As usual, the CIA had been very thorough. Their investigator in Venice had turned up some information and followed it through. The results were sent through to SIS. Bill Tanner subsequently handed them to Tyreen Mackenzie.
"We have enough here to put pressure on Modena," she said the next time he passed by her desk. "And let him know we haven't just shelved what happened in Venice."
Tim Johnson suggested that he fly out to Rome and personally put the American evidence in front of Alfredo Modena. Telexes could be acknowledged and responses delayed. A direct contact might force out the vital information.
Tanner and Tyreen Mackenzie agreed. Johnson caught a morning flight, and was in Modena's office by midafternoon. There he was told that the head of Security was at the prison. After consultations in rapid Italian between his subordinates and a telephone call made out of Johnson's hearing, he was driven to the prison.
He found the Italian sitting in a little improvised office, shirt-sleeved and puffy-eyed with tiredness. As soon as they shook hands, Johnson detected that the man was indeed tired but also very excited. Johnson put the CIA report in front of him. "We wanted you to see this," he said. "It probably just corroborates your own information."
Modena glanced up at him. "And you have come all this way to bring me something that you think I may already know? Come, my friend, you and the Americans have been trespassing in my country without my agreement. Not for the first time; nor the last. But please don't treat me like a fool. Let me see what they've found out. And please, it's very warm. Take off your jacket, make yourself comfortable."
Johnson sat and waited. Warm wasn't the word. There was no air conditioning, and the smell of human beings in confined spaces was sweet and sickly. Prisons smelled the same wherever they were; only some, like this one, smelled stronger.
Modena said at last, "I am grateful for this. It ties in with some very important facts I have established myself."
Johnson didn't hesitate. "In view of the assassination of Father Marnie last week, I hope you'll share them with us."
"You believe the two are related?" Modena inquired.
"Yes." Johnson was emphatic. "So was the multiple Duvalier murder, and the so-called accidental death of Soviet Minister Nikolaev. Four separate incidents with a common denominator."
Modena raised his eyebrows. It gave his saturnine face a rather devilish look. "What common denominator is there between the killings of a right-wing American, a left-wing Frenchwoman, a Soviet minister, and a leader of an anti-war movement? It seems to me that the only common denominator is the lack of any connection."
Johnson had been expecting this. "That's exactly our point. Whoever is organizing these murders isn't following a pattern as expected. The victims are quite unrelated, but the method of killing them is not. A single assassin, a public place, guaranteed maximum publicity. And before you counter with what happened to the Duvaliers, it couldn't have caused a greater sensation if it had been done in the middle of the Place de la Concorde. So the objective was achieved. I hope you will take us into your confidence, Signore Modena, as we have done with you."
Modena wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "You've put forward a very convincing case." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come with me. We'll take this report with us."
"Now Elsa," Alfredo Modena said. "I want you to look at these. Do any of them look like the man who stayed with you?"
The CIA had been patient and thorough. Every hotel and pensione had been visited, and questions asked about who stayed there during the week of Henry Franklin's murder. Continuous probing and handouts of money had produced a number of candidates. Out of these the experts had drawn up a list of a dozen. And the drivers of taxi launches were searching their memories for passengers on the day of the killing. The police had tried to cover up the death of their colleague as a drowning accident, but rumors spread and the truth was soon known.
Two drivers remembered a young man hiring the little vaporetto that morning; their descriptions didn't quite tally. But then descriptions never do. To one he was tall, the second said slight. Age varied but both settled for less than forty, and both agreed, without being specific, that he wasn't dark and didn't look Italian. From all these fragments, the CIA had built up a composite picture with a rough schedule of movements. The picture was among half a dozen others, with less convincing credentials.
Tim Johnson stayed in the background of the cell. He was fascinated by the girl. She was very young, very thin and sallow. She reminded him of a trapped animal. She had glared at him when he came in after Modena and then looked away. But she hung on the Italian's words, staring at him with a helpless dependence. He'd done a good job there, Johnson decided. He'd got her totally subjected. He preferred not to wonder how he'd managed it. That wasn't his business.
Elsa Valdorini took the pictures and leafed through them. Then she stopped. She held one out to Modena. "That's him," she said. "Near enough."
"Good." Modena smiled approvingly at her. He glanced over his shoulder at Johnson and said in Italian so she could understand. "Elsa has been a great help to us. Not without a lot of soul-searching, you understand. And she has suffered considerably. Now she has decided not to suffer for other people's crimes. Which is very brave as well as sensible."
Johnson saw her blush. Christ, he said to himself, I've heard about his technique but I've never seen it working before. It's like getting a bloody tiger to lie down and lick your feet.
Modena stood up. He smiled at the girl again. "Good," he repeated. He took Johnson upstairs.
"They'll send in some lunch," he said. "It' not bad. Let's put this together, then."
Slowly the picture was emerging. The killer had stayed at a pensione; the padrone remembered him talking about architecture and saying he was a student. Both men dismissed this. Also the cover that he was going on to Padua. The girl Valdorini said he had a northern accent, which the padrone corroborated. He looked like someone who lived in the open, and who walked a lot. Not a city type, more of a village man, but not a laborer. The girl had noticed his hands, as she did his other physical details, when she was thinking about sleeping with him. His hands were well kept. He was clean in his habits. Fair hair, blue-gray eyes, outdoor skin, but not a laborer. The trail had gone on to the airports, which were closed until some days after the man had left Valdorini's house. That left the railways. A close study of the timetables for the day he left Venice established that there were two connections he could have caught to Trieste.
Modena was working on the assumption that the assassin had gone home and into hiding. And home was in the north. "We'll get the trains and buses checked," he said. "And from there we'll send men up to make inquiries at the places where the buses call. People in that region of Italy use the bus more than the car, and the bicycle isn't suited to the Dolomite area. That is where I think our killer comes from, judging by the accent Valdorini described. He used certain expressions that you find in that part of the country. She remembered them because they were comical to a Venetian. So, we will have to follow up our leads and wait." He leaned back, stretched out his arms, and sighed. "I see her every day," he said. "I keep the contact going between us. Otherwise she could go back on it and refuse to testify when we catch this man. You can never trust these people."
"How did you get her to make a deal?" Johnson asked.
Modena managed a slight smile. He didn't smile or laugh often, Johnson noticed. He was not in the least lighthearted. "I showed her what would happen if she didn't," he said. "Fortunately she was too conditioned to look at it closely. It was a prison for dangerous criminal lunatics and it's been closed for two years. I put on a little window dressing for her benefit, and it worked. Strange, Signore Johnson, the things that break a human spirit --- I could have stood that girl against a wall and lined up the firing squad and she'd have spat in my face. But the sight of a padded cell was just too much. Ah, well. Will you take some coffee? I've been drinking too much espresso. It's bad for the nerves."
"What will happen to her?"
Modena grimaced. "Fifteen years. She'll go to the south. That's where we keep the women. On a small island, off the coast of Calabria. They don't escape from there."
