There were looks and headshakes among the men. The electronics officer said, "I'd like to get started as soon as possible. I'll do the office first." To Shepherd, he said, "I'll fix you up tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock all right?"

"I'll be here," promised Shepherd. He'd been doing some private reconsideration; within yards of where these men were standing had to be half a dozen ledgers that could get him at least five years in a penitentiary.

The section leaders filed from the room but Morrison and Hoover remained, watching the electronics man. Shepherd was determined he wouldn't leave either of them alone in his office if he could help it.

"You know something that makes me uneasy?" Hoover asked. "How easy it suddenly all seems. It's like he's walking up to us with his hands outstretched to have the cuffs put on."

"If he came, which it looks as if he has, then how else could it be?" Morrison demanded. "This is the only place he could come to."

"I guess." Hoover agreed. "But it just doesn't seem to fit with how he left those CIA guys in Brussels looking like Mr. Magoo."

"You got a better idea than going along with it?" the FBI man asked aggressively.

"I'm just expressing an opinion, is all," Hoover said.

The technician reappeared from the closet and said, "Since you're still here, give me a voice level."

"Abandon all hope, you who enter," Morrison recited.

"Perfect," the man said.

"With luck," Hoover qualified.

Belac rented another car, a Pontiac compact, under a false name this time, and drove it to San Jose to check the Lincoln Continental again. He waited in the mall almost an hour, until he was sure, and this time opened the vehicle and hid the ignition key beneath the mat on the driver's side.

Back in the Pontiac, Belac continued on down Route 208 and detoured to drive past Shepherd Industries, imprinting the layout in his mind. He knew there would be another opportunity on the return journey. At San Francisco airport, he found three internal flights-no need for passports-all leaving within an hour of each other the following afternoon. Constantly aware of the money he was spending. Belac bought tickets for each, to Phoenix, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas, from three different clerks. If he were taking unnecessary precautions, at least he could recover his money, Belac thought, driving northward again.

He went slowly by Shepherd Industries again, checking his initial impression, and got back to Milpitas by midafternoon. From the parking-lot pay phone, he made a reservation for the following day under his proper name at the Mark Hopkins hotel because he remembered it from his meeting with Herbeck. Afterward, still at the telephone, he wondered how the consultant would react to his approach when he made it. It was a good feeling to be the manipulator instead of being manipulated, Belac decided. Irrationally he began blaming Rivera for all the trouble he was having and pulled his mouth back into his ugly smile as the idea came to him: the Cuban would have to pay. It would be enjoyable, ensuring that the man did. The decision cheered him.

Back in his motel room Belac slumped in the only easy chair, a displaced spring driving itself uncomfortably into his leg, reviewing every precaution he had taken and trying to think of anything he had overlooked. There was nothing, he decided. It was going to be a long evening.

Morrison and Hoover imagined the same thing until the call came for them, in Hoover's office.

"Seattle!" Morrison yelled to the Customs man, the telephone still cradled at his ear. Morrison outstretched his free hand, commanding silence while he listened. He was beaming when he replaced the receiver. "Came in on an Air Canada flight from Toronto three days ago under his own name. Immigration identified his photograph, but he must have used one of his Mickey Mouse passports." The FBI man paused, looking at Hoover. "Well?" he demanded. "Still doubtful now?"

"I guess not," Hoover conceded.

NINETEEN.

AT THE first attempt Belac got an answering machine and paced nervously up and down in front of the booth, counting the minutes, keeping the relief from his voice when he got Herbeck's secretary at the second attempt and was connected immediately to the consultant.

"I think I'd like us to work together," Belac announced. He went along with the small talk about what a worthwhile relationship the other man knew it was going to be and the benefits that were going to result for both of them, before cutting in with his demands. Herbeck listened without interruption but repeated the important details when Belac finished.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this," Belac said. "But there's no way I can get up from Los Angeles in time and I want the appointment kept."

"I understand," Herbeck said. "But you'll be here by this afternoon?"

"Three at the outside. I've got a reservation at the Mark Hopkins. I'll call from there."

"What time do you think you could get to Shepherd Industries?"

"Four-thirty. Stress that I want the meeting today, if he can possibly manage it."

"I'll fix it," the American promised.

"It's an imposition, before we've really started working together. I know that," Belac said.

Herbeck took the opening. "We only talked around the relationship."

"Your suggestion is fine by me," Belac said.

"With expenses?"

"Naturally," Belac said. "We'll settle it all contractually this afternoon, when I get up."

The urge to arrive early at the back road from which he had a view of Shepherd Industries was very strong, but Belac resisted it, knowing that a car stationary for too long a time would attract attention. Still, he checked out early and drove along 208, from near the factory to the airport; the journey took within five minutes of what it had taken him the previous day. He considered a late breakfast but decided to save the money, reckoning that he could safely return to the factory complex now.

