Von Holden punched in his sign-off code and clicked off. He'd just informed the Organization's European Bloc Division that there was no confirmation on liquidation of the Ecstasy fugitives. Officially they were still "at large," and all operatives within the E.B.D. were to be alerted.

Putting the radio away, Von Holden shut out the light and looked out the window. He was tired and frustrated. By this time at least one of them should have been found. They had been seen boarding the train and it had made no stops. Either they were still under the wreckage or they had vanished like magicians.

Von Holden sat down on the bed and turned on the lamp, then picked up the phone and placed a call to Joanna in Zurich. He hadn't seen her since the night she'd run hysterical and naked from his apartment.

"Joanna, it's Pascal. Are you better?" For a moment there was silence. "Joanna?"

"-I haven't been feeling well," she said.

He could hear distance and anxiety in her voice. Something had happened to her that night, of course. But she would have no real memory of it because the drugs he'd given her beforehand had been too complex. Her reaction afterward had been akin to a bad LSD trip and that was what she was remembering.

"I was very concerned. I wanted to call sooner but it wasn't possible. . . . Frankly, you were acting a little crazy that night. Maybe too much cognac and jet lag don't mix. Maybe too much passion, too, do you think?" He laughed.

"No, Pascal. It wasn't that." She was angry. "I've had to work very hard with Mr. Lybarger. All of a sudden he has to be able to walk without a cane by this Friday. I don't know why, either. I don't know what happened the other night. I don't like working Mr. Lybarger so hard. It's not s good for him. I don't like the way Doctor Salettl treats me or the way he bosses people around."

"Joanna, let me explain something. Please. I think Doctor Salettl is acting the way he is because he is nervous. This Friday, Mr. Lybarger has to make a speech to the major shareholders of his corporation. The wealth and direction of the entire company depends on whether or not they feel he is competent to resume his position as chairman once more. Salettl is on the spot because the supervision of Mr. Lybarger's recovery has been his responsibility. Do you understand?"

"Yes- No. I'm sorry, I didn't know. . . . But it's still no reason to-"

"Joanna, Mr. Lybarger's speech is to be given in Berlin. Friday morning, you and I, and Mr. Lybarger and Eric and Edward, will fly there on Mr. Lybarger's corporate jet."

"Berlin?" Joanna hadn't heard the rest, only Berlin. Von Holden could tell by her response that the idea upset her. He could feel that she had had enough and wanted to get back to her beloved New Mexico as quickly as possible.

"Joanna, I understand you must be tired. Maybe I have rushed you too much personally. I care for you, you know that. I'm afraid it is my nature to follow my feelings. Please, Joanna, bear up just a little longer. Friday will be here before you know it, and Saturday you can fly home, directly from Berlin if you like."

"Home? To Taos?" He could hear the rush of excitement.

"Does that make you happy?"

"Yes, it does." Designer clothes and castles aside, she was, she'd decided finally, just a plain country girl who liked the simplicity of her life in Taos. And that's where she wanted to go, more than anything.

"I can count on you then, seeing this through?" Von Holden's voice was warm and soothing.

"Yes, Pascal. You can count on me being there."

"Thank you, Joanna. I'm sorry for any discomfort, it wasn't meant that way. If you wish, I will look forward to one last night together in Berlin. Alone, perhaps to dance and say goodbye. Goodnight, Joanna."

"Goodnight, Pascal."

Von Holden could see her smile as she hung up. What he'd said had been enough.

80.

CHIMES W WOKE Benny Grossman from a sound sleep. It was 3:15 in the afternoon. Why the hell was the doorbell ringing? Estelle was still at work. Matt would be at Hebrew school, and David would be at football practice. He was in no mood for solicitations; let whoever it was knock on somebody else's door. He was starting to doze off when the chimes rang again. Benny Grossman from a sound sleep. It was 3:15 in the afternoon. Why the hell was the doorbell ringing? Estelle was still at work. Matt would be at Hebrew school, and David would be at football practice. He was in no mood for solicitations; let whoever it was knock on somebody else's door. He was starting to doze off when the chimes rang again.

