"Are you satisfied?" asked the naval officer, obviously apprehensive. "Theres no one."

"There was someone," replied the blond man. "Considering the precautions taken since Montmartre, its not entirely surprising theres no one now. Helden and the other children are quite effective."

"They run from idiots," said Beaumont. "The Rache is filled with Marxist subhumans."

"When the time comes, the Rache will serve its purpose. Our purpose. But its not the Rache Im concerned with. I want to know who tried to kill him." Tennyson turned in the shadows, his cold eyes glaring. He slammed his hand on the top of the leather dashboard. "Who tried to kill Clausens son?"

"I swear to you, Ive told you everything we know! Everything weve learned. It was not a mistake on our part."

"It was a mistake because it nearly happened," replied Tennyson, his voice quiet again.

"It was Manfredi; it had to be Manfredi," continued Beaumont. "Its the only explanation, Johann...."

"My name is John. Remember that."

"Sorry. It is the only explanation. We dont know what Manfredi said to Holcroft on that train in Geneva. Its possible he tried to convince him to walk away. And when Holcroft refused, he sent out the orders for his execution. They failed in the station because of me. I think you should remember that."

"You wont let me forget it," interrupted Tennyson. "You may be right. He expected to control the agency in Zurich; that could never be. So the removal of assets totaling seven hundred and eighty million dollars became too painful an exercise."

"Just as the promise of two million is an irresistible temptation to Holcroft, perhaps."

"Two million he banks only in his mind. But his death will come at our hands, no one elses."

"Manfredi acted alone, believe that. His executioners have no one to take orders from now. Since the hotel room in Zurich, thereve been no further attempts."

"Thats a statement Holcroft would find impossible to accept ... There they are." Tennyson sat forward. Through the windshield, across the parking area, he could see Noel and Helden coming out of the door. "Do the colonels children meet here frequently?"

"Yes," answered Beaumont. "I learned of it from an ODESSA agent who followed them one night."

The blond man coughed a quiet laugh; his words were scathing. "ODESSA! Caricatures, who weep in cellars over too many steins of beer! Theyre laughable."

"Theyre persistent."

"And they, too, will be useful," said Tennyson, watching Noel and Helden get into the car. "As before, they will be the lowest foot soldiers, fed to the enemys cannon. First seen, first sacrificed. The perfect diversion for more serious matters."

The Citrons loud, outsized engine was heard. Holcroft backed the car out of its slot, then drove through the entrance posts onto the country road.

Beaumont turned on the ignition. "Ill stay a fair distance behind. He wont spot me."

"No, dont bother," said Tennyson. "Im satisfied. Take me to the airport. Youve made the arrangements?"

"Yes. Youll be flown on a Mirage to Athens. The Greeks will get you back to Bahrain. Its all military transport, UN-courier status, Security Council immunity. The pilot of the Mirage has your papers."

"Well done, Tony."

The naval officer smiled, proud of the compliment. He pressed the accelerator; the sedan roared out of the parking lot into the darkness of the country road. "What will you do in Bahrain?"

"Make my presence known by filing a story on an oil-field negotiation. A prince of Bahrain has been most cooperative. He has had no choice. He made an arrangement with the Tinamou. The poor man lives in terror that the news will get out."

"Youre extraordinary."

"And youre a devoted man. You always have been."

"After Bahrain, what?"

The blond man leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Back to Athens and on to Berlin."

"Berlin?"

"Yes. Things are progressing well. Holcroft will go there next. Kesslers waiting for him."

There was a sudden burst of static from a radio speaker beneath the dashboard. It was followed by four short, high-pitched hums. Tennyson opened his eyes; the four hums were repeated.

"There are telephone booths on the highway. Get me to one. Quickly!"

The Englishman pressed the accelerator to the floor; the sedan sped down the road, reaching seventy miles an hour in a matter of seconds. They came to an intersection. "If Im not mistaken, theres a petrol station around here."

"Hurry!"

"Im sure of it," said Beaumont, and there it was, at the side of the road, dark, no light in the windows. "Damn, its closed!"

