“May I ask you a question?” said Israel Isles hesitantly- “Sure.,’ “I’ve gone through all the training, but I’ve never had to kill a man. I worry about that sometimes. What’s it like?” Scofield looked out the window at the shadows rushing past. It’s like walking through a door into a place you’ve never been before. I hope you do not have to go there, for it’s filled with a thousand eyes-a few angry, more frightened, most pleasing… all wondering. Why me now? “There’s not very much of that,” said Bray. “You never take a life unless it’s absolutely necessary, knowing that if you have to, you’re saving a lot many more. That’s the justification, the only one there should ever be. You put it out of your mind, lock it away behind a door somewhere in your head.” “Yes, I think I understand. The justification is in the necessity. One has to accept that, doesn’t one?” “That’s right. Necessity.” Until you grow older and the door opens more and more frequently. Finally it will not close and you stand there, staring inside.

  They drove into the deserted parking area of a picnic grounds in the Guildford countryside. Beyond the postand-rail fence were swings and slides and seesaws, all silhouetted in the bright moonlight. Not too many weeks hence, spring would come and the playground would be filled with the shouts and laughter of children; now it echoed the roar of powerful engines and the quiet sounds of men talking.

  A car was waiting for them, but Roger Symonds was not in it; he was expected momentarily. Two men had arrived early to make certain there was no one else in the picnic grounds, no intercepts placed on phones considered sterile.

  “Hello, Brandon,” said a short, stocky man in a bulky overcoat, extending his hand.

  “Hi, how are youT’ Scofield did not recall the agent’s name, but remembered the face, the red hair; he was one of the best men fielded by MI-Six. Cons Op had called him in-with British permission-when the Moscow-ParisCuba espionage ring was operating inside the Chamber of Deputies. Bray was impressed at seeing him now. Symonds was using a first team.

  “It’s been eight or ten years, hasn’t it?” “At least,” agreed Scofield. “How’ve you beenT’ “Still here. I’ll be pensioned off before too long. Looking forward to that.” ‘Enjoy it.” The Englishman hesitated, then spoke with embarrassment. “Never did see you after that awful business in East Berlin. Not that we were such friends, but you know what I mean. Delayed condolences, chap. Rotten thing. Fucking animals, I say.” “Thanks. It was a long time ago.” “Never that long,” said the MI-Six man. “It was my source in Moscow that brought us that garbage about you and the Serpent. Beowulf and the Serpentl My God, how could those pricks in D.C. swallow such rot?” “It’s complicated.” He saw the headlights first, then heard the engine. A London taxi drove into the picnic grounds. The driver, however, was no London cabbie; it was Roger Symonds.

  The middle-aged MI-Six officer climbed out and for a second or two blinked and stretched, as if to get his bearings. Bray watched him, noting that Roger had not changed during the years since they had known each other. The Englishman was still given to an excess pound or two, and his thatch of rumpled brown hair was still unmanageable. There was an air of disorientation about the veteran operative that masked a first-rate analytical mind. He was not an easy man to fool-with part of the truth or none of it.

  “Bray, how are you?” said Symonds, hand held out. “For God’s sake, don’t answer that, we’ll get to it. Let me tell you, those are not easy cars to drive. I feel as though I’ve just limped through the worst rugger match in Liverpool. I shall be far more generous with cabbies in the future.” Roger looked around, nodding to his men, then spotting the opening in the fence which led into the playground.

  “Let’s take a stroll. If you’re a good lad, I may even give you a push or two in one of the swings.”

  The Englishman listened in silence, leaning against the iron leg of the swing, as Bray sat on the seat and told his story of the massive shifting of funds. When Scofield had finished, Symonds pushed himself away from the pole, walked behind Bray and shoved him between the shoulder blades.

  “There’s the push I promised you, although you don’t deserve it. You haven’t been a good lad.” “Why not?” “You’re not telling me what you should and your tactics are disturbing.” “I see. You don’t understand why I’m asking you not to use my name with Waverly?” “Oh, no, that’s perfectly all right. He has to deal with Washington every day. Granting an unofficial meeting with a retired American intelligence officer is not something he’d care to have on the Foreign Office’s record.