"Christ," he said. Getting up, he looked out the window. No one was in the yard and the front door was out of sight directly beneath him.

"All right!" he said as the chimes sounded again. Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, he went down the stairs to the front door and looked out through the peephole. Two Hasidic rabbis stood there, one young and smooth shaven, the other old, with a long graying beard.

"Oh, my God," he thought. "What the hell's happened?"

Heart pounding, he yanked the door.

"Yes?" he said.

"Detective Grossman?" the older rabbi asked.

"Yeah. That's me." For all his years as a cop, for everything he'd seen, when it came to his own family, Benny was as fragile as a child. "What's wrong? What happened? Is it Estelle? Matt? Not David-"

"I'm afraid it's you, Detective," the older rabbi said.

Benny didn't have time to react. The younger rabbi lifted his hand and shot him between the eyes. Benny fell back inside like a stone. The young rabbi went in after htm and shot him again, just to make sure.

At the same time, the older rabbi went through the house. Upstairs, on Benny's dresser, he found the notes Benny had used when he phoned Scotland Yard. Folding them carefully, the rabbi put them in his pocket and went back downstairs.

Next door, Mrs. Greenfield thought it odd to see two rabbis coming out of the Grossman house, closing the door behind them, especially in the middle of the afternoon.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked as they opened Benny's front gate and started past her down the sidewalk.

"Not at all. Shalom," the younger rabbi said pleasantly as they passed.

"Shalom," Mrs. Greenfield said, and watched as the younger rabbi opened a car door for the older man. Then, smiling at her once more, he got behind the wheel and, a moment later, drove off.

The six-seat Cessna dropped through a heavy cloud deck and settled down over the French farmland.

Pilot Clark Clarkson, a handsome, brown-haired former RAF bomber pilot with huge hands and a broad smile, held the small craft steady through the variable turbulence as they dropped even lower. Ian Noble was harnessed into the copilot's seat beside him, head pressed against the window looking toward the ground. Directly behind Clarkson, dressed in civilian clothes, was Major Geoffrey Avnel, a field surgeon and British Special Forces commando fluent in French. Neither British military intelligence nor Captain Cadoux's woman in the field, Avril Rocard, had been successful in obtaining any information on the fate of McVey or Paul Osborn. If they had been on the train, for all intents they had disappeared from it.

Noble was banking on. the theory that one or both had been hurt and; fearing further attack from whoever had blown up the train, had crawled away from the wreckage. Both men knew the Cessna would come back for them today, which meant, if Noble was right, that they could be anywhere between the airfield and the wreckage site some two miles away. That possibility was the reason Major Avnel had come along.

Ahead of them was the town of Meaux, and to the right, its airfield. Clarkson radioed the tower and was given permission to land. Five minutes later, at 8:01 A.M., A.M., Cessna ST95 touched down. Cessna ST95 touched down.

Taxiing to a stop near the control tower, Noble and Major Avnel climbed out and went into the small building that served as a terminal.

In his mind Noble had no idea what he would face. The hazards of police work were drummed into every cop from his first day of duty. London was no different from Detroit or Tokyo, and the death of any cop killed in the line of duty was the death of any police officer in uniform because it could as easily have been him or her. It could happen to any one of them, on any day in any city on earth. If you were in one piece at the end of each day you were lucky. And that's how you took it, a day at a time. If you made it all the way through, you took your pension and retired and slipped into old age trying not to think of all the cops still out there, the ones who wouldn't be so fortunate. That was a policeman's life, what he or she did. Yet it was not McVey's. He was different, the kind of cop who would outlive everybody and still be on duty at ninety-five. That was a fact. It was how he was seen and seen and what he believed himself, no matter how often he grumbled otherwise. The trouble was, Noble had a feeling. Tragedy was in the air. Maybe that was why he'd come along with Clarkson and brought Major Avnel, because he felt he owed it to McVey to be there. what he believed himself, no matter how often he grumbled otherwise. The trouble was, Noble had a feeling. Tragedy was in the air. Maybe that was why he'd come along with Clarkson and brought Major Avnel, because he felt he owed it to McVey to be there.