Helene Blondin didn't eat her dinner. To her aunt's inquiry she said irritably that she wasn't hungry, and added a clipped plea not to fuss. She had become very short-tempered in the last few days, the bewildered woman thought. Quite unlike her usual self. She'd changed since that dreadful experience. It wasn't a nice thing to think, but she couldn't help being glad that the influence of people like the Duvaliers was gone. Too much money, no moral sense, and a disregard for old-fashioned standards that she found disturbing. She kept an eye on her niece, but was careful not to say any more. There was a difficult, even forbidding side to the girl's character that made her feel uneasy sometimes.
Helene excused herself. "I'm going out for a walk," she said. "I won't be late, so don't worry about me." She bent and gave her aunt a kiss. It was a contact she hated, but it pacified the old bitch. It stopped her asking questions and following her around.
She couldn't have eaten anything that night. Her stomach was in a knot, and she couldn't stop thinking about the man who'd broken his silent watch on her that day.
"The others have been killed. You will be next."
The one who had killed in Venice, the one who had destroyed the Soviet minister in Poland, the one who had shot the peace-mongering priest in London. Others. She couldn't think of any others but those who had done what she had done.
Killed by whom? The question was gripping her guts with suspicion. Killed by their own, to stop them being caught and talking? Nobody had approached her since she came back to Paris after the deaths of the Duvaliers. That was the formula, agreed and understood. The preparation for the mission after you had been chosen, the mission itself, and then silence for the rest of your life. A return to normal life with the secret of what you had done locked away forever.
But in her case something had gone wrong. She went up to her room, paced up and down, looked at her watch and then very carefully, with the lights out, drew back the curtains and searched the street below. It was empty. There were no parked cars, no strollers idling past. He wouldn't still be watching, whoever he was. He'd given his warning. She went downstairs, opened the front door, and made sure there was nobody in sight. Then she slipped out and began walking very rapidly toward the metro station.
Helene didn't see Colin Lomax. She didn't see him follow her onto the train and get out after her at the station on the Twentieth Arrondissement.
She didn't see him because he was in jeans and denim jacket, dark glasses, and sneakers. He blended so skillfully into the evening crowd making its way to the center of Paris that she didn't give him or anyone near him a second glance.
They arrived in a little square, charming and antiquated, with a cobbled surface and eighteenth-century houses and shop fronts. A secret corner of the old Paris. Lomax hung back, sheltering around a corner. The girl's footsteps echoed across the uneven road surface. She stopped at a door and waited. It opened after a few minutes and a beam of light shot out into the semidarkness shrouding a tall figure that stepped aside and let her in. the door closed and the square was dim again, lit only by the two street lamps that had been adapted from gaslight.
Lomax didn't go near the house. He turned back and went home to his pensione. From there he made a telephone call to Tyreen Mackenzie's flat. It rang and rang and he swore, thinking she's out, where the hell is she? But then someone picked up the receiver. "Tyreen, it's me."
"I heard the phone as I was opening the door," she said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Any news?"
Not how are you, or any civility of that sort, he thought, and felt angry. "I think I've stirred it up," he said. "I'll let you know more tomorrow." He could be brisk too.
He was going to hang up when she said, "Colin? Don't take any risks, will you..."
He paused. "Don't worry! How's it going at your end?"
"Well," she answered. "We've got a breakthrough too. Italy at last. If you can establish something there we could be closing in. when will you call tomorrow?"
"After I've sussed out a house," he said. "Our friend went scuttling round there tonight, after I'd had a word with her. I want to see who lives there."
"You spoke to her?" Tyreen sounded anxious.
"Just a few well-chosen words," he said. "My French isn't exactly fluent. But good enough to put the fear of God into her. We'll know more by tomorrow. I'll call you tomorrow evening. Will you be there?"
There was no hesitation. "Of course. But if you run into trouble, don't wait; call the red number."
"Yes, Ma'am," he mocked.
"Good night, Colin. And thanks for doing this."
He grinned. About time she said that. Not that he cared. "Don't mention it." He rang off.
"I've been followed," Helene Blondin insisted. "A man's been following me for the last four days. And this afternoon he came up and said something. I had to contact you!"
The man looked at her; a cold impassive face, with a glint of anger in the hooded eyes. "You've broken the rule," he said. "You were told never to come back again, whatever happened. You are the only member who has lost her head."
Helene could feel her panic growing. They weren't going to help. They were sheltering behind the very rules that had once made her feel so safe. And how did she know what the others had done?
"He said I was going to be killed!"
The expression on her listener's face didn't change. "You must go away," he said. "I don't want to hear any more. You know the rules and you swore to follow them. You don't exist and we don't either. If you are being threatened, then do what an innocent person would do. Go to the police." He crossed and opened the door into the hall. "Leave at once."
Helene didn't move. "Suppose he knows something about all of us? Don't you care about that?"
The answer was uninterested. "Nobody knows about us. If you think you have been discovered, you know the rule."
She glared at him, and the fury in her overcame the fear. They all possessed that inner core of seething violence, the man knew. He knew it could erupt at any moment. They wanted to kill, these people, and to die themselves. But not this one. He could see the defiance flaming in her, the refusal to carry out her oath. So he said, "You go home. I will see what we can do. But don't come here again. Trust us to take care of you."
"You'd better," Helene said. "I want to know one thing. How are the others? How are Italy and Russia and Ireland? Are they safe?"
He didn't lie to her. "Only Russia is dead. They caught him and he was killed. He didn't speak. The others have gone their ways and we know nothing about them. You should leave now." There was an insistent note in his voice.
"All right, I'll go." She went with him to the front door. "If I see him again, what do I do?"
"Go to the police. And leave the rest to us."
There was nobody in the little square when she came out. A peaceful, pleasant summer night. She hunched a little as if there was a wind, and walked all the way home to her aunt's house. She was not going to obey their rule. She was not going to be a good girl and commit suicide if anything went wrong.
The man watched from a darkened room as Helene crossed the cobbled square and vanished around the corner. Nobody had followed her. But somehow the strongest link in the chain was showing weakness. She had made a slip without anyone realizing, and the man who followed her had threatened because he knew she would react as she did. And done the one thing that was forbidden to all of them. Returned after the mission. He went into the back of the house and down the stairs in to what had been the servants' quarters in the old days. The big gloomy kitchen didn't exist. It was entered by a reinforced door, and inside it was brightly lit and equipped with a highly sophisticated communications system. Three people were on duty. Two women and a young man. They stood up when he came in. They spoke in a language that was clipped and tonal. He checked the time, paused, and then announced his decision.
It was the day before his wedding. The man named Italy was getting ready for the family celebration dinner. His mother had been cooking, and every relative in the village had contributed. They would all sit down to a huge meal with unlimited local wine, and every uncle, aunt, cousin, and child would wish him happiness. He was in love, which made the marriage good. She was a girl he had grown up with; a redhead with extensive freckles and a bright smile. There was Austrian blood in her, as with many families in the area. Her father owned a big vineyard and ran the grocery shop. Everybody was happy about the wedding. The village was turning out for them, and they would have a procession to the church, headed by the local band. It would be a great day.
