.

"Just for the day. I'm taking the last plane back."

  Pech nodded. "They need you in London, I'm
sure." He stood up. "Come, it's time for lunch."

  He took Unterberg to a seafood restaurant.
Fishnets were draped round the walls, and huge
lobsters decorated the counter that ran the length
of the dining room.

  "I couldn't even try and compete with the
fantastic roast beef you gave me in London," said
Pech. "So I thought we'd eat fish."

  As was ritual, the important things were left to
the end. Over coffee, Unterberg asked, "How's
the investigation going?"

  "The minister is keeping it to himself. Not that
they seem to have much."

"What do you think?" Unterberg inquired quietly.

  "Inexplicable. That's the only word, Clyde. Why
should he do it? A nervous breakdown maybe?
Overwork? I don't understand it."

Unterberg's eyes narrowed. "Helmut, you don't
buy

                168
                 
that suicide theory, surely? A left-handed man
doesn't shoot himself in the right temple with his
right hand."

 Pech's eyes were slits. "Maybe not," he said
thoughtfully. "But who'd murder him?" He
paused. "Who'd want to?"

 "Who'd need to?" asked Unterberg. He toyed
absentmindedly with the salt shaker. "We heard
something big had come up." Now he moved the
pepper shaker like a chess piece. "Maybe
somebody had to move fast."

 In the nearby Kiserstrasse, a two-tone police
horn sounded. After all this time in Europe, it
still made Unterberg nostalgic for American
sirens.

 "Herr Unrnh was a most loyal man," Pech said
stiffly. "If you're suggesting "

 'Y'm suggesting nothing," murmured Unterberg.
"I'm trying to figure it out, that's all."

 "Go back to London and relax," said Pech.
"Make sure your air force captain is safely locked
away, and leave the rest to us. Herr Unruh's sad
death does not affect anything."

"How is Helga?"

"She " Pech stopped. "How should she be?"

"Still in your good care?"

"Of course."

  "Okay," said Unterberg. "I'll get off your back.
They'll be glad to know there's no panic over
here."

  They parted outside the Intercontinental, on the
banks of the Main.

  "Take care of yourself" were Unterberg's final
words. "We don't want anything to happen to you
too, Helmut."

"Don't worry." Pech laughed. "Why should it?"

  But on his way to his car, he looked back twice
to see if anyone was following him.

Laconbury

  In the lobby of the officer's club, the wives were
having a whist drive, but the bar was empty
except for a trio of pilots. They wore flight suits,
with the Cyclops emblem of the wing stitched to
their chests. They didn't even glance up when
Pryor entered.

  "I'm looking for Lieutenant Jensen," said Pryor
to the barman.

The man shook his head. "Haven't seen him
today."

  "Give me a Schlitz," said Pryor. That was one of
the things that he loved about the job, that he
could get real

                 169
                  
American beer, properly cooled, on a base,
anywhere in Europe.

  He was having his second one when Jensen
finally arrived.

  "Gee, I'm sorry I kept you'" he said.
"Long-distance call."

  There hadn't been one at all. But Jensen wasn't
about to tell Pryor that he had received certain
specific instructions following Ryan's warning call
to General Croxford.

"Want a beer?" offered Pryor.

  "I can do with it," said Jensen. After he was
served, he drank deep and then said, "Let's sit
down."

They walked over to a table, far away from the
pilots.

  I don't like this man, decided Pryor. He tended
to classify people as various kinds of animals and
insects. This one was a slug.

  "You want to know about the trial?" asked
Jensen. His directness surprised Pryor.

"So there is a trial?"

"Sure there is."

  "Man, you'd never believe it," said Pryor.
"You're the first guy who talks straight. The PR
shop at Third throws flak in my face, and your
information man here "

  "Phil Ryan's a good guy," said Jensen. "Listen,
Pryor, can we talk off the record?"

Pryor hesitated.

  "It's the only way," insisted Jensen. "Otherwise
it's got to be hello and good-bye. I'm sorry."

  Pryor tried to get his long legs under the table
into a more comfortable position. "Why the hell
all the mystery?" he said, annoyed. "There are
guys being courtmartialed all over Europe every
day. What's so so special about this one?"

  Two more officers came in and went up to the
bar. Jensen waited until they had been served and
found a seat in an alcove before he answered.

  "All I can tell you is that an officer is going to
face trial under articles One thirty-three and One
thirty-four."

  "Catchalls," Pryor said contemptuously. He had
been around the military a long time.

Jensen shrugged. "They cover adultery."

  "And the brass make all that fuss for that?"
Pryor shook his head. "I don't believe it." He
signaled the barman. "Another two beers," he
called out.

Jensen eyed him pensively. It was a shrewd piece
of

                 170
                  
acting, strictly by the orders. It intended to convey
that he was about to take a big decision. He was
about to trust Pryor.

  "You're right, of course," he said, after the new
round had come. "You've been around this man's
air force long enough. You guessed it. They're
trying to keep this whole thing under wraps."

"Why?"

4'A good reason.',

  They were taking him for granted again. They
assumed Pryon would jump whenever they lifted a
finger.

  "Now wait," said Pryor. "That's for me to judge.
My job is to get the news."

  "Okay," said Jensen. "I'll tell you. But remember
the deal. Off the record."

"All right."

  "This thing is messy. It can have repercussions.
NATO. All kinds of nasty repercussions. It's very
sensitive."

  "A guy screwing a dame?" sneered Pryor. "Come
on, NATO couldn't care a shit."

  "This outfit is a hot potato," Jensen said
earnestly. "We've got a mission here we can't talk
about. It's a fine outfit, doing a hell of a job. But
we've got problems. Community relations. Aircraft
noise. Those ban-the-bomb idiots. We have to
walk softly. We don't like to attract attention to
ourselves. And we don't want to wash our dirty
linen in public. That's why we don't want a word
printed."

  You're earning your pay, thought Pryor. "What's
so dirty about this case?" he asked.

  Jensen lowered his voice. "It's a real bitch. This
guy's been shacking up with an English girl.
Cheating on his wife. Can't you see the headlines?
'Yank at secret base commits adultery with local
girl.'"

"That's a bad headline," said Pryor, needling him.

  "Listen, you get the point. We don't want this
outfit dragged into the mud, we don't want scandal
stories about our wing."

"Does it involve security?" asked Pryor.

"What do you mean?"

  "Is there something classified about it? The way
all you guys are flapping about you'd think the
man had the bomb in his bedroom."

  Jensen's laugh was nervous. "nor Pete's sake, I
told you what it's about. And why we don't want it
reported. You

                 171
                  
don't want to feed Commie propaganda, do you?
No, sir, we don't need that."

 "You can't censor it," Pryor said defiantly. "No
matter how embarrassing a story is. It's public
property."

 Jensen smiled. "Have another beer," he
suggested. Then he saw the army officer come in.
A captain, somewhat untidy, with JAG insignia.
Jensen looked at his watch. "Oh, hell," he gasped,
"I forgot it was so late."

 "I'm in no hurry," drawled Pryor. The officer
seemed to have a curious effect on Jensen.
"What's the army doing on an air base?"

"Come on," Jensen pressed. "I'll take you to your
car."

 "Where's the fire?" Pryor asked amiably. "Why
don't we have that beer?"

The army officer came over.

  "Well, counselor," he said to Jensen, "aren't you
going to introduce me to your friend?"

  Jensen, decided Pryor, is not a slug. Now he
looks like a trapped stoat.

  "Mr. Pryor is a reporter from Stars arid Stripes,"
said the stoat uneasily.

  "Stripes, oh?" The captain nodded. "Glad to meet
you, Mr. Pryor. My name is Verago. I'm a great
fan of your comic page. What hot story brings you
to Laconbury?"

  "I was just asking about you. Didn't expect army
around here," said Pryor. He peered at the crossed
sword and pen on Verago's lapels. "You're a
lawyer, aren't you? Anything to do with the
court-martial?"

  Verago beamed. "My friend, maybe we ought to
have a long talk. Don't you agree, counselor?"

  Jensen's mouth suddenly felt dry. He wondered
how he would explain this to the general.

Karlsrahe

  The new man had high cheekbones, thin lips,
and a gold tooth. Herr Stamm was Unroh's
successor, and Pech's new boss.

  Pech didn't know much about Stamm. There
were rumors that he was one of Gehlen's bunch,
and that he had been closely linked with the
Americans. Pech would dearly have liked to know
where Bonn had dug him up from. When there
was little gossip about a man, it was always a
dangerous sign.

"Sit down, Pech," invited Herr Stamm.

"Thank you, sir," Pech said, respectfully.

                 172
                  
 For a disconcerting moment, Herr Stamm
studied him. It was like being X-rayed, and Pech,
despite himself, shifted uneasily.

 "As you know, I have taken over the
department," began Herr Stamm. "My predecessor
will, of course, be sadly missed, and I regret
having to come here under such tragic
circumstances."

 Pech mutely agreed. What could he say to that?
Best to keep silent.

 "I have been fully briefed and I am conversant
with all current activities," Herr Stamm went on.
"And of course with what you're doing."

Pech nodded. He felt strangely nervous.

  "I have decided that you are to carry on, and
that B-One will continue its operation,"
announced Herr Stamm.

Pech relaxed. Just a little. "Thank you, sir," he
said.

  "They trust you, and therefore I trust you," said
Herr Stamm. "What you are doing is of the most
delicate nature, and the implications of what is
involved I . . . well, I'm sure I don't have to spell
it out."

  "Indeed not," said Pech. He was beginning to
feel secure.

  "You seem to have established a good working
relationship with our allied counterparts. Both the
Americans and the British appear satisfied that
you can be relied on at this, er, extremely delicate
moment in time."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," said Pech. All was
safe.

  "You're aware that it is best, under the
circumstances, that as little as possible should be
on paper."

"Of course."

  "B-One is off the record, so to speak, and I
don't want your section to forget it."

  "I only report verbally. That is how it was with
Herr Unruh," said Pech piously, "and that is how
it will be with you, Herr Stamm. Only verbally.
Only you and me."

"Good."

  Well, that's it, thought Pech. Once again he had
landed on his feet.

  "And the less you tell me, the better," added
Herr Stamm. "About the girl or anything. Only
what I need to know, you understand? The fewer
who know anything about it, the better."

  "Do you think, sir, I should go to the
court-martial?" asked Pech.

                 173
                  
 "In England? Certainly not. It's a domestic
matter for them. It has absolutely nothing to do
with us. You follow?"

"Perfectly."

 Now that he felt more at ease, Pech glanced
around the room. It was Unroh's old office, but
there were subtle changes. A signed photograph
of Adenauer had appeared on the wall. A curious
ornament on his desk, a bullet mounted upright
on a slab of marble. Absurdly, Pech wondered if
it was a bullet they had dug out of Stamm
sometime. And there was Berlin's coat of arms on
the wall: the bear, his claws raised.

 "One other thing," added Herr Stamm,
interrupting Pech's observations.

"Yes?"

  "The investigation into Herr Unrnh's death has
come up with nothing," said Herr Stamm, and
Pech's heart beat a little faster. "I find it very
unsatisfactory, and I intend to pursue the matter
from our end. Is there anything you can think of?
Some clue, some explanation?"

  "I am afraid not," apologised Pech. "I have
thought about it, of course. It was a terrible
shock, and when the investigation said it was . . .
murder, well, I was stunned. And yet, I was
relieved "

  "Relieved?" snapped Herr Stamm. The gimlet
eyes were X-raying him again. "What do you
mean?"

  "Well," Pech said boldly, "at least he was the
victim of an assailant. I would have been most
perturbed to think that Herr Unruh, a man who
knew so many secrets, who had such a sensitive
job, who knew all about B-One, should have
found it necessary to commit suicide. I would
have worried about what it was that made him do
it. When people in our work commit suicide "

  "You see it as reassuring that somebody found
it necessary to murder him instead?" Herr Stamm
asked coldly.

"At least it does not raise any personal question

"That's all, Pech. Carry on."

  "Thank you, sir," Pech said diffidently. "If I
come up with anything about Herr Unrnh I
mean I will of course let you know immediately."

"I am sure you will."

  Pech closed the door with a feeling of relief.
What really intrigued him was the bullet on the
slab of marble.

                 174
                  
South Ruislip

  As Pech left his new chief's office, over in
England Ivanov called Laurie.

  It didn't worry him that he phoned her at South
Ruislip and that the call went through the Third
Air Force headquarters switchboard. The operator
heard the pennies drop into the sleet, and he
announced himself as "Gene." He was calling from
a phone booth, safe, secure, untraceable.

  "You are coming to the ballet with me tonight,"
he announced without further preliminaries when
he was put through to Laurie. "The Kirov at
Covent Garden. I happen to have two tickets."

  "You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble,"
said Laurie. Kincaid's door was ajar, and the
colonel was behind his desk, seemingly engrossed
in a file he was reading.

  "No trouble." She could almost sense the grin.
"A friend gave them to me."

  In the phone booth, Ivanov smiled. The thought
of describing Sergei Grigorovich as a friend had
its amusing aspects.

"Well," said Laurie, "I m sorry. I can't. Not
tonight."

  Verago had called her, and they were meeting
that evening.

  "You have a date?" Ivanov didn't attempt to
disguise his disappointment.

"I'm seeing a friend."

  "My dear Laurie, if it is a woman friend, it is a
shocking waste. And if it is a man friend, I am
madly jealous," he said, but his tone was light. "So
either way you should change your plans."

"Not possible," said Laurie.

"It is a man then."

"I'm sure you can find somebody else to take."

  Ivanov studied the mini parked on the other
side of Mount Street, across from the phone
booth. He hadn't noticed it before, but idly,
almost automatically, he wondered if it had been
following him. Not that it bothered him. He
enjoyed running the other side off its feet.

"Can't you?" added Laurie.

  "Listen," said Ivanov. "I hear people are paying
a fortune for Kirov tickets. I shall utilize the
capitalist system. If I can't take you, I will sell
them on the black market for the highest sum I
can get."

                 175
                  
Laurie giggled. "Won't your friend mind?"

 "He won't know," said Ivanov. "Tell me, who is
this date?"

"None of your business," she replied coldly.

 "If it is Captain Verago, you should introduce
us," Ivanov said, coolly casual.

At the other end, Laurie froze.

"Are you there?" he demanded.

"Yes." Her mind was racing.

 "Captain Verago sounds like a very interesting
man. I'm sure we'd get on."

"I have to hang up," said Laurie. "Call me
sometime."

 "Of course," said Ivanov. "As a matter of fact, we
must all get together. The three of us." He could
hear her intake of breath. "Perhaps a little party.
Leave It to me. Au revoir."

And he rang off.

 He left the phone booth and started strolling
toward South Audley Street, whistling gently. The
mini didn't follow. Pity, he thought. He would
have enjoyed leading them a little chase.

 Half an hour later, he kept his promise. He
found two disconsolate American tourists hanging
around the Covent Garden box office, vainly
trying to get seats for that night's performance of
the Kirov.

 Ivanov sold them his two tickets for a hundred
pounds. He acted the part of a black-market
scalper well and went straight to Dunhill's to buy
himself a box of capitalist cigars.

 If he knew, Grigorovich would report him to the
inspectorate, he was sure, and that made it all the
more enjoyable.

 After all, it wasn't the only thing about Ivanov
Central didn't know.

London

 In bed Laurie could be passionate, forward,
unpredictable, and yet completely feminine. The
first time they had made love, Verago had been
carried away by her vehement desire and then
amazed by her gentleness afterward. She was
fierce and loving, lustful and soft.

 In most things Laurie was full of contradictions,
and it fascinated Verago. There was nothing shy
about her, but she was very modest. She never
flaunted her body, but in his arms, naked, she
could be utterly abandoned.

                 176
                  
 She sat up in bed, the sheet drawn up over her
breasts, smoking a cigarette. She glowed, and it
made him happy that she too had enjoyed it so
much.

 "Some places I know, they could lock us up
now," Verago said contentedly.

Laurie's eyebrows shot up.

 "Be warned, kid. It's illegal to fuck in a dozen
states, and as for shacking up, that's a crime all
over the country."

"Such as?" Laurie was amused.

 "Florida, Massachusetts, Georgia, Wisconsin, oh,
lots ' said Verago. "Even Washington, D.C. You
name it."

 She turned toward him, and to his pleasure, the
sheet slipped.

 "Sometimes you talk crap, Tony Verago," she
declared. "You know what?"

"It's on the statute books," he protested.

  "Oh, come on," said Laurie. "You trying to tell
me that every time somebody screws somebody in
Washington they get put in the slammer?"

  "Of course not. But they can, if they get caught.
If somebody makes something of it...."

  Laurie stubbed out her cigarette. "Well," she
said, "since we're going to jail we might as well
make it worthwhile."

  Half an hour later the phone rang. Groggy with
sleep, Laurie reached for it.

  "Hello?" she said. The bedside alarm clock
pointed to just after midnight.

She listened for a moment, frowned slightly.

  "It's for you," she said, puzzled. "New York." She
handed him the receiver, and he sat up.

"Yes?" he said.

  "Tony," came Lou Conn's voice. "It's me. Glad I
caught you."

  Laurie was watching his face. He gave her a
quick nod, but his attention was on the call.

"What's the news, Lou?" he asked.

  There was a short pause. Then: "Bad, Tony. I'm
sorry."

"She won't play?"

"She's dead," said Lou, three thousand miles away.
Verago felt cold. "Dead? Mrs. Tower?" Laurie's
eyes widened. "What do you mean? What's
happened?"

                 177
                  
 "I called her apartment, but I couldn't get any
reply," said Lou. "So I went around, but it was all
closed up. The janitor told me. She took an
overdose of pills. Two days ago. She was dead
when he found her."

Verago sat very still.

'Tony, are you there?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I guess that shoots a hole in your case."

"Are you sure it's it's suicide?" asked Verago.

 "No question," said Lou. "I checked with the
police. I saw the autopsy report. She just
swallowed a bottleful of barbiturates. She had been
drinking too. She was a lush, Tony. That's all there
is to it."

"Jesus," said Verago.

 "Maybe separation hit her harder than you
thought. Maybe the news about the court-martial
. . ."

"But how the hell did she know?" Verago asked
quickly. 'The FBI had been around," said Lou.
"They also questioned the janitor. Getting
background information  for the military. I guess
they told her."

"The FBI," repeated Verago, more to himself.

Laurie lit another cigarette.

"Did you say something?" asked Lou.

"No," said Verago. "Did you find out anything
else?" "Nothing. I figure none of this helps you.
I'm sorry. I guess it will make things tougher now.
They'll use the wife's death, won't they?"

"You bet."

  "Well," said Lou, "if I can do anything this end .
. . Iet me know. Anytime."

  "I win, Lou," replied Verago. "And listen, friend,
thanks for trying. I appreciate it."

  "I wish it could have done some good," said Lou.
"So long, Tony."

  Slowly Verago put the phone down. He looked
at Laurie. "I hope you didn't mind," he said
absentmindedly. "I gave him your number. In case
I was here...."

He lapsed into silence.

'Yower's wife. She's dead," he said at last.

Laurie nodded. "So I gathered."

'There goes my mitigation." "But will the trial go
on, if she's dead?" asked Laurie. "Sure. It doesn't
alter anything. She was alive when he committed
adultery. In fact, it makes things worse. Morally
he's going to be tried for murder."

                 178
                  
"But that's that's nonsense. Didn't she kill
herself?"

 "That's exactly it," said Verago. "Nobody's
going to say it, but in that courtroom, it'll be his
fault. He abandoned his wife, committed
adultery, and drove her to suicide. It's a gift."

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the
ceiling.

  "How the hell do you defend a guy for moral
murder?" he asked.

Laurie offered him a cigarette but he shook his
head.

"Didn't he say something about the FBI?" she
asked.

  "Oh, yes," said Verago with a little grim smile.
"They're in on the act too. I guess suddenly
adultery's become a federal crime."

        Friday, July 14,1961

London

PRYOR located the man he was looking for in
the third pub he tried. He had made the rounds of
Fleet Street watering holes because he knew that
there, somewhere, at this time of day, he'd find
Dawkins.

  He finally struck lucky in the Mucky Duck, the
irreverent alias of the White Swan. Dawkins was
propping up the bar, tie a little askew, eyelids
heavy, speech a trifle thick. But it was deceptive.
One call from the news desk of the Sketch and he
would be alert. The alcoholic haze that often
surrounded him could be very misleading.

  "Slumming today?" he greeted Pryor jovially. He
winked at the barmaid. "He's a Yank, but he
means well."

  Pryor didn't resent it. He knew Dawkins's style.
He was one of the few Fleet Street types with
whom he had made friends.

"What's your poison?" inquired Dawkins.

"Guinness."

  Dawkins nodded approvingly. "There's hope for
you yet." He raised his glass. "Cheers."

  Now that he had found his man, Pryor hesitated.
What he was about to do was disloyal. If they
found out

"You want a good story, Peter?" he asked

The bloodshot eyes turned on him. "What story's
that?"

                 179
                  
 Pryor edged him toward a corner, away from
any possible eavesdroppers.

 "They're trying to hush it up," said Pryor, adding
a bit of bait.

"Who is?"

"The military."

 Dawkins did not react. Instead he called to the
barmaid: "Same again, love." Then he focused on
Pryor. "What are you on about?"

"You heard of an air base called Laconbury?"

  Dawkins burped. "You got so many bloody air
bases in this country I can't keep up with them.
What about it?"

  "They're going to court-martial an officer said
Pryor, and instinctively reddened. Now there was
no turning back.

  "Oh, yes?" Dawkins didn't appear in the slightest
interested. "What's he done? Flogged PX booze
on the black market?" He laughed.

His pint had arrived, and he took a deep drink.

"Adultery."

"Eh?"

"It's a court-martial offence in the American
military."

  The newsman's mind clicked into action. "Is sloe
EInglish? The bird, I mean?"

"I think so," said Pryor.

  Dawkins inclined his head. "Not a bad yarn," he
conceded grudgingly.

"It's all yours."

  Dawkins regarded him reflectively. "Why?" he
asked finally.

  "Because I can't use it. The military won't let
me. The paper wouldn't print it."

  "You're joking." Dawkins was genuinely taken
aback. "I know it's a funny paper, but "

  "It's not a news paper," said Pryor bitterly. It
was his declaration of independence. He had burst
the straitjacket. Leaking the story was his
assertion of rebellion.

  Dawkins extricated a piece of paper from his
pocket and took out a pencil.

"When is this court-martial?"

  "Soon," said Pryor. "I don't know the exact date,
but soon."

"Who can tell me more about it?"

  "Why don't you call the air force? At Ruislip?
Say you've heard a rumor...."

                 180
                  
 Pryor relished the thought. Welk would turn
pale when he got the call from Fleet Street. Major
Longman would blow his top. He'd give a lot to
be there the moment the shit hit the fan.

"Will they tell me?" asked Dawkins.

  Pryor drained his glass. "They've got to be
careful with you. It's Dot like Stripes. They haven't
got you at the end of a string. Just push them."

  "You don't minds" inquired Dawkins, a little
anxiously. "I don't want to land you in the cart."

  "As long as you keep quiet about how you
heard, I'm okay You can always say you picked up
a rumor, can't youiIn a pub." He smiled. "It's true,
isn't it?"

  They had another round. Dawkins paid again,
This would certainly go on expenses.

"Much appreciate it, Joe," he said. "Really do."

  "I met his lawyer," said Pryor. "That's strictly
between you and me."

  Dawkins didn't believe in such conventions. For
him, anything he heard was fair game. But what
he said was "Sure."

  "The lawyer's come over from Germany. A
sharp guy. I think he'd welcome a story. The rest
of 'em are all walking on eggs. I don't know what
the hell's going on  maybe it's because the
base "

He stopped.

  Dawkins was very alert now. "Yes? What about
the base?"

  "Well, don't say I told you, but I've heard it said
the U-Two flies from there."

  Dawkins's eyes widened. "Jesus, that's a hell of
a story. 'Secret' stuff, great."

  "That's off the record." Pryor went through the
motions. "Only for your guidance. But it sounds
sexy, eh?"

  "Fabulous." Dawkins couldn't believe his luck. A
scoop like this handed to him on a plate. So much
for the knowalls who said you could never find a
real story in a pub He drained his beer glass.

"I got to go. Where can I reach you?"

  "Don't," said Pryor. "Don't call me. Don't phone,
don't get m touch, nothing."

Already he was having regrets. "if they link me
with

Dawkins picked up his change. "I understand, don't
                 181
                  
worry." He held out his hand. "I'm most grateful,
mate, I really arn."

  Pryor shook it. "Make the most of it, Peter. It's
too good to be buried."

  "Watch the front page," Dawkins called out, and
then he disappeared through the curtained door.

  Pryor ordered himself another drink. A double
scotch this time. He wondered if this is what a
man felt like who had started the countdown on
an H-bomb.

Laconbuq

"The chaplain told me," Tower said
unemotionally.

  He looks more stooped, thought Verago, older,
like a man with a load.

  They were walking in the open yard of the
confinement facility, within the wire fence. The
APs watched them.

  "I'm sorry about it," said Verago. The air force
had lost no time notifying Tower. He wondered
who contacted them. The FBI?

  "It's a lousy way to go," commented Tower. "All
alone."

"How long had you been married?"

"Since Korea."

Ten years. And four of them apart.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Verago asked
gently.

  "Nothing to talk about," said Tower. "It didn't
work out. Pity it had to end like this, though.
Trouble is she never could face reality."

"Is that why there was no divorce?"

"Does it matter now?" asked Tower.

  They strolled in silence, a hundred feet one
way, a hundred feet the other way. The grass was
neat, tidy, cut just right, like the hair of the APs,
like the pattern of the wire fence.

"You can ask to attend the funeral," said Verago.

  "What for?" Tower looked away. "Won't help
her one way or the other. It's all over for her."

"That's up to you," Verago said coldly.

  "Don't sound so god damn disapproving,
counselor." Tower had turned on him fiercely,
anger on his face. "I don't need you to-make
moral judgments. It's my affair, and I've got to
live with it. That's the end of it. Hell, what do you
know how it feels?"

Verago said nothing.

Finally Tower calmed down. "I'm sorry," he said.
"It's

                 182
                  
not your fault. This whole lousy thing is getting
me down. I want to get it over. One way or the
othen"

"Sure, I understand."

"It hasn't helped the case any either, has it?"

"No," said Verago.

  "It won't be easy now to use your mitigation
argument, not after this?"

  "Well," said Verago, "it might not be the
smartest thing to do."

  Tower stopped in his tracks. He faced Verago.
"Just for the record, between you and me, I don't
believe I'm the reason she did it. She was
neurotic, sick. She really was. It could have
happened any time. Too much booze, too many
pills. I'm not trying to justify anything, but hon.
estly, I don't think for one moment . . . hell, I
knew her. I wasn't even surprised."

  "I believe you," said Verago. "But it's not me
we've got to convince. In a way, it makes it worse.
The court might feel you abandoned your wife
just when you should have helped her."

"So what have we got left?"

  'if don't know," said Verago. Then he saw
Tower's expression.

  "But don't worry, John," he added, "I'll think of
something. The game hasn't even started."

He hoped he sounded confident.

  The trouble was, he reflected, that all the cards
seemed to be marked.

  And the guy who appeared to be cheating most
of all was his own client.

London

Daventry hailed a cab in Lowndes Square.

  "Lincoln's Inn," he instructed the driver, as he
got in and settled back, his briefcase on the seat
next to him. It wasn't until they had passed Hyde
Park Corner that he realized the cab, instead of
going straight along Piccadilly, had turned up
Park Lane, toward the Dorchester.

  Daventry frowned. It didn't seem the most
direct route, but he had learned of old not to
argue with London cabbies. They passed the
hotel, and in Deanery Street the taxi stopped at
the traffic light.

  Suddenly the door was flung open and two men
got in. One sat beside Daventry and the other
opposite on the tip-up seat.

                 183
                  
  Daventry was too astounded to say anything at
first, The driver took no notice at all. When the
light turned green, the cab accelerated across
South Audley Street, into Hill Street.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
gasped Daventry, leaning forward and rapping on
the driver's glass partition. "Stop," he ordered.
"Driver, stop this cab."

  "It's all right, Mr. Daventry," said the man
opposite. "Nothing to get worried about."

  Daventry gaped at him, then made a dive for
the cab door. But the man next to him leaned
forward and blocked him.

  The cab drove on, turning corners, making a
twisting, confusing journey around the maze of
Mayfair back streets.

"I said stopl" Daventry shouted again.

  But the cab just turned another corner.
Daventry looked out frantically, hoping to see a
policeman, anybody he could yell to, but he knew
the men would stop him.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

  "We're almost there, Mr. Daventry," the man
opposite said soothingly.

  The taxi came to a halt halfway down a mews.
They were near Berkeley Square, Daventry felt
sure, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly where. It
was a quiet, secluded mews, with dignified,
impressive front doors. A shining Bentley was
parked in front of one of them.

  "Here we are," announced the man facing him.
He opened the door and was the first to get out
of the cab.

"This way, sir," he indicated respectfully.

  "I'm not getting out," Daventry declared firmly.
"I don't know what you want, but I'm not "

"Please, Mr. Daventry," pressed the man.

  He wasn't being menacing, but he spoke with
the authority of a person who knows he is in
control of things.

"I'm going to call the police, you know," said
Daventry.

"Yes, sir," replied the man.

  Daventry got out reluctantly, followed by the
other man. The cab drove off immediately.
Nobody had paid the fare.

  One of the men pressed a bell on the ornate
front door, which had a brass knocker in the
shape of a lion's head.

  The door was opened by a third man who could
have been a twin brother to the others. They all
wore business

                 184
                  
suits and dull ties. They had the same short
haircuts and expressionless faces.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said.

  Daventry was ushered into the richly carpeted
entrance hall. It reminded him of a wealthy
Harley Street doctor's consulting rooms. He half
expected to be shown into a waiting room, with
copies of Punch and The Tattler neatly laid out on
a polished table.

  Instead he was escorted along the hall, to a
small elevator. Only one of the men went in with
him. He pressed the second-floor button. There
were only five. One basement and four floors.

  I can find this place again, thought Daventry, I
swear I can. If I have to take Mayfair apart, I'll
trace where this is. And then he realised weren't
really trying to conceal anything from him. It was
as if they didn't care if he identified the address.

  The elevator stopped and the gates slid open
automatically.

  "The first door on the left," the man said
politely, standing aside for Daventry. "If you like,
I'll take that until you leave."

He held out his hand for Daventry's briefcase.

"No," Daventry said curtly.

  The man went back into the elevator, and
Daventry heard it purr its way down below again.

  He stood, hesitant. The corridor was like the
entrance hall, richly carpeted and with a couple of
oil paintings on the wall.

Then the first door on the left opened.

  "My dear Gerald, how good to see you again,"
said the man who greeted him with a smile.

"Good Godl" exclaimed Daventry. "Brian!"

"Come in, old man," invited Grierson.

  The pretence that this was an aristocratic town
house in the heart of Mayfair stopped once he
stepped inside the room. It was an office,
comfortable, modern, but utilitarian. A plain desk,
a couple of leather armchairs, a telephone, a globe
on a side table. The Financial Times lay on the
desk.

  "What a way for two school chums to meet up
again, eh?" Grierson smiled. "I was often going to
call you and suggest a little reunion, but you know
how it is."

  "I think you owe me one hell of an explanation,"
Daventry said grimly.

                 18S
                  
"Of course. Sit down."

 Daventry sat in one of the armchairs. Grierson,
as if to emphasise respective positions, sat behind
his desk.

 He doesn't look all that different, thought
Daventry. He carries his years well. He was
wearing the old school tie. He even had the
school colors on his cufflinks.

 "You've done very well for yourself, Gerry,
haven't you? Quite the legal luminary. Following
in the old man's footsteps, eh? Future Lord
Chief, maybe? Congratulations, old man."

 Daventry was aware of how silent the house
was. He might be alone with Grierson in a tomb.
No clock ticked, no typewriters clattered, no
telephones rang. There wasn't even the sound of
traffic..

"What exactly is this place?" asked Daventry.

"It belongs to you, Gerry."

"Eh?"

"Well, you're a taxpayer, aren't you?"

"This this is a government office?"

Grierson's smile was twisted. "Sort of."

"And you?"

"A civil servant. Sort of."

  "A civil servant who goes about abducting
people," Daventry remarked acidly.

  "Not abducting people." Grierson chuckled. "It's
all rat,h,MrIbFoirin?g,,, actually. Hush-hush, that
sort of rubbish."

  Grierson looked pained. "Something like that.
The point is I had a bit of a shock the other day.
Saw your name in a file. A yellow file. Not nice,
yellow."

"What do you mean?"

  "Nothing to get too steamed up about. But I
don't like to see old chums on the list."

"List?"

  "So I thought I'd have a word with you. On the
QT. Strictly between us. For old time's sake."

  'What exactly are you trying to tell me?" asked
Daventry.

  "Well," began Grierson, "you're getting yourself
involved in some silly stuff. You know, with the
Americans. That stupid court-martial business.
Our lot would be much happier if you kept your
nose out. Sorry to be so blunt, old boy. Official
secrets and all that. You need it like a hdead cold
on your wedding night. By the way how is

                186
                 
"Have you been tapping my phone?"

  "Let me explain," Grierson said earnestly.
"You're in no trouble at all at the moment, Gerry.
It's all under control and you don't want to get
caught up in it. Believe me, it's a friend you're
talking to. Drop the whole thing. Forget about it.
I imagine you've got enough on your plate."

"And if I don't drop it?"

  'There'll be repercussions, old boy." Grierson
sighed. "Who needs repercussions?"

  "I'm not sure I shouldn't take this to Bar
Council," said Daventry. "Right to the top."

Grierson nodded. "You can, Gerry. But I
wouldn't."

"Repercussions?"

"Precisely."

  "You've been watching me, haven't you?
Shadowing me? Even that cab . . . wasn't a cab.
Things could happen, is that what you're telling
me?"

  "Don't know what you're on about," said
Grierson. "But I think we understand each other.
And we've never been stupid, have we? Of course
not."

  Daventry was white-faced when he rode down in
the elevator accompanied by one of the men in
drab suits. Outside the house, in the mews,
another taxi was waiting.