There was a leadenness to his step as he approached the Immigration desk and flashed his Special Branch I.D. at the officer on duty. He felt it all the more as he and Avnel pushed grim-faced through the glass doors and into the terminal area itself.

Which was why the last thing he ever expected to see was McVey seated across from him, wearing a Mickey Mouse baseball cap and EuroDisney sweatshirt, reading the morning paper.

"Good God!" he exclaimed.

"Morning, Ian." McVey smiled. Standing up, he folded the paper under his arm and put out his hand.

Twenty feet away, Osborn, hair slicked back, still wearing the French firefighter's jacket, looked up from a copy of Le Figaro Le Figaro and watched Noble take McVey's hand, then saw Noble shake his head, step back and introduce a third man. As he did, McVey glanced in Osborn's direction and nodded. Then almost immediately, Noble, McVey and Major Avnel started back toward the door leading out to the-tarmac. and watched Noble take McVey's hand, then saw Noble shake his head, step back and introduce a third man. As he did, McVey glanced in Osborn's direction and nodded. Then almost immediately, Noble, McVey and Major Avnel started back toward the door leading out to the-tarmac.

Osborn joined them and they walked twenty yards to the Cessna. Clarkson fired up the engine and requested permission for takeoff. At 8:27, without incident, they were airborne.

81.

AS T THE Cessna climbed into the cloud cover over Meaux and disappeared from ground view, McVey explained how they'd escaped the train wreck, spent the, night in the woods near the airstrip, then come into the terminal just before seven-thirty. Acting the tourist, he'd bought the hat and sweatshirt and a packet of toiletries, then gone into the men's room where Osborn waited, and changed in a stall. McVey shaved and got rid of his suit coat for the uroDisney sweatshirt. Osborn had changed his appearance simply by slicking back his hair. With his stubble beard and fireman's coat he looked like an exhausted rescue worker come to meet someone arriving by plane. All they'd had to do then was wait. Cessna climbed into the cloud cover over Meaux and disappeared from ground view, McVey explained how they'd escaped the train wreck, spent the, night in the woods near the airstrip, then come into the terminal just before seven-thirty. Acting the tourist, he'd bought the hat and sweatshirt and a packet of toiletries, then gone into the men's room where Osborn waited, and changed in a stall. McVey shaved and got rid of his suit coat for the uroDisney sweatshirt. Osborn had changed his appearance simply by slicking back his hair. With his stubble beard and fireman's coat he looked like an exhausted rescue worker come to meet someone arriving by plane. All they'd had to do then was wait.

Noble shook his head and smiled. "McVey, you are an amazing fellow. Amazing."

"Uh uh." McVey shook his head. "Just lucky."

"Same thing."

Noble gave McVey a few minutes to relax, then brought out a copy of the taped conversation with Benny Grossman. By the time they touched down two hours later, McVey had read it twice, digested it, and thrown it out for scrutiny and comment.

The facts they had were as follows: Paul Osborn's father had designed and built a prototype scalpel capable of remaining razor-sharp even at the most exotic and improbable temperatures, most likely extreme cold. Category: HARDWARE. HARDWARE.

The following, according to Benny Grossman were facts: Alexander Thompson, of Sheridan, Wyoming, designs a computer program that allows a computer to guide a machine built to hold and guide a scalpel during advanced microsurgery. Category: SOFTWARE. SOFTWARE.

David Brady, of Glendale, California, designs and builds an electronically driven mechanism with the range motion of a human wrist, capable of holding and controlling a' scalpel during surgery. Category: HARDWARE. HARDWARE.

