Bray counted on it. There was a man he had helped several years ago, under circumstances that had little to do with their allied professions, that had made it possible for the Englishman to remain in British Intelligence. Not only remain but advance to a position of considerable responsibility.

  Roger Symonds had dropped P-,000 of MI-Six funds at the tables of Les Ambassadeurs. Bray had replaced the sum from one of his accounts. The money had never been repaid-not by default, only because Scofield had not crossed Symonds’ path. In their work, one did not leave a forwarding address.

  A form of repayment would be asked for now. That it would be offered, Scofield did not question, but whether it could be delivered was something else again. Yet it would be neither if Roger Symonds learned that he was on Washington’s terminal list. Debts aside, the Englishman took his work seriously; there’d be no Fuchs or Philbys on his conscience. Much less a former killer from Consular Operations conceivably turned paid assassin.

  Bray wanted Symonds to arrange a private, isolated meeting between himself and England’s Foreign Secretary, David Waverly. The meeting, however, had to be negotiated without Scofield’s name being used-the British agent would balk at that, refuse entirely if he learned of Washington’s hunt for him. Scofield knew he had to come up with a credible motive; he had not thought of one yet He ran out of Charing Cross station and walked into the flow of pedestrians heading south on the Strand. At Trafalgar Square, he crossed the wide intersection, joining the early evening crowds. He looked at his watch. It was 6:15, 7:15 in Paris. In thirty minutes he was to start calling Toni at her flat in the rue de Bac; there was a telephone center a few blocks away on Haymarket. He would make his way there slowly, stopping to buy a new hat and jacket. The CIA man would give a precise description of his clothing; changing it was imperative.

  He was wearing the same windbreaker he had worn in Corsica, the same visored fishing cap. He left them in a curtained dressing room at a branch of Durms, buying a dark tweed Mackinaw jacket and an Irish walking hat, the soft brim falling around his head, a circle of narrow fabric throwing shadows downward across his face. He walked south again, more rapidly now, and cut through the winding back streets into Haymarket.

  He paid one of the operators at the telephone center counter, was assigned a booth, went inside, and closed the glass door, wishing it were solid. It was ten minutes to seven. Antonia would be waiting by the phone. They always allowed a variable of a half-hour for channel telephone traffic; if he did not reach her by 8:15, Paris time, she could expect his next call between 11:45 and 1:15. The one condition Toni had insisted upon was for them to talk to each other every day. Bray had not objected; he had come out of the earth and found something very precious to him, something he had thought he had lost permanently. He could love again; the excitement of anticipation had come back. The sound of a voice stirred him, the touch of a hand was meaningful. He had found Antonio Gravet at the most inopportune time of his life, yet finding her gave a significance to his life he had not felt for a number of years. He wanted to live and grow old with her, it was as simple as that. And remarkable. He had never thought about growing old before; it was time he did.

  If the Matarese allowed it.

  The Matarese. An international power without a profile, its leaders faceless men trying to achieve what?

  Chaos? Why?

  Chaos. Scofield was suddenly struck by the root meaning of the word. The state of formless matter, of clashing bodies in space, before the creation.

  Before order was imposed on the universe.

  The telephone rang; Bray picked it up quickly.

  “Vasili’s here,” said Antonia.

  “In Paris? When did he get in?” “This afternoon. He’s hurt.” “How badly?” “His neck. He should have stitches.” There was a brief pause as the phone was being passed. Or taken.

  “He should have sleep,” said Taleniekov in English. “But I have things to tell you first, several warnings.” “What about Voroshin?” “He kept the V for practical if foolish purposes. He became Essen’s Verachten. Ansel Verachten.” “The Verachlen Works?” “Yes” “Good Christl” “His son believed that.” “What?” “It’s irrelevant; there’s too much to tell you. His granddaughter was the chosen one. She’s dead, killed on Matarese orders.” “As Scozzi was,” said Scofield.