  "Anywhere you like, guy," the driver said
cheerfully. "It's on the firm."

And Daventry knew that there was only one way
out.

London

  Clutching a bouquet of flowers that a blushing
schoolgirl had thrust into his arms, Yuri Gargarin
waved to the crowd in Earls Court Road, smiling
his boyish smile.

"Tovarish!" shouted an elderly lady, her eyes
shining.

  They were actually cheering him, and Ivanov,
standing inconspicuously in the crowd with
Deriabin, could not help smiling too.

  It was a master stroke, he felt, sending Gargarin
over to London, driving him around like a movie
star, parading him at receptions. If the Queen
walked down the street, she couldn't draw bigger
crowds.

  "A few Gargarins and the embassy could pack
up," he observed. "They would conquer this island
all by themselves."

  Deriabin grunted. He wondered how the crowd
would feel if they knew that ten days previously
Nikita Khrushchev had informed the British
ambassador in Moscow that

                 187
                  
it would only take eight nuclear bombs to wipe
Britain off the face of the earth.

"Let's walk back," he said.

"No, I'm enjoying this," said Ivanov.

 "You'd think it was the British who'd sent up
Sputnik," Deriabin remarked a little sourly.

 "Absolutely." Ivanov nodded cheerfully. "They
have the most amazing knack for self-delusion. I
find it very useful."

He slapped Deriabin on the back.

 "Cheer up, my friend, let us enjoy the luxury of
being popular. It makes our lives that much
easier."

 But Deriabin looked dour. Typical GRU,
thought Ivanov. Boring. Musty, like those plushy
Victorian rooms at the embassy in Kensington
Palace Gardens.

 A roar went up as Gargarin bent down and
kissed a pretty little blonde chastely on the cheek,
as befitted a Red air force officer.

 "The man's a born showman," stated Ivanov,
nodding approvingly.

 They were cashing in on it too, and Ivanov had
played no small part in setting up the hectic
agenda for the Gargarin circus. A reception by
Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, a lunch with
Queen Elizabeth at Buckingham Palace, plenty of
patting little children on the head, and the
workers hadn't been forgotten. The Gargarin
smile had been precisely programmed.

 "Incidentally," Deriabin said unexpectedly,
"congratulations."

Ivanov glanced at him, startled.

 "I have heard from the director," continued
Deriabin. "Central is very pleased indeed with
your snapshots."

 That was the Holy Loch roll of film he had
passed on to Grigorovich.

 "Thank you," said Ivanov, surprised. It was most
unusual for Deriabin, the taciturn, humorless
GRU colonel, to even mention covert activities
outside the sanctum of the referentura, even
obliquely. It was high praise.

 Standing twenty feet away, behind a fat woman
with a pram, Unterberg wished he could lip read.
It was unusual to see Ivanov and Deriabin
together, strolling in the sunshine.

 "How's your social life these days?" asked
Deriabin as they started to move away.

"She is very welL" replied Ivanov, smiling.

                 188
                  
       Monday, July 17,1961
London

RIPPON'S manner was sharp and to the point.

  "I want your man to do a little job for me," he
said highhandedly. "It's an abortionist, and I'd like
him to put on a good show at her committal. Try
and knock it out there and then."

  Pettifer blinked in disbelief and held the phone
away from his ear momentarily, as if he couldn't
believe what he was hearing. The puffed-up
presumption of the man, demanding Daventry's
services as if his master were an office boy at
Rippon's beck and call.

  "It's not really our kind of case," Pettifer replied
frostily. He also felt like adding, not their kind of
money. It simply wasn't worth Daventry's while to
drag himself to some suburban magistrates' court
to represent some backalley abortionist.

  "Oh, I'm sure it can be arranged," said Rippon.
"Tell the old man it's a favor for me."

  It was incredible. Pettifer couldn't understand
what had happened. Usually Rippon fawned and
scraped to secure Daventry for one of his dubious
clients, pleading with Pettifer, oozing
obsequiousness. And suddenly, here he was, loftily
commanding his presence and, most amazing of
all, calling his master "old man."

  "Look here," Pettifer said firmly. "Mr. Daventry
is not available." The man really had to be put in
his place. "I couldn't possibly ask him."

  Normally Rippon would have cringed
immediately. But not this time.

  "Don't give me that, Petti," argued Rippon.
Pettifer gasped; no one dared call him Petti. "Just
ask Daventry. Tell him who it is. I think you'll
find he'll want to oblige." With that he hung up.

  Pettifer took a little time to recover his
equilibrium. Rippon, he finally decided, was
suffering from delusions of grandeur. And, as far
as Pettifer was concerned, he had accepted the
last brief from the man. True, he had been a
steady, lucrative source of income, but this was
too high a price to pay. Plenty of other solicitors
wanted

                 189
                  
Daventry for their clients. They didn't need this
stuck-up jackanape.

Pettifer kr~oclred on Daventry's door.

 "May I see you for a moment, sir?" he inquired,
with his usual diffidence.

"What is it?" asked Daventry.

  Pettifer had noticed that these last few days
Daventry seemed to have been under a great
strain. Too well mannered to take it out on his
clerk, Daventry had nonetheless been irritable,
anxious.

  "Sorry to bother you," began Pettifer, "but I
think we must do something about Mr. Rippon."

Daventry's eyes narrowed.

  "The man's become quite insufferable," Pettifer
went on, and Daventry was startled to hear him
refer to a solicitor in such terms. "I have just had
him on the phone, wanting you for a case. But
instead of offering the brief, he practically
demanded that you take it. Quite an unsultable
brief, I fear, but he virtually ordered you to take

  "What did you say?" asked Daventry. He had
taken off his reading glasses and was playing with
them abstractedly.

  "Well, sir," said Pettifer, bristling, "he was quite
improper. He had the temerity to suggest that
when I told you it came from him, you'd want to
'oblige' him. Those were his actual words, sir.
'Oblige him."'

"I see," said Daventry.

  "I don't think we can have a relationship with
him on that basis, do you, sir? The man sounded
as if you were under some sort of" Pettifer
searched for the word  "some sort of obligation
to him. Utterly absurd and improper."

  Daventry pushed the spectacles aside. "Maybe I
am," he said quietly.

  Pettifer stood dumbfounded. Nothing seemed to
be right today. Now he wasn't even hearing
properly.

  "I think it's possible Mr. Rippon believes he
could make trouble for me," explained Daventry.

"How?" gasped Pettifer, when he'd found his
voice.

"I Never mind, it doesn't matter."

  "One of our cases, sir?" ventured Pettifer, still
white with shock.

"Not really," said Daventry, a little awkwardly.
"Noth

                 190
                  
ingin these chambers. At least, no brief you
obtained for me. Don't worry about it."

  "Perhaps you'd better tell me," Pettifer
suggested softly. "In case I could "

  "No." Daventry smiled appreciatively. Pettifer's
loyalty was sterling. "It doesn't involve you. I made
the mistake of thinking Mr. Rippon could be used
to formalise a little, er, informality. Don't worry
about it," he repeated. "I'm going to talk to him
personally. I don't think he will presume on us
again."

  "Can he make trouble?" asked Pettifer. What he
meant was, have you offended the rules of the
profession? Can he report you to the Bar
Council?

"I don't think he will," Daventry replied grimly.

Pettifer was still anxious. "What will you tell him?"

"To go to hell," said Daventry.

  Pettifer took courage. "Is it the business of the
American court-martial?" he asked.

  For a moment Daventry was going to demand
him to tell him what he knew. But Pettifer
interrupted hirn.

"Perhaps you should take advice, sir?"

  Even in his depressed mood, it struck Daventry
as comic, his clerk advising him to consult a
lawyer. He wondered which silk Pettifer had in
mind to enter the lists on his behalf.

  "No, I don't think that will be necessary." He
smiled. "I believe I know how to deal with it."

  In his mind he had already made his decision,
and Pettifer left the room wondering rather
uneasily why Daventry looked so grave.

        Tuesday, July 18,1961

       -London

DAWKINS waited until McDuff, the news editor,
was off the phone.

"I think I'll go up to 1 aconbury," he announced.

 "What for?" asked McDuff irritably. The Sophia
Loren exclusive had fallen through, so had a
nonstory of newly divorced Vivien Leigh and
Laurence Olivier getting reconciled, and all
together the schedule looked a mess.

"The Yank who's committed adultery, remember?"

                 191
                  
Dawkins reminded him, and added, for good
measure, "The story I brought in."

  "Oh," said McDuff. "That." His tone was not
encouraging.

  "I'm having problems with it," said Dawkins. "I
tried the American air force, and no joy."

"You mean, they deny it?"

  "No," said Dawkins. "I tried Ruislip five times,
and nobody knows anything. I tried the base, and
they say only Ruislip can talk. I tried the American
embassy, and they say only the air force can talk.
And the Ministry of Defence says it's nothing to do
with them, it's an American air force matter."

  "That's all you got?" asked McDuff ominously.
He loathed reporters who detailed at length how
and why they couldn't get a story.

"Let me try the base," Dawkins suggested again.

  "What the hell will that do?" demanded McDuff.
'Lou won't even get on it. You know what those
bloody American bases are like."

  "I got contacts," urged Dawkins, a little
desperately. He really did want the story, and a trip
to Laconbury would do wonders for that week's
expense sheet,

"Balls," said McDuff, unfeelingly.

  It was turning out tougher than Dawkins had
anticipated.

  "It's a good yarn, Mac," he argued. "Adultery with
an English girl. She might be a looker. Come on,
it's worth a try,

"No," said McDuff.

Dawkins couldn't understand it.

  "Why not?" he asked. "I've got nothing else on.
We've got it exclusive. It'll make a good front page."

  "Sorry," said McDuff, and reached for a pile of
wireservice copy the boy had just dumped on his
desk.

  "Oh, for Chrissake," said Dawkins. "I got this hot
tip straight from the horse's mouth. Why the hell
not?"

  "This is why," said McDuff, and unlocked a
drawer in his desk. He took out a thin folder and
extricated a sheet of paper. "D-notice. Here."

  The paper was headed "Private and Confidential,"
and it instructed all media that the "forthcoming
court-martial of a USAF officer at RAF Laconbury
is not to be publicised in the national interest as
the case involved the security of the United
Kingdom and its allies."

                 192
                  
Dawkins read it twice. Then he said, "Ignore it."

  "I don't propose to go to jail. Neither does the
editor. Read the whole thing. They've invoked the
Official Se" cress Act."

  "But it's only a fucking adultery case," protested
Dawkins.

  "I don't know what it is," said McDuff, "but
we've been having enough bloody trouble with
security, and it's simply not worth it to stick out
our necks for this one. We've also had some
unofficial official guidance on it," he added,
lowering his voice.

"Guidance?"

  "MOD have dropped the hint that any pretrial
story could be interpreted as contempt of court
since the courtmartial will be held on UK soil,
and that the case itself will be heard in camera, so
there's nothing we could red

port anyway."

  "Christ," said Dawkins. "And you're just going
to play along?"

McDuff looked at his notepad.

  "I want you to nip along to the Windmill," he
said. 'They've got a new stripper there, and we've
had a tip that she's the daughter of the Bishop of
Wallasey." His craggy face split into what he
considered to be a jovial smile. 'Take one of the
photo boys. Maybe she wears a dog collar instead
of a G-string."

"But what about Laconbury?"

"Forget it," said McDuff. "It's dead. I've just killed
it."

       Wednesday, July 19,1961

                           -London

"GLAD to meet you, counselor," said Verago.

  "Do come in," invited Daventry, holding open
the door to his office.

  Pettifer stood, poker-faced, his disapproval
under tight control. This American had been
badgering him for days and then arrived,
unannounced, at the chambers. When he was
firmly told Daventry was out at lunch, he had
simply declared that he'd wait.

"I'm sure Mr. Daventry will want to see me," he'd
said,

                 193
                  
and that aggravated Pettifer even more. "And I
intend to see him."

"Could you tell me your business, sir?"

 "I'm defense counsel in the Tower case,"
explained Verago, and Pettifer bristled. He was
praying for the day he'd hear the last of that
American court-martial

"Sit down," said Daventry.

 "I apologize for not making an appointment,
counselor," said Verago. "But I have tried and
since I'm not based in London . . ."

 Daventry looked at the card in his hand. "
'Captain Anthony C. Verago, Staff Judge
Advocate's Corps, United States Army.' You're a
legal officer, I take it?"

Daventry's tone was somewhat skeptical.

  "Yes, sir," replied Verago. "At least, I passed
law school."

  He was hot, and Daventry looked remarkably
cool and relaxed. He was out of his element,
whereas Daventry was very much at home in these
musty, funereal chambers with the antiquated
furniture and dusty law books. There were piles of
old briefs Iying around, neatly tied with red tape,
and a couple of faded prints on the wall of legal
luminaries, long since dead.

  "You see, counselor " began Verago, but
Daventry interrupted him.

  "We are not counselors in this country, we are
simply barristers," he said gently, like an
understanding teacher correcting a not very bright
student. "I am plain 'mis

  "I'm sorry. I don't know much about English
lawyers," said Verago, nettled at himself for
apologising to this cold eel of a man sitting
opposite him.

  "We're quite human, I assure you." Daventry
smiled rather dryly.

  Verago's tweed jacket and slacks contrasted
sharply with Daventry's dark, formal suit.
Daventry couldn't recall when somebody in a
sports jacket had last entered his chambers. And
a lawyer at that.

  Verago took the bit between his teeth. "You
know of course about this court-martial at
Laconbury, Mr. Daventry, and I think you'll agree
it's in our mutual interest to get together. We're
absolutely on the same side."

"Is that so?"

"Sure. After all, I want to get my man off as
lightly as

                 194
                  
I can, and I'm sure you want to do the same for
your girl."

"My girl?" Daventry appeared totally detached.

 "Miss Howard tells me you're representing her.
I've been to see her and "

 "I'm afraid, Captain Verago, you have been
misinformed," said Daventry.

Verago sat very still. "Pardon me?"

  "I have decided it would be best if Miss Howard
had other representation, if she needs any at all,"
Daventry said precisely.

"You mean you're off the case?" gasped Verago.

'~es. '

"Does Miss Howard know that? She told me "

  "I will be telling her," stated Daventry, glancing
away. He wished this damn man didn't look at
him so accusingly. "It is unfortunate that you went
to see the lady without speaking to me first. I
could have put you in the picture. I am convinced
that my decision is in no way detrimental to the
interests of Miss Howard."

"Okay." Verago nodded. "But I have a question?"

Daventry raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Why?"

'A don't follow you, Captain Verago."

  "What's the story? Why are you quitting? Is it
some" thing to do with the case? Have you found
out something I should know? Hell, I'm defending
this guy, and now his girl friend's lawyer pulls out.
I think I'm entitled to know the reason "

  He didn;t like Daventry's thin smile. Even less
his answer.

  "I don't need to give any explanation," said
Daventry, his voice hard. "Nevertheless, I will
assure you that it has nothing to do with your
client."

  Verago looked him straight in the eyes. "Have
you been pressured, Mr. Daventry? Has somebody
been getting at you?"

  'That, sir, is a highly improper question,"
responded Daventry.

  Verago stood up. "Listen, counselor, or
whatever you call yourself, when people tell me
I'm being improper, I know I'm on the right track.
And when lawyers tell me that, I know I've struck
pay dirt. Come on, let's show 'em.

Let's get together. Let's you and me compare
notes and see what we're up against...."

                 195
                  
 Daventry also rose. "There are no notes to
compare," he said. "Miss Howard asked me to Bet
the witness summons set aside. I tried and I failed.
There's nothing more I can do. I'm sure that when
it comes to the trial, you will be in a much better
position to protect her rights than 1 would be."

"That might get awkward."

"In what way7"

  "Because I'm not sure that she's the innocent
party in this."

  Daventry straightened his waistcoat. "That's for
you to decide."

"So you're washing your hands of the whole thing."

"I'm sorry...."

Verago grunted.

  "Can I get you a cup of tea . . . or perhaps
coffee? Instant, I'm afraid," offered Daventry.

"I've got to get going," said Verago.

  Daventry opened the door for him. "If there's
anything else I can do for you, of course...."

  "I think you've done enough, counselor," replied
Verago, his eyes glinting. "I guess you've got your
own priorities. I hope they pay you well."

  After Verago had left, Daventry sat at his desk,
staring straight ahead. He would have given a lot
to avoid that encounter.

  And now he felt, as that American would
probably have put it, a complete heel.

       Thursday, July 20,1961

Serebryany Bor

tIkB stocky, squat man with the piercing blue eyes
studied his appearance in the long mirror.

 Ivan Koniev, Marshal of the Soviet Union, was
wearing his gold-braided walking-out uniform for
the first time in twelve months. It felt good to be
back in harness.

 He surveyed himself as critically as if he were a
new recruit about to go on parade, and he was
satisfied.

 Both sides of his chest were covered with all his
decorations. He had special affection for one of
them, the American Legion of Merit, presented to
him in the war

                 196
                  
by Omar Bradley. Not many Red Army Marshals
could boast of having been decorated by the
United States. He still warmly remembered the
day he had received the medal; what had made it
so memorable was that he had also acquired
Bradley's jeep in exchange for his white charger.

 But of all his medals and decorations, the one
closest to his heart was the simple one with the
black-and-yellow ribbon that millions of veterans
wore: the one that commemorated victory over
Germany.

 Sergeant Vasilly, his batman, came up with the
clothes brush and whisked some invisible speck
off the marshal's sleeve. Vasilly had been brushing
invisible specks off Koniev's uniform for twenty
years, through many campaigns and on many
battlefields.

"Will I pass?" Koniev asked jovially.

  "Of course, Comrade Marshal," Vasilly replied
proudly, still examining his master from the top of
his round, Ukrainian peasant head to the tip of
his brilliantly polished shoes. "As always."

  Koniev nodded. It was important that he should
look right. Outside his dacha, the black staff car
with the big red ensign was already waiting to
take him to Moscow and his meeting with Nikita
Khrushchev at the Kremlin. There he would be
told what it was all about.

  Koniev had handed over his command in June
1960, and for the past thirteen months had lived
a life of leisure. Of course a Marshal of the Soviet
Union never retired, and he was only sixty-two,
but it had looked like the end of his military life.

  Now they needed him. Urgently. Something was
about to happen and Koniev, the former
Commander in Chief of the Warsaw Treaty
Porces, was the only man to handle t.

  "Does the marshal have any idea where we
might be going?" Vasilly inquired delicately.

"Bored, are you, old soldier?" asked Koniev.

  "Rural life can be dull," said Vasilly. On his
chest too there were campaign decorations. Only
three rows of medal ribbons, but they told
enough.

  "We will soon know," said Koniev. "Do you wish
to come with me?"

  Vasilly looked stricken at the very question.
"The marshal knows . . ." he stuttered.

                 197
                  
 "Very well," said Koniev. "I merely wondered
how your wife would feel. You are officially
retired."

 Vasilly stroked his flowing moustache. "As long
as the marshal is in uniform," he began.

Koniev clicked his fingers. "Cap."

 Vasilly handed him his peaked cap with the
gold cockade of oak leaves.

"Gloves."

  Vasilly passed them over. This was better. This
was like old times.

  "I imagine I won't be in Moscow very long," said
Koniev. "You will be hearing."

  Vasilly came to attention. "At your service,
Comrade Marshal."

  A warrant officer was standing ready by the
staff car, and as soon as Koniev came out, he
saluted and opened the car door.

  A warrant officer for a driver, thought Koniev;
the trappings of a Commander in Chief.

  He got into the car and settled back. He
noticed it was equipped with a two-way radio
telephone. Yes, he was back in active service all
right.

Darmstadt

  Pryor's reception in Darmstadt was as cool as
the telex message ordering him over from
London.

  "Here comes the bad boy," said Haynes, on the
copy desk when Pryor entered the Stars and
Stripes newsroom. Haynes had never liked Pryor,
and his glee was undisguised.

  Barnhart, the red-haired photographer who had
often worked on assignments with him, seemed
anxious not to catch his eye.

  And the rest of the crew sat at their desks,
apparently engrossed in the wire-service copy they
were editing. The prodigal SOD wasn't coming
home.

"Where's the old man?" asked Pryor.

  "In his office, and can't wait to see you," said
Haynes, his bad teeth showing.

  As usual, there was a lot of noise, teleprinters
chattering, phones ringing, typewriters being
thumped by twofinger nontypists, but Pryor knew
that, as he walked across to the colonel's inner
sanctum, behind his back every eye was following
him.

                 198
                  
 Colonel Steinmetz, Stripes's editor, regarded
him gloomily.

 "Close the door, Joe," he said, and started
filling his pipe. It was a well-known signal. When
Steinmetz didn't quite know how to handle
something, he gave himself breathing space by
ramming tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

 "Sit down," Steinmetz invited. He wasn't alone.
A big, burly man sat in the other visitor's chair.

 "This is Mr. Unterberg," said the colonel, and
puffed his unlit pipe.

 Unterberg gave Pryor a friendly nod. "Hi," he
said, but the colonel made no attempt to explain
who he was or the reason for his presence.

"If you're busy, I'll come back," said Pryor.

 "No need," said the colonel. "As a matter of
fact, we were just talking about you."

 There was a knock on the door, and one of the
rewrite men stuck his head in.

 "Not now," snapped Colonel Steinmetz. "I'm
tied up for five minutes."

 So, thought Pryor. Five minutes. That's all they
have allocated.

 "I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing
here," said Pryor, "The TWX just said come
quickly, most urgent."

"Yes," said Steinmetz. "I wanted to see you."

 He struck a match and lit the pipe. The smoke
swirled in front of his face, and that seemed to
fortify his courage.

"You're being reassigned, Joe."

6`When?''

"As of now."

  Unterberg was studying the big map on the
wall. It showed the circulation area of Stripes's
European editions, from Norway to Turkey.

  "My UK tour isn't over yet," said Pryor. "I've
got another eighteen months. I'm not due to
leave until December 1962, and anyway, I
thought I'd ask for an extension. I like the
London bureau."

  "Well," said the colonel, a little awkwardly,
"we're making some changes."

  Pryor crossed his long legs. As soon as he had
received the telex, he knew this was coming. That
didn't make it any more pleasant.

"What's my new assignment?" he inquired warily.

                199
                 
The colonel blew out more smoke. "Wheelus," he
said. "Libya?" gasped Pryor. "Jesus Christ.
Permanently?"

 "You're taking over the bureau," said the
colonel. "It'll be a challenge."

 "What bureau?" demanded Pryor. "Flies and
desert and camels."

 "Wheelus is a very important SAC installation,"
the colonel said earnestly. "It's a key base. We
need a good man there. '

 "The climate is very good," Unterberg
interjected mildly. "Much better than England.
No rain. No fog. More like California."

 Pryor ignored him. "I don't want to go,
Colonel," he said. "I'm sorry. I like it where I am.
Wheelus is an asshole. You might as well send
me to Iceland. It's a dead end. I don't even see
why we need a man there."

 The colonel puffed his pipe. "Well," he said at
last, "that's the way it is, Joe."

 "Why?" asked Pryor. "Why does my UK tour
get cut short and you want me in the boondocks?
Why, all of a sudden?"

Steinmetz took his pipe out of his mouth.

 "I'm running a newspaper, Joe," he said, as if
be was editor in chief of The New York Times.
"I'm giving the military a service. I have to make
these decisions. In the military, we go where we
are ordered."

"I'm a civilian," Pryor said mutinously.

  "You're an employee of the Department of the
Army, Mr. Pryor," said the colonel. "That makes
you part of the military."

  I can quit of course, thought Pryor. I can throw
up the tax-free privileges, my PX card, the free
travel, and the security, and start tramping
around small-town newspapers in godforsaken
places, trying to get a job.

  "I've been offered a job on the Rome Daily
American," announced Pryor.

  "Then why don't you take it, Mr. Pryor?"
suggested Unterberg.

  Pryor rounded on him. "What the hell's it got
to do with you?" He turned to the colonel.
"Who's this guy anyway? Why is he sitting in on
this?"

But Steinmetz ignored his question.

  "I suggest you take the assignment, Joe," he
urged. "Don't sacrifice all you've worked for.
We've got a good life on Stripes. Security,
pension, travel, we see the world,

                200
                 
we bring a touch of home to our boys. It's worth
something."

 Pryor's rebellion, which had begun so recently,
started to fizzle out, and he knew he would hate
himself later. There was just one final glimmer.

 "I still want to know why," he asked. "You don't
reassign guys like this. At twenty-four hours'
notice. Jesus, I've got a lease in London "

"We'll take care of that," said the colonel.

  " and I want to know why I'm going to get
buried. London's a choice assignment. Haven't I
done good work?"

  "You have, Joe," colonel said sincerely. "But
you need a change."

"Why?" repeated Pryor.

  Then he noticed Unterberg looking at him, and
he knew everything.

  That drink with Dawkins in the Fleet Street
pub had been a very expensive one.

London

  "I don't think, I honestly don't think I can be
much more use to you anyway. The defending
officer is well able to take care of things. You've
met him already, haven't you? Captain Verago?"

"Yes," Serena said dully.

  Daventry had asked her to his chambers to
break the news. He had rehearsed what he was
going to say like an actor making sure of his lines.

  She was being quite stoic about it. She didn't
even seem surprised.

  "And I don't believe it would help to have an
English barrister at an American court-martial.
They might not take kindly to it, and that
wouldn't help you either."

  "Please," she said, "you don't need to explain.
I'm very grateful for all the trouble you've already
taken."

  She gave him an empty smile and started to
gather up her handbag.

  Daventry hoped his nagging feeling of guilt
didn't show. He had considered telling her his
reasons. About the pressures, the hints, the
warnings. That he couldn't be a martyr for a
cause that wasn't even his. That he had too much
to lose, that he was on the threshold of becoming
part of the legal establishment and that he
couldn't afford, by this one ridiculous
involvement, to throw it all away.

                 201
                  
But, on reflection, he had said none of it.

  "If you like, I can still give you the name of a
couple of solicitors . . . to hold your hand,"
Daventry went on. "If you pick one, I can have a
word with him. It'll be no problem."

  "No, thank you," said Serena. "Well, I don't
suppose there's anything else we need discuss?"
she added coolly.

  Daventry got up and escorted her to the door.
"You will go next week?"

  "You mean, will I be a good girl and report as
ordered to the court-martial?"

  "You mustn't ignore the subpoena," said
Daventry, a little awkwardly. "Don't put yourself
in contempt."

  "I'll see," she said, her hand on the door
handle. "But in any case," she continued, a thin
smile on her lips, "I won't be causing you any
more problems, Mr. Daventry."

  Then she walked out of his office, closing the
door behind her.

Daventry felt as if she had slapped his face.

       Friday, July 21, 1961

Karlsrahe

HERR STAMM was looking for something, there
was no doubt about that, decided Fraulein
Scholtz. The question was what he was after, and
why he wouldn't tell her.

  The new boss played his cards close to his
chest, as she'd found out soon after he'd taken
over. She often found him in his office before she
arrived, at eight in the morning, and he was
frequently still working when she left in the
evening.

  And he asked for all sorts of files and dossiers,
and sometimes even went into the archives and
the general registry office to look for them
himself.

  Fraulein Scholtz had the clearance to take
them back after he had finished with them, but
Herr Stamm always returned them personally. It
was almost as if he didn't want her to know what
he had been looking at.

  At first she had been highly offended. She
wondered if he didn't trust her. After Herr
Unrnh's unfortunate demise, a cloud had hung
over Bl, and everyone in the department felt
slightly uneasy. But after she got to know

                202
                 
Herr Stamm a little better, she sensed he wasn't
really suspicious about her; it was more that he
liked to keep his thoughts and his activities as
secret as possible even from his own confidential
secretary.

  Then a curious thing happened. Herr Stamm
came into her room.

  'Yell me," he said, "do we have anything else
about Martin Schneider?"

  "Martin Schneider?" she repeated, puzzled. She
prided herself on having an index-file mind, with
instant recall, but momentarily she drew a blank.

  'The who was shot. He had come across from
East Berlin. The double agent. Herr Pech was the
field officer."."

  "Ah," said Fraulein Scholtz, remembering now.
"We have the case file downstairs."

  "I have seen it." Herr Stamm didn't seem
impressed. "That is why I asked, do you know if
there is anything else?"

  "Whatever we have will be correctly filed and in
his dossier," Fraulein Scholtz pointed out primly.

"I see."

"Would you like me to ask Herr Pech if "

  "No, thank you," replied Herr Stamm, somewhat
hastily, she thought. 'That won't be necessary."

  "Is there anything specific you are looking for?"
she asked.

  "No, it's all right. By the way, when Dr. Berger
arrives, please show him straight in."

And he returned to his office.

  In all the years Fraulein Scholtz had worked in
Bl, faithfully serving the various department
heads, she had never been kept in the dark like
this. Dr. Berger, for instance. Who was he?

  Herr Stamm had made the appointment
privately. Then he had simply entered it in the
diary without explanation. It was very galling, not
to be taken into his confidence.

  Actually, there was nothing mysterious about
Dr. Berger. He was a scientist from the
Bundeskriminalamt in Wiesbaden, where he was
the head of the federal crime lab. Herr Stamm
didn't particularly want to advertise that he had
asked for his services.

  "Well?" asked Herr Stamm when his visitor had
settled in the chair under the Adenauer portrait.

                 203
                  
  Dr. Berger brought a thin file out~of his case.
"It's all in here," he said.

  "Perhaps you could explain it to me in layman's
language," said Herr Stamm. "I am not very
scientifically minded, I regret to say."

  "It is quite simple," began Dr. Berger. "The
man Martin Schneider was killed by a~bullet
from a PI ninemillimeter pistol. Fired at
reasonably close range."

"And . . ."

  "Your predecessor, Herr Unrnh, was also killed
by a PI nine-millimeter. Fired from close range."

"Ah."

  "I gather that an attempt was made to convey
the impression that Herr Unrnh had shot himself,
but subsequent investigation showed he had
actually been murdered."

"Something like that," murmured Herr Stamm.

  "We tested the gun that was found in his hand.
It was a useful exercise."

  "That's why I brought you into it, Dr. Berger,"
said Herr Stamm. "I thought it might prove
interesting."

  "Here," said Dr. Berger, putting a photograph
in front of him. "Bullet A killed Martin
Schneider. Bullet B killed Herr Unrnh. Both are
nine-millimeter caliber."

"And both were fired from the same gun?"

  "Exactly," said Dr. Berger, and for the first time
he smiled. "A completely positive test."

  "So if, for argument's sake, it was Herr Unrnh's
gun, it would suggest that he killed Schneider and
that he then shot himself with it later? But if in
fact he was murdered, it merely suggests that the
murderer killed first Schneider and then Herr
Unrnh with the same weapon?"

"It would seem so, would it not?"

"Hmm," mused Herr Stamm.

  "I have one question," said Dr. Berger. "As we
have the pistol in our possession, you can surely
trace if it was Herr Unruh's own gun?"

  "My dear doctor," said Herr Stamm, a little
patronizingly, "people in our department don't
necessarily register their guns. Sometimes it is
best not to be too official about such things. Let
us simply say, B-One has weapons available."

  "Well, that's as far as I can help you,"
announced Dr. Berger. "I'd like to get back as
soon as it's convenient."

                204
                 
 "Of course." He buzzed Fraulein Scholtz. "Get
Dr. Berger transportation, please. To Wiesbaden."

 "Yes, sir," said Fraulein Scholtz, and slammed
down the receiver. -.

 In Stamm's office, Dr. Berger snapped shut his
briefcase.

 "It's none of my business," he said chattily, "but
it sounds intriguing. This . . . Martin Schneider
and Herr Unruh. Didn't I hear somewhere that
Schneider was a double agent, an Ulbricht man?
Working with an American contact in Berlin?"

Herr Stamm was most courteous.

 "You're absolutely right, Doctor," he said
politely. "It actually isn't any of your business."

London

 Verago cashed a check at the Columbia Club,
and as he passed the reception desk, he saw his
name chalked on the message board.

"I'm Captain Verago," he told the girl.

 She gave him a sealed envelope. Inside was a
short note:

Let's meet for a drink. Grosvenor House, today,
6 P.M.

It was signed "Dean Apollo."

 He had wondered when he would meet the
prosecutor, but this was not the way he had
imagined it. He read the note again. Lieutenant
Colonel Apollo certainly seemed to know his
movements. He was evidently aware Verago was
in London, that he might stop by the Columbia
Club, that he would be free at 6-P.M.

Verago went back to the desk.

 "Do you have a Lieutenant Colonel Apollo
staying here?" he asked.

 The girl checked her list, then shook her head.
"Is he due?" she inquired.

"I don't know," said Verago, and left her puzzled.

 It was now five thirty. The note had been finely
timed. If he hadn't shown up, he wouldn't have
gotten it in time. The man took a lot for granted.

When he entered the lobby of the Grosvenor
House,

Verago looked around the lounge. He could see
no air force ollicer. He checked his watch: two
minutes past six.

                 205
                  
 A man in an armchair by the window got up.
He wore a blue blazer and a sports shirt. He
came toward Verago, holding out his hand. He
was smiling, not only with his mouth, but his eyes
too.

 "Tony Verago, glad to meet you," he
announced without hesitation.

Verago shook his hand. The man's grip was firm.

 "Colonel Apollo?" he said, intrigued that this
man knew him on sight, despite Verago not
wearing uniform and them never having met
before.

"Cut the colonel crap, Tony," said Apollo.

"Sir?"

 "I said forget the rank bullshit. We're not in
court. We're just two lawyers who want to get to
know each other. So come and sit down and have
a drink with me."

 He guided Verago to the armchair next to his.
"What's it going to be?"

"Scotch and soda," said Verago.

 Apollo gave the order while Verago sat back,
studying him. He was youngish for a nonrated
light colonel, prematurely gray. He was
suntanned, and Verago wondered how he
managed that in England. His eyes were intense,
penetrating.

 "I hear you've been making yourself very
unpopular," remarked Apollo.

"I have?"

 "You know it." He gave Verago a hard look.
"Don't you care about your career? Your
commission?"

 So that's it, thought Verago. The fatherly talk
would be upcoming. Shades of Colonel Ochs and
the rest of the bunch.

