"In the hotel room. A few moments ago. Its the same man; I know it! He was carrying a briefcase."

The agent spoke into his radio. "Security check requested. Sector Four, west flank. Doorway adjacent to jewelry shop. Man with briefcase. Up the stairs."

"In progress," came the reply.

Across the Strand, Tennyson could see two men racing through the open door and up the dark steps. He looked to the left; the man in the brown raincoat was walking out of the jewelry shop into the crowd. There was a door on the first landing, normally locked-as it was locked now-that connected the two buildings.

A voice came over the radio. "No one with a briefcase on second to fifth floors. Will check roof."

"Dont bother," ordered another voice. "Were up here, and theres no sign of anyone."

Tennyson shrugged apologetically and moved away. He had three more alarms to raise as the motorcade made its stately way down the Strand. The last of these would cause the lead vehicle to stop, clearance required before it continued toward Trafalgar. This final alarm would be raised by him. It would precede the chaos.

The first two happened rapidly, within three minutes of each other. The man in the brown raincoat was adhering to lm tight schedule with precision and subtle execution. Not once as he maneuvered his way swiftly into Trafalgar Square was he stopped by a member of British Intelligence. Across his chest were strapped two cameras and a light meter, all dangling precariously as this "tourist" tried to find the best vantage points from which to record his moment in history.

Alarm One. An arm was grabbed; an arm whose hand held a radio.

"That scaffold! Up there!"

"Where?"

The entire side of a building opposite Charing Cross Station was in the middle of reconstruction. People had scaled the pipes; they were cheering and whistling as the international motorcade came into view.

"Up on the right. He went behind the plywood!"

"Who, sir?"

"The man in the hotel, on those steps in the doorway! The briefcase!"

"Security check. Sector Seven. Man on construction scaffold. With a briefcase."

Static. An eruption of voices.

"Were all over the scaffolds, mate."

"No one here with a briefcase!"

"Dozens of cameras. No briefcases, or luggage of any sort."

"The plywood on the second level!"

"Man was changing film, mate. Hes climbing down. No bird."

"Im sorry."

"You gave us a start, sir."

"My apologies."

Alarm Two. Tennyson showed a policeman his temporary MI-Five identification and rushed across the intersection into a packed Trafalgar Square.

"The lions! My God, the lions!"

The agent-one of those Tennyson had spoken to during the mornings briefing-stared at the base of the Lord Nelson monument. Scores of onlookers were perched on the lions surrounding the towering symbol of Nelsons victory at Trafalgar.

"What, sir?"

"Hes there again! The man on the scaffold!"

"I heard that report just moments ago," said the agent. "Where is he?"

"He went behind the lion on the right. Its not a briefcase. Its a leather bag, but its too large for a camera! Cant you see? Its too large for a camera!"

The agent did not hesitate; the radio was at his lips. "Security check. Sector Nine. North cat. Man with large leather bag."

The static crackled; two voices rode over each other.

"Man with two cameras, larger one at his feet...."

"Man checking light meter, corresponds.... See no danger; no bird here."

"Man descending, setting camera focus. No bird."

The MI-Five agent glanced at Tennyson, then looked away, his eyes scanning the crowds.

The moment had come. The start of the final alarm, the beginning of the end of the Nachrichtendienst.

"Youre wrong!" shouted Tennyson furiously. "Youre all wrong! Every one of you!"

"What?"

The blond man ran as best he could, threading his way through the packed square toward the curbside, the radio next to his ear. He could hear excited voices commenting upon his outburst.

"Hes mad as hell!"

"He says were wrong."

"About what?"

"Have no idea."

"He ran."

"Where?"

"I dont know. I cant see him."

Tennyson reached the iron fence that bordered the monmument. He could see his colleague-the Tinamous apprentice-dashing across the street, toward the arch. The man in the raincoat held a small black plastic case in his hand. The identification card inside was an exact replica of the one in Tennysons pocket, except that the photograph was different.