  “Exactly,” agreed the Soviet. “They were vessels; they carried the plans but were commandeered by others. It will be interesting to see what happens to the Verachten companies. They have no leadership now. We must watch and note who assumes control.” “We’ve reached the same conclusion then,” said Bray. “The Matarese work through large corporations.” “It would appear so, but to what end I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s extremely contradictory.” “Chaos….” Scofield spoke the word softly.

  “I beg your pardon.” “Nothing. You said you wanted to warn me.” “Yes. They’ve studied our files under microscopes. It seems they know every drone we’ve ever used, every past friend, every contact, every…

  teacher and lover. Be careful.” “They can’t know what was never entered; they can’t cover everyone.” “Don’t bank on that. You received my cable about the body marks?” “It’s crazy! Squads of killers identifying themselves? I’m not sure I believe it.” “Believe it,” said Taleniekov. “But there’s something I wasn’t able to explain. They’re suicidal; they won’t be taken. Which leads me to believe they’re not as extensive in numbers as the leaders would like us to think.

  They’re some kind of 6lite soldiers sent out to the troubled areas, not to be confused with hired guns employed by second and third parties.” Bray paused, remembering. “You know what you’re describing, don’t you?” “All too well,” replied the Russian. “Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah. The Fida’is.” “Cadres of assassins Ail death do us part from our pleasures. How is it modernized?” “I have a theory; it may be worthless. We’ll discuss it when I see you.” “When will that be?” “Tomorrow night-early the next morning probably. I can hire a pilot and a plane in the Cap Gris district; I’ve done it before. There’s a private airfield between Hyth and Ashford. I should be in London by one o’clock, two or three at the latest. I know where you’re staying, the girl told me.” “Taleniekov.”..Yes?” “Her name’s Antonia.” “I know that.” “Let me speak to her.” “Of course. Here she is.”

  He found the name in the London directory: R. Symonds, Brdbry Ln, Chelsea. He memorized the number and placed the first call at 7:30 from a booth in Piccadilly Circus. The woman who answered told him politely that Mr. Symonds was on his way home from the office.

  “He should be here any mo’ now. Shall I tell him who called?” “The name wouldn’t mean anything. I’ll call back in a while, thank you.” “He’s got a marvelous memory. You’re sure you don’t care to leave your name?” “I’m sure, thank you.” “He’s coming directly from the office.” “Yes, I understand that.” Scofield hung up, disturbed. He left the booth and walked down Piccadilly past Fortnum and Mason to St. James Street and beyond. There was another booth at the entrance to Green Park; slightly more than ten minutes had passed. He wanted to hear the woman’s voice again.

  “Has you husband arrived?” he asked.

  “He just called from the local, wouldn’t you knowl The Brace and Bit on Old Church. He’s quite irritable, if I do say. Must have had a dreadful day.” Bray hung up. He knew the number of MI-Six-London; it was one a member of the fraternity kept in mind. He dialed.

  “Mr. Symonds, please. Priority.” “Right away, sir.” Roger Symonds was not on his way home, nor was he in a pub called The Brace and Bit. Was he playing a domestic game?

  “Symonds here,” said the familiar English voice.

  “Your wife just told me you were on your way home, but got detained at The Brace and Bit. Is that the best you could come up with?” “I what?… Who’s this?” “An old friend.” “Not much of a one, I’m afraid. I’m not married. My friends know that.” Bray paused, then spoke urgently. “Quickly. Give me a sterile number, or one on a scrambler. Quicklyl” “Who is this?” “Two thousand pounds.” It took Symonds less than a second to understand and adjust; he reeled off a number, repeated it once, then added, “The cellars. Forty-five stories high.” There was a click; the line went dead. Forty-five stories high to the cellars meant halving the figure, minus one. ,He was to call the number in exactly twentytwo minuteswithin the one-minute span-during which scrambling and jamming devices would be activated. He left the booth to find another as far away as time and rapid walking permitted. Telephone intercepts were potentially two-way traces; the booth at Green Park could be under observation in a matter of minutes.

  He went up Old Bond Street into New until he reached Oxford, where he turned right and began running toward Wardour Street. At Wardour he slowed down, turned right again, and melted into the crowds of Soho.

  Elapsed time: nineteen and a half minutes.