 "What career?" asked Verago, offering Apollo
a cigarette.

 Apollo shook his head. "Let's see. You've had
thirtyeight general courts and about one hundred
specials during your tour in Germany, mostly
defending. You lost the majority of them."

 "But I won a few," Verago reminded him,
snapping shut his lighter.

 "Sure. You haven't done badly," agreed Apollo.
"Considering that ninety percent of all military
trials result in guilty findings, you scored a few
points."

The drinks arrived.

 "Put them on my room," Apollo told the waiter.
"I'm staying here," he explained to Verago.
"Places like the

                206
                 
Columbia Club suffocate me. You can't spit
without hitting brass. I can take so much, but I
like my own fresh air, even if it costs me."

"It's okay if you can afford it," remarked Verago.

 "Let's talk about Tuesday. Do you think you're
going to score any points?"

"I don't think we should "

  "Why are you doing it?" Apollo interrupted.
"Why are you sticking your neck out?"

"I look on it as doing my job."

  "Don't we all." Apollo sighed. He looked
Verago straight in the eye. "I have a feeling,
Tony, that you're a man after my own heart."

  Here comes another ploy, thought Verago. The
"we're all boys together" routine.

  "Colonel," began Verago, "please save your
time. I know the song sheet by heart."

  For a moment Apollo regarded him stonily.
Then he grinned, and the grin turned into
laughter.

  "I didn't know guys like you still existed." He
chuckled. "You restore my faith, Tony. After all
the time servers and all the survivors who keep
this military justice machine creaking, you're like
a shot in the arm. There's hope for us yet."

  Then the bonhomie faded. "Pity we're on
opposite sides on this one. I wish you had
something to get your teeth into...."

"Maybe I have."

  "No," said Apollo. "I know what you're thinking,
and I'm telling you it's got nothing to do with it.
The only question is whether the man is guilty of
the charge and specification. Anything else is
irrelevant, immaterial, and inadmissible. And you
know it."

"We'll see," said Verago.

"By the way . . ."

"Yes?"

  "Have you ever considered you may be on the
wrong side?"

"How's that?" Verago asked warily.

"That the baddies might be the goodies?"

  "You know," Verago said thoughtfully,
"somebody else said that to me."

  "Maybe he was right too." Apollo shrugged.
"Maybe there are a few, a very, very few
occasions when the end does justify the means.
Just thought I'd mention it."

                 207
                  
"You're quoting Karl Marx."

 "I'd quote the devil if the point he made was
applicable," snapped Apollo. Then he smiled at
Verago.

 "Tony, let's get drunk tonight. Let's go, you and
me, and tie one on. Somewhere disreputable,
where no officers and gentlemen should be seen
dead. What do you say?"

Verago was tempted, very tempted.

 "I'll have to take a raincheck," he said instead.
'A can't tonight. But any other time...."

 "Sure, I understand." Apollo nodded. "Have a
good time and enjoy it. Whatever they'd like to
do with you, they can't charge you with adultery."

Verago did not smile. "Why did you want to see
me?"

 "To save us all time." Apollo paused. "Your
case has fallen apart. You hoped your client's
estrangement could be the big get out. Mitigation
for having an affair. Well, she's dead and that
puts the skids under you. Frankly, her suicide will
alienate the whole court. So what have you got
left? You know the answer. A big, fat nothing."

"You're telling me to stop fighting City HaU, are
you?"

"Well, what other choice have you got?"

 Verago stood up. "Thanks for the drink," he
said. "See you in court."

"You bet."

 Apollo sat and watched Verago cross the lobby
and leave the hotel. He seemed amused.

Outside, in Park Lane, Verago felt irritated.

  The trouble was the man had hit it on the
head. And he knew it.

London

  Laurie was high. He hadn't seen her like this
before. They had got drunk together, they had
shared hangovers, but this was different. It wasn't
alcohol. Her eyes were bright, her lipstick a little
smudged, her voice a shade too loud. Her blouse
had four buttons, and three of them were
undone. He had seen her naked, but found this
half glimpse of the cleavage of her breasts
tantalising, disconcertingly erotic.

  "You want to do something tonight?" Verago
asked, trying to gauge her mood.

  "Like what?" she asked, her almond eyes
flashing. It came like a challenge: What can you
come up with? The thought seemed to amuse
her. "I can guess what you want to do."

                208
                 
'Ed like to have dinner," said Verago. "Let's go
eat." "How romantic," mocked Laurie. "You really
know how to sweep a girl off her feet. 'I'd like
dinner, let's go eat.' How could I resist such a
tempting invitation?"

"What's the matter, Laurie?" he asked her quietly.

 "Nothing's the matter. What should be the
matter?" She picked nervously at a loose thread in
her slacks. "I'm sorry." She sighed. ' Perhaps we
should have a little tally"

"Talk about what?"

 "Us," she replied, not looking at him. "What's
going to happen to us?"

 He took off his jacket and hung it across the
back of a chair. The windows were open, but he
felt hot, uncomfortable.

"Well?"

 "One of the things I like about you is that you
don't ask questions," said Verago.

"You mean, I just asked one too many."

"Maybe.,'

She nodded, as if that's what she had expected.

"Would you like a drink?" she offered.

"Please."

  She got up and poured him a scotch, dropping
in the ice cubes one by one.

  "It can't go on like this, you know that?" she
said, her back still to him.

"Why? Why can't it?" he asked, low.

  "Because it can't," she said, swinging around.
She handed him his drink.

"I don't see "

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Tony, stop kidding
yourself. You won't even be in England soon. It'll
be finished. You'll be stuck back in Germany...."

  "I can still get over here. Weekends. Furloughs.
I can take my leave "

  She laughed. It was a forced, strident laugh, so
unlike her.

  "A forty-eight-hour screw every three months?"
The tone of her voice was bitter, her eyes steely.
"If that's your idea of a relationship, you can save
yourself the trouble. There must be plenty of
frauleins on the spot."

"You know that's not what it's about," he
interrupted.

  He stood up, white-faced, and went over to her.
He took hold of her shoulders and his face was
close to hers. Those strange eyes glittered.

                 209
                  
  "What's the matter, Laurie?" he asked again.
"You're stoned out of your mind. What's gotten
into you?"

  "Nothing," she whispered, and there were tears
in her eyes. Suddenly she clung to him. "I don't
want to lose you," she mumbled, her head against
his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears
through his shirt.

  "But you're not going to," he comforted her.
"I'm stickimg around, don't worry. You're not rid
of me so easily, sweetheart."

  He held her close. Her body felt soft,
vulnerable, defenseless.

  "It's all right, Laurie," he soothed. "Everytinng's
all right. We've got each other, no matter what."

She looked up, her face tearstreaked, and nodded.

"You got a hanky?" she asked.

  He gave her his and she broke away, wiping her
eyes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror
by the shelves.

  "Jesus, I look a sight," she muttered, and it was
the Laurie he knew. She turned to him. "I'm sorry,
Tony. You must need this like a hole in the head."

"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what's bothering

you."

  She came over. "I like you, Tony," she said,
resting her head on his shoulder. "I like you lots.
Trouble is, I think I need you. When you're stuck
out at that damn base, when I don't see you, I
miss you...."

  "I'm sure you've got other company to pass the
time," he said, and nearly bit his tongue off for
sounding so unfeeling and insensitive.

  She gazed at him gravely. "I have," she agreed.
"But it isn't you."

"I'm sorry," he began. "I didn't mean to "

  She took his hand. "You know what we should
do? Stop apologising to each other. The next guy
who says 'I'm sorry' gets ten demerits. Okay?"

  "Okay," concurred Verago. It had been a long
time since he had been so fond of a woman. Not,
an inner voice added, that you've ever known such
a woman before.

"You still want to eat?" she murmured.

"It can keep." He smiled and undid the fourth
button.

  They went into the bedroom and after that,
when the light was out, there was very little
conversation. But they didn't need words to say
what they meant to each other.

                 210
                  
  Outside, in Sloane Avenue, the black Chrysler
was back. The two men in it sat silently, watching
the apartment block and making a note when the
light was switched off in her room.

It wasn't H-hour yet, but the countdown had
begun.

        Monday, July 24,1961

       -Laconbury

You will be gratified to know that the Senate has
re

solved 66 to 0 to ask the Air Force to confer
appropriate posthumous decorations on the
crewmen, and
that the Secretary of the Air Force has sent
condolences to their families....

  Brigadier General Croxford slowly put down the
letter that had arrived from the Pentagon. It was
the final epitaph for O for Oboe.

  In a way, they were lucky. They were allowed
some official recognition. Croxford thought of the
others from the wing whose deaths remained as
secret as their final missions.

  If security had allowed a memorial to be put up
for the lost ferrets at Laconbury, already there
would be 108 names on it.

  Twenty-srx aircraft to date had been shot down
over or near Communist territory. Men from
Laconbury and sister bases had died over the Black
Sea, the Baltic, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, the
Adriatic, Armenia, the Ukraine, the Arctic Circle
. . .

One hundred and eight of them. So far.

Croxford sighed.

For him it was not a cold war.

And Laconbury was not at peace.

  The general picked up another piece of paper
from his desk. It was a typewritten list of names,
the officers who had been selected to form the next
day's court-martial of Captain John Tower.

  He didn't envy them their job. But he knew they
would fulfill their oath.

They had, after all, been very carefully picked.

                 211
                  
       Tuesday, July 25,1961
Laconbur'

It was the same dream again.

 He was standing in the buffet of the bahnhof
wearing civilian clothes with Martin Schneider
who was eating a bratwurst, dipping it into the
mustard on the cardboard plate.

 "It's too dangerous. Don't go back," he pleaded.
"Stay on this side."

 "You know that's not possible," Martin replied.
"I have to be there." He was unshaved and looked
tired. "Somebody has to keep an eye on things."

"There are others...."

 "Who can we trust anymore?" asked Martin. He
slapped him on the back. "Come on, Johann,
don't look so worried."

"Not Johann."

  "Sorry," apologised Martin, slightly mocking. "I
forget sometimes."

  He resented Martin's apparent carelessness and
looked around cautiously. But nobody seemed to
be listening, and Martin was amused by his
uneasiness.

  "I have played the game so long now that it has
become second nature," Martin reassured him.
"But I don't take chances, I promise you. Not
when it matters."

  He nodded, but without conviction. For as long
as they had worked together, Martin's coolness
had bathed him. It was as if, sometimes, he didn't
care....

  "My friend, I intend to come out of this alive,"
Martin added, almost reading his thoughts. "When
it's all over, I shall take a good long vacation."

  He finished the bratwurst. "And never eat in
railway stations again."

"Martin," he said.

"Yes?"

"If it gets too hot . . ."

  "Don't worry, I have it engraved on my heart. I
have the two phone numbers and I know the
address. If I'm in trouble, I take the S-bahn into
the West sector, and ten minutes later I'm safe
and snug in our little hideaway."

                 212
                  
"Good. And don't talk to anybody, except Pech."

  Martin burped. "Sorry, the sausage. No, of
course nob You or Pech." He paused. "One thing.
You'll look after Helga. You'll make sure she's all
right?"

"You have my word."

  "You know what they'll do to her if they get
hold of her?"

"Martin, I promise you. We owe it to her, after
all."

"You do," Martin said gravely. "You do indeed."

  There was a pause, then he said, "I may have to
be out of Berlin for a little while, Martin."

"Oh?"

"You can imagine I have many things to do."

  Martin understood. "Of course." He nodded. "I
wish you good luck."

He gave a thin smile. "Thanks, I'll need it."

  For a moment they looked at each other
silently. Then he went on quietly, "Thank you for
everything. I won't forget you." He held out his
hand. "Bon chance."

  Martin grasped his hand and pressed it firmly.
"Auf wiedersehen. In every sense of the word."

  "I'll always have the souvenir." He smiled,
touching his scar.

Martin dug into his pocket and came out with a
lighter.

  "Here, this is a better souvenir. Keep it. I'm
sorry it's so cheap, but it's Russian," he said wryly.
"Anyway, it works. I must leave now. Ciao." And
he was gone.

  The last he saw of Martin Schneider was his
back disappearing through the swing doors of the
railway buffet.

The last he saw of Martin....

  Tower woke up with a start. He sat up in the
dark. He was sweating. The replay of his last
meeting with Schneider had been so vivid that for
a moment he wasn't sure whether it had just
happened or was merely a dream.

The nightmare.

  Tower reached for the light switch. The lamp's
illumination brought him back to reality. The
drab, austere quarters that had become his world.
The ceiling, the walls at which he had stared so
often he knew every crack, every piece of flaking
paint.

His watch said 3:40 A.M.

  Beside the lamp were his cigarettes and next to
them the lighter. Martin Schneider's lighter. He
took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He
picked up the lighter, stared at it, then lit his
cigarette with it. He held his

                 213
                  
thumb on it and gazed thoughtfully at the flame
before extinguishing it. He put the lighter down.

  Soon it would be morning and his court-martial
would begin.

  He shivered. He was afraid. He was afraid of
what was about to happen to him.

  Suddenly he realised he had to see Verago. He
had to tell him everything before the curtain went
up.

London

  The oblong piece of paper lay on the table like
an overdue bill waiting to be paid. And today the
deadline for the settlement had arrived.

  In a way, she was almost relieved the time had
come. By the end of the day, maybe, at last she'd
be rid of the whole, ghastly ordeal.

  Serena Howard absentmindedly fingered the
silver ring she always wore. It had become a
nervous habit, and now, suddenly, she was aware
of it. Her mind went back to the evening John
Tower had given it to her. She remembered his
pulling a little box out of his pocket and saying:
"Hope you like it."

It fit her finger perfectly.

"You shouldn't have," she'd said.

"I think it suits you."

  The little box the ring had come in had a
jeweler's name embossed on it: HEINRICH
MUELLER. And the ad

dress: REINHOLD ST"SSE 73, STEGLITZ,
BERLIN.

 "Is that where you got it, Berlin?" she'd asked, a
little surprised.

 "Yes," he'd replied. "Souvenir." But that lead
been all.

 "It's very unusual," she'd observed, studying the
curious ornamental face.

"You do like it, don't you?"

"Of course," she'd said, meaning it. "Thank you."

 That had been only a few months before, but
now it seemed like years ago.

The ring of the doorbell startled her.

 When she opened the door, she was faced by a
man with dark wavy hair. She knew he was
American before he said a word. Everything about
him confirmed it, his haircut, his tie, his shirt.

"You all set, Miss Howard?" he asked pleasantly.

She stared at him.

                 214
                  
  "Idle come to fetch you," he explained smoothly.
"It's a hell of a trek to the base, so we thought
we'd lay on transportation for you. Are you
ready1"

"Transportation?"

  "To the trial I've got a car downstairs. We
should make it in a couple of hours."

"Who are you?" she asked at last.

  "Oh, I'm sorry." He smiled apologetically. "I
should have introduced myself. My name's Duval."

Laconbury

  The trial wasn't due to start for two hours, but
the courtroom was ready.

  Seven vacant chairs stood behind a long, raised
table, notepads neatly laid out in front of each
place.

  Facing them, the witness stand, the law officer's
desk, the tables for the prosecutor and defence.

  Verago entered the empty room and slowly
walked up to the long raised table. He stood and
stared at the unoccupied chairs.

  He was in his army uniform, and for once he
looked smart, the trousers pressed, shoes polished.
Everything about him was crisp, except his face.
He looked tired, for he had been up most of the
night. He had freshly shaved and showered, but
that hadn't removed the shadows under his eyes.

  He paced down the aisle of the courtroom,
almost as if he was measuring it. Then he turned
and faced the seven chairs. The unwaverhlg eye of
the Cyclops emblem stared back at him from the
wing coat of arms on the wall over the long table.

  Verago walked over to the lone chair that
represented the witness stand, to the right of the
table, and sat on it.

  Always so conscious of the smell of a place,
Verago sniffed the all-pervading odor of polish.
The wooden floor of the courtroom shone. So did
the tables and the chairs. The door of the
courtroom opened and a staff sergeant came in,
carrying a tray with four carafes of water and some
glasses. He stopped when he saw Verago on the
witness chair.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," he said. "You go ahead,
Sergeant."

 The sergeant put the carafes down on the two
lawyers' tables, with the glasses.

                 215
                  
 "You're early, sir," he remarked. "Court isn't
due to convene until nine A.M."

"I know," said Verago.

  "Going to be a nice day, sir," the sergeant
observed conversationally. The sun was coming in
through the windows, strong and bright.

  "You think so?" He screwed up his eyes. Damn
it, he wished he had had more sleep. "Sergeant,
you think you could rustle up a cup of coffee?
Hot? Black?"

  "Sure thing," said the sergeant, and disappeared
through the swing doors.

  Behind the wooden barrier, there were sixteen
chairs, in two rows of four on each side of the
aisle. The public section. For justice to be seen to
be done. Verago wondered just who would occupy
them today.

  The sergeant came back with a mug of steaming
coffee.

  "Thanks," Verago said gratefully, and took a
muchneeded drink.

  The sergeant was curious. He was a clerk in the
wing's legal office. He didn't often see army
lawyers.

"Is this your first air force trial?" he inquired.

  "Could be my last too," said Verago, with a tight
little smile. He took another sip of coffee. "You
get many courts here?"

  "It's a pretty gung-ho outfit," the sergeant said
enigmatically.

"How about adultery? Had one of those?"

  "No, sir," said the sergeant, and for some reason
he seemed to think it funny. "How about the
army?"

  Involuntarily, Verago yawned. He was paying
for his sleepless night.

  "I guess I'd better get on with things," the
sergeant said diplomatically. His tone indicated,
man, you'd better get some shuteye before it
starts. Maybe there was even a touch of contempt.
Some lawyer. Can't even stay awake before the
case. Glad you're not defending me, buddy.

"Carry on, Sergeant," said Verago, and closed his
eyes.

  But he was not asleep when Lieutenant Colonel
Apollo came in quietly, carrying an attache case.

  "Good morning, Tony," Apollo said cheerfully.
"Can't wait for it to begin?"

"Just looking around sir."

This time Apollo did not suggest he drop the rank

                 216
                  
formalities. He put his attache case down on the
prosecution table, by the wall.

 "How long are you going to keep us, counselor?"
he asked jovially. "When will you let us get out of
here?"

Verago slowly got off the witness chair. He came
over.

 "I've been up half the night, Colonel," he said.
"With my client."

"Oh, yes?"

"He asked to see me at four o'clock this morning."

  "That's really rough," Apollo said
sympathetically. "Couldn't it wait?"

  "No, it couldn't," replied Verago, and he was
very much awake. "And that's why I want to see
you, ColoneL I want you to stop this case."

  Apollo nodded, as if Verago had made a most
reasonable request.

But what he said was: "You know that's
impossible."

  "And you know why I am asking," said Verago.
"Cap" fain Tower has told me everything."

  Apollo opened his case and took out some law
books, a pad, and a couple of exercise books. He
spread them out on the table.

  "Tony all I know is that we have a man accused
of a violation and he's going to be tried for it.
Anything else is irrelevant."

"The hell it is," said Verago.

  Apollo looked at his watch. "Guess well find out
who's right at nine. Come and have breakfast?"

But Verago had already gone.

Laconbury

  Lieutenant Jensen was rushing along the
corridor like a man who's about to miss a train as
Verago came through the swing doors.

Jensen skidded to a stop.

  "There you are," he puffed. "Jesus, you realize
what the time is?"

"Yes."

  "Well, Christ almighty, hadn't we better have a
strategy session?"

"I don't see why."

  Jensen was trying hard to control himself. He
was clenching and unclenching his pudgy hands.

  "You've been avoiding me, haven't you, Captain
Verago?"

                 217
                  
"What makes you think that, Cyrus?"

  "I hear you spent half the night with Tower.
Couldn't be bothered to get hold of me, could
you? Want to do it all behind my back?"

  "Lieutenant," said Verago, "do we have to
discuss all this right here?"

  Two office doors in the corridor stood open.
People could hear them. An officer was standing
by the entrance to the washroom, listening,
fascinated. Not often did two legal eagles have a
standup row like this in public.

  They found an empty office, and Jensen
slammed the door.

  "Now," he said, facing Verago, who sat down on
the edge of a table. "I know you don't like me,
and frankly, Captain, I can't wait for you to get
back to Germany. But meanwhile, let's get this
trial over, okay?"

"There won't be any trial," Verago said quietly.

"Why not?"

  "You leave that to me." He saw the flush on
Jensen's face. "Frankly, it's best you don't know.
I don't want you to be a party to anything you
don't believe in."

`'I "

"Forget it," said Verago.

  "I'm going to report this to Colonel Kincaid. I
think the army may be interested too...."

 . "You can report to the devil for all I care," said
Verago. He got off the desk. "Just sit with me in
court, and keep quiet. That way you won't get
burned."

But Jensen didn't move.

"What precisely did Tower tell you?" he asked
softly.

"Everything," said Verago. "Excuse me."

  "You're making a big mistake," exclaimed
Jensen. "You can't beat the government. You
know that. Don't you care? Don't you care about
your career? Don't you realize what's at stake?"

"Sure," said Verago. "That's why."

  He pushed past Jensen, and in the corridor
outside he saw Unterberg heading for the
courtroom.

  And he suddenly wondered if this time it would
all blow up in his face.

  For after what Tower had told him, he knew
that they could not let him get away with it.

                 218
                  
Kalin in grad

  Sounds had become the important things in
Captain Kingston's life now. The slamming of iron
doors, the turning of keys, footsteps echoing on
the stone floor outside, these were the big
moments of the day.

  He sat on the bunk, holding his shaved head in
his hands, eyes closed, trying to work out yet again
where he was. The sounds of his closed world did
not reveal much.

  The days after he had been picked off a life raft
by a Russian torpedo boat in the Baltic remained
a blank. Then the room with the overprinted
windows in the hospital. How long was he there?
Days, weeks? He did not remember.

  On the day he was finally shifted from the
hospital, the woman doctor gave him an injection.
He did not recall much of the subsequent journey.
They had exchanged his pajamas for a shapeless
prison uniform but, curiously enough, had allowed
him to keep his fur-lined flying boots.

  Again he tried to figure out where this place
might be. Deep inside Russia? Or was he still on
the Baltic coast somewhere? In Poland? East
Germany? He could find no clue. He didn't even
have a chance to see the sun or the stars, so there
was no way to plot a geographical direction.

  One thing he did know for sure. Officially he
was dead. Since he no longer officially existed, he
could not hope to be returned to the West. Major
Fokin had made that point very clear. He often
wondered how the Pentagon had worded the
telegram they had sent to his wife after the
RB-47H went down.

  He had lost count of the sessions he had had
with Pokin. Keeping up the pretence of amnesia,
now that his memory had returned, was proving
an almost intolerable ordeal. Fokin was a shrewd
and clever interrogator, and Kingston didn't know
how much longer he could continue the charade.
He knew Fokin didn't believe his mind was a
blank but, so far, he hadn't been able to crack
Kingston.

  "You're a good actor, Captain," Fokin
complimented him. "You should have had a career
in Hollywood. Like Gary Cooper."

  The major laughed at his own joke. Kingston
didn't smile.

  Fokin's face clouded over. "At least Gary
Cooper says 'yep' and 'nope.' You don't say a
word. You don't realize

                 219
                  
how stupid you are being. We know everything
anyway. We know about the missions from
Laconbury. What you are after. We know
everything...."

  Kingston knew it was a trap. Fokin was goading
him to react. To say "then you don't need me to
tell you anything," to betray that he was alert.

Patiently, Fokin kept asking the same questions.

  "Tell me about the APR-Fourteen intercept
receiver. Is there a new model? Have they fitted
the modified APREight B panoramic adapter yet?
Are they going to change the ALA-Five pulse
analyser?"

  He concentrated on the ferret equipment
Kingston op" crated, and he knew it very well.

  "I hear that the high fidelity of the tape
recorders you use to capture our radar signals
leaves something to be desired," Fokin would say
conversationally. "Frankly, our boys are having the
same trouble."

But Kingston just stared at him dumbly.

  One of the reasons Fokin had a high reputation
as an intelligence interrogator was his
indefatigable perseverance. But Kingston was
beginning to wear it down.

  "Have you heard of Vokuta, my friend?" he
asked Kingston one day. "It's located just above
the Arctic circle. It is a coal mine. A prison coal
mine. Not a nice place. Very cold." He paused. "I
would hate you to spend the rest of your days
there."

  Kingston's worst [ear was that he would go
crazy. Since he talked to nobody, he mouthed
words to himself in the dark. He was good at
mathematics and physics, and he tried to solve
problems in his mind. They had provided him with
a pad and pencil, probably in the hope that his
doodles would give them an insight into his mind,
so he kept the pages blank.

  Then Fokin brought him a book. A slim volume
in English. It was Alice in Wonderland.

  "Perhaps it will revive childhood memories,"
remarked Fokin.

  But he was only interested in other memories.
The next day he asked again about U-2 flights
from Laconbury.

  "I can understand why you are keeping silent,"
he said. "You have some very important
information in here." He tapped his own forehead.
"Your people were very anxious that none of you
should fall into our hands. They even sent a
submarine to try and find you. Sorry it missed
you."

                 220
                  
Fokin sighed. "The sad thing is that your
buddies did peAsh.Iimagine ferret crews have
very close bonds. Almost like a family. Sorry they
didn't survive. But at least you're lucky."

For a moment their eyes met. Fokin leaned
forward. He knew he'd touched a raw nerve and
hoped that that would make Kingston open up.
But he just turned his face away and stared at the
wall.

"Never mind, Captain," said Fokin. "You will
talk, believe me."

And soon after, at two o'clock in the morning,
Kingston began another journey.

LaconburJr

The three captains, two majors, and the
lieutenant colonel sat alternatively to the right
and left of the president, according to their rank
and seniority.

It was the president, a full colonel, whom
Verago studied closely. Colonel Henry Voigt was
a formidable-looking man, erect as a ramrod,
unsmiling, sharp, grey eyes unblinking. He wore
two sets of wings, the silver ones of an air force
command pilot on his left breast and a pair of
RAF wings on the right side.

His medal ribbons were as formidable as the
man. They included the colors of the European
Theater in World War II, the Pacific war, and
Korea. On each were rows of battle stars. He had
won the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Silver
Star, many Air Medals, and a cluster of Purple
Hearts. The French had decorated him, and the
British had given him their DFC.

The other six officers looked hand-picked too,
all flyers, all veterans of the service, all men who
had served their country around the globe.

The law officer sat down at his desk and
nodded briefly to the seven officers of the court.
Then, like a priest about to quote from the Bible,
he opened the maroon law manual in front of
him and straightened the notepad and the neat
row of specially sharpened pencils he had laid
out. He glanced round the courtroom, focusing
briefly on Tower. He avoided looking at Verago.

Tower sat at the defense table, next to Verago,
staring straight ahead.

"How do you feel?" whispered Verago to him.

Tower shrugged.

               221
                
"Let me do all the talking," said Verago.
"Remember what I told you. Leave it to me."

Tower nodded. He was pale.

Jensen leaned back in his chair, on Verago's
right, edging a little sideways, like a man in a
restaurant who's been made to join a table he
doesn't really want to sit at.

"You take notes," Verago instructed him. "Every
damn word."

"That's what the reporter is for, Tony." Jensen
scowled. "I'm not "

"I want my own record, and you take it," hissed
Verago. The ugly look he gave Jensen curtailed
further argument.

Verago felt the seven officers of the court
watching his every move. Surrounded by blue air
force uniforms, his army olive picked him out as
a stranger in their midst. He tried to tell himself
that he was imagining the waves of hostility that
kept sweeping toward him.

There was a movement at the back, and Verago
looked over his shoulder. General Croxford had
sat down in the spectators section. Next to him
were Colonel Kincaid . . . and Laurie.

She had not mentioned that she would be
coming. It was like a sudden betrayal. He caught
her eye and she nodded briefly, distantly.

"The court will come to order," growled Colonel
Voigt.

Keep your head clear, Verago kept telling
himself. Think of what you are about to do. But
he kept thinking of Laurie, sitting five feet behind
him, yet like a stranger.

Apollo was on his feet, resplendent in
beautifully cut, custom-made uniform.

"The convening authority has directed that these
proceedings shall take place in private and that
the record shall remain secret," he announced
almost casually.

Tower gave a little smile, but Verago jumped
up, suddenly wide awake.

"We object," he cried. "We very much object.
Maybe trial counsel can tell us just what makes
alleged adultery a military secret."

"Sir," said Apollo, without heat, "there is
nothing for Captain Verago to object to. It's not
a decision of this court. It's a direct instruction
from the convening authority. As for military
secrets, I remind Captain Verago that the
regulations provide for courts-martial to be closed
for

               222
                
security or 'other good reasons.' I guess the
command has 'other good reasons.'"

"No point arguing about it." The law officer
sighed. Major Collins was going to cut it short.
"We are all subs ject to superior orders."

"Court's closed," commanded the president.

"In that case, what are General Croxford,
Colonel Kincaid, and that lady doing here?"
demanded Verago.

Jensen tugged at his sleeve. "You crazy?" he
whispered urgently.

"They're all cleared for classified information,"
interjected Apollo smoothly. "There is no
objection "

"What classified information?" Verago faced
him. "Just what is so secret that we're going to
hear "

"Just one moment," said Major Collins, and
brought out his throat lozenges. He opened the
tin and popped one in his mouth. "Defence
counsel has a point. I think all those not needed
here right now better leave the room."

He looked sad as he said it.

At the back, Croxford stood up. He let Laurie
go first, then he and Kincaid followed her through
the swing doors.

"Let the record show there are no strangers
present," intoned the trial counsel.

But Verago hardly heard him. He was
wondering why Laurie smiled the way she had as
she left.

Like the proverbial cat that has swallowed the
canary.

London

"How was your weekend in the country?" asked
Deriabin sourly.

"I had a very nice dip in the swimming pool,"
replied Ivanov. He didn't add that the little house
guest who joined him, a pretty red-haired model,
didn't wear anything.

"I am glad you had an enjoyable time." Deriabin
sniffed, slitting open the pile of sealed envelopes
that had arrived for him in the diplomatic bag.
"But that is hardly the point of the exercise, is it?
I sometimes wonder if your friend Stephen is
nothing but a glorified pimp. Don't let that world
seduce you, my friend."

"There were some interesting people there too,"
said Ivanov hastily.

               223
                
"Ah." Deriabin put down the envelope he had
just picked up. "Anyone I should know about?"

"I will put it all in my report," said Ivanov.

"Please hurry it up. Moscow is waiting. The
timetable is well advanced. By the way, did you
know Marshal Koniev has been recalled?"

"No." Ivanov wasn't quite sure how to react. He
decided to play safe. "He was a great soldier."

"He is a great soldier," said Deriabin. "I was on
his staff when he captured Berlin."

"I had no idea."

"Yes, I stood beside him when we hoisted the
red flag over the Chancellery. I shall never forget
it. It was a moment of pride a man can only have
once in his life." He paused, clearly enjoying the
memory. "And his recall to command this special
operation is a wise and logical decision."

He took out a big handkerchief and blew his
nose. "I can't seem to shake off this damn cold,"
he said, stuffing the handkerchief back in his
pocket. "Now, give me the report on your
aristocratic weekend in the swimming pool. Oh,
and what about the American?"

'The court-martial started this morning."

"Good."

"If all goes well, it'll be over in twenty-four
hours."

Deriabin frowned. "What do you mean, if all
goes well? What can't go well?"

Ivanov wished he had kept quiet. Deriabin was
a terrier. Once he had a rat in his teeth, he kept
shaking.

"It's this army lawyer defending him," Ivanov
explained reluctantly. "A man called Verago. He
could make a little trouble."

Deriabin bared his teeth. "Then don't let him,
Captain." He smiled. "I am sure there are ways
and means. Everyone relies on you."

"I will keep an eye on it," promised Ivanov. He
must really remember not to tell Deriabin too
much. "I'll get on with the report now."

"Oh, by the way," said Deriabin when he
reached the door, as if he had had an amusing
afterthought. "That little swim in the pool? Were
you all alone?"

Ivanov thought quickly. One never knew what
the GRU was aware of. Better be safe.

"Well, actually, there was a very pretty little
nymph splashing around."

               224
                
"Did you sleep with her?"

"No, Colonel," Ivanov replied truthfully. "Not so
far. At the moment she is more interested in a
British cabinet minister."

Laconbur,

One after the other, the seven court members
raised their right hand.

How often have I heard those words intoned?
Verago wondered. How often have I seen them
stand ramrod stiff, as the trial colmsel led them
through the ritual?

". . . faithfully and impartially try, according to
the evidence, your conscience, and the laws and
regulations . . ."

Beside him, Tower stood straight, watching each
officer in turn as he swore the oath. And Jensen,
on the other side, was stiffly at attention, like a
man on parade.

"So help you God."

"I do," they swore.

Then it was the lawyers' turn, first Apollo
himself facing the president with raised hand, and
then Verago.

Colonel Voigt cleared his throat.

"The court is now convened," he announced.

Apollo glanced across at Verago. He seemed to
expect some kind of move, but Verago just sat,
doodling on his pad.

"The accused, Captain John Tower, is charged
with conduct which undermines the good order
and discipline of the armed forces and behavior
which is totally unbecoming an officer," began
Apollo. "The specifications allege adultery, and by
that I mean sexual misconduct with a woman not
his wife. We will prove that on various occasions
in London and elsewhere, Captain Tower has
engaged in sexual intercourse with this woman,
although a married man...."

The seven officers' heads had swung around and
were all gazing at Tower as if he was an exhibit.

". . . and at these places sexual intimacy took
place . . ."

Christ almighty, thought Verago, how many
more times is he going to say it. Sexual
misconduct. Sexual intercourse. Sexual intimacy.

". . . the prosecution will produce documentary
evidence, hotel registry entries, receipted bills,
photographs surveillance reports, and we win of
course can the lady

               225
                
in question to testify of her relationship with the
accused."

Tower tensed, and Verago laid a hand on his arm.

"Take it easy," he whispered, "leave it to me."

He hadn't seen Serena Howard, but he guessed
they had her somewhere on the base. Well under
wraps until they chose to parade her in court.

"We believe we will demonstrate that Captain
Tower's conduct dishonoredand disgraced him as
an individual, as a married man, and seriously
compromised his standing and mission as an
officer in the United States Air Force...."

