Marlen: Book 1

Chapter 81

At exactly ten minutes past midnight the girl stepped from the train, pausing for a moment on the nearly deserted platform to stare in surprise at the newspaper poster in front of the closed kiosk:

Now she knew why she had been given the orders, and why she had instinctively stayed away.

It was not until she worked her way outside the main concourse of Waterloo Station that she realized it was raining.

Badly in need of help, she went back into the station, trying three public telephones before finding one that wasn't vandalized. She dialed the 376 Chelsea number and waited as the ringing tone went on and on, reading the graffiti with only a small part of her mind --- scrawled telephone numbers next to girls' names offering unspecified services; the occasional morsel of crude wit. At last, knowing the call wasn't going to be answered, she replaced the receiver. Out, or away from London. She thought she would faint, or cry. That number had been her best hope. The one person who wouldn't have lectured her; the one person who would have understood and helped --- advised. But now there was only one option available. Home.

And home was the last place she wanted to go, but there was no really safe alternative.

There were no taxis, and the rain had turned into a fine drizzle --- par for the course in May. Thank God it was not far to walk. The longest mile. What made her think of that? A song --- "The longest mile is the last mile home."

Wrapping the thin white raincoat around her, she threaded her way down from the station into York Road, then over onto Westminster Bridge. The stately bulk of the Houses of Parliament loomed over the river. Crossing to the far side, she saw that County Hall was still illuminated, looking more like a luxury riverside hotel than a battleground for the capital's politics. Traffic and pedestrians were sparse now. Three cabs went by with lights turned off. Oddly, she thought that in London as soon as it rained, cabs seemed to be either heading home or were occupied by very small people, people so small that they couldn't be seen from the outside.

She reached the end of the bridge and turned right into Victoria Embankment. Across the road, behind her, Big Ben rose triumphant; while the sinister black statue of Boadicea in her war chariot loomed over her right shoulder, a dark blotch against the sky.

The apartment was less than ten minutes' walk, and she now wondered how her parents would take the unexpected arrival. That part of her which remained stubborn revolted against returning home. There would be the inevitable recriminations, but, as they had tried every trick in the book to get her back, they would at least show some relief and happiness. Her problem was having to admit that they had been right all along.

As she turned onto Victoria Embankment, she became suddenly alert. For a moment she realized that her guard had been down during the walk across the bridge. People were looking for her. That was as certain as night followed day. So far she had taken precautions. They would have people at Paddington Station, for that was her most likely place of arrival. The journey had taken several hours longer than necessary, changing trains and taking a bus so that her entrance to London had been Waterloo and not Paddington. But they would also be watching the building in which her parents lived, she had no doubts about that.

Just as all this crossed her mind, two figures stepped from the shadows into the pool of light thrown across her from the streetlamps.

"What we got 'ere, then?" The first one to speak had a drunken slur in his voice. She wrapped the thin white raincoat tighter around her as though it afforded some kind of protection against them.

As they came near, she realized these were not the type to have been sent after her. This pair wore jeans, bomber jackets studded and hung with chains, while their hair was spiked and dyed --- one red and orange, the other pink and blue.

"Well, you on your own, darlin'?" asked the larger of the pair, with the red and orange hair.

She took a step back, one hand going out to the wall behind her. Somewhere, she knew, there was an opening, with steps leading down to the little mooring platform used during the summer for the tourist pleasure boats that plied up and down the Thames.

It was irrational, but there was hope she could escape that way.

"Come on, darlin'. No need to be scared of us." This was the pink and blue hair, but their voices were similar, both of them ragged with drink.

"Nice girl like you wouldn't refuse a couple of beautiful fellas like us, would you?"

Slowly they moved nearer. She even thought she could smell the drink on their breaths. Almost safe and this had to happen --- muggers or worse.

The latter thought was immediately confirmed.

" 'Course you'd have a lie down with us now, wouldn't you?" The wolfish grin was clear in the diffused light.

The other one gave an unpleasant drunken giggle. "She'll lie down even if we 'as to 'old 'er down."

As they lurched forward, she found the gap in the wall. She turned, almost falling down the steps toward the river, one hand clutching her tote bag, with its strap around her shoulder, terror like a bright light in her head, which seemed to make breathing difficult and caused her stomach to churn in a butterfly roll.

They were following, their boots noisy and heavy on the broad steps. Then she smelled the water, and fear became panic. There was no escape. Not across the water, for she couldn't swim. There was no pleasure boat on which she might hide, only the short metal poles joined together with chains.

They were almost on her and she turned again, determined to fight back if she could. Purity. Purity mattered. They all said so. Father Valentine said so. As all costs she must keep herself pure.

She backed away, and the chain touched her behind the knees, making her cry out, stumble, and jump. In that moment she lost her balance, shoes slipping on the damp stone, legs caught for a moment in the dangling safety chain, so that she seemed to be held upside down. Then she fell, and the water was around her, black, filling her mouth, nostrils, and clothes, the raincoat ballooning around her, the weight of her clothes and bag dragging her down. She could hear someone screaming, then realized it was herself coughing, choking, and spluttering as she thrashed around, hands hitting the water, her body cloaked in terror.

From a long way off she heard the voice of her old PE teacher, the sadistic one who had tried to teach her to swim by throwing her bodily into the pool. "Come on, girl, don't flap about! You're like a pregnant pelican! Get control of yourself! Come on, you stupid girl... girl... gir..."

The darkness took over. She felt a terrible, yet soothing, weakness. Panic gave way to a kind of serenity. She stopped struggling, as though overcome by an anesthetic, and dropped into an endless sleep.

C --- the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service --- really had too much on his mind to see the man from Special Branch, and the loyal Miss Pennington knew it. Within the headquarters building which overlooks Regent's Park they were going through a period of unpleasantly complicated and time-consuming housekeeping and housecleaning. The auditors had been in for week, inconveniently taking up much-needed office space, checking and rechecking the accounts of each department, and severely cutting into the working time of a number of senior officers.

The Audit was a serious disruption that took place every two or three years. Eventually the auditors would return from whence they came --- under the stones near The Long Water in Kensington Gardens, if one was to believe C, and Miss Pennington didn't think that was too far from the truth --- but that would not be the end of the business.

In three months' time the Audit would have been studied by a select number of people, including the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Foreign Secretary, who would put the figure of the Secret Vote before the Cabinet, and from there to the Treasury.

The Secret Vote was C's lifeblood --- the financial allotment with which he had to run his Service: the hard cash to pay for everything, from the salaries of the officers under his command, to the funding of agents in the field, the satellite costs, research, and a hundred and one other items, right down to the paperclips and staplers here on the eighth floor where C had his suite of offices.

The Audit was a time of strain, and now a further tension had been added by the announcement of a General Election. In less than a month C would be working for the same masters in the Foreign Office --- for governments come and go, but the mandarins of Whitehall go on forever. Yet the emphasis on the kind of work carried out by C's Service might alter drastically should a government of a different political color sweep into power. Changes of government, even possible changes, set the Chief of the Secret Service's mind on a knife-edge of anxiety. That very day he had a crammed diary which included five top-level meetings and lunch with the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee.

The officer from Special Branch had said it was urgent: C's ears only. Miss Pennington glanced at her watch and saw the policeman had already been kept waiting for nearly an hour. He had arrived without warning only ten minutes before C returned from lunch at his club. There was only so much she could do to shield her boss from the outside world. She took a deep breath and buzzed through on the interoffice line.

"Yes?" C growled.

"You haven't forgotten that Chief Superintendent Boyer's still waiting, sir?" She tried to sound brisk and efficient.

"Who?" C had taken to his old habit of sidestepping issues by feigning a sievelike memory.

Miss Pennington knew better. "The officer from The Branch," she tactfully reminded him.

"Hasn't got an appointment," C snapped back.

"No, sir, but I put the memo from Head of Branch on your desk before you got back from lunch. His request is rather pressing."

There was a pause. Miss Pennington heard the crackle of paper as C read the memo.

"Head of Branch can't get away himself, so he's sent a lackey," C grumbled. "Why us? They usually bother our brethren in 'Five.' Why doesn't he trot over to Curzon Street or wherever the Security Service hangs their flag these days?"

Though Special Branch often worked with MI5, at the latter's request, they are not the overt mailed fist of the Security Service. They have even been known to turn down a request to assist "Five," for they tread with care. They are answerable, not to some faceless men in Whitehall, but directly to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Rarely did The Branch make any approaches to the Secret Intelligence Service, which was C's fief.

"No idea why us, sir. Just that Head of Branch wants you to see this officer PDQ."

C made a strange tch-tching sound. "Old-fashioned expression, Miss Pennington --- PDQ, Pretty Damned Quick, eh? What did you say he was called?"

"Boyer, sir. Chief Superintendent Boyer." The man sat up straighter at the mention of his name.

"Oh, well." Another sigh, this one of resignation. "Better wheel him on up, then."

Boyer turned out to be a tall, well-groomed man in his middle thirties. His suit was of a conservative and expensive cut, and C could scarcely fail to notice that he wore the tie of a much admired Cambridge college. Boyer's manner was pleasant enough. He could easily have passed for a young doctor or lawyer. Wouldn't be out of place in "Five," either, C thought. He remembered that his own Chief of Staff --- as well as one of his top field agents ---used to work in "Five."