  There was a booth at the corner of Shaftsbury Avenue; inside a callow young man wearing an electricblue suit was screaming into the phone.

  Scofield waited by the door, looking at his watch.

  Twenty-one minutes.

  He could not take the chance. He took out a five-pound note and tapped on the glass. The yotmg man turned; he saw the bill and held up his middle finger in a gesture that was not cooperative.

  Bray opened the door, put his left hand on the electricblue shoulder, tightened his grip, and as the offensive young man began screeching, pulled him out of the booth, tripping him with his left foot, dropping the fiver on top of him. It floated; the youth grabbed it and ran.

  Twenty-one minutes, thirty seconds.

  Scofield took several deep breaths, trying to slow the rapid pounding in his chest. Twentytwo minutes. He dialed.

  “Don’t go home,” said Bray the instant Symonds was on the line.

  “Don’t you stay in London!” was the reply “Grosvenor Square has an alert out for you.” “You know? Washington called you in?” “Hardly. They won’t say a word about you. You’re terminated personnel, an off-limits subject. We probed several weeks ago when we first got word.” “Word from where?” “Our sources in the Soviet. In KGB. T’hey’re after you, too, but then they always have been.” “What did Washington say when you probed?” “Played it down. Failure to report whereabouts, something Re that.

  They’re too embarrassed to put an official stamp on the nonsense. Are you authoring something? There’s a lot of that over there—’ “How did you know about the alert?” interrupted Scofield. “The one out for me now?” “Oh, come now, we do keep tabs, you know. A number of people Grosvenor has on its payroll quite rightly have first loyalties to us.” Bray paused briefly, bewildered. “Roger, why are you telling me this? I can’t believe two thousand pounds would make you do it.” “That misappropriated sum has been sitting in a Chelsea bank drawing interest for you since the morning after you bailed me out.” “Then why?” Symonds cleared his throat, a proper Englishman facing the necessity of showing emotion. “I have no idea what your quarrel is over there and I’m not sure I care to-you have such puritanical outbursts-but I was appalled to learn that our prime source in Washington confirmed that the State Department subscribes to the Soviet ploy. As I said, it’s not only nonsense, I find it patently offensive.” “A ploy? What ploy?” “That you joined forces with the Serpent.” “The ‘Serpent’?” “It’s what we call Vasili Taleniekov, a name I’m sure you’ll recall. To repeat, I don’t know what your trouble is, but I do know a godamned lie, a macabre lie at that, when I hear one.” Symonds cleared his throat again. “Some of us remember East Berlin. And I was here when you came back from Prague. How dare they… after what you’ve done? Churlish bastardsl” Scofield took a long, deep breath. “Roger, don’t go home.” “Yes, you said that before.” Symonds was relieved they were back to practicality; it was his voice. “You say someone’s there, claiming to be my wife?” “Probably not inside, but nearby, with a clear view. They’ve tapped into your phone and the equipment’s good. No echoes, no static.” “My phone7 Tliey’re trailing me? In London?” “They’re covering you; they’re after me. They knew we were friends and thought I might try to reach you.” “Godamned cheek! That embassy will get a bolt that’ll char the gold feathers off that fucking ridiculous eaglel They go too far!” “It’s not the Americans.” ‘Not the?… Bray, what in God’s name are you talking about?” “That’s just it. We have to talk. But it’s got to be a very complicated route. Two networks are looking for me, and one of them has you under a glass. They’re good.” “We’ll see about that,” snapped Symonds, annoyed, challenged and curious.

  “I daresay several vehicles, one or two decoys, and a healthy bit of official lying can do the trick. Where are you?” “Soho. Wardour and Shaftsbury.” “Good. Head over to Tottenham Court. In about twenty minutes, a gray Mini-rear license plate askew-will enter south from Oxford and stall at the curb. The driver’s black, a West Indian chap; he’s your contact. Get in with him; the engine will make a remarkable recovery.” “Thank you, Roger.” “Not at all. But don’t expect me to have the two thousand quid. The banks are closed, you know.”

