intelligence and the new National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics. When Bradley thought of aeronautics, he thought of John Wilson;

and when he thought of that mysterious genius, he also thought, with

guilty, helpless longing, of Wilson's mistress: the middle-age, laconic,

and undeniably attractive Gladys Kinder.

He just couldn't help himself.

'Anyway,' he said, 'my kids are growing up, they're both now

away at college, and although I still have Joan, I'm bored with my legal

work. I'm also, as you know, deeply convinced that America will,

sooner or later, have to become involved with the outside world. I

accepted your offer of unofficial intelligence gathering in Europe

because I hoped that it would lead to stronger ties with the intelligence

services already existing over there. And having been there, I'm

convinced more than ever that we need a central intelligence-gathering

agency and I happen to know that you believe that also and have

even discussed it.'

'You know more than you should,' General Taylor said, 'which is,

of course, why we should take you on, on a more permanent basis.' They skirted around the building site and stopped by Bradley's car,

parked just outside the general's office, gleaming in sunlight. 'Are you in the process of forming such an agency?' Bradley asked

as he slipped into his car.

'Early stages yet,' the general replied, 'but the short answer is yes.' 'And can I be part of it?'

'Yes when the time comes. In the meantime, you'd better get on

the trail of this John Wilson. If we can't yet find out what he's doing in

Germany, you might at least find out where he came from and just who

he is.'

'I will,' Bradley said.

When the general had entered his office, Bradley drove away,

feeling a lot better, disturbed only when he thought of Gladys Kinder

and her relationship with the enigmatic, possibly dangerous, Wilson. 'G.o.ddammit!' he whispered.

CHAPTER FOUR The two men came for Wilson at the Zeppelin Works at Friedrichshafen at eight in the morning and escorted him out of the factory without a word. Both men were wearing the black uniforms of the SS, and not those of the Gestapo, which Wilson took for a good sign. He felt no fear and asked no questions when, outside the factory, they ordered him up into the back of a canvas-topped truck that already contained a collection of men and women, none of whom looked too happy and some of whom were actually in handcuffs. Wilson sat between a Frenchman who tugged nervously at his peaked cap and a Jewish woman whose dark eyes glowed with dread, then the truck growled into life and began its journey to Berlin. Two armed soldiers sat at the end of the truck, to ensure that no one tried to escape.

Wilson, who did not wish to escape, merely smiled at the sight of them.

The journey began in the mist of morning and ended in the evening, with the streetlights illuminating the monolithic architecture of Berlin. In that long eight hours they had been driven a great distance, from Friedrichshafen on the north sh.o.r.e of Lake Constance to steely-gray Munich, from there to Nuremberg, still sombre in the noonday sun, then across the majestic, forested hills of Thuringia, with the shadows of the trees lengthening in the deepening light of afternoon, then through Dessau as darkness was falling and eventually into Berlin.

Wilson had taken it all in from the back of the truck, every glimpse he could get through the canvas flapping near the two soldiers, and had noticed, especially, the many troop trucks on the roads, the armed soldiers in even the smallest towns. He was reminded, beyond any shadow of doubt, that this country was set for war.

It was just what he needed.

Throughout the journey, the two guards had said little to the prisoners, other than ushering them in and out of the truck two or three times to enable them to eat or go to the toilet. They had done this in a distant but reasonably civilized manner, but now, as they kept their charges covered while escorting them from the truck into a large, official-looking building, they both became noticeably more tense and officious, barking their orders and even hitting some of the prisoners with the b.u.t.ts of their rifles when they failed to move quickly enough.