"We haven't met, sir. My name's Boyer." The police officer came straight to the point, extending his hand. The HoB sends his apologies, but he's going to be tied up all day with the heads of A11 and C13."

A11 is better known as the Diplomatic Protection Group, bodyguards to politicians and royalty --- visiting or permanent. C13 is the police Anti-Terrorist Squad, which has strong ties with MI5 and the Secret Intelligence Service, as well as with C7, their own Technical Support Branch, and D11, the "Blue Berets," Scotland Yard's firearms department, within which a squad of elite specialists is always at the ready for a serious incident.

"Bit pushed now the PM's gone to the country, sir." Boyer smiled.

"Aren't we all?" C did not smile. "Not your usual happy hunting ground, this, is it, Chief Super?"

"Not normal, sir. No. But it's a bit special. The HoB thought it best to approach you personally."

C paused, looking up at the younger man, his granite face betraying nothing. At last he waved toward a chair.

Boyer sat, his body rigid.

"Come on, then," C said quietly. "Haven't got all day, either of us. What's it about?"

Boyer cleared his throat. Even experienced police officers do not always throw off the habit, born of giving evidence in many courtrooms. "Early this morning we got what, when I was a young copper, we called a floater."

"Body recovered from water," C murmured with a slight nod.

"Exactly, sir. Picked up by the River Patrol near Cleopatra's Needle. No press release yet, but we've been on the case all morning. VIP. The Head of Branch himself broke it to the family. It's a young woman, sir. Twenty-three years of age. Miss Emily Dupré, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Dupré."

"The financier? Merchant banker?" C's eyes flashed, as though interest was only just aroused.

Boyer nodded. "The same, sir. Chairman of Gomme-Keogh. Impeccable merchant bank, beyond reproach. I understand that the Foreign Office sometimes borrow their very senior people for special audits."

"Yes. Yes, they do." C wondered if this young man knew that a member of the Gomme-Keogh board was in the building at this very moment, working on the Audit. "Suicide?" he asked --- his face blank --- not even the most experienced interrogator or police observer could have divined what might be going on his mind.

"Don't think so, sir. They've carried out a postmortem. Death by drowning. The body wasn't long in the water --- six, seven hours at the most. Appears accidental. I've seen the report. But there are one or two interesting things. The girl was recently weaned off heroin. Within the last couple of months, according to family friends, if you see what I mean. We haven't taken it up with her mother and father yet."

C nodded patiently, waiting for the police officer to go on.

"You've heard of a religious group --- bit cranky --- calling themselves the Meek Ones, sir?"

"Vaguely, yes. Like the Moonies, eh?"

"Not really. They have a religious philosophy, but that's very different from sects like the Moonies. For instance, the Meek Ones got her off drugs --- the deceased, I mean --- there's little doubt about that. They put a premium on morality. Won't have people living together within their community. They have to go through a form of marriage, followed by a Register Office ceremony. Very big on old values, but they do have some exceptionally strange ideas once you get out of the moral area."

C held up a hand, his patience finally exhausted. "Look, Chief Super, what's this got to do with me and my Service? Funny religious groups aren't much in our line."

Boyer raised his head, mouth opening for a second, closing, and then opening again to speak. "The young woman, sir. Miss Dupré. We found at least two strange items on her. She was pulled out of the Thames still clutching one of those tote bags that girls carry around these days, filled with everything from a Filofax to the kitchen sink. It was a good one --- the bag --- zipped tight, and no water damage."

C retracted his hand. "And you found the 'odd' items in the bag?"

The Branch man nodded. "The Filofax, for instance. All the pages of addresses and telephone numbers had been removed except for one --- a telephone number scrawled across a page of this current week. My impression is that it was noted down from memory. One digit's been crossed out and the correct one inserted in its place."

"So?"

"The number belongs to one of your officers, sir."

"Indeed?"

"A Commander Mackenzie, sir. Lieutenant Commander T. Mackenzie."

"Ah." C's mind ran through a number of possible permutations, most of which didn't fit. "Commander Mackenzie is out of London at the moment." He paused. "I can get Mackenzie back if you think that can help you with your inquiries --- as they say in the press."

"He could very well be of help, sir." The Branch Man obviously didn't know Commander Mackenzie. "Though we do have a couple of other things as well. For instance, I believe Lord Shepperton --- also of Gomme-Keogh --- is working in this building on a temporary basis. I'd like a word with him." He saw C's eyebrow twitch slightly. "You see, his daughter --- the Honourable Trilby Shepperton --- was one of Miss Dupré's close friends. She has had similar drug problems, and she's also a member of the Meek Ones. I gather Lord Shepperton is rather cut up about it."

"You want to see Shepperton here? On these premises?" C asked, his agile mind already working on how he could possibly be of assistance to Robert Shepperton. Some little favor might be useful when it came to the Secret Vote.

"I'd rather like a word with this Commander Mackenzie first." Boyer's face was blank. "Depending on what he has to say, there's another matter we might have to talk about --- with Lord Shepperton present."

C nodded, reaching out to pick up the telephone. "Miss Pennington, get Mac back in London in double-quick time, would you... Yes, yes, I know where she is. Get her back in... And let me have her ETA as soon as you know it. I'll wait in the office until she arrives. Even if it means being here until the wee small hours." He replaced the receiver, frowning slightly as he looked up at the man from The Branch.

If Boyer had been surprised to discover that C was discussing a female officer, he didn't show it, his face remaining blank.

In the outer office, Miss Pennington picked up the red scrambler telephone and dialed an unlisted number. The area code was 0432 --- the code for Hereford. Despite the large number of people of Irish and Scots extraction in the Service, when C asked for "Mac" there was no question about to whom he referred.

Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, she kept telling herself. She'd been telling herself that for the last --- she couldn't even remember how many --- miles.

I'm starting to feel my age, she thought. She could not recall the last time she had felt so completely exhausted. Every muscle ached; fatigue seeped into her bones like some pernicious poison; her legs felt like lumps of lead, so that each step forward was a conscious effort, while her feet seemed to burn inside the usually comfortable DMS boots; her eyelids drooped, and it was difficult to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. She felt unclean from the sweat that had collected under her clothing, dried, then collected again. On top of it all, the gear, the military uniform... well, it had been designed for creatures with a body shape vastly different from her own.

The sight of the Bedford RL four-ton truck parked on the road below her was like an oasis to a man who had spent days in the desert with little food and less water. But she had been in no desert, quite the contrary. For the last nine days she had been taking part in a survival and endurance exercise with "The Regiment" --- as those familiar with the Special Air Service always call it --- working out of the 22 SAS Regiment base: Bradbury Lines Barracks, Hereford. C had called it "A nice little refresher course." Of course, he wasn't the one going through the course.

For eight of those days she had been up before four o'clock in the morning, in a truck by five, kitted out in combat gear, a heavy Bergen pack on her back, other equipment slung around her, and one hand clutching a rifle --- the so-called IW (Individual Weapon) XL65E5.

Each day, together with seven other officers --- all male --- from various other branches of the armed forces, she had been dropped from the back of the truck somewhere on the edge of the wild and rugged countryside around the Brecon Beacons, alone and with a map reference shouted at her as she went. Each night she, like the others, had been briefed on the following day's work.

Sometimes that map reference simply meant she had to beat the clock, arriving at the designated point in a certain amount of time; on other occasions she had to evade being spotted on the way by regular SAS officers, NCOs, and Troopers --- still within a strict time limit. If caught, she would be subjected to intensive and humiliating interrogation.

She had not been caught on two of the occasions she had been assigned to this exercise, but twice she had failed to beat the clock --- on both times it was the fourth map reference of the day, for these operations seldom ended by reaching the first given point. The survival course demanded much more --- other map references that had to be reached while spotting and "killing" hidden targets; or retrieving an extra-heavy load hidden at a predetermined point.

Back in Bradbury Lines at night, kit and weapons had to be cleaned before a session, which usually included a stinging criticism of the day's work, and collecting orders for the next morning.

The men had initially resented the presence of a woman among them. However, as she kept up with them day after day, they had come grudgingly to accept her. They'd started ribbing her in a somewhat unmilitary fashion, though she was sure that none of them had the energy to spare to carry out their suggestions. She wasn't sure whether she had the energy to accommodate them. She certainly didn't feel the desire.

A scary thought, almost, for an Arion.

Now, on the ninth day, she had just taken part in the most grueling and shattering exercise which is a regular feature of SAS selection and training --- the forty-five mile endurance march, to be completed in twenty-four hours, carrying a fifty-pound pack, pounds of other equipment and an eighteen-pound rifle, hand-held since no SAS weapons are fitted with slings.

The march normally follows a route straight across the Brecon Beacons --- wild, rocky, and mountainous terrain --- and the test is treated with great respect even by the most hardened and elite members of the Special Air Service. In bad weather expert men have died on the endurance march, and, given the relatively good conditions of this late May --- gusting low winds and drenching drizzle --- the exercise had been, to quote most of those who took part, "a right bastard."

