2

The night before Graham was due to fly to Paris, Sir Alfred phoned him at his apartment to confirm an appointment. But it wasn’t the French police as planned.

“The investigation has been transferred to a special unit of French intelligence known as NAP 1,” Sir Alfred said with a note of concern.

“What’s that?”

“It was set up in the mid-1970s to counter terrorism.”

“Why are they involved?”

“I’d better let NAP 1’s chief tell you. He happens to be a personal contact of mine I first met in 1941 when he was over here with the French Resistance and I was in Army Intelligence. His name is Colonel Claude Guichard. Would you be able to meet him at noon tomorrow?”

Graham reached for a diary. “I think so. Where?”

“First floor, 93 Avenue Kleber. Oddly enough, the building was once occupied by the Gestapo for the Paris sector. Could you ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to him?”

“Of course.”

“Good night and good luck tomorrow.”

The Australian put the phone down slowly and stared at it for several seconds. What the hell had Jane stumbled onto? he wondered.

Graham arrived in Paris at 8:30 A.M. He spent two hours reading Jane’s notes once more, just in case they became relevant to his meeting with French Intelligence. Minutes before noon he arrived at the imposing, typically French baroque building on Avenue Kleber. When Graham’s arrival was announced over the desk intercom Colonel Guichard asked for five minutes before Graham was sent to his office.

The colonel felt he was one of the busiest men in France. Often he looked more than his sixty years. With his unsmiling, drawn features he had a permanent look of harassment about him. If it was not a minister of state hounding him, it might be the President of France making his life hell. His worries had made him bald and thin as a greyhound.

Yet he had always loved his work, first with the French Resistance, then during the troubled 1950s in the Algerian conflict, and latterly as a counterforce to French and foreign terrorists and assassins. The last two weeks, however, had been an exceptionally bitter time for him. News had come to him that hiding out in France was one of the world’s most wanted men, a terrorist-assassin named Alexandro Emanuel Rodriguez. The colonel desperately wanted to see the man captured. Guichard had a personal score to settle.

Five years ago, his NAP 1 team had had the assassin cornered, but he had escaped, machine-gunning to death three NAP 1 men and one civilian hostage. Two of the NAP 1 team had been Claude Guichard’s dearest friends.

Guichard was thorough in his dealings with the media. He had files on every French political journalist and many foreigners. Graham was one of them because of his writing about the French nuclear industry.

The colonel spent a few minutes skimming the limited computer printout dossier on Graham, which mainly contained articles written by the Australian. There were two photographs of him, both taken three years ago at an antinuclear rally in Paris. They showed him balancing precariously on scaffolding, preparing to photograph French police scuffling with students. Finally, he was satisfied and put the file in his desk drawer and buzzed his secretary to escort Graham from the receptionist to his office. The two men shook hands as they greeted each other, and Guichard felt his knuckles pressed close under the strength of the Australian’s grip. He looked hard at Graham for several seconds. The Australian would win no beauty prizes, Guichard thought, yet there was an immediate substance about the man which commanded respect. This was perhaps accentuated by Graham’s trim and well-dressed appearance. The visitor was about medium height. His thick but not unruly, curly black hair, which failed to completely cover large ears, was swept back with no parting. The cheekbones were wide and flat, and seemingly disproportionate to a thin, bumped nose, which on second inspection was slightly crooked. The determinedly set jaw and upper lip, and the finely drawn slightly cruel mouth added to a face which showed more than a hint of aggression.

What bothered the Colonel, however, were the penetrating dark blue eyes. Those eyes mirrored a tenaciously inquiring mind, the last thing Guichard wanted around at that moment.

He was in no mood for any meddling in this affair, even if there was only the slightest chance that a recent hit-and-run killing had a connection with Rodriguez. He planned to make that quite clear to this visitor, albeit politely because of the man’s connection with Sir Alfred Ryder, one of the few Englishmen he knew and respected.

Graham quickly realized from the colonel’s brisk manner that he was not going to have much time there.

“Sir Alfred tells me you are here to investigate the death of his granddaughter.”

The Australian nodded expectantly.

“That is not possible, monsieur,” he said abruptly. “And if I tell you why, not a word is to be repeated outside this room, except, of course, to Sir Alfred.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Your friend was last seen in the company of a man who may be connected with an assassin. A very dangerous man. Alex Rodriguez. You will no doubt have heard of him.”

Graham nodded.

“We have little to go on,” Guichard added, sighing, “but a few days before Jane Ryder’s death, we learned that Rodriguez had been seen in a Normandy seaside resort with a man. He fitted the description of the fellow who was last seen with her.”

“Which was?”

“The man is either German or Czech, about fifty. He has a scar below the left earlobe, and a slight limp. He dresses well.”

“And that’s all?”

“As I said, not much to go on.”

“Who gave the information?”

“An informant.”

“Could I speak to him?”

The colonel’s eyes narrowed on Graham. “It’s out of the question. We want to catch these men. More than you can imagine. Besides …” He paused. The colonel was finding Graham’s eyes more disturbing as information was revealed. The Australian had an unconscious habit of swelling the irises noticeably whenever he was probing for facts. His gaze pierced searchingly into Guichard. The colonel felt obliged to put him off…. “Believe me, monsieur, you will end up like your friend if you investigate further. These men, if they are involved, are professional killers. They do not hesitate to destroy anyone who stands in their way. Leave the work of finding them to us.”

The bluntness of the words sent a chill through Graham. “Okay. But do you know why Jane was murdered?”

“I did not say she was murdered. We have no proof of this.”

“But it is likely …”

“It is only a possibility.” The colonel shrugged.

“You know she was investigating—”

“Of course,” Guichard butted in. “Sir Alfred told us what she was doing here. Nevertheless, there is not as yet a shred of evidence to connect her death with a theory about computers being smuggled into Russia.”

“I was under the impression that Rodriguez was never completely absolved of a strong Kremlin/KGB connection.”

“Rodriguez has become a mercenary. He is now up to the highest bidder. He has become rich. It seems to suit his life-style much better than working for the Soviet export of revolutionary terror.”

“Then why has he resurfaced in France?”

Guichard stroked his bald pate. “He may be on assignment.”

“In Europe?”

“It’s possible, but who, where, what, how? We do not know. I am doing all I can to find out.” The colonel’s voice trailed off. He felt he had said enough. Looking at his watch, he said, “If you have no further questions …”

“Just one more. I believe Jane was trying to see an American scientist, Dr. Donald Gordon, here in Paris. Do you know where I might find the man?”

“Oui. We had him questioned by American authorities the day after she died. We believe he is back in his home near Washington.”

“Jane never actually saw him then?”

“No. But they did speak over the phone. Gordon spoke to her about the computer smuggling.”

“Was there just the one conversation?”

“Yes, but she tried to speak with him again.”

“Oh?”

“It was after Gordon had left Paris. She left a message at his hotel asking him if he had told anyone to contact her.”

“Had he?”

“He said definitely not.”

“Then it could have been the man she was last seen with?”

Guichard nodded.

“How did he get her Paris address?”

The colonel took a deep breath. “We went through Gordon’s hotel room thoroughly the day after Jane Ryder was killed. It was bugged.”

“Bugged? Do you know anything else about Gordon?”

“He was once with a computer company, but has since retired. He still does the odd invitation lecture. That’s why he was in Paris.”

“You don’t know which computer company he used to work for?”

“I think it was one of the big ones. IBM, Univac, or Lasercomp.”

“Thank you for your time,” Graham said.

“Monsieur,” Guichard said firmly, “I must impress upon you once more not to continue your inquiries in France.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Graham said ruefully, “I’m leaving Paris this afternoon.”

Graham had to give himself time to think before he called Sir Alfred. He taxied to the Champs Élysées, and drank a cup of coffee at one of the sidewalk cafés near the Arc de Triomphe. He had no intention of probing further into Jane’s death. Yet the ramifications of her investigation were beginning to intrigue him.

As he sat in the warm afternoon sun watching the Parisians and tourists pass by, several questions nagged him. Were computers really being smuggled thousands of miles deep into Soviet territory? If so, why? Was Lasercomp involved? And Rodriguez. What was his connection?

The Australian called for the check from a waiter scurrying to and fro beneath the sun-drenched canopy. Graham had made a decision. The American assignment would have to wait at least another week while he looked into the smuggling. Since he knew this would not be tolerated by the English newspaper publisher for whom he was working, Graham realized he would have to resign the assignment or be fired.

What did Jane say in that note? he thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette. “For once in your wavering life follow through.” Easier said than done.

To do it he would have to dump the American writing which he had considered the biggest break in his career.

On returning to London, Graham immediately booked a flight for Vienna.

Jane’s notes indicated that she had planned to go there because she believed Austria could be the main East-West link for the computer smuggling. Graham decided to make a quick, cautious probe there. He didn’t have much to go on. Just a few names and telephone numbers. He wanted more. Again he decided to ask for Sir Alfred’s help.

The publisher was at first in two minds about Graham’s following up Jane’s assignment. On the one hand, he was obsessed with finding the truth behind her death; on the other, he didn’t want to see Graham risk his life.

When he saw the Australian’s determination to investigate further, he reluctantly agreed to the request for contacts. But they were to be contacts that would possibly protect as well as assist the journalist. The publisher once more turned to his connections in Intelligence, this time closer to home at MI-6.

Most of the old-boy network Sir Alfred had known since the Second World War were now retired or had passed on. His one contact at Intelligence now was Commander Kendall Gould, the son of a close friend who had served with him in Intelligence during the war.

It always amazed Sir Alfred to see Gould. Dressed in his customary plain dark suit with tight-fitting vest, he looked almost a perfect replica of his father, now dead five years. They were the same medium height and weight. There was that same high intelligent forehead, deep-set gray eyes, and full beard with reddish hue on the tip.

As they strolled in the midday sun through Green Park, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, the old man found it a little disturbing to look at the Intelligence man. It brought back too many memories of the father. They had been close friends.