  I mean we don’t actually defect to one another, you know. I’ll take that responsibility, if it’s to be taken.” “Then what’s bothering you?” “The people after you. Not Grosvenor, of course, but the others. You haven’t been candid; you said they were good, but you didn’t tell me how good. Or the depth of their resources.” “What do you mean?” “We pulled your dossier and selected three names known to you, calling each, telling each that the man on the line was an intermediary from you, instructing each to go to a specific location. All three messages were intercepted; those called were followed.” “Why does that surprise you? I told you as much.” “What surprises me is that one of those names was known only to us. Not MI-Five, not Secret Service, not even the Admiralty. Only us.” “Who was it?” “Grimes.” “Never heard of him,” said Bray.

  “You only met him once. In Prague. Under the name of Brazuk.” “KGB” said Scofield, astonished. “He defected in ‘7. 1 gave him to you.

  He wouldn’t have anything to do with us and there was no point in wasting him.” “But only you knew that. You said nothing to your people and, frankly, we at Six took credit for the purchase.” “You’ve got a leak, then.” “Quite impossible,” replied Symonds. “At least regarding the present circumstances as you! ve described them to me.,, “Why?” “You say you ran across this global financial juggling act only a short while ago. Let’s be generous and say several months, would you agreeT’ “Yes.,, “And since then, those who want to silence you have been active against you, also correct?” Bray nodded. The MI-Six man leaned forward, his hand on the chain above Scofield’s head. “From the day I took office two and a half years ago, Beowulf Agate’s file has been in my private vault. It is removed only on dual signatures, one of which must be mine. It has not been removed, and it’s the only file in England that contains any connection between you and the Grimes-Brazuk defection.” “What are you trying to say?” “There’s only one other place where that information might be found.” “Spell it out.” “Moscow.” Symonds drew out the word softly.

  Bray shook his head. “That assumes Moscow knows Grimes’ identity.” “Entirely possible. Like a few you’ve purchased, Brazuk was a bust. We don’t really want him, but we can’t give him back. He’s a chronic alcoholic, has been for years. His job at KGB was ornamental, a debt paid to a oncebrave soldier. We suspect he blew his cover quite a while ago.

  Nobody cared, until you came along. Who are these people after you?” “It seems I didn’t do you any favors when I handed over Brazuk,” said Scofield, avoiding the MI-Six man’s eyes.

  “You didn’t know that and neither did we. Who are these people, Bray?” “Men who have contacts in Moscow. Obviously. Just as we do.” “Then I must ask you a question,” continued Symonds. “One that would have been inconceivable several hours ago. Is it true what Washington thinks?

  Are you working with the Serpent?” Scofield looked at the Englishman. “Yes.” Calmly Symonds released the chain and rose to his full height. “I think I could kill you for that,” he said. “For God’s sake, why?” “If it’s a question of either your killing me or my telling you, I don’t have a choice, do IT’ “There’s a middle ground. I take you in and turn you over to Grosvenor Square.” “Don’t do it, Roger. And don’t ask me to tell you anything now. Later, yes. Not now.” “Why should I agree?” “Because you know me, I can’t think of any other reason.)f Symonds turned away. Neither spoke for several moments. Finally, the Englishman turned again, facing Bray. “Such a simple phrase. ‘You know me.’ Do IT’ “I wouldn’t have reached you if I didn’t think you did. I don’t ask strangers to risk their lives for me. I meant what I said before. Don’t go home. You’re marked… just as I’m marked. If you covered yourself, you’ll be all right. If they find out you met with me, you’re dead.” “I am at this moment logged in at an emergency meeting at the Admiralty.