It was tough enough for an Arion like herself --- Lieutenant Commander Tyreen Mackenzie had nothing but the utmost respect for the Terrans who successfully passed through the course.

No allowance had been made for her gender. The exact opposite, in fact. Under specific instructions from John Bannon --- the Service's Chief of Staff, and the member who had the most intimate knowledge of her extraordinary physical abilities --- her route included an extra ten miles, and there was an additional hundred pounds of dead weight along with her gear.

As well as she and Bannon knew each other, sometimes she wondered whether he had her confused with Marlen. An extra ten miles while carrying an additional hundred pounds, why, to the Prime that would only be a quick jog through the spring countryside.

Tyreen wasn't a Prime, however. The extra effort was enough to truly make the Beta feel her age; she was actually a full two decades older than the men in the course, though with her Arion heritage one wouldn't know it just by looking at her.

She wasn't exactly looking fresh now, as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other carrying nearly twice her bodyweight in equipment and dead weight, it felt much heavier, as though she was carrying the weight of the entire world on her slender shoulders.

All she wanted, now that she had reached the final reference point, was to be taken back to Hereford in the truck, followed by a shower, food, and sleep for around twenty-four hours --- not necessarily in that order --- before reporting back to London. And then a cigarette --- even though tobacco didn't affect her as much as it affected Terrans, she'd promised herself not to have one until she had completed the course. She could all but taste it already, the aromatic vapors filling her lungs, tickling her nostrils...

But this was not to be. She sensed it when she saw the adjutant walking toward her from the parked truck.

"Your CO telephoned." The adjutant was a tall, bronzed SAS captain --- a matter-of-fact soldier who had long since learned that economy of words communicates unpleasant news with greater force than an involved explanation. "You're wanted back in London, fast as a bullet."

She bit back an oath. "Playing more games are we, Adj?" She tried to grin as she started to shrug out of her pack.

"Sorry." He did not return the smile. "This is for real. Seems your lot has a flap on. I'll give you a lift back to the barracks."

Only then did she see the adjutant's car parked behind the truck, and realized this was truly not another of the sometimes almost sadistic tricks with which SAS refresher courses abound. Even as tired as she was, the Arion female carried her own gear, not wanting to unduly burden the Terran male with the hidden weight.

As they made the journey back to Bradbury Lines, the adjutant suggested --- a shade strongly, she thought --- that it would not be wise for any man --- or woman --- just off the endurance march to drive himself --- or herself --- from Hereford to London, a journey of roughly two hours. "Sergeant Goldman hasn't got much to do. Good driver. Get you there fast and in one piece."

She was too tired to argue. "Whatever you say." She shrugged. "Sergeant Goldman can drive the bloody thing, but he'll have to make his own way back."

"Actually, you'd be doing him a favor. He's due on leave tonight and wants to get to London anyway."

"Sure. Whatever you say," she repeated. Any change of scenery had to be an improvement, and at the moment the thought of being chauffeured to London in her own car rather than slogging through the countryside on her own two feet seemed like the closest she would ever get to heaven on earth.

Back in her quarters, Tyreen Mackenzie showered, retrieved her personal handgun --- the Walther PPK Special --- from its hiding place in a sliding compartment of her suitcase, changed into a pair of casual slacks, soft leather moccasins, a comfortable shirt, and a jacket. She then returned the military gear to Quartermaster's Stores, picked up her case, and made her way to where the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo stood, immaculate in its British Racing Green, parked outside the Officers' Mess.

Sergeant "Goldy" Goldman awaited her, also in civilian clothes and with a duffel bag at his feet --- a broad-shouldered, big, almost thuggish-looking man, with dark hair worn longer than would be allowed in most crack British regiments. "Ready for the off, boss lady?" His tone was casual despite the difference in their rank --- another convention of the SAS.

She nodded and tossed him the keys. "Mind if I curl up in the back, Goldy? Bit knackered to tell you the truth."

The sergeant grinned in sympathy. "It's a swine, the endurance march. I've no love for it myself. Sleep away, boss lady. I'll wake you when we get into the London area."

She made herself comfortable on the soft leather of the rear seats, while he stowed his own bag in the boot, got in behind the wheel, started the car, and drove off, past the famous SAS memorial clock tower. Near the base of the tower a large plaque commemorates the names of SAS officers and men who have failed to "beat the clock" --- the SAS synonym for staying alive in action or training. The clock tower is collapsible and portable, something which says much about the flexible attitude of "The Regiment."

As they whispered through Hereford, to follow the main road to the M5 Motorway --- which in turn would give access to the M4 and London --- she closed her eyes and surrendered to a deep, dreamless sleep. She had no idea how much time had passed before she was awakened by Sergeant Goldman shouting loudly, "Boss lady? Come on, boss lady! Wake up!"

She struggled up through the unconscious darkness like one half drowned, reaching toward the light on the surface. At first she imagined they had reached London. "Wha...? Where?"

"You awake?" he asked loudly.

"Yea... Yes. Just about." She shook her head as if to clear her brain.

"In the land of the living, are we?"

"What's up?" Gradually she was adjusting to the car and its surroundings.

"Would you ever expect surveillance?"

"Why?" She was more alert now.

"Just, would you? Don't know your line of business, boss lady. Don't want to shout wolf, but in your line would you expect surveillance?"

"Sometimes." She had straightened herself out in the spacious rear of the car, leaning forward so that her head was close to his left ear. "Why?"

"May be nothing, but I get the distinct feeling we're in a mobile box."

"How long?" She was fully awake.

"I reckon from Hereford itself."

"And where are we now?"

"Just come off the M5 and onto the M4. Northwest of Bristol."

"And?"

"There was a gray Saab that picked us up in Hereford. A 900 Turbo. Didn't take much notice, but he wouldn't let go. Then a light-colored BMW --- a 735i, I think --- took over. Just before we skirted Gloucester there was the Saab again, ahead of us. He's behind us now --- back two cars. The BMW's leading us, well ahead."

"Coincidence?" she grunted.

"Thought of that. Tried the usual. Sudden slow, letting the BMW overtake, giving this heap a lot of gas. They've maintained station nicely. I even went off at Junction 13 and did a bit of round-the-houses, but they're still there. It looks like a full box --- there's a light-blue Audi and a nasty little red Lotus Espirit as well. They're pro, I'm pretty certain. Dead middle-management, though. Yuppie cars, all of them."

She grunted again. "You're sure it's not just coincidence?"

"Doesn't look like it to me. I've done all the business and they're still in tow. Mean anything?"

She did not reply immediately. A mobile "box" was a tried and true technique. One in front, one behind, and a couple to left and right --- in parallel streets and cities; hanging around to run interference on open stretches of motorways. All would be in radio contact, probably pretending to be taxis, using code phrases that would sound innocuous to the police or anyone else picking them up. In reality they would be passing precise instructions, one to the other, regarding their target. Why, though? Why her? Why now? C running a little surveillance test with some of the novitiate? Unlikely.

Goldman was driving with skill and confidence, fast and very accurate, sliding from middle to outside lane, sashaying through traffic like a dancer.

"Let's give 'em another go round-the-houses. What's the next exit?" she asked.

"Seventeen. Chippenham to the right, Malmesbury left."

"Know the roads?"

"Know the Chippenham side best. Nice lot of country lanes around there. Narrow. Very difficult, those lanes."

"Let's give them a run, then. Stop them if we have to."

The traffic on the motorway was heavy, but, glancing back, she could clearly see the shape of the gray Saab, outlined by other vehicle's headlights. It stayed on station, a couple of cars behind them. "You carrying?" Tyreen asked Goldman.

"Not so's you'd notice. You?"

"Yes. There's a spare in the map compartment --- a Ruger P-85: solid and a stopper. I've been testing it for friends on your range. Full mag and one up the spout. You'll need the spare keys." She fished them out of a pocket and passed them forward.

"How're we fixed legally?" His tone was of one who was not particularly bothered, but neither was he completely disinterested.

"Don't honestly know," she said, her brain still clicking away at the possibilities. Only three people at the Regent's Park HQ knew where she had been --- C, his Chief of Staff John Bannon, and the faithful Miss Pennington. If the surveillance was a genuine hostile operation against her, the information could have come only from inside Bradbury Lines, and people there were usually as silent as deaf-mutes, for they knew the necessity for secrecy as far as work was concerned. Their lives often depended on discreetly closed mouths.

Ahead the junction was coming up, and she saw with some pleasure that the BMW --- also holding station three cars ahead --- swept past the turn. Goldman signaled at the last moment, accelerated up the exit ramp, moving onto the big roundabout, cutting in on to slow-traveling cars and swerving onto the Chippenham road. A mile or so further on, he pulled off the main road. Soon they were slowing to a slightly safer speed with which to negotiate the dark country lanes --- trees and hedgerows black in the strong headlights.

"We lost them?" Goldman muttered the question, pumping the brakes to take a tight corner.

"Don't know." Tyreen swiveled to look behind them into the darkness. She had been through surveillance routines like this herself, and knew that if she were doing the following, her lights would have been doused as soon as they hit the minor roads of the countryside. From that point she would rely on luck and a sixth sense --- or the use of night-vision goggles --- to get her safely behind her target. No lights followed them, yet she felt a cold sense of concern.