He whistled as he helped bring in the big flasks of wine. It was hot. He wore only a sweatshirt above his jeans and his feet slapped on the stone floor in espadrilles. He knew he was a well-set-up man, capable of making his bride happy and giving her children. They'd be comfortable, with a secure future when her father died. Luckily, she was the only child. The business and the vineyard would go to her. Life was good. He'd settle down and follow the pattern of his family and their forebears for the last five hundred years. He'd die and be buried in the village churchyard with a headstone listing his name and age. A respectable bourgeois living his life out in the mountain village. Except for a trip to Venice and a moment of hidden glory that must stay hidden.
They wouldn't carve that on his tombstone, but he would die knowing he wasn't just an ordinary man. He had his moment of immortality, of super power, when he killed. It had cleansed him of his hate and frustrations. He could live normally now, a bomb that had exploded and was harmless.
His sister came to the door and called him. "Someone's asking for you --- no, he didn't say. I've never seen him before."
He set down the last of the heavy flasks, wiped his hands on his jeans, and went outside. It was a man in motorcycle leathers, wearing a heavy helmet with a black shield. He pushed it up and Italy saw a face he didn't recognize. He heard his name and said, "Yes?" The man came toward him. Italy waited, wondering what he wanted, why he knew him. The blow struck him once, then twice between the ribs. The knife was thin and sharp, shaped like the deadly stiletto used by assassins in Italy four hundred years before. It pierced his heart and killed him before he could do more than grunt.
Inside the house his sister heard the sound of a motorcycle stutter into life, then roar away. There was a long pause while she went on with her work. After a time she called out her brother's name. There was no answer. She didn't worry, and finished making the pasta.
Colin Lomax saw her leave for school the next morning. He didn't follow her. That side of it was over for the moment. He ordered a cab and gave the name of the square.
"What number?"
Lomax shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I'll recognize the place."
The driver said something to himself, which Lomax didn't catch, but he was fairly sure it wasn't complimentary about foreigners who didn't know where they were going.
When they turned into the square he leaned forward and said, "That house, second on the right. No, don't stop, just drive past, will you." He ignored more Gallic mutterings and they drove up to the entrance; he saw the brass plate and read the inscription. The House of Ma-Nang. "Okay, drive back to the main street. Do you know that place? Ma-Nang --- what does it mean?
The driver looked around, raised his eyebrows, and said, "I don't know, Monsieur. I'm not Chinese."
Lomax got out and gave him something to complain about by not adding a tip to the fare. He went to the Bibliothèque Française. The woman at the inquiry desk was helpful. She suggested that Lomax try the Oriental section. He did, and the librarian was eager to assist him. Ma-Nang. They consulted the Dictionary of Cantonese but without any success. There were many hundreds of variations of the Chinese language and thousands of derivatives. Lomax said yes, he appreciated that, but what did she suggest? They looked through the religious and philosophical reference books, and the hours were running away. The House of Ma-Nang. The librarian was at the end of her suggestions. Why not look in the telephone directory? It might explain the meaning. Lomax thanked her, wondered why he hadn't done that first, and went into her office. And there it was. The House of Ma-Nang. School of Mediation. They looked at each other and laughed with relief.
"What a lot of trouble we took," the lady said. "And it was here all the time. Well, Monsieur, at least you've found out what it means."
"I have," Lomax agreed. "And I feel very stupid to have taken up all your afternoon looking for something that was right under my nose. I do apologize."
She had a cheering smile. She wasn't young by any means but there was a sweetness about her that made him want to ask her out for a drink just to make up for it. But he didn't. As he was leaving she put her head a little to one side, like a thoughtful sparrow, and said, "Monsieur, there is one thing. Perhaps we didn't find Ma-Nang because it isn't Chinese. If it had been a recognized philosophy it would have been listed in our reference books."
"That had occurred to me, Mademoiselle," Lomax said quietly. "Maybe we couldn't find it because it doesn't mean anything at all." He left her staring, rather puzzled, after him.
France has broken cover.
He read the decoded message slowly.
She reports threats and surveillance from outside. Request instructions for immediate solution to possible breakdown in our security.
There was always one, he thought angrily; one who slipped through the psychological screening, however thorough. And she had seemed to be the best; the one with the coolest nerve and the psychopathic hatred of her fellow human beings. A pity, and a nuisance. He didn't make up his mind in a hurry. He thought it out in relation to what had still to be accomplished. He brushed aside the question of who had approached France; it could be any of the intelligence agencies involved. It didn't matter. What mattered was to stop them getting any closer to her. Or to anyone else. He wrote down a sentence on his pad, pressed the bell by his chair, and handed the message to an aide who came into the room. "Have this coded and sent at once," he said.
It was a beautiful morning; the sun rose high above the cool pine forest. He would go down to the river. Watching the gentle flow of the water eased the soul's discomfort. It was an old saying, which, like so many things belonging to the past, turned out to be true.
"We've put it through the computers and come up with nothing," Bill Tanner said. "There's no such institute listed and Ma-Nang simply doesn't make sense. It's gibberish."
Tyreen Mackenzie looked gloomy. "A meditation center with a phony name; it's hardly important whether it's made up or not. Surely all we want to know is why Helene Blondin should go there, after Colin had made contact."
"We won't know that till someone gets inside and sees the setup," Tim Johnson insisted. "And it can't be Lomax in case the girl's described him. It would be too much of a coincidence. He's sure she's a prime suspect..."
He left it as a part question, and Tyreen said firmly, "Definitely, and he's got a lot of experience. He says she's wrong, and that's good enough for me. God, if only we could hear from Modena!"
"It'll take time," Johnson said. "They've got to check out a large area in the Dolomites and the place is honeycombed with villages and ski resorts. When will Lomax call again?"
"He says he's going to check out the center," Tyreen answered.
"Wouldn't it be better to turn the whole thing over to SEDECE? We are getting a bit hot, going it alone from now on," Johnson suggested.
Tyreen shrugged her shoulders. "I can't call Colin off now," she said. "He wants to follow it up and he's very experienced. If he finds anything when he goes there, I'll tell him to pull out and we'll give what we've got to the delightful colonel. I doubt he'll be grateful."
"And Helene Blondin?" That was Bill Tanner.
"They're welcome to her," Tyreen said shortly. "I don't know how you both feel, but I think we're going to crack this one quite soon. And before any more damage is done."
Tanner stood up. He didn't look optimistic, but then he seldom did. "Let's hope you're right," was all he said before he left the conference room.
Johnson looked across the table at Tyreen. "The chief of staff's got to be the gloomiest bugger I've ever met in my life. I don't know how you stand it."
"Quite easily," Tyreen answered. "Because he's also one of the cleverest men I've ever met. Gloomy or not, Tim, don't underestimate him." She got to her feet. "Do you want some coffee --- I'm going to have some."
