'Got every little detail,' Ron Woods boasted to Macca. 'It'll be front-page stuff, mate, a real beauty.'

As it turned out, Ron was wrong, and so were all the others. When the pictures were developed, there was no face. The cloud was just a cloud.

The babble of voices continued and there was the sc.r.a.pe of chairs on wood as they shuffled into their seats. No-one took any notice of the young man in the pinstriped suit and grey fedora who sat with Macca and Ron. But no-one had paid him much attention all day.

'Where's Georgie?' one or two of the old hands had asked Macca, with a querying look at the young man who appeared little more than a youth.

'Georgie couldn't make it,' Macca had muttered, 'so I brought young Les along. He's only a cadet. Not a word, mate, he's travelling on Georgie's ticket.'

The reaction from the several old hands had been 'lucky kid'.

'You don't get a break like this often, young fella,' one had said. 'Make the most of it.' The lad had nodded deferentially and looked down at his shoes without saying a word.

The general conclusion amongst the few who'd noticed the kid had been that although he was respectful enough, he didn't deserve such an opportunity. Why had Macca put himself out on a limb for a kid so shy he was tongue-tied? Pretty-boys like that didn't belong in the business anyway. The old hands ignored him. Why would you bother?

Once she'd pa.s.sed the initial test, Elizabeth had had few problems. She'd stayed close to Macca and Ron, speaking to no-one, knowing that her voice was the giveaway, and when they were out at Roadside, she'd simply become one of the crowd. She'd been relieved by the ease with which the deception had been carried out. She'd worried that she might have been discovered right from the start.

'Won't they demand identification at the airport?' she'd asked.

'They've already got it,' Georgie had said. 'You're me. Macca hands over the pa.s.s, they tick off the three-man team from The Advertiser and you're on the plane. It'll be that simple.'

Georgie hadn't minded Elizabeth going in his place. In fact, he'd found the idea hilarious. When he'd been called into P. J.'s office, he hadn't even recognised Liz. He'd given a nod to the kid in the pinstriped suit lounging against the wall with his hands in his pockets, and when P. J. had said 'Liz has got an idea', he still hadn't twigged. And then the kid had spoken and Georgie had been knocked for six. 'What a hoot,' he'd said when they'd told him the plan. 'I can just see the headlines: Lone Female Reporter Foils the Might of Maralinga Security.'

P. J. hadn't even cracked a smile. If they could pull off the scam, that was exactly the story he could foresee a little further down the track when the paranoia had lessened. Indeed, they could drum up a whole expose on the ineffectuality of national security measures if and when the time seemed right. Meanwhile, an inside account of Maralinga and the Taranaki firing written by a journalist of Liz's calibre would be extremely worthwhile. And further down the track, with or without the expose, they could announce that it had actually been written by a woman. P. J. had seen a wealth of value in Liz's plan.

'You don't mind missing out then, Georgie?' Elizabeth had felt guilty about depriving him of the Taranaki experience.

'Nah. You've seen one atomic explosion, you've seen them all, love,' Georgie had said with a wink. 'Besides, hanging around in the middle of the desert for hours isn't a barrel of laughs. I'd rather be down the pub.' Georgie's princ.i.p.al regret was that he wouldn't be part of the fun.

Ron Woods had also embraced the idea. Like Georgie, Ron was a bit of a renegade and he too had seen the whole thing as a huge joke. The only one with serious misgivings had been Macca. A cautious man by nature, Macca hadn't relished playing a part in the deception one bit. But he'd comforted himself with the knowledge that should they be discovered he could hardly be blamed. He had, after all, simply been carrying out orders.

Now, as they waited for the debriefing to commence, Macca finally allowed himself to relax a little. Things were all pretty much downhill from now on, he thought. It looked as if they'd got away with it. Thank Christ for that.

Elizabeth felt herself tense. An MP guarding one of the doors had stood aside and Nick had appeared. Her main problem now was to escape detection by her lover. She lowered her head, peering from beneath the brim of her fedora, thankful that a number of the others had kept their hats on and that she didn't look conspicuous.

Two men followed Nick into the room. Elizabeth recognised them both in an instant. The first was Sir William Penney. The second was Harold Dartleigh.

She studied Dartleigh. He was a figure with whom she'd been well acquainted over the years, his image regularly appearing in British print media and newsreel footage. He was imposing in the flesh, she thought, although she could see what Nick meant when he spoke of the man's arrogance. Even at a glance, Dartleigh had the air of one born to a life of wealth and privilege.

