Showing identification, he stepped inside.

A gray-haired man in the uniform of a high-ranking customs official stood by a steel-framed window, smoking a cigarette. At the intrusion, he turned. "Ive been waiting for you," he said. "There was nothing I could do while you were quarantined."

"I had the ID card ready in case you werent here," replied the passenger, putting the identification back into his jacket pocket.

"Keep it ready. You may still need it; the police are all over the place. What do you want to do?"

"Get out to that aircraft."

"You think theyre there?"

"Yes. Somewhere. Its the only explanation."

The two men left the room and walked rapidly across the cargo area, past the numerous conveyor belts, to a steel doorway marked NO ADMITTANCE. Using a key, the customs official opened it and preceded the younger man with the raincoat through the door. They were inside a long cinderblock tunnel that led to the field. Forty seconds later they readied another steel door, this one guarded by two men, one from U.S. Customs, the other from the Port Authority police. The gray-haired official was recognized by the former.

"Hello, Captain. Hell of a night, isnt it?"

"Its only begun, Im afraid," said the official. "We may be involved, after all." He looked at the policeman. "This mans federal," he continued, angling his head at his companion. "Im taking him to the five-ninety-one aircraft. There may be a narcotics connection."

The police officer seemed confused. Apparently his orders were to allow no one through the door. The customs guard interceded.

"Hey, come on. This man runs all of Kennedy Airport."

The policeman shrugged and opened the door.

Outside a steady rain fell from the black night sky as pockets of mist rolled in from Jamaica Bay. The man with the customs official put on his raincoat. His movements were swift; in the hand beneath the coat held over his arm had been a gun. It was now in his belt, the buttons at his waist unfastened.

The 747 glistened under floodlights, rain streaking down its fuselage. Police and maintenance crews were everywhere, distinguished from one another by the contrasting blade and orange of their slickers.

"Ill build your cover with the police inside," said the customs official, gesturing at the metal steps that swept up from the back of the truck to a door in the fuselage. "Good hunting."

The man in the raincoat nodded, not really listening. His eyes were scanning the area. The 747 was the focal point; thirty yards from it in all directions were stanchions connected by ropes, policemen at midpoints between them. The man in the raincoat was within this enclosure; he could move about freely. He turned right at the end of the parallel ropes and proceeded toward the rear of the aircraft. He nodded to the police officers at their posts, slapping his identification open casually to those whose looks were questioning. He kept peering through the rain into the faces of those entering and leaving the plane. Three quarters around the plane, he heard the angry shout of a maintenance crewman.

"What the fuck are you doing? Get that winch secure!"

The target of the outburst was another crewman, standing on the platform of a fuel truck. This crewman had no rain slicker on; his white coverall was drenched. In the drivers seat of the truck sat another crewman, also without rain apparel.

That was it, thought the man in the raincoat. The killers had worn coveralls beneath their suits. But they had not taken into consideration the possibility of rain. Except for that mistake, the escape had been planned brilliantly.

The man walked over to the fuel truck, his hand on the gun concealed beneath his raincoat. Through the rain he stared at the figure beyond the truck window, in the drivers seat; the second man was above him, to his right on the platform, turned away. The face behind the window stared back in disbelief, and instantly lurched for the far side of the seat. But the man in the raincoat was too quick. He opened the door, pulled out his revolver and fired, the gunshot muted by a silencer. The man in the seat fell into the dashboard, blood streaming out of his forehead.

At the sound of the commotion below, the second man spun around on the steel platform of the truck and looked below.

"You! In the lounge! With the newspaper!"

"Get inside the truck," commanded the man in the raincoat, his words clear through the pounding rain, his gun concealed behind the door panel.

The figure on the platform hesitated. The man with the gun looked around. The surrounding police were preoccupied with their discomfort in the downpour, half blinded by the floodlights. None was observing the deadly scene. The man in the raincoat reached up, grabbed the white cloth of the surviving killers coverall, and yanked him into the frame of the open door of the fuel truck.

"You failed. Heinrich Clausens son still lives," he said calmly. Then he fired a second shot. The killer fell back into the seat.