Apollo sat down. This time he avoided Verago's
eyes.

Jensen leaned over. "Well, Tony, I guess that
about sums it up, wouldn't you say."

"Don't they even ask me if I plead guilty or
not?" asked Tower.

"Not yet, not yet," retorted Verago. He was
concentrating on Colonel Voigt. An interesting
man, he thought.

And as if on cue, Colonel Voigt growled, "Does
the accused desire to challenge any member of the
court?"

Slowly Verago got to his feet. "Well, sir, the
defense would like to avail itself of the right to do
a little voir dire questioning," he said genially.

He could see, out of the corner of his eye,
Apollo looking attentive.

"Go ahead, Captain Verago," said Major Collins.

Verago picked up a clipboard on his desk.
Attached to it was a list of names, the roster of
the court

"Thank you," he said politely. He walked up to
the row of court members and stopped at the first
one.

"You're Captain Wallace, sir? Twentieth
Tactical Fighter Wing at Wethersfield?"

The man regarded him stonily. "Yes."

"Don't worry about this, Captain, it's quite
routine," purred Verago. "Are you married, sir?"

"Why, yes," said Captain Wallace.

Apollo started to rise, but he was too late to
stop Verago.

"Well, now . . ." began Verago, his tone mild.
"Tell us, Captain Wallace, have you ever
committed adultery?"

               226
                
      TRANSCRIPT OF GENERAL
COURT-MARTIAL
           PROCEEDINGS
          U.S. v TOWER
      RAF STATION LACONBURY

TRTA L COUNSEL: Objection. Irrelevant.
Immaterial. DEFENSE COUNSEL: I wouldn't
say that. In fact, I would suggest

LAW OFFICER: Now just hold it. Will counsel ap-
proach?

(OUT OF HEARING OF THE COURT)

LAW OFFICER: Now, Captain Verago, is this line
necessary?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Sir, if my client was charged
with shoplifting, would it not be highly material
and relevant if one established that the jury trying
him had itself indulged in larceny?

LAW OFFICER: But you're not asking if they have
committed a crime, you're questioning them
about their private conduct, their morals.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Precisely. The very thing
Captain Tower is on trial for. His morals.

LAW OFFICER: Well, counselor? What does the
prosecution say?

TRIAL COUNSEL: I don't blame my friend for
clutching at straws. Maybe I'd do the same in his
shoes. But I do not think this matter touches the
basic competency of the court members. This
court is not a confessional. It's a good try by
Captain Verago, but it won't wash.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I hope you rule against me,
Major Collins. I hope you forbid me to continue
this line of questioning. That'll do fine for appeal
purposes. Nothing would make me happier than
to be prevented from exercising my rights. It'll
look great on the record.

LAW OFFICER: You're not helping the court.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I didn't come here to be
helpful.

LAW OFFICER: You insist on asking the
question?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Yes, sir.

LAW OFFICER: 1 wish you wouldn't. It's it's very
embarrassing. But I guess, well, I like to allow the
defense every latitude.

(IN THE HEARING OF THE COURT)

LAW OFFICER: Objection overruled. Counsel may
proceed.

               227
                
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Thank you. Would the
reporter read the last question?

REPORTER: "Tell us, Captain Wallace, have you
ever committed adultery?"

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Well? Have you?

CAPTAIN WALLACE: No, sir.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Thank you. How about you,
Captain O'Neal?

CAPTAIN O'NEAL: I'm not married, sir.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: In that case, I guess I have
no further question for you. Now, Major Bunyan.
Are you married?

MAJOR BUNYAN: Definitely, sir. Very happily,
with three children.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I'm glad to hear it.
Nevertheless, and you'll excuse why ~ have to
ask you, we are all only human.

TRIAL COUNSEL: Objection.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I withdraw. We'll concede
that apparently the prosecution does not believe
everyone is human. So I'll ask you, Major, have
you ever had an extramarital affair?

TRIAL COUNSEL: Objection. He is asking the
witness to incriminate himself.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: He seems to assume the
major has something incriminating to say.
Colonel Apollo should have more confidence.

LAW OFFICER: Ask the question.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Have you ever committed
adultery?

MAJOR BUNYAN: Of course not.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Colonel Voigt, how long
have you been in the service?

COLONEL VOIGT: Nineteen years. Twenty next
October.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: And I can see you have had
a very distinguished career. Very distinguished
indeed, to judge by the ribbons on your chest.
And you have served in many parts of the world?

COLONEL VOIGT: I have seen action.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: In Europe, during the
war?

COLONEL VOIGT: England. North Africa. Italy. I
was in the Eighth Air Force. And with the Ninth.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: And after VE-Day?

COLONEL VOIGT: The Pacific. Japan.

              228
               
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Korea?

COLONEL VOIGT: Yes, sir.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: And are you married, sir?

COLONEL VOIGT: Since 1942. I married before I
went overseas.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Now, sir, this is a voir dire
examination. Fair dire means to speak the truth.
And you are of course on oath.

COLONEL VOIGT: I am aware of it. And you cer-
tainly don't have to remind me, Captain Virgo.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Verago, sir. Of course not.
And you swear that in all those years, in all those
places, on your own, cut off from home, at all
times, you never

COLONEL VOIGT: I consider it insulting to be
asked such a question.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I'm sorry about that. I don't
enjoy it much myself. Nevertheless, you assure me
that in wartime England, in London, in the
blackout, alone, in Italy, in the bright lights of
Tokyo, you never once found yourself in a
relationship....

COLONEL VOIGT: I don't fornicate. I have never
committed adultery. Satisfied?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: That's all I wanted to know,
Colonel. How about you, Lieutenant Colonel Har-
greaves?

LT. COL. HARGREAVES: No. Of course not.

DEFENSE COUNSFL: Major Correy?

MAJOR CORREY: No. Never.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Captain Wilkins?

CAPT. WILKINS: No.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Thank you, gentlemen. I
have no further questions at this point.

LAW OFFICER: All right, Captain Verago. You've
asked what you wanted and you've had the
answers. Do you now wish to challenge any
member of this court?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Not . . . yet.

LAW OFFICER: Not yet? What do you mean?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: At this point, I request that
these proceedings be recessed. Because we have a
lot of digging to do.

PRESIDENT: What do you mean, recessed? We
haven't even started yet.

LAW OFFICER: Just a moment, Colonel. What dig-
ging?

               229
                
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Checking up.

LAW OFFICER: You had adequate time to prepare
your case, Captain Verago.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I hadn't had these
replies.

PRESIDENT: Do I understand that counsel intends
to investigate the private lives of the members of
this court? I don't know how you do things in the
army, but by God, in the air force we don't

LAW OFFICER: Please, Colonel.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: I ask for a fourteen-day
recess. LAW OFFICER: Counsel, we want to get
on.

TRIAL COUNSEL: This is a phony stunt, sir. How
can Captain Verago probe the morals of seven
officers who in the last twenty years have served
all over the world? Assuming there's anything to
probe? What are you going to do? Travel around,
checking a million hotel registers? It's it's
insulting.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: That's what you did to
Captain Tower. But I repeat, sir, if you refuse to
allow us the time we need, it's clear grounds for
appeal. Again, I almost wish you would.

TRIAL COUNSEL: You're not trying to blackmail
the court, are you, Tony?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Who? Me?

LAW OFFICER: All right. I'll give you one week.
Seven days. And listen, Captain Verago, I hope
you know what you're doing.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: So do I.

Laconbury

She honked twice. Her car was standing by the
gate

house, at the entrance of the base, and she was
sitting behind the wheel, waiting for him. Verago
walked across to her. She had lowered the win

dow on her side, watching him. The
almond-shaped eya were hidden behind dark
glasses. "Going somewhere?" asked Laurie. "I'm
waiting for a cab. Going to London." "Jump in. I'll
take you."

An AP came over "Your cab's here, sir," he
said, pointing at a battered old Austin that had
pulled up by the perimeter fence. "Pay it off," said
Laurie. "I'm going your way." He found the dark
glasses disconcerting. They con

cealed too much.

               230
                
"Well?" she challenged.

"Okay," he said.

The cab driver wasn't pleased. "That'll be a quid.
Minimum charge." His hopes of a lucrative trip
had been dashed. "You lost me a good job."

Verago gave him his pound, then got in beside
Laurie. The Volkswagen had a Third Air Force
decal on the windscreen, admitting it to all U.S.
military installations.

"I want to get off at the pub," said Verago. "Pack
a few things."

"Taking a trip?"

"Yeah."

When they reached the little Norman church, by
the village green, she took the right turning
without him having to direct her. She seemed to
know the exact way to the George and Dragon.

"You know you're in the shit," Laurie remarked
suddenly. "Right up to here. Kincaid's reporting
you to the army. He's going to ask Colonel Ochs
to discipline you. For abusing your position."

Verago looked out of the window. "What were
you doing in court?"

"The boss wanted to come. So I tagged along.
Until you kicked us out."

"You could have told me you'd be there."

Her lips tightened. "I don't have to tell you
everything, Tony.,'

He inclined his head, as if agreein&

"What in particular makes them so mad?" he
asked mildly.

She smiled coldly. "What do you think? You're
embarrassing them. Playing games. They don't like
it."

He wished she didn't have those dark glasses
shielding her. "I'm not playing games, Laurie. And
I don't think they are either."

She pulled up outside the inn and turned off the
engine "So. What happens now?"

"My client has to sweat it out some more."

"I didn't see the girl," said Laurie.

"I guess they're keeping her on ice. But they'll
have her there when the trial resumes."

He opened the door and started to get out of the
car.

"I'll wait for you," she said.

"No," said Verago, "come on in."

               231
                
Laconbury

SerenaHoward sat in a waiting room near the
chaplain's office, mostly staring at the wall. They
had given her some magazines to read, but she
hadn't been interested in them. Twice a
white-capped AP brought her cups of coffee and
a doughnut.

She smoked a lot, and when Duval came in, the
ashtray was piled with cigarette butts.

"They won't need you today," he announced. "I'll
take you back to London."

The color came back in her face. "You mean,
it's all over?"

"Trial's been recessed for a week."

"Why?" she asked. "Why the delay?"

"Defence needs more time. Ready?"

"I want to see him," she said. "I want to see
Captain Tower."

He waited until the noise of a jet on the flight
line abated. Then he said, "You're here for the
prosecution, lady. You're our witness. You
follow?"

"It's personal," she pleaded.

"Sorry," said Duval. "Why don't you wait until
it's all over?"

"No," she insisted. "Now."

"Anyway," said Duval, "Captain Tower doesn't
want to see you."

"I don't believe that," she snapped. "I don't
think anybody's even asked him."

"I'm sorry," Duval said again.

In the staff car, on the way back to London, she
asked, "I'll still have to testify?"

"You bet." He gave her a quick glance. "But it'll
be over quick, you'll see."

She asked one more question, later:

"Did did he know I was on the base?"

"He wasn't even interested," said Duval, and
kept his eyes on the road straight ahead.

After that, Serena said nothing more.

Huntingdon

Laurie looked up at the stained ceiling.

"Not the Ritz, is it?"

The bed still hadn't been made, and a pair of
socks

               232
                
was lying on the worn carpet where Verago had
dropped them.

"Take off those glasses," he said.

She faced him and then, slowly, deliberately, she
removed them. The violet eyes regarded him
quizzically.

"Well?"

He kissed her long and hard. After a moment
she yielded, her body becoming soft, pressing
herself against him. Her mouth was open and met
his, and he felt a surge of desire and excitement
and urgency.

Then they were on the bed. He unzipped the
back of her dress, and started to remove her bra
with eager, greedy hands when she stopped him.

"No," she said. "The door."

He got off the bed, walked to the door, and
turned the key from the inside.

And when he turned back, she was Iying on the
bed, naked and welcoming.

"You always make love in Class A uniform?"
she taunted.

Then he realized that in his eagerness for her,
he had not even started to undress. Hurriedly he
stripped, while she stretched out in front of him
languidly, increasing his passion as she displayed
her body.

And yet, even as everything gave way to his
desire for her, a curious voice at the back of his
mind reminded him how, even at this moment,
she was so in control that she remembered a
detail like locking the door.

But then he descended on her, and as they
embraced and their bodies intertwined, he would,
at that moment, have betrayed the universe to
possess her.

It was joyful, sensual, pagan lovemaking. They
relished in the strength of their bodies and the
energy lust gave them. Yet despite the intensity of
their desire, they took their time for as long as
they could, to draw the utmost pleasure and
delight out of their naked intimacy.

Later, they lay, her head on his chest, and she
almost purred:

"You're good, very good."

It jarred slightly, like the time in her apartment
when he'd found the razor and the shaving cream.
Good, by whose standards? Who had provided
the criterion by which she judged him?

"I'm glad you're pleased," he murmured.

She turned her head to look up at him. "And
you?"

               233
                
"Very nice. I enjoyed it." He thought he was a
bastard to put it like that, as if he was
commenting on a gourmet meal in a four-star
restaurant.

She lay sprawled, relaxed. "You were very
tense," she commented. "Like you had something
on your mind."

"Was I?"

"Is it the case?"

"Maybe."

"Or . . ."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. "Your
trouble is, Miss Czeslaw, you ask too many
questions."

She asked for a cigarette and he gave her one
and lit it for her.

"Wasn't there anybody else?" she persisted.
"Before we met."

"1 thought we had an agreement," he said. "No
questions."

"Of course. I was just curious."

"You mean, my wife? What went wrong?"

"If you don't want to talk about it," she began,
and he interrupted her:

"I don't. Okay?"

"Sure," said Laurie. She stubbed out the
cigarette in the ghastly "Souvenir from Lowestoft"
ashtray beside the bed. "So let's not talk."

And this time she set the pace of the
lovemaking, directing him where she wanted to
be pleasured, guiding him around her body, and
then, when he was aroused again, yielding to him
as he took her.

Half an hour later there was a knock on the door.

They sat up, staring at each other.

"What is it?" Verago called out.

The voice of the garlic maid came through the
door. '] want to do the room."

"I'm busy," shouted Verago. "Come back in a
couple of hours."

They heard her shuffling away, and then he and
Laurie looked at each other and started laughing.

"Hell, I am busy," said Verago.

Laurie looked up and addressed the ceiling. "I
wonder when you last saw it in the middle of the
day," she called out, and they both laughed again.

They got up and began dressing.

"By the way," said Laurie, as she fastened her
dress. "You said You were going on a trip.
Where?"

              234
               
Veragostraightened up from the case he had
pulled out from under the bed to pack.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" He hesitated just for a
moment. Then he said:

"Berlin."

     Wednesday, July 26,1961

London

FOR the second time, Daventry scanned the
Times, the paper spread out in front of him, his
eyes moving up and down every column, on every
page. Except the sports section and the
advertisements.

Across the breakfast table, Alex watched him.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Pass me the Telegraph," he replied abstractly.

Without a word, he studied the front page and
then skimmed the inside, not reading any of the
stories but searching all the headlines, screening
every item, whether it was a page lead or a tiny
news-in-brief paragraph Finally he threw the
paper aside.

"Nothing," he said. "Not a line."

"About what?"

He took a piece of toast and scraped some
butter across it. Then he said, "Serene Howard's
case. The court-martial."

"Should there be?"

"It began yesterday. I can't understand it. I was
sure it'd get into the papers."

He put the piece of toast down.

"Maybe," said Alex, "they don't want anything
pub]ished."

He stared across the table at her. "They?"

Alex poured herself some more tea. "I should
think it's very likely, don't you?" she remarked.

"I don't see why...."

"Oh, come, Gerry." She could be very practical.
"AD that fuss. You know they desperately wanted
to hush it up. They're probably holding it In
camera. There have been a few at the Old Bailey
like that, after all."

"Only security cases. Official Secrets Act."

               235
                
"Well?" Alex said quietly. "Isn't that what your
school chum said it is?"

He was still turning the pages of the Telegraph,
but finally gave up. "I was sure Fleet Street would
find out," he muttered.

Alex got up and came over to his side of the
table. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Gerry, do me a favor," she said. "Stop having
a guilt complex. You did the only thing that made
sense. You're welt out of it."

"Am I?" he asked quietly. "You thing I really
am?"

"What do you mean?"

"Remember that yellow file Grierson talked
about? My yellow file. I wonder what's happened
to it."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all torn up."

But she didn't sound very convinced.

London

In his check Harris tweed jacket, turtleneck
sweater, and brown corduroys, Ivanov fitted into
the clientele of the Spaniards. He was drinking
beer, a lager, because it gave him time to stand
and watch people. There was nothing unusual
about a beer drinker lingering over his pint.

He had been watching, in particular, the two
girls having a snack in the corner. They were
chatting animatedly, and occasionally one of them
burst out laughing at something her friend said.
There was a close intimacy in their gossiping.
Men, decided Ivanov. They were discussing men.

They were both blondes, slim, leggy blondes,
and Ivanov thought of Stephen. They'd do well in
his setup. He could just see them at one of his
parties. Being introduced as models..Or actresses.
It didn't really matter, they'd go down in a big
way.

He was half inclined to try his luck. Walk over
and sit down at their table. Make some excuse.
Get into conversation. They could be fun.

But not today. l le had come to Hampstead on
official business. There wasn't time for pleasure.
Regretfully, he finally drank up his beer and left
the inn. The two girls hadn't even noticed the
interest they had aroused.

Ivanov walked around on the heath for half an
hour. He strolled slowly, enjoying the clear air
here, high up above

              236
               
London. He seemed to walk aimlessly, but he
knew exactly where he was going,

He came to Kenwood, entered the grounds of
the Iveagh bequest through a gate in the railings,
and turned left, following a path along the edge
of the woods at the back of St. Columba's
hospital.

Then he came to the tree. There were a lot of
trees around, elders, yew, white poplar, chestnuts,
pine, fir. And there was an oak tree, centuries
old, a great, solid individual, a chieftain among
his tribe.

Ivanov walked on a little and then, abruptly,
turned back and retraced his steps. He went back
to the ancient tree.

He stopped and lit a cigarette. Then, almost
casually, he reached into a cavity inside the big,
weatherbeaten trunk. His fingers felt inside it and
grasped the matchbox.

He took it and put it in his pocket.

Ivanov didn't approve of this kind of
dubok.Adubok, in the parlance of the
organisation, was a clandestine hiding place.
Ivanov regarded the system as old-fashioned, just
as he did the department's obsession for cover
names. Intermediaries were always "cutouts," the
KGB the "neighbor," the local Communist party
a "corporation," a legal front for an illegal activity
a "roof," a passport a "shoe."

And a secret collecting point, like a tree on
Hampstead heath, a "dubok."

It was risky, Ivanov felt. The opposition also
knew a thing of two. But there were times when
the only safe link with a special contact had to be
this way.

Ivanov continued to walk along the path until it
led to Hampstead Lane. There he hailed a
passing taxi.

"Tottenham Court Road," he ordered.

"Whereabouts7" asked the driver.

"Drop me at the Dominion."

He sat back in the cab, and, when it pulled up
for a red light, he took out the matchbox and slid
it open.

Inside was a tiny piece of paper, neatly rolled up.

He unfolded it. One word was written on it in
neat, legible letters:

"Windrush."

The traffic lights changed, and the cab drove
on. But Ivanov still sat, the piece of paper in his
hand.

Then, under his breath, he swore in Russian.

He took his lighter and burned the paper. It was
very

               237
                
thin paper; it flared up for a second and then
disintegrated into nothing.

The taxi stopped outside the movie "heater.
Ivanov didn't even ackowledge the driver's thanks
for the generous tip he gave him. He was not in
a good mood.

He went down the steps into the subway, to the
row of phone boxes inside the station. He put in
two pennies, dialed a number, and, when it
answered, pressed button A.

"Laurie?" he said. "I think you and I had better
have a little talk."

It sounded rather like an order.

     Thursday, July 27,1961

West Berlin

"OH, YOU want the agentensumpf, eh?" said the
cab driver with the peaked cap.

"The what?" Verago spoke German quite well,
but this was a new one on him.

"Marienfelde. The spy swamp." The cab driver
laughed at his own wit. "That's where they keep
the ones they can't trust. It's crawling with them."

"Really?" said Verago.

"It's a long way out," the cabby pointed out.
"Wouldn't you like a tour of the sights instead?"

"No."

"Okay," the driver said resignedly.

He drove Verago through the suburbs, past the
cheap housing estates, the drab warehouses, the
long rows of allotments and garden plots where
many Berliners grew their vegetables.

"You with the army in Berlin?"

"Just visiting," said Verago.

They came to the Monastery of the Good
Shepherd and then the cab, a creaky Mercedes,
stopped at the main entrance of the camp

"There you are," said the driver. "Marienfelde.
Gateway to the free world."

Verago got out.

"You want me to wait?" the cabby offered
hopefully. "Not many taxis around here."

               238
                
"No thanks," said Verago, and paid him off.

The guard at the gate directed him to the
administrative offices.

"Building C," he said.

He didn't ask about his business. The army
uniform was a good passport.

"Thanks," said Verago.

The place reminded him of an army barracks.
The barbed-wire fences, the anonymous brick
barracks, neatly laid out in rows.

He came to building C and entered.

"Yes, Captain?" inquired the girl at the reception
desk.

"I want to see Fraulein Braunschweig," said
Verago. "Helga Braunschweig."

West Beriln

Pech came forward, his hand outstretched, a
welcoming smile on his face.

"Captain Verago," he cried. "You've just won a
bet for me."

He held open his office door.

"Come in, make yourself at home. Not that it's
much of a place."

"You are . . . ?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Pech.
B-One. Documentation. That sort of thing." He
gave a little bow. "Please sit down."

"You were expecting me?" Verago inquired
cautiously, sitting down on the chair Pech
indicated.

"But of course. That was the bet I had with
myself. Sooner or later, I was sure, Captain
Tower's lawyer would show up here. And you
have."

"But why did you think that?"

"Instinct." Pech beamed. "l know something of
this case."

"You do?" Verago's eyebrows shot up. It was
becoming too easy. And he always worried about
people who were too helpful.

Pech unscrewed a Thermos flask. From a
drawer he produced two plastic beakers. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Pech poured out the black liquid. It looked
lukewarm  and it was. He pulled a face when he
tasted his.

"Sorry about that," he apologised. He put the
beaker

               239
                
down on his desk. "You want to see the woman,
of course."

"Right," said Verago. "Praulein Braunschweig.
Helm Braunschweig. I want to ask her some
questions."

"So do I," Pech said grimly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Captain Verago, that our little lady
has pulled a fast one on us. She's gone."

"Gone where?"

"Back into the East zone."

Verago stared in disbelief. 'They've kidnapped
her?"

"No, no, no, of course not. She walked out.
Marienfelde is not a prison. People come here of
their own free will. And they can leave to return
home. She obviously changed her mind and
decided to do just that." He waved a hand airily.
"The zonal boundary is only a few meters away.
It's not difficult."

"You believe that?" Verago demanded.

Pech shrugged. "My job is to deal in facts.
American intelligence brought her over. She had
something big to tell them, apparently. So your
Captain Tower and a double agent he was
working with said."

"Martin Schneider?"

"Correct. They smuggled her across. B-One had
doubts about her. So we've kept her here until we
could sort it out."

"Now she's disappeared, Martin Schneider is
dead, and Captain Tower in the hoosegow."

"Yes, very distressing," said Pech.

"Did you interrogate her at all?"

"Helga? She was very uncooperative. She
refused to be debriefed by us. She would only
talk to Captain Tower and he" Pech smiled
dryly "was not, shall we say, available. She
wouldn't talk to us because she apparently had a
bee in her bonnet that we had been infiltrated. By
the SSD."

"The Staats Sicherheits Dienst? The East
German Gestapo?"

Pech looked pleasantly surprised. "Oh, you
know, Captain Verago?"

"Yes," said Verago. "I know."

"It's nonsense, of course."

"Of course." He nodded his agreement. "But
don't you find it curious that this woman who
defects at great risk with some apparently vital
information and is so terrified

               240
                
she won't even talk to West German security in
case there's a leak suddenly decides to return to
the other side?"

"Not only curious," said Pech, "but extremely
significant. There's a simple explanation, isn't
there?"

Verago wondered about this man. How many
people had he hooked and played like a
fisherman until he had landed them in his net,
how many intrigues had he masterminded, how
many betrayals?

But aloud he said, "What simple explanation,
Herr Pech?"

Pech put his fingertips together, leaned back in
his chair, and beamed. "I'm sure you're there
already, Captain. The explanation seems to be
that Helga Braunschweig was a plant, foisted on
us by the other side. When she saw that my
people weren't fooled, she decided to get out.
Before it was too late...."

He sighed. "I'm sorry this can't be of much help
to you or your client."

"On the contrary," Verago said cheerfully. "Do
you have any records about her?"

"Of course," Pech said primly. He got up and
went to a wall safe. He spun the dial, standing so
that Verago's view was obscured and the
combination would remain a secret. There was a
click, and he opened the safe door. He took out
a folder and returned to his desk.

"6221," he said.

"E3h?"

"Her number. Everybody here gets a number.
To protect their identity. We do take precautions,
you know. That's her." He pushed a photo across
that he had taken from the folder.

It's a striking face, thought Verago. Distinctive.
Big eyes. A determined mouth. The lips slightly
curved as if she couldn't resist a faint, rather
mocking smile at the camera.

"What's her job?" he asked, still looking at the
faces "What does she do?"

"She's bright, there's no denying it," said Pech.
"Speaks English quite well, and French.
Smattering of Russian. Does one hundred ninety
words a minute shorthand. I could do with a
secretary like that."

"That doesn't sound very remarkable."

"Please, Captain, you're missing the point. She is
a

               241
                
secretary. In fact, she was one of the secretaries in
Walter Ulbricht's personal office."

London

On the second floor of the mews house near
Berkeley Square, the leggy blonde reported to
Grierson.

"He entered the Spaniards about one fifteen,"
she said, reading from a little notepad with a
tasteful crocodile leather cover. "He stood by the
bar and had a lager."

"By himself?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did anyone approach him?"

"No."

"You sure he didn't talk to anybody?"

"Definitely not, sir."

Grierson grunted. The full surveillance
Whitehall had ordered on Ivanov was proving
troublesome. Sometimes it was difficult to keep
tabs on him; when, for instance, he went on his
aristocratic weekends in feudal Berkshire and
disappeared behind the high walls of a lordly
estate. On other occasions it wasn't so difficult,
but the results were always negative.

Like his little excursion to Hampstead Heath.

"Were you on your own7" asked Grierson.

"No, sir. Miss Shepherd was with me."

"So nothing happened in the pub?"

"Nothing unusual."

"And then?"

"He finished his drink and went for a walk."

"Go on."

"Well," said the blonde, a little awkwardly, "it
was rather difficult to follow him."

"Why?" Grierson demanded coldly.

"He strolled around and then went into a rather
secluded part of Kenwood. He would have noticed
anybody shadowing him."

"You lost him?"

But the blonde was an expert at her job, and
she resented that.

"It just became difficult. Miss Shepherd and I
split up. I played a little hide-and-seek. Kept
myself concealed behind trees."

"I hope he didn't see you," remarked Grierson.

The blonde smiled 'No way."

"What happened next?"

               242
                
The blonde glanced at her notepad. "Well, he
came to a big tree. I I think he took something
out of it. I couldn't see too well from where I was
hiding, but it looked to me "

Grierson leaned forward, interested. "What do
you mean, took something out of it?"

"From a sort of hole in the tree trunk."

"Ah." For the first time, Grierson seemed to be
satisfied.

"Then he walked away and picked up a cab in
Hampstead Lane."

Grierson glanced down at the typed report in
front of him. "Yes, I have the rest. After you
handed over to Kirby.',

The blonde hesitated. Grierson nodded
encouragingly. "Something else, Susan?"

"Well, yes, sir," she said. "There was this other
man. A big fellow. He was in the pub too and I
had a feeling he was watching Ivanov as well.
Bulky sort of chap, but he had the knack of
making himself inconspicuous. You know, like a
pro."

"I know. Go on."

"He left the pub when Ivanov did. And Jenny
thought she saw him once. In Kenwood."

Grierson's eyes never left her face. "You mean,
he was following Ivanov too. What a jolly little
convoy. Did this chap see you?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the blonde, scandalised at the
suggestion. "But he was good. We didn't see him
again. But Jenny spotted him in Hampstead Lane.
He was still on Ivanov's tail. He looked . . . sort of
American. You can tell 'em, can't you?"

"Oh, indeed." Grierson sighed.

"Are the Yanks in on this?" she inquired.

He opened a folder containing a sheaf of
typewritten pages. Pinned to the top of them was
a photograph.

"Was this the man?" asked Grierson, not
answering her question. "The man who followed
Ivanov?"

The blonde looked at the photograph of
Unterberg "Yes, sir," she said firmly. "That was
him. No question.';

Grierson covered up the photo again with a
screening sheet. "Susan," he said, "you deserve a
bottle of champers.',

               243
                
West Berlin

Like a man who hasn't seen one of his dearest
friends for a long time, Pech appeared reluctant to
part company.

Four hours later they were still together, sitting
in the corner of a smoky establishment in
Zehlendorf. The Rote Fuchs was a small drinking
dive in a back street, and Pech drove there from
Marienfelde.

He seemed more relaxed once they were away
from the barracks and barbed-wire fences of the
sprawling refugee camp.

"You're not in a rush, are you?" he asked Verago.

You're keeping tabs on me, thought Verago.
You want to know what I'll do next, where I go.
The joke is, I wish I knew.

"This is a good place," Pech confided over the
third schnapps. "A kneipe. A real kneipe. Not a
bar. Not a club. Not a pub. In Berlin, you got to
go to a kneipe."

"And what's so special about it?" asked Verago.

"My friend, just smell. Look around you. The
atmosphere. That's what's different. Here a man
can do serious drinking, uninterrupted by the
world. Like we should do

He downed the schnapps.

He signaled the burly man with the apron who
was sweeping the floor with a broom. ".Voch zwei,"
he ordered.

He was slightly red-faced, and a single rivulet of
sweat ran down the side of his neck. But the eyes
were alert. As alert as ever.

"Helga was quite a catch, wasn't she?" said
Verago suddenly.

Pech blinked. "Catch? Why catch?"

"Well, Walter Ulbricht's secretaries don't defect
every day."

The schnapps came, and Pech raised his glass.

"Prosit." He smacked his lips. "Excellent." But he
could see Verago was waiting for him to reply.
"Ah, yes. I see what you mean. But of course she
was not the only secretary. She worked in his
office. One of the secretaries...."

"Nevertheless, she must know a hell of a lot."

"So?"

"You just let her stew in Marienfelde? With
three thousand other refugees? I should have
thought she'd get

               244
                
very special treatment. A VIP hideout. Away from
Berlin."

Pech reached over and slapped his back. "Good,
very good. I should have thought so too. God
knows how their minds work."

Verago sipped his brandy. "Whose minds?"

"In Berlin, the left hand doesn't know what the
right is doing. Do you know how many intelligence
agencies operate in this city? In the three western
sectors alone? Thirty-three, my friend. And I don't
count the freelances." He laughed. Perhaps it was
a little too loud. The schnapps was having its
effect. "Sometimes I think there is one spy here for
every two citizens. And we have two million people
in the western sector. That's funny, isn't it?"

"Have another one," invited Verago, and nodded
to the burly man.

"If you want to make me tipsy, you'll find me
very happy to accommodate you." said Pech.

"I was thinking," Verago ruminated slowly.
"Supposing . . . supposing Helga came across with
something really big. That's why she was smuggled
over. That's why Tower and the other guy risked
their necks to bring her out. Well, supposing they
didn't want to know."

Pech held up his glass against the lamp on the
table and peered into it. "Who didn't want to
know?"

"Our people. Your people. Supposing she told
them something they didn't want to hear."

"Verago, why don't you go back to England,
finish your little court-martial, and take a long
leave?"

Pech's eyes looked straight into his.

"In fact, why don't you go to that phone in the
corner, call Tempelhof Airport, and reserve your
seat on the next plane to London?"

The man with the apron came over. "Are you
Herr Pech?" he asked.

"I might be," Pech said warily.

"There's a call for you," said the man.

Pech looked across at the pay phone. "I didn't
hear it ring."

"In the office," said the man, surly. He pointed at
a staircase leading down into the basement. "Down
there, first door on the right." Pech stood up and
followed him. "Don't go away," he said to Verago.

               245
                
The bar was half empty. At a table by the
entrance sat a woman who kept looking across at
Verago. Her face was in the shadows. He
wondered whether she was interested in him or
just curious about an American army offlcer in
this joint. Her companion had his back to Verago,
and he wore Italian-made shoes. Fancy shoes with
trimmings.

Pech came up the staircase.

"The department," he explained, as he sat down
again. "How the hell they tracked me down I don't
know."

"Anything urgent?" asked Verago.

Pech appeared lost in thought for a moment.
Then he caught on. "Oh, no, just routine. Some
bloody duty officer wanted to check something.
They can't leave a man alone. Where's my drinks"

The surly man brought another two schnapps.
He ticked the beer mat. There was a formidable
array of pencil ticks already on it.

"We're both still too sober, but the night is
young," said Pech. He paused. Then he asked,
"You're serious, aren't you?"

"What about?"

"Getting hold of the Braunschweig girl."

"Of course," said Verago.

Pech looked around the room. Then he leaned
forward and lowered his voice.

"Listen," he said, "I don't know where she is
except it's in the East sector. I don't know how
you could find her. But if you insist on being a
fool and want to break your neck, that's your
problem. I can give you an address."

Despite the lamp on the table, there was a
shadow across Pech's face. Verago wished he
could see it more clearly.

"What address?"

"Her parents. Here."

He took out a little pad, tore off a page and
wrote an address on it: 99b Kolwitz strasse.

'Wake it," said Pech. "It's in the Russian sector."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Verago, putting
the paper in his wallet.

"To get rid of you, Captain Verago."

And Pech wasn't smiling.

               246
                
      Friday, July 28, 1961
The Cell

TEIBpretence had stopped. There was no longer
any suggestion that he was in a hospital, being
given special treatment. This was a cell, a prison
cell.

And it was in a big prison, of that Captain
Kingston was sure. He could hear doors clanging,
and the echo of boots on stone floors.