Sir Alfred kept his eyes on the green in front of them. Occasionally he looked up to watch a game of lunchtime cricket some boys were playing nearby.

“Why is your man going to Vienna?” Gould asked, although he had been informed of the circumstances surrounding Jane Ryder’s death.

“Jane’s notes indicate there may be some sort of base for the smuggling in Austria.”

“Any proof?”

“No.”

There was a short silence before Gould said, “Coincidentally, we are watching Vienna very closely at the moment. There has been a disturbing build-up of KGB operatives there in recent years. They come and go at short intervals for all sorts of minor reasons. We’d like to know what’s going on.”

He paused and added, “There are of course several East-West link-ups there to do with scientific research and so on. All convenient KGB covers.”

“Graham wants contacts there.”

“Hmmm … could be a little delicate. We are having trouble planting our people. We don’t want them exposed.…”

The publisher gave an understanding nod. It was what he was half hoping he would hear.

Gould looked up at Sir Alfred. “Tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh … his background, education … interests …”

Sir Alfred glanced briefly at the commander. “You may be able to help?”

“I can’t answer that right now.”

“He was educated as a computer scientist, specializing in communications networks.”

“A bit of a whiz?”

“Yes.”

“Why the switch to journalism?”

“He is intellectual but not academic…. Likes to apply his mind pragmatically. He joined a newspaper as a science correspondent, specializing in writing about computers.”

“A daily?”

“Yes, one of Australia’s best. A far-sighted editor wanted an expert to interpret computers … the technology … the sociological aspects … everything.…”

“I see,” Gould mused, stroking his beard. “Would you like to sit down for a while?”

The publisher nodded and they moved to a park bench facing the palace.

There were many Londoners and tourists out taking advantage of the fine weather.

“What made him start writing about politics?” Gould asked, lighting his pipe.

“He’s naturally an ambitious, competitive type,” the publisher said. “He told me that to get on at the paper, it was important to write about politics. He worked hard, built contacts and advanced rapidly.”

“I’ve read his political articles here. He’s very good. Shows a deal of insight. But why did he leave Australia?”

The publisher cleared his throat.

“He was apparently a trifle wild in his twenties. He had an affair with a married reporter on the paper. From what I can gather, his prudent editor sent Graham packing here. He was to have a roving commission as a foreign correspondent in Europe and Africa. When the assignment was over, Graham stayed. Everything here suited his style.”

“What does his father do?”

“He’s a neurosurgeon. Reputedly one of the world’s best. You know of his mother …”

Gould smiled. “One of my favorite actresses. She returned to Australia when the film industry began to boom there, didn’t she?”

Sir Alfred nodded. “She’s sixty now, but still plays the odd theater or TV part.”

“Graham has quite a lot to live up to.”

“Indeed. Two brilliant, successful parents who wanted him to follow their respective careers.…”

“How did that affect him?”

“You’d have to ask him. Jane once told me he said it put him under pressure. An only child. Always in the spotlight with the mother or father. He apparently wanted to impress both parents. Not let them down.”

“He tried acting?”

“His mother had him on the stage and in front of a camera from age five.”

“How long did he keep it up?”

“Oh, he only stopped getting bit parts in films and TV series a few years ago. The money was always good and easy. When there was a lull in his freelance writing assignments he always managed to pick up some work to tide him over.”

“Was he good?”

“Yes, as a character actor. Usually he was cast as a villain…. But he never really had his heart in it … couldn’t stand waiting for bigger parts. He likes things to happen yesterday.” The publisher stole another look at the Intelligence man. “Journalism suits him better. I would doubt that patience has ever been one of his virtues.…”

“Why did he choose computer science to study?”

“His father apparently had the greater influence over him. He urged Ed to study sciences at school in preparation for a medical career. Just before entering college he followed his instincts and went his own way. He had an aptitude for mathematics and logic.”

“Tell me, is he a disciplined man?”

“Under authority, I should say absolutely not. He went freelance as a journalist because even a newspaper, a relatively unbureaucratic institution, stifled him.”

Gould did not appear to be put off. Sir Alfred was becoming slightly apprehensive about having approached the Intelligence man in the first place.

After a thoughtful pause, Sir Alfred asked, “Then you are interested in helping him?”

“I would have to meet him first, of course. And frankly there isn’t enough time to prepare anything.… It could be a little too risky. But I would like to meet him when he comes back from Vienna.”

Sir Alfred was relieved. “I’ll arrange it.”

“Does he play chess?”

“Yes, brilliantly … why?”

“I suspected he would. All that aptitude for computers. Takes logic.”

“I warn you, on his day, he would even have beaten your father. He can think up to twenty-five moves ahead.”

“And when it’s not his day?”

“His method breaks down. Tends to be too aggressive…. He rushes things….”

Oil sheiks in their flowing white robes stood out among the heads of state, businessmen and diplomats from many nations who had answered the invitation to attend the unveiling of a “super computer.” It was Lasercomp’s biggest machine in the Cheetah series. The location was the corporation’s headquarters at Black Flats, high on a hilltop in a former apple grove, near New York City. The six hundred or so guests were wending their way from the high pillared entrance hall up a rich carpeted stairway, through an oak-paneled corridor, into the reception room. One wall was almost completely glassed to catch the sunlight and display an exquisite Japanese garden.

Most people attending knew of Cheetah. It had been on the market for the last ten months. But this was the first time the corporation had considered it opportune for a lavish function to announce it officially. Alan Huntsman, Lasercomp’s corpulent and cherub-faced chief PR man, had won the internal battle to show it off now rather than later. As perhaps the organization’s shrewdest tactician, he had argued that the corporation should demonstrate its development of superior technology before a decision in a six-year-old court case between it and the U.S. Government, expected in a few months’ time. In this legal battle, the biggest and most expensive in America’s history, the government’s legal arm, the Justice Department, had charged the corporation with a long list of illegal activities which had been designed to give Lasercomp complete control of the American computer market. A win for the government would be a tremendous blow to the corporation’s secret long-term master program. It could mean being split up into smaller separate corporations.

Guests stood in small groups as they arrived, rather than sitting on the inviting chairs and sofas, upholstered in shades of brown. A portrait of George Washington stared unsmilingly across the room. The buzz of conversation heightened perceptibly with the arrival of important guests, most of whom made their way to the center of the room to pay their respects to Clifford Brogan, Sr. Immaculately dressed in a navy mohair suit, the old man appeared in an easygoing, avuncular mood. He was showing a rare deference to people outside Lasercomp—a mood reserved for heads of states and others of similar standing.

He greeted the newly nominated candidate for the American presidency, Senator Ronald MacGregor, and his running mate, former Nevada Governor Paul Mineva.

“Congratulations to you both,” Brogan Senior said, his large wrinkled features cracking into a smile as he wrung their hands. “I’m betting you two give the White House one helluva shake-up.”

“More than that,” MacGregor rejoined, “we’ll break in there after November fourth.”

“Well, I wish you luck. We need a change down there.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mineva said, as he flashed a toothy grin and swept a wisp of graying fair hair from his forehead. “It’s going to be a rough run home and we need every little break we can get.”

As he spoke, an announcement from PR man Huntsman that the unveiling was about to take place moved the milling guests toward the four doors that led to an adjoining auditorium—a vast imposing hall glowing from ceiling to walls with diffused light. At the edge of a raised area at the rear end of the auditorium a curtain created by holographic patterns representing computer circuitry screened the Cheetah from view.

Brogan Senior, in a vigorous shuffling action, led the corporation’s senior management to seats on the raised area. As a digital clock high in the auditorium registered 2:30 P.M., Alan Huntsman waddled over to a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our senior vice-president, Clifford I. Brogan, Jr.”

Tall, with a healthy head of silver hair that contrasted with his suntanned, outstandingly handsome features, Brogan Junior looked cool, even serene. When polite applause had died, he looked up confidently and nodded to the audience. “Thank you for coming to what we here at Lasercomp consider to be a historic day, the unveiling of a super computer—the Cheetah.” He paused to clear his throat. “It will revolutionize man’s very existence in the organizational environment. It is, we believe, the greatest expansion of the human mind since writing….” He was reveling in the moment as he looked out over the sea of attentive faces. “What, you may ask, gives us at Lasercomp the confidence to make such grandiose pronouncements? Well, why don’t we let Cheetah itself tell you why it’s a ‘revolutionary’ super computer?” With a sweeping gesture, he pushed a button on a lectern. The holographic patterns seemed to dissolve back into the machine itself, exposing the flashing lights and revolving disks of a bright red computer system, surrounded by television display units. On the wall at the back, a large screen began to display words that also boomed from the Cheetah’s sound unit in a chilling staccato monotone: “Hello and welcome. I am Cheetah. Like my namesake, I am the fastest and most powerful of my species. Let me tell you about my special new features.…”

The machine drummed on and emphasized its speed, “infinite” memory capacity and the ability to perform more functions simultaneously than any previous computer. All through the monologue there was a return to a central theme: Cheetah represented progress. It promised to be of great benefit to mankind as it “fought its way on the short and tortuous route to the twenty-first century.…”

This benefit would be progress in the so-called social areas—education, resources, food allocation, pollution, medicine. The words had been carefully selected to help lobby support in the corporation’s legal battle with the federal government’s Justice Department.

While the computer spoke, thirty Teletype machines placed around the auditorium printed the speech as the words were heard, until 2:45 P.M., when it finished with: “I am Cheetah … I am the future now.…”

As Lasercomp personnel darted around distributing the speech to the guests, Brogan Junior beaming with pleasure, got up once more and nodded to the cluster of media people to his right.

“I would now like to invite members of the press and other media to ask Cheetah some questions,” he said. “Take note of those cards you’ve been issued, please. They have a simple code.”

The press studied their cards as he added, “Start with one of the words on the card: What, Can, Will, etcetera, and continue with one of the alternative phrases listed. Let me start the ball rolling.”