When Belac reached the back road, he spotted the vehicles at once. They would have been concealed from the normal approach but from his position he could see them and their occupants clearly; two of the vans even had the heavy-duty aerials for radio equipment. Belac refused to panic, remaining where he was and picking out the Lincoln Continental the moment it turned into the approach road.

Herbeck parked it neatly within the painted lines of the designated area and considerately locked it. The men assembled around the sprawled building moved as soon as Herbeck entered it, as if one were linked to the other, motivating them into action. There were men running on foot as well as vehicles swarming to seal the building off. From a place he could not see earlier came two small-windowed armored vehicles.

Belac was exactly a mile down the highway by the time Herbeck finished his explanation to Shepherd and the listening Hoover and Morrison burst into Shepherd's office from the anteroom. Morrison was beside himself with fury, swearing and yelling so much in the first few minutes that he was unintelligible. He yelled at Herbeck to tell him everything, from the beginning, but quickly, and before the man finished, another FBI officer had confirmed that the Lincoln had been rented in Belac's name and that there was a waiting reservation at the Mark Hopkins.

"We've got to stake it out. I know it's a waste of time and that the fucker has snowed us again, but we've got to stake it out...." More controlled now, he beckoned other agents, to include them in the conversation with Hoover. "Let's go for the international departures. He came in through Canada, so let's second-guess he'll go out that way, too."

The electronics expert emerged from the anteroom and said, "I was here until nine last night; this room is like a film studio! You telling me it's all wasted?"

"Every goddamned bit of it," Hoover said bitterly.

Shepherd moved awkwardly from behind his desk, restricted by the equipment strapped to his body. To the electronics man, he said, "Get me out of this crap, will you?"

The industrialist stood with his shirt undone to the waist, feeling foolish as the wires were released. He said to Morrison, "I did everything you asked. We had a deal."

Morrison wheeled on the man, as if he had forgotten him, his face white and tight with fury. "Time you listened to the words, Mr. Shepherd," he said. "I told you we had a deal when Belac was in the bag. He ain't in any bag."

"That's no fault of mine!"

"You know what I think, Mr Shepherd? I think we'd better have a closer look at your whole operation here. Make sure everything is kosher. You get the idea?"

Belac had taken the Phoenix flight. He spent the entire journey tensed for any sudden interest from the crew and was wet with apprehension on arrival, but there was no check at the debarkation gate. He moved on immediately, waiting only an hour for a flight to Mexico City, where for the first time he felt able to relax. From Mexico he picked up the overnight service to Madrid, where he rested properly before moving on to Paris.

He'd thought everything out by the time he reached France. He'd lived well, by his own frugal standards, and successfully even with two American indictments outstanding against him. And he could continue to do so in the future, providing he did not again attempt to enter the United States. For the moment, maybe for a long time until he built up the proper connections, he'd better stay away from American hi-tech, which was distressing because it was most profitable.

If the Americans were investigating him and the VAX order, which they clearly were, then they had to know of Rivera. Belac wished he could say nothing and let the bastard sink in whatever morass he was in. But there was too much money outstanding. Rivera had to be told, told the VAX was impossible. He. Belac, would agree to refund the sum advanced for its purchase if Rivera would agree to a settlement for everything. And that would be the end.

Belac tried to make the telephone conversation fittingly businesslike. Overwhelming problems had arisen, he said, when he was connected to Rivera in London. They had to meet at once, and Rivera had to come to him in Paris; Belac was confident he'd escaped surveillance, but was unsure about the other man. Rivera attempted to question but Belac refused to answer, repeating the need for a personal meeting. Rivera stipulated the George V and the still nervous Belac agreed at once, despite the price.

"And be careful about being followed," he warned.

Rivera took no precautions at all, angrily suspicious of Belac's melodramatic approach, but the CIA watch had already been suspended, on orders from Washington. The flight was on time and Rivera entered Paris against the outflow of rush hour and reached the hotel ahead of the hour arranged. They met in the ground-floor bar.

The ambassador sat without drinking, letting Belac recount what had happened over the preceding few days, his disbelief becoming positive conviction. Clearly unimpressed, Rivera said when Belac finished, "So where does that leave us with our arrangement?" without any expression of concern.

"The VAX is impossible," Belac said. "I'm not sure now about the tank auction-"

"I must have the tanks!" Rivera cut in. The indispensable middleman who always delivered ahead of time, he thought. He wasn't that anymore. By relying absolutely on Belac, who'd failed him, he had no way now to buy elsewhere and still meet the deadline, even the Havana schedule of six months. The fucker of pigs!

"I'll try for the tanks," Belac said. "I have fifteen Stinger missiles.... The third ship, the City of Athens, is chartered to pick up from San Diego, if the tank deal comes off." For a brief moment Belac was warmed by a private thought.