By now they had traveled some six or seven miles. If the surveillance vehicles were on their heels, she should at least be able to see something.

She glanced forward as they rocketed through a village. She caught a glimpse of the shocked white face of some local by the side of the road --- just a sudden face, contorted in horror or anger at their speed. There for the blink of an eye, then gone. A pub. Then a church. A lurching right-hand bend, and out of the other side, down a long straight hill.

Suddenly an oath from Goldman, and the judder of brakes being pumped violently.

Ahead there were two sets of lights --- not coming toward them but streaming out from either side of the road.

In the blur of speed, Tyreen realized several things. The lights were flooding from the right and left of a crossroad some twenty yards ahead. Yet, as the facts slid through her mind, the twenty yards closed to almost zero. Two cars emerged from left and right; Goldman clicked on the Bentley's main beams and the cars were caught, stationary, serrated, nose parallel to nose in the classic roadblock formation --- a red Lotus Espirit and a blue Audi.

Goldman was still pumping the brakes and veering left as the cars grew in the windshield. The Bentley touched the grass bank, bounced slightly and they were on top of the cars.

From where Tyreen sat there appeared to be very little room between the roadblock and the left, ninety-degree turn, but Goldman handled the large car like a rally driver, moving in his seat to use the handbrake, his feet dancing on accelerator and footbrake. The Bentley's tires protested, screaming as the whole vehicle skidded, side-on, then straightened and gathered speed, brushing the hedge to the left, but clearing the Espirit's rear bumper by what must have been less than an inch.

The road into which they had turned was overhung by trees, still with their stark winter look, the fresh buds and leaves of spring invisible in the car's headlights. It was like driving through a tunnel overhung with scaffolding, and its width would barely allow two cars to pass.

As she looked back toward the diminishing taillights of the Espirit and the full beams of the Audi, she automatically ducked. A series of tiny blue flashes flared briefly in the darkness, and above the whisper of the Bentley, she felt rather than heard the bullets that sprayed around them.

"Hell!" Goldman muttered, easing up on the accelerator and dragging the car around a long right-hand bend, leaving the roadblock cars out of sight. "What's your real job, boss lady? Guinea pig for the National Health Service?"

"The Audi'll come after us, Goldy. Better give them a run for their money."

"What d'you think I'm doing --- Sunday-afternoon sightseeing?" While he was speaking, the car lurched and accelerated even further.

They appeared to be in open country now, and she expected the distant lights of the Audi to appear behind her at any second. She had the PPK out and her hand on the window button, ready to try to take out the pursuers should they suddenly leap from the darkness. "Any idea where we are?" She peered into the blackness, wishing there was a set of Nightfinder glasses in the car.

"I can get us into London if that's what's bothering you." Goldman's voice was taut with concentration. "But I'm going by the scenic route. Best keep well away from any motorways."

"Good... Hell!" Tyreen pressed down on the switch operating the right rear window. With a dazzling blast from full-beamed headlights, the Saab that had been following them on the motorway seemed to come from nowhere, tucking itself in close behind them. "Put your foot through the floor, Goldy!" she yelled, crouching close to the door, lifting the PPK, feeling the rush of cold air on her face and hand.

The Saab still clung on as Tyreen fired two shots, low and fast, in the hope of hitting a tire. Goldman was throwing the car through the narrow lane at around eighty, rising to an unsafe ninety. In the back, she bucked and rolled with the big machine, clinging to the door, attempting to get a clean shot, eyes narrowed against the ferocious blinding glare of the lights.

She fired again, and one of the Saab's headlights went dead. As it did, the car veered sharply, as though its driver was momentarily out of control, rolling right, then hard left, coming squarely into her line of sight. She fired twice --- two quick double shots --- and saw the windshield shatter. She also thought she could hear a scream, but it was just as likely that it was the wind rushing past, cold and fast, into the Bentley.

The Saab seemed to hang close to their rear bumper, then drop back, faltering before it swerved violently to the left. She had a perfect view as the car mounted the bank. For a second she saw it poised, almost in midair before it was lost in darkness. A moment later a plume of flame shot upward. The crump came only a heartbeat later.

"I think we should put a fair amount of distance between that wreck and ourselves," she muttered.

"What wreck's that, boss lady?" Through the rearview mirror she could just make out the smile on his lips.

She'd promised herself that she wouldn't have a cigarette until she had completed the course and returned home. However, circumstances had changed somewhat. Presently, as she reached for a cigarette, she asked if he had managed to get a make on the other cars. The SAS sergeant quickly repeated the registration numbers of all four cars, then went through the makes and colors once more as she committed them to memory.

"Didn't notice what the drivers were wearing, by any chance?" Her face was creased in a grim smile, wreathed by the smoke from her first cigarette in over a week.

"Wasn't paying all that much attention." She knew he was also smiling, but none of this helped solve the question of why they were under surveillance, and by whom.

She was still puzzling over it when they pulled up in Knightsbridge and changed places, the sergeant retrieving his own duffel bag from the boot and thanking her for what he called "an interesting ride home."

"You want my telephone number, boss lady? Just in case?"

She nodded from the driver's seat and the sergeant ran through the digits. "Anytime I can be of help, it'd be a pleasure." He nodded and, leaving the window open and lighting up her second cigarette since going to Bradbury Lines, she put the car into drive and drew away from the curb, heading in the direction of Regent's Park and her Service's headquarters.

"Glad you made it so quickly." The old sea dog's sarcasm seemed to pass over Chief Superintendent Boyer's head as the introductions were made.

"Traffic, sir. Absolute murder on the motorways coming down." The woman was more than a little put out. She had expected to meet C alone. Even Miss Pennington had not warned her of the police officer's presence --- a fact that was decidedly disturbing, if not downright ominous.

The Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service grunted, waving Lieutenant Commander Tyreen Mackenzie into a chair. "Probably best if Boyer here puts you in the picture." He looked both visitors in the eyes before adding, "Especially as we've become involved partly because of you, Mackenzie."

Boyer gave the bare outline --- girl dragged from the Thames in the early hours. He left out the name of the victim until the end. "The deceased was twenty-three years old, and she carried your telephone number in her Filofax." He paused before adding, "Actually, it was the only telephone number on her."

Tyreen's body ached from the hard march over the Brecon Beacons, and the events during the journey into London. She was aware that unless she got all the salient facts quickly there was a good chance that her mind would begin to drift from the essentials of the case. Apart from that, a whole section of her tired brain still wrestled with the how and why of the surveillance and attack. She needed to spend time with C to make her report. At last she began to take in the seriousness of what the police officer was saying. "My telephone number?" she queried. "Who is it? Who's the victim?"

"We're not classing her as a victim," Boyer told her. "But the girl's name is Emily Dupré." Both the Branch man and C watched for any signs of distress from Tyreen, who merely shook her head in disbelief.

"Young Emily," she said quietly. Then, "Emily Dupré. Poor girl. Why, in heaven's name?"

"You did know her, then?" from Boyer.

"Only very slightly." She sat, calm and upright in her chair. "Haven't seen her for a couple of years. Though I did get an odd telephone call from her last November."

"What do you mean by slightly?" Boyer, like many police officers, had that blunt, suspicious tone, even when asking seemingly innocent questions.

"Very slightly." Tyreen was firm, her voice acquiring a slight cutting edge. "Two years ago my brother and I were invited to her twenty-first birthday party. I've known Paul and Beth Dupré for a long time. I think they asked us to the party as a kind of makeweight. As I recall it, somebody dropped out at the last minute."

"And you got on well with the girl?"

"I'd say she got on better with my brother."

"How well?"

Tyreen took a deep breath, held it in, then slowly exhaled. "He told me he thought she's a shade young for him. I don't want to sound... well... I think she had a kind of crush on him. In the end it became embarrassing. He took her out to dinner a couple of times."

"They weren't..." The Branch man left the remainder of his question hanging in the air.

"No, Mr. Boyer, they certainly weren't. In fact, he did nothing at all to encourage her. It really was difficult. She never stopped telephoning him, and writing notes." She paused for a moment, remembering Emily --- dark, fine looks, gray-eyed. "We had dinner together a few times." The final dinner came tiptoeing back into her mind, unbidden but there in its entirety. Rather than store it up, she told them, keeping to the important points. "When it really got difficult, we took her out to the Caprice. My brother fed her, and I gave her the big sister routine. Told her my brother was already heavily involved with someone else."

"Was he?" C asked, looking bland. "A couple of years, one forgets."

"Yes, there was someone at the time." She managed to stop herself from snapping at her chief. Her half-brother was half Arion, after all. "We offered to be her friends. Told her that if she found herself in any spot of bother she could call either one of us."

C gave a long sigh. "Never understood women myself, Mackenzie, but I would've thought that kind of talk would have encouraged her."

Tyreen fixed her chief with a stare. "It might if it had come from my brother. Not from me."

"Yours was the only telephone number on her," Boyer pointed out.

"My brother doesn't live in London any more."

"You didn't hear from her again?" C asked.

"Only the one telephone call last November."

"You said that was odd."

"Yes."

"In what way, odd?"