He stepped up to the computer’s control panel, flicked a switch marked Control, and said, “Cheetah. What will be the value of computers Lasercomp will sell outside America in three years from now?” He then turned the knob marked Voice.

“Thank you, I understand,” the machine replied. “The answer to your question is, ten billion dollars. Repeat. Ten billion dollars.”

There was a ripple of excitement from the audience. One by one the press edged its way up to the machine.

Questions were restricted to those that would elicit responses that had been carefully prepared. This time the propaganda was to show how important, economically, a prosperous and intact Lasercomp was to the American nation. It was all part of the lobbying campaign for the court battle.

It was hardly a penetrating press conference. Even if it had been thrown open, very little would have been revealed about Lasercomp’s seemingly impregnable domain. Probing, inquisitive journalists would not have been invited. They were anathema to the corporation.

Graham arrived at Vienna’s Schwechat airport at midday on August 3. The weather was warm, and the sky a cloudless blue as he took a taxi to an inconspicuous little hotel on Graben Street, opposite OESC, the Vienna States Savings Bank. He took a creaking elevator to the second floor, where the manager, a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman, Frau Schiller, greeted him cheerfully and showed him to his room. When he had unpacked, he walked a few hundred yards to a café, the Hermit, on Naglerstrasse.

The sun had lured many people to the sidewalk chairs and tables under a canopy. Inside the café, middle-aged Viennese read papers and magazines strewn on tables, sipping coffee and eating pastries. Outside, young students chatted loudly about Austrian politics. Graham, casually dressed in a light blue open-necked shirt, light slacks and sneakers, sat at the only available seat outside at the same table as three female students.

A white-coated waiter addressed Graham with the customary “Herr Baron.” The Australian ordered coffee and sandwiches in faulty German, much to the amusement of the girls, and settled down to work out his strategy for the next few days.

Graham had little to go on. Jane had not been to Vienna herself, and while she had left transcripts of telephone conversations, there were no specific comments except on a mysterious international computer-using organization called IOSWOP—an acronym for International Organization for Solutions to World Problems. There was a list of several people to see, mostly connected with computer companies. Graham considered one as top of the list, a trucking contractor called Joachim Kruntz.

In thirteen years of journalism Graham had had some tough, sometimes dangerous experiences, ranging from covering murders on Melbourne’s notorious waterfront to war on several African fronts. But there were always rules. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your head down. If you worked within the rules and kept your wits about you the risks were few.

In this investigation there were no given parameters of caution. No rules. It put Graham on edge. If he proceeded on the assumption that Jane had been murdered, he would have to follow those rules.

He walked back to his hotel and decided to call the trucking contractor. He found Kruntz’s number in Jane’s notes, lit a cigarette, and dialed. The telephone at the other end rang several times. Just as Graham was about to put the receiver down, a man answered.

“Ja?”

“Mr. Kruntz?”

“Ja?”

“You speak English?”

“Yes. Who is this?” His voice was deep.

“My name is Graham. I’m a friend of Jane Ryder.”

The Australian forced himself to keep his voice steady when he mentioned her name.

“Who?”

“Jane Ryder. She rang you earlier this year about …”

“I remember,” the man said; “she was an English journalist.”

“That’s right,” Graham said, pleased he had got that far.

“What do you want?” the man asked bluntly.

“Some information.” Graham was thinking quickly. He had no idea if Kruntz knew of Jane’s death. He thought that if he mentioned it, and the man did not know, it might frighten him off.

“Who are you? Another journalist?”

Graham bit his lip. “Yes—I was wondering if we could meet.”

“What information do you want?”

“It’s about your work,” Graham said. He was feeling in the dark. Kruntz fell silent. The Australian thought he might lose him. “I’m willing to pay for information.”

“I don’t know if I want to speak to the press again,” said Kruntz. “They are of no value to me.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

There was another pause.

“Do you know the district of Heurige?”

“Not well.”

“Do you know the district of Jeurige?”

“Yes.”

“I meet you there tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Go to Klosterneuberg. As you enter the village square there is an abbey on the left. Go to the closest wine cellar to it. In the basement is a seventeenth-century map of the area. Sit near it at ten.”

“How will I know you?”

“Don’t worry. I will recognize you. No tourists normally go there.”

Graham walked to a nearby garage, picked up the Mercedes coupé he had reserved from London, and dined alone at the Budavar, a Hungarian restaurant opposite his hotel. Just after 9:00 P.M. he drove to Klosterneuberg village, north of Vienna in the rustic wine valley district. He parked the car in the village square and, finding he was half an hour early, decided to wander around. He found an old house converted into an art gallery and spent about twenty minutes there admiring the local art.

Right at ten o’clock he made his way to the abbey with its dignified spire, and entered the thick oak door of the nearest wine cellar. He moved downstairs toward a steady hum of conversation from a mixture of locals of all ages. They were sitting at wooden trestle tables enjoying the locally grown wines. He spotted the map Kruntz had mentioned, found a seat near it, and ordered white wine from a sturdy waitress dressed in a mock-peasant costume.

Twenty minutes later, a brawny, square-shouldered man well over six feet entered and sat down two tables away from Graham. Fingering thick stubble on his lantern jaw, the man glanced around and ordered wine. When the waitress brought it to him, he looked around at Graham, picked up his glass, and moved to a seat opposite him.

The Australian looked up. “Mr. Kruntz?” he asked.

The big man nodded. “I suppose you want the same information as the girl?” he said cautiously.

“Basically, yes.”

The big man took some wine. “How do I know you are not here for another reason?” he asked, his dark, deep-set eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Graham said, producing his identification and press cards.

Kruntz looked at them and handed them back. He didn’t appear completely satisfied. “Can you get information published easily?”

“My contacts are good.”

“Where?”

“Mainly in Britain. But elsewhere, if I want.”

The big man took more wine and considered Graham. “Your friend promised publicity for certain information,” he said skeptically, “but she did not even send me evidence of it.”

“She would have preferred to have seen you personally. That’s why I’m here—on her behalf.”

“I want money, before I tell you anything,” Kruntz said.

Graham casually slid his right hand underneath his coat and pulled out an envelope which exposed a wad of money. “You’ll get paid when I get the information.”

“What do you want to know?”

“First, why you wanted publicity.”

“I thought some newspaper reports about certain things could force my debtors to pay up.”

Graham was confused. “You’d better explain that.”

Kruntz’s eyes flashed feeling for the first time. “As long as the source is not revealed,” he said nervously.

Graham gave him a reassuring nod. “Who has not been paying you?”

“Znorel Electronics.”

“An Austrian company?”

“No, German. Stuttgart-based.”

“You have a trucking contract with it from Vienna?”

“I did have,” Kruntz said bitterly, “but they would not pay. So I stopped working for them.”

“What goods were you trucking?”

“Foodstuffs, chemicals, farm machinery, and other things.”

Graham decided to take a chance. “Jane Ryder said you have trucked computers.”

The big man hesitated. “I may have,” he grunted. “Not any more.”

“For this Stuttgart company, Znorel?”

Kruntz did not reply immediately. He leaned back in his chair and cracked each knuckle in his hands. Then smiling slyly, he said, “You are interested in computers?”

“Yes.”

“You will write something about them?”

“Possibly.”

Kruntz looked annoyed. “Computers gave me the biggest trouble.”

“In what way?”

“Well, sometimes we did not get paid at all. It was usually because of the Russians.”

“These computers were shipped from Vienna to the Soviet Union?”

“Ja.”

“And the Russians would not pay?”

“They pay in cars.”

“They don’t use foreign exchange?”

Kruntz curled his lip. “They say they have none.”

“Cars for computers … a sort of barter arrangement?”

“Ja,” he said disgustedly. “This is the problem. A buyer has to be found for the cars, so people like myself can be paid.”

“Who finds the buyer?”

“Znorel.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Ja. Russian cars are bad. Buyers complain. This happened with Nigeria which received a hundred thousand cars. About ten percent were not good. The Nigerians were not happy. I don’t think they have paid for any of the cars yet.”

“Where did you pick up these computers?”

“Znorel leases a warehouse just south of Vienna at Stölenburg.”

“When did you make deliveries?”

“Usually at night.”

“Where did you deliver the machines?”

“The Czech border.”

“Would you know when the next shipment is?”

“No.”

“Could you find out?”

“Perhaps.”

Two men a few tables away got up to leave. Kruntz watched them and seemed edgy. “I have said enough. I want payment now.”

“Just a few more questions,” Graham said.

Kruntz looked around. “No!”

Graham nodded reluctantly and pulled out the envelope containing the money. “If you could just find out when that next trucking consignment is …” he said, handing it to him.

Kruntz quickly pocketed it. “Call me tomorrow morning.” He finished his wine in one swig, stood up and walked out.

Graham took his time finishing his wine, paid the bill and walked out to the Mercedes.

He considered the meeting a useful start, if Kruntz was telling the truth. Graham felt he was a shifty type who would sell his own mother for a dollar. Whoever employed such a person, the Australian thought apprehensively, was unlikely to be any better.

Clifford Brogan, Sr., was in a foul mood as his private jet roared on its way from New York to Washington. Despite the huge PR efforts and legal moves behind the scenes, all was not running smoothly for the corporation in its court battle with the Justice Department. In recent months, inexplicably to the Old Man, the corporation’s position was beginning to look shaky as the end of the case drew near.

Brogan Junior, seated on a velvet couch in the main section of the flying penthouse’s lounge, was reading newspaper accounts of the case. Standing a few feet away and looking a little anxious over a Teletype print-out carrying the latest stock prices, was Henry Strasburg, the trim, balding fifty-five-year-old former attorney general of the United States, and, for the last ten years, Lasercomp’s chief legal counsel. He was the man in charge of fifteen hundred attorneys fighting Lasercomp’s legal battles.

The pipe-smoking Strasburg had an air of superiority about him—from his fine-cut suit to his manicured nails. He was the classic example of how lawyers had come to penetrate the higher echelons of the corporation over the last decade. They had become an indispensable part of the Lasercomp defense against the state and other corporations as it expanded and gained more power.