"So I don't get the VAX!"

"That's all," Belac agreed, hurriedly. "But there's the money you're keeping back. As well as the percentages; and there's four million I'm owed on the transportation costs. It comes in total to fifteen million. At the moment I am something like five million out of pocket-my own money." He felt something like heartburn having to say the words.

"And three million in pocket from the money already advanced for the VAX purchase," Rivera pointed out.

"No!" tried Belac, reluctant to sacrifice anything. "I had to pay that for the portions of the system that were supplied, before the ban."

"Rubbish," Rivera said. "You might have had advances and staged payments to other dealers, for most of the stuff, but the VAX was from a bona fide supplier and you would have dealt with them in the normal way, payment on completion at ninety days."

"I have a proposal," Belac said, retreating. "I will refund the VAX money, as a gesture of good faith. In return I ask you to relax this penalty situation; release the other money."

Rivera did not respond at once. It was unthinkable that he should trust the man. Thank God he had withheld the money and retained a lever to gel the tanks. Just yesterday he'd received detailed delivery instructions. He said, "We had a deal. You broke it."

"I didn't know I was under investigation, did I!" Belac said, exasperated.

"Are you under investigation?" Rivera asked quietly.

It was Belac's turn briefly to remain unspeaking. "I see," he said, controlled himself. "Let me return your question. Where does that leave us, with our arrangement?"

"Short of forty tanks, fifteen Stinger missiles, and a computer," Rivera said.

"I will supply the tanks and the missiles," Belac said.

"I have specific instructions," Rivera insisted. "After loading in San Diego, the City of Athens has to sail direct to Lobito; it's a port in Angola, West Africa. The American departure must be reported by the master direct to Havana. When I receive confirmation of the sailing, I'll release the money you are owed. Less the VAX payment. So, how long?"

"A week," said Belac. He knew the way to screw the bastard! Screw him and end up with more profit than he'd imagined possible!

"The fifteenth, then," Rivera said. "On the fifteenth I shall have the final money transfer ready, awaiting my authorization, into your account. If I do not receive that sailing confirmation, no money will be transferred. Is that all fully understood?"

"You won't be able to contact me," Belac said. "I'll know where to contact you."

"Have you ever heard of such a screw-up!" Sneider demanded.

"Not for a long time," McCarthy agreed, accepting the sixth coffee of the day. "We didn't actually emerge smelling of roses in Brussels, though, did we?"

"There seems to be enough to move against Shepherd."

"Small change," McCarthy said. "Little more than petulance."

"O'Farrell goes ahead?"

"Petty wants to talk. But I think so. I'd still like it to be the other way."

"Can we afford to take any more chances?"

"I'd go for it if I thought it stood a chance."

TWENTY.

THE TRAINING-the professionalism-was there when O'Farrell called upon it, and he hoped it would last. There was a long day and an even longer evening to get through, but he didn't have a drink. He concentrated on his surroundings, satisfying himself that the surveillance had been withdrawn. He kept one boardinghouse reservation, as insurance, but canceled the rest, as he did the remaining rental cars. Desperate as he was to get back to America, he booked a flight for the following afternoon, nonstop to Washington. He wouldn't have to cancel it, he knew. Everything was going to go fine.

The urge to go ahead-to get it over with and get out-had been enormous the day Petty said okay. But he hadn't. Just. There'd been the necessary break in his intense surveillance and the pattern he'd established, so O'Farrell forced the self-control and checked again that what was important to know hadn't changed. He watched Rivera go in and out of the Hampstead house, confirming by the continued casualness that neither the gate nor the front door was alarmed. The BMW was as usual parked outside at night, and the police foot patrol went by at predictable forty-five minute intervals. The night of the clearance, a police car surprised him by passing in between the regular patrols. It appeared to slow outside Rivera's house as well. Of course, O'Farrell had to guarantee over a further two nights that the car's presence was an accident and not an increase in police presence. The car didn't appear again. He spent the days shopping for the necessary, disposable equipment, always in crowded supermarkets where there was no chance of his being remembered: rubber gloves, electrical leads and clamps, magnetic-headed screwdrivers, adhesive tape, a penknife, and a small, concentrated-beam flashlight. The final purchase was a cheap, cardboard briefcase to carry everything. The other things he needed had arrived from Washington.

And now he was ready. Tonight. After tonight it would all be over. Finished. Thank God.

Incredibly, after all the inner turmoil, he felt no apprehension and he was actually surprised. He felt the heightened awareness there always was when the moment came close, the adrenaline surge he positively welcomed because it made him more alert, but none of the gut-churning emotions of the previous weeks, which had, he accepted, brought him close to collapse. And he seemed to have succeeded in putting aside in his mind and consciousness the wife and the child as well, so they were no longer a factor in his reasoning.