"I won't, thanks," he said, also rising. "I've got a deskful of stuff waiting."
Colin Lomax telephoned the number given in the telephone directory. It didn't ring for long. He stammered in deliberately halting French. There was no help from the woman who answered. He was looking for a place to study meditation, he explained, making a lot of mistakes on purpose. Were they Transcendental or Zen?
"We teach the method of Ma-Nang," the female voice replied. It didn't sound French. Too high-pitched, too careful to speak clearly.
Lomax went on. "I suffer from tension," he explained. "I get very strung up."
"You should see a doctor," she tinkled back at him.
"I have," he said. "I've tried Western methods. They don't work. Can I come and see you? Maybe you can help me?"
There was a pause. "We are not medical," she said. "We deal in spiritual peace and inward knowledge. Wait a moment please."
She had gone away to ask. Lomax waited, counted the minutes.
"I am sorry." The tone was shrill. "We cannot help you. We are closing for the summer." The line went dead.
"Like hell you are," Lomax said, putting down the receiver.
He had phoned from a public booth. He came out into the sunshine and lit a cigarette. No genuine school of philosophy turned strangers away, particularly when they asked for help. Vast fortunes had been made by institutions catering to the kind of neurotic he had made himself out to be. From India to the Far East, the cult of healing through meditation attracted thousands who couldn't come to terms with the tensions of modern life. But Ma-Nang didn't encourage the seeker after truth and inner light. Lomax wondered exactly what it did welcome.
He started walking, taking his time, playing with the ideas as he idled along the sunny streets on the way to the lycée. It was later than he realized. The students were coming out. He held back, waiting to see if she was ahead of him. Suddenly he spotted her brisk walk, the head held rather low; she wore the Robin Hood ankle boots that he thought ruined even the sexiest girl's legs. Striding along, not lingering with the others to gossip and pair off on the way home. A loner. Full of inner knowledge and spiritual peace!
And then he saw the car. He knew by the speed at which it was being driven, close to the sidewalk, that it wasn't part of the early evening traffic. Too fast, too close to the pedestrians. And without a second's further thought, he started to run toward the girl.
Colin Lomax launched himself at her as the car swerved viciously to the right and mounted the sidewalk. His body collided with hers, knocking them several feet to the ground. There was a shattering crash and terrible screams. He lay for a moment on top of the girl. She was partly knocked out and he was badly winded. The car had struck into a group of people waiting by a pedestrian crossing.
Grimacing, Lomax picked himself up, and got his breath back. A few yards away it looked like a battlefield. There were more screams, hysterical and meaningless, and the sound of the car revving, reversing away from the sprawl of bodies.
Lomax lifted Helene Blondin to her feet. She was dazed and stumbling. Then she too started to scream as she saw what had happened. The car had gotten clear and was speeding away, tires screeching as it cornered and vanished. Lomax didn't waste any time. He didn't go to the injured; enough people were already crowding around, and he could see that at least two were dead. He grabbed hold of the girl.
His French had deserted him. "You speak English? Do you?" He shook her.
She nodded in a daze
"We've got to get out of here," he said. "Come on, walk. You're not hurt, are you?"
"I don't know."
His arm went like a vise around her shoulders and he hustled her quickly away from the crowds that were gathering. A siren sounded, getting closer, followed by another. Ambulances, police. Blood was beginning to puddle in the street. He hurried her down into the metro. At the bottom of the stairs she stiffened and started to resist. He debated whether to hit her and pretend she'd fainted.
"Who are you?" she asked in French. "What are you doing?"
"I've just saved your life," Lomax said in English. "That car was aiming for you. You must come back with me. You'll be safe there."
"I'm going home," she muttered, switching to English. "I'm not going anywhere."
It was a chance he had to take. "Okay," he said. "We'll go to your home. Then you can choose."
She didn't ask what he meant. She was gray with shock, but there was a tough resilience about her that was hardly usual in a girl who'd just witnessed violent death. When they came to her door she turned to him. "My aunt will be home. Who are you? What do I say?"
"You tell the truth," he said quietly. "You were in a street accident. I brought you home. Then get rid of her so we can talk."
The report of the murder had quickly reached Alfredo Modena's team of investigators, and they were now working through the district forty miles west of the incident. One of them decided to drive up to the place and make some inquiries. By the end of the next day he was back, with a photograph. It showed a boy still in his teens, smiling against the sunshine, his arms around a laughing girl. Taken three years ago, when he and his family were at a local wedding. The girl was to become his wife that day. So sad, everyone said. His parents were desolate, his mother under a doctor's care, lying in a darkened room. The whole village was in mourning, and full of police making inquiries. But it was a motiveless killing. There had been urban gangs of motorcyclists attacking women in the larger towns, and two robberies had been reported. Modena's man wired the photograph back to Rome. He did so because one of the people he questioned said that the murdered man had been on holiday on the Adriatic at the time when Henry Franklin was assassinated. They had only mentioned this in case he had met his attacker when he was away from home.
When the report and photograph arrived in Modena's office he took it to the Regina Ceoli prison. Elsa Valdorini was brought to see him. The moment he saw her face when she looked at the picture, Modena knew they had lost their only lead.
"That's him," she said. "Have you arrested him?"
"No," he said. "He was stabbed to death yesterday morning."
"Oh." Her eyes didn't stay on his face. They darted away.
"Elsa," he said. "Do you know who did it?"
She shook her head. "No," she said. "But I'm glad I'm safe in here."
"Don't be too glad. Without this man there can't be a deal. Unless you tell me the other things you're holding back," Modena said slowly.
"We haven't got time to argue," Colin Lomax said. He was standing by the window of the sitting room, watching the street. Behind him, Helele Blondin sat hunched on the sofa. He was right and she knew it. She had gone to Ma-Nang for help and they had sentenced her to death. That car was a weapon, as deadly as the gun she had used on the Duvaliers. She knew this because she had learned how to hit and run as part of her training. She had felt physically sick at first. Fear and the boiling hatred for her betrayers made her sit and listen while the Englishman talked. Now there were two lots of enemies; her own organization and what this man represented.
"By now," Lomax said curtly, "they'll know you got away. You heard the news flash; two dead. It won't take them long to find out you're not one of them. Or the injured. And then, Mademoiselle, they'll come calling round here. Which is it to be? You come with me and save your life or you wait here for them?"
Helene stood up. "I wouldn't be any safer with you. We have people everywhere."
"I'm sure you do," Lomax answered. One of them was at the Albert Hall not long ago, but he didn't say it. But I am in a position to hide you where nobody will be able to get at you. And to arrange a deal for you, if you cooperate." He looked at his watch. "I'll give you five minutes."
She turned her back on him. The release was upstairs. All she had to do was pretend to agree and go and get it. Take the way out that she had promised when she first joined Ma-Nang. "I don't need five minutes," she said in English. "I will come with you."