Mary Rizzo York, of New Jersey, experiments with gasses that can bring temperatures down and cool surroundings to at least minus 516 degrees Fahrenheit. Category RESEARCH RESEARCH & & DEVELOPMENT. DEVELOPMENT.

All this happened during the period 1962 through 1966. Each scientist worked alone. As each project was completed, its inventor or scientist was terminated by Albert Merriman. By Merriman's admission to Paul Osborn, the person who hired him and. paid him for his work was Erwin Scholl. Erwin Scholl, the immigrant capitalist who by then had acquired the means and the business acumen to fund, through dummy corporations, the experimental projects. This was the same Erwin Scholl, who, according to the FBI, is now, and has been for decades, an esteemed personal friend and confidant of a series of United States presidents, and is, therefore, all but untouchable.

Yet what did they have in the freezer in the basement of the London morgue but seven headless bodies and one bodyless head. Five of which were confirmed to have been frozen to a degree approaching absolute zero, a figure close enough to Marry Rizzo York's work to be of considerable significance.

Earlier McVey had asked eminent micropathologist Dr. Stephen Richman, "Assuming the state of absolute zero could somehow, someway, be reached, why freeze decapitated bodies and decapitated heads to that temperature?"

Richman's clear-cut answer: "To join them."

Had Erwin Scholl, nearly thirty years earlier, been bankrolling research into cryosurgery with the idea of joining deep-frozen heads to other, deep-frozen, bodies? If he had, what was so secret that he'd ordered his researchers killed?

Patents?

Possibly.

But as far as anyone knew-according to the investigation by the Metropolitan Police Special Branch throughout Great Britain and Noble's recently concluded telephone conversations with Dr. Edward L. Smith, president of the Cryonics Society of America, and Akito Sato, president of Cryonics Institute, Far East-no similar cryonic surgical experimentations were being done anywhere in the world.

Now, as twilight settled over London, Noble, McVey and Osborn faced each other in Noble's Scotland Yard office. McVey had discarded the Mickey Mouse ball cap but still wore the EuroDisney sweatshirt, and Osborn had traded Noble his French fireman's coat for a well-worn dark blue cardigan with a gold Metropolitan Police emblem stitched over the lefthand pocket.

A patent search by RDI International of London had turned up no known patents worldwide on hardware or software designed for the kind of advanced microsurgery they were talking about.

A combination Moody's/Dun & Bradstreet review of the corporate histories of the companies employing Albert Merriman's victims had been requested through the Serious Fraud Office but had not yet been completed.

There was a light tap at the door and Noble's forty-three-year-old, six-foot-tall, never-married secretary, Elizabeth Welles, entered. She carried a tray with cups and spoons, a small pitcher of milk, a silver dish holding cubes of sugar and a pot each of tea and coffee.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," Noble said.

"Of course, Commander." Drawing herself up to her full height, she glanced sidelong at Osborn and left.

"She thinks you're quite the handsome chap, Dr. Osborn. Very highly sexed she is too. Tea or coffee?"

Osborn grinned. "Tea, please."

McVey was staring out the window, absently watching a small man walk two large dogs down the street, and only vaguely aware of the brief comedy that had taken place behind him.

"Coffee, McVey?" he heard Noble ask.

Abruptly he turned and came back across the room. His eyes were sharp and there was temper in his walk.

"There've been times over the years where, at some point or other during an investigation, I've felt like a damned idiot because all of a sudden something hit me I should have seen from the start. But I'll tell you, Ian, this time we may have missed the boat altogether. You, me, Doctor Michaels, even Doctor Richman."

"What are you talking about?" Noble's hand held a lump of sugar just over the lip of his teacup: "Life. Dammit." McVey glanced at Osborn to include him, then leaned on the desk in front of Noble. "Wouldn't you assume that if someone had been working all these years to perfect some way to marry a severed head to a body, the end goal of that would not just be the act itself but bringing the result back to life? To make this creature, this Frankenstein, live and breathe!"