The man in the raincoat closed the door and put his gun back into his belt. He walked casually away, directly underneath the fuselage toward the roped-off alleyway that led to the tunnel. He could see the customs official emerging from the 747s door, walking rapidly down the steps. They met and together headed for the door of the tunnel.

"What happened?" asked the official.

"My hunting was good. Theirs wasnt. The question is, what do we do about Holcroft?"

"Thats not our concern. Its the Tinamous. The Tinamou must be informed."

The man in the raincoat smiled to himself, knowing his smile could not be seen in the downpour.

4.

Holcroft got out of the taxi in front of his apartment on East Seventy-third Street. He was exhausted, the strain of the last three days heightened by the tragedy on board the flight. He was sorry for the poor bastard whod had the heart attack, but furious at the Port Authority police who treated the incident as if it were an international crisis. Good Lord! Quarantined for damned near four hours! And all passengers in first class were to keep the police informed of their whereabouts for the next sixty days.

The doorman greeted him. "A short trip this time, Mr. Holcroft. But you got a lot of mail. Oh, and a message."

"A message?"

"Yes, sir," said the doorman, handing him a business card. "This gentleman came in asking for you last night. He was very agitated, you know what I mean?"

"Not exactly." Noel took the card and read the name: PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.; it meant nothing to him. WELLINGTON SECURITY SYSTEMS, LTD. THE STRAND, LONDON, W1A. There was a telephone number underneath. Holcroft had never heard of the British company. He turned the card over; on the back was scribbled ST. REGIS HOTEL. RM. 411.

"He insisted that I ring your apartment in case youd gotten back and I didnt see you come in. I told him that was crazy."

"He could have telephoned me himself," said Noel, walking toward the elevator. "Im in the book."

"He told me he tried, but your phone was out of order." The elevator door closed on the mans last words. Holcroft read the name again as the elevator climbed to the fifth floor. Peter Baldwin, Esq. Who was he? And since when was his phone out of order?

He opened his apartment door and reached for the light switch on the wall. Two table lamps went on simultaneously; Noel dropped his suitcase and stared in disbelief at the room.

Nothing was the same as it was three days ago! Nothing. Every piece of furniture, every chair, every table, every vase and ashtray, was moved into another position. His couch had been in the center of the room; it was now in the far-right corner. Each sketch and painting on the walls had been shifted around, none where it had been before! The stereo was no longer on the shelf; instead it was neatly arranged on a table. His bar, always at the rear of the living room, was now at the left of the door. His drafting board, usually by the window, was now by itself ten feet in front of him, the stool somewhere else-God knew where. It was the strangest sensation he had ever had. Everything familiar, yet not familiar at all. Reality distorted, out of focus.

He stood in the open doorway. Images of the room as it had been kept reappearing in front of his eyes, only to be replaced by what was in front of him now.

"What happened?" He heard his own words, unsure they were his at first.

He ran to the couch; the telephone was always by the couch, on a table at its right arm. But the couch had been moved, and the telephone had not been moved with it. He spun around toward the center of the room. Where was the table? It was not there; an armchair was where the table should be. The telephone was not there, either! Where was the telephone? Where was the table? Where the hell was the telephone?

It was by the window. There was his kitchen table by the living-room window, and the telephone was on top of it. The large center window that looked out at the apartment building across the wide courtyard below. The telephone wires had been taken out from under the wall-to-wall carpeting and moved to the window. It was crazy! Who would take the trouble to lift tacked-down carpeting and move telephone wires?

He raced to the table, picked up the phone, and pressed the intercom button that connected him to the switchboard in the lobby. He stabbed the signal button repeatedly; there was no answer. He kept his finger on it; finally, the harried voice of Jack the doorman answered.

"All right, all right. This is the lobby...."

"Jack, its Mr. Holcroft. Who came up to my apartment while I was away?"

"Who came what, sir?"

"Up to my apartment!"

"Were you robbed, Mr. Holcroft?"

"I dont know yet. I just know that everythings been moved around. Who was here?"