His cell had a tiny window, with three bars and
wire mesh between them. The door was heavy
steel, and there was a peephole through which a
guard peered from time to time.

From the ceiling hung a bulb that was never
switched off. At night he tried to shield his eyes
from the yellow glare.

But he didn't know where he was. They had
given him some kind of shot that confused
everything; he was pretty sure there had been a
helicopter flight, and a car drive in the dark. But
he couldn't actually remember arriving there.

The place was different, but Major Fokin was
still around.

"I'm sorry they've brought you here," he said, as
if he had nothing to do with it. "I'm afraid that's
the result of not cooperating. You haven't
answered a single question after all this time. You
may think that's heroic, but there are those who
consider it dumb insolence. And dumb insolence,
Captain, is a military offence in the service, as I'm
sure you know."

He walked around the cell.

"Pretty bleak, isn't it? And I'm afraid the diet
won't be very appetising. Prison food never is."

The copy of al lice in Wonderland lay on the bunk.

"Oh, good," said Fokin, "they let you take it with
you. Have you finished it?"

Kingston stared at the wall. It was damp.
Outside the July air was warm, but in here
everything was dank and moist.

"Pity is your people don't even know how
resolute you are, Captain," Fokin went on. "All
this wasted effort. I

               247
                
know General Croxford would be very proud of
you, but the joke is he doesn't even realize you're
still alive. You've been written off, and you might
as well make things easier for yourself. No? Ah,
well."

He rapped on the door, for the turnkey to open
it.

"Just think of this. You may force us to put you
on trial. After all, you are a spy. You intruded
into our air space on a spy flight. You know what
happens to spies."

There was a rattle of keys, and the door swung
open. A gray-uniformed guard stood waiting for
Fokin to come out.

"I'll leave you Alice," added Fokin. "It's a book
worth rereading and" he glanced up at the
eternal light  "you've got plenty of opportunity.
It's a wise book too, Captain. Chapter Three, for
example. 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury, I'll try the
whole cause and condemn you to death.'"

The door slammed, and the footsteps gradually
died away.

And in the cell, Captain Kingston cried.

East Berlin

So this is what it feels like to put your head in
the noose, thought Verago as he entered the
S-bahnhof at the Zoo station.

He was in civilian clothes. For what he had to
do, it was better not to wear a uniform. As an
allied serviceman it would be easier to get
through the checkpoint, but once he was in East
Berlin the American officer's uniform would stick
out like a blazing torch.

No, he was going to be Tony Verago, U.S.
tourist. He had his civilian passport, and it
described him as "attorney." Which, after all, was
fair enough. He wondered about carrying his
military ID card; if they found it, there could be
complications. On the other hand, with luck he
wouldn't be searched; he decided to take the risk.

The train came into the station, and Verago
took a window seat. His fellow passengers were
a drab lot. Was it his imagination, or did they all
avoid each other's eyes? But one or two did
furtively steal a look at him; his clothes were
American. He looked too smart, too prosperous
to be one of them.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the
Friederichstrasse stop. Now there was no turning
back. He had crossed the line.

              248
               
He got off the train and started walking toward
the exit steps, trying to look confident. But
almost at once a green-uniformed Vopo, a
carbine strapped to his shoulder, stepped into his
path.

"You," he said unceremoniously, "papers."

"American tourist." Verago smiled. He waved
his green passport. He tried to work out why he
had been stopped. The other passengers were
shuffling along the platform. Then he attempted
to reassure himself: Of course, I stand out. It's
way I look. But he wasn't totally convinced.

"Over there," ordered the Vopo, pointing.
"Passport control."

People were lining up in a long queue, all the
passengers from the train. They knew the
routine. He joined them. It was a slow, agonizing
wait. The line moved forward at snail's pace.

Two men were sitting at a table, in front of a
shack. The shack had a little opening, like a box
office in a theater. Nearby hovered three Vopos,
with the customary carbines.

One of the men at the table had a pince-nez
clipped on lapis nose, like the one Ulbricht
sported on all his photographs. Clearly pince-nez
were fashionable in the East sector.

Pince-nez held out his hand. "Passport," he
demanded.

He opened it, studied it, turning every page
slowly, then handed it to his colleague, who
repeated the process, then passed the passport
through the window of the shack.

"I want that back," said Verago.

"Foreign passports have to be checked," said
Pincenez. Verago didn't expect the next question.

"How much money have you got with you?"

"Eighty marks," said Verago, "and two hundred
dollars. In U.S. currency."

"Show me."

He took the money and counted it. "Is that all?
You have no other currency?"

"None."

"It is a serious criminal offence to import or
export smuggled currency or to engage in
financial speculation in the German Democratic
Republic," said Pince-nez pretentiously, handing
him back the money.

"I understand."

"Why are you visiting East Berlin?"

              249
               
"Pleasure," said Verago. "Pure pleasure. Also . .
."

"Yes?" the second man demanded sharply.

"I much admire Brecht. I want to visit the
Berliner Ensemble. Your theater is very famous."

Pince-nez frowned. "You are an American
tourist?"

"Correct."

"And how long do you intend to stay?"

"Twenty-four hours."

"Where are you staying in West Berlin?"

"At the Hilton."

"You're alone?"

Verago took a chance. "I hear there are some
very attractive girls in East Berlin."

It was a mistake. Pince-nez drew in his breath
audibly. "I must warn you that hooliganism is
severely punished. Nor do we allow immorality. Is
that clear?"

"Absolutely."

The two men exchanged looks. Then the second
one said, "You're an attorney?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you will have the opportunity to study
our justice at firsthand." He laughed. "I am sure
you will be welcome at a sitting of the People's
Court. It might open your eyes."

"I don't know if J'll have time," Verago said
mildly. He was beginning to feel the strain.

A hand suddenly appeared in the opening in the
shack, holding his passport. Pince-nez took the
document.

"Very well," he said. He started filling in a card.
"V-e-r-a-g-o. An unusual name. It does not sound
American."

"My folks came from Greece . . . way back."

"Ach so," Pince-nez said agreeably. "I forgot.
There are no pure Americans."

He finished filling in the card and stamped it.
Then he stapled it to the passport.

"You have a tourist visa for twenty-four hours.
Do not lose it. You must show this when you
leave, or you cannot depart."

"Thank you," said Verago. He turned to go.

"I hope the Berliner Ensemble is not booked
up," the second man called out. "It would be a pity
to have come for nothing."

Verago left the station. He didn't once look back.

               250
                
He knew what they had done with his passport
in the shack. They had photographed it. Every
single page.

East Beriln

He had the feeling he was being followed, but
every time he turned around to glance back, he
could see nothing to confirm it.

He was surprised by how strangely deserted the
streets were and, sixteen years after VE-day, the
many scars of wartime still around him. Shell
holes still pockmarked the sides of some
buildings. There were ugly gaps in rows of
crumbling houses, like cavities caused by rotten
teeth.

The grimness of the place was a shock after the
bustle and prosperity of the western sector. An
even greater shock were the first Russians he
saw, two soldiers walking on the other side of the
road. Verago had not seen Russian troops face to
face before, and he had to stop himself staring at
them. They strode past without a second look at
him.

He found a cab at last and asked to be taken
to Kolwitz strasse. It was only a short ride, and
when the driver stopped outside the block of
flats, Verago told him to wait.

It was a four-floor apartment house, and like
so much in East Berlin, it looked down at heel.
There were eight flats, and each had its own
buzzer at the front door.

He pressed the one that said "Braunschweig."
Nothing happened.

He pressed the bell again and stood waiting.
Plat C was on the second floor, but the front
entrance of the building remained shut, and there
was no sound from the call-down system.

He tried a third time and then saw a man's
face peering at him blankly through the window
of the ground-floor apartment next to the front
door.

The railings prevented Verago getting near the
window, but he signaled to the man, mouthing:
"Can you let me in?"

The face suddenly disappeared, and then,
almost to his surprise, the front door opened, and
the man stood there. He wore carpet slippers and
needed a shave. He was elderly and regarded
Verago with undisguised hostility.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Braunschweig," said Verago. "flat C."

              251
               
"Not here." He made to shut the door.

Verago put his foot in the way. "When will they
be back?"

"I didn't say they're out, I said they're not
here," growled the man. He scratched his
unshaven chin as if it itched.

"What do you mean, not here?"

"Don't you understand German?" the man said
rudely. "I've told you. They're not here. They've
gone. Departed."

Verago felt his stomach tightening. "Since when?"

"I don't know," the man said sullenly. "Who are
you?"

He had shapeless trousers, and they were held
up by a belt that had makeshift holes punched
into it. Maybe the man had lost weight.

"I'm a friend," Verago said vaguely.

"Foreigner, oh?"

"Who are you?" asked Verago.

"The caretaker." He tried to close the door
again, but Verago wouldn't shift his foot.

"Look here," said Verago, "they can't have
disappeared into thin air. When did they go?
Have you got their new address? Did they tell
you anything? It's important."

"Nothing to do with me," said the man, "and if
you've got so many questions, you'd better go to
the authorities. I don't want anything to do with
foreigners."

He said it quite loudly, as if he wanted the
world to hear.

"Especially not Americans," he added for good
measure. "Now let go of the door."

"Just a moment."

"I tell you for the last time, the Braunschweigs
have gone and you won't see them here again.
The flat's already been let."

It was hopeless. Verago stepped back, and the
man slammed the front door in his face.

Verago stared up at the windows of the flats as
if they would yield a clue, but there was no sign
of life beyond the dirty windows and their soiled
curtains.

He wondered why the man had made the crack
about Americans. Sure, Verago looked like a
foreigner. His clothes were too good. His
German was accented. But why take him to be an
American? He could have been an

              252
               
Englishman, or even a Russian. Was his
nationality that obvious?

Half an hour in Last Berlin, and he had
reached a dead end.

Damn it, I'm not beaten yet, he said to himself,
even if it sounded a little bit like whistling in the
dark.

He turned back to find the cab.

It had gone.

London

The torpedo boat raced across the water,
skimming the waves, straight at the yacht with the
bright yellow sails. Then, as collision seemed
inevitable, it suddenly altered course and veered
around in a big circle, making for the schoolboy
standing at the edge of the Round Pond who was
operating the craft's radio controls.

Ivanov sighed.

"I wish I'd had toys like that when I was his
age," he said. He held out his bag of bread to
Laurie. "Here, you want some more?"

She took some crusts, broke them up, and flung
them toward the ducks. But a seagull swooped
down and stole most of it as it fell.

"You always come here feeding the ducks?" she
asked. Sometimes he surprised her.

"But of course," he replied, mockingly. "I am a
Communist. I share my last crust with the
underprivileged."

"They look pretty well fed to me," she observed.

"It's all in the eyes of the beholder. Sometimes
things are not what they seem." He looked her in
the eyes. "Are they, Laurie?"

She studiously followed the course of the little
torpedo boat.

"There," said Ivanov. He emptied the last of the
crumbs on the ground, screwed up the paper bag,
and tossed it aside.

"Heyl" exclaimed Laurie. "That's against the
law. No litter."

He took her arm. "You keep forgetting. I have
diplomatic immunityd' It amused him. "Absolute
immunity. So I can get away with all sorts of
things . . ."

"I know." She nodded. "But I wouldn't push it,
Gene."

They were walking between the trees toward
the big bronze statue of the muscular man riding
the huge horse.

               253
                
"I am surprised about your friend," he
remarked suddenly.

"What friend?"

He shook his head almost pityingly. "Please,
Laurie, it's not playtime. What other friend can
there be?"

A slight breeze blew some hair into her eyes.
She brushed it away. "I have lots of friends, you'd
be amazed."

"I thought Captain Verago was a smart man,"
he went on, as if she hadn't made any comment.
"Instead he seems to have . . . well, if one wanted
to be melodramatic one could say a death wish."

She shivered slightly, but it wasn't the cold. The
July afternoon air was soft and balmy. "I don't "

"He's sticking his nose into things he doesn't
understand."

She looked at him defiantly. "But perhaps he
does, have you ever thought of that?"

They came to a bench, and he nodded at it.
"Let's sit down."

For a moment he said nothing. She gazed back
at the Round Pond and the outline of Kensington
Palace in the distance with unseeing eyes.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said at
last. "We all do, because we're all in this
together. Your Captain Verago is a fool if he
hasn't worked that out yet. How can he take on
everybody? Your people, my people, the
Germans? Doesn't he realize that this is a game
without frontiers and without sides?"

She was still staring straight ahead. "Why are
you telling me this?"

He shrugged. "I think you're quite fond of the
guy, and if somebody could get to him, before it's
too late...."

She turned to him. "You're talking to the
wrong person, Gene. There's nothing I can do."

But he put his head closer to hers. "Laurie, you
can pass the word. Everybody wants to see this
Tower business dealt with. What do any of us
gain from it? But if he goes on tipping the
balance, meddling unnecessarily...." He spread his
hands helplessly. "My people won't sit by. There's
too much at stake."

A woman walked by with a Pekingese and a
Shih Tzu terrier. The Pekingese tottered along
sedately, like a dignified elderly functionary, but
the Shih Tzu darted all over

              254
               
the place. It rushed up to Ivanov and sniffed his
shoes. He leaned forward and stroked the dog.

"What exactly have you heard about the Tower
trial?" asked Laurie.

"Come along, Sanki!" came the woman's
command from where she stood some yards away.

Ivanov watched the Shih Tzu run toward her.
"Nothing officially," he said. "But I know they're
worried about the way it's gone so far. And when
my people get worried, they do drastic things."

Laurie stood up. "I m cold," she said.

"I'm sorry," said Ivanov, and he sounded
sincere. "I had to tell you. After all, what are
friends for?"

East Berlin

Verago sat in the cafe, feeling like a fly caught
in an invisible web. He knew he was caught when
the cab had gone; not even in East Berlin did taxi
drivers take off without being paid.

He walked into the cafe and sat down to take
stock. It was in a small side street, near Kolwitz
strasse, and had seen better days. There were
four tables. On the wall hung a rack of
newspapers for patrons to borrow; but the only
paper displayed were three copies of Neues
Deutschland, the official organ of the East
German Communist Party. By the toilet, whether
by acident or design, hung a portrait of goateed
Walter Ulbricht.

Verago ordered a beer. The Czech-brewed
Pilsner tasted good. The place smelled of boiled
cabbage and needed redecorating. A radio faintly
played brass band music. At one of the tables sat
a man, noisily slurping the contents of a big bowl
of lentil soup.

Only one person came in, a red-haired girl. She
wore thick lisle stockings and limped slightly.

"Hello, Trudi," called out the woman behind the
counter, "how's tricks?"

"Shitty," snapped the redhead, and sat down by
herself. She gave Verago a cursory look.

He was thinking he had three days. That was
all. The court-martial resumed on Tuesday. Here
was the key to it, somewhere, and he had to get
to it before returning to England. To Laurie. To
. . . He sighed. At this moment England,
Laconbury, the whole circus, seemed as remote as
a distant planet. So did the chance of finding
what he needed to throw a wrench in the works.

               255
                
The redhead got up and came over.

"It is okay to sit down?" she asked in English

He hesitated and then shrugged.

"Sank you," she said. Her accent was atrocious.
And close up, she looked thin and
undernourished. Her makeup was grotesque, a
red slash that passed for lipstick on her mouth,
and heavy eyeshadowthat made her look tired and
badly in need of a good night's sleep.

"You are a Yankee?"

Jesus, and he had kidded himself that if he
didn't wear uniform he wouldn't be so
conspicuous.

"My boyfriend is a Zhee I," she continued
without waiting for him. "He will take me to
Texas. He is an MP."

"Oh, yes?"

"I go to the West to see him at weekends," she
added. "You buy me a drink?"

He felt sorry for her. Her blouse had a button
missing, and she was clutching a cheap plastic
handbag. A thread was running in her worn wool
skirt.

"What would you like?" asked Verago. She
didn't need a drink, he figured, but something to
eat.

"Schnapps," she said and smiled. "You join me?"

"One schnapps," Verago called to the woman
behind the counter.

She pouted. "Only one?"

"I have to go in a minute."

The brandy came, and she raised her glass. "To
America, chin chin."

"Where did you learn English?"

"I pick it up," she said, and coughed. "From
boyfriends. Zhee I's."

Verago wondered what kind of GI had taught
her to say "chin chin." He began to rise.

"Wait," she said. She had taken a crumpled
handkerchief from her purse and was dabbing her
mouth. "You sell me some dollars?"

So, thought Verago. That's it. A setup. The
man with the pince-nez crossed his mind. "It is a
serious offense to speculate ... currency...." That's
what they want. An excuse.

"I'm sorry, fraulein," he said, rather formally,
and in a loud voice. "I only have a little money,
and I need that."

"Not fraulein, please," she said. "I am Trudi.
And I give you a good price. A very good price."

               256
                
"I'm sure." Now he was on his feet. "Thank you
very much Trudi. Some other time." He signaled
to pay.

"Please sit down."

It was her tone that made him look at her again.

"It is important," she added, in a low voice.

He glanced around the cafe. The man was still
eating his soup.

"Please," said Trudi, her tired eyes pleading.

Slowly Verago sat down again. The woman
came over with the bill.

"Noch ein bier, bitte," said Verago, "und ein
schnapps."

"Sank you," said the redhead.

Careful, thought Verago. Be very careful what
you say from now on.

"What is so important, Trudi?" His voice was soft.

"You have been asking questions. About the
Braunschweigs."

He tensed. "How do you know?"

"I know," she said, rather sadly.

The drinks came. Verago took a sip of his beer,
looking at her across the rim of his glass.

"How?" he repeated.

"Do you want to know about Helga or don't
you?" she demanded with a touch of impatience.

"I want to know who you are."

"Go to hell." She almost spat at him. She had
finished her Srst schnapps and now took a big
gulp of the second one. Again she coughed. She
got up.

"Good-bye," she said curtly, and began to walk
back to her table.

"Just a moment."

She paused. "Yes?"

"What about Helga?"

"You want to find her?"

You're a damn fool, Verago said to himself.
But he risked it.

"Maybe."

The girl turned her head, to make sure nobody
was listening. Then she whispered, "She's at
Reinhof's."

"Where?"

"Reinhof's. Liebermann Platz forty-three. On
the ground floor."

He started to say something, and she put a
hand on his arm. Two of her fingernails were
broken.

               257
                
"You must go now," she said urgently.

"Now wait a second," began Verago.

The door of the cafe opened and a man with
cropped hair and rimless glasses came in.

"Please," hissed Trudi. "Go. Not a word. Just go."

Verago threw ten marks on the table and walked
out

He wondered if this was how a fish felt when it
swallowed the bait.

East Berlin

It was an undertaker's shop. "Reinhor' read the
sign, and underneath "Leichenbestatter."

Verago didn't know the German word for
mortician, but he knew what leichen were. Bodies.
Corpses. Cadaver ers.

And the shop window made the message clear.
It was a simple display. Just a marble urn.

He stood across the road, in the Liebermann
Platz, and he thought, This is where I should get
off. Back to the Friederichstrasse, jump aboard
the first S-train, and half an hour later order a
triple scotch in the Golden City bar of the Hilton.
That would be the wise thing to do.

Because of course Trudi was a setup. Maybe the
idea had been to frame him. To lure him into
doing some illegal currency deal. Or get him
shacked up with a prostitute. Then they could
charge him with almost anything

black rnarketeering, immorality, you name it.

But obviously they had prepared for all
contingencies. And when he didn't play the game,
they had this joker up their sleeve. An address for
Helga

And yet . . .

Why an undertaker! Why not an ordinary
address, some faceless building? And supposing
Trudi wasn't one of them? Supposing somebody
had sent her to help him find Helga?

No, you're a god damn fool, Verago, his caution
kept saying. Get out of this while you can. He
stood in a doorway, took out a pack of cigarettes,
and lit one. He saw a man at the nearby bus stop
stare at him. He must have seen the cigarette
pack. Lucky Strikes. From the PX. Nobody
smokes Lucky Strikes in East Berlin.

He turned his back on the man. Coming down
the street were half a dozen youths in shabby
trenchcoats, heavy boots, and peaked cloth caps.
They were laughing loudly, and suddenly Verago
felt fear. He didn't want them to see

               258
                
him. It was a gray, drab neighborhood, and they
were like a pack of scavenging wolves. Or was he
getting paranoid?

He melted into the doorway, and the group went
past, guffawing and laughing among themselves.
They didn't even look at him.

Jesus Christ, Verago, you've come this far, and
you're not going to chicken out. What the hell can
they do to you anyway? Kick you out of the
People's paradise? Deport you from East Berlin?
Okay, let Colonel Ochs have his field day and
accuse you of causing an international incident.
They've got your card marked anyway, might as
well give them something good to burst their blood
vessels.

He crossed the road and put his hand on the
handle of the undertaker's door. For a moment he
hesitated. Then he walked in.

Inside was a small office with a table and two
chairs. Dark velvet draperies divided it off. There
was a faint, sickening-sweet smell of incense and,
very softly, organ music. Funereal muzak, thought
Verago with distaste.

The curtains parted and a thin, weedy man
appeared.

"I " began Verago, and stopped. He didn't
quite know how to put it.

But the man smiled sympathetically, gave a slight
bow and asked softly, "Braunschweig?"

The cloying aroma of the place began to make
Verago feel slightly sick. He swallowed, and
nodded.

"Fraulein Helga . . ."

"Of course," said the man, with deepest
understanding. He went to the table and opened a
leather-bound book lying on it. He pushed it
toward Verago and held out a pen.

"Please," he invited.

It was like a visitors' book, with signatures on
each page. Verago paused momentarily, then bent
down and signed.

The man gently still the book back toward
himself and glanced at the signature.

"Ah, Herr Verago," he said softly, as if the name
explained everything.

He straightened up and held one of the velvet
curtains open for Verago.

"This way, please." His tone was compassion itself.

This is crazy, thought Verago. But he went
through the gap in the curtain. The thin, mournful
man did not follow hirm

               259
                
Verago found himself in a small, dark chapel.
Four enormous white candles stood in tall holders
at each corner of a bier. On the bier was an open
coffin. And in the coffin a body.

Verago stepped closer. It was a woman, and
despite the gloom the light from the four big
candles was enough to illuminate the face. He
recognised it. He had last seen it as a photograph
in Pech's office.

The dead woman in the coffin, looking peaceful
and contented, was Helga Braunschweig.

Verago stood stiff, dazed. He stared at the face
like a hypnotized man. He took another step
forward and then stopped.

Suddenly he felt faint and dizzy. The whole
room began spinning, and it seemed to him that
the soft organ music had grown louder, the sweet
syrupy smell more suffocating.

He heard the velvet curtains rustle, glimpsed a
man with cropped hair and rimless glasses. He
experienced a moment of panicky fear. Then
Verago felt sudden great pain and knew no more.

Karlsrahe

Only one lamp was burning in the office. Herr
Stamm sat at his desk and with two fingers slowly
typed the report that only the minister was to see.

It was after ten o'clock at night, and the offices
along the corridor were silent. Herr Stamm had
locked his door. And there was only one sheet of
paper in the typewriter; there could be no copy of
what he had to say.

He had headed it "Sehr Geheim," and it was
indeed most secret. So secret, in fact, that he
could not dictate it to anyone.

What he had to say would not make him
popular. And he realized, in view of what he
already knew, that it could even put his own life
in danger.

But Herr Stamm was good at his job, and loyal.
Bonn had to know that treason was in the air.

Already he had typed the list of names:

Colonel Karl Otto van Hingeldey, of the
Bundeswehr

general staff

Heinz Felfe, former Abwehr officer and now a
civil

service member of the BND, the
Bundesnachrichten

Dienst, the special intelligence bureau in Bonn

               260
                
Peter Fuhrmann, a senior controller in MAD,
the Militaerische Abschirmdienst, the Bundeswehr
security

service

Three esteemed men, experienced intelligence
officers, entrusted with the most delicate state
secrets, and privy, as part of their duties, to the
most highly classified NATO documents.

And each one of them a Soviet agent.

Herr Stamm sat back and looked at what he had
awkwardly typed so far.

He sighed. Bonn's whole intelligence network, all
its various special agencies, the very heart of
security and espionage, had been penetrated.

The light from the lamp fell on the secret file
that contained the background on General Edgar
Feuchtinger. The man who had recruited the ring.
The man who inadvertently had led Herr Stamm to
the trial....

He didn't have to make a special report on the
general. He was dead. Herr Stamm allowed himself
a cold smile. People died rather conveniently in
Berlin.

He looked at his watch. He felt tired, and he
wanted to get home before midnight. But he wasn't
finished yet.

He had to add one more name to the list of
traitors.

East Berin

"Stop play acting," ordered an unfriendly voice in
accented English.

Verago opened his eyes, but shut them again as
the glare from a white light stabbed into his
eyeballs. His head was thudding, and he felt sick.

"Cook at me," commanded the voice.

He tried again and squinted, trying to escape the
harshness of the light. He was handcuffed, sitting
on a chair in a room with whitewashed brick walls.
At a desk opposite, a fat man contemplated him.
The man was bald but for a single piece of hair,
like a string of spaghetti, that was pasted across his
shiny pink head.

Verago licked his lips. "Where am I?" he asked.

The man laughed. "Don't you know? I'm
surprised. You're under arrest."

Gradually Verago became conscious that not
only his head ached. His body hurt. As if
somebody had kicked him; he wondered if they
actually had. He couldn't remember it.

               261
                
"Arrest? What what for?"

"Espionage, of course," said the fat man. "My
name is Schultz. Sicherheits Dienst. SSD. You
understand?" He held up an object. Verago tried
to focus on it. It was his wallet.

"You recognise

Verago nodded. The handcuffs were biting into
his skin. "Could you loosen these, please? They're
cutting my wrists."

Schultz was holding something else he had
taken out of the wallet. "And this? You recognize
this?"

He thrust it in front of Verago.

"It's my ID card. My army identification."

The man threw it on the desk and jumped up.
"So!" he exclaimed. "You admit. That is very
sensible of you. I think we'll get on."

The light was still bothering Verago. He tried to
look away. "I don't know what this is about, but I
want the American authorities notified. And I
want to know what I am doing here."

With surprising agility for a fat man, Schultz
swung himself on top of his desk and sat on it
facing Verago.

"You are in no position to want anything. You
are in deep trouble. You are here illegally. As a
spy. You "

"You're crazy," cut in Verago. He felt awful, but
his indignation was taking over. "I have a visa. I "

Schultz leaned over and picked up Verago's
passport lying next to his blotter.

"Oh, yes," he said, "you have a visa, all right.
Obtained by fraud. You did not tell anybody you
were an American officer.. You said you were a
civilian. A tourist. You deliberately deceived the
customs and immigration. Why are you running
around in civilian clothes and not in uniform?
Why did you call yourself a lawyer? Why didn't
you cross at the official border post used by allied
military personnel? Why smuggle yourself into our
country?"

Schultz took a deep breath. Before Verago
could say anything, he rambled on:

"I will tell you. You are on a special mission. A
spy mission. Or maybe sabotage. Unfortunately for
you, we have caught you, redhanded."

He nodded with satisfaction. He brushed his
head with his right hand, to make sure the string
of spaghetti was still stuck in place.

               262
                
"Your mission was doomed from the start, of
course. You spies don't realise we are always
ready for you."

"You know you're talking nonsense," Verago said
quietly. Maybe he could try reasoning with the fat
man. "I just came across for twenty-four hours, as
a visitor. I am a lawyer. I'm here privately, not on
duty. I came to see the sights."

"Oh, sure," Schultz agreed sarcastically. He
swung his legs joyfully. "In time you will tell us
everything. What were you doing there anyway?"

"Where?" asked Verago.

"The place we found you."

"Oh, the funeral parlor."

Schultz's eyes widened. "Funeral parlor? What
funeral parlor? I warn you not to play the fool.
No, the bomb site where we found you. In the
Kroll strasse."

Verago's head was splitting. "I don't understand.
I was in the mortician "

"You're wasting your time. You had a struggle
with a man on a bombed site. You were seen. The
police came. The man had run off, and you were
Iying unconscious on the ground. By a wall. He
must have hit you. Who was the man? Why did
you fight?"

"There wasn't any fight, there wasn't any bomb
site," said Verago.

"But we have a witness." Schultz raised his hand.
"Please. Don't take my word for anything."

He got down from the desk and went to the
door. He opened it and shouted to somebody
outside: "Bring him in."

He turned to Verago. "Why do you insist on
telling lies? You know the truth will out. That is
an old American saying, is it not? Anyway, I will
prove it to you."

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," shouted Schultz.

A man entered. He had cropped hair and
rimless glasses.

"Is that him?" asked Schultz.

The man studied Verago. The bright light shone
on 08 glasses, they redected the glare.

"Yes7" he said.

"Tell me again," ordered Schultz.

"I was walking along the Kroll strasse. I saw two
men struggling. On the bomb site. By the
demolished cinema You know the one?"

               263
                
Schultz nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes, go on."

"It looked nasty. A robbery perhaps. This was
one of the men. I recognize his foreign clothes. I
ran for the police. But when the Vopos arrived,
the other man had gone and this one was Iying on
the ground, unconscious."

"Well," said Schultz to Verago, "what do you say
to that?"

"It never happened," replied Verago.

Schultz sniffed his distaste. "And you will tell me
that you of course have never seen this man
before?"

"No. I have, as a matter of fact."

The man with the rimless glasses turned his head
toward him. His face was expressionless.

"Ach so! How surprising." Schultz smirked. "And
where was that?"

"In a cafe," said Verago.

"What were you doing there?"

"Drinking a schnapps."

"Really."

Schultz scratched his chin. Then he asked the
croppedhair man, "Did you see this American spy
in a cafe?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

Schultz spread out his hands like a man who
gives up. "There you are, Captain Verago. I do not
understand your little game, but it's not very
successful, is it? This man is just an innocent
passerby. Obviously he never saw you before."

Interesting, thought Verago. They don't want to
know about the cafe. Or Trudi. They don't want to
ask me any questions about anything there.

He shrugged.

Schultz nodded to the man. "You may go, with
the thanks of the authorities."

"Happy to do my duty," said the man.

It was a nice little command performance,
Verago thought as the man shut the door.

"Well," said Schultz, sitting down behind his
desk, "I don't know what you were doing to get
knocked about by a stranger." He leered suddenly.
"Maybe you don't like girls? Maybe you prefer
young men and made a very improper advance to
this individual? Is that why he beat you

Verago smiled coldly. "Are you enjoying yourself,
               264
                
Schultz? Or do you judge everybody by your own
standards?"

Schultz tightened his lips. "That's not the way to
get rid of your little bracelets," he warned.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a
pencil. It had a very sharp point, and he felt it
with his thumb. It seemed to satisfy him. Then,
from another drawer, he took some sheets of
paper and placed them neatly in front of him.

"Now, then," he said, "you have a clear choice.
You can now make a voluntary statement, a full
confession about your mission, what your
objective is, who your superiors are, your contacts
here, who's working with you, the lot. If you do
that, I promise you everything will be quite
pleasant, and we can part the best of friends.
How's that?"

"Very considerate."

Schultz's eyes narrowed. "Or you can go to a
little place where everybody is eventually
persuaded to tell the truth. I am sure they'd be
delighted to welcome you at Hohen-
schoenhausen."

"Hohen what?"

"Hohenschoenhausen," Schultz repeated with
relish. "A little SSD holiday establishment. After
all, you said you want to see the sights of East
Berlin, and that's a sight you'll long remember."
He laughed. "Well, which is it to be?"

He sat poised, the pencil hovering ready to write.

"I want to talk to the American liaison
mission," said Verago.

Schultz shook his head. "You are very badly
informed. Your authorities do not have relations
with us. You are on your own. Perhaps you
should persuade Washington to recognize us.
Sooner or later they'll have to. Unfortunately, it'll
be too late for you."

He waited, but Verago stayed silent. Eventually
he sighed and put down the pencil.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll arrange for transport."

He put the paper back in the drawer. He was
a methodical man.

"In a way, Captain Verago, you're very
privileged. Not many tourists get to see the inside
of Hohenschoenhausen. The trouble is, even
fewer ever come out again."

Then he stood up and called the escort.

               265
                
Saturday, July 29,1961
        . .
        East Berlin

THE little convoy raced through the streets of
East Berlin at high speed, two Vopo motorcycle
outriders leading the way and a jeepload of
Vopos, cradling submachine guns, bringing up the
rear. They had priority, and at road junctions and
traffic lights police waved them through, imperi-
ously holding up everybody until they had passed.

They were escorting a windowless, all-steel grey
truck with no insignia and only a couple of small
ventilation slits. It was like a self-contained bank
vault on wheels carrying high-value cargo. The
handcuffed man sitting inside, between two
expressionless guards, had no idea where he was
being driven.

He couldn't see the propaganda maxims
painted on bullet-scarred walls, the banners
hanging from windows, the red streamers flying
from long poles, all with slogans. Dictums like
"Socialism is Triumphing, We Are Stronger," "A
Strong German Democratic Republic Ensures
Peace," "The Working Masses Will Conquer."

Nor did he see the billboards with the gigantic
portraits of the man with the pince-nez and Van
Dyke beard, "Spitzbart," Walter Ulbricht.

But he heard the klaxons of the motorcycles,
and he could feel the pain of his handcuffs. The
guards sitting either side of him studiously
avoided looking at him, but their hands hovered
near their guns.

He knew that he was rated an important
prisoner. Not that that was any consolation. They
had taken away his passport and his army AGO
card. He had no identification. No papers to
prove who he was.

With a shock, Tony Verago suddenly realized
that he had ceased to exist.

Hohenschoenhausen

Utter darkness enveloped him, suffocated him.
Even when his eyes adjusted, he still could hardly
see anything.

It was so pitch black that he stumbled around,
holding out his manacled hands, trying to grope
his way about, to find the walls, to get some idea
of the size of the . ..

               266
                
The what? The room? The cell? The dungeon?

Was this the place Schultz had talked of?
Hohenschoenhausen. The SSD prison. Reserved
for the use of the State Security Service of the
German Democratic Republic.

