At the moment of commitment, Bock began to tremble, his fingers vibrating against the keyboard in front of him. Abruptly, almost in a defiant gesture, he punched in his user’s identification and immediately “What file?” was printed out in the window. Bock hesitated, then demanded personnel. Three questions immediately appeared before him. Amend? Update? Insert?

  Bock selected insert and the screen filled with something like an application form, insisting on forename, surname, sex, security coding and clearance level and biographical details. Immersed in what he was doing, the shake went from Bock’s hands. Only once did he mis-punch and have to erase. From the far end of the room he became aware of the shift change and looked up in time to see the departing operator gesturing towards him and shaking his head to the new man. By the time the nightman approached, Bock had completed Gerda Lintz’s entry.

  “Any problems?” asked the new operator.

  “None.”

  “Just call, if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  Bock waited until the man had gone some way down the room before recalling the woman’s records, adding the automatic cross-reference to the BADRA file and the identity code for a photograph if one were demanded. Now surer of himself, it did not take Bock as long to complete the insertion of Michael Bohler and when he had finished he hesitated again, his finger hovering over the send key which would put both into the memory bank. The erase key was only two inches away; maybe nearer. His hand actually moved towards it involuntarily, and then Bock thought of Gretal and the boys and his twenty-five year career and his pension and he stabbed his finger down upon the send button. The screen went blank.

  He was very wet with perspiration, Bock realized distastefully, crinkling his nose at his own odor. But he’d done it! He’d done it and he hadn’t been detected and even if the BADRA file was seen to come up on his screen, there was an explanation for it. He was safe. He started the machine again, identified himself and then asked for the BADRA file by feeding in the numbered and lettered code. He had expected to see the name of the firm appear, but instead it came up with another code designation and Bock frowned, curious at the choice. There was just one word in his window — Overcrowd.

  Covering himself against any print-out check, he fed in several questions linked with his listed reason for entry into the computer room, then added the cross-check references that he had already attached to the personal files of Gerda Lintz and Michael Bohler. There was no pause with the “send” key this time; he thrust at it urgently, anxious to clear the screen and end what he was doing.

  Bock slumped back into the functional but uncomfortable office chair, aware for the first time of a feeling of fatigue; there was a deep ache in his arms and legs and across his back, as if he had been involved in some strenuous physical effort. He heaved himself from the seat, walking slowly down towards the exit.

  “Finished?” asked the night operator.

  “Finished,” agreed Bock. And he had, he thought. He had done what the bastards had demanded and now he was finished with them. And he was finished, too, with dimly lit clubs and the uncertainty of strangers he couldn’t trust. He would see a doctor, maybe a psychiatrist, and get help, to stop him wanting to do it. He had got to the very lip of disaster and managed to escape; he couldn’t expect to be so lucky the next time.

  He rinsed his hands and face in a washroom, carefully combed his hair and tried to suppress the unpleasantness of the perspiration with some cologne that he kept in a desk drawer. He had expected to feel frightened, going to the apartment in which he had confronted the men who had trapped him, but instead he was seized by a feeling of light-heartedness, light-headedness almost. He managed to get a Mozart concerto on the car radio and hummed along with the movement, tapping his fingers against the wheel in tiny conducting gestures. He could be home with Gretal in an hour: the meeting with his blackmailers wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

  They had specified the appointment time and were waiting when he was ushered into the apartment by the man he had so stupidly thought would replace Jurgen Beindorf and who now practically ignored him. He hated Klaus — a far deeper dislike than he had felt for Jurgen. At least Jurgen had loved him once, no matter for how short a time. But Klaus hadn’t. It had always been a trick.

  “Everything go all right?” asked the larger of the two men, already in Klaus’ apartment.

  “Yes,” said Bock, tightly. “The biographies are there, as you wanted them to be. And they’re cross-linked with BADRA.”

  “Excellent,” said the smaller man. He gestured to a tray of bottles. “A celebration drink?”

  “No thank you,” refused Bock. The light-heartedness did not extend to that degree. He felt very anxious to be away from these men and the apartment and go back home to his family.

  “We’ve things to talk about,” said Klaus. “You might as well have a drink.”

  “What things?” A feeling of sickness settled in Bock’s stomach and he began to sweat again, frightened that he might retch.

  “These people won’t be accepted in Chad unless there’s the advice and the authority from the Ministry,” said Klaus, patiently. “We’ve got to compose the proper sort of cable and anticipate the response, so that what you’ve done tonight isn’t wasted.”

  “No!” said Bock, in despairing protest, “I’ve done what you wanted me to do. I won’t do any more.”

  “Yes you will, Otto,” said the big man. “You’ll do everything we ask. And we’re going to ask for a lot more yet. Tonight was only the beginning.” He had been moving towards the drinks but turned at a sound from the German. “Oh Christ!” he said, exasperated. “Don’t start crying again.”