"I'd more or less forgotten about her --- well, not forgotten, but put out of mind. I still see Paul and Beth Dupré from time to time."

"You move in exalted circles, Mackenzie," C muttered.

"Not really. My brother was at school with Paul's brother, years ago. He got himself killed in some damn-fool episode with a motorcycle. Paul's brother, that is. I met Paul at the funeral. He gave my brother and me pieces of advice now and again."

"Nothing under the counter, I hope," C snapped.

She frowned, looking at him, then --- "Oh, you mean 'insider dealing' and all that kind of thing. No, sir. Just commonsense advice. It was when my brother and I came into that little legacy."

"And you?"

"General investment advice. Nothing specific."

"Anything going the other way?"

"Sir!"

"With Emily?"

"Just girl talk, sir." She put a little emphasis on the last word.

"That's all right, then." C seemed to drift off into a semicomatose state. The old boy was always at his most dangerous when he performed that trick, Tyreen thought to herself.

"The telephone call?" Boyer prompted.

"Yes. She rambled on a bit. Said she was in some kind of hospital. Then asked me if I had been saved. Religious talk, you know."

"And you told her?"

"What?"

"Whether you'd been saved or not."

"I think I was a touch flippant. I said I thought I'd been saved, but it had been a damned close thing."

"How did she take that?"

"She didn't. She seemed not to notice, just talked some drivel, then suddenly put the phone down."

"That concern you?"

"Thinking back, yes. Yes, it did. I remember feeling that she'd been interrupted, or that the phone had been snatched from her hand." She scowled, wondering why she had not followed through on her instincts at the time.

"When you knew her --- a couple of years ago --- would you have said she was the kind who'd get mixed up with drugs?"

Tyreen looked at the Branch man, cold-eyed. "How can you tell these days? Was she?"

"Mixed up in drugs? Yes, she was. Badly. Heroin. We know what happened about it. The family have been most cooperative. She wouldn't accept help from them. They were worried stiff. Then poor drowned Emily got religion. Religion of a kind, anyway. The Meek Ones. Heard of them?"

Tyreen nodded. "Who hasn't? Do good, yet seem to do a great deal of bad at the same time. Anti-promiscuity, anti-drugs, but all for a new world. The world of equality --- that's their phrase, isn't it?"

"You've got them." The Branch man nodded. "On the surface these people appear to be ultra do-gooders. Purity; sanctity of marriage; beware excess --- they run a very successful detoxification unit, catering for drug and alcohol abuse. Have a big place down in Berkshire. Great, but scratch the surface and there's something a shade more sinister."

"For instance?" she asked.

"For instance, they draw on the most extreme views of a number of religions --- equal belief in the Bible, the Old Testament, not the New --- in particular the Torah. And they use the Koran as well."

She nodded. She knew enough about comparative religions to be aware that the Torah consisted of the first five books of the Old Testament that made up the strict Jewish Law.

Boyer continued. "They set great store by their religious ceremonies. Very theatrical, and taken from lord knows how many different liturgical traditions. You follow me?"

She nodded again. "You mean they have rituals and religious ceremonies stolen from many periods in history and belief."

C looked at Tyreen with patent disbelief. The Chief was always surprised when his agent revealed interests or information outside the normal business of their trade, or her excellent knowledge of food, wine, men, and fast cars --- which was grossly unfair to her intellect.

"That's right." Boyer seemed to have settled himself, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands together. "All this is combined with politics, of course. Their religion is really based on the ideal of a revolution. Very immature, of course, but for the young or impressionable mind it's heady stuff. The meek shall inherit, you know the kind of thing. All men are equal, and that equality must be attained, even if through the most bloody kind of revolution. A large number of wealthy young people're members, and have donated their entire fortunes to The Society --- that's their full title, The Society of the Meek Ones."

"You're telling me that Emily Dupré was a fully paid-up member?" Tyreen frowned.

"Exactly. She inherited a couple of million when she was twenty-one. Some of it went on an extravagant lifestyle and that nasty little habit she acquired. The rest was made over to The Society when they got her off the junk."

"When Father Valentine got her off it," C said sharply. "Let's try and see things in their right proportions, Boyer, especially now we know Mackenzie's relationship with the dead girl was slight. Dead girl, daughter of a merchant banker --- chairman of Gomme-Keogh. She'd become a dedicated member of the Meek Ones. We --- this Service --- has a connection. Robert Shepperton --- Lord Shepperton --- is on the Foreign Office Special Audit panel. He does the books of this Service regularly. He also has a daughter --- the Honourable Trilby Shepperton. Trilby was an old chum of the deceased. Trilby is also a member of the Meek Ones. She's handed over her birthright, a cool five million sterling. And who actually gets this wealth? The grand guru of the Meek Ones, who calls himself Father Valentine."

"Sounds like one of these American TV evangelists," Tyreen made a humorless grimace. "I understand our connection because Lord Shepperton casts his eye over he books every few years. But surely this is a Police and Revenue job, sir?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But we've got some abnormalities. Our brothers in 'Five' have, it seems, also been keeping an eye on the Meek Ones. Matter of possible revolutionary activities. But now we've been invited to share in the product --- in particular where it's concerned with Father Valentine. So far the popular gutter press have had to confine any of their more sensational comments to the leader of the sect --- Valentine. The Meek Ones themselves appear to be beyond reproach with the dogmas of morality, purity, and the like. Valentine himself has a reasonable standing. He alone is responsible for getting a large number of people off drugs like heroin and even cocaine derivatives like crack. We know from the Duprés that he had undoubtedly brought Emily back from the edge of death. So the only press attacks are with regard to his finances. Where does all the money go? One newspaper has said that Valentine's worth several billion. The impression is that a large percentage of the revenue from the Meek Ones goes into Valentine's personal coffers, giving him a pretty extravagant lifestyle which has been well hidden until now."

C nodded toward Boyer before continuing. "Our friend here from The Branch came to me because your telephone number was found on the poor lass. He also told me that old Robert Shepperton's girl was mixed up in it. I sent for you, and while we waited something quite out of the ordinary occurred."

"Yes?" Tyreen's mind was needle-sharp now, even though her body still appeared to be preparing her for a lengthy period of unconsciousness.

C talked for some time. Two things had occurred between Mackenzie's being sent for and her arrival. The first was a request for a private interview by Lord Shepperton. "Boyer here was good enough to step outside for a moment. I've known old Robert Shepperton for years. Even so, it took the poor fellow a lot of courage to come in here and bare his soul, so to speak."

Lord Shepperton had, according to C, been in a terrible state, having just heard, via the offices of Gomme-Keogh, of Emily Dupré's fate.

"Came in here almost blubbing," C's granite face actually appeared to soften. "Never seen him like it, ever. Then the whole thing became a touch embarrassing. Fellow all but pleaded for help. All the stuff we already know: young Trilby --- damned silly name that, always felt it was Dorothy's idea, Lady Shepperton, you know. Old Robert married beneath himself. Trade, really. Her father was in some kind of patent medication. Not the right sort of background. Anyhow, Robert admits to Trilby being recovered from the wretched addiction, but she has parted with her birthright and he hasn't had a word from her in over a month. He asked me --- begged me --- if I could use influence, within the Service, of course, to get her back. Even suggested some kind of kidnap. All a bit emotional really, but I must admit that he got to me. Old friend and all that."

"You promise him anything?" she asked.

There was a long pause before C answered. "Not specifically. No. Just said I'd make some enquiries. Possibly do something unoffically." He gave her a sidelong look.

"Such as having a word with our brothers in 'Five'?" Tyreen asked. She had started out in 'Five,' and still had contacts there.

"At that point, no, not exactly." This time C did not even look his agent in the eyes.

"Ah. A deniable operation?"

"Well. At the time I did think..."

"The kind of thing that gets the Service a bad name. Sort of operation that comes out years later in the memoirs of a retired officer unhappy with his pension?" She looked at her chief with a blandness learned only in the hard school of secret dissembling.

"Well, maybe it crossed my mind. Possibly. For a moment. Anyway, not necessary any more. That's the next thing that happened."

Shepperton had just left when Donald Wollenstein arrived in reception. Wollenstein was the CIA's liaison officer at Grosvenor Square --- which meant the American Embassy.

"Too smooth by half," C said, biting each word as though he was a predator stripping the flesh from carrion. There was, Tyreen knew, a longstanding feud between C and Wollenstein, though she got along with him well enough.

"You saw him?"

C nodded. "Straightaway. He said it was classified Cosmic and needed setting up last week." Suddenly his demeanor changed and both Boyer and Tyreen were treated to a beam that lit up the whole of C's face. "Our cousins in Grosvenor Square and Langley, Virginia, are also interested in Father Valentine. So interested that they've managed to make it a priority. The DGSS came on the scrambler soon after Wollenstein left." Another beam --- by DGSS, C meant the Director General of the Security Service. In plain language the head of MI5, Tyreen's former Service. "Files coming over in the morning, but in essence, the US Internal Revenue Service wants a word with Valentine, who is suspected to be a wolf in sheep's clothing." He paused again, this time for effect. "A wolf called Vladimir Scorpio, would you believe?"