Lomax didn't sound surprised. "Get your passport," he said. "And don't bother to pack anything. We're not going to have time for luggage."
The bloodstained car with its shattered lights and damaged radiator was hidden in a garage. Within a few hours it would be dismantled and taken out in sections to be scattered on the metal dumps outside the city. In the operations room at the Ma-Nang meditation center, the principal received the list of casualties from the accident. He spoke in their curious tonal language. It sounded staccato and angry. France had escaped. They must rectify the error that night.
Before their failure was reported to Moscow.
Helene Blondin's aunt watched them go. She stood by the window where Lomax had kept watch only a few minutes earlier. She was shaking and she found it hard to breathe.
She had met them in the hall, her niece carrying a shoulder bag, making for the front door. And when she intervened to ask them where they were going, the girl rounded on her. The effect was so horrific that the woman literally shrank away from her until she felt the wall at her back. The language was a hail of filthy epithets, the vilest insults couched in the crudest possible terms. And the girl's face close to hers, contorted with hatred.
The Englishman put an end to it. He said, "I don't know what you're calling her, but stop it! Stop it!" He gave Helene a rough push toward the front door. Then he said to the aunt in slow French, "We have to go, Madame. She is in danger. Don't talk to anyone. Don't answer the door till I telephone you." And then, seeing the stricken look on her face, added, "Whatever she said, she didn't mean it."
Then they were gone. The door opened and shut after them, and she didn't even say anything. She rushed to the window in the sitting room and saw them hurry down the street. The man was holding Helene's arm, urging her forward. She closed her eyes for a moment; she felt sick and dizzy. The names she'd called her, the naked loathing on her face... She didn't know what to do. She sat down, still trembling, and tried to understand what the man had meant. In danger? In danger from whom or what? She recovered herself after a few minutes. Anger and distrust were driving out shock. She reached for the telephone, and dialed the police.
Outside, Lomax hailed a taxi. "Charles de Gaulle Airport," he said.
"Where are we going?" the girl asked sullenly.
Lomax didn't look at her. "England." He heard the gasp of surprise beside him. "You'll be safe there from your friends."
Helene had said it all in her aunt's sitting room, made the confession that would have taken months of trained interrogation to extract. "We have people everywhere."
"You don't mind if they hurt your aunt?"
She sniggered. "Why should I? Do her good."
Lomax didn't say any more. We. She was a member of the group who had just mowed down innocent people on the sidewalk in their effort to get to her. No, she wouldn't mind what happened to her aunt. As they sat in the speeding taxi, threading their way through the traffic toward the airport, he thought, what a pity I have to take her back. My instinct tells me to push her out onto the street. Let them get rid of her. But he tapped on the driver's glass and asked him to make up speed if he could. He had already calculated on getting the six o'clock plane to London.
The police arrived very quickly. She congratulated them on their efficiency when she opened the door. There were two of them, polite young men. One took down everything she said, while the other made notes. Her niece had vanished with a man she thought was English. By his accent, of course. Saying she was in danger.
That was very disturbing. They didn't say where they were going --- no indication at all? No luggage? No. Where did she keep her passport? Upstairs. Perhaps Madame would take them up and they could check. If she had taken her passport that would indicate she might be leaving the country. Seeing her expression, the policeman who'd been asking questions added, outside the EEC, of course. She went up the stairs with them. There was no passport in Helene's desk drawer. They were sympathetic, but seemed in a hurry. They'd put out a general call for her. They stood back to let her go downstairs ahead of them. The one taking notes had put his pad away. He hit her hard on the back of the neck and she was dead even before they threw her down the stairs. They stepped carefully over her body and let themselves out. The car with the local gendarmes pulled up at the house ten minutes after they'd gone.
They reported back to the room in the rear of the house on the square. An Englishman. The same who had dived on her and rolled her to safety when the car drove at her. The driver had lost concentration and hit the crowd. An Englishman who had followed her and tricked her into revealing her connection with Ma-Nang. By now she would be on her way to London. To the interrogators of the SIS. There was nothing to do, it was decided, but admit what had happened and pass the initiative to Moscow. It was no longer their responsibility.
Helene Blondin sat slumped in her seat. They had caught the flight with only minutes to spare. It was British Airways and her companion had waved a card under the nose of a harassed young man at the ticket counter. It worked so quickly that she knew immediately that her first impression of him was right. The enemy. The official enemy, with the power to commandeer seats on an overbooked plane. The power to hide her away from her colleagues. She sighed, looking out of the window at the gray clouds that flew past them. Her head ached and, her pulse was uneven. She didn't like flying. It made her tense and uneasy.
The man behind her didn't speak. She could feel his hostility. That didn't worry her. She knew how to harness her hatred better than he did. She was afraid, yes. For the first time, except for the blinding moment of panic when that car screeched after her like an avenging angel. Now she was afraid of what was at the end of the flight. Afraid of the cool, impersonal forces of the enemy who would come forward like a Greek phalanx and surround her as soon as she left the plane. Hate and courage wouldn't avail her now. Now she had to rely on nerve and cunning. Just as she did after the Duvaliers were killed and the cold-eyed bloodhounds of SEDECE were asking questions. If she could fool them she had a chance with her new adversaries. What had the man said that alerted her? Something that had made her stomach lurch long before the plane took off. In the taxi on their way to the airport. "Your friends." That was it. She'd made a slip somewhere, or was it just a guess? Never mind. She took several deep breaths, calming herself, slowing her pulse, silencing the jangling bells in her nervous system. He might know that she belonged to the organization, but he didn't know she'd murdered the Duvaliers. That was what she had to conceal, at all costs. And she could buy her way out by betraying the comrades at Ma-Nang, by explaining how it worked, how they were chosen from the other students. The killers, that is. Not simple converts to the idea of nuclear disarmament and world peace like herself. She was setting up the answers to imagined questions, her mind darting back and forth like a rat in a maze, looking for the exit.
She wouldn't give in. no, she'd made up her mind to live and escape if she could. But the hate burned in her like a coal. Killing the Duvaliers hadn't extinguished it. Probably, she thought as they came in to land, nothing would, but death. Only in darkness was it possible to find real peace. They had taught her that at Ma-Nang.
Lomax nudged her. He hadn't spoken once during the flight. "Put on your seat belt." Helene fastened it. She wanted to say something provocative, but there was something about him that didn't invite challenge. It was an odd sensation, being hated. New to her, who thrived on hatred for other people. She said nothing. She followed him out of the plane and onto the airport bus. Nobody was waiting for them, nobody came forward when they passed through customs on the production of his card. He gripped her tightly by the arm while they pushed their way through into the main hall. He stopped at a telephone cubicle, pushed her in front of him so that she was wedged in the upper half, found change, and dialed a number. The conversation was too quick for her to follow any of it. "Good," Lomax said. "Let's go."
It was just getting dark as they turned into the building at Regent's Park.
"How did they find you?" Modena asked.