If anyone could get Lasercomp off the hook in the increasingly difficult situation with the Justice Department, it was Strasburg. He knew a lot of important judges who sat in the most influential federal courts in the land. He had recommended many of them for appointment when he was attorney general. One such judge was Peter K. Shaw, currently presiding in the Justice Department case. Strasburg and he sponsored the same charitable cause and belonged to the same clubs in New York and Washington.

The gloomy silence was broken by a snarl from Brogan Senior.

“What did the stock do?”

“Down ten,” the lawyer replied. “That’s twenty points we’ve lost this week.”

“What about the other blue chips?”

“They’re down a bit too.”

Brogan looked up at the lawyer and stared at him for a moment through his thick-lensed spectacles which somewhat hideously distorted the shape of his eyes. “Henry, I want to know what’s going wrong with the case,” he said with quiet menace. “After six years, I find it hard to believe we may be in trouble….”

Reverently Strasburg sat down opposite the Old Man. “C.B., I wouldn’t worry about what the press is saying. You know a lot of journalists would like to see us carved up,” he said, trying to sound confidently reassuring. “Besides, just because a little bit of pep is coming into the prosection’s case now, remember we’ve been on top for most of the time….”

“But I thought you had Sagittarius,” the Old Man said sardonically. “What was it you said? ‘Don’t worry, Sagittarius’s computer bank has every piece of documentation connected with the case … it has optical scanners which can read information into our law team’s office…

Strasburg wanted to say something but the Old Man went on rapidly, his anger rising: “‘Don’t worry, the computer can instantly compare a day’s trial testimony with everything in Sagittarius … it can pinpoint discrepancies between testimony and submitted evidence … don’t worry, it can tell our lawyers how to win!’” The Old Man gesticulated wildly and yelled, “Well, I am worrying and you had better start doing something about it!”

“Look, C.B.,” Brogan Junior said, coming to Strasburg’s aid, “there is nothing wrong with Sagittarius. It’s a successful part of the master program … the prosecution will cause it only temporary problems.”

“Maybe, but they’re still problems! No one can tell me why we have them!” Brogan paused, frowned, and then added introspectively, “I think it’s because of that ungrateful bastard running the prosecution. He must have gathered detailed information in those years with us and just waited for the chance to stab us in the back!”

“But he was a computer engineer with us. Not a lawyer,” Brogan Junior said defensively.

“So what goddamn difference does that make? He had big ears and eyes, didn’t he? I told you both to stop him from being allowed onto the prosecution team! I told you he spelled trouble!”

“C.B.,” Strasburg said, pleased for the support from Brogan Junior, “I feel the press is largely to blame. They’re whipping up hysterical opinion against us by billing the case as man versus machine. Some journalists want us to lose to prove the computer is fallible. Others want us beaten because we’re big.”

Brogan Senior sat seething as his son added, “We have a few months to go yet. Henry will make the case a sure thing.”

“He’d better!” the Old Man said fiercely, “or I’ll start taking action. I’ll get people that can handle goddamn upstart governments or anything else!” He struggled out of his seat belt and stood up, keeping his balance as the plane banked slightly. “We’ve been slipping in the courts since you two have taken over the legal department,” he said, waving his hands wildly at both of them. “Why? Because you’re too damned weak! You won’t show muscle or money. Every man can be had by either. This pathetic situation never arose years ago. We’d tell companies that if they tried to take us to court we’d put ’em out of business in a month. And we did! Now every fifth-rate little shit organization thinks it can milk us.” He clenched his teeth, his rasping voice dropping to a hiss. “And governments … I’ve had presidents eating out of my hand … because without us they knew the system would collapse. We would keep reminding them…”

The Old Man slid back into his couch, breathing heavily as the other two looked on silently, Strasburg frightened to say another word, and Brogan Junior knowing it was best to stay cool when the tyrant rose in his father. The Old Man deliberately turned off his hearing aid. The ranting was over.

Graham started early on his second day in Vienna with a four-mile run around the city’s narrow winding streets. He liked strenuous exercise at least once a day. It had become a habit, especially when he was on assignment, living out of a suitcase. By 7:30 A.M. he had showered, dressed casually and taken a breakfast of orange juice, eggs and bacon in his room, in preparation for a full day.

He began by making several calls.

One was to Joachim Kruntz, who told him that the next Znorel trucking assignment would leave at about one A.M. the next day from a warehouse at the village of Stölenburg.

Another call to a local journalist Graham knew heightened his interest in contacting IOSWOP. The journalist said that like some other obscure organizations in Vienna, it was probably a front for something, although he didn’t know what. He added that there were always Russians coming and going. One in particular was the IOSWOP’s chairman, a Professor Letovsky, who was possibly worth an interview. Graham knew of him. He was a leading trade ambassador for the Kremlin.

Graham decided to give it a try. He phoned IOSWOP and was put through to its PR man, a German named Hart. Graham was quizzed for several minutes and had to bluff his way by claiming to be writing articles for several papers and magazines in England, Europe, America and Australia which would be about Vienna’s several prestigious international organizations, like OPEC and IOSWOP. Finally convinced, Hart invited Graham to visit IOSWOP’s office at the Opernring in the heart of Vienna. A special IOSWOP bus would take him to Stölenburg at 11:30 A.M.

Graham arrived with his usual gear for an interview—a 35-mm. Minolta, a tape recorder, and an 8-mm. movie camera. He liked to record an important interview in as many ways as possible, and had a good working knowledge of all kinds of cameras and tape equipment.

He found the IOSWOP office, and was greeted unsmilingly by a tall, leggy girl who asked him to wait with several other men and women. He had time to unload his gear and smoke a cigarette before the girl ushered them out to a Volkswagen bus.

Two guards rode in the front seat with the driver, and Graham noticed they were wearing hip holsters.

The bus rattled on its way for about twenty miles to the Stölenburg village and palace, which dated back to 1388.

Once a summer residence of successive Hapsburg emperors, the sleepy surroundings were conducive to much wine in the warmth of the afternoon or the cool of the evening, and the Empress Maria Theresa blamed many of her sixteen children on this. It fell into disrepair after 1917. In 1970 the Austrian Government offered to renovate the palace for IOSWOP in an effort to persuade another institution to make its home in Vienna. Shortly thereafter, IOSWOP was in the palace’s red court.

Originally the brainchild of heads of the American and Soviet foreign ministries in the 1960s, IOSWOP was hailed as contributing to scientific détente. Scientists of nations East and West could work together to find solutions to the world’s most pressing problems of pollution, energy conservation, medicine, food supply and population control, using advanced computer techniques.

A clock struck noon just as the bus pulled up to iron gates at the front of the palace, a mighty gray and yellow edifice. Ten huge pillars supported the portico entrance, and on a balcony above, two guards watched as the occupants of the bus filed out. Another two guards swung the gates open as German shepherd dogs barked a fierce disapproval.

Graham was greeted by a squat, heavy-featured man with a pockmarked face.

After a limp handshake and a gutteral, “I’m Hans Hart,” the grubbily dressed PR man proceeded to show Graham around the palace, stressing that no photographs were to be taken. They walked up a marble stairway to the second floor, where there was an excellent view of the palace grounds, of about twenty acres, which were as plush and smooth as a green pool table. The grounds were dotted with small “pleasure pavilions.” One had a tennis court, another a swimming pool. About a dozen people dozed under canopies. Several German shepherds were chained to a barbed-wire-protected high wall, beyond which a thick forest unrolled to the horizon.

Motioning for silence, Hart led Graham into a library. All its shelves were stark and bare. Every piece of information was apparently on microfilm. About twenty people sat at desks watching miniature TV display units.

At 12:45 they returned to Hart’s office, where he gave out PR material, including photographs and brochures, and some papers on the organization’s research into world problems.

After a few minutes they were informed that Letovsky would see the Australian. They were ushered into the professor’s office. Its green silk and gold-paneled walls and ceiling were typical of the restoration, befitting the heads of state to which it once catered. A huge, glittering candelabrum hung from the center of the ceiling.

Letovsky, a heavily built Russian with black bushy eyebrows and alert brown eyes, unhurriedly eased himself up to shake hands with Graham. Hart spoke rapidly about the reason for the Australian’s visit while Letovsky nodded slightly and stood close, as if he were a prizefighter sizing up an opponent. Apparently satisfied that the stranger was worth a minute or two of his precious time, the Russian motioned them to sit down as he moved back behind his leather-topped desk.

With his eyes on Graham, he said in near-perfect English, “I didn’t realize we would be news on such a wide sphere, Mr. Graham. But if an article can attract fresh funds, then we are always interested in speaking to the Western press.” He offered Graham a cigarette and lit one himself.

The Australian pulled out a tape recorder, saying, “You won’t mind if I …”

Letovsky waved an indifferent hand. “Use a tape if you wish.” He regarded himself as experienced in handling the Western press.

Graham nodded a thank-you. “I’ve often read about you making trips to the West with Soviet trade delegations,” he said. “You split your time between that and your work here, I suppose?”

“More or less, yes,” Letovsky said. He stacked folders on his desk impatiently. “What would you like to know about IOSWOP?”

Graham switched on his tape. “First, who is financing you? I see in your hand-out material that you have about thirty million dollars’ worth of computer equipment here. That takes some funding.”

“Of course,” Letovsky said, brushing a bit of ash from his floral Dior tie. “Academies and institutions in the Soviet Union and the United States are our biggest supporters. But there are many others from many countries that want membership with us. There are several on the waiting list. It would not, you will understand, be prudent for me to name the smaller contributing nations at this time.”

“Where are all the scientists from?”

“Mainly the institutions that support us.”

“In proportion to their financial support?”

“Yes.”

The next question had to be as offhand as possible.

“I see that the Brogan Foundation, which is entirely financed by Lasercomp, is down as a contributor. Is it the biggest, Professor?”

“One of the biggest.”