"What did you expect?" asked Tennyson.

"The phones inside...."

"But there is a phone?"

"Yes...."

"Stop the car."

Beaumont obeyed. The blond man got out and walked to the door of the station. He took out his pistol and broke the glass with the handle.

A dog leaped up at him, barking and growling, fangs bared, jaws snapping. It was an old animal of indeterminable breed, stationed more for effect than for physical protection. Tennyson reached into his pocket, pulled out a perforated cylinder, and spun it on to the barrel of his pistol. He raised the gun and fired through the shattered glass into the dogs head. The animal fell backward. Tennyson smashed the remaining glass by the latch above the doorknob.

He let himself in, adjusted his eyes to the light, and stepped over the dead animal to the telephone. He reached an operator and gave her the Paris number that could connect him to a man who would, in turn, transfer his call to a telephone in England.

Twenty seconds later he heard the breathless, echoing voice. "Im sorry to disturb you, Johann, but we have an emergency."

"What is it?"

"A photograph was taken. Im very concerned."

"What photograph?"

"A picture of Tony."

"Who took it?"

"The American."

"Which means he recognized him. Graff was right: Your devoted husband cant be trusted. His enthusiasm outweighs his discretion. I wonder where Holcroft saw him?"

"On the plane, perhaps. Or through the doormans description. It doesnt matter. Kill him."

"Yes, of course." The blond man paused, then spoke thoughtfully. "You have the bank books?"

"Yes."

"Deposit ten thousand pounds. Let the transfer be traced through Prague."

"KGB? Very good, Johann."

"The British will suffer another defection. Friendly diplomats will argue among themselves, each accusing the other of a lack of candor."

"Very good."

"Ill be in Berlin next week. Reach me there."

"So soon Berlin?"

"Yes, Kesslers waiting. Neuaufbau oder Tod."

"Oder der Tod, my brother."

Tennyson hung up and stared through the night light at the dead animal on the floor. He had no more feeling for the clump of lifeless fur than for the man waiting in the car. Feelings were kept for more important things, not for animals and misfits-regardless of how devoted either might be.

Beaumont was a fool, a judgment contained in a dossier sent from Scotland to Brazil years ago. But he had a fools energy and a fools sense of surface accomplishment. He had actually become an outstanding naval officer. This son of a Reichsoberfhrer had climbed the ladder of Her Majestys Royal Navy to the point where he was given vital responsibility. Too much for his intellect; that intellect needed to be directed. In time, they had projected that Beaumont might become a power within the Admiralty, an expert consulted by the Foreign Office. It was an optimum situation; extraordinary advantages could be handed to them through Beaumont. He had remained a Sonnenkind; he was permitted to live.

But no more. With the theft of a photograph, Beaumont was finished, for in that theft was the threat of scrutiny. There could be no scrutiny whatsoever; they were too close, and there was still too much to accomplish. If Holcroft gave the photograph to the wrong people in Switzerland, told them of Beaumonts presence in New York or Rio, military authorities might be alerted. Why was this outstanding officer so interested in the Geneva document? The question could not arise. This son of the Reichsoberfhrer had to be removed. In a way, it was a pity. The commander would be missed; at times hed been invaluable.

Gretchen knew that value. Gretchen was Beaumonts teacher, his guide ... his intellect. She was enormously proud of her work, and now she called for Beaumonts death. So be it. Theyd find another to take his place.

They were everywhere, thought Johann von Tiebolt as he walked to the door. Everywhere. Die Sonnenkinder. The Children of the Sun, never to be confused with the damned. The damned were wandering refuse, entitled to nothing.

Die Sonnenkinder. Everywhere. In all countries, in all governments, in armies and navies, in industry and trade unions, commanding intelligence branches and the police. All quietly waiting. Grown-up children of the New Order. Thousands. Sent out by ship and plane and submarine to all points of the civilized world. So far above the average-confirmed every day by their progress everywhere. They were the proof that the concept of racial superiority was undeniable. Their strain was pure, their excellence unquestioned. And the purest of all, the most excellent of all, was the Tinamou.