Two days and two nights, with brief snatches of sleep for both of them. Food on trays, endless cups of coffee, air stale with cigarette smoke, some wine for him, to keep his energy from flagging. He had forgotten how much older he was and how the tension would exhaust him. He could understand how some men would have dispensed with patience and started using other means. Sometimes he felt sorry for her. Sometimes he saw the haggard face and hollow eyes as belonging to a frightened child. A child condemned to a living death in the notorious prison on the island. All chance of life and love forfeited. For what?
But now she was breaking up; the façade was peeling away, and this gave him the energy to go on, chipping and probing her. And it made him pity her, which he knew was a mistake. But if he lost that capacity then what difference was there between them? What right had he to judge if he wasn't any better? "How did they pick you?" he said again.
Elsa Valdorini sighed, brushed the lank hair back from her forehead. "They gave me tests," she said. "Everyone who went to the institute filled up forms, answered a lot of questions. They said it would help to decide what sort of meditation and relaxing exercises we needed."
"And you did this," he prompted. Getting her to describe the way the institute categorized its students had been like drawing teeth. She'd resisted so strongly that he detected some kind of mental block. From defiance at first she changed to evasions, twisting and turning in her efforts to avoid answering.
And then at last she gave way, and the answers started coming, hesitantly, almost furtively. "I filled in the form," she said.
"What sort of questions were they? Intimate?"
She looked away from him. "Some of them. They said it was to find the sources of tension."
"And were you tense? Frustrated, repressed perhaps? Is that what made you look for a place like this?"
"I felt like I was going to explode. I hated everything; my college, my parents, my life. I didn't know where to turn. There'd been a man."
"Ah," said Modena. So must the priest feel in the confessional. But compassionate: determined to be compassionate. Not like him, a man committed to hunt down and punish. "Tell me about the man."
"No." The voice was sharp, the spot too tender to be touched. "I was ten," she said after a pause. "Nobody knew."
"You don't have to talk about it."
There was a long pause.
"After the questionnaire?" he prompted.
"I was given a helper," she muttered. "A woman. They said I needed a woman to guide me."
Of course, thought Modena. But just to satisfy the curiosity of his own mind he asked, "Did you have lovers?"
"No." The dark eyes were glazed with tears. "I couldn't bear it. That made it worse for me. But afterward, I did."
"Tell me what they did to help you." He spoke gently.
It sounded simple, innocent enough. Deep breathing, relaxation in small groups, therapy through music. And hypnotism. And drugs to help the process? Sometimes. They made it easy to concentrate, to listen. He could imagine how easy. And so the ideas had been implanted. Very gradually and subtly, and always as part of a group. A small gathering of specially selected pupils. First the myths were dispensed with. Religion is general. She repeated the old Marxist maxim, "Religion is the opiate of the people." In the case of the young Italians, Christianity was the special target --- legends developed to repress the natural human instincts. All Christianity offered was a bitter tyranny. And they turned all its tenets upside down. Pride was a virtue. Sexual expression a right, in any form. Anger was energy and should be developed. Hatred was strength. Indifference was necessary to survive. And death was an end in itself, to be embraced at will. They were told society had crippled them. To free themselves they had to strike back. And mingled with the deeper psychological suggestions, were a few clichés about disarmament and peace to soothe remnants of conscience.
Modena listened, seldom interrupting. They had taken a sick girl and used her problems to pervert her mind until the sickness was nearer madness. She found the liberty, the peace they promised her. Drug-induced, filled with suggestions, influenced by group indoctrination, Elsa Valdorini had been recruited into the select band of students who were pledged to attack the enemy. Wherever Ma-Nang said it was to be found. Among that group had been the young northerner. The chemist's son from the sleepy village in the Dolomites. God knew what inner turmoil motivated him. Now Modena would never know.
The girl had stopped talking; she leaned forward, her head hanging in exhaustion. "I can't tell you any more," she mumbled.
Modena got up, stretched his stiff body, and yawned. "You've been very helpful." She looked up at him. He felt very sorry for her.
"You can still save me from that place?"
He understood now why the cell with the padded walls had held a greater terror for her than death.
"Yes," he said. "I can save you from going there." He pressed the buzzer and a wardress opened the door and came in. "Take her back to her cell," he said. He went out without turning around to look at her. He was feeling sorry for her. It would be better not to see her again.
The staff at Regent's Park was used to crises, but there was an electric atmosphere that evening. The night staff had come on duty only to find that their daytime colleagues were still there. Everyone was waiting --- for what? The rumors were inexact; they centered on an ex-agent, Colin Lomax. He was bringing someone in.
Bill Tanner didn't join in the excitement. He didn't believe in dramatic successes. Long experience had taught him to proceed carefully, and always to err on the side of pessimism.
Tyreen Mackenzie sensed Tanner's reserve, but shrugged off the irritation. She turned to Tim Johnson. "Tim," she said, "you've made all the arrangements?"
"They've got a room ready at Welton," he said. "Everything's fixed up, including a car and the escort." MacNeil at Special Branch had alerted the staff at the SIS training center in Gloucestershire. A room was prepared for Helene Blondin there, with absolute security --- to keep her inside, and any unwanted visitors out. Welton was a large Victorian mansion, enclosed in a three-hundred-acre estate. It was a deceptively informal place, where a suspect would easily lower his or her guard. The atmosphere was geared to a stay in a friendly country house. There was no sign of the elaborate system of alarms and TV surveillance. Helene Blondin would remain there while she unraveled the mysteries of Ma-Nang and its killers for SIS.
"Bill," she said suddenly to the chief of staff, "I think we should telephone C."
He looked at her in surprise.
"He suggested Colin," she explained. "He'd like to know what's happened. Why don't you speak to him?"
"Shouldn't it be you?"
"I don't talk to him as often as often as you do," she said.
He picked up the phone. Tyreen didn't bother to listen; she looked at her watch. Lomax had called at just after six. They should be arriving any minute.
"He wants to speak to you."
She turned and took the phone from Tanner.
Sir Miles's voice was briskly cheerful. "Good news, I hear. He's an able chap, your friend Colin. Well done to both of you."
"I don't deserve the credit," Tyreen answered. "He did it."
"Nonsense," came the reply. "You persuaded him. Don't let him slip away again."
What did that mean? she wondered as she put the receiver down.
When Colin Lomax came in with the girl, there was a moment of silence while they all stared at one another. She was an ordinary-looking girl, maybe less than twenty years old. Brown hair hanging straight to her shoulders. A pleasant face that could be pretty if it had a different expression. And eyes like flat brown stones.
Tyreen Mackenzie moved toward her. It had been decided being greeted by a woman would be less intimidating. "Mademoiselle Blondin. It is good to see you here."
Her French was better than the man's, Helene thought. She had that air of authority that Helene hated. She remembered the supercilious Irena Duvalier, with her condescending manner toward her niece's unimportant friend. This woman had a different kind of self-assurance. Not because she was rich, but because she was capable and powerful. "Thank you." She made it sound like an insult.