Graham nodded. “And,” he began, as he frowned and scratched his head, “one of the things I noticed was the rather strong contingent of guards around the palace, and even armed guards on the bus that brought me here. Why is that necessary?”

Letovsky leaned forward and flicked ash into a tray. “We have top-secret assignments here,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Well, for example, right now we have two clients, both governments, looking for nuclear-power-plant locations. We work out progress on computer to calculate the best location in a country to avoid pollution.”

Graham nodded as if he accepted the reply. “That leads me to the next question. Could you explain how IOSWOP functions?”

The question seemed to have relaxed Letovsky. “We work at solving world problems, like the one I mentioned. To solve these important problems, our people need information to work on. Our computer people have devised an excellent system based on three big computers and two smaller ‘minis.’ It allows information to flow from important sources anywhere in the world. If we have a problem, and the data needed to solve it are in some far-off academy, say in Warsaw, our man here can request the data via a terminal connected to a satellite, which in turn is connected to a computer in Warsaw. The data can be bounced to us here.”

“Who is linked into this system?”

“All major academies funding us.”

“I see,” Graham said thoughtfully.

The professor plowed on. “The real beauty of our operation is that we transcend national boundaries,” he said haughtily, “but of course, we only suggest solutions. If an institution such as the United Nations likes what we suggest, then pressure might be brought to bear on the problem in a practical way.”

Graham decided to move on to the topic that would be sure to arouse Letovsky’s suspicions.

“I’d like to change the subject, if I may,” he said. “It is rare that a Western journalist has such an opportunity.”

“Well, I’m afraid we have not much time, Mr. Graham,” Letovsky said. “But please …”

“Thank you. At a recent Soviet Party Congress it was announced that the Soviet Union would produce a major new series of computers in a long-term plan. But at your last Congress, there was no mention of its progress. Has it been dropped?”

There was an almost imperceptible flicker of uncertainty from the professor. But it was there. Leaning back in his chair, he said coldly, “I am not involved in this area, but it was endorsed by the Party. As far as I know, the plan went ahead.”

“Then it is continuing?”

“Yes.”

“You are manufacturing all your own equipment?”

“Of course.”

“How many computers are involved?”

Letovsky paused. Until now he had been arrogantly self-assured. Suddenly his manner changed. He shifted in his seat. “I have no idea,” he said slowly. “I said before, Mr. Graham, I am not involved in the planning.”

Letovsky was on the defensive now, so Graham decided it would be prudent to stop. The Australian closed his notebook and switched off the tape. “Thank you very much, Professor,” he said evenly; “that about covers the questions I had.”

“May I ask you something, Mr. Graham?” Letovsky said. “Why are you so interested in Soviet computer production?”

“Anything new the Soviet Union produces makes news in the West,” Graham replied nonchalantly.

“I would expect that you will submit your writings to us before they go to press,” Hart said.

“I have a policy, gentlemen,” Graham replied firmly as he stood up. “I always refer back to source if there is any doubt.”

“I would like to see it, please,” Letovsky said firmly, “in any event.”

Graham stood his ground. “I cannot guarantee that, Professor. If you want public relations, write it yourself.”

Letovsky looked annoyed, but said nothing. Hart, in a real dither, opened the door.

Graham turned to the professor. “Thank you for the interview,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Letovsky had not got up to shake hands.

George Lionel Revel, chief prosecuting lawyer for the U.S. Justice Department, was unexpectedly alerted to the strain in the normally confident tone of his opposite number in the Lasercomp defense.

Perhaps no one else in the packed New York courthouse sensed the change in David L. Cartwright, the usually superconfident gentleman for the defense in his elegant lightweight suit of conservative gray. Suddenly he seemed to be feeling the heat. For the last thirty minutes he had droned on about the virtues of Lasercomp’s importance to America’s economic health through employment, and income from massive sales abroad, and the “great” technology it must be allowed to bring the nation and the world. Now he conferred earnestly at the prosecution lawyers’ table before he turned to the judge once more. “Your Honor,” he said, blinking several times, “throughout this case the government has seemed to want to sacrifice ingenuity, ability and progress—the very qualities that made this nation great. It seems to have a formula for mediocrity, incompetence and failure, which will ultimately reduce our great nation to the level of a banana republic. The defense firmly believes that this lawsuit is part of a socialist conspiracy by certain members of the present administration in Washington to destroy free enterprise in this country”—he paused as several people in the packed public gallery voiced their disapproval. He spoke louder—”by attacking corporations that have been successful!”

There were more groans from the public gallery. Judge Peter K. Shaw called for order.

“Yes, a conspiracy. And I submit to Your Honor that it stems from the White House itself!”

Revel, his large gray eyes and sharp features alert, was on his feet, bumping the table in his haste to be heard.

“Objection, Your Honor,” he yelled. “Apart from being absurd, this is totally irrelevant to the case.”

“Objection sustained,” the judge said. “All reference to a conspiracy shall be stricken from the record. The defense will kindly refrain from red herrings and irrelevancies.”

The damage had been done, and the defense’s outburst would be sure to bring into the open the festering conflict between the President of the United States, Everett Rickard, and Lasercomp. “Conspiracy” may have been misleadingly emotive, but the defense had highlighted a point. Everett Rickard had been the first President to attempt to bring justice to the marketplace, dominated by the major corporations. He was telling the multinationals to come to heel, and they were not liking it.

Lasercomp had always been his prime target. With the election close and incidents like this, the battle was being drawn into the open. A victory for Rickard would boost his stakes on polling day. A win for Lasercomp would be a major blow for Rickard and leave the corporation all but invincible.

For George Revel, it too was an important battle, on a personal level. Revel had come from a lower-middle-class Jewish family in the Bronx. His father, a refugee from Hitler’s Germany, was a poetic dreamer who barely managed to support his family as a tailor, but instilled in his son a burning desire for knowledge and a deep respect for intellect. His mother, like her husband a refugee from Nazi tyranny, was a shrewish, domineering woman who constantly nagged her husband for his failure to rise in the world. From her, Revel acquired a lifelong drive to excel. Graduating from America’s number-one public high school, the Bronx High School of Science, at seventeen, his outstanding academic record earned him a scholarship to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. At twenty-one he had already earned his master’s degree in engineering and was working on a doctorate. Then the reaction set in. He had come to loathe the cloistered world of the academic.

Abandoning his original plan to finish his doctorate and to teach at MIT or Harvard, he was lured into the intriguing world of computers by Lasercomp, which scoured the campuses for talent. At first he enjoyed the challenge of being at the creative forefront of one of man’s greatest inventions. He was quickly acknowledged for his ability and shot up the Lasercomp ladder until his superiors were forced to give him managerial responsibility and steer him into the marketing side. Then things began to sour. When he got the sniff of the Lasercomp modus operandi, it sickened him. The forces behind the façade were not what he expected, or wanted to be associated with. After nine years he eased his way out. Disillusioned, and now past thirty, Revel left his wife and two young daughters to travel to Europe, Asia and Australia for eighteen months. He began to search for a new career.

It was law—the only other professional area that had always fascinated him. After three years at Harvard, where he topped every examination and was an editor of the Law Review, he again tried the business world and corporate law.

At thirty-five, his first legal job was with a medium-sized New York law firm. Revel soon found himself defending a company that was polluting the river and countryside of Virginia. He won the case, and every one like it that followed.

Soon he was the number-one choice for the defense in the big money cases. And, as before at Lasercomp, he began to hate his work. He cried out for a chance to excel at something socially redeeming in law. He left the firm.

Simultaneously, President Rickard appropriated more funds to the Justice Department for its fight against Lasercomp. More money meant more people on the undermanned prosecution team. George Revel applied for one of those jobs. The Justice Department was very pleased to have such a wealth of experience to add to its team. Not only was he outstanding in court, but he could offer an unparalleled knowledge of the defendant. Lasercomp, in a predictable move, objected strongly to the presiding judge, but failed to block Revel’s move onto the case. Within eighteen months he became chief prosecuting lawyer and changed the face of the trial. After the years of legal charade, in which the eventual result seemed only a formality, there was suddenly a feeling in American legal circles that Lasercomp could be in trouble. The possibility of its being beaten in the case and fragmented was now conceivable.

For this reason, the mention of the President of the U.S. being involved in a conspiracy reminded George Revel that it was Everett Rickard who had given him the chance to stretch his talents to the full.

Professor Letovsky was concerned about his interview with Graham. Five hours after it, he called Hans Hart to his office. “I want a complete check on that journalist’s background, employers, the lot.”

“What’s wrong, Professor?”

“Three days ago he met a trucking contractor, Joachim Kruntz. This man used to make Znorel-Lasercomp consignment runs to the border. The journalist has paid him for information.”

Hart blanched as Letovsky added, “I hope you did not disclose anything before he met me.”

Hart shook his head as he thought quickly through the questions Graham had asked him.

“No. No, I’m sure.”

“We must stop him writing anything. He may be dangerous to our operations. You must find out where he is staying and insist we see anything he intends to publish.”

• • •

By seven that evening, Graham had completed telephoning through a 1,200-word article from his hotel to Sir Alfred’s company, Ryder Publications, in London. From there it would end up in a London daily paper the next day, and within twenty-four hours would be on network wires to press outlets around the world. Sir Alfred had hesitantly agreed to see that Graham’s article would be published. The Australian thought it might provoke a reaction from someone.

With the story on its way, Graham decided to try to follow the late-night smuggling consignment. There was just a chance that he could obtain some vital information.

He had several hours before the consignment was supposed to leave for the border, so he planned to hear La Traviata, at the Staatsoper, and dine out after it. Before leaving, he booked his return flight to London for 6:00 P.M. the next day.

At 11:30 P.M. Graham left a Rumanian restaurant and walked the short distance back to his hotel. He changed into his black tracksuit and running shoes and packed a valise with a change of clothes, his passport, tape recorder and all the notes on the assignment. Almost as an afterthought he decided to take his movie camera. He took a couple of minutes to study a map of the route to Stölenburg village and the location of the warehouse of the Stuttgart-based company, Znorel Electronics before he left the room.