Tyreen heard herself suck in breath sharply through her teeth. "The Vladimir Scorpio?"

"None other. Scorpio. Armourer --- gun-runner --- to just about every terrorist organization known to man, and a few others nobody's yet discovered."

In her mind's eye she could see the Scorpio file now. It was as thick as the entire London Telephone Directory, and even then everyone knew it was incomplete.

"I suggest," C continued, "that you, Mackenzie, reacquaint yourself with what we have on Scorpio. That's what they'll be doing over in Grosvenor Square, and at wherever 'Five' are holing up, not to mention the Revenue in Buck House, the Chief Superintendent's people, and the US Internal Revenue Service, who, I gather, have the power of God."

Boyer coughed. "A word, sir, before we get deeply involved in any possible connection with Scorpio, who is not unknown to The Branch as an international arms dealer of almost unique and evil caliber."

"Yes?" C was sharp. He obviously wanted to get on with what appeared to be a link of pressing importance.

"It's the other thing I wanted to talk about with you and possibly Lord Shepperton."

"Well?"

Boyer reached into his briefcase. "Miss Dupré carried only a little money on her, and, if she had passed on all her assets to The Society of the Meek Ones, none of us could understand why she also carried credit cards --- which she did."

He paused, his hand still inside the briefcase. "Her parents say they did not receive nor pay any credit cards on her behalf. Yet we found these in the tote bag." He produced a small leather wallet from which he extracted an American Express Gold Card, a Barclays Premier VISA, a MasterCharge, and a Carte Blanche. He dealt out the credit cards in a neat row on the desk directly in front of C.

"There is one more." Boyer sounded like a magician doing some complicated legerdemain. "This!" He put the small piece of plastic next to the other cards as though playing an ace on a king.

The card was the same quality and texture as the others --- white and gold with the name Emily Dupré in the left-hand bottom corner, followed by start and expiration dates. The card number was embossed along the center, and to the right was a small silver square holding a hologrammatic logo, two Greek letters intertwined. "Alpha and Omega." Boyer touched the hologram. "The Beginning and the End." Then his finger moved to the top half of the card. In gold-embossed letters were the two words, AVANTE CARTE. "Not a credit card I've come across," the Branch Officer said. "We're having it run through the computers, of course, but it's an oddity. I thought Lord Shepperton might help us with it."

Without taking his eyes from the card, C picked up his intercom phone and asked Miss Pennington if she could locate Lord Shepperton and ask him to come into the office. "I don't care if he's dining with the Prime Minister, or even at Buck House. This is a matter of some urgency. Just get him here." C looked up at the others. "I think you'll find that Robert Shepperton will have something to say about this." His eyes were as bleak as the North Sea in winter.

While they waited, Tyreen, deciding that Boyer was safe, told the whole story of her drive into London from Hereford. She left nothing out.

All three looked very concerned by the time Lord Shepperton arrived.

Lord Shepperton's appearance belied his name. When people spoke of Robert Shepperton, others who had never seen the man pictured him as a sleek, distinguished peer of the realm. In truth, he was large, ungainly, with big, very clumsy hands and a clump of graying hair that stood on end. He did not fit anybody's image of a merchant banker. In his late fifties, Lord Shepperton looked troubled, tired, harassed, and untidy, which fit in nicely with C's description of their earlier interview.

After the initial introductions, C addressed his old friend as "Shepperton," while the peer was very correct, referring to Tyreen's Chief as "C."

"Wanted you to see this, Shepperton." C passed the Avante Carte piece of plastic across his desk.

His lordship took the card and examined it as though it might explode at any moment. Eventually he said, "Good grief!" turned it over again and exclaimed, "Well, well. The fellow did it after all."

"What fellow did what?" Chief Superintendent Boyer began.

C held up a hand and turned to Robert Shepperton, taking the card from him. "I'd like you to repeat for these two what you told me during our discussion earlier," he said quietly.

"About the Valentine man?"

"Yes. Especially about his approach to you at Gomme-Keogh."

Shepperton nodded, looked over at the card in C's hand, and shook his head as though he stiill could not believe his own eyes. "Do they know?"

"About your daughter? About Trilby and the Meek Ones? Yes, they know all about it. Everything about it. No need to worry yourself, Shepperton. Just tell them of your own dealings with the so-called Father Valentine."

"Well." He placed his big hands on his knees, then decided that wasn't right, so he folded his arms. He looked very uncomfortable. "You know my daughter had problems?" he began, stopping as though he really didn't want to go on.

Boyer stepped in to ease him though the difficulties of facing the truth and spitting it out in front of strangers. "The Honourable Trilby Shepperton became addicted to heroin, sir. She received help from Father Valentine, the leader of a religious sect known as The Society of the Meek Ones. He treated her and she recovered. Came off the drug."

"Yes." Shepperton hesitated again, then launched into a length, somewhat halting monologue. It appeared that Trilby had come off heroin about seven months before. She had returned home for a long weekend and told her parents that she would be joining The Society of the Meek Ones. Leaving home. "Wife and I thought it was a fad --- a phase, you know?"

"But it wasn't?" Tyreen prompted gently, backing up Boyer.

"We didn't know at that time --- 'course not. Both of us were just glad to see the girl fit and well again." He pronounced "girl" as "gel." "Trill --- that's what we call Trilby, sort of pet name, eh? Trill. Always called her Trill."

Inwardly, Tyreen sighed. If he was nothing else, Lord Shepperton was a terrible bore.

"Well, we'd have done anything for Trill at that time. Looking so well, and in control of things. Couldn't refuse her a favor. She told us about this priest or whatever he is. Calls himself Father Valentine. Naturally we were very grateful to him --- for what he'd done. Understand?"

"Of course, sir," from Tyreen.

"So when she said this Valentine man wanted some advice --- banking advice --- I agreed to see him." For the first time that night Shepperton smiled. When he smiled, Tyreen was reminded of a Halloween pumpkin.

"Thought he was out to borrow money, to tell you the truth." He looked around the room almost aggressively. "And I'd have lent him money at the time. At reasonable interest as well. Felt I couldn't do enough for him." He paused again, and they all thought he'd run out of steam, but it was only to catch his breath. Shepperton continued, as slowly and long-windedly as before.

Valentine had come to see him in the Gomme-Keogh offices in the City, and he did not want to borrow money. He wanted advice about the financial arrangements of setting up a credit card company. Shepperton pointed out that it would be very difficult. The major companies were operated from huge financial institutions, banks and conglomerates, even chain stores that allowed credit on purchases.

"Seemed he wanted to give members of his religious sect certain financial facilities. Very hot on the sanctity of marriage --- said he had both rich and poor in The Society, but insisted that everyone had the same start in their married lives. He showed me some --- and only some --- of his banking arrangements. America; Cayman Islands; Hong Kong; Switzerland of course. Seemed sound enough --- if they were genuine. Yet I told him plainly --- I mean, you have to be damned plain speaking as a merchant banker. I told him he would fall very foul of government financial policy, not to mention the law."

"You obviously didn't convince him," Tyreen said with a half laugh.

Shepperton gazed at her without humor. "Obviously not," he said. "But I must admit I've never heard that his Avante Carte thing had got off the ground --- in my position I pride myself on knowing most of the world's credit card facilities. Worrying. Very worrying."

"Did he actually mention what he was going to call his card?" Boyer asked.

"Oh, yes." Shepperton stared at the Special Branch man as though he was looking at a halfwit. "Oh, yes," he repeated. "That's the shock of it. Couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the thing on C's desk. Yes, he said he would call it Avante Carte." At last he seemed to have dried up completely.

C stirred in his chair. "Tell them what else he said."

"Well, he isn't the kind of man who shows pique, or temper. But, as he left, he said to me that one day his credit card idea would be more powerful than all the other credit cards put together. Those were his exact words --- 'more powerful.' "

"Did you take to Father Valentine? Did you like him?" asked Boyer.

"Can't say I did really, no. There was something just not quite right about him. Odd, couldn't put my finger on it, but he seemed, well, somehow sinister. Quiet, calm, unassuming, but sinister. Doesn't really add up."

"I've known murderers who were quiet, calm, and unassuming," Boyer said. "They were cold-blooded killers nevertheless."

"And, even though you tried to put him off, he still appeared to be intent on going ahead with the credit card thing?" Tyreen probed.

"Oh, yes. Most certainly, yes. He seemed a little obsessive about it. Maybe that was the thing I found sinister. Never though he'd do it, though."

"Apart from this obsessiveness, you didn't detect anything abnormal?" Tyreen once more.

Shepperton frowned, screwing his face up. He reminded Tyreen of a small child going through the motions of trying to remember the answer to a tricky question. At last he said no. The man had been very soft-spoken, rational --- except for the determination about Avante Carte. "He had eyes, though," Shepperton said, as though this was something unusual in a human being. "I mean, one was taken away by the eyes. Clear. Piercing. Very striking, those eyes. Looked right through one, if you see what I mean."

"Color?" barked M.

"What?"

"D'you recall the color of the man's eyes?"

No pause this time. "Black. Black as night." He halted suddenly, looking puzzled. "Wonder why I said that? Black as night. If something's really black, I usually say 'jet black.' "

Probably Father Valentine had that effect on you, thought Tyreen, recalling the effect of someone else's eyes. But then, Marlen's clear blue eyes had a different kind of effect on men.