He had heard sharp commands when the
convoy finally had halted. Then one of the guards
had blindfolded him and, unseeing, stumbling, he
had been half guided, half pushed across a
courtyard, taken, so he thought, into a building,
along various corridors, up a staircase, along
another passage, and then an iron door had
clanged shut behind him. After a time a guard
had entered, taken off his blindfold, and left
again. It made no difference to his eyes. The
darkness was impenetrable. Not even a slit of
light under the door, a glimmer through a crack
in the wall.

And it was silent. Terribly silent. No voices, no
footsteps. This cage was soundproof.

They're trying disorientation, thought Verago,
desperately attempting to make his brain reason
and concentrate.

They want me to lose all sense of time and
direction. And, Christ, they're succeeding.

Already time had started to become
meaningless. He tried to retrack his movements.
The Braunschweig apartment block. The cafe.
The funeral parlor. Schultz. Now this. How long
had he been in East Berlin? A day? Two days?
Was it morning, was it night?

Without warning, suddenly he was standing in
light. From the high ceiling a powerful bulb shone
down on him. It hurt, and he closed his eyes,
tight.

He heard the door being unlocked and,
squinting, Verago saw a man enter. He wore
civilian clothes but had military bearing. The door
was shut behind him.

"Sit down over there," instructed Major Fokin.

Verago looked around. For the first time he
took in the geography of the cell. It was very
bare. A bunk and a three-legged stool. That was
all.

Gingerly Verago sat down on the stool.

"I understand you've been very uncooperative
so far," Fokin said quite pleasantly, "but I'm sure
you've been thinking it over, and we'll get on
famously."

He spoke excellent British English.

Verago held out his hands. "Take these off," he
said. "Please. They hurt."

"Certainly," said Fokin. He seemed to have come
pre

               267
                
pared for the request. He pulled out a key and
unlocked the handcuffs. Verago's wrists were so
numb that be didn't even feel relief. He started
rubbing his left wrist with his right hand. That
one, especially, had been sheer agony.

"Don't worry," said Fokin, "it'll pass."

"Who are you?" Verago asked thickly. His
mouth felt awful. More than anything, he wanted
to clean his teeth.

"My name is Fokin, and I'm here to establish
some facts about you so we can get this whole
thing cleared up."

"Oh, yesl"

"My advice is for you to be perfectly frank,
Captain Verago. You can start by telling me
which agency you work for."

"Agency?" Verago echoed dully.

"Agency. Organization. Service. Which is it?
CIA? The Counter Intelligence Corps, CIC? Army
Security? The OSI? The NSA? The JIC?"

Involuntarily, Verago yawned. "I'm sorry," he
said, "I'm tired. Really bushed."

"Of course you are," Fokin sympathised. "But
you must tell me. Which organisation?"

"I'm a lawyer," Verago said dully.

Fokin nodded. "I know. Judge Advocate's Corps.
Your boss is Colonel Ochs. You've been in
England with the air force. Laconbury. Brigadier
General Croxford is the commander. It's an
excellent cover. Just out of the ordinary enough to
make it believable. But your real mission? Here in
Berlin? That's what I want to know."

"The Geneva convention "

" does not apply to intelligence officers who
enter foreign countries as tourists in disguise."

"Some disguise," Verago remarked bitterly. He
glanced down at his clothes, shapeless, stained.

"I can see you are tired," said Fokin, and his
sudden consideration baffled Verago. "Think
things over. You have plenty of time before the
real interrogation."

The real interrogation. He just slipped it in, but
it startled Verago.

"I have to be back in England," he explained. "I
am defending a man in a court-martial, and the
trial resumes on "

"My dear Captain Verago, forget it," said Fokin.

               268
                
West Berlin

"I'm a friend of Captain Verago's," said the
lean, angular man. He had never met Verago in
his life, but Iying came to him quite naturally.

"Oh, yes?" The duty manager at the Berlin
Hilton wore his fixed public relations smile. He
was Swiss and humorless, but he was always
polite, except to people whose credit cards
weren't sanctioned.

"He's asked me to collect his luggage and pay
the bill," said the lean man.

"Just a moment," the duty manager excused
himself politely: He disappeared into one of the
administrative offices, behind the reception desk.
The lean man stood in the lobby, unconcerned.

When the duty manager reappeared, his smile
was a little forced. "You say you are a friend of
Captain Verago's?"

"Yes. "

"Well, he checked in on Wednesday and said he
wanted a single room for several days. We
haven't seen him since."

The duty manager strongly disapproved of this
kind of irregularity.

"That's right." The lean man nodded. "He's been
called away."

"Without telling us?" It was clearly a gross
breach of good manners in a hotelier's book.

"It happens," said the lean man.

The duty manager had the bill in his hand. "Of
course we will expect him to pay in full. We held
the room."

The man took the bill and glanced at it. "That'll
be fine," he said. "You take dollars?"

"Of course." The smile was a little warmer.

"Maybe we could go up to his room and get his
things," suggested the man.

They took the lift up to the eighth floor, and
the duty manager unlocked the door of the room.
Verago had scarcely used it. There were a few
toilet things in the bathroom, but his suitcase still
contained his shirts and underwear.

In the wardrobe hung his uniform.

"I'll just pack it," said the lean man, taking it off
the hanger. He gathered the toilet things and also
put them in Verago's case. Then he quickly,
expertly glanced around

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the room. It was a trained look, which took in
everything.

"That's about it, I guess," said the lean man.

Downstairs he went to the cashier's cage and
paid the bill in full. He put the receipt in his wallet
carefully.

"Captain Verago should have let us know," said
the duty manager.

"Yes, he should have," agreed the man.

"It would have saved him some money."

"I appreciate your cooperation, sir," said the man.

"Well" the duty manager smiled "we try to be
helpful."

Just as well, thought the man. The less we have
to get official the better.

"You sure your friend won't need the room
again?" the duty manager added.

"No," said the man, "I think you can take that as
definite. He won't need a room again."

As he carried Verago's case out of the hotel, he
wondered what it was all about. He was a CIC
agent, but the Army's Counter Intelligence Corps
sometimes didn't tell its own men everything.

Hohenschoenhausen

Some hours later, Verago's cell door was
unlocked and two armed guards beckoned to him.
They wore East German uniforms, but they weren't
Vopos. Theirs was the grey of the death strip
guards, the Grepos.

"Come with us," commanded the taller one.

Verago got to his feet wearily and followed them.
Another series of corridors, passageways, and
staircases, and then he found himself in the open.
They crossed a big courtyard and for the first time
Verago saw the ten-foot walls that surrounded the
confines of Hohenschoenhausen. Surmounting
them at strategic points were guard towers, with
searchlights and machine guns.

He thought of all the stockades and military
detention canters he had visited in the line of duty.
It was an unpleasant realization that here, for the
first time, he wasn't a visitor. Nobody would wave
him out at the main gate. These machine guns
were there to mow him down if he made a false
move.

"Keep going," ordered the taller Grepo.

They led him into another cell block, where the
small windows not only had bars but were covered
with fine wire mesh. Inside doors were unlocked,
and he was

               270
                
marched down another long corridor, their
footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

At last they stopped, outside a cell door with
the number 183.

"In here," said the taller Grepo, unlocking the
door. As soon as Verago stepped inside, it was
slammed shut again, with a thunderous clang.

He stood, adapting to the yellowish lighting. A
gaunt man, with shaved head and a shapeless
uniform, was already on one of the two bunks. He
sat, his chin sunk on his chest, his cheekbones
prominent in his emaciated face.

Verago walked over to the other bunk and sat
down on it.

He studied the other man, who hadn't even
bothered to look up. Poor bastard, he thought,
they've put him through it all right. And then he
froze. Around the man's neck was a thin chain.
And hanging from the chain were two dogtags.
Military dogtags. U.S. identity discs.

He sat staring, mesmerised by the dogtags. He
couldn't believe it.

"Are you a Yank?" Verago called over.

Slowly the man raised his head and his sunken,
shadowed eyes looked at Verago.

"Are you American?" Verago asked urgently.

As if he had to think it over first, the man
nodded.

Verago went over and sat on the bunk next to
the man. He held out his hand, but the man just
looked at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" said Verago.

The man said nothing.

"Excuse me," said Verago, and reached over for
the dogtags. He read them quickly.

"Kingston? Matt Kingston? Air force? Is that
you? Are you an air force officer?"

Again, very slowly, the man nodded, his eyes
never leaving Verago's face.

"Well, say something, for chrissake," demanded
Verago. Then he controlled himself. "I'm sorry,
fella, I'm Captain Verago. Tony Verago. United
States Army." The man didn't react. Verago
pulled out his own dogtags from under his shirt.
"Look."

The man's hand shot out and grabbed the
dogtags and he stared at them.

"My home's New York," said Verago. "Where
are you from?"

The man let Verago's dogtags drop.

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"You're American?" he said at last, his voice low.

"What's your outfit?" asked Verago. "How did
you get in here?"

Kingston stared at him sceptically.

"What did Rhett say to Scarlett?" he asked
suddenly.

"Eh?" Verago gaped at him.

"If you're American, you know what Rhett said
to her. Every American does."

The guy's crazy, thought Verago. Then he
remembered. "'I don't give a damn.'"

For the first time, there was a flicker in
Kingston's eyes. "You're from New York?"

"That's right."

"What's the name of the toy store at the corner
of Fifth and East Fifty-seventh?"

"What the hell is this, quiz time?" snapped
Verago.

"You tell me the name and I'll believe you're
from New York," said Kingston.

"Schwarz."

The man suddenly appeared interested. "What's
your outfits""

"I'm a lawyer. Judge Advocatb's Department.
Where's your base?"

Again the hesitation. Then Kingston said,
"England. Laconbury."

"Oh, my God," said Verago, and momentarily
he thought he had gone insane.

"What's the matter?"

"That's where I'm from. I'm at Laconbury. On
TDY."

The gaunt man shrank back as if he was
suddenly frightened.

"You're a god damn stool pigeon, aren't you?"
he hissed viciously. "They've planted you, haven't
they? Go and fuck yourself, you bastard!"

"Hey, wait a minute...."

Kingston laughed, a slightly demented sound.
"You go tell Fokin he's got to think of something
better than this crap 't

"Don't be a fool," said Verago angrily.

The man calmed down. "Who's the
commander?" he said.

"Croxford. Brigadier General Croxford."

"That proves not hing," said Kingston, "Fokin
knows that too. But if you re from Laconbury,
you tell me what

              272
               
the general does in his free time. Every minute of
his free time."

"How the hell do I know?"

"I knew it," said Kingston. "You're a stoolie.
Fokin doesn't know that either, so you don't "

"Wait a second," interrupted Verago. "Golf. He
plays golf. He's crazy about golf."

Kingston scratched himself. Then he frowned.
"Well, maybe you're . . . maybe you're what you
say. Just don't ask me too many questions, that's
all."

"Like how come you're here?"

"Oh, that's no secret. They shot me down. In
the Baltic. On a ferret run. I'm dead, you see.
Missing presumed dead. And you?"

"I'm just missing, 1 guess," replied Verago. "Not
presumed dead. Not yet, I hope." He looked
around the cell. "What happens here anyway?"

"You'll find out," said Kingston.

They heard the sound of the door being
unlocked from outside, and a guard entered
carrying two battered tin plates covered with a
brown mixture looking like thin glutinous mud
and two tin mugs containing watered-down coffee
made from acorns.

Verago regarded his food with distaste and
tried hard to ignore the obnoxious aroma.

Kingston laughed. "It won't kill you," he said,
hungrily shoveling the muck into his mouth with
a plastic spoon. "You'll get to appreciate it."

"What is it?" asked Verago, fighting back the
nausea.

"If it's got lumps in it it's called goulash. If it's
only liquid it's just plain slime."

For the first time Verago noticed the state of
Kingston's hands. They had blood-encrusted cuts
and slits all over them.

"Matt, what's happened to your hands?"

"Occupational therapy. The socialist democratic
kind."

"What do you mean?"

"Spanish Riders," said Kingston bitterly. "You'll
get to know."

"I don't understand."

"They're working overtime in here on a special
project. Getting the Spanish Riders ready."

"I still don't get it."

Kingston had already finished his plate. He put it
dowry

               273
                
Verago understood why he appeared so
undernourished. If this was the main meal . . .

"Spanish Riders," Kingston explained patiently,
"are sawhorse street barriers. Like the kind of
things they put up in New York streets on St.
Patrick's Day. To cordon off an area. Get it?"

"No. Not really."

"They got all the inmates in here working
overtime preparing them "

"How do you mean, preparing "

"Wrapping barbed wire around them. Spikes
and garlands. So you get cut to ribbons if you try
to climb over them. That's how . . ."

He held up his scarred hands.

"I started bleeding too much, so they've given
me a break. I'll be back at it soon. They need
everybody, they're in such a rush. Truckloads of
barriers come in every hour and huge rolls of
barbed wire. We do the rest." He grinned "Our
contribution to the workers' paradise. Building
barbed-wire barricades."

He looked at Verago's hands.

"Don't worry if the spikes stick into you. They
draw blood, but they don't come through the
other side. Guess it'll make a change from
reading law books, eh?"

The door was flung open, and Verago thought
they had come for the plates and mugs. He
wondered what they'd do to him, because he
hadn't touched any of the stuff.

But instead a guard appeared.

"You," he said to Verago. "Come with me.
Interrogation."

Kingston, on his bunk, grimaced. It made his
skull look like a grisly death mask.

"Good luck, buddy. Keep your cool. Fokin can
get real mean."

But it wasn't Fokin who faced Verago in the
interrogation room.

Hohenschoenhausen

Helmut Pech's East German Volksarmee
uniform was custom made and fitted him to
perfection. His shoulder tabs were those of a
major, and he had a medal ribbon on his chest
that Verago didn't recognize.

Pech started laughing. "You should see your
expression, you really should."

"You.. . here."

               274
                
"Of course. Where I belong." He took Verago's
elbow and guided him to a chair, like a host. "Sit
down and get used to it."

"You're SSD?" It wasn't so much a question as
an awful recognition.

"Correct. Or as you so neatly put it once, the
East German Gestapo. That was very unkind."

"My God!" murmured Verago. "You of all
people . . . B-One. Bonn's counterintelligence.
Working for them."

"Not working for them," Pech corrected with
amusement. "One of them. All along. There's a
big difference."

He sat down and regarded Verago silently.
Then he said, "Oh, please, don't look so baffled.
It's quite simple. Haven't you got used to the fact
that nothing is what it seems these days? Old
enemies are new friends. Friends turn into foes.
Traitors become patriots. One man's cowardice is
another man's bravery. It just depends on where
you're standing."

"And you? What are you?"

"The same package I've always been, but in new
wrapping." Pech liked that. "Quite clever that,
don't you agree, Tony? You don't mind me
calling you Tony?"

"No, Major, I don't mind." Verago's tone was icy.

Pech picked up a letter opener and started
playing with it. It was a long, thin dagger with a
vicious pointed blade. An inscription was
engraved along the blade, but Verago couldn't
read it from where he sat.

"It's a pity it had to end like this," remarked
Pech. "I was doing a very useful job, even if I say
so myself. I kept my nose very clean." He
frowned. "Maybe I made a mistake shooting
Martin Schneider, but "

"You killed him?"

"Of course. He betrayed us. He passed Helga
over to your people, to your agent or should I
say your client?" He gave a thin smile. "Anyway,
one can't let that sort of thing go unpunished, can
one? Unfortunately, my late boss . . . you have
heard of Herr Unruh?"

Verago shook his head.

"Well, Herr Unrnh was a better spy catcher
than I gave him credit for He began to put two
and two together." Pech sighed. "So . . . it gets
like a gambling debt. You incur one to pay
another. Of course, I tried to make it look like
suicide, but Stamm "

"Stamm?"

"My new boss. He started digging a little too
deeply. It

               275
                
was time for me to depart. So here I am. You see
how simple it is?"

The man fascinated Verago. He was like a
creature in the reptile house whose single bite
meant death.

There was a knock on the door.

"Herein," called out Pech, and a Grepo entered
carrying a tray with a bottle in an ice bucket and
two glasses on it.

Pech indicated a place on his desk, and the man
put the tray down, clicked his heels, and left.

"It's not the greatest," apologized Pech, pouring
some wine and pushing a glass over to Verago.
Then he filled his own glass. "This place doesn't
have a good cellar." He grinned. "At least, not
that kind of cellar. But Piesporter is always quite
acceptable, don't you think? Prosit."

Deep inside, Verago wanted to make some
gesture, like throwing the wine in his face. But he
had a craving for it suddenly, a great desire to
taste alcohol, to feel it warming his body. He took
the glass and drank, all the while hating himself
for drinking with a traitor. That's something to be
proud of, there's real defiance for you, he
thought.

"Oh, don't look so disapproving," chided Pech.
"It's not that bad a vintage."

"It's not the wine that's bad," growled Verago.

"You should look on this as a little celebration,"
said Pech. "I know you're no spy. These idiots
over here, they're like Pavlov's dogs. They've got
spying mania. Any foreigner is suspicious. If he's
American, and an army man in civilian clothes, he
must be a spy. It's lucky you weren't wearing dark
glasses. A dummkopf like Schultz would have had
you shot right away."

"And that's exactly what you set up, isn't it?"
Verago broke in.

"If you want to tilt at windmills, don't blame me
for setting up a few for you." Pech smiled. He
poured some more wine. "Tell me, what did you
hope to achieve anyway? If poor Helga was still
around, and you managed to get hold of her,
what good would that have done you?"

Verago looked away. "I don't know," he said
slowly. "I'm not sure. I wanted to bring her back
to England. To produce her in court. To have her
testify . . ."

"What exactly?"

Now Verago faced him. "To say on oath the thing
she

               276
                
told my client that's so explosive he has to be
gagged. By his OWII people."

Pech scraped back his chair. He went to the
window and looked out. Even here the window
was barred. But there was no wire mesh.

"You don't understand, do you?" he said, his
back to Verago. "You don't understand that
you're up against us all. That hasn't sunk in yet,
has it? It's us, and the Americans, and the
Russians, and the French, and the British, all
agreed on one thing, which nobody's going to
prevent . .. August thirteenth."

"Is that when it happens? August thirteenth?"
Verago asked quietly.

Pech came back to his desk and sat down once
more.

"Now then," he said, as if they hadn't had any
conversation so far, "I'm sure you want to get out
of here. Frankly, you should never have been
brought to this place. As I told you, they
overreact. Right now they're like dogs in heat."

Charming, thought Verago A delightful way of
describing your colleagues. But August 13 kept on
hammering at the back of his mind.

"You haven't actually been ill treated, have
you?" Pech went on anxiously. "Nobody's touched
you, have they?"

"If you mean, have I been made to cut up my
hands winding barbed wire around hundreds of
street barricades . . . no."

"Good." Pech seemed relieved. "I have given
orders that you're not to be put in the
workshops."

"These wooden barriers, they have to be ready
for August thirteenth, haven't they?"

Pech stared at him. He clutched his letter
opener and the knuckles showed white. Then he
relaxed.

"I'm going to order your release, Tony. I want
you out of Berlin, out of the DDR, out of
Germany. Understand?"

Something worried Verago. Like a caution light
that was blinking. But he replied, "Thank God for
that. I have to be back in the UK on Tuesday.
I've only got a couple of days. Just let me out of
here and I'll catch the next train to the West
sector."

Pech tried to pour some more wine, but the
bottle was empty.

"Damn, a dead mom, as you say. What a pity."
He slammed the empty bottle back in the ice
bucket. "Tony,

               277
                
I'm afraid it's not as simple as that. It's got to be
done, as you say in the American services,
through channels."

"Like the way I was tricked and knocked out
and kidnapped, through channels? Is that it?"

"Properly. It's got to be neat and tidy. I have,
as we put it, a *temper mentality. I like the right
rubber stamp on the correct document. You have
to be handed back formally and officially. I can't
just let you wander back by yourself. Supposing
questions are asked? Supposing you make
allegations? Tricked, did you say, kidnapped? It
could be very awkward...."

Verago swallowed. "I'll keep quiet about it."

''I'm sure," purred Pech. "Nevertheless, your
handover has to be done correctly."

"When?"

"You leave that to me." He bent down and
from a drawer in his desk, he pulled out some
magazines. "Here, Look, Lif e, Time. To keep you
amused. " He laughed suddenly. "Very
appropriate, wouldn't you say? Look. Life. Time."

"I find the German sense of humor very
unfunny, East or West," remarked Verago stonily.
"I just want out, as quickly as possible."

"Of course, of course," Pech agreed genially. He
took Verago to the door and slapped him on the
back. "One day soon you and I will crack a bottle,
and we'll laugh about this, believe me."

He opened the door and nodded to the Grepo
who Stood at attention, cradling a machine pistol.

"One eighty-three," said Pech. "See you soon,
Tony."

It was as he marched along the corridors, the
guard at his side, that a terrible realization
dawned on Verago.

Pech had told him too much. Far too much for
a man who was going to be handed back.

Laconbury

Tower sat in the interview room in the
headquarters building, wondering why the APs
had brought him there.

He soon knew when Colonel Kincaid came in,
followed by Jensen.

"Relax, Captain," said Kincaid. "I'm Third Air
Force judge advocate, but this is sort of
unofficial."

"We've had some bad news, John," interjected
Jensen, but he didn't seem unduly depressed.

"You've lost your lawyer," announced Kincaid.

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Tower raised his head, and his tired eyes stared
at the colonel with his boyish movie-star looks.

"Captain Verago went to Berlin, and I'm sorry
to say he strayed into the East zone. He's
missing."

"Missing?"

"Yes, Captain. We've no idea what's happened
to him or where he is. I guess you could say he's
missing."

"I see," Tower said slowly.

Jensen leaned forward. "The point is, John, he
can't be here for the resumed trial. I doubt if
we'll get him back for months. They're holding
him."

Tower stared at him. "How do you know that?"
he asked quietly.

It was Kincaid who replied. "It's an educated
guess, Captain. We've been in touch with the
army in Berlin. CIC's found out he boarded a
train into East Berlin, and after that he
disappeared. He didn't go officially, he wasn't in
uniform, so if they're holding him, it complicates
things. He's got no status."

"You know why he went to Berlin, John?"
Jensen inquired silkily.

Tower resisted the temptation to laugh. "Oh,
come on, you know and I know," he began, but
Kincaid interrupted.

"No, Captain, I know nothing officially. And I
don't want to. As far as I'm concerned, Captain
Verago's unfortunate absence has nothing to do
with your case."

"And anything in Berlin is immaterial and
irrelevant to the court," added Jensen. "You sent
him on a wild goose chase, John."

Tower started to say something and then shut
his mouth. After a while he asked, "What about
the trial?"

"That's why we're here, John," said Kincaid. "I
suggest we carry on, with Lieutenant Jensen
handling your defence. You could request a
delay, even fresh counsel, drag out the whole
thing, but I really don't think that's in your
interest."

Jensen lowered his voice. "Listen, the colonel's
come here specially with a proposition. Haven't
you, sir?"

He was a model acolyte.

"Well?" said Tower.

Kincaid gave him a frank, honest beam. He was
very good at it.

"We all want to get this business over as
painlessly as possible, don't we, Captain? If you
go along with my sug

               279
                
gestion, I think it's pretty likely things will go easy
for you."

"How easy?"

"Well, I think Lieutenant Jensen can fill you in."

"You let me handle things," Jensen explained
earnestly, right on cue, "and it'll become a
formality. You plead guilty, you'll get your
knuckles rapped, maybe a little confinement, but
I can promise you it'll be favorably reviewed.
You'll be a free man in no time. They'll wipe it
all out. In due course."

"Turn Captain Verago's absence to your
advantage, Captain," urged Kincaid. "Start all
over again. It's only a suggestion, of course," he
added hastily. "I'm not trying to influence you.
You have to decide. But I think you'll find my
advice is pretty sound. Yes, sir."

"It stinks," said Tower.

Kincaid's expression didn't change.

"I never heard that," he said. "But what can you
lose? The way you're going, you're asking for the
book to be thrown at you. The other way, you
might be home for Christmas."

"The point is," said Tower, "it's all served its
purpose, hasn't it? Soon it won't matter if I'm
around to shoot my mouth off."

Jensen glanced nervously at Kincaid, but the
colonel was bland.

"I don't know what you're talking about,
Captain. I just want to make it painless for you,"
he said.

"Pain, Colonel?" Tower's lips twisted. "Don't
worry about that. It stopped hurting a long time
ago."

Hohenschoenhausen

The cell was empty when Verago returned. He
expected the guard to slam the door behind him,
but instead he escorted him-inside. He stood and
regarded Verago thoughtfully, his fingers playing
nervously with the strap of his machine pistol.

For a moment, Verago was frightened. A crazy
thought crossed his mind that this was how they
were going to do it. Here. Now. In this cell. A
sudden burst from the gun and his body filled
with bullets. They could always say that he tried
to escape. It would make an adequate ex-
planation, if anyone wanted to know.

But who was there to ask questions anyway?

               280
                
"You want something?" asked Verago, hoping
he didn't show his fear.

The trooper stood rock still. Verago realized he
had spoken in English. So he asked in German,
"Where is Captain Kingston?"

The soldier shook his head. He had blond
eyebrows, freckles, and very bhle eyes.

He pointed at Verago's watch. "Bitte," he said.

It took a moment to sink in. Then Verago said
incredulously, "You want my watch?"

The soldier nodded. "]a, bitte, ihre Uhr."

And very gently he raised the barrel of his gun
so that it pointed straight at the pit of Verago's
stomach.

It didn't jell. Something was wrong. The Grepos
were too disciplined, too military to steal from
prisoners. Verago felt certain of that. These were
not ragged mercenaries who looted, but ramrod
stiff, professional soldiers.

And yet . . .

Verago shrugged. He slipped'the watch off his
wrist and handed it to the man.

"Danke schoen," the Grepo said respectfully,
and clicked his heels. He put the watch in his
pocket, and as he did so, Verago noticed the man
was already wearing a wristwatch.

The door slammed, and Verago was left alone.

He went over to his bunk and sat thinking
about the incident. Of course! The guard wasn't
robbing a prisoner. He had been given orders to
take away Verago's watch. They didn't want to
make an official thing of it, that was why Pech
hadn't asked for it, but they didn't want him to
know the time any more.

How long he was alone, Verago didn't work
out, but then the door was unlocked and
Kingston limped in. He made his way painfully to
his bunk and lay down on it.

"How was it?" Kingston asked.

Verago shrugged. "I don't think I'm going to
get out of here."

"Is that what Fokin said?"

"It wasn't Fokin. It was . . . the new Gestapo."

"Aren't they all."

"How about you?" asked Verago.

Kingston held up his hands. They were
bloodied and covered with gashes.

               281
                
"I did my chores."

He sat up. "Tony," he whispered. He patted his
bunk. "Sit here."

Verago went over. "I know why they put you in
here," said Kingston, his face an inch away, his
voice a hoarse whisper. "I think the place is
bugged. They hope we'll say things."

"I know."

"So be careful. There's something else." He
spoke into Verago's ear. "The barbed wire that
they're using. It's being supplied by the West."

Verago looked at him incredulously. Kingston
nodded vigorously. "I saw the delivery labels. On
some bales. It's been rushed here from West
Germany. They're using so much barbed wire
they've run out of it. So the West is sending
more."

"To make street barricades?"

"Christ, man, what the hell do you send barbed
wire to East Germany for?"

Verago suddenly felt sick. He kept hearing the
echo of Pech's voice: "Don't you understand?"

"The Vopos are trying to hide it from us,"
Kingston went on urgently. "They're going around
tearing off the tags."

He looked at the bleeding, oozing wounds on his
hand.

"Made in Essen," he said bitterly. "Courtesy the
workers' paradise and Papa Ulbricht. Doesn't
make sense, does it""

Verago took a long time to answer. And then
he whispered. "It's beginning to."

"Jesus, what's going on?"

Verago put his fingers on his lips.

"Listen," said Kingston. "If you get out of here .
. ."

d`1' Id
/ - . . .

"Will you do something for me? Go and see my
wife. We live in a small town you've never heard
of in California. Near the Nevada border.
Independence. Can you remember that? Mrs.
Irene Kingston, Independence, California'? Tell
her . . . that I'm still alive . . . and maybe . . . one
day "

He broke off, biting his lip.

"As good as done," said Verago, and meant it.
"But you've got to promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

              282
               
"You invite me to dinner when you're back
with your wife."

"That's a date," said Kingston, trying to sound
confident.

"Independence is a nice name," Verago
murmured thoughtfully.

Then the guards switched the lights off.

      Monday, July31, 1961

Pankow

IT was going to be a busy day for Walter Ulbricht.
At 11 A.M. Marshal Ivan Koniev, the newly
arrived Commander in Chief of the Soviet forces
in Germany, was due to call on him, accompanied
by Mikhail Pervukhin, the Kremlin's ambassador.

Already the enclave at Pankow was on full alert,
the smart, jackbooted guards of Ulbricht's
personal Wachtregiment standing at attention,
ready to present arms when the marshal's staff car
swept into the grounds.

Only one thing so far spoiled the morning, a
beautiful sunny day. Ulbricht had just finished
reading a report marked "Geheime
Staatssache" "Secret State Document." There
were only three copies of the document, and they
made unpleasant reading.

To date, reported Leuschner, three and a half
million East Germans had defected across the
border to the West. Bruno Leuschner, Politburo
member for economic planning, was blunt:

"We are bleeding to death."

And he quoted some of the secret statistics: So
many men had fled that 80 percent of the working
force in many factories was female; one citizen in
five who was left was too old to work; old-age
pensioners and schoolchildren, the
nonproductives, outnumbered the working
population by four to three.

"If this goes on," warned Leuschner, "the DDR
will collapse."

It was just too damn easy to get out, reflected
Ulbricht. As the latest SSD briefing had only told
him last week, the 163-kilometer border with the
western sectors of the city was wide open. The
eighty-eight crossing points simply

               283
                
couldn't be supervised adequately, and the
elevated railway shuttled scores of defectors into
the West on every ourney.

Ulbricht knew all this, but he hated to be
reminded of it. Anyway, it wasn't going on much
longer. He glanced at the date ringed in red on
his desk calendar, next to the miniature DDR
flag. It would all stop on August 13. That was,
after all, why Koniev had been brought out of
retirement.

His intercom buzzed.

"General Hoffmann is here, sir," announced the
voice of his aide.

"Good, good." He sat up straight. "Ask him to
enter."

They were old comrades, he and the tough,
leathery Karl-Heinz Hoffmann, Minister of
National Defense and the man who shared the big
secret of August 13. One of the few privileged
ones.

Hoffmann wore his best parade uniform, just as
Ulbricht had put on the dark double-breasted suit
he wore only on state occasions. Marshal Koniev
was famous for noting these details, and they
knew they would be inspected like the
steel-helmeted guard of honor outside.

"I see you've polished him," Hoffmann said
dryly, nodding at the silver-framed, signed photo
of Nikita Khrushchev. The frame shone brilliantly.

"It's a valuable frame," stated Ulbricht, and they
both understood each other.

Hoffmann sat down, crossing his jackbooted
legs. "By the way, Walter, don't forget, the old
man likes his drop of vodka."

"I have already seen to that," replied Ulbricht,
nettled. "Refreshments will be served."

It was a special concession. Ulbricht, a strict
teetotaler, refused to have drink in his office and
frowned on people smoking in his presence.
Hoffmann missed no opportunity to needle him
about it.

"We have half an hour," said Ulbricht, peering
at his watch.

"You haven't you know," said Hoffmann. "I
asked you to pencil Major Pech in for this
morning. It won't take long."

"Ah, of course. Major Pech." Ulbricht nodded.
"It will be a pleasure."

"He's waiting outside," said Hoffmann. "Very
punctual is our Pech."

               284
                
Ulbricht switched on his intercom. "Please send
in Major Pech," he instructed.

Almost immediately the knock on the door
came, and Pech entered. Both men stood up. It
was a rare token of appreciation. Pech snapped to
attention and stood rigidly straight.

"At ease," said Hoffmann, with a wave of his hand.

Ulbricht came forward with outstretched hand.
"Major Pech, my compliments. I have been looking
forward to this. I am so sorry it is such a casual
occasion but, of course, men in your work
appreciate that they do not receive public acclaim,
more's the pity."

He shook Pech's hand, a loose, moist grip. and
behind his pince-nez his shortsighted eyes blinked.
Ulbricht never felt quite secure in the presence of
double agents.

"I am honored,"said Pech.

Hoffmann cleared his throat. "On behalf of the
armed forces of the German People's Republic, I
wish to congratulate you on your marvelous work
while sub rosa." He thought it was a neat phrase
for treason.

"I have here a little token of our appreciation,"
said Ulbricht, picking up a small box. He took out
a medal and pinned it on Pech's uniform.

"I am honored," Pech said again.

"It carries with it a small pension," added
Hoffmann, ever practical.

Ulbricht stepped back. "I am sorry of course that
you had to surface," he added. "You were very
useful over there. But I am sure you will continue
the good work on this side."

"Right now," intervened Hoffmann, "the
important thing is there must be no leaks. The
world must know nothing. Once it's happened,
nobody will do anything, but until then . . . I look
to you to make sure nothing can, or, embarrass
us." A thought struck him. "I hear you're holding
an American officer. I hope that won't cause any
complications."

"It won't, General." said Pech. "I don't think you
will hear from him any more."

"I leave that to you," said Hoffmann.

Ulbricht glanced at the ornamental clock next to
the silken Chinese tapestry hanging on the wall.
"Major, would you excuse us now? I'm sorry to cut
this very pleasant moment so short, but we have a
rather important vmtor coming."

               285
                
Pech sprang to attention and clicked his heels.

He did it very smartly. It made such a change
from the way they did it on the other side.

Hohenschoenhausen

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked solicitously.
Under his white coat, Verago could see the grey
Volksarrnee uniform.

"I'm okay."

- The doctor shook his head doubtfully. "Let's take
your pulse again."

The hospital wing of Hohenschoenhausen stood
in a building apart, and Verago had been marched
there under armed escort and then taken to a
cubicle.

"Take your shirt off, please," requested the
doctor who came in. He was gray-haired and had
a furrowed brow, like a man who worried a great
deal.

"There's nothing wrong with me," protested
Verago.

"No harm in making sure," said the doctor.

He jammed the cold stethoscope to Verago's
chest.