  Scofield got in the front seat of the Mini, the black driver looking at him closely, courteously, his right hand out of sight. The man had obviously been given a photograph to study. Bray removed the Irish hat.

  “Thank you,” said the driver, his hand moving swiftly to his jacket pocket, then to the wheel. The engine caught instantly and they sped out of Tottenham Court. “My name is Israel. You are Brandon Scofield-obviously. Good to make your acquaintance.” “Israel?” he asked.

  “That’s it, mon,” replied the driver, smiling, a pronounced West Indian lilt to his voice. “I don’t think my parents had in mind the cohesiveness of minorities when they gave it to me, but they were avid readers of the Bible. Israel Isles.” “It’s a nice name.” “My wife thinks they blew it, as you Americans say. She keeps telling me that if they had only used Ishmael instead, all my introductions would be memorable.” “‘Call me Ishmael’ Bray laughed. “It’s close enough.” “This banter covers a slight nervousness on my part, if may say so,” said Isles.

  “Why?” “We studied a number of your accomplishments in training; it wasn’t that long ago. I’m chauffeuring a man we’d all like to emulate.” The trace of laughter vanished from Scofield’s face. “That’s very flattering. I’m sure you will if you want to.” And when you get to be my age, I hope you think it’s been worth it.

  They drove south out of London on the road toward Heathrow, branching off the highway at Redhill, heading West into the countryside. Israel Isles was sufficiently perceptive to curtail the banter. He apparently understood that he was driving either a very preoccupied or exhausted American. Bray was grateful for the silence; he had to reach a difficult decision. The risks were enormous no matter what he decided.

  Yet part of that decision had already been forced upon him, which meant he had to tell Symonds that Washington wasn’t the immediate issue. He could not permit Roger to vent his misplaced outrage on the American Embassy; it was not the embassy that had placed the intercept on his telephone. It was the Matarese.

  Yet to tell the whole truth meant involving Symonds, who would not remain silent. He would go to others and those others to their superiors. It was not the time to speak of conspiracy so massive and contradictory that it would be branded no more than the product of two terminated intelligence officers-both wanted for treason in their respective countries. The time would come, but it was not now. For the truth of the matter was that they did not possess a shred of hard evidence. Everything they knew to be true was so easily denied as the paranoid ramblings of lunatics and traitors. Oii the surface, the logic was their enemies’. Why would the leaders of mammoth corporations, conglomerates that depended on stability, finance chaos?

  Chaos. Formless matter, clashing bodies in space.

  “Another few minutes, we’ll reach our first destination,” said Israel Isles.

  “First destination?” “Yes, our trip’s in two stages. We change vehicles up ahead; this one is driven back to London-the driver black , his passenger white-and we proceed in another, quite different car. ‘Me next leg is less than a quarter of an hour. Mr. Symonds may be a little late, however. He had to make four changes of vehicles in city garages.” “I see,” said Scofield, relieved. The West Indian had just provided Bray with his answer. As the rendezvous with Symonds was in stages, so, too, would be the expla. nation to Symonds. He would tell him part of the truth, but nothing that would implicate the Foreign Secretary, David Waverly.

  However, Waverly had to be given information on a most confidential basis; decisions of foreign policy could be affected by the news of massive shifts of capital being manipulated secretly. This was the information Scofield had come across and was tracing: massive shifts of capital. And although all clandestine economic maneuvers were subjects for intelligence scrutiny, these went beyond MI-Five and -Six, just as they superseded the interests of the FBI and the CIA.

  In Washington, there were those who wanted to prevent him from disclosing what he knew, but could not prove. The surest way of doing so was to discredit him, kill him, if it came to that. Symonds would understand. Men killed facilely for money; no one knew it better than intelligence officers. So often it was the spine of their… accomplishments.

  Isles slowed the Mini down and pulled to the side of the road. He made a U-turn, pointing the car in the direction from which they came.

  Within thirty seconds another, larger automobile approached; it had picked them up along the way and had followed at a discreet distance. Bray knew what was expected; he got out, as did the West Indian. The Bentley came to a stop. A white driver opened the rear door for a black companion. No one spoke as the exchange was made, both cars now driven by blacks.