  It had been a bad connection and there were parts of the conversation with Paul that Peterson had had difficulty following. The hospital doctors were unsure whether it had been a deliberate suicide attempt as it was a common tendency for someone awakening from a drugged sleep to forget an earlier dosage. The alcohol wouldn’t have helped the forgetfulness, but it had come dangerously close to strengthening the soporific. Certainly there had been no suicide note, just some travel brochures and plane departure listings for Puerto Rico. Peterson had winced at the reminder, recalling his promise to Lucille. A holiday anywhere she liked, he had said — money to be no consideration.

  He had expected an argument from Paul at the announcement of Beth’s disappearance from Arizona, but surprisingly there was no outburst. It was as if all emotion and feeling between them had gone, so that all that was left in the boy was a resigned acceptance of further disappointment.

  “We’ll find her,” Peterson had said, trying to sound encouraging. “I’ve people working on it.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it: she’ll be OK.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Yeah.”

  Peterson set off for the second meeting with Petrov, irritated that he had not spent as much time as he would have liked studying the dossier on Henry Blakey. As the car became clogged in the congestion around St. Stephan’s cathedral, he confronted the feeling and became annoyed at himself. He knew the files by heart, every one of them, so that wasn’t the cause of his uncertainty It was the family again — his awareness of his failure, but also of the way it distracted him from what he was trying to do as Director of the CIA. He frowned, caught by a further thought. Perhaps his discomfort was deeper rooted than that? Maybe he was afraid that the ineffectiveness of his private life was likely to cross the boundary and affect what he was trying to achieve in Chad? He thought again how Petrov had predominated at the meeting with the scientists and then of Michael Bohler’s suggestion of being the subservient party in that part of the operation. There was common sense in the decision — logic, too. But the President wouldn’t see it that way. He would think of it as being out-maneuvered.

  Peterson arrived a full hour before Petrov and his agent. Henry Blakey was already waiting, in an anteroom next to the one in which Peterson intended the meeting to be. The man rose as he entered, then stood waiting for some move from Peterson. The Director’s immediate impression of the younger man was that of calmness. Michael Bohler’s attitude the previous day had been similar, but in Blakey it appeared far more natural. With Bohler, there had been times when Peterson had suspected the man of forcing the demeanor.

  “Sorry we couldn’t come together,” said Peterson. “I was unsure about a call from America.”

  “I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “Did Walter Jones explain fully what the operation was?”

  “I think so.”

  “How do you feel about working with a Russian?”

  “Curious,” said Blakey, immediately.

  “No reservations?”

  “Some,” said Blakey, just as promptly, and Peterson noted the forthrightness.

  “What?” he said.

  “There’s a great deal of pomp and ritual in the Russian Orthodox creed,” said Blakey. “But there’s quite a divergence between that and Catholicism, and we’re supposed to be Catholic missionaries.”

  “Exactly,” said Peterson. “And missionaries work in the field, not in conducting high church services.”

  “I felt it was a danger of which you should be aware,” said the man.

  Peterson realized that he hadn’t anticipated this problem. “Thank you,” he said.

  He moved further into the room, so that he was better able to see the other man. He remembered from the dossier that Henry Blakey was listed as middle height, but the slightness surprised him. It seemed a frailness, making the man appear smaller than he really was. He had fair, short-cropped hair and blue, untroubled eyes: aware of the examination, Blakey was not discomforted by it and once again Peterson noticed the calmness of the man. He would probably have made a very good priest. The Director wondered why he had changed his mind.

  “You’ve studied the file on Vladimir Makovsky?” Peterson asked.

  “All last night,” said Blakey. “I couldn’t adjust to the time change.”

  “I hope to be able to allow you two or three days for getting to know each other, before you go in.”

  “That should be sufficient,” said Blakey.

  There was movement from the doorway and Peterson turned as the Vienna resident, Richard Brownlow, led the two Russians in. There was a moment of reserved cordiality as the introductions were completed, and then Peterson led the way into the room set aside for the meeting. It was much better furnished than the Soviet house in Melk.

  There were padded chairs at the table, but in front of the fire, which had been lighted and was throwing a pleasant warmth out into the room, armchairs had been placed around a low table on which coffee and cups were already set. Remembering the lack of interest on the previous day, Peterson had not bothered with food: he wondered if Petrov would see the absence as a criticism of his attempt at hospitality.

  “The table or near the fire?” invited the American.

  “The coffee is already there,” said Petrov, leading the way to the easy chair. Blakey and Makovsky seated themselves in facing seats, each intent upon the other, and Peterson was reminded of the shadow boxing in which the two scientists had engaged the day before. The surrogate priests were quite different from each other, almost comically so. Makovsky was a dark-haired, broodingly tall, bulky man who appeared constrained even in an ample armchair — the sort of person in whose path crockery shattered. The Russian leaned forward for his coffee and jarred against the saucer, spilling some before he could lift the cup. He made a slurping noise when he drank. Peterson looked for some reaction from the other American. Blakey’s face remained expressionless.

  Peterson moved quickly to establish his supremacy over the meeting.

  “You’ve both read the intelligence reports about the witchcraft symbols?” He addressed the Russian, already aware of Blakey’s study.

  “Yes,” said Makovsky. The Russian had a deeply resonant voice which matched his build.