"Yes, but why?" Noble let the sugar drop into his cup.

"No idea. But why else do it?" McVey turned back to Osborn. "Imagine the whole process medically. How would it go?"

"Simple. In theory, anyway." Osborn leaned against the back of a red leather chair. "Bring the frozen thing back to temperature. Back from nearly minus 560 degrees below zero to 98.6 degrees above zero. To do the operation, blood would have been drained off. As the thing thaws, blood is reintroduced. The difficult thing would be to get it to thaw uniformly."

"But it could be done?" Noble asked.

"I would say that if they'd been able to find a way to do the first, the second would have already been taken care of."

Immediately a sound emanated from the fax machine on the antique secretary behind Noble's desk. The light switched on, and a moment later it began printing out.

It was the Moody's/Dun & Bradstreet report requested from the Serious Fraud Office.

McVey and Osborn moved in behind Noble to watch as the information came in: Microtab, Waltham, Massachusetts. Dissolved, July 1966. Owned by Wentworth Products, Ltd., Ontario, Canada. Board of directors: Earl Samules, Evan Hart, John Harris. All of Boston, Massachusetts. All deceased 1966. Wentworth Products Ltd., Ontario, Canada. Dissolved, August 1966. Privately held company. Owned by James Tallmadge of Windsor, Ontario. Tallmadge deceased 1967. Wentworth Products Ltd., Ontario, Canada. Dissolved, August 1966. Privately held company. Owned by James Tallmadge of Windsor, Ontario. Tallmadge deceased 1967. Alama Steel, Ltd. of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Dissolved, 1966. Subsidiary of Wentworth Products Ltd., Ontario, Canada. Board of directors: Earl Samules, Evan Hart, John Harris. Alama Steel, Ltd. of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Dissolved, 1966. Subsidiary of Wentworth Products Ltd., Ontario, Canada. Board of directors: Earl Samules, Evan Hart, John Harris. Standard Technologies, Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Subsidiary of T.L.T. International, 10 Park Avenue, New York, New York. Board of directors: Earl Samules, Evan Hart, John Harris. Standard Technologies, Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Subsidiary of T.L.T. International, 10 Park Avenue, New York, New York. Board of directors: Earl Samules, Evan Hart, John Harris. T.L.T. International, wholly owned subsidiary of Omega Shipping Lines, 17 Hanover Square, Mayfair, London, U.K. Principal stockholder, Harald Erwin Scholl, 17 Hanover Square, Mayfair, London, U.K. T.L.T. International, wholly owned subsidiary of Omega Shipping Lines, 17 Hanover Square, Mayfair, London, U.K. Principal stockholder, Harald Erwin Scholl, 17 Hanover Square, Mayfair, London, U.K.

"There it is!" Noble said triumphantly at the printout of Scholl's name as the fax continued. .

T.L.T. International dissolved 1967.Omega Shipping Lines bought by Goltz Development Group, S.A., Dusseldorf, Germany, 1966. Goltz Development Group-GDG-partnership. General partners: Harald Erwin Scholl, 17 Hanover Square, London, U.K. Gustav Dortmund, Friedrichstadt, Dusseldorf, Germany. President-since 1978-Konrad Peiper, 52 Reichsstrasse, Charlottenburg, Berlin, Germany. (N.b. GDG acquired Lewsen International, Bayswater Road, London, U.K., a holding company, 1981.) END OF TRANSMISSION END OF TRANSMISSION Noble swiveled in his chair and looked up to McVey. "Well, our dear Mr. Scholl may not be quite as untouchable as your FBI seems to think. You know who Gustav Dortmund is-"

"Chief of Germany's central bank," McVey said.

"Right. And Lewsen International was a prominent supplier of steel, weapons parts and construction supervisors to Iraq during the eighties. I'll wager Messieurs Scholl, Dortmund and Peiper became very rich men in those years, if they weren't already."