"Nobody. I mean, nobody I know of. And the other guys didnt say anything. Im relieved at four in the morning by Ed, and hes off at noon. Louie takes over then."

"Can you call them?"

"Hell, I can call the police!"

The word was jarring. "Police" meant questions-Where had he been? Whom had he seen?-and Noel was not sure he wanted to give any answers.

"No, dont call the police. Not yet. Not until I see if anythings missing. It might be someones idea of a joke. Ill call you back."

"Ill call the other guys."

Holcroft hung up. He sat on the wide windowsill and appraised the room. Everything. Not a single piece of furniture was where it had been before!

He was holding something in his left hand: the business card. PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.

"... he was very agitated, you know what I mean?... he insisted I ring your apartment ... your phone was out of order...."

ST. REGIS HOTEL. RM. 411.

Noel picked up the phone and dialed. He knew the number well; he lunched frequently at the King Cole Grill.

"Yes? Baldwin here." The voice was British, the greeting abrupt.

"This is Noel Holcroft, Mr. Baldwin. You tried to reach me."

"Thank heavens! Where are you?"

"Home. In my apartment. I just got back."

"Back? From where?"

"Im not sure thats any of your business."

"For Gods sake, Ive traveled over three thousand miles to see you! Its dreadfully important. Now where were you?"

The Englishmans breathing was audible over the phone; the mans intensity seemed somehow related to fear. "Im flattered you came all that distance to see me, but it still doesnt give you the right to ask personal questions...."

"I have every right!" broke in Baldwin. "I spent twenty years With MI Six, and we have a great deal to talk about! You have no idea what youre doing. No one does but me."

"You what? We what?"

"Let me put it this way. Cancel Geneva. Cancel it, Mr. Holcroft, until weve talked!"

"Geneva?..." Noel felt suddenly sick to his stomach. How would this Englishman know about Geneva? How could he know?

A light flickered outside the window; someone in an apartment directly across the courtyard was lighting a cigarette. Despite his agitation, Holcrofts eyes were drawn to it.

"Theres someone at the door," Baldwin said. "Stay on the phone. Ill get rid of whoever it is and be right back."

Noel could hear Baldwin put the telephone down, then the sound of a door opening and indistinguishable voices. Across the courtyard, in the window, a match was struck again, illuminating the long blond hair of a woman behind a sheer curtain.

Holcroft realized there was silence on the line; he could hear no voices now. Moments went by; the Englishman did not return.

"Baldwin? Baldwin, where are you? Baldwin!"

For a third time a match flared in the window across the way. Noel stared at it; it seemed unnecessary. He could see the glow of a cigarette in the blond womans mouth. And then he saw what was in her other hand, silhouetted behind the sheer curtain: a telephone. She was holding a telephone to her ear and looking over at his window-looking, he was sure, at him.

"Baldwin? Where the hell are you?"

There was a click; the line went dead.

"Baldwin!"

The woman in the window slowly lowered the telephone, paused for a moment, and walked away, out of sight.

Holcroft stared at the window, then at the telephone in his hand. He waited until he got the active line, then redialed the St. Regis.

"Im sorry, sir, room four-elevens telephone seems to be out of order. Well send someone up right away. May I have your number and well give it to Mr. Baldwin."

... your phone was out of order....

Something was happening that Noel did not understand. He knew only that he would not leave his name or number with the operator at the St. Regis. He hung up and looked again at the window across the courtyard Whatever light there had been was gone. The window was dark; he could see only the white of the curtain.

He pushed himself away from the windowsill and wandered aimlessly about the room, around familiar possessions in unfamiliar locations. He was not sure what to do; he supposed he should see if anything was missing. Nothing seemed to be, but it was difficult to tell.

The telephone buzzed: the intercom from the lobby switchboard. He answered it.

"Its Jack, Mr. Holcroft. I just spoke to Ed and Louie. Neither of em know anything about anyone going up to your place. Theyre honest guys. They wouldnt screw around. None of us would."

"Thanks, Jack. I believe you."

"You want me to call the police?"

"No." Noel tried to sound casual. "I have an idea someone at the office was playing a joke. A couple of the fellows have keys."