Kessler told them. "I came as soon as I could." The three men who'd spoken had accents--Spanish, Swedish, and American midwestern. Coming down the hall, Kessler had heard other accents--French, British,

Italian, Egyptian, and American southern. "Gentlemen, please," Halloway said. "If we start to argue among ourselves, we help the enemy achieve the second half of his purpose."

"Second half?" The Frenchman frowned.

"And what do you mean- 'his'?" the Texan asked. "One man couldn't have done this!"

"Of course," Halloway said. "But no matter how many, they're organized, and they share a common goal. That's why I think of them as one and why we have to act as one."

"It's true," the Italian said. "We can't allow ourselves to be distracted by our frustrations. We mustn't be divided. Isn't that why we got in touch with each other so many years ago and why we stayed in touch? Because as a group we're stronger than each of us is alone. We can better protect ourselves."

"But we're not the ones who need protecting!" the Spaniard said. "Not physically perhaps," Halloway said. "At least not yet But in our hearts? And suppose they're not satisfied? Suppose they decide to come for us now, our wives, our children?" The others straightened. "That's what I meant by the second half of our enemy's purpose. It's to torture us with uncertainty, to make us suffer from constant dread."

"Dear God." The Egyptian paled. "You understand?"

"It's the Night and Fog all over again." Kessler couldn't restrain himself. "What's the matter with all of you?" They stared at him.

"Before you pat yourselves on the back about how smart you were to stay in touch with each other, why don't you admit you've been your own worst enemy?"

"What are you talking about?"

"How do you think they found us? All they had to do was track down just one and follow the trail to the rest,"

"We took precautions."

"Obviously not well enough. And look at us now. All together." The

American Midwesterner stepped forward, his features twisted with resentment

"My father would never have told."

"Under torture? Come on," Kessler said. "How much pain can an old man stand? Or what if chemicals were used? I was late because I almost didn't come at all. The reason I did was to warn you. You're as much to blame as whoever did this. Don't stay in touch with each other. I don't want to know anything more about you, and I don't want you to know anything more about me."

"That won't solve the problem," Halloway said. "We'd still be in danger, and it doesn't bring our fathers back."

"I've already accepted the fact--mine's dead."

"I don't give up as easily as you," Halloway said. "But what if you're right? What if your father and mine and everybody else's are dead? Do you intend to let the matter end?"

"Oh, believe the I want the bastards to pay."

"In that case, we have plans to discuss." Kessler stepped quickly forward. "You have something specific?"

"Indeed. It may be you didn't notice. You weren't the only member of the group who had second thoughts about coming. Two of us in fact declined. In many respects, the most important members." Kessler glanced at the group in confusion and suddenly understood. "Given what I intend to propose, their participation is crucial," Halloway said.

Kessler nodded. Seth and Icicle.

10.

Sydney, Australia. June. St. Andrew's Cathedral, the foundation of which had been set in 1819, was as impressive as the guidebook maintained. Kessler roamed the shadows of its echoing interior, studied its vaulted ceiling, admired its stained-glass windows, and strolled outside. Squinting in the painfully brilliant sunlight, he descended a wide tier of steps to the sidewalk. Next to the cathedral here on

George Street, he reached the town hall, used for concerts and assembly meetings, his guidebook explained. After lingering as long as seemed appropriate, he strolled to the corner, hailed a taxi, and proceeded to one of the many Oriental restaurants that Sydney was famous for. He'd arranged to meet his business connection there, but he arrived deliberately early, went to a phone booth, and dialed the number

Halloway had given him. A male voice answered. "Bondi Beach Surf and

Dive Shop."

"Mr. Pendleton, please."

"The son or the father?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'm the son."

"Mr. Pendleton, do you have icicles in Australia?" For a moment, the silence was so intense that Kessler thought the phone had gone dead.

"Mr. Pendleton?"

"Who is this?"

"A friend."

"I've got customers waiting. I rent and sell surfboards. I sell and fill scuba tanks. Icicles I don't need. Or people with stupid questions."

"Wait. Perhaps if I mentioned a name. Thomas Conrad. Post office box four thirty-eight." Again the line was silent. When Pendleton finally spoke, his voice sounded muffled, as if he'd cupped a hand to his mouth.

"What do you want?"

"A meeting. It's obvious if I meant you harm, I didn't need to call. I wouldn't have put you on guard."

"You're from them, aren't you?"

"My name is Kessler."

"Christ, I made it clear. I want nothing to do with--"

"Things have happened. Circumstances have forced me to come here."

"You're in Sydney? Mother of God!"

"I'm using a pay phone in a restaurant. I've never been here before.

This call can't possibly be overheard or traced."

"But you know my name, where to reach me! If you're picked up... I"