  Phone calls were placed to my office and my flat demanding my presence.” “Good. I expected as much.” “Godamn you, Scofieldl It was always your gift. You. pull a man in until he can’t stand itl Yes, I do know you, and I’ll do as you ask-for a little while. But not because of your melodramatics; they don’t impress me. Something else does, however. I said I could kill you for working with Taleniekov. I think I could, but I suspect you kill yourself a little every time you look at him. That’s reason enough for me.” 9

  Bray walked down the steps of *the rooming house into the morning sunlight and the crowds of shoppers in Knightsbridge. It was an area of London compatible with staying out of sight; from nine A.M. on, the streets were jammed with traffic. He stopped at a newsstand, shifted his attach6 case to his left hand, picked up The Times, and went into a small restaurant where he slipped into a chair, satisfied that it provided a clear view of the entrance, more satisfied still that the pay telephone on the wall was only feet away. It was quarter to ten; he was to call Roger Symonds at precisely 10:15 on the sterile number that could not be tapped.

  He ordered breakfast from a laconic, Cockney waitress and unfolded the newspaper. He found what he was looking for in a single column on the upper left section of the front page.

  VERACHTEN HErREss DEAD Essen. Odile Verachten, daughter of Walther, granddaughter of Ansel Verachten, founder of the Verachten Works, was found dead in her Werden Strasse penthouse last evening, an apparent victim of a massive coronary stroke. For nearly a decade, Fraulein Verachten had assumed the managerial reins of the diversified companies under the guidance of her father, who has receded from active participation during the past years. Both parents were in seclusion at their estate in Stadtwald, and were not available for comment. A private family burial will take place on the residential grounds.

  A corporate statement is expected shortly, but none from Walther Verachten who is reported to be seriously ill.

  Odile Verachten was a dramatically attractive addition to the boardrooms of this city of coldly efficient executives. She was mercurial, and when younger, given to displays of exhibitionism often at odds with the behaviour of Essen’s business leaders. But no one doubted her ability to run the vast Verachten Works….

  Scofield’s eyes quickly scanned the biographical hyperbole that was an obituary editor’s way of describing a spoiled, headstrong bitch who undoubtedly slept around with the frequency if not the delicacy of a Soho whore.

  There was a follow-up story directly beneath. Bray began reading and knew instantly, instinctively that another fragment of the elusive truth was being revealed.

  VERACHTEN DFATH CONCERNS TRANS-COMM New York, N.Y. In a move that took Wall Street by surprise, it was learned today that a team of management consultants from TransCommunications, In-corporated, was flying to Essen, Germany, for conferences with executives of the Verachten Works. The untimely death of Fraulein Odile Verachten, and the virtual seclusion of her father, Walther, 76, has left the Verachten companies without an authoritative voice at the top. What astonished supposedly well-informed sources here was the extent of TransComm’s holdings in Verachten. In the legal labyrinths of Essen, American investments are often beyond scrutiny, but rarely when those holdings exceed twenty percent. Rumours persist that TransComm’s are in excess of fifty percent, although denials labelling such figures as ridiculous have been issued by the Boston headquarters of the conglomerate….

  The words sprang up from the page at Scofield. The Boston headquarters.

  Were two fragments of their elusive truth being revealed? Joshua Appleton, IV, was the Senator from Massachusetts, the Appleton family the most powerful political entity in the state. They were the Episcopal Kennedys, far more restrained in self-evocation, but every bit as in-fluential on the national scene. Which was intrinsic to the international financial scene.

  Would a retrospective of the Appletons include conneCtions-covert or otherwise-with TransCommunications? It was something that would have to be learned.

  The telephone on the wall behind him rang; he checked his watch. It was eight minutes past ten; another seven and he would call Symonds at MI-Six headquarters. He glanced at the phone, annoyed to see the Cockney waitress wincing into the mouthpiece, a groan or an expletive forming at her lips. He hoped her conversation would not last long.

  “Mister Hagate? Is there a Mister B. Hagate ‘ere?” The question was shouted angrily.

  Bray froze. B. Hagate ‘ere?

  Agate, B.

  Beowulf Agate.

  Was Symonds playing some insane game of one-upmanship? Had the Englishman decided to prove the superior quality of British Intelligence’s tracking techniques? Was the damn fool so egotistical he could not leave well enough alone?

  God, what a fool!

  Scofield rose as unobtrusively as possible, holding his attach6 case. He went to the phone and spoke.