Now, he thought again. Tonight. Still no apprehension. The uncertainty, the self-doubt, had to have been a passing phase then, brought on by God knows what. O'Farrell was glad it had passed. He hoped it didn't come again.

O'Farrell set out late, past midnight, allowing time for Rivera to be home and for the BMW engine to be cold. He drove more cautiously than usual, acknowledging this to be possibly the most dangerous part of what he intended to do; he was driving a doubtfully roadworthy rented car containing Czechoslovakian-made explosives and Soviet detonators. And other materials that could, without too great a stretch of a policeman's imagination, be described as housebreaking equipment. Unquestionably the most dangerous part. He waited, expectantly, but there was nothing like the uncertainty he'd known recently. It was virtually always like this at the last moment, he reassured himself, just the same: always, in these last few hours, holding a gun or working with explosives that could take a human life. There was a flicker of unease when the phrase "human life" went through his mind but it was very slight and didn't last.

O'Farrell drove bv the house on Christchurch Hill the BMW was there-but didn't slow. He continued on to a turn, turning again and then again, completing the square, parking farther away than he had before. He wanted the concealing protection of the other cars that lined the road there, where his vehicle would be one of many, not isolated for a registration check by a cautious policeman. The lights extinguished. O'Farrell remained behind the wheel, checking the time against the unseen but scheduled passing of the police patrol. At the precise moment he knew they would be going by Rivera's home, he left the car, a smooth, quick movement. Whatever he carried in this area at this time of night would have aroused curiosity, but O'Farreii thought the briefcase was the most acceptable. It bulged heavily, but so did a lot of briefcases; he wished he had been able to age it more successfully. He was glad of the darkness.

O'Farrell walked alert to everything around him, not consciously using the shadows-which in itself would be suspicious-but ready to withdraw into them if necessary. He did, after about fifty yards, when outside lights abruptly blazed ahead of him and there was a noisy, shouted parting between guests and hosts. But when a car suddenly came around the comer, filling the road with its headlights, he did not withdraw. He realized he would have already been seen and that to do so would clearly be suspicious. The vehicle was unmarked and there was no obvious interest from anyone inside. He pulled into the cover of an overhanging tree after it had passed, to watch for the glare of suddenly applied brake lights, but none came. At the comer of the road upon which Rivera's house was built, O'Farrell paused, checking the police progress. Twenty-five minutes before their next patrol, allowing five minutes for any unforeseen change in their pattern. And he had about one hundred yards and a gate to negotiate. Time to spare, he calculated, walking on. O'Farrell saw car lights far ahead. He would easily have been able to dodge, but trees did not overhang in such profusion as before and there was less shadow. He decided it was better to walk on, as if he had every right to be where he was. There seemed to be a perceptible slowing but the car didn't stop; he didn't immediately look back, as he'd done before, worried of their watching him in their rearview mirror. He waited until he was two houses from Rivera's official residence. There was no sign of any vehicle. People either. Ahead, the road was deserted. He checked the time again. Still ten minutes.

He consciously slowed when he reached the edge of Rivera's property, ears strained for any movement or sound-guards, dogs, whatever he had missed in his surveillance. There was a dog barking but it was far away; nearer, and louder, water was running. A fountain, O'Farrell guessed; it might have been in Rivera's garden but could have been in that of a neighbor. He stopped just short of the gate so as not to be silhouetted by it, but able to reach out to test if it were locked after all. As he did so, far up the road, he saw the black, moving outlines of two pedestrians-it had to be the returning policemen. He did not hurry. As close to the wall as he was, he would merge completely with it. The latch lifted with barely an audible click and there was no sound at all as the gate gave inward, on oiled hinges. O'Farrell opened it only enough to ease through, closing it just as soundlessly before moving sideways to the protection of the shrubbery, and off the crunching gravel. He dropped, perfectly comfortable, into a squatting crouch, waiting for the police to pass, ears again tensed to hear a voice or a footstep. Unaccountably he was swept by a feeling of deja vu and searched for the memory. It came very quickly. How he'd learned to crouch, for hours if necessary, and how he'd listened on deep reconnaissance missions behind the lines in Vietnam, he recalled: in Vietnam, where for the first time he-O'Farrell closed his mind to the recollection.

The sound came indistinctly at first, meaning the officers were a long way off, and O'Farrell was pleased; if he'd been unaware of their approach, the warning would have been more than early enough to evade or avoid. Overhead an airliner growled toward London airport and O'Farrell was able to see the triangle of its landing lights. Less than twenty-four hours, he thought, this time tomorrow, in fact, he would be home in Alexandria, with the newly preserved archive to go back to and the cars to clean on Saturdays and only die problems-the seemingly easier, ordinary problems-of Jill and Ellen and John to worry about. Normality, blessed normality.

"... know she's screwing around," came a voice, at last.

"What are you going to do about it?"