Father Valentine sounded more than sinister to her, what with the night-black eyes and the soft voice. Father Valentine sounded a fair old charmer. "You only saw him the once?" she asked aloud.

Shepperton nodded. "Just the once. Then old Trill went back to The Society. Heard from her twice. Written a hundred times. She doesn't reply. Dorothy gets very down about it. I do as well, of course. Funny lot these Meek Ones. Last people I'd want Trill to subsidize. But she'd done it. Every last penny."

"Well." C cleared his throat. "Well, thanks for coming in, Shepperton. I wanted these officers to hear your story. I should tell you we'll be following up on the credit card thing --- the Fraud Squad will as well. But I think you can be certain we're all going to have a closer look at your friend Valentine and the Meek Ones."

"They have this place near Pangbourne --- Berkshire. Used to belong to Buffy Anderson..."

"Sir Bulham Anderson," C translated.

"Yes. Buffy's country place. Had to sell, of course. Upkeep beyond any fellow's means nowadays. Beautiful place. Hundred rooms. Acres of land. Good fishin'. Buffy's moved into some poky little flat in Mayfair --- seven rooms and a balcony. Roughing it a bit. See him sometimes at the club. I often..."

"Shepperton, thank you." C cut him short before he could continue reminiscing about poor old Buffy roughing it in a seven-room flat in an exclusive Mayfair block. "Thank you for coming in. I'll be in touch."

"Ah, time I was off." Lord Shepperton appeared to wake from a snooze of nostalgia, and at that moment C's intercom telephone rang. Miss Pennington --- who usually left at around six in the evening --- was still there. It was now well after midnight.

C spoke to her in a low voice after his initial rather curt response. "When?" he asked. Then, "Yes, I see." His eyes slid toward Tyreen, who thought she detected uncertainty or concern in the brief look. "Yes," C said again. "Yes, you can leave that to us. I'll tell him. Mac and the Chief Super'll do the rest. Good." He put down the receiver and looked at Shepperton. "Got a bit of a shaker for you, Robert." It was the first time he had used his old friend's first name.

"For me?" Shepperton's face went a little less ruddy and his eyes showed anxiety. "Bad news?"

"No. No, I think probably good news. Your daughter's turned up."

"Trill? Where? She all right?"

"She's at home. At your home. Bit shaken, I gather. Needs a doctor, but at least she's there --- away from the Meek Ones."

Robert Shepperton looked as if he was going into shock --- his face beginning to gray-out. "Well, I'd better get on back." He clung to the chair as though in need of support. "Better find out what's happening. Doctor and all that. If you'll excuse me..."

"No," C said with the kind of commanding tone nobody --- not even a Prime Minister --- would have disobeyed. "No. You'll go with these officers. He looked up as Miss Pennington came quietly into the room. "First go with my good Miss Pennington, here. She'll give you coffee, tea, or something stronger if you want it. I shall talk to Boyer and Mackenzie, then they'll accompany you home. I think you'll find that best."

"Oh, well, if you say so. But shouldn't I ring Dorothy or something?"

"Just go, Robert. Everything will be fine."

Looking more dazed than ever, Shepperton allowed Miss Pennington to lead him from the room.

As soon as the door was closed, C began to talk. About twenty minutes before, Trilby Shepperton had been found by a patrolling police constable in the doorway of the Sheppertons' house near Eaton Square. She was, to use the officer's own words, "In a semiconscious condition." He had put it down to either drink or drug abuse and was about to call into his local station when Lady Shepperton, hearing the voices at the door, had come to investigate and identified her daughter.

"Sorry, Mackenzie. I know you've had a tough day, but I think we're onto something. I'd like both of you to go with Shepperton, see the girl --- and her doctor. He's going to wait until you arrive. Size up the situation. Report back to me, then we'll see what has to be done. I'm going to need someone down at the Meek Ones' HQ as soon as possible, and I'd also like you both to read this file on Scorpio/Valentine --- that is, the old file --- and some updated stuff Wollenstein brought over."

"I need sleep at some point." Tyreen's voice was that of a very tired woman. "Don't think I can go down and act as lookout in Berkshire straightaway."

C gave a cross little scowl. "No. No, you're not superhuman, I suppose." His eyes flicked over to Boyer and then back at her. "Anyway, I'll probably need you for something else I have in mind. We're desperately shorthanded at the moment. Question is, who can I spare to watch the Berkshire place?"

Tyreen had also glanced over at Boyer, hardly believing that C would have said such a thing. Every now and then he surprised her with his sense of humor. Apparently the Branch man hadn't detected anything out of the ordinary. "Can we use safe outside talent?" she asked.

"What kind of talent?"

"The SAS sergeant who drove me down. He's trained. Enthusiastic. Knows all the tricks. We've used their people before now."

"Yes." C was not enthusiastic. Then --- "You got his name, number, and all that?"

"Naturally."

"Leave them with me. Name of Goldberg, or something, you said earlier?"

Tyreen recited the telephone number Goldman had given to him when they parted.

C nodded. "I'll have a word with his CO. When one gets strapped for bodies on the ground, as this Service is at the moment, we have to use other resources. It might be possible." He looked unhappy as he said it. "I shall be here all night. You two go off with Shepperton and report in as soon as you can."

Chief Superintendent Boyer gave a small cough, then a charming smile. "With respect, sir, I'd better get the HoB's sanction on this."

C flapped a hand. "It'll be all right. I'll take care of the Head of the Branch. You can be sure of that."

The Special Branch man was obviously uncertain, but nodded and followed Tyreen from the office. Lord Shepperton sat in the anteroom, which was Miss Pennington's domain, nursing a very large whiskey. Miss Pennington hovered.

"Ready, sir." Boyle took the lead.

"She is all right? I mean young Trill, she's not... Well, not... You know..." Shepperton suddenly looked much older, as though the news of Trilby had taken some terrible toll on his stamina. Natural enough, Tyreen thought, especially coming hard on the heels of her friend Emily's death.

Boyle was very calm. "The Honourable Trilby is under the influence of something, sir. You should know that before we go. Doctor's with her, and we don't know if she's gone back to her old habit --- the heroin --- or if it's merely alcohol. The main thing, Lord Shepperton, is that she's at your home, which means she's beyond Father Valentine's influence. Let's go and see what we can do for her."

As they left the building, Boyer muttered to Tyreen, saying he hoped to heaven the girl was beyond Valentine's influence. She nodded and wondered if she had the same troubled expression as the Branch man.

The Sheppertons lived in one of those pleasant white Regency houses that that one sees all around the Belgravia area. There were two unmarked cars outside, and the lights blazed within. A uniformed policeman stood guard over the front door, and Boyer flashed his ID. Inside, a female servant of uncertain age fluttered around the hall, ready to be of help to anybody and everybody. She showed them into an elaborate room stuffed with Victoriana, the mantelpiece alive with antique china pieces.

Sitting together on a velvet-covered, buttoned Chesterfield were a large woman in a floral dressing gown which made her look like some grotesque bush in bloom, and a small man who bore all the marks of a doctor whose practice was in the heart of a well-heeled area. His hair was sleek, and he wore the uniform still expected of a doctor in this part of London --- striped trousers, black jacket, waistcoat with watchchain, and a stiff white collar set off by an immaculate gray silk tie.

Shepperton pounced into the room like a big bear. The floral apparition rose and the two met in the middle of the room. Tyreen almost winced with amusement at the collision, but, as the unlikely pair embraced, she became embarrassed. Lord and Lady Shepperton vied with each other for speech, and as they talked they used pet names --- "Oh, Robin," said her ladyship, on the verge of tears. "There, Flower, there," Robert Shepperton soothed. "Flower, how is she?"

The scene was almost ludicrous, but information came pouring out. Trill was unconscious. The doctor thought it was drugs --- not heroin but something else.

Boyer signaled Tyreen and they detached themselves from the melodrama being played out on center stage, turning to the doctor.

"You've called a consultant?" Tyreen asked after they had introduced themselves. The doctor's name was Robinson, and at the question he seemed to lose the power of speech. He simply nodded.

"What's your opinion?" from Boyer.

"I think we should wait. I am professionally bound by certain..."

"Not the time for ethics, I'm afraid," she said sharply. "Not with people like us. So tell us, doctor. Your personal opinion."

"I'd say someone fed her a cocktail of drugs. I have a nurse with her now."

"She going to live?"

The doctor looked down at his highly polished shoes. "I've got her on a drip, and given her mild antitoxins..."

"She said anything?"

"In a kind of delirium, yes. She comes in and out of it. Repeats one sentence again and again. 'The meek shall inherit. The meek shall inherit.' "

"Can we see her?" Boyer asked, and the doctor was poised to stand on ethics again, then thought better of it and led them from the room. They were aware of Lord and Lady Shepperton in their wake like a pair of dreadnoughts.

The room was cool and silent, with a slightly less fussy décor and furnishings just visible from the standard and bedside lamps. A nurse, dark, crisp, efficient, and giving away nothing from either face or stance, monitored a drip by the bed on which a young woman was lying, covered by a blanket. The doctor moved over to her and began a conversation, conducted sotto voce.