"Well?"

"Open your mouth," instructed the doctor, and
peered inside with a penlight. "Yes, you've got
good teeth. Your American dentists know their
job."

"Doctor, what the hell is this about?" demanded
Verago. The entrance to the cubicle was guarded
by a soldier with the ever-present machine pistol.

"We just want to make sure you are in tip-top
condition," said the doctor. "You're going back to
your friends, aren't your Well, we don't want to
give them a sick man. It would be a bad
advertisement for us, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe you ought to give people better food
then. Or stop them twisting barbed wire
bare-handed...."

But the doctor shone his penlight into Verago's
eyes. "You've been under a strain, haven't you?"

"You surprised?"

"Sleeping badly?"

Verago snorted

"I think you need a good rest, a really good
rest," said the doctor

"You know what I need. To get out of this place."

"Yes," agreed the doctor. "It's not a holiday home.
But

I don't think you've been badly treated. Have you
ever been in Mosbit?"

"No."

               286
                
"Ah, then you would know how unpleasant
things can get. I disapprove of places like Moabit."

"Glad to hear it," said Verago, buttoning up his
shirt.

"No," said the doctor. "Roll up your sleeve."

He was busying himself over a trolley containing
jars and bottles.

"What for?" asked Verago, his uneasiness growing.

The doctor turned around. He was holding a
hypodermic syringe.

"Now wait a moment," cried Verago. "I'm not "

"Don't be childish," the doctor said mildly. "This
is only a little injection to relax you. It will give
you a good night's sleep."

"In the middle of the day?"

"Hager!" yelled the doctor. As if on cue, a burly
man in a short white jacket entered the cubicle.
He had jackboots.

"Just hold this patient's arm for me, will you?"
requested the doctor.

Hagen grabbed Verago's right arm and held it in
an iron grip.

"I want . . . I want Major Pech," gasped Verago
desperately.

"I am doing this on Major Pech's instructions "
said the doctor. "He wants you fully fit so that the
Americans can't complain about your health. We
are not monsters, you know."

And he jabbed the needle into Verago's arm.

"There," he said, "that didn't hurt, did it?"

He nodded to Hagen, and the vicelike grip was
taken off. The relief was like the time Pech
removed his handcuffs. -

Verago sat still, pale-faced.

The doctor laughed, quite sympathetically.

"Relax," he said. "You look so worried. You
won't feel a thing."

Involuntarily, Verago shuddered. He recollected
a transcript he had read. The record of a war
crimes trial. He remembered vividly a witness who
recalled the words of the doctor in the death
clinic. "You won't feel a thing...."

"You people can't get away with this kind of
thing, not any more," croaked Verago. "Not in
1961. People will look for me. The army...."

"You see, you are suffering from hypertension,"
said

               287
                
the doctor. "I suppose it's only understandable,
but your nerves are in a shocking state. You have
a good rest now."

Verago staggered to his feet

"I want out," he cried, "I want out of here, you
bastards, I "

Then he folded over and crashed to the floor.

They stood watching, not even trying to prevent
him from falling.

London

Ivanov was late, and Laurie watched the
entrance of the lounge at the Wcstbury anxiously.
She hadn't touched the coffee she had ordered,
and her fingers twisted nervously around the strap
of her shoulder bag.

When he came, a smile crossed his face as soon
as he spotted her.

"Forgive me," he excused himself, sifting down,
"but I find walking down Bond Street most
seductive. I love the shops. They could make me
change my allegiance, I think. My country for
Asprey's...."

But she didn't smile, and he reacted to the
strain in her eyes.

"Laurie, how selfish of me. You have a
problem? A big problem, I think?"

'Yony's in trouble," she burst out.

The bonhomie faded. "Yes," said Ivanov soberly,
"I regret to say Captain Verago is in big trouble."

"You've got to do something, Gene. You must."

He called the waiter over. "I would like
something stronger than this. For me and the
lady."

And he pointed to the cold coffee with a
gesture of contempt.

"Are you resident, sir?" inquired the waiter.

"No."

"I'm afraid the bar is only open to residents at
this hour."

Ivanov looked shocked. Then he ordered some
tea.

"I have changed my mind," he confided. "No
way could I give a country that does not serve a
drink in the afternoon my allegiance."

"Please," appealed Laurie.

"Ah, yes. Your Captain Verago. He is a lucky
man, for you to care. It is not just official, I take
it?"

"I think he's in great danger," said Laurie.
"He " She broke off.

               288
                
.'Yes?'t

"Can you get him outs" she asked. She was very
anxious.

"I personally? Laurie. I am not that important."

"You know who to contact," she said impatiently.

He shook his head. "Rumor has it," he began,
carefully picking his words, "that he is in East
German hands. That's unfortunate. Papa Ulbricht
is a hard liner, you know. His boys are very
humorless."

The waiter brought the tea, and Ivanov poured
himself a cup, ignoring the milk jug. He put six
lumps of sugar in the cup and looked sheepish
doing it.

"The East Germans will do what your people
say," Laurie said earnestly. "He is an American
officer. I am sure nobody wants an incident."

"What would Washington do? Break off
diplomatic relations with Pankow? Oh, come on,
Laurie, the U.S. doesn't even have official
diplomatic relations with Ulbricht. No, your lot
have to do it."

"What?"

"Get him out," Ivanov said quietly. "Forgive an
athe~ ist for quoting the old saying 'God helps
those who help themselves.' "

"You know that's impossible," Laurie whispered.

"Is it?" He raised his eyebrows.

Momentarily her lip quivered. "Oh, God," she
whispered.

But Laurie was not a woman to cry in public.
She tossed her head and said rather defiantly, "So
there's nothing you can do?"

"I didn't say that, but it is difficult," murmured
Ivanov. "He got himself into this mess, you know.
Nobody asked him to. We were all very unhappy
about it, weren't we?"

He sipped his tea and pulled a face. "Too sweet.
I should only have put four in."

"All right," said Laurie. She sounded like a
woman who had made up her mind suddenly.
"Thanks anyway."

"Of course." Ivanov said silkily, "I will do my
best. Only that I can't make a promise."

She put a half crown on her bill.

"Gene, I'm not sure that's good enough." She
smiled coldly.

He rose as she got to her feet.

"By the way," he asked softly, "what about the
courtmartial?"

               289
                
Laurie looked away, avoiding his eyes. "Oh,
the courtmartial," she said. "That's all being
taken care of."

"Well," he said after a pause, "in that case
perhaps I might be able to do something after
all."

"Like what?"

"Have a word in the right ear," he said and
smiled.

     Tuesday, August 1, 1961
  TRANSCRIPT OF RESUMED GENERAL
    COURT-MARTIAL PROCEEDINGS
          U.S. v TOWER
      RAF STATION LACONBURY

PRESIDENT: The court will come to order.

TRIAL COUNSEL: All parties to the trial who were
present when the court adjourned are again
present in court except Captain Anthony Verago,
the individual defense counsel.

PRESIDENT: Why is Captain Verago not here?

TRIAL COUNSEL: It is my understanding that
Captain Verago is not at present in the United
Kingdom.

PRESIDENT: Why not? Has he been excused?

TRIAL COUNSEL: I think it's fair to say that
Captain Verago is unavoidably detained outside
the jurisdiction of the United States and is not in
a position to be able to attend these proceedings.

PRESIDENT: This is outrageous. I intend to cite
Captain Verago for contempt of court.

LAW OFFICER: Sir. it has not been established
that Captain Verago is voluntarily absent.

PRESIDENT: What does that mean?

TRIAL COUNSEL: I understand that Captain
Verago is missing and may have fallen into East
German hands. He was last seen in West Berlin
and has not been heard of since crossing into the
East sector.

PRESIDENT: And what was he doing there?

LAW OFFICER: That, sir, is not a matter for this
court.

PRESIDENT: Now wait a moment. Is he AWOLI

TRIAL COUNSEL: That is not for me to
answer....

PRESIDENT: Well, damn it, I intend to have an an-
swer.

               290
                
LAW OFFICER: Colonel, please. Has the
prosecution a statement for the court?

TRIAL COUNSEL: Yes, sir. If you please, in view
of the absence of individual defense counsel, I
consulted with the appointed defense counsel,
Lieutenant Jensen. He indicated that in the
circumstances, to avoid this case remaining
unresolved, he is willing to take over the defense
and for the trial to continue. Since it is possible
that Captain Verago may not be available for an
indefinite time, the prosecution is agreeable.

LAW OFFICER: Does the accused consent? THE
ACCUSED HESITATED, THEN NODDED.

LAW OFFICER: Let the record reflect that the ac-
cused indicated his agreement. Lieutenant Jensen?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Sir, I much regret Captain
Verago's failure to show, and so does the accused.
I have persuaded the accused that, since Captain
Verago may be in Comm~mist hands, it is likely
we may not even see him again.

LAW OFFICER: I don't want conjectures, Lieuten-
ant. You say you have made the position clear to
the accused?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Yes, sir. Forcibly. And he
wants to get this thing over with. He now sees
there's no point delaying matters.

LAW OFFICER: So the defense is willing to
continue?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: Yes, sir.

PRESIDENT: What I want to know is, is somebody
taking disciplinary action against this Captain
Verago?

LAW OFFICER: With respect, sir, that does not
concern you or this court.

PRESIDENT: Damn army lawyers....

LAW OFFICER: Sir!

PRESIDENT: Oh, ail right.

LAW (:)FFICER: Lieutenant Jensen, I want to
remind you that the accused has the right to ask
for a new individual counsel and to request that
this case be continued until such time as a fresh
defense lawyer is ready.

DEFENSE COUNSET.: Captain Tower doesn't want
to know. He says he'll leave it to me. He seems to
feel that, er, it doesn't matter any more.

LAW OFFICER: Is that correct, Captain Tower?
(PAUSE). Let the record reflect that the accused
nodded.

               291
                
DEFENSE COUNSEL: So we're all set, sir.

LAW OFFICER: Proceed.

PRESIDENT: Let's get on with it.

TRIAL COUSEL: With the consent of the defence,
I'll omit the reading of the charges.

DEFENSE COUNSEL: We agree.

PRESIDENT: Good.

TRIAL COUNSEL: Captain Tower, how do you
plead?

DEFENSE COUNSEL: all right, Captain Tower, I'll
do it for you. To all specifications and charges, the
accused pleads guilty.

PRESIDENT: Captain Tower, by pleading guilty you
have admitted every single element of the
offence.. As a result, you may he sentenced by the
court to the maximum punishment authorized. Do
you understand?

CAPTAIN TOWER: Yes, sir. You got what you
wanted.

PRESIDENT: Address the court properly. Since you
understand what it means, do you persist in your
plea of guilty?

CAPTAIN TOWER: Yes. It'll just save you time,
germ tlemen, won't it?

PRESIDENT: Sit down.

LAW OFFICER: Colonel Apollo,in view of the plea,
how long do you think this case will now take?

TRIAL COUNSEL: Not long. Not long at ale

    Wednesday, August 2,1961

Hohenschoenhausen

"I am sorry about your hands," said Fokin.

Kingston's head was bowed, and he sat on the
bunk, his hands bandaged lumps. His wounds had
turned septic.

"We will try to feed you and . . . do all the other
things . . . help you as best we can," continued
Fokin, a little awkwardly.

Kingston looked up and his skeletal, almost
cadaverous face was a mask of hatred.

"Barbed wire," he hissed, and it came out like a
curse.

Then he spat at Fokin.

               292
                
Pokin first flushed, then turned ashen. He raised
his hand, a clenched fist, and slowly lowered it
again.

"I'm sorry. You should have cooperated. Told us
what we wanted to know. Answered a few
technical questions. Surely that is too heavy a
price?" he asked, indicating the bandaged hands.

Fokin was unhappy. This flyer had not provided
the information they had expected. It was a black
mark on Fokin's record as a crack interrogator.

"This is probably the last time we will meet,
Captain I regret they have other plans for you
now."

The inflamed eyes bored into him.

"You are a credit to your service, Captain,"
continued Pokin, "and I respect you as one officer
respects another. But I am afraid all that will be
no consolation to you now when . . . when others
take over."

For once he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

"Fokin," said the emaciated man.

"Yes?"

"What has happened to him?"

"Who?" asked Fokin. It was disconcerting to
suddenly hear Kingston, after all this time, ask
questions.

"The man . . . who was in here . . . with me . .
the army captain."

"Captain Verago?" Fokin hesitated. 'He " He
paused. Then he came straight out with it. "You
will not be seeing him again, Captain Kingston."

Hours afterward, when he was sitting in the
dark, alone, his hands stumps of agony, the fever
beginning, Kingston was still wondering which of
them would die first.

He or Verago.

      Friday, August 4,1961

East Germany

HE couldn't move his arms or his legs. His limbs
seemed paralyzed. And everything was shaking,
the roof and the walls.

Those were the first moments of conscious
awareness. But he wasn't really awake. He tried to
focus his eyes,

               293
                
but his vision was blurred. And he felt tired,
terribly tired.

He wondered how long he had been
unconscious. A long, long time, his instinct told
him. Not hours. Days. Nights? Or was he
dreaming?

He strained, hard, to move his arms, but
something cut into him. He tried to move his
head from side to side. That was possible. And it
gave him encouragement.

He couldn't understand the shaking, the
bumping, and then suddenly he realised he was
traveling. It wasn't a ceiling he was looking at, but
the roof of a vehicle. These weren't walls, but the
sides of a . . . a truck? A van?

And then he understood why he couldn't move
arms or legs. He was strapped down. He was
strapped to a stretcher, and he was on the move,
being driven somewhere.

He was utterly helpless, and whatever they had
pumped into him was still in his system. He tried
to make his brain work, to control his thoughts, to
begin to reason things out....

But it was too much for him. He groaned, and
then everything became giddy, and suddenly he
was plunged into darkness once more.

     Wednesday,August 9,1961

East Germany

IT was the most comfortable bed Verago had ever
known. A soft mattress, a cool sheet, a
feather-filled duvet covering him.

He stretched out, luxuriating in the sheer
sensual delight.

Then he sat bolt upright. Awareness and
bewilderment took over.

He looked around the bedroom, with its thick
pile carpet and big windows. He could even hear
birds singing.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He
was still unsteady on his legs and utterly confused.

He was wearing pajamas, and he felt clean.
refreshed. Somebody must have washed him. He
touched his chin; and shaved him too.

Slowly he tottered to the window and looked out.
Be

               294
                
low stretched a beautiful garden, with a well-mown
lawn as its centerpiece. He could just see rose bushes
and a weeping willow tree. An empty deck chair stood
invitingly on the lawn.

"My God! You'll catch cold," said a woman's voice.

He turned around .md saw a buxom, rosy-faced
woman

 in the doorway. She had flaxen hair tied in a
bun on top

and although she beamed at him, her eyes were
wary.
She was carrying a tray.

"Back into bed with you, at once," she ordered like
a reproving matron. A prison matron, it flashed
through his mind.

"Where is this?" asked Verago.

"Into bed," the woman snapped good-naturedly.

He got back in and pulled the duvet up. She
dumped the tray on his lap.

"Eat your breakfast," she said. Suddenly she broke
into a bright smile. "It's nice to see you about again."

Her bonhomie worried him.

"If you need anything, just ask," she said, waddling
to the door. Then she was gone.

Verago was starving and it was an appetizing break-
fast. Orange juice. Tinned pears. Two eggs, sunnyside
up, just the way he liked them. Crisp strips of bacon,
done the American way. A pot of coffee and toast and
English marmalade.

He shook his head in disbelief, then he tucked in.

After he'd finished breakfast, he lay back against the
pillows, trying to collect his thoughts. But they were a
crazy kaleidoscope of memories he couldn't pin down.
He had a vague recollection of some endless ride in a
truck, being tied down like . . .

Or had that been a nightmare? Had he dreamed it all?

The buxom woman came in without knocking. She
had his clothes over her arm.

"Here you are," she announced, putting them on an
armchair. "They've all been cleaned and pressed."

She took the tray.

"Now have a bath. It's next door, everything you
need, soap and towels. Then get dressed. You haven't
got much time, you know."

"Just a moment," said Verago. "What's your name?"

"Maria."

"Well, Maria, what am I doing here? Who brought
me here?"

                295
                 
"Were the eggs all right?" she asked, and shut
the door without waiting for Verago's answer.

He had his bath, wallowing in the warm water,
soaping himself like a man trying to wash away
the stain of foulness. But he couldn't get rid of
his nagging unease.

Then he dressed. His clothes had been
beautifully finished. Even the button that he'd
lost from his collar had been replaced. And when
he found his shoes at the end of the bed, they
had been polished to a gleam.

He put on his jacket and froze. He took out a
wallet from the inside pocket. The wallet the man
Schultz had waved in his face. And his passport,
and inside that, his army ID card.

He was perspiring and he felt weak. He sat
down in the armchair and tried to work it out.

The room offered him no clues. An anonymous,
flowery wallpaper, a print of some old castle on
the opposite wall, a medieval map on another. He
looked more closely. It was a sixteenth-century
chart of the Baltic.

The door opened and Pech walked in. He
stopped when he saw Verago.

"Tony!" he exclaimed delightedly. "You look
great."

He was wearing a grey suit and saw Verago
eyeing it.

"Simpson's," Pech told him proudly. "Bought it
on a trip to London when I was still my alter
ego."

"Where am I?" asked Verago.

"You were quite ill, you know. At one time I
got really worried. You were out like a light.
Gave me the shock of my life."

Verago stared at him grimly. "I asked where am
I?"

"Oh" Pech shrugged "a little village. I
borrowed a friend's house. Let you sleep." He
glanced at his watch. "We'd better get going."

"Where to?"

"Now, where do you think it could be?" Pech
smiled, and his eyes twinkled "Home sweet home.
I'm going to take you back to your people."

"You are handing me over?" Verago couldn't
believe it.

"Well, I won't come with you all the way," said
Pech. "IS might be a little awkward for me,
crossing into the West sector. But I'll wave you
good-bye anyway."

He suddenly looked concerned. "Have you got
your papers?"

Verago patted his breast pocket. "Yes."

               296
                
"Good. It would be just like those idiots to
forget to return them."

He glanced around the room. "Sure you haven't
forgotten anything?"

"I wasn't exactly overloaded with luggage,"
Verago rot marked dryly.

"Let's go then," said Pech, holding the door open.

Outside the bedroom was a landing and a richly
carpeted staircase leading down to the entrance
hall. It was an old house and very ornate. A big
tapestry, with an ancient coat of arms, hung on
one wall.

"You've got aristocratic friends," observed
Verago as they descended.

Pech just smiled.

Before the front door stood a black Mercedes.
Pech opened the passenger door like a chauffeur.

"Your carriage awaits, sir," he announced with
mock civility. "I hope you trust my driving."

The buxom Maria was nowhere in sight.

"All set?" asked Pech.

Verago nodded.

But he knew it couldn't be just this simple.

Zur Lezten Instanz

They drove along a country road, past the tall
trees of a wood stretching either side, and then
into open countryside, dotted with a few farms
and a line of telegraph poles.

"I wish there was time to show you Potsdam,"
said Pech. "It's very impressive."

A small convoy of six People's Army trucks was
ahead of them, and Pech followed it for a mile or
so. Verago could see steel-helmeted soldiers in
the back of the trucks. Then Pech got impatient
and, sounding his horn, overtook the convoy.

So far they hadn't seen any civilian traffic, or
even people. Only soldiers seemed in evidence.

"Where are we?" asked Verago.

'What was Steinstuecken, over there," said Pech.

"Where do I cross back into the city?"

"Not Checkpoint Charlie." Pech grinned.
"Something a little more discreet, okay?"

"F'ar from here?"

"Anybody would think you're tired of our
hospitality."

               297
                
They came to an inn. In gothic lettering it
proclaimed its name: Zur Letzten Instanz

"How appropriate," said Pech. He saw Verago
looking puzzled.

" 'The Last Resort,' " he translated. He stopped
the car in the cobbled forecourt.

"Let's have, as you say, a quick one," said Pech.
"A good-bye drink. For old time's sake."

Verago followed him into the old inn, which
they had to themselves. He didn't feel like a
drink. He wanted to cross to the other side as
quickly as possible.

But Pech was in no hurry.

"Your very good health," he toasted, after the
landlord had uncorked a dust-covered bottle of
wine from the cellar. It was a superb vintage.
Pech knew what to order.

"I'll miss you, Tony," he aid, a little sadly. "I
hate saying good-bye."

"Well," said Verago, "I'U be glad to get back.
I'm sure you understand."

"You think Tauber is worth all this?" -

Verago stared at him. "Tauber? Who's Tauber?"

"Nobody told you, I suppose. Your Captain
Tower. You know what his real name is? Tauber.
Johann Herman Tauber. That's what he was
born."

He let it sink in, looking pleased at the effect.

"Yes. A German refugee. His parents left early.
In 1933. Went to Delaware, of all places. Changed
their name to Tower."

He sipped some wine and smacked his lips.
"Excellent stuff, this."

"I gathered he speaks German like a native,"
said Verago.

"Obviously. Perfect for undercover work." He
gave Verago a sharp glance. "All this is news to
you, is it?"

Verago stayed silent.

"In this kind of work, you have to be
unemotional," Pech went on, twirling the green
stem of his wine glass. "Stay detached."

"Like you?"

"Precisely. Tower has the wrong background.
His people having to flee from Hitler, losing
everything, penniless. It's made him too involved."

Why are you telling me all this? asked an inner
voice. Why are you opening the dossier for me?
But aloud

               298
                
Verago simply said, "I don't follow. What do you
mean, too involved?"

"Of course you know. Berlin is going to be
sealed off. Divided in two. Cut in half.
Regretfully, people will have to be . . . separated.
A million people will be locked in. It's sad, of
course, but it has to be." Pech's mouth was firmly
set. "The good captain couldn't stomach it."

Pech poured the last of the wine.

"I'd like another bottle, but I'm driving," he said
ruefully. "The Grepos are very hot on drunken
drivers. Worse than the Vopos."

"Berlin," said Verago. "You were talking about
Berlin being cut in two...."

Pech sighed. "We have to do it, Tony. Your side
recognizes it as well. We can't continue to lose the
cream of our people. Three thousand a day. No
country can sun vive that. And your side can't
cope with the refugees. Three and a half million
so far. They can't control the 900d any more.
They're being swamped. So we've made a deal.
East and West. Berlin must be divided for the
good of all. For once we are allies."

He smiled. "Now do you see?" -

"A deal . . ." repeated Verago, almost to himself.

The stupid cow Helga defected with the secret
agreement. She took the minutes at the planning
meeting in Pankow. Tower brought her across to
the West. Your people told him to forget about it,
but he wouldn't listen. He said he was going to
shout it from the rooftops. Too emotional, you
see. East and West can't be seen to be making
such a deal. He had to be "

"Put out of circulation?" suggested Verago.

"Until it's a fait accompli."

"That," said Verago, "was one of Hitler's favorite
expressions."

"Was it?" Pech's look was cold. He paid the
landlord, who took the money respectfully. He
had seen Pech's official license plate.

"Let's go," said Pech.

As they got into the car, Pech's jacket pulled to
one side and Verago caught a quick glimpse of a
pistol's butt.

The car continued along the road, passing two
observation towers from which gray-clad soldiers
watched them through field glasses. They passed
a Volksarmee patrol jeep, which contrasted with
the rural scene of cows graze ing near a farm
house.

               299
                
Pech glanced at Verago. "You're very quiet, my
friend," he said.

"I was thinking."

"Oh? What about?"

"I was wondering why you told me," said Verago.
Why you told me everything."

Pech accelerated a little. "Well," he said, "for
one thing . . ."

'iYes?,'

Pech smiled. "Because it doesn't matter anymore."

And suddenly Verago knew why Pech was
packing a gun.

Death Strip

A couple of miles farther on, Verago became
aware of the sound of a helicopter, buzzing like
an angry wasp. He caught a glimpse of it, hovering
briefly and then swinging away into the distance.
It had a five-pointed red star.

"They like to keep an eye on the border," said
Pech.

It was flat countryside around them now. On the
left, row after row of tidy, orderly fields, totally
empty. In the distance Verago could see a wire
fence.

Pech pulled up and cut the engine. "Well," he
said, "here we are."

Verago looked around. "What do you mean?
Where?"

"This is where you cross over," said Pech.

'if can't see a frontier post. There's no crossing
here.. Verago felt fear gnawing in his stomach.

"Can't you see the sign?" asked Pech.

It had a death's head, and German and Russian
lettering.

"That says 'Danger,' " said Verago slowly.

"Exactly. Get out, please." The pistol was in
Pech's hand, pointing straight at Verago.

"Are are you crazy?"

"I told you. Just discreet."

The pistol made a little movement. Its meaning
was unmistakable.

Slowly Verago climbed out. Pech followed, the
pistol never wavering.

"This is the zonal boundary," Pech said gently.
"Normally of course people don't cross at this
point. There's a technical problem. You see, those
fields are the death strip."

Verago's throat was dry. "So so what do I do?"

               300
                
"Cross. Just walk across. Quite simple."

"But that . . ."

"That's right," said Pech. "You'll walk into a
highly sophisticated minefield. With specially
planted antipersonnel mines. Half a dozen steps
. . ."

"Nobody . . . Iives."

"Correct." He waved the gun slightly. "Come
along. I thought you were so eager to get to the
other side. Start walking."

"No," said Verago.

Pech shrugged. "Please yourself. Then I will just
shoot you, In self-defence. The other way it looks
better, of course. Fugitive American killed trying
to flee across the death strip. But I don't mind."

Verago stood motionless.

'The walk will do you good," Pech said, and
laughed.

The edge of the field was two feet away. It
looked so innocent. Just empty farmland, so
inviting for a stroll to the other side.

"If you're lucky, you'll be halfway across before
you step on one," Pech said encouragingly. "And
I won't let you lie in agony, I promise. If it just
blows off a leg or two but doesn't kill you, I'll put
you out of your misery. I am quite a good shot
from this distance. I feel I owe you that for
friendship's sake."

And then he fired a shot. The bullet kicked up
the earth two inches from Verago's feet.

"I mean it," said Pech. "You walk or I kill you
now."

Verago looked backward. He felt the sweat
trickle down his neck. He wanted to be sick with
fear. And anger. Anger at this murdering bastard.

What is there to lose? he thought. A bullet
might be less painful anyway. In Korea, he had
had a buddy who took three hours to die in a
minefield.

"You're a damn fool, Pech," he said.

Pech smiled. "I shall count to five," he said.

"It's you they're after," said Verago.

Pech blinked. "Who's they?"

"Your own people," said Verago, like a chess
player sacrificing his last pieces. "They don't trust
you anymore."

"You're just wasting time," said Pech, but the
second's hesitation wasn't lost on Verago. He
made his final move.

"Don't you realize you've been set up?"

"Who by?" said Pech, eyes glinting.

"Your own side," Verago bluffed.

               301
                
"How do you know?" hissed Pech.

"That's why I'm here," said Verago, and
wondered if it would do any good.

"You're Iying," snarled Pech.

The pistol wavered, and Verago jumped him.
He grabbed Pech's gun arm, and with his knee
tried to ram him in the genitals, fear and panic
giving him ferocity that he did not know he had in
him. Pech struggled violently, and they were
locked together, wrestling for the pistol, gasping,
teeth bared, fighting savagely, brutally. Pech's left
hand scrabbled for his face, the fingers trying to
claw at his eyes, and Verago desperately butted
him with his knee again and then heard the shot.

He was still clinging on to Pech as the man
slowly sank to the ground, his eyes wide with
shock, still clutching the pistol where its bullet had
plowedinto him.

Pech lay at Verago's feet, the blood staining his
shirt, and Verago did not have to feel his pulse to
know he was dead. He was staring at the man
with a mixture of relief and horror, and the
sudden shock realisation that, for the first time in
his life, he had killed a man.

He knelt by the body, breathless from the
struggle, hurting, blood on his face, trying to think
and to stop himself from shivering with panic.

Then he saw the feet. And he looked up, into
the barrel of a Kalashnikov AKM, held by a
steel-helmeted soldier with a Mongolian face.
Slowly Verago stood up, and although not a ward
was said, he raised his hands.

The three Red Army soldiers standing beside
their jeep didn't have to speak. Their guns,
covering Verago, said it all.

Overhead hovered the helicopter with the red
star, circling its prey.

London

The car cruising down Ducane Road came past
Hammersmith Hospital and then, as it drew level
with the ornate frontage of Wormwood Scrubs
prison, slowed down momentarily

"That's where he is," said Deriabin, and Ivanov
nodded glumly.

"It shouldn't be that difficult," Deriabin went on,
increasing speed again. "He couldn't be more
central, could he? Ten minutes from the embassy.
It's almost as if they want us to get him out."

               302
                
And he laughed at the thought.

Special instructions had come that morning from
Central about the man inside the Scrubs. George
Blake, exMI6 resident in West Berlin, had been in
there now since May 3, serving his forty-two-year
sentence for being a double agent.

Moscow wanted him sprung.

"I want you to work on it," Deriabin told Ivanov.
"I know what a heavy load you already have, and
current operations must take precedence. But
Blake has to be liberated. After all, we owe it to
him."

"It's going to take a lot of preparation," said
Ivanov. He wasn't overjoyed by the extra
assignment. "It needs time to set up."

"Of course," agreed Deriabin. "But put it high on
your list."

He turned the car around and drove past the
Victorian penitentiary again on their way back to
Kensington.

"What about Molodny?" asked Ivanov. Molodny,
dark, handsome, with a soft Canadian accent, had
been a friend of Ivanov's. Now, better known as
Gordon Lonsdale, he was also an enforced guest
of Her Majesty, sweating out twenty-five years for
espionage.

"Don't fret about the colonel," Deriabin
reassured him. "That is already in hand. It will be
done through diplomatic channels. We will
exchange him. But Blake we must break out. The
British would never let him go. You understand?"

Ivanov chewed his lip.

Deriabin glanced sideways at him.

"Don't worry," he said, reading his thoughts,
"The fieldwork will be executed by others. I just
want you to do the planning. You have such an
ingenious mind, Yevgenni, and I am sure you will
come up with a cunning little blueprint."

Deriabin's praise usually left his subordinates
uneasy. Ivanov was no exception.

"Blake is burned out," he said. "Is it worth the
risk?"

It was a mistake. Deriabin slammed on the
brakes, and the car halted suddenly in Holland
Park Avenue. He turned to Ivanov.

"I am surprised, comrade. What is the most
important thing in our work? Loyaltyl"

Ivanov avoided his eyes. A lecture on loyalty
from Deriabin was supreme irony.

               303
                
"Our agents in the field know that, no matter
what happens, we will get them out. Never do we
allow our people to rot, correct?" Deriabin was in
full swing, as if he was lecturing tyro spies. "They
know that even if they are caught, they will never
be forgotten. No matter how savage the sentence,
how deep the dungeon, how terrible the
treatment, they will never serve out their
punishment. It is an unbreakable contract That is
why Blake must be got out. So that every other
Soviet operative in the world can see we keep our
word. Clear?"

"Clear," said Ivanov. "But my other work?"

Deriabin started the car up again.

"Your other work must come first right now,"
he declared. "That, of course, has supreme
priority. The calendar dictates it. But Blake must
not be forgotten."

"All right." Ivanov grunted. He was thinking
that with luck Central might yet send somebody
from Moscow to do the Blake job. He had more
important things lined up.

Wansdort

"American," said Verago, keeping his hands
high. "Amerikanski."

He wished, desperately, he could speak
Russian. The soldiers were staring at him with
unfriendly eyes.

"I am American," Verago repeated to the
uncomprehending Mongolian. One of the other
soldiers came forward and bent over Pech's body.
He looked up and said something.

The others stared at Verago. One of them had
a walkietalkie and started speaking into it rapidly.
His companion kept Verago covered, while the
Mongolian began searching him. He found the
U.S. passport in the inner pocket of his jacket and
handed it to the walkie-talkie man.

"Kamerad," said Verago. He felt a fool, not
being able to say anything they could understand.
"Tovarich."

The Mongolian gestured with his gun,
indicating that Verago should move toward the
jeep. He stepped forward warily. He didn't want
to make a mistake. Their faces were stony,
unsmiling, and he sensed one false step would be
fatal.

The Mongolian ordered him into the jeep and
climbed in beside him, the gun aimed straight at
his stomach. The walkie-talkie man got behind
the wheel, and, with a sudden jerk, the jeep raced
off, leaving the third trooper standing by the
body.

               3W
                
They drove rapidly along the country road until,
in the distance, a crossroads appeared. Parked
beside it were two tanks, their long gun barrels
pointing across the fields.

The walkie-talkie lay on the seat beside the
driver. Suddenly it began crackling. The driver
reached over, picked it up with one hand, and
continued driving. He seemed to acknowledge
some kind of message, and then he put the
instrument down again.

At the crossroads the Mongolian waved to a
couple of soldiers in the turrets of the tanks. The
jeep swung right and drove into a wood, following
what seemed to be a makeshift road.

It was bumpy, and Verago held onto the jeep.
The Mongolian never took his eyes off him, and
his finger on the trigger of the gun made Verago
more nervous. He wondered what would happen
if they bumped too much, and the finger jerked
on the trigger....

Suddenly they entered a large clearing. Spread
before them was a small military camp, with tents
and a large radio mast jutting from some kind of
communications truck. A couple of staff cars and
some jeeps were parked in neat rows, and from
somewhere behind the trees came the aroma of
cooking. In front of one of the tents two sentries
stood stiffly.

The jeep stopped, and the Mongolian prodded
Verago to get out. Then he marched him over to
the tent with the sentries. He gestured again, and
Verago went inside.

It was a makeshift office with a trestle table and
a couple of canvas chairs. There was a battery of
field phones and a big board on Q tripod easel.
Pinned to the board was a large-scale map, and an
officer with a sheet of paper in his hand was
sticking some pins into the map.

He looked around sharply as they entered, and
the Mongolian snapped to attention and spoke
tersely. As he made his report, the officer looked
at Verago. He had a foxy face and blond
eyelashes. His shoulder boards had a red stripe
and two small stars: a lieutenant.

He listened to the Mongolian and then snapped
his fingers. The Mongolian froze.

Pony Pace walked up close to Verago and
nodded to him.