As the three men walked to the front of the conference room, Elizabeth's eyes followed Harold Dartleigh. His every move, his every nuance were those of a man utterly inviolable, but she refused to be daunted. Regardless of his position, Dartleigh had actions to answer for. And what better platform could she find upon which to raise her questions than right here? MI6 would undoubtedly fob off any approach she attempted through legitimate channels, she was aware of that. Indeed, she'd been aware that Nick had considered her plan virtually useless. But here, surrounded by the press, Dartleigh would be personally caught out. He'd have to give himself away somehow.

The debriefing being a quick formality, the three men did not sit. The provision of chairs for the press, while ostensibly a courtesy following a long afternoon in the sun, served an eminently more practical purpose in reality. It was simpler for the MPs to monitor men who were seated and easier for those conducting the debriefing to make eye contact with everyone present.

As usual Nick opened the proceedings. 'I'll be seeing most of you at the press conference tomorrow, and we want to get you to the airport while it's still light, so I'll hand you straight over to Sir William Penney who's graciously offered to say a few words. Sir William ...'

'Thank you, Colonel.' The scientist stepped forward. 'As you're no doubt aware, gentlemen, I don't usually attend these debriefings, but this being the final test I'd like to offer my thanks to you all for the courtesy and respect you've displayed. Quite a number of you have been with us throughout both major series, Buffalo and Antler. Seven tests in all, and I think you'll agree each one of those seven detonations has been a spectacular event to witness ...'

As Penney addressed the gathering, Elizabeth continued to study Dartleigh, carefully angling her head so that the brim of her hat obscured Nick. Dartleigh was paying no attention whatsoever to William Penney. In fact, he wasn't even feigning interest. He was staring vacantly out the nearest window at the dusty street lined with she-oaks and his mind appeared a million miles away. Elizabeth wondered where.

Harold was thinking of his wife, Lavinia, and his son, Nigel, and even of his daughter, Catherine, whom he didn't really like. But above all, he was thinking of home, of his country estate in Suss.e.x where the air would be crisp and bracing and where the trees would be painted in their glorious autumn hues. Outside in the street he could see the she-oaks. Who had come up with such a name, he wondered. She-oaks? They weren't oaks. They didn't deserve to be called oaks. They weren't even trees. They were scaly-trunked, mothy-leaved pretenders. Thank G.o.d he was leaving tomorrow, he thought. Thank G.o.d he'd soon be home in England in the bosom of his family and this ghastly Australian desert would be no more than an unpleasant memory ...

'Thank you, Sir William.'

Harold snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Nick Stratton's voice and, realising he was about to be introduced, looked benignly over the gathering. As his eyes roamed the room making friendly contact with all and sundry, he caught the intense gaze of a young man. A very good-looking young man, he noted, one with the androgynous quality of true beauty, and the lad was peering directly at him from beneath the brim of his fedora. Harold held the youth's gaze, expecting him to look away, but the cheeky little blighter didn't. How intriguing, he thought.

He barely heard the colonel's brief introduction, until ...

'Lord Dartleigh ...?' Nick prompted. The man appeared not to have been listening.

'Yes, yes, Colonel, thank you.' Harold stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a gesture of bonhomie. 'And now, gentlemen, we come to the true purpose of these debriefings,' he said with a smile, 'and that is of course my customary caution, which some of you may well be able to recite off by heart.'

He glanced again at the young man, whose eyes still hadn't left him. The lad must be a newcomer, he thought, such youthful beauty could never have escaped his notice in the past.

'Yes, yes, I know, it's all in the pamphlet you received upon your arrival ...' He gave a regretful shrug of apology Harold was always the show pony in front of a crowd. 'Nevertheless, gentlemen, I'm afraid I am required by law to say the words out loud.'

Having charmed his audience, he usually rattled through the caution, which was dry old stuff. But he didn't today. Today he actually slowed things down in order to observe the young man, who seemed to be intent upon some form of exchange. What was his intention, Harold wondered. No longer was he peering from beneath the brim of his hat; he'd raised his head and was staring in brazen defiance.

'It is a crime, under the British Official Secrets Acts of 1911, 1920 and Part VII of the Australian Crimes Act of 1914, to disclose or publish information obtained in contravention of the said Acts ...'