Graham emerged from the hotel at midnight and moved into the deserted streets to his Mercedes. After speeding through Vienna’s suburbs into the countryside and past the Stölenburg Palace, he found the warehouse, and pulled onto the side of the road about half a mile away from the entrance. It was a moonlit night and he could make out the warehouse easily across the flat countryside.

He decided not to go any closer until there was some activity.

About an hour later, Graham heard the roar of trucks and the sound of voices. A few minutes later, he could make out several vehicles moving off from the warehouse like a giant, squat centipede. The convoy was followed by a station wagon.

When all the vehicles were well on their way along the main road running northwest toward the border, Graham drove carefully, lights off, about four hundred yards behind.

He followed in a slow crawl for the next three hours, until he heard the trucks clatter across a bridge. He pulled off the road, got out of the car, and climbed onto the roof. Above the trees of a thick wooded area he could see an oblong building where the trucks had gone. Graham wanted the safety of the Mercedes but he certainly would be spotted if he took it any closer. He had to go on foot if he wanted to see what was going on inside that building. He turned the Mercedes round to face the way he had come and drove it across the road, under some overhanging trees, close to a dry creek bed.

Hurriedly camouflaging the car, Graham collected his camera and made his way stealthily across the creek bed in the direction of the warehouse.

After about two hundred yards, he suddenly reached a seven-foot wire-mesh fence. He could see and hear several men. They were sitting on crates and passing around flasks of drink. Graham made his way along the fence until the men were out of sight. He gripped the top of the fence and hoisted himself over it. Crouching low, he crept to the wall of the warehouse. Then he edged along the wall to the back of the building. He found a door. Graham tried the bolt. It wouldn’t give. Moving along another ten yards, he found another door. This time the bolt slid back easily and noiselessly. He inched the door open. Crates piled ten feet high surounded the door. Graham moved inside, leaving the door ajar. Above the line of crates he could make out a ramp which ran at sixty degrees almost to the roof. It was connected to another ramp with sides about three feet high which ran the full length of the building. It was very near the roof. If only he could get up there. It would be a perfect vantage point to film whatever was going on below under high-powered quartz lighting.

On the other hand, he would be a sitting duck if anyone with a weapon spotted him. He eased between the crates and could see several trucks at the other end of the building. Creeping over to the sloping ramp, Graham lay flat against it. Using his strength he hauled himself up using the foothold slats. At the top it was easier going along the roof ramp. He kept his body low as he crept along it to avoid throwing a shadow. About halfway along he had a close look at his light meter. It was showing a poor reading. He rolled on his back and opened the camera aperture to its widest.

Graham straightened carefully and then swung over the side of the ramp, one leg hard against it to avoid toppling over. He zoomed in on crates being hoisted by an overhead crane from trucks belonging to Znorel and lowered to ground level, where they were unpacked and inspected and repacked for other trucks. Graham held the zoom on this operation and captured clear shots of computers, all unmarked. After thirty seconds the strain on his back was too much. He eased himself back and lay flat on his back for three minutes.

Then he swung his body out again, but this time too far. He slipped and grabbed desperately for the side of the ramp as the camera fell to the ground, nearly hitting one of the workmen directly below. Graham just managed to clamber back as a group of men shouted and pointed at the struggling figure. In the confusion, a crane driver lowered a crane too close to the side of one of the trucks. It smashed against it. Several men yelled and ran for cover as the crate swayed and bashed the truck’s side. In the panic, Graham’s only instinct was to run. He raced along the roof ramp to the one that sloped to the ground and slithered down to the crates. He had some difficulty finding the door as men converged from every direction. He slipped out and sprinted the fifty yards across the compound to the fence, hauled himself to the top and leaped clear, but twisted his ankle as he hit the ground. He felt the painful tear of a ligament as he stumbled on his way through the wood. The compound was now bathed in brilliant light. He heard the station wagon start up as he reached the creek bed. He limped along in a panic and had trouble making out his crude camouflage of the Mercedes. Just as he was yards from it, the station wagon crossed the bridge and skidded to a halt. Graham flung himself flat as two men jumped out of the car and ran along the road. Graham’s heart sank as the car headlights went on. He could see his own shadow on the wall of the creek.

Two voices bellowed instructions to one of the men who had stopped about twenty yards from Graham. The man yelled angrily to the other to turn out the lights. The lights were doused. Graham felt he had to do something. He picked up a rock and hurled it high and hard on to the other side of the road. The man turned and ran in the direction of the noise. Graham scrambled to the car, got in and shoved the key in the ignition as the lights on the station wagon went on once more. The Mercedes sprang to life. He put his foot flat on the accelerator, and the car snapped its way out of the camouflage and off along the road. The station wagon gave chase.

Graham drove recklessly as the other car seemed to be gaining on him. But with a straight flat stretch of about five miles, the Mercedes, flat out, pulled away. After ten minutes the station wagon driver gave up. Graham kept up speed until he reached the outskirts of Vienna a little over an hour later.

Finding an unmade track, he pulled off the road, stopped the car and slumped over the wheel.

Seated at his desk, in the Oval Office, the President looked through black-rimmed spectacles at his formidable schedule for the day. With the election looming, he was under tremendous pressure, and it was beginning to show in his appearance. His craggy features had weary fatty bags under the bloodshot blue eyes, and a pasty skin had become apparent over the last few months. The pressure, too, had manifested itself in his manner and temper. This was not helped by the tedious lobbying that had to be done if he were to remain in the White House for another term. He felt more comfortable with the minute-by-minute, day-to-day decision-making, especially in foreign affairs. Yet he seemed to be giving more of his precious seconds to worrying about media coverage, and pressure groups. The bid for political power was a new experience for Rickard. He had won office by fate and chance, not by the nation’s vote.

Rickard had been selected as a compromise choice by the previous President to be his vice-presidential running mate. Both right and left of the party found the selection acceptable. Rickard’s middle-of-the-road views were so indistinct that no one saw him as a threat. A few months after the inauguration, the President died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage, and Rickard, the son of a poor Ohio tool and die maker, was in the Oval Office. Nothing in his small-town background, or bland, uneventful career—Ohio State University law graduate, assistant district attorney, Ohio State Legislature, state attorney general, and seven years in the Senate—gave a hint of the way Rickard was to develop as President. He quickly found a strength of character few knew he possessed. He was impelled by the office’s awesome tradition and became determined to reach a high standard and a prominent role in history.

In his forty months as President, Rickard had run headlong into conflict with Lasercomp by beefing up the Justice Department. Now he was preparing to confront them on an even more significant issue: the illegal flow of strategic computers to the Soviet Union.

The latter was the first item in today’s long agenda—a meeting with the Secretary of State, Edward Grove, and the assistant Under Secretary, Gregor Haussermann. As the two men entered the room just at 7:45 A.M., the President did not bother with even the briefest greeting, but said to Haussermann; “What have you come up with?” The assistant Under Secretary, a thin, bearded man with a nervous disposition characterized by large furtive gray eyes, and an occasional stammer, handed him a thin folder, and then, at Rickard’s request, left the room.

A week earlier Rickard had asked for a report on the illegal eastward flow of technology, particularly computer equipment and classified data related to offensive and defensive military systems. He flicked through the twenty-odd pages while Grove sat quietly, watching him frown and hearing the occasional mumbled expletive. By the time he had finished, he looked fit to explode. “Goddammit!” he exclaimed vehemently. “This tells me next to nothing!”

Turning to Grove, he said, “Ted, I want to know two things fast. Who is supplying those machines, and what they are being used for.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, and whacked the report with the back of his hand.

“Surely someone in our twenty-two Intelligence agencies can tell the Commander in Chief a little more than that!”

“Everett,” Grove began, “we know there is a build-up of computers and satellite systems inside the Soviet Union. Our electronic surveillance has picked this up. But we need people on the ground to get a definitive picture. That takes time.”

Rickard sighed. “We haven’t got time! If the Soviets get the best equipment, their military systems become better. Eventually better than ours. Every computer that improves their firepower is a nail in the free world’s coffin!”

He paused. Suddenly his manner changed from frustrated anger to decisiveness.

“Let’s put a team together. I want a secret group of experts—in Soviet weaponry, foreign affairs, computers and intelligence—sworn in within seven days. They’re to investigate everything from what’s going on in Russia to our major computer corporations, especially Lasercomp….”

Grove was a little surprised. “You don’t think—”

“Yes, I do,” Rickard interrupted intently, “Let’s cover every possibility. Lasercomp has just produced the most advanced computer ever. It has built that machine so that it can be converted to direct military use; the control of guided missiles, lasers, you name it. The damn thing gives us an incredible first strike lead on the Russians. In any conflict right now, we win every time.”

Grove sat silently for a moment, then, with a puzzled frown, said, “There is a great deal of expertise needed to convert Cheetah for military use. Only a handful of top Lasercomp scientists can effect it. You’re not suggesting Lasercomp would deliberately build the Soviet Union’s firepower?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just looking at history. Modern history. Brogan Senior moved into munitions when he smelled Hiltler’s rise in the thirties.”

“There’s no law against opportunism.”

“Even if it supplied the Nazis after we were involved in 1941?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Have a look through our own State Department records. Lasercomp was among a select little number doing deals with Hitler. It waited like a jackal to see who would win. If it had been their darling Adolf, they would have been first in the door to back the German war machine.”

“That is a long time ago, Everett.”

“So? Lasercomp’s management hasn’t changed. Nor has its mentality. If it can act that way in war, how far will it go in peacetime? Remember Lasercomp earns more than sixty percent of its revenue outside America. Its main allegiance is not this country any more.”

Grove shook his head. “That’s disturbing … I’ll start getting that team together now.”

“Right. And the first name in it will be George Revel, if he’s willing.”

“Revel in Justice?”