Lomax had lit a cigarette, withdrawn to an armchair, where he perched on an arm. Out of the corner of her eye, Tyreen could see his foot swinging backward and forward. She knew it was a danger signal. "You came to England of your own free will?"
"Yes." The answer was curt. "He said I'd be safe here."
"That's right. Do you place yourself willingly under our protection, Mademoiselle Blondin? We have to establish this before we can authorize your stay in this country."
Helene looked around. "What would you do if I said no?"
Tyreen didn't hesitate. "Put you on the nine o'clock to Paris."
The girl stuffed her hands into her skirt pockets; she shrugged slightly. "I want to stay in England," she said. "Will that do you?"
"I think so." Tyreen sounded casual. "My colleagues are witnesses, and what you've said has been recorded. A car is on its way for you."
"Where am I going?" There was a note of anxiety in her voice. The first sign of anything but dour hostility, Tyreen noted.
"To a house in the country," Tim Johnson answered in his very confident French. "It's a comfortable place, like a good hotel. You'll be free to do whatever you like so long as you stay on the grounds. And it's absolutely secure. Nobody can do you any harm. I'm sure you'll like it."
She didn't answer. She gave him an unpleasant smile. "I have no clothes," she remarked after a pause. "And no money. No cigarettes."
"Everything will be provided for you," Johnson assured her. There was a buzz on the intercom. "I think that's MacNeil's people now," he said to Tyreen. "Shall I take the young lady downstairs?" There was a tinge of sarcasm in his description.
Tyreen nodded. "Yes, Tim. Thanks." She walked over to Helene. "Goodbye," she said to the girl, extending a hand. "Go with Monsieur Johnson, the car and driver are waiting downstairs. And when you get to the house, ask for whatever you need."
Helene started to take the offered hand and then hesitated. She stared at the hand for a long moment, then dropped her hand and turned to the door. "I will," she said. "You can be sure."
When the door closed behind her, Tyreen dropped her own hand and went over to Lomax. "Colin," she said. "You're a marvel. How did you do it?"
"Do you want an official report?"
"No, of course not," she said quickly. "Tomorrow will do. Just tell me how you did it. Tell me what happened."
"As I think I said the other day," Lomax remarked, "I talk better when I've eaten."
She answered immediately, "Then that's what we'll do. It's my turn this time."
"Congratulations," Tanner said to Lomax. "Before I hear the official version, I'd like to make one comment."
"About the girl?" Lomax asked him.
"Yes." He hunched his shoulders for a moment. It was a funny movement, expressing contained repugnance. "I think we should be very careful. I kept thinking of a word that described her while she was in this room. It's not a very fashionable one nowadays. She's evil."
"I wouldn't argue with that, Tanner," Lomax said quietly.
Within half an hour the office was in darkness; the day staff had dispersed and the floor was quiet except for the night telex operator, a security guard, and the duty operator.
Tyreen and Lomax went back to the steak house on Brompton Road.
And in her luxurious bedroom in Welton Manor, Helene Blondin lay wide awake, staring up at the ceiling with the bedside light on. She was safe. For the moment. But tomorrow another contest began. And again, as with her mother and Isabelle Duvalier, who'd befriended her, her opponent was a woman.
The tall woman with the bracelet.
Tyreen Mackenzie and Colin Lomax didn't discuss business until after they had ordered coffee. He had lost the look of strain around the eyes. They narrowed when he was tense, as if searching for an enemy. Then his eyes fell on the bracelet on her wrist. Gold links, with a red heart, pierced with an arrow. It had been a gift from John Bannon after their second assignment together, back when they were both with MI-5. She wasn't sure why she'd put it on that morning. Maybe just to remind her of John, who was still in the hospital, recovering from injuries suffered in Italy at the hands of Max Tann's goons.
The doctors were hopeful that he would recover, though his days as a field operative were probably over and he'd be driving a desk for the rest of his career.
That was just another aspect of the differences that set her apart from the people of this planet. A full-blooded Arion like her mother, Tyreen knew she could expect to live at least a century and a half, if not two --- assuming she didn't meet a violent end, always a possibility in her chosen line of work. Her mother'd had a good life with the man she'd married, and now he was dead and she still had a lot of good years ahead of her.
Not for the first time, Tyreen wondered what it would be like to marry a man. To watch him grow old while she remained young. Perhaps to marry again, only to repeat the process...
Bringing her mind back to the present, she saw that Lomax was still looking at the bracelet. "I've been very patient," she said quietly, pulling her hand from the table and putting it in her lap to hide the reminder of her last lover. "But I can't sit through the coffee and the brandy. Now, Colin, please tell me about it."
He didn't waste words. She liked the economy of his style. It was more like an official report than a description. But when he told her how he'd jumped in front of the car and knocked Helene Blondin out of its path, she said, almost involuntarily, "Oh, my God! What a risk to take!" It would have been risky enough for someone with her Arion quickness and strength. For a Terran...
He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "I'm not in a wheelchair yet," he said. "I can still move. But it was a shambles afterward. The bastards plowed right through the group on the sidewalk. Even she was shocked for a minute."
"Which took some doing, you mean? I was amazed when Tanner said that. Evil. And you agreed with him. Why?"
"Let me tell you about her aunt," Lomax said slowly. When he'd finished, Tyreen lit a cigarette. "We haven't had brandy," he reminded her. Why don't we go back and drink it in my flat. I've got a decent Armagnac." He waved a hand. "Waiter?"
"I'm paying for this," she reminded him.
"I'm still on the payroll. So I'll pay."
Tyreen said lightly, "It's always the woman that pays, or didn't you know?"
"Not you, darling," Lomax answered. "You've got all the credit cards."
When they went into the street he took her arm. "That was a dirty crack," he said. "I'm sorry. Come back and have that drink, will you?"
"On one condition," she answered.
"I don't like conditions," Lomax said. "But tell it to me anyway."
"That you come down to Welton tomorrow and sit in," she said coolly. "Here's the car."
She opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. They didn't talk on the way to the Barbican. Except for that one flash of friction, it had been comfortable, no, she thought in surprise, companionable, between them. And that was very different from their old relationship.
He drank a lot of Armagnac. She had only one glass. They talked, and the picture of Helene Blondin began to take shape. But the House of Ma-Nang didn't tie in with the iron-headed girl who'd stood in the office.
"There's nothing meditative that I could see in her," Tyreen said. "The last thing in the world she seemed was any kind of spiritual freak."
"You're thinking of the flower people," replied Lomax. "With bare feet handing out flowers to red-necked policemen. That's a long time ago. I think our little blossom has been meditating on something very different from peace and brotherly love." He tipped some more brandy into his glass, offered it to her, and put the bottle down when she declined. "It seems to me," he said, "that whoever is behind this Ma-Nang lot, whoever they turn out to be, must have a pretty good base in Russia itself."
Tyreen had forgotten how late it was. Debate always sparked her off and Lomax had the knack of provoking thought. "Which brings it back to Borisov," she said. "I've said he was behind it from the start. I still say so."