As he recited the caution, Harold couldn't help but feel a frisson of excitement. There was something in the boldness of the young man's manner that reminded him just a little of Gideon when they'd first met in Washington. Gideon had dared him in just the same way, and it had meant only one thing.

'In particular I must remind you that newspapers, and indeed journalists, who publish information in contravention of section 3 of the Official Secrets Act are guilty of a crime punishable by fine and imprisonment.'

How very rewarding to be found attractive by one so young, Harold thought. Naturally he would make no response and offer no encouragement, but he wondered whether he might have a brief chat with the lad after the debriefing. He did so admire beauty. Fancy encountering it here, he thought, in this G.o.dforsaken place where even the trees were ugly.

'And that concludes the official caution, gentlemen. I thank you for your patience.'

He smiled graciously at the room at large and the youth in particular and was about to step back so that the colonel could wrap up the debriefing when, to his amazement, the young man rose to his feet. How extraordinary, Harold thought, and he stood his ground waiting to see what the lad had to say.

There was a reaction from some even before she revealed herself.

Oh my G.o.d, Nick thought. It's Elizabeth. But he made no move, his eyes darting about seeking who would intervene.

Oh s.h.i.t, Macca thought, she's about to give the whole game away.

What the h.e.l.l's she doing, Ron wondered. Christ, she's got guts.

All eyes were upon the young man who seemed to be squaring up to Harold Dartleigh. The MPs were wary. Was the kid about to cause trouble? The old hands were confused. What was the pretty-boy up to?

For one brief moment, there was complete silence. Then Elizabeth took off the fedora.

'My name is Elizabeth Hoffmann,' she said, and the place erupted.

Good heavens above, Harold thought, it's a woman, how very amusing. Someone's idea of a joke, he supposed.

Elizabeth raised her voice above the babble of amazement. 'I have some questions to ask you, Lord Dartleigh.' The babble came to an instant halt and she continued, her focus concentrated solely upon Harold. 'I was engaged to Lieutenant Daniel Gardiner whose death here at Maralinga was reported as accidental ...'

At the mention of Daniel's name, Harold was instantly on the alert. Young Dan's fiancee, he thought. This was not a joke after all.

'... But I know, Lord Dartleigh, that Daniel's death was not the accident it was reported to be ...'

Harold refused to be shaken. The grieving fiancee compelled to apportion blame, he thought, but he was angry. How dare she do so in such a public manner.

'We are all aware,' he said coldly, 'of the tragic circ.u.mstances of your fiance's death, Miss Hoffmann '

She cut him short. 'Nor was it a suicide as military records purport!'

'And we sympathise with your pain,' he continued icily, 'but it does not warrant your flagrant disregard for the law. You are in breach of security regulations and you will be charged accordingly.' He gestured to one of the military police who stepped forward.

Elizabeth ignored the threat, raising her voice in accusation. 'I received a letter written by Daniel just before he was killed,' she announced clearly for the benefit of the entire a.s.sembly. 'I know the truth, Lord Dartleigh '

'Take her away,' Harold angrily ordered, and another MP stepped forward. 'I will not tolerate these histrionics. You make a mockery of the law, madam. Get her out of here,' he growled with a wave of his hand.

Those seated near Elizabeth hastily stood to make way for the MPs, who, taking an arm apiece, started escorting her from the room. But Elizabeth wasn't about to go peacefully. She struggled and, as they got her to the door, managed to drag herself free from the grip of one of the policemen. Whirling about she flung a final accusation at Harold Dartleigh.

'I know about you and Gideon Melbray!' she yelled.

Harold froze. Gideon? How could she know about Gideon?

Elizabeth saw the flash of recognition in his eyes and realised she'd hit home.

'Daniel knew too, Dartleigh,' she shouted, bluffing wildly, throwing everything she could at him. 'He wrote and told me '

'Get this madwoman out of here,' Harold roared.

'I know the truth about both of you!' she screamed. 'I have written proof '

She gasped as her arm was wrenched behind her back. She tottered on her feet, knees threatening to give way, a fierce pain shooting through her shoulder.

Suddenly the room was in chaos.

Nick, upon seeing Elizabeth so manhandled, automatically launched himself at the policeman who had her in an arm lock. He threw a powerful punch that connected and the man released his hold, staggering back against the wall. Elizabeth fell to her knees. People jumped to their feet and chairs overturned as other MPs sprang into action, wrestling to control the colonel who appeared to have gone insane.