  “You are going on a disinformation mission,” announced Peterson. “We want as much rumor and innuendo directed towards the complex as possible.”

  “About what?” demanded Blakey.

  Peterson paused. Then he said. “Two days ago, American B52s and Soviet Tupalov aircraft began spraying defoliants over a wide area of the country around the installation …” He held up his hand, preventing Blakey’s interruption.

  “You’ll also have defoliants,” continued Peterson. “We want the crop destruction to be as widespread as possible. There’ll also be poisons.”

  “Poison?” queried Makovsky.

  “We want the water-holes and any other drinking place used by animals treated.”

  “Even on the limited scale that we would be able to achieve, the destruction of crops and animals would have a fairly serious effect,” said Blakey.

  Peterson looked at the man sharply, aware of the protest in his voice and remembering Walter Jones’ warning of the man’s tendency to question openly. In the circumstances, it could be embarrassing.

  “We want it to be very serious,” he said. “We want to turn the local population against the complex.”

  “So who will feed them?” persisted Blakey.

  “A government which permitted the installation to be created there in the first place,” said Petrov.

  “In Vietnam, defoliants were found to be the cause of some fetal deformation in pregnant women,” said Blakey.

  “That was never proven,” said Peterson.

  “To my satisfaction it was.”

  Peterson shifted uncomfortably at the open challenge. “It’s not your satisfaction that’s important,” he said. “It’s mine.”

  “Won’t the local population use some of the same water-holes as the animals?” said Makovsky.

  “Yes,” said Petrov.

  “So some people are to die, as well as the animals?” Unlike Blakey, the Russian’s question was for clarification, not criticism.

  “Yes,” said Peterson. “There will also be other chemical preparations to cause temporary but not permanent illnesses.”

  “What else?” demanded Makovsky.

  “We’ll monitor any climatic changes from the weather satellites,” said Peterson. “If we’re lucky enough to get any sort of cloud formation, we’ll send it with carbon dioxide and cause as much rain as possible. It might not be possible to achieve much this way, but we’ll do what we can — spread the word about the weather gods becoming upset at fire in the sky, just in case.”

  “Is that what they call it, fire in the sky?” asked Makovsky.

  “Yes,” said Peterson.

  “Poor, innocent bastards,” said Blakey. It was almost a private remark. It sounded like one of personal regret.

  “If we succeed in what we’re trying to do, then it will cost the minimum of lives,” said Peterson, patiently. “If we fail and have to respond in some more direct way, an air strike for instance, a lot of people could die.”

  “I accept that,” said Blakey.

  “Then you must accept that what you are being told to do is to save lives, not just in Africa but possibly over a wider area in the Middle East.”

  “It’s a difficult logic to absorb,” said the American.

  “It’s the right equation, whether you can absorb it or not,” said Petrov, unused to such challenges and curious about them. “We know the purchaser to be Libya, so it can only be directed at the Middle East. Are you aware how many people get maimed and killed in a war, even a short war?”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Blakey. “I didn’t mean to question the operation — not to the degree I appear to have done, anyway.”

  There should have been more time spent with Blakey in preparation, Peterson realized. That would have been the moment for the moral questioning, not now. He remembered the brief time they had spent together in the anteroom and looked to the Russians.

  “Your grandfather was a priest?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” said Makovsky.

  “But you never had any training?”

  The Russian frowned, unsure of the direction of the questioning. “No,” he said.

  Peterson turned to Petrov, inquiringly. “Don’t we have the reverse of yesterday’s situation?” he said. It might give him the opportunity to redress the imbalance created by Michael Bohler’s honesty.

  “Perhaps,” said Petrov, doubtfully.

  Peterson went back to the younger Russian. “If you were directly challenged on Catholic dogma … some point of canon law or catechism, could you respond without any difficulty?”

  Makovsky turned to Petrov for guidance, his face twisted with uncertainty at the question.

  “Could you?” demanded Petrov, unhelpfully.

  “I don’t know,” said Makovsky awkwardly.

  “Then you couldn’t,” judged Peterson. He looked to Petrov again.

  “So?” demanded the Russian.

  “For the same reasons as those put forward yesterday, I think Blakey should appear the senior priest at least,” said Peterson.

  “It would adjust the balance,” agreed Petrov.

  “I was not thinking of the balance,” avoided Peterson. “I was thinking of the success of the operation.”

  “Of course,” said Petrov and smiled. He turned to Makovsky. “At all times,” he said, speaking slowly and positively, “the decisions between you are to be joint ones; neither has command over the other. But if there’s ever any challenge to you as priests, then you’ll defer to the American.”

  For the briefest moment, Makovsky’s face tightened but then the expression cleared. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.

  Petrov, who had tensed as if expecting the sort of arguments that Blakey had put against his Director, smiled again.

  “Will we be entirely alone?” queried Blakey.

  “You’ll have radio liaison with people inside the complex and others outside,” said Peterson. “You’ll remain here together, for two days at least. At the end of that time, we want you behaving like two men who’ve trained together for years and who are friends.”