Rickard nodded. “He’s wrapping up the court case right now. He has a tremendous knowledge of Lasercomp. And he has a taste for blood …”

Rickard had an enormous respect for Revel and his handling of the Lasercomp case. The President knew Revel had taken a special interest in the flow of computers into the Soviet Union, not so much because they could be used for increasing Soviet military strength, but because of rumors that they were being used as a method of controlling society—especially dissidents and minority groups such as Jews, Ukrainians and Lithuanians, fighting for greater human rights. It had also been an area of special significance for Rickard. Perhaps his only uncompromising political attitude before he became President was on Soviet oppression in Eastern Europe. Opposition to it was popular in Ohio, with its vast numbers of Eastern Europeans and large Catholic population. His mother was of Irish-Polish stock, and her family were all immigrants. She never lost contact with relatives in Poland, and Rickard’s one-quarter Polish blood gave him a personal interest in Soviet domination. It had been driven home to him when he served in the U.S. Army in Germany during the early Soviet and Allied occupation.

Graham’s report in a London paper had put pressure on Professor Letovsky. One phone call set his nerves on edge. It came crackling over the line from Moscow. But the message was clear enough. KGB intelligence in London had already passed on details of the newspaper article. Explanations were needed. Letovsky did his best to heap the blame on Kruntz. This, however, was not enough. The professor had to give an assurance that the journalist who caused the flurry would be handled in a “suitable” way. Something drastic had to be done, especially after Letovsky learned an intruder had nearly been caught filming computer warehouse activities on the Czech border. The professor was certain it was Graham. They had his camera. It was being checked for ownership.

Letovsky requested that Anatoli Bromovitch, deputy chief of KGB’s Department Four, the functions of which included assassinations outside the U.S.S.R., be immediately dispatched to Vienna.

At 2:00 P.M. Letovsky found Bromovitch among the tourists in the gardens of Schonbrunn Palace, sitting on a bench throwing parts of his sandwiches to the pigeons. It was an uncomfortable meeting for both. They were opposites in appearance, manner and attitude.

Letovsky was a leading member of the Soviet elite, mainly because he had married the foreign minister’s daughter. He regarded himself as an international sophisticate. The professor enjoyed dealing with powerful Westerners and secretly admired the trappings of Western life-style.

Bromovitch, a short, slightly plump man who always wore ill-fitting gray suits, hated Western “decadence.”

Just one factor linked them: a dedication to Soviet world dominance.

Letovsky sat on the bench next to Bromovitch, but refused to look at him. He hated that benign face and especially those deceptively pleasant light blue eyes. They were inhuman scanners that held your gaze and never left you as they searched for a hint of weakness or deceit.

“How was your flight?” Letovsky asked quietly.

“Terrible,” Bromovitch grumbled. “I hate Aeroflot. No lunch. Not even vodka.”

“I am sorry. You have been briefed?”

“No. Is it Mokroye Delo?” Bromovitch was referring to the KGB term for blood being spilled.

“It is.”

“Where?”

“That is up to you.”

“You have no preference how?”

“Of course not. As long as it is neat.”

Letovsky was relieved to be washing his hands of a sordid problem. Building sophisticated computer networks was his business. Never murder.

After his narrow escape, badly shaken and sore, Graham slept in his hired car just outside Vienna rather than return to his hotel, which he feared could be checked. The previous night’s harrowing experience had left him with one aim: to get out of Vienna quickly.

His flight was scheduled for 6:00 P.M. and he had left himself enough time to collect his gear from the hotel and drive to the airport. At 3:00 P.M. he telephoned his hotel from a public booth, ten minutes away.

“Ah, Mr. Graham,” said Frau Schiller, the manageress, relieved to hear the Australian’s voice. “You did not stay in your room last night and you did not return this morning. I nearly called the police!”

Graham tried to sound at ease. “I’m very sorry, Frau Schiller,” he said. “I stayed the night with friends outside Vienna. I shall be in to the hotel to pay you and collect my luggage in an hour. Have there been any messages?”

“No, but it was strange, Mr. Graham. Three men came in, not half an hour ago. They said they were friends of yours, but would not leave a message.”

Graham froze. “Is that all?”

“They wanted to know if you had checked out. I told them you would be flying back to London on the six o’clock flight. Was that correct?”

“Yes, of course, Frau Schiller. Thank you.”

“I hope I have not spoiled things,” she said softly.

“Why?” Graham asked sharply.

“These men said they would probably meet you at the airport. They told me not to bother telling you. They wanted to surprise you.” There was a long pause. “Mr. Graham, are you there?”

“Ah, yes, Frau Schiller,” Graham replied slowly as he gathered his wits. “If they call again, please don’t tell them I’ve been in touch or that I’m coming back to collect my things. I want to surprise them also.”

“They are your friends then?”

“I think so. Could you describe them?”

“The man who did all the talking was a short gentleman. Very, how do you say, polite?”

“Austrian?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Graham,” she said with indignation. “He was Russian.”

“How could you tell?”

“His accent.”

“And the other two; what were they like?”

“They did not speak. They could have been Russian, Austrian or German. One was probably a little higher than yourself. I remember him well because he had a very ugly bald head. The other … I cannot remember him at all.”

“Thank you so much, Frau Schiller,” Graham said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ll be in shortly. Goodbye.”

He put the receiver down. Hell! he thought. Three men including a Russian wanted him. Was it because of the article, or last night’s escapade? And what to do now? They wanted to “surprise” him at the airport. He had several hours. No need to panic, he told himself. Just then, there was a rattle of the telephone booth door. He jerked around. An angry little old Austrian woman waiting impatiently was gesticulating at him. Graham breathed a sigh of relief.

He forced a smile, and quickly looked up the number for Austrian rail information. The next train out of the country didn’t leave until eight. Graham decided it was his safest bet, even if it meant having to stay in Vienna another five hours. It might be easy to trace the Mercedes, and he didn’t feel in any state for a long drive. He had strapped his twisted ankle, but it was still swollen and tender.

The welcoming party would be at the airport until six, leaving only two hours before his train left. This, he hoped, would not be enough to trace his escape.

He was certainly not going back to his hotel because he was sure it would be watched. There was nothing essential there, and his suitcase and clothes could always be retrieved some other time. Graham drove to a little coffee shop he remembered from his other visit to Vienna. He lingered an hour over two cups of steaming coffee, alert to every customer that came and went.

He next drove to the Richard Lidmer art gallery across town. It was practically deserted, as good a place as any to keep out of sight.

After speaking with Frau Schiller, Bromovitch and two other KGB agents had waited two hours for Graham outside his hotel. When he did not show up, they had sped to Schwechat airport. They sat quietly for half an hour in the entrance lounge with a clear view of the cars and taxis depositing travelers. Then the chubby Bromovitch rolled across on one elbow to whisper something in the ear of his companion, known as “the Skull.” Ugly protruding bones seemed to be pushing out of his skin above the ears and through the top of his completely shaven head.

The Skull moved to the information counter and asked the girl to page Edwin Graham.

The call came over the intercom: “Would Mr. Graham, traveling to London on Flight 809, please come to the information counter … Mr. Edwin Graham.”

As the message was repeated, the three agents moved in different directions so that they stood about twenty yards from the counter. No one turned up. After ten minutes, the Skull asked for a repeat call. Within thirty seconds, a smartly dressed dark-haired man of medium height, accompanied by an attractive woman of about thirty-five, strolled confidently to the counter.

“You ask for Gramanni?” he asked the girl quizzically. He sounded Italian. The girl nodded toward the Skull. Bromovitch waddled up to the counter and looked hard at the man. He roughly fitted the professor’s description of the Australian.

“You are Mr. Graham?” he said with some difficulty in English.

The man swung around, bemused. “Gramanni, I am Gramanni,” he said, using his hands freely.

Bromovitch gave a very long, cold stare, which embarrassed the other man, who nodded to the girl at the counter and moved off with his companion, turning twice to look back at the Russian.

Confused, but not wanting to be fooled, Bromovitch acted quickly. He beckoned the Skull and the other agent and ordered them to stay close to the couple, who had moved into the dining room. When they had settled down at a table, the agents did the same nearby. On finishing his coffee, the man calling himself Gramanni stood up and marched to a toilet on the other side of the airport lounge. The agents moved off after him. The man had just finished at the urinal when the agents walked in. As he was washing his hands, he looked up inquiringly at the three who had surrounded him. Before he could react, he was hauled and pushed into a cubical. The Skull had him in a strong headlock, his bicep hard against the man’s throat. The other agent had a glove roughly over the man’s mouth to stifle cries for help. The man’s eyes bulged with fear as Bromovitch tore at his inside coat pockets, grabbing all his documents. The Russian fingered through them, causing bits of paper and business cards to fall to the floor. Passport, driver’s license, personal photos and company identification were all marked clearly: Silvio D. Gramanni, Managing Director, Gramanni & Co., Milano.

Bromovitch gathered the papers and shoved them brusquely back into the man’s coat pockets, warning him to keep quiet about what had happened. The Skull released his grip from the man’s throat and he took in several quick gulps of air. His attackers left him disheveled and sitting on the toilet bowl.

Back in the lounge, Bromovitch had the Skull page Graham once more. It was 5:29 P.M. The three circled the lounge watching people filing through customs and into the waiting area that led to the planes and the London flight. But Graham did not appear to be with them. Bromovitch decided they should wait another twenty minutes.

At six Graham left the art gallery and drove to Johannesgasse in the city center. He locked his gear in the trunk, caught a trolley car to the thirteenth-century St. Stephen’s Church, and headed for the roof restaurant Haus Haus, which gave a fine view of the church. After spending an hour and a half over a light meal, he returned to his car and drove to the train station. It took him time to find a parking space, and when he got to the ticket booth it was too late to buy a first-class ticket to Paris.

He settled for the second-class couchette. It wasn’t private, but it would have to do for the eighteen-hour trip.