Lomax grinned. "You're going to find that bloody difficult to prove. But I've got a suggestion to make. Why don't you stay the night?"
"You're drunk," Tyreen said, getting up. "Why don't you get a good night's sleep and meet me outside my flat at eight-thirty tomorrow. We can drive down to Welton together.
"I haven't said I'll come," Lomax said. "I've got a business to run. And that wasn't a proposition, darling. No funny stuff intended. I can't play the gentleman and take you home, because I have had a drink or two..."
"We came in my car," she reminded him quickly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. And by the way, you've done a marvelous job. I'm not very good at saying thank you, but I mean it. Simply marvelous." They looked at each other for a moment. Then she turned and went quickly before he could move toward her.
"This is a serious mistake." The doctor shifted from one foot to the other. Not so confident now, my friend, his protector thought, angry and yet satisfied. The crack was shown at last. You are human after all. Too human, because your calculations haven't worked out, and my elaborate system is in danger. Anger was predominant now. You'll pay a high price for that self-confidence of yours, he thought, watching the impassive face and the unwavering look. But the feet betrayed the man. "You assured me that once subjects were programmed, they couldn't escape control. I accepted your assurances about the one they have in Italy. But not France. She can tell them everything!"
"I have been looking for a reason," the young man said.
He was interrupted. "I want a solution, not an excuse. What are you going to do about it?"
"I shall apply the final test," the doctor answered. His heart was beating too fast. He was annoyed at his own lack of control. He shouldn't have reacted to pressure. He had programmed himself as efficiently as any of his subjects. He prided himself on his mastery of the sympathetic nervous system. "I have worked it out in a way that can turn this to our advantage. It's my failsafe for a situation like this." His feet were still now. "I promise you, France will obey this signal. She won't be able to resist it."
He didn't answer for some moments. He was still very angry, and his irritation with his protégé was growing. He forgot about the amazing successes he had already achieved. "You perfected a technique," he said suddenly. "I gave you all the facilities you needed, whatever resources you asked for, I accepted what you told me." He banged the top of his desk. "But you didn't warn me it could fail! How do I know this final test will work?"
"Because you saw the experiments," the doctor said quietly. "You were there. In each case the subject responded. And they were all different. France will respond too."
The other man leaned forward, scowling at him. "You stand by your theories. But how do you propose to do it with someone who is held by SIS? Solve that problem, my friend, and you'll regain some credibility."
"I can solve part of the problem," he said. "But I can't provide the means. That's not my department. I will guarantee that in response to my signal France will be motivated to kill. Because of her captivity I can't guarantee success. Getting the signal to her is up to you."
He smiled at the doctor. "My department will do their part," he said. The smile was full of threat. "You will do yours. How long will it take to prove you are right?"
The doctor didn't hesitate. "It will be immediate. France will find it unbearable until she acts."
Tyreen Mackenzie was not finding sleep easy.
Colin Lomax hadn't exactly been subtle tonight. But that wasn't what was keeping her awake. She was used to men making passes at her; she was a full-blood Arion, after all. Terran men had been making passes at her ever since she was a teenager.
She enjoyed sex; again, she was a full-blood Arion.
But there were times when she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like with a man of her own race. A man with strength to match her own --- and the stamina.
Not that pleasure was the only purpose for sex, of course. Her mother had proven that it was possible for an Arion woman to have a child with a Terran man. Though Daniel Mackenzie took after his father more than he did after his mother. Looking at the siblings side-by-side, no one would believe that Tyreen was the older of the pair. Still, there had been times when Tyreen had wondered what it would be like to have children of her own. If only there was an Arion man remaining on the planet, someone who could give her full-blood Arion children to carry on the bloodline, children she could suckle at her breast...
It wasn't going to happen. Removing her bra, she threw herself onto her bed and buried her face in the pillow.
Seemingly of their own volition, her hands moved to her chest. First one hand and then the other slipped under her and cupped her breasts. Her fingers caressed her soft mounds, lightly stroking the soft skin, mimicking the pressure John applied with his most vigorous efforts.
She rolled onto her back, her hands never ceasing their ministrations to her breasts. If anything, they increased the pressure until she was caressing herself harder than any man had ever caressed her.
It wasn't enough. One hand left her chest, trailing down her stomach. Slipping under her panties, first one finger and then a second entered her moist slit. She stroked and tickled her sensitive spots while her other hand continued to caress her breast.
A part of her mind imagined that it was an Arion man who was making love to her. A man whose strength matched her own. A man who could fully satisfy her while she in turn fully satisfied him. A man with whom she wouldn't have to hold herself back as she always had to do with Terran men.
A series of low moans escaped her lips as she brought herself closer and closer to her peak. Then she was there, arching her back as she sent a high-pitched scream echoing across the bedroom. Yet her hands continued their ministrations, soon bringing her to another peak.
Finally, after climaxing almost continuously for over fifteen minutes, she was satisfied. She slumped down onto the bed, a fine sheen of perspiration coating her body. Resting her arms across her stomach, she was soon asleep, enjoying the deepest slumber she'd had in weeks.
He was at his dacha that weekend. Close to the riverside, where he could sit and fish, if he chose, or simply watch the steady flow of water and contemplate. He liked the hot summer days. His colleagues went to the Black Sea at this time of year, disporting themselves in villas as luxurious as those owned by the aristocracy in the old days. The climate was idyllic, the scenery beautiful; there were clinics and private establishments where the powerful elite could go and recover from the rigors of ruling the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Sometimes he thought of the holidays he'd spent there and regretted not being able to go this summer. Instead he stayed in the heat of Moscow, close to the center of the power he loved.
He sent for two people that weekend. Two trusted aides. And he explained what he wanted. They listened and he could sense their uneasiness. "This is difficult," he said, "but not impossible. It must be done, comrades. And I am confident that you can do it. You have the means."
"It will break a precedent," the elder man remarked. He wore the insignia of a full colonel of the KGB when he was in uniform. That afternoon he was dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts. His legs and arms were muscled and hairy. His companion was in a track suit. Both were keen on athletics. Neither wanted the other inhabitants of that exclusive area to think they were on official business.
"It's never been done before. It's an unwritten rule," the colonel pointed out.
"Then it'll set a new precedent," he countered. "A new rule. That nobody in the Western world is safe."
There was a moment's silence. The younger officer showed himself to be a brave man. He said, "And nobody in the East either."
"That we've already proved," was the answer. "It will make our task easier, comrades. And Russia safer. Colonel, report back as soon as possible."
They stood up, made a half-salute, and then he was alone again. He would break the precedent that said the head of Security was invulnerable. It had gone on for too long to be tolerable. No more immunity for Brunson of the CIA, the sardonic Frenchman of SEDECE, or Sir Miles in London. His self-proclaimed genius of a doctor had better be right this time, or he'd end up as a patient in one of his own psychiatric clinics.
