At the Arch, he activated his radio. "Its the Mall! Once the motorcades through the Arch, stop all vehicles. Hes in the trees!"

"Tennyson, where are you?"

"Sector Twelve, sir. Hes in Sector Twelve. East flank."

"Relay his instructions. Quickly, for Gods sake."

Tennyson switched off the radio, put it in his pocket, and continued through the crowds. He entered the Mall and turned left, racing across the path to the first doorway of the Government Building. Two uniformed guards blocked him; he produced the MI-Five card.

"Oh yes, sir," said the guard on the left "Your teams on the second floor. Im not sure which office."

"I am," said the blond man as he ran toward the staircase. The cheers in Trafalgar Square mounted; the motorcade approached Admiralty Arch.

He took the steps three at a time, crashing the corridor door open on the second floor, pausing in the hallway to shift his gun from his pocket to his belt. He walked swiftly to the second door on the left. There was no point in trying to open it; it was locked. Yet to break it down without warning was to ask for a bullet in his head.

"Es ist Von Tiebolt!" he shouted. "Bleib beim Fenster!"

"Herein!" was the reply.

Tennyson angled his shoulder, rushed forward, and slammed his body against the fragile door; the door flew open, revealing the man in the raincoat, crouched in front of the window, a long-barreled rifle in his hands. His hands were encased in sheer, flesh-colored gloves.

"Johann?"

"They found everything," said the blond man. "Every weapon, every location!"

"Impossible!" yelled the man in the raincoat. "One or two, perhaps. Not all!"

"Every one," said Tennyson, kneeling behind the man in front of the window. The advance-security car had passed through Admiralty Arch; they would see the first limousine in seconds. The cheers from the crowds lining the Mall swelled like a mammoth chorus. "Give me the rifle!" Tennyson said. "Is the sight calibrated?"

"Of course," said the man, handing over the weapon.

Tennyson thrust his left hand through the strap, lashing it taut, then raised the rifle to his shoulder, the telescopic sight to his eye. The first limousine moved into the light-green circle, the prime minister of Great Britain in the cross hairs. Tennyson moved the rifle slightly; the smiling face of the president of the United States was now in the gunsight, the cross hairs bisecting the Americans left temple. Tennyson shifted the weapon back and forth. It was important for him to know that with two squeezes of the trigger he could eliminate them both.

A third limousine came slowly into the green circle. The chairman of the Peoples Republic of China was in the gunsight, the cross hairs centered below the visor of his peasants cap. A slight pressure against the trigger would blow the mans head apart "What are you waiting for?" asked the Tinamous apprentice.

"Im making my decision," replied Tennyson. "Time is relative. Half seconds become half hours." The fourth limousine was there now, the premier of the Soviet Union in the lethal green circle.

The exercise was over. In his mind he had done it. The transition between desire and the reality was minor. It would have been so simple to pull the trigger.

But this was not the way to destroy the Nachrichtendienst. The killing would come later; it would commence in a matter of weeks and continue for a matter of weeks. It was part of the Wolfsschanze covenant, an intrinsic part. So many of the leaders would die. But not now, not this afternoon.

The motorcade stopped; Payton-Jones had relayed Tennysons instructions. No limousine entered the Mall. Dozens of agents began fanning out over the grass, guns drawn but held unobtrusively as they raced through the foliage, their eyes on the trees.

Tennyson held the rifle in the grip of his left hand, the strap taut from barrel to shoulder. He removed his finger from the trigger housing and lowered his right hand to his wrist, pulling the revolver from his belt.

"Now, Johann! Theyve stopped," whispered the apprentice. "Now, or theyll start up again. Youll lose them!"

"Yes, now," said Tennyson softly, turning to the man crouched beside him. "And I lose nothing."

He fired the gun, the explosion echoing through the deserted office. The man spun wildly off his feet, blood erupting from his forehead. He fell to the floor, his eyes wide and staring.

It was doubtful that the gunshot was heard for any distance over the noise of the outside crowds, but it didnt really matter. In seconds thered be gunfire no one would miss. Tennyson sprang to his feet, removed the rifle from his arm, and took a folded slip of paper from his pocket. He knelt beside the dead man and shoved the paper into the bloodied, lifeless mouth, pushing it as far as he could down the throat.

Strapping the weapon back on its owners arm, he dragged the body over to the window. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped the rifle clean and forced the dead fingers into the trigger housing, tearing the fabric of the right-hand glove so he could see the tattoo.

Now.

He took out the radio and leaned out the window.

"I think Ive spotted him! Its the same as Madrid. Thats it! Madrid!"

"Madrid? Tennyson, where-"

"Sector Thirteen, sir. East flank."

"Thirteen? Specify. Madrid?..."

Tennyson pushed himself off the sill and back into the deserted office. It would be only seconds now. Seconds until the connection was made by Payton-Jones.

Tennyson placed the radio on the floor and knelt by the dead man. He edged the dead arm and weapon up into the open window. He listened to the excited voices over the radio.

"Sector Thirteen. East flank. Beyond the Arch to the left, heading south."

"All agents concentrate on Sector Thirteen. East flank. Converge."

"All personnel converging, sir. Sector-"

"Madrid!... The Government Building. Its the Government Building."

Now.

The blond man yanked at the dead finger four times, firing indiscriminately into the crowds near the motorcade. He could hear the screams, see the bodies fall.

"Get out. All vehicles move out. Alert One. Move out."

The engines of the limousines roared; the cars lurched forward. The sounds of sirens filled Saint Jamess Park.