Looking cautiously around at the faces of people scurrying for the train, the Australian moved briskly onto the platform and stepped on the train at the nearest doorway. As he began to wend his way down the narrow passageway past other passengers to his couchette, he kept looking down at the people on the platform. Graham’s skin prickled as he noticed a tall man wearing a light gray overcoat and hat. He seemed to be paying careful attention to people running for the train. The Australian looked away and kept moving. He found his couchette, threw his valise on the bottom bunk and slumped back into it. Several people were moving past, checking the numbers of the couchettes. Graham was relieved that it appeared no one was going to join him.

Just as the train began to pull out of the station a man moved past the open door of the couchette and fleetingly locked eyes with Graham as he did so. It was the man who moments earlier had been checking the passengers from the platform.

The Australian stayed in his couchette for an hour before wandering down to the dining car. Many people were seated taking meals. Several men and women sat on stools at a bar with a large mirror behind it. The Australian immediately noticed that one man at the bar with his back to him had an unusually bony bald head, similar to the description given to him by Frau Schiller at the hotel in Vienna. The man had a hat and a light overcoat over his knee. He was the only person there not making conversation.

Graham kept an eye on the bar as he sat down at a table next to a middle-aged couple and a young woman. He was facing the bar and could see the reflection of the bald man’s face.

The Australian looked around and noticed someone at an opposite table looking at him. It was the man he had seen on the platform and had later exchanged glances with from the couchette.

Graham was nervous. His first instincts were to leave the dining car. But before he had made up his mind to go, a waiter was asking him for his order. He asked for a sandwich and a beer. His English drew glances from several people, including the man opposite. The waiter had stood in a line between the man at the bar and Graham. After the waiter had taken the order and moved away, the man at the bar went out of the dining car.

Half an hour later Graham had almost finished his meal when the couple next to him left the table, leaving him with the girl. The Australian wanted to stay in the dining car as long as possible. He felt a little more secure there with so many people about. The man opposite him had almost finished his meal and was drinking coffee.

“Going to Paris?” Graham asked the girl sitting in front of him, mustering as much charm as possible.

“Oui,” she replied, surprised at being spoken to.

“You are French?”

“Yes.” The girl smiled faintly. Graham was relieved. She didn’t appear to mind making conversation.

“Have you been on holiday in Vienna?”

“Holiday and business.”

“You are a model?” Graham said, keeping up the small talk by asking the obvious. The girl was tall, beautifully dressed and groomed, with a lavish amount of make-up which accentuated the hollow, angular structure of her face.

She nodded. The conversation continued with the girl opening up a little to Graham about her rich Austrian boyfriend in Vienna who had put her up for the past week at the opulent Hotel Sasher and shown her the sights.

The dining car crowd began to thin out. Still the man opposite the Australian lingered, ordering a second cup of coffee and a cognac. Graham decided to stay there as long as he could. He ordered an expensive wine and two glasses, and pretended to turn more of his attention to the girl.

As midnight approached the bar began to close down and the man opposite moved off. Graham walked the girl to her couchette, trying to keep the conversation going at her door while lightning flashed from a violent storm that had hit Austria and promised to be with the train most of the night journey to France. He began to think it would be safer to stay the night with her, but it became obvious that she was not prepared to let him in.

“Will you be staying in Paris?” she asked, sliding the couchette door across.

“Possibly.”

She fumbled for a card in her handbag. “If you do, please phone me,” she said, handing him a card. They shook hands.

As Graham moved off, he heard the click of the couchette door lock behind him.

Two carriages away the Skull waited.

After Graham had failed to turn up at the airport, Bromovitch had left his other man there in case the Australian should try to get on any later flight. Then he drove back to the city with the Skull and ordered him to check the trains. Bromovitch went back to the hotel where Graham had been staying.

The Skull had arrived twenty minutes before the Paris train was due to leave and had waited for Graham on the platform. He had not seen the Australian get on, but caught the train just in case he had missed him.

After arranging a couchette with the porter, the Skull had sidled down to the dining car, and had sat with his back to the diners, watching them in the mirror.

When Graham came in, the Skull was alerted. He fitted the description better than the Italian at the airport. His suspicions were confirmed when he overheard Graham speaking in English to the waiter.

The Skull left the dining car and made his way to the porter’s cabin.

“Good evening,” he said in German to the porter, who was writing down the numbers of the passports he had collected in the first hour of the journey. “I was wondering if you could tell me the couchette number of a friend. We have missed each other.”

“His name?”

“Edwin Graham. He is Australian.”

The porter spent some time sifting through passports until he came to one with a dark blue cover and Kangaroo and Emu emblem. “Number ninety,” he said.

Graham felt a real sensation of fear as he made his way along the carriages to his couchette. If anything happened there was no place to run and hide. He felt claustrophobic.

The Australian entered his couchette cautiously and was pleased to find it still empty. He drew the blinds, switched on the light, and then sat back on his bunk to calm himself. The second-class shared couchettes could not be locked. If someone on the train was after him he could force his way in. He had to do something.

Pulling all the spare blankets and pillows off other bunks, Graham arranged them on the bottom left bunk to make them look like someone sleeping. He switched off the light, hoisted himself onto the top bunk and slid around into the luggage rack above the door. Making do with a remaining pillow and blanket, he made himself as comfortable as possible in the tight space.

From his elevated position Graham could see through a window along the length of the carriage corridor. He was determined to keep vigil until dawn.

At 2:30 A.M. the train began to slow down for the first stop of the journey. At the stop Graham could hear doors slamming and he strained hard to see anyone getting into his carriage. Few people seemed to have embarked.

Minutes later he noticed a man standing at the end of the corridor. He didn’t move for five minutes. Then he walked slowly up to the couchette next to Graham’s. The Australian froze. It was too late to run.

The man seemed to stand there for an eternity. After about twenty minutes he took a pace forward. Graham could feel his heart pound as he watched the man move up to his couchette. He desperately wanted something to defend himself with. His hand touched the bronze buckle of his belt. He unbuckled it. He could see the figure standing there, rigidly, a foot away from the door.

Graham tugged at the belt. It was tight within his trouser loops. Because of his awkward position it couldn’t come out easily. The man began to slide the door across. It was the tall overcoated figure of the Skull. He trained a gun on what looked like a body on the bottom bunk just as Graham freed his belt completely. The man stepped right into the couchette and pulled back the covering on the bunk. Before he could act on the deception Graham had looped the belt through the buckle to form a large noose. In one swift movement he leaned out from the luggage rack and dropped the noose around the intruder’s head and neck, whipping it tight. The Skull fell back against the half-open door and pulled against the force of the belt. His gun fell to the floor. Graham was lurched half out of the luggage rack, but hung onto the belt with all his strength. The Skull jerked his body in every direction as he clawed at the belt. Graham was hauled from the rack. He landed on his feet and still gripped the belt as he slipped behind the Skull and brought a knee up into the base of the man’s spine. The man’s torso snapped upward, almost knocking Graham over. But it was almost a reflex action, as the Australian had not let up the pressure on the belt.

Thirty seconds later, he felt the Skull go limp as a rag doll. Graham gripped tighter and tighter, until he could feel sweat on his brow and pain in his forearms. He let the body slump to the floor. Contorted and grotesque, it twitched as if reluctant to expire. Graham fell back on the left bunk, his breathing shallow and quick. His whole body was shaking. It must have been five minutes before he began to open and close his hands to flex the strained arm muscles. He got to his feet and caught the smell of the body. He dry-retched as he shut the door, drew the couchette blinds and switched on the light.

“Oh, Christ!” he breathed, as he looked down at the KGB agent. His only movement now was a large red and frothing tongue that gave a few involuntary flicks.

Graham switched off the light. He tried to think calmly. His first rational thought was the storm outside. At least it was unlikely that anyone had heard their struggle. But what should he do now? He switched on the light once more and looked around the couchette. He had to clean it up. The train began to rumble on its way again. Graham pulled the belt away from the man’s neck. He started with shock as a trickle of blood bubbled beneath the Adam’s apple.

Looking around, he grabbed a towel from his suitcase and applied a crude tourniquet around the neck to stop the flow of blood which had begun to move in little rivulets down to the chest. He struggled to lift the body. With some effort, he propped it on the ladder to the top bunk, and then maneuvered it up so that the torso lay on the bunk and the legs dangled over the side.

He tried the window. Rain swept in as he opened it a maximum of two feet. He pushed the legs so that the feet stuck out. Keeping his shoulders under the man’s body, he gradually slid it out of the window. It fell like a sack of potatoes. Graham threw the gun and the towel after it, then took his gear to the washroom three doors away. He washed himself and cleaned his belt, on which tiny spots of blood had congealed.

Graham returned to his couchette exhausted and still sweating. He resumed his uncomfortable vigil from the luggage rack.

Outside the storm had subsided. The steady beat of the wheels could be heard for the first time on the journey as the train sped on its way.

Just before dawn Graham was disturbed again, but this time it was the porter returning passports for the coming routine inspection at the German—Belgian border.

“Did your friend see you?” the porter asked as he handed the Australian his passport. Graham was shocked.

“No,” he said, almost too quickly, as he tried to act surprised. The porter shrugged and left.

At the border an old Belgian couple joined his couchette for the journey to France. Graham sat quietly on a top bunk as daylight broke and worried through every possibility. How long before the body on the track was discovered? The porter must have been asked where Graham’s couchette was…. Would that Russian still be after him?

At Paris’s Gare du Nord he taxied straight to Charles de Gaulle airport and waited two hours for a standby flight to London, arriving at Heathrow midafternoon.

Although fatigued, the Australian decided to waste no time in going underground. He rented a furnished apartment with a lock-up garage he knew at Strand-on-the-Green overlooking the Thames, and loaded his Alfa with files, clothes and other effects he would need for an indefinite stay. After informing his kindly old Cockney porter that he would be gone for some time, he drove to the apartment, which was in a quiet suburban area.

It would be a strange new life. For how long, Graham had no idea. But for the moment he was on the run.