beaked nose. Looks more Jew ish than British, come to think of it.
Which is ridiculous because Judaism isn't a nationality and Britishness
isn't a religion-although the adherents of both sometimes treat them as
such'I say there,' the intruder said, quickly scanning the room,
'Stern's my name. I'm terribly sorry. Can't seem to find my berth.'
'What's the number?' Natterman asked warily.
Sixteen, just like it says on the door here.' Stern held out a k.
-e y.
Natterman examined it. 'Right number,' he said. 'Wrong car, though.
You want second class, next car back.'
Stern took the key back quickly. 'Why, you're right.
Thanks, old boy. I'll find it.'
'No trouble.' Natterman scrutinized the visitor as he backed out of the
cabin. 'You know, I thought I'd locked that door,' he said.
'Don't think it was, really,' Stern replied. 'Just gave it a shove and
it opened right up.'
'Your key fit?'
'It went in. Who knows? They always use the oldest trains on the
Berlin run. One key probably opens half the doors on the train.' Stern
laughed. 'Sorry again.'
For an instant the tanned stranger's face came alive with urgent
purpose, so that it matched his eyes, which were bright and intense.
It was as if a party mask had accidentally slipped before midnight.
Stern seemed on the verge of saying something; then his lips broadened
into a sheepish grin and he backed out of the compartment and shut the
door.
Puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable, Natterman sat down again.
An accident? That fellow didn't seem like the type to mix up his
sleeping arrangements. Not one bit.
And something about him looked familiar. Not his face ...
but his carriage. The loose, ready stance. He'd been unseasonably
tanned for Berlin. Impossibly tanned, in fact.
Retrieving Dr. Rees's book from beneath the seat cushion, the professor
tapped it nervously against his leg. A soldier, he thought suddenly.
Natterman would have bet a year's salary that the man who had stumbled
into his compartment was an ex-soldier. And an Englishman, he thought,
feeling his heart race. Or at least a man who had lived among the
English long enough to imitate their accent to per c n. Na
.fe tio tterman
didn't like the arithmetic of that 'accident' at all if he was right.
Not at all.
10.04 Pm. mI-5 Headquarters: Charles Street, London, England Deputy
Director Wilson knocked softly at Sir Neville Shaw's door, then opened
it and padded onto the deep carpet of the director general's office.
Shaw sat at his desk beneath the green glow of a banker's lamp. He took
no notice of the intrusion; he continued to pore over a thick, dog-eared
file on the desk before him.
'Sir Neville?' Wilson said.
Shaw did not look up. 'What is it? Your hard boys arrived?' '
'No, sir. It's something else. A bit rum, actually.
Sir Neville looked up at last. 'Well?'
'It's Israeli Intelligence, sir. The head of the Mossad, as a matter of
fact. He's sent us a letter.'
Shaw blinked. 'So?'
'Well, it's rather extraordinary, sir.'
'Damn it, Wilson, how so?'
'The letter is countersigned by the Israeli prime minister.
It was hand-delivered by courier.'
'What?' Sir Neville sat up. 'What in God's name is it about?'
His ruddy face slowly tightened in dread. 'Not Hess?'
Wilson quickly shook his head. 'No, sir. It's about an old
intelligence hand of theirs. Chap named Stern. Seems he's been holed
up in the Negev for the past dozen years, but a couple of days ago he
quietly slipped his leash.'
Shaw looked exasperated. 'I don't see what the devil that's got to do
with us.'
'The Israelis-their prime minister, lather-seem to think we might still
hold a grudge against this fellow. That there might be a standing order
of some type on him. A liquidation order.'
'That's preposterous!' Shaw bellowed. 'After all this time?'
The deputy director smiled with forbearance. 'It's not so preposterous,
Sir Neville. Our own Special Forces Clubwhich the Queen still visits
occasionally, I'm proud to say still refuses to accept Israeli members.
They welcome elite troops from almost every democratic nation in the
world, even the bloody Germans. Everyone but the Israelis, and they're
probably the best of the lot. And all because the older agents still
hold a grudge for the murder of an SAS man by Zionists during the
mandate.' 'Just a minute,' Shaw interrupted.
'Stern, you said?'
'Yes, sir. Jonas Stern. I pulled his file.'
'Jonas Stern,' Shaw murmured. 'By God, the Israelis ought to be
concerned. One of our people has been after that old guerilla for
better than thirty years.'
Wilson looked surprised. 'One of our agents, sir?'
'Retired,' Shaw explained. 'A woman, actually. Code name Swallow. A
real harpy. You'd better pull her file, in fact. Just in case she's
still got her eye on this fellow.' Shaw nodded thoughtfully. 'I
remember Stern. He was a terrorist during the Mandate, not even twenty
at the time, I'll bet. He swallowed his vinegar and fought for us
during the war. It was the only way he could get at Hitler, I suppose.
Did a spot of sticky business for us in Germany, as I recall.'
Wilson looked at Shaw in wonder. 'That's exactly what it says in the
file!'
'Yes,' Shaw remembered, 'he worked for LAKAM during the 'sixties and
'seventies, didn't he? Safeguarding Israel's nuclear development
program.' Shaw smiled at his deputy's astonishment. 'No strings or
mirrors, Wilson. Stern was a talented agent, but the reason I remember
him so clearly is because of this Swallow business. I think she
actually tried to assassinate him a couple of times. That's why the