Tennyson let the dead man fall back to the floor and sprang toward the doorway, the pistol in his hand. He pulled the trigger repeatedly until there were no more shells left in the chamber. The body of the dead man jerked as each new bullet hit.

The voices on the radio were now indistinguishable, He could hear the sounds of racing footsteps in the corridor.

Johann von Tiebolt walked to the wall and sank to the floor, his face drawn in exhaustion. It was the end of his performance. The Tinamou had been caught.

By the Tinamou.

33.

Their final meeting took place twenty-seven and a half hours after the death of the unknown man presumed to be the Tinamou.

Since the first account of the momentous event-initially reported by the Guardian and subsequently con-finned by Downing Street-the news had electrified the world. And British Intelligence, which refused all comment on the operation other than to express gratitude to sources it would not reveal, regained the supremacy it has lost through years of defections and ineptitude.

Payton-Jones took two envelopes from his pocket and handed them to Tennyson. "These seem such inadequate compensation. The British government owes you a debt it can never repay."

"I never sought payment," said Tennyson, accepting the envelopes. "Its enough that the Tinamou is gone. I assume one of these is the letter from MI Five, and the other the names pulled from the Nachrichtendienst file?"

"They are."

"And my name has been removed from the operation?"

"It was never there. In the reports you are referred to as 'Source Able. The letter, a copy of which remains in the files, states that your dossier is unblemished."

"What about those who heard my name used over the radios?"

"Indictable under the Official Secrets Act should they reveal it. Not that it makes much difference; they heard only the name 'Tennyson. There must be a dozen Tennysons under deep cover in British Intelligence, tiny one of which can be mocked up in the event its necessary."

"Then Id say our business is concluded."

"I imagine so," agreed Payton-Jones. "What will you do now?"

"Do? My job, of course. Im a newspaperman. I might request a short leave of absence, however. My older sisters effects, sadly, must be taken care of, and then Id like a brief holiday. Switzerland, perhaps. I like to ski."

"Its the season for it."

"Yes." Tennyson paused. "I hope it wont be necessary to have me followed any longer."

"Of course not. Only if you request it."

"Request it?"

"For protection." Payton-Jones gave Tennyson a photocopy of a note. "The Tinamou was professional to the end; he tried to get rid of this, tried to swallow it. And you were right. Its the Nachrichtendienst."

Tennyson picked up the copy. The words were blurred but legible.

NACHRICHT. 1360.78K. AU 23.22.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"Actually, its rather simple," replied the agent "The Nachncht is obviously the Nachrichtendienst. The figure '1360.78K is the metric equivalent of three thousand pounds, or one and a half tons. 'Au is the chemical symbol for gold. The '23.22 we believe are the map coordinates of Johannesburg. The Tinamou was being paid out of Johannesburg in gold for his work yesterday. Something in the neighborhood of three million, six hundred thousand pounds sterling, or more than seven million American dollars."

"Its frightening to think the Nachrichtendienst has that kind of money."

"More frightening when one considers how it was being used."

"Youre not going to release the information? Or the note?"

"Wed rather not. However, we realize we have no right to prevent you-especially you-from revealing it. In your Guardian story, you alluded to an unknown group of men who might have been responsible for the assassination attempt."

"I speculated on the possibility," corrected Tennyson, "insofar as it was the Tinamous pattern. He was a hired assassin, not an avenger. Did you learn anything about the man himself?"

"Virtually nothing. The only identification on him, unfortunately, was an excellent forgery of an MI-Five authorization card. His fingerprints arent in any files anywhere-from Washington to Moscow. His suit was off a rack; we doubt its English. There were no laundry marks on his underclothing, and even his raincoat, which we traced to a shop in Old Bond Street, was paid for in cash."

"But he traveled continuously. He must have had papers."

"We dont know where to look. We dont even know his nationality. The laboratories have worked around the clock for something to go on: dental work, evidence of surgery, physical marks that a computer might pick up somewhere. Anything. So far, nothing."

"Then maybe he wasnt the Tinamou. The only evidence is the tattoo on the back of his hand and a similar caliber of weapons. Will it be enough?"

"It is now; you can add it to your story tomorrow. The ballistics tests are irrefutable. Two of the concealed rifles that were removed, plus the one on his person, match three guns used in previous assassinations."

Tennyson nodded. "Theres a certain comfort in that, isnt there?"

"There certainly is." Payton-Jones gestured at the copy of the note. "Whats your answer?"

"About what? The note?"

"The Nachrichtendienst. You brought it to us, and now its confirmed. Its an extraordinary story. You unearthed it; you have every right to print it."

"But you dont want me to."

"We cant stop you."

"On the other hand," said the blond man, "theres nothing to prevent you from including my name in your reports, and thats one thing I dont want."

The MI-Five man cleared his throat. "Well, actually, there is something. I gave you my word, Mr. Tennyson. Id like to think its good."

"Im sure it is, but Im equally sure your giving it could be reappraised should the situation warrant it. If not by you, then by someone else."

"I see no likelihood of that. Youve dealt only with me; that was our understanding."

"So 'Source Able is anonymous. He has no identity."

"Right. Nor is it unusual at the levels in which I negotiate. Ive spent my life in the service. My words not questioned when its given."

"I see." Tennyson stood. "Why dont you want the Nachrichtendienst identified?"

"I want time. A month or two. Time to get closer without alarming it."

"Do you think youll be able to?" Tennyson pointed to one of the envelopes on the table. "Will those names help?"

"Im not sure. Ive just begun. There are only eight men listed; were not even certain theyre all alive. Theres been no time to check them out."