The scuffle didn't last long. Nick made no attempt to resist arrest. He was quickly overpowered and both he and Elizabeth were handcuffed.

Harold Dartleigh took immediate control.

'Lock them up,' he barked. 'I'll interview them in due course. Until then, they're to remain in the cells and no-one is to speak to them.'

As the two were bundled out of the room, he directed his anger at the members of the press. 'A serious breach of security has occurred here today,' he said. 'A full investigation will be held and whoever a.s.sisted this woman in breaking the law will be duly brought to justice. In the meantime,' he turned to the MPs who stood awaiting their orders, 'have everyone taken to the airport and returned to Adelaide as planned.'

Harold stormed from the conference room, leaving the press bewildered and Sir William Penney utterly flabbergasted. What on earth had just happened, they all wondered.

As he strode to his office several buildings away, Harold did not dwell upon the woman or how she may have discovered the truth. The simple fact was that she had, which meant he must take immediate action. There were plans to be made.

He popped his head into Ned Hanson's office.

'There's been a bit of a fracas in the conference room,' he said. 'A breach of security regulations. I've had a couple of troublemakers taken to the cells. One of them's a woman.'

'Good grief '

'They're not to be spoken to until I've interviewed them. Go and keep an eye on things, there's a good chap. No-one's to come near them until I give the order.'

'Yes, sir.' Ned stood. 'A woman?'

'And leave me the Land Rover keys.'

'Yes, sir.' Ned took the car keys from his pocket and handed them to his superior. 'A woman? How on earth did '

'On the double, Ned.' Harold wanted to smash his fist in the dullard's face, but he smiled genially. 'Off you go now, there's a good man.'

'Yes, sir, of course, sir.'

As soon as Ned had gone, Harold closed the door, sat down at his desk and telephoned the airport.

'I've received a communique from London,' he said, 'they need my immediate return. Have the aircraft and crew standing by and arrange clearance. I'll be leaving tonight instead of tomorrow morning.'

He made another brief phone call, hushed and urgent. And finally he rang Gideon.

'Gideon, old man, would you pop over to my office. Quick smart if you wouldn't mind. Something's cropped up. We need to have a bit of a chat.'

He replaced the receiver, took the Walther .32 from the top drawer of his desk and attached the silencer. Then, nursing the pistol out of sight on his lap, he leaned back in his chair and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Several minutes later the familiar tap sounded on his office door.

'Come in,' he called, and Gideon appeared.

Harold continued to lounge in his chair, a picture of nonchalance, as Gideon carefully closed the door behind him. Gideon always took great care to ensure the door was firmly latched these days. And so he d.a.m.n well should, Harold thought with a flash of annoyance. If he'd taken a little more care in the past they wouldn't be in this current predicament. In all fairness though, he couldn't place the entire blame on Gideon's shoulders. They'd both been slack.

'What's up?' Gideon asked as he turned to face Harold.

'Bit of a change in plans, I'm afraid. Take a seat, old man.'

Gideon sat in one of the two wicker chairs opposite the desk. 'What sort of '

He didn't get any further as, in rapid succession, two bullets thumped into his heart.

Harold lowered the gun. In Gideon's eyes, was a puzzled look. Why, he seemed to be asking. Why?

'Sorry, old chap, no choice, I'm afraid. Can't take you with me, and you're a liability if I leave you here.'

But the eyes had clouded over. He was talking to a dead man.

Harold moved quickly. He cleared s.p.a.ce in the large cupboard behind his desk, then he examined the body. There were two neat holes in the front of Gideon's jacket and, as he'd expected, no exit wounds. Good. No evidence of blood as yet, and if he laid the corpse on its back there would be little seepage. He dragged the body to the cupboard, piled it inside, checked the room for any telltale evidence, and, satisfied that all seemed in order, he closed the cupboard door. He had a flash of deja vu as he did so. It was not the first time the cupboard had served such a purpose.

He put the Walther in his briefcase, locked both doors to his office, and minutes later he was in the Land Rover heading for the airport.

When he arrived, he was relieved to discover that the aircraft taking the journalists to Adelaide had departed, but irritated to learn that, although his RAF crew was standing by, it would be a further hour before the ground crew finished final checks on the de Havilland.