Tyreen could make out the contours of the body under the blanket. Unlike her father and mother, Trilby Shepperton was obviously tall and slender, her oval face placid, as though she was in normal repose, the head on the pillow surrounded by a mass of untidy blonde hair. Tyreen and Boyer stood for a moment looking down at her, then Boyer saw a large tote bag on the floor near the bedside table. He asked if it belonged to the patient and the nurse gave him a curt nod, then moved to stop him from picking it up. But the doctor restrained her, muttering on as he had done since they entered the room.

Boyer began to go through the bag, while Tyreen continued to look at the face on the pillow. After a minute or so, Boyer tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, to see that the Special Branch officer was holding an Avante Carte card in his hand. This one was made out to Trilby P Shepperton.

They looked at one another and she raised her eyebrows, then the girl on the bed started to stir and moan.

The hairs on the nape of Tyreen's neck rose, for from this beautiful creature came a voice that could have somehow scrabbled its way up from the grave --- hoarse, cracked, and sneering, as though wrapped in evil --- "The meek shall inherit. The meek shall inherit the earth," the voice croaked, and Tyreen knew there and then that it was not Trilby Shepperton speaking as she went on and on. "The meek shall inherit... The meek shall inherit the earth." Then a laugh that seemed to come from far away, so horrible that both doctor and nurse reflexed, stepping away from their patient. "The meek shall inherit the earth," it said again. Then, for the first time the eyes opened, staring and wide, flooded with fear. It was as though Trilby was looking at something nobody else could see, there in the bedroom. Again the laugh, and "The blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons!" the voice said. To Tyreen it was as though the words were crawling up through a slimy dark pit, filled with a pile of decomposing bodies. Later she was to remember the picture as it came into her mind at that moment.

Behind them Lady Shepperton gave a little sob, and they all shuddered as though a curse had come from somewhere beyond the girl's lips and vocal cords.

Tyreen tried to rationalize the sense of horror that shrouded the room with the unnerving, otherworldly, voice coming from the undeniably attractive young woman lying on the bed. In that moment of sorting through the filing system of his mind for the many possible causes of the phenomenon, the fatigue and exhaustion seemed to leave her body.

She took two swift steps toward the doctor, placed a hand firmly on the small of his back, and said, "A word in private, please."

The man gave her a sharp, puzzled look, then nodded and followed her out of the room and onto the small landing.

"This consultant you sent for," Tyreen began.

"Yes?"

"Who is he?"

"A man I've used many times," Dr. Robinson now appeared to be more comfortable with her. Initially he had a wary look in his eyes, which was now replaced by confidence. "Harley Street, naturally. Name of Baker-Smythe."

"And he specializes in?"

"Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction, of course."

"You really think that's what the girl needs?"

"Ms. Mackenzie," the doctor said with pained weariness, "Trilby Shepperton has a history. I think you can safely leave this side of things to us medical men." There was a slight emphasis on the "men."

She ignored the sexist slur. "After the performance in there?" She cocked her head in the direction of the bedroom. "You really think that all she needs is a skilled detox clinic? You believe that?"

"You have some better suggestion?" Robinson's tone was now patently condescending.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"I see. You are a medical practitioner, as well?"

"No, but I work in a world in which we have our fair share of this thing. Wouldn't you agree that the girl is more likely to be stoned out of her mind with hallucinogenics and hypnotics?"

"Possibly." There was no real commitment from Robinson. "Even so, it's a drug problem. She's got to be brought down. Then weaned off them to regain her equilibrium."

"Don't you see it as a little more complex than that, doctor? The center of that girl's mind has been tampered with, under the influence of things like Sulfonal, LSD, and the like. Her soul's been stolen from her. She requires more help than a simple detox clinic."

"We'll see. Wait until Dr. Baker-Smythe gets here."

"No, doctor, I'm sorry, but the authorities for which Mr. Boyer and I work will probably not allow that." Her mouth was set in a hard, stubborn line. "I must take instructions from my own superior, but in the meantime you will be good enough to leave your patient where she is. I don't want an ambulance whisking her off to Dr. Baker-Smythe's clinic, wherever that happens to be."

"You can't..." Robinson began.

"Do this to your patient, doctor? Oh, I think you'll find I can." She turned on her heel and went down the stairs quickly, opening the front door and informing the uniformed constable that nobody --- not even a doctor --- was to be allowed in until there were further instructions. The policeman nodded and took the orders. He had seen her arrive with Lord Shepperton and Boyer. He had also seen Chief Superintendent Boyer's ID, so naturally assumed he was receiving instructions from on high.

She closed the door and crossed the hall to the telephone, which stood on a heavy oak table just below the stairs. She punched out the code for C's private line.

C answered immediately, grunting as soon as he recognized her voice. "This isn't secure, sir, but we need to take action fast. Does the Service still keep that tame shrink on the books?"

C gave an irritated sigh. "I wish, Mackenzie, that you wouldn't use these slang expressions. He is an eminent neurologist, and the answer is yes. Yes, we still do have access to him and the clinic --- but only in cases of extreme urgency. The fact you haven't been sent back to him for treatment in no way indicates that we have ceased to employ him. Now, why do you ask?"

She told him in a matter of seven fast sentences.

When she finished, C grunted again. "See your point, Mackenzie. But you must have a word with Shepperton first. On no account can we upset the doctor in charge of the case. But make sure it is Shepperton who gets the GP out of the house. I'll talk to our man now, and then have one of our own units pick up the patient. Standard operating procedure. There should be an ambulance with you in half an hour at the latest. Just make sure they know the day's code. I certainly believe this is a case for our friend, and the sooner the better."

She thanked him. The Service had often used Sir James Muirfield in the past. He was probably the world's most eminent neurologist, having twice been nominated for the Nobel Prize. On several occasions some years previously he had even treated Tyreen Mackenzie herself when she had been under great stress.

Trilby Shepperton was just the sort of case in which Sir James would be interested. Putting down the telephone, Tyreen quickly went back up the stairs and coaxed Robert Shepperton from his daughter's side. She was quiet again now, as though the half-waking delusions had never happened. She lay, still and placid, silent in deep sleep. It was unthinkable that only minutes before an horrific, demonic voice had issued from her lips. Tyreen thought the girl must look stunning when fit, well, and in her right mind.

On the landing again, Tyreen faced Lord Shepperton, giving him a slightly expurgated version of her conversation with C. "I'm afraid you're going to have to break it to your own GP, sir," she ended. "C is adamant that Trilby should be moved as soon as possible and put under Sir James Muirfield's care. We all know what happened to Emily Dupré, and none of us want anything to go wrong with Trilby. With Sir James she'll have the best medical care --- surely you must want that. You must be terribly concerned about her state of mind, sir."

Shepperton nodded several times. "I'll do it. If old C says it's the right thing, who am I to argue with him? I'll do it now."

Robinson left the house a few minutes later, cutting Tyreen dead, his face set in a fury of irritation.

As promised, within the half hour a Service team arrived with an ambulance, complete with paramedics, a trail car, and a couple of unidentifiable men on powerful motorcycles. The transference of Trilby Shepperton to the ambulance took about fifteen minutes, and soon the small convoy was rolling softly away in the direction of the Service's safe clinic near Guildford in Surrey.

At three in the morning, Tyreen Mackenzie returned to Regent's Park, where C told her to get some rest on the camp bed usually used by the Duty Officer. That night the DO was obviously being kept very busy.

"In the morning," C said, "I want you to read the Scorpio file and then take a look at Avante Carte's offices." Seeing the look of surprise on her face, he allowed his lips to form a brief smile of pleasure. "Oh, yes, Mackenzie, we haven't let the grass grow under our feet. We've tracked down the center of their credit card operation, and I've seen your friend Sergeant Goldman. Stout fellow. He's off to the Pangbourne place at first light, and they'll keep him busy enough. We've leaked the Dupré girl's death to the press --- including the fact that she was a member of the Meek Ones, and the details of the considerable funds she provided. That should put the cat among the pigeons. He nodded brusquely toward the door. "Rest well, Mackenzie. I'll put in a call for you at six o'clock. Early start's always the best thing. Goodnight to you. Sleep well."

"Si-si-si-si-si-si."

As she slept Tyreen Mackenzie dreamed of some great temple --- she did not know where --- with a huge white-robed congregation chanting an indecipherable mantra --- "Si-si-si-si-si-si". She was in the middle of the temple, and looked up to see a girl being carried toward a block of granite that served as an altar. She could not see the girl's face, but she was screaming in a croaking voice as they tied her to the stone and stood back to make way for a gigantic insect. The creature crawled forward, and Tyreen saw that it wasn't an insect at all but a scorpion. Truly a massive scorpion. It raised its tail, the sting like a long rapier, ready to plunge it into the girl on the altar. The chanting became louder and louder --- "Si-si-si-si-si-si" --- and as she looked, Tyreen saw the girl's face. It was her own. The girl turned her terrified face toward the waiting congregation. The long steel needle that was the scorpion's sting started to come down. The chanting grew louder:

"Si-si-si-si-si..."

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