Now!

The blond man pressed the button and shouted into the radio.

"Its him! I know it!"

"Whos that?"

"Respond."

"Its from Sector Ten."

"I understand now! I see what it was that didnt fit."

"Is that you, Tennyson?" Payton-Joness voice.

"Yes!"

"Where are you?"

"Thats it! Now I see it."

"See what? Tennyson, is that you? Whats the matter! Respond."

"Its so clear now! Thats where we made our mistake! Its not going to happen when we thought it would-where we thought it would."

"What are you talking about? Where are you?"

"We were wrong; dont you see? The weapons. The seven locations. They were meant to be found! Thats what didnt fit!"

"What?... Push the red button, Tennyson. Clear all channels.... What didnt fit?"

"The hiding of the weapons. It wasnt good enough. We found them too easily."

"For Gods sake, what are you trying to say?"

"Im not sure yet," replied Tennyson, walking toward an opening in the gate. "I just know those weapons were meant to be found. Its in the progression!"

"What progression? Push the red button. Where are you?"

"Somewhere between Sector Ten and back toward Nine," intruded another voice. "West flank. In Trafalgar."

"The progression from one weapon to another!" shouted Tennyson. "Going from east to west! As each position is passed, we eliminate it. We shouldnt! Theyre open limousines!"

"What do you mean?"

"Stop the motorcade! In the name of all thats holy, stop it!"

"Stop the motorcade!... The commands been relayed. Now, where are you?"

The blond man crouched; two MI-Five men passed within feet of him. "I think Ive spotted him! The man on the scaffold! In the doorway. In the hotel window. Its him! Hes doubling back; hes running now!"

"Describe him. For Gods sake, describe the man."

"Hes wearing a jacket. A brown checked jacket."

"All operatives alert. Pick up man in brown checked jacket. Running north past Sector Nine, Eight, and Seven. West flank."

"It has to be another weapon! A weapon we never found. Hes going to fire from behind! Distance is nothing to him. Hell hit the back of a neck from a thousand yards! Start the motorcade up again! Quickly!"

"Vehicle One, proceed. Operatives mount trunks of all cars. Protect targets from rear fire."

"Hes stopped!"

"Tennyson, where are you? Give us your location."

"Still between Sectors Nine and Ten, sir," a voice intruded.

"Hes not wearing the jacket now, but its the same man! Hes running across the Strand!"

"Where?"

"Theres no one crossing in Sector Eight."

"Sector Nine?"

"No one, sir."

"Back farther! Behind the motorcade!"

"Sector Five reporting. Police have relaxed the lines...."

"Tighten them. Get everyone out of the street. Tennyson, whats he wearing? Describe him."

The blond man was silent; he walked through the square for a distance of twenty yards, then brought the radio to his lips again. "Hes in a brown raincoat. Hes heading back toward Trafalgar Square."

"Sector Eight, sir. Transmission in Sector Eight."

Tennyson switched off the radio, shoved it into his pocket, and ran back to the iron fence. The motorcade had reached Charing Cross, perhaps four hundred yards away. The timing was perfect. The Tinamous timing was always perfect.

The man in the brown raincoat positioned himself in a deserted office of the Government Building beyond Admiralty Park, a room commandeered by the bogus MI-Five identification card. The card was a license; no one argued with it, not today. The line of fire from that room to the motorcade was difficult, but it was no problem for one trained by the Tinamou.

Tennyson leaped over the iron fence and raced diagonally across Trafalgar Square toward Admiralty Arch. Two police officers stopped him, their clubs raised in unison; the motorcade was three hundred yards away.

"This is an emergency!" shouted the blond man, showing his identification. "Check your radios! MI-Five frequency, Savoy operations. Ive got to get to the Government Building!"

The police were confused. "Sorry, sir. We dont have radios."

"Then get them!" yelled Tennyson, rushing past.