  “What is it?” “Good morning, Beowulf Agate,” said a male voice with vowels so full and consonants so sharp they could have been formed at Oxford. “We trust you’ve rested since your arduous joumey from Rome.” “Who’s this?” “My name’s irrelevant; you don’t know me. We merely wanted you to understand. We found you; we’ll always be able to find you. But it’s all so tedious. We feel that it would be far better for everyone concerned if we sat down and thrashed out the differences between us. You may discover they’re not so great after all.” “I don’t feel comfortable with people who’ve tried to kill me.” “I must correct you. Some have tried to kill you. Others have tried to save you.” “For what? A session of chemical therapy? To find out what I’ve learned, what I’ve done?” “What you’ve learned is meaningless, and you can’t do anything. If your own people take you, you know what you can expect. There’ll be no trial, no public hearing; you’re far too dangerous to too many people. You’ve collaborated with the enemy, killed a young man your superiors believe was a fellow intelligence officer in Rock Creek Park, and fled the country. You’re a traitor; you’ll be executed at the first opportune moment. Can you doubt it after the events on Nebraska Avenue? We can execute you the instant you walk out of that restauranL Or before you leave.” Bray looked around, studying the faces at the tables, looking for the inevitable pair of eyes, a glance behind a folded newspaper, or above the rim of a coffee cup. There were several candidates; he could not be sure.

  And without question, there were unseen killers in the crowds outside. He was trapped; his watch read eleven minutes past ten. Another four and he could dial Symonds on the sterile line. But he was dealing with professionals. If he hung up and dialed was there a man now at one of these tables-in nocuously raising a fork to his mouth or sipping from a cup-who would pull out a weapon powerful enough to blow him into the wall? Or were those inside merely hired guns, unwilling to make the sacrifice the Matarese demanded of its 61ite? He had to buy time and take the risk, watching the tables every second as he did so, preparing himself for that instant when escape came with sudden movement and the conceivable-unfortunate -sacrifice of innocent people.

  “You want to meet, I want a guarantee I’ll get out of here.” “You’ve got it.” “Your saying it isn’t enough. Identify one of your employees in here.” “Let’s put it this way, Beowulf. We can hold you there, call the American Embassy, and before you could blink, they’d have you cornered. Even should you get past them, we’d be waiting on the outer circle, as it were.” His watch read twelve past ten. Three minutes.

  “Then obviously you’re not that anxious to meet with me.” Scofield listened, his concentration total. He was almost certain the man on the line was a messenger; someone above wanted Beowulf Agate taken, not killed.

  “I said we felt it would be better for everyone concerned-” “Give me a face!” interrupted Bray. The voice was a messenger. “Otherwise call the godamned embassy. ru take my chances. Now.” “Very well,” came the reply, spoken rapidly. “There’s a man with rather sunken cheeks, wearing a gray overcoat….” “I see him.” Bray did, five tables away.

  “Leave the restaurant; he’ll get up and follow you. He’s your guarantee.” Thirteen past ten. Two minutes.

  “What guarantee does he have? How do I know you won’t take him out with me?” “Oh, come now, Scofield…

  “I’m glad to hear you’ve got another name for me. What’s your name?” “I told you, it’s irrelevant.” “Nothing’s irrelevant.” Bray paused. “I want to know your name.” “Smith. Accept it.” Ten-fourteen. One minute. Time to start.

  “I’ll have to think about it. I also want to finish my breakfast.” Abruptly hanging up, he shifted his attach6 case to his right hand and walked over to the plain-looking man five tables away.

  The man stiffened as Scofield approached; his hand reached under his overcoat.

  “The alert’s off,” said Scofield, touching the concealed hand under the cloth of the coat. “I was told to tell you that; you’re to take me out of here. But first, I’m to make a telephone call. He gave me the number; I hope I can remember it.” The hollow-cheeked killer remained immobile, speechless. Scofield walked back to the telephone on the wall.

  Ten-fourteen and fifty-one seconds. Nine seconds to go. He frowned, as if trying to recall a number, picked up the phone, and dialed. Three seconds past 10: 15 he heard the echoing sound that followed the interruption of the bell; the electronic devices were activated. He inserted his coin.