Von Tiebolt opened the door and stepped outside. Beaumont had driven the sedan fifty yards down the country road, headlights out. The commander went by the book; his training was apparent in everything he did-except when his enthusiasm overrode his discretion. That enthusiasm would now cost him his life.

Tennyson walked slowly toward the sedan. He wondered absently how it all had begun for Anthony Beaumont. The son of the Reichsoberfhrer had been sent to a family in Scotland; beyond that Tennyson had never inquired. He had been told of Beaumonts tenacity, his stubbornness, his singleness of purpose, but not of how he had been sent out of Germany. It was not necessary to know. Thered been thousands; all records were destroyed.

Thousands. Selected genetically, the parents studied, families traced back several generations for organic and psychological frailties. Only the purest were sent out, and everywhere these children were watched closely, guided, trained, indoctrinated-but told nothing until they grew up. And even then, not all. Those who failed to live up to their birthright, who showed weakness or gave evidence of being compromised, were never told, only weeded out.

Those that remained were the true inheritors of the Third Reich. They were in positions of trust and authority everywhere. Waiting ... waiting for the signal from Switzerland, prepared to put the millions to immediate use.

Millions funneled judiciously, politically. One by one, nations would fall in line, shaped internally by the Sonnenkinder, who would have at their disposal extraordinary sums to match and consolidate their influence. Ten million here, forty million there, one hundred million where it was necessary.

In the free world the election processes would be bought, the electorates having fewer and fewer choices, only echoes. It was nothing new; successful experiments had already taken place. Chile had cost less than twenty-seven million, Panama no more than six. In America, Senate and congressional seats were to be had for a few hundred thousand. But when the signal came from Switzerland, the millions would be dispensed scientifically, the art of demographics employed. Until the Western world was led by the grown-up children of the Reich. Die Sonnenkinder.

The Eastern bloc would be next, the Soviet Union and its satellites succumbing to the blandishments of their own emerging bourgeoisie. When the signal came, promises would be made and peoples collectives everywhere would suddenly realize there was a better way. Because, suddenly, extraordinary funds would be available; austerity could be replaced by the simple dislocation of loyalties.

The Fourth Reich would be born, not confined to the borders of one or two countries but spread all over the world. The Children of the Sun would be the rightful masters of the globe. Die Sonnenkinder.

Some might say it was preposterous, inconceivable. It was not; it was happening. Everywhere.

But mistakes were made, thought Tennyson, as he approached the sedan. They were inevitable, and just as inevitable was the fact that they had to be corrected. Beaumont was a mistake. Tennyson put the pistol back in his holster; it would not stay there long.

He walked around the car to the drivers window; it was rolled down, the commanders face turned in concern. "What was it? Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing that cant be fixed. Move over, Ill drive. You can direct me."

"Where to?"

"They said theres a lake somewhere in the vicinity, not more than eight or ten kilometers away. It was difficult to hear; it was a bad connection."

"Only lake near here is just east of Saint-Gratien. Its nearer twelve to fifteen."

"That must be the one. There are forests?"

"Profuse."

"Thats the one," said Tennyson, getting into the car as Beaumont moved over on the seat. "I know the headlight codes. You tell me where to go; Ill concentrate on the lamps."

"Seems odd."

"Not odd. Complicated. They may pick us up along the way. Ill know what to look for. Quickly, now. Which direction do we go?"

"Turn around, to begin with. Head back to that dreadful road; then turn left."

"Very well." Tennyson started the engine.

"What is it?" Beaumont asked. "It must be a bloody emergency. Ive heard a four-dash signal only once before, and that was our man at Entebbe."

"He wasnt our man. Tony. He was our puppet."

"Yes, of course. The Rache terrorist. Still, he was our connection, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know. Turn here? Left?"

"Thats it. Well, for Gods sake, tell me! What the devils going on?"

Tennyson steadied the car and accelerated. "Actually, it may concern you. Were not sure, but its a possibility."

"Me?"

"Yes. Did Holcroft ever spot you? See you more than once? Be aware that you were following him?"

"Spot me? Never! Never, never, never! I swear it."