"You spion," he said.

Verago didn't need any Russian to know what
that meant.

               305
                
"I'm American . . ." Verago began as the
Mongolian handed the lieutenant his passport.
Foxy Face slowly turned the pages.

"You spion," he repeated, with firm conviction.

He went over to the field phones and picked
one up, cranking the handle. He spoke crisply in
Russian. Then he read from the passport:

"Da. Verago. Anthony Verago. Da. Spion."

He listened and nodded. Then he replaced the
receiver. He walked to the door of the tent and
shouted something

Three armed soldiers came into the tent. Two
held Verago's arms while the third bandaged his
eyes.

Then they half dragged, half pushed him out of
the tent.

What a hell of a way to go, thought Verago,
stumbling between his guards. A firing squad in a
wood.

The thing that hurt was Pech. The son of a
bitch was going to have the last laugh.

Brieselang

Still blindfolded, he was shoved into a car.
Guards sat on either side of him, and he heard
the doors slam.

It was another bumpy ride, and not a word was
said. The blindfold had been wound tight around
his eyes, and it became increasingly
uncomfortable.

He lost sense of both time and direction, but it
wasn't a long ride. Then they bundled him out of
the car and into some kind of building. Footsteps
resounded on wooden floorboards. He heard the
ringing of telephones and the chatter of
typewriters. And there were some sharp com-
mands.

Somebody knocked on a door and a voice
ordered them in. Then the blindfold was taken
off.

Verago faced a burly officer sitting behind a
desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, but this one had
four stars on his shoulder epaulettes: a colonel.
The shirt was crisply ironed and the neat tie held
in place by a clip.

But it was the woman who took Verago's
attention. She too was in uniform, a beret with a
Red Army badge perched on her curly blond hair.
She wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and Verago
wondered if, as in the movies, she would look a
stunning blonde if she removed them. The heavy
spectacles made her look severe.

She was only a lieutenant, but to his surprise it
was she who spoke while the colonel just
glowered at him.

               306
                
"I am Lieutenant 80risova," she said, and her
English was excellent. "I am the interpreter."

"Thank God there's somebody who speaks
English," said Verago. "You see "

"This is Colonel Machenko," she went on,
ignoring him. "You are in a very serious position.
You are being held as a spy. And there is also a
question of murder."

She made the murder sound less heinous.

"You've got it all wrong," began Verago. "I want
you to contact the United States authorities
and "

But again he was cut off. The colonel said
something in Russian, and the blonde nodded.

"Colonel Machenko points out that you will be
interrogated in due course by the appropriate
authorities, and the less you say until then the
better. That is in your own interest. Do you
understand?"

She gave him a quick smile, as if to say don't
make life difficult.

Verago glanced around the room. He was
flanked by two guards. Through the window he
could see a courtyard.

"Where am I?" asked Verago.

'"This is the field headquarters of" she stopped
herself, and said instead "a Soviet army
formation."

"Where is Berlin?"

"You're not far away," she said. "But you were
caught in a restricted zone. It is banned to all.
Especially Americans in civilian clothes."

Again the colonel said something.

"Colonel Machenko wants me to point out that
you are in a very serious position. He hopes you
realize it. The man you killed was a member of
the Democratic People's Republic security organs.
You were evidently trying to es" cape to the West.
You understand how grave your situation is?"

"Well," said Verago, "tell the colonel I've got a
good idea, that he'd be smart to get in touch with
the American liaison people as fast as he can."

&e pursed her lips. She used only faint lipstick
and, as far as he could see behind those
spectacles, very little mascara.

"Right now your status is in question," she
remarked. On the colonel's desk lay his passport
and beside it the ID card they had found inside it.
"Your visa expired long

               307
                
ago. You have an American offlcer's identity
card. You are dressed as a civilian. Need I say
more?"

"So what do you intend to do right now?"
demanded Verago, and the defiance in his tone
made her raise her eyebrows slightly.

He heard a commotion outside. Through the
window he could see some soldiers running across
the courtyard. There was the roar of motorcycles,
and he saw three staff cars with an escort sweep
into the forecourt. At the same time the colonel's
phone shrilled. He picked it up and listened,
rising to his feet as he heard what was being said.

Outside the suddenly, there were sharp com-
mands, and the stamping of feet and rifle butts.
Verago heard the march of boots come nearer.
Then the door was flung open.

A short, squat man in a magnificent green
uniform stood on the threshhold. Verago had
seen plenty of offlcers in military finery, but never
a man with so much gold braid.

His flashing gold shoulder boards proclaimed
his rank to Verago's startled eyes: a Marshal of
the Soviet Union. He had a gold belt, gold braid
on his sleeves, and his cap, jauntily sitting on his
head, was a dazzling display of oak leaves. His
chest was covered with decorations.

Everyone in the room except Verago turned
into marble at his appearance. Colonel Machenko
was strictly at attention behind his desk, the
lieutenant stood rigidly straight, and the soldiers
guarding Verago were frozen stone.

Marshal Koniev nodded to them. He came in,
went up to Verago, and stood looking at him.

"So," he said at last in English, "you are the
mysterious American."

"Captain Verago, sir. United States Army."

Koniev tilted his head to one side, inspecting
Verago.

"Well, Captain Verago, you are a nuisance." He
said it quite amiably. "I and my staff are far too
busy at this moment to be bothered by you, you
understand?"

"Sir," said Verago, "I'm more than anxious to
get out of your hair."

Koniev said something in Russian to the colonel
who replied, still standing at rigid attention.
Koniev nodded.

He turned back to Verago.

"A decision has been made about you," he
announced. "You are a very lucky man. No one
wants an incident in

               308
                
valving an American this week. Next week, who
knows? But this week, no."

He smiled. "You understand me?"

"Yes, sir," said Verago, but he wondered if he did.

"I am advised that, all things considered, we
would just as soon be rid of you." Koniev paused.
"No, don't misting derstand me. By that I mean
we want to see the back of you. You are not
worth a crisis that could upset everything."

"I think I ought to explain "

Koniev held up one hand. "Do not explain
anytlung. It is better."

"The dead man . . . he tried "

Koniev shrugged. "I am not interested. Omar
Bradley taught me an interesting phrase. Rocking
the boat. I do not want you to rock this boat. I
have bigger things to worry about this week."

He said something sharply to the colonel, who
bent down and opened a cupboard in the desk.
Hastily he produced a bottle of Armenian brandy
and four glasses. He poured the brandy.

"A pleasant trip," toasted Koniev, and drank his
brandy in one gulp.

Lieutenant Borisova had taken off her glasses.
Verago was right; it made a lot of difference. He
wondered what else she did besides interpreting.
She could certainly drink brandy. She too made it
disappear in one gulp.

The colonel snapped his fingers, and the two
soldiers who were still guarding Verago saluted
and stiffly walked out.

"I would invite you for dinner," said Koniev, "I
enjoy the company of Americans. I like talking to
them."

He pointed to the ribbon of the U.S. Legion of
Merit on his chest.

"You see, I still wear it. Yes, I'd like to, but
unfortunately I have a big staff meeting. It is after
all, as Eisenhower called it, D-day minus three."

Verago stared at him.

The marshal held out his glass, and Colonel
Machenko poured some more brandy. He said
something peremptorily in Russian, and the
colonel clicked his heels.

"I have arranged for you to be escorted back to
your sector," announced Koniev. "The colonel will
provide a car. You will have no problems. You
are a lucky man, Captain. Be grateful for good
friends."

               309
                
He smiled again, but this time rather
enigmatically.

"Thank you, sir," Verago said slowly.

Koniev's steely blue eyes seemed amused by
something. "I will leave you in good hands.
Lieutenant Borisova here will be your escort
officer. She will deliver you safely, I am sure."

"It will be my pleasure," she said in English.

She hadn't put the glasses back on, and the way
she looked Verago thought, The movie people
are right, it can do wonders for a girt

Oberbaumbruecke

The car was an unmarked civilian one with
ordinary license plates. The driver was a military
man, his whole manner betrayed that, but he was
in plain clothes.

And Lieutenant Borisova had changed for the
journey. No uniform, no spectacles. She was
smartly, attractively dressed and now that she was
out of uniform, Verago realized what a good
figure she had. Her makeup too was different, the
lipstick a deep red, the mascara artfully used.

"I am sorry it has had to be such a short
acquaintance," she said as they rode through the
countryside. "I would have liked to practice my
English with you."

"I don't think you need any practice, Lieutenant."

"Sonia," she said. "My first name is Sonia."

She waited expectantly, but Verago did not
respond.

"When do we get there?" he asked.

She looked at her watch. "It has been arranged
for twenty-three hundred hours."

"Where?"

"You know the Oberbaumbruecke?"

He shook his head.

"It is a bridge between our zone and your
sector. Near the Warschauer strasse. Your friends
will be there."

"Friends?"

"I am sure you will have a reception
committee," she said dryly.

"You've been in touch with the Americans?"

"I," she said, "have not done anything. That is
all a matter for high authority. But," she confided,
"I think there is contact."

She took out a pack of cigarettes. To his
amazement, they were Lucky Strikes. She offered
him one.

"Where did you get those?" asked Verago.

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"I told you," she said. "There is contact."

She held a cigarette lighter in her hand and lit
his Lucky.

"May I see that?" he said. He took it from her,
turning it over. It was familiar. The same make as
the one Tower had. Well, that made sense.
Tower's was Russian too, and there wasn't much
variety in consumer goods in the Soviet Union. It
was probably the standard model of People's
Cigarette Lighter.

"Why are you so interested?" she inquired
curiously.

"I I know somebody who has one like this."

"Is he Russian?"

"No, he was given it."

The car was roomy, and she crossed her legs.
She had very good legs. In uniform, she looked
efficient, military, practical. But like this....

"Tell me," said Verago, "where did you learn to
speak English so well?"

"We have schools," she said.

"Your accent is very good."

"They are good schools."

They were stopped at a checkpoint, but the
driver produced a document that passed them
through without the passengers even being
scrutinised.

"Do you have a family?" asked the blonde.

"No."

"Not married?" She was surprised.

"Not now."

She thought for a moment. Then she said, "I
suppose it is better for people in your work not to
be married."

"What do you mean?"

"It can be difficult when one is an intelligence
agent." "Listen," said Verago, "I am not in
intelligence."

"Of course not," she said, with a very knowing
smile.

"I am an attorney."

"Sure." She smiled.

Half an hour later they entered Berlin.

"It won't be long now," she said.

The driver in front said something in Russian,
and she replied briefly.

"We're right on time," she said.

Then he saw the bridge, ahead of them. The car
stopped.

"You get out by yourself," she said. "I will stay in
the
            311
            
car. You walk across the bridge. Halfway across
somebody will meet you. That is the
arrangement."

"Well," said Verago, "thanks for everything."

She held out her hand. "Here," she said, "for
you. A souvenir."

It was the lighter. Verago stared at it.

"Something to remember me by." She smiled.

"Thanks," muttered Verago. He put it in his
pocket. 'Y'hanks again."

He got out of the car and started walking across
the long steel bridge. He didn't look back.

From the other side, a figure came toward him. A
man.

Verago was more than halfway across before he
recognized Unterberg.

"Welcome back," he said, his hand outstretched.
Then he took Verago's arm and led him toward
the end of the bridge.

"Don't look so scared, you're safe now," he
exclaimed.

"Yes," Verago agreed dully. He wished he felt
safe. He glanced sideways at Unterberg; the big
man was leading him forward purposefully. Ahead
was a parked car and two men stood beside it.

Verago stopped. They were three quarters of
the way across the bridge. He turned and looked
back. The Russian car on the other side had
departed.

"Come on," Unterberg said impatiently, "let's
get out of this."

The two men beside the car stood silent when
they arrived. Unterberg gave them a quick nod,
then opened the door of the car.

"Pile in," he said.

Verago got in. The driver in front reminded
him curiously of the Russian driver in the other
car. The same erect, military bearing. The same
soldierly appearance despite the civilian clothes.

Unterberg eased himself in beside Verago. The
two men stood watching as the car moved off.
Out of the window, Verago saw one of them raise
a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"Who were they?" asked Verago.

"Friends." It was final. You don't need to know.

Unterberg glanced at Verago. "You okay, Tony?
You look a little pale."

"I'm all right," replied Verago.

               312
                
"Had a rough time, eh? Well, I guess you asked
for it. You're lucky some people care."

Verago opened his mouth to snarl at him. But
then he controlled himself. "What's happened to
the trial?"

"It's all over," said Unterberg. "Finito. You can
relax."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"What I said. It's finished. He finally pleaded
guilty."

"Fuckl" cursed Verago, with feeling. "What did
he get?"

"A discharge and six months. He'll be out by
Christmas."

"He's finished," said Verago. "Dishonorable
discharge. You know what that means?"

"He should care. He wanted out anyway, didn't
he?" Unterberg smiled cynically until he noticed
Verago's expression. "Jesus, Tony, what did you
expect? You didn't show up in court, no word, no
nothing. Of course they carried on."

"Sure," Verago remarked bitterly. "That's what
they wanted all along, wasn't it?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Unterberg growled. "Stop
bleeding to death."

Verago turned his head away. He stared out at
the Berlin streets, but he had no sense of
direction, no idea where he was.

"Where am I going?" he asked at last.

"Relax, buddy." Unterberg popped a stick of
chewing gum into his mouth. "l told you, you're
safe now."

"I I've got to pick my things up from the
Hilton. I've got a room there."

"All taken care of," said Unterberg. His jaws
were moving rhythmically. "And your bill. Cheap
trip, eh?"

Verago looked out of the window again.

"You know what's going to happen here, don't
you?" he said after a while, still staring out at the
passing streets of Berlin.

"Tell me." Uuterberg's voice betrayed nothing.

"A million people, imprisoned behind a wall...."

"Really?" said Unterberg, chewing.

Verago looked him full in the face. "You son of
a bitch," he said.

               313
                
    Thursday, August 10, 1961
London

THr, buzzer at the front door of her flat was
followed by a sharp rapping sound, as if
somebody was also knocking with a coin.

Laurie unlocked the door, but kept the chain
on as she opened it cautiously. Through the gap,
Ivanov smiled at her.

"My God," she said, "do you know what time it
is?"

"After midnight, does it matter?" he cried.
"Does it matter when one brings good news?"

Momentarily she hesitated. Then she pulled out
the chain and opened the door. In the corridor,
a couple was waiting for the lift.

She was in her pajamas, and, almost
defensively, she ran a hand through her hair, to
tidy it.

"You should have phoned," Laurie said
reproachfully, and shut the door.

"I thought you would want to know right away,"
said Ivanov. He walked past her into the living
room. "Tony Verago is safe. You'll soon be
hearing from him, I feel."

He beamed at her, and her relief was such she
forgot her confusion at his sudden invasion.

"You sure he's all right?"

"Absolutely in one piece."

"When did you hear?"

"Tonight." He was amused by her eagerness.
"Through my people. That's why I came now."

The color flooded into her face. "That calls for
a drink," she said.

He watched her slim figure as she went over
and poured them two Armagnacs.

Then she raised her glass. "Thank you for your
help, Gene."

He took a massive gulp without blinking. "And
now," he said, "I would like very much to seduce
you."

She laughed.

"No, I am serious," he said solemnly. "I would
like nothing better than to come over, pick you
up, and carry

              314
               
you to that bed in there. I think I told you once,
I find you most desirable."

It was so stylized she still had to smile.

She played it lightly. "Now, Gene . . ." she
began, but he cut her short.

"Unfortunately, that is not the way it is to be."

Her violet eyes were suddenly hard. "What do
you mean?"

"I mean," he said sadly, holding up his glass to
the lamp and gazing into the amber liquor, "that
in this world nothing is for nothing. You
understand?"

She suddenly understood very well, but all she
said, coldly, was "No."

"Oh, you do, sweetheart, you do very welt It's
not much to ask, is it?"

His mouth was still smiling, but nothing else.

"It is so sad," he went on reflectively, "that with
you around, duty demands that I console myself
with little playmates who don't mean that to me."

And he snapped his fingers.

"Like Stephen's girls?" she said.

"Targets of opportunity, that's all," he replied.
"Of no meaning to me."

"Including the one you share with that British
cabinet minister?" said Laurie.

He didn't betray any surprise that she knew.
"Oh, her. She's a good swimmer," he said. "No,
Laurie, now you and I...."

He sighed again.

"It won't be made difficult for you, I promise,"
he said encouragingly. "We will know where you
are, and when we need you, we will be in touch,
and you can . . . repay us."

She crossed her legs. "Suppose," she said,
"suppose I say no."

"That would be very ungrateful " he replied
reproachfully. "And not practical. After tonight."

Her fingers lightened around her glass.

"You see, Laurie, what would Washington make
of a photo showing you letting me into your
apartment in your nigh/clothes?' The lips were
still smiling.

"That's that's rubbish," she gasped.

"Not really," he went on softly. "That couple
outside Waiting for the elevator. Actually, friends
of mine. They took a picture. It will be adequate,
I assure you. And how

               315
                
will you explain Ivanov the spy being welcomed
by you in that "

He waved a hand airily at her attire. Nervously,
she suddenly fastened the top button of her
pajama jacket where he had been looking at her
cleavage.

"I am sorry," he said, quite sincerely. "But you
know it's true. Nothing is for nothing."

She stood up and faced him. "I never want to
see you again," she declared.

He also rose and bowed rather gently. "You
see, that's what I meant," he said. "One sacrifices
such beautiful relationships in the line of duty. Of
course, we will meet again, and when it's not me,
it will be somebody else. The bill will be paid. I
know you always honor your debts. You're that
kind of woman."

She took a step forward and then stopped.

"I'll let myself out," said Ivanov.

"Just go," Laurie said tersely.

"I keep thinking what a lucky man Tony Verago
is," he murmured. Then he left the room and she
heard the apartment door slam.

She stood very straight. She did not go to the
window.

Perhaps Ivanov would have had a shock. Por
Laurie was smiling, a deadly smile. She had been
well trained to play the game.

And for her, the real game was only just
beginning.

West Berlin

"Have you been to Berlin before?" asked
Grierson.

"No," Serena Howard answered curtly.

"It's an interesting place. Not my cup of tea, but
it has its points."

"Well, I don't suppose I'll be seeing much of it,"
she said.

They were being driven in a car that had picked
them up at Tempelhof Airport. She was wearing
a smart traveling outfit, and Grierson had the
distinct impression that she kept edging away
from him, as if she didn't want there to be any
physical contact between them.

"You're lucky, you know," he said.

"Really?" Her tone was cold.

"Absolutely. Do you know what Section One
carries? Fourteen years."

"Mr. Grierson," began Serena, "the Official
Secrets Act is a matter of supreme indifference to
me."

               316
                
"It shouldn't be," he said. He was still holding
the folded copy of the Times he had picked up at
Heathrow when he'd escorted her aboard the
plane. He hadn't opened it during the flight.
"After all, that's what you would have been
charged with. Section One. The big one."

Serena smiled thinly.

"Mind you," Grierson went on chattily, "I'm glad
it's worked out this way. You' wouldn't have
enjoyed Holloway. Much better that you join your
friends."

"Have you got a cigarette?" she asked, as if his
statement didn't even merit a reply.

"Of course." He held out a packet of Players.
She took one, and he lit it for her. "I don't
suppose you'll be smoking many more of these.
They don't go in for English cigarettes over there.
Their taste runs more to American brands."

"I'll manage," said Serena. She was totally in
control of herself.

"I'm sure you will," purred Grierson.

She studiously ignored him and seemed
engrossed staring out of the window. But after a
while she asked, "Is it an exchange?"

"Is what, Miss Howard?"

"Me for somebody else?"

"Well," said Grierson, "in a way, perhaps. Not
precisely." He paused. "You could say it's a way to
get rid of an embarrassment. On both sides."

She exhaled a cloud of smoke almost into his
face. It could have been taken as a studied insult,
but Grierson didn't even blink.

"I'm curious," said Serena. "When did you first
find out about me?"

He hesitated. The driver honked at a taxi that
had just cut in.

"Oh," Grierson said finally, "quite some time ago."

"How?"

"Your taste in boyfriends. One boyfriend in
particular. We're also interested in girls who pick
up American officers on highly classified work."

Her eyes flashed. "I didn't pick him up," she
snapped. "You know very well "

"All I know is that your relationship got rather
intimate."

"And then?"

               317
                
Grierson looked at her. "We found out the rest
about you. Fancy a girl like you...." He shook his
head. "Who made the first contact? You or . . .
them?"

"You're really stupid," Serena said, studying him
as if he was someone beneath her contempt. "You
don't understand about commitment or caring, do
you? I wanted to do something. Not just sit back
and watch the world get blown up."

"Oh, really?" Gderson remarked dryly.
"Touching idealism."

"Puck your" she swore, and it was the first time
he'd heard well-bred, Roedean educated Serena
Howard use an expletive.

Even when they had arrested her at her flat in
Charlotte Street she had kept her cool. She'd
even smiled a little when she'd seen them taking
the bookshop downstairs apart, and not finding a
thing, of course. But now, on the eve of being
handed over to her fdends, there was an edginess
about her, a growing tension.

"You still haven't told me who you're getting
back for me."

"It's rather funny." Gderson smiled. "Actually,
you know him."

She waited, and he could see she was interested.

"You remember Captain Verago? The army
lawyer?"

She nodded, puzzled.

"Well, the Americans are getting him back." He
paused. "If you ask me," he continued silkily,
"they're getting a much better bargain than your
friends. Personally, Miss Howard, I wouldn't give
tuppence for you."

And at last he unfolded the Times and read it
for the rest of the journey.

    Saturday, August 12,1961

Laconbury

THREE hours earlier they had landed at
Heathrow, and Unterberg had hustled Verago
down the steps of the Viscount and straight into
a car that had pulled up on the flight line as the
plane taxied to a halt. It was a black, anonymous
Chrysler, and they were driven straight out of the
airport.

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Only later did Verago realise he had never
cleared customs, never shown his passport.

"I didn't go through immigration," he pointed out.

"So?" inquired Unterberg.

Which meant that, officially, Verago had never
returned to England. The same thing had
happened in Berlin when they'd left Tempelhof.
There too Unterberg had hurried him through
passport control, and no documents had been
shown. SO, as far as the record was concerned, he
had never left Germany.

It worried Verago. Unterberg noticed his
expression.

"Sometimes, Tony, it's best not to have too
many things on paper," he said cheerily.

Now they had arrived at Laconbury, and as the
car crunched up the graveled driveway, its
headlights picked out a bungalow. The car
stopped.

"There you are," announced Unterberg, but did
not move. "Just ring the bell."

Verago hesitated.

"Go on," urged Unterberg, from the depths of
the car. "You're expected."

Verago got out and slowly walked toward the
bungalow. He pressed the bell on the porch and
heard a glockenspiel sound inside. After a
moment the door opened.

"Come in, Captain Verago," invited Croxford.

The general was wearing an Eisenhower blouse,
and his single stars flashed in the hall light.

"This way," he said.

It was a large parlor, with modern furniture,
but it had a utilitarian, assembly-line look about
it. The only touches of individuality were a few
ornaments, models of airplanes, and a big wooden
propeller fixed to one wall.

"Sit down," said the general. By the couch stood
the command phone, which Croxford connected
to a jack in whatever room he was in in the
house. He carried it around like a life-support
system.

Verago didn't know if it was intentional, but a
lamp on the table shone onto his face, making
him uncomfortable.

"Tell me about Captain Kingston."

"He's in bad shape, sir. He needs help."

Croxford peered at Verago. "You look as if
you've had a rough time yourself."

"It wasn't exactly a joy ride, sir."

               319
                
"But not as rough a time as Captain Kingston's
havingl"

"General, they've been trying to break him.
Make him talk. He just won't give in."

"I've read the OSI report," said Croxford.
"What you told Unterberg. The way they're
treating him. Not pleasant reading." The general
paused. "He's a fine officer. A very good man."

Verago thought of the gaunt, haggard wreck he
had left behind. The bloody hands . . .

"Sir, we've got to get him out. Somehow. An
exchange. Anything. Before it's too late."

He was getting used to the light now. Croxford
appeared more careworn.

"If it was possible. . ."

"Why isn't it?" demanded Verago.

He thought he had gone too far. But the
general answered slowly, "Because they've never
admitted they've got him. He was presumed dead.
And we can't prove otherwise."

"But I've seen him,'' Verago almost shouted.
"That's proof."

"You?" Croxford's thin smile was chilling. "You
were never over there. That's the deal. That's
how you got out. You were never across the
border."

"My passport . . ."

"Will be brand new, courtesy of the State
Department."

Verago tried to control himself. "You mean
he's going to be left to rot."

The general sat upright. "God damn you, man,
you think it's easy," he roared, and then he got a
grip on himself. "You're pretty good at making
moral judgments, Captain, aren't you? You think
I like it, sitting here, knowing one of my men is
being tortured?"

Verago swallowed. "No, sir." He said it very
quietly.

"you think it's a big sellout, don't you?"

Verago was pale.

"Washington doesn't have to justify anything to
me, and I don't have to justify anything to you,
Captain, you got that? But I'll tell you one thing.
Say a prayer every night that you don't have to
make these decisions. You read me?"

The general stood and Verago rose.

"You're very naive, Captain. Don't you realize
we're

              320
               
doing a trapeze act and there isn't a safety net?
You talk about deals. Man, we're on a knife edge.
Every minute, every hour. Men like Kingston are
the price we're paying for this so-called peace,
and people don't even know it."

"There's a lot they don't know, sir," Verago said
boldly. "Like East and West making a deal to
divide Berlin. Like the Russians holding American
airmen prisoner secretly. Like "

"You're just about through, Captain," cut in
Croxford. Then the command phone bused, and
he made a grab for it.

"Yes? Okay." He looked at his watch "As of . .
. now. Check."

He put the receiver down. "We've gone on
Bikini Alert," he announced.

"Bikini?"

"Minimal combat readiness. A bikini doesn't
cover very much. Only the essentials. Tonight
we're keeping, only one eye open."

"Part of the deal?" suggested Verago bitterly.

"That's all, Captain."

Verago faced him "No, sir. I'm going to tell his
wife. I'm going to find Mrs. Kingston, and tell her
what I saw, the state he was in...."

 'No way," barked Croxford. "You're not. That's
a direct order. You're going to leave her in peace.
Like hundreds of other wives who will never
know, because it's . . . better that way."

"Sir " Verago started to say, and Croxford
added:

"But I'll tell you this. Everything you've seen,
everything you've heard over there is already
known to Washington. The full report. If anything
can be done about Kingston" he held out his
hand "they'll do it. That's what I wanted you to
know."

It was the first time in his life that Verago had
shaken hands with a general. Croxford had a hard
grip and it hurt. It hurt a lot.

The Cell

"I've come to say good-bye," announced Major
Fokin. Kingston slowly raised his head.

"Here," said Fokin. He had a carton of two
hundred American cigarettes under his arm and
put them on the

               321
                
bunk beside Kingston. "A little farewell present.
To remember me by. Don't smoke them all at
once."

"I'm I'm leaving here?" Kingston asked
incredulously.

"Yes," said Pokin.

Kingston's eyes started to swim. He hoped the
tears wouldn't come. He didn't want this man to
see him cry.

"When am I going?" whispered Kingston. He
had a sore on his lip, but all physical aches and
hurts didn't matter any more.

"In about half an hour," replied Fokin.

"You mean, I'm really going home?" gasped
Kingston, like a man who could not believe his
good fortune.

"Well," began Pokin, and cleared his throat. "I
didn't say that. I said you're leaving here."

The fear, the cold fear that had become so
much a part of his life took hold of Kingston.

"Not not home," he repeated, and he knew he
would not be able to keep his composure much
longer.

"I'm sorry if I misled you," said Fokin. "You're
going somewhere else, but it isn't home. You see,
your government has been asking us about you.
They seem to think that instead of drowning in
the Baltic, we captured you. A ridiculous mistake
to make. We have put the record straight, as you
say. We have officially confirmed that your body
has not been discovered."

Kingston gave a howl. It was a strangled, final
cry of despair, almost a scream.

Fokin grimaced.

"There is no need for that, my friend," he
chided, rather plaintively. "We have admired your
self-discipline. Do not disappoint us now."

The American sat dazed, rocking to and fro.

"What are you . . . going to do with me?" he
finally asked in a low voice.

"I shouldn't really tell you, but we have become
good friends, haven't we?" Fokin smiled at him
encouragingly. "You are going to a special camp.
Quite far away. Behind the Urals. That is why you
won't see me again."

"The the Urals?"

Fokin nodded.

"For how long?" Kingston croaked.

"Let me give you a little advice. Don't think
about time anymore. It has lost all meaning for
you. You see, as far as the world is concerned,
you died weeks ago."

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Standing outside the cell, Fokin speculated
whether Kingston would kill himself. He hoped
not. One day it might still be useful to have him
available.

     Sunday, August 13,1961

Bikini Alert

IT became known as Das Ding, "the Thing."

At 2 A.~. they appeared along the sector
boundary from inside the East zone. The
Volksarmee armored cars took up position. The
machine guns were set up, pointing at the West.

Then the trucks arrived and out jumped
steep-helmeted soldiers. They lugged the
barbed-wire-garlanded Spanish steeds into
place the wooden barriers that had, for weeks,
been prepared and wound with wire supplied by
the West.

The Vopos stood by with their antiriot water
cannon.

The Grepos had been summoned to action
stations two hours earlier, and now they were at
their posts, all along the boundary, stacking
sandbags, erecting obstacles, cutting off access to
and from the other side.

The line was ruthlessly drawn. The troopers
entered houses ordering families to pack and get
out, because the zonal boundary cut through their
dining room, or bedroom, or garden. Apartments,
houses, a graveyard were cut in two. They bricked
up the windows of the houses overlooking the
Thing and no-man's land was established.

The Vopos, fingers on the triggers of their
machine guns, had 600 specially coached guard
dogs, prowling in 270 "dog alleys," angry, vicious
animals, trained to attack at the sound of a
whistle.

The few late-night drivers trying to enter East
Berlin were waved back. Red lanterns spelled out
the message. The frontier was closed.

The last S-bahn train of the night came to a
stop. It would not be running again that Sunday.
The black-clad East German railroad police stood
with fixed bayonets on the East, guarding the
lines and stations.

And there was not a single Russian to be seen.
The troops, the police, the militia who scurried
about setting

               323
                
up barricades, manning the observation points,
the machine guns, were all East German.

That night a new order came into effect in East
Berlin. It was called the Shooting of Line
Jumpers Order and decreed:

If suspicious persons are in the vicinity of the
zonal

border, order them first to stop. If they continue
in the direction of the border, fire two warning
shots in the air. If this measure fails, shoot low to
wound. If this fails, shoot to kill.

Marshal Koniev sat in his operation
headquarters, the large-scale map of Berlin
spread out before him, other sectional maps of
the boundary on the walls. Every few minutes the
messages came in. Stetlitzer Strasse. Ebert
Strasse. Heidelberger Strasse. The barriers had
gone up. All according to schedule. Without
interference. Without incident. Without anybody
on the other side raising a finger.

Koniev sipped his hot lemon tea and felt
satisfied. His information had been correct,
absolutely correct. As he had been promised,
there would be no problem.

'They've got a Bikini Alert on," joked his
intelligence officer, a Ukrainian colonel.

Koniev nodded.

Suddenly the quiet Berlin night was disturbed
by harsh automatic chatter. But it wasn't from
machine guns. Pneumatic drills were in action,
making the holes into which the concrete
foundations of the permanent wall were to be
sunk.

It was a thorough job, and it had been well
planned. There were 165 7 kilometers of death
line, designed to frustrate all attempts to get
across. Soon there would be 258 watchtowers,
manned by more than 500 sentries with held
glasses and guns and 136 bunkers with machine
guns loaded day and night. These men, ready to
shoot on sight, became "Grenzers." Bordermen. It
wasn't what the word meant that made it so
nasty. It was the way people started saying it.

"People are beginning to gather on the western
side," reported one of Koniev's aides. "Quite big
crowds. There may be trouble."

"There won't be," replied the marshal confidently.

And he was right.

               324
                
Not a single shot was fired the night the longest
wall in Europe made one million people prisoners
in East Berlin.

Sonning

They sat by the Thames, on the terrace of the
French Horn at Sonning, and for a long time they
were silent.

Laurie had suggested they have dinner at the
little Oxfordshire village where the swans cruised
along the river, and the world seemed far away.

"You know," said Laurie lazily, "you still haven't
told me everything."

"Nor have you."

"Oh?"

"You work for them, don't you?" he said, but it
came out more as a statement than a question.

"Who's them?"

Verago smiled rather wearily. "I don't know
anymore, but I can guess. The spooks."

"Well," said Laurie, "it doesn't matter, does it?
Not really?"

"No. Not really. Not anymore."

He stirred the coffee in the little demitasse.
"I've got thirty days' leave," he told her, studiously
casual

"Isn't that nice," she said. "So have I."

Her violet eyes were dancing.

"And after that?" she inquired softly.

"I guess the army's had enough of me in
Europe. They're reassigning me to Southeast
Asia." One of the swans had emerged from the
river and was strutting across the lawn in front of
them. "Colonel Ochs says Saigon will be a rest
cure for me." He glanced across at her. "What
about you?"

"I go where I'm sent," she said. "But I can ask."

"For what?"

"To be assigned to Saigon."

"Do you want to?' Her answer was very
important to him.

"I rather think I do, Tony," she said slowly.

"I want to kiss you," he said in a low voice.

"The night's young," murmured Laurie. "There's
plenty of time. I won't run away."

And they smiled at each other.

On the way back to London, they had the car
radio on. The news bulletin was full of Berlin and
its fate.

"The bastards," said Verago.

               325
                
"Who?" she asked. "Us or them?"

"Is there any difference? Ask a Berliner."

She kept her eye on the dark road ahead. Then
she said, "What would you have done? Pressed
the button?"

And the question wasn't answered.

On August 26, 1961, Prime Minister Harold
Macmillan remarked about the public outcry
following the erection of the Berlin wall: "I think
it's all been got up by the Press."

And on June 26, 1963, President John P.
Kennedy stood in West Berlin and declared: "As
a free man, I take pride in the words 'Ich bin ein
Berliner."'

              326
               
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