surrounding London. It passed through several unrecognizable sections of the city. Then Thomas recognized Victoria Station before the Rover turned left and within three more minutes was pulling to a curb in front of a Belgravia townhouse.
Hunter stepped out and quickly unlocked the back door. Thomas stepped from the car and looked into Hunter's drooping eyes.
Thomas held out his captive wrists.
'Are these still necessary?' he asked.
'You don't think I'm letting you run away now, do you?' asked Hunter harshly.
'They weren't necessary at all. But you insisted.'
He took Thomas by the elbow and moved him toward the unmarked front door of a solid sandstone townhouse.
'Come along' Hunter said absently.
Thomas allowed his overcoat to be draped across his wrists.
Hunter pressed a thick finger to a doorbell and the townhouse door opened seconds later.
A plain clothed security guard surveyed them. The guard obviously recognized Hunter. Thomas was led inside as the driver from the Rover carried in his luggage.
They entered a small white rotunda where still another security man stood. A colored institutional portrait of the Queen hung on one side of the round room, a Union Jack stood on a standard on the other side.
Thomas was led down a hallway which was carpeted with thick maroon runners. He recognized that he was within a gracefully aged Edwardian townhouse which had been converted to Government offices of some sort.
Hunter stopped him before a door.
'Now,' asked Thomas's bear shaped keeper, 'you're not going to do something foolish if I unlock you, are you?'
'Certainly not,' said Thomas flatly
'I'm so happy to be here.'
Hunter hardly batted an eye. He unlocked Thomas's wrists and then let Thomas into a small office off the hallway. Thomas's instructions were to sit down and wait, which he did, as Hunter closed Thomas in and stood outside.
Thomas seated himself on a comfortable sofa in a small plain room with no window. The room had an empty wooden desk, an armchair, sound insulation, and a few perfunctory decorations such as the British coat of arms on the wall behind the desk. The room offered very little other than privacy, of which it offered an abundance.
Thomas remained seated as an austere, elegant older man in a dark classically tailored pin-striped suit entered. The man was in his mid seventies but his body was trim and moved easily, giving no indication of its occupant's age. The man's eyes, as he glanced at Thomas Daniels, were sharp, blue, and alive. His hair had resisted grayness and was instead a yellowish white. In earlier years this had obviously been a remarkably handsome man, lean and athletic, a man to whom flabbiness of flesh would have been as repugnant as flabbiness of thought.
His movements were epicene. He offered his hand to Thomas.
'I'm Peter Whiteside,' he said.
'Did you enjoy your trip?'
They shook hands. Thomas was still cautious.
'From Switzerland to London? Or from the airport to here?'
'No matter. Either.' Whiteside sat in the armchair and studied the younger man. He sat with his legs crossed and both hands on the top knee.
'Was that your gorilla who picked me up?' asked Thomas.
'That's not very kind of you at all,' said Whiteside, 'attributing bestial characteristics to my associate, Mr. Hunter.'
'Why am I here?' Thomas asked.
'Because you wanted to be,' laughed Whiteside.
'Good God, man, you were in Devon a few days ago asking leading questions, badgering the hall of records and trying to scare up the dead. Now don't tell me you don't want to be here where you can ask questions about Arthur Sandler and Leslie McAdam.'
'Then let's begin,' said Thomas.
'I don't like being held prisoner.'
'You're not.'
'I'm not under arrest?'
'You're free to leave at any time,' said Whiteside.
'There's the door. I'll escort you to the street if you prefer.'
Thomas studied the door and wondered if he sensed a trick.
'However,' said Whiteside, 'you'll find it rewarding to stay. We can have a most interesting conversation.'
'All right,' said Thomas. He settled back on the sofa.
'Intriguing,' said Whiteside absently.
'How something like this crops up after twenty-some years.'
'Excuse me?'
Whiteside's gaze shot back to Thomas.
'I'm retired, Mt. Daniels,' he said.
'As far as the Foreign Office is concerned, I don't even exist anymore.
But this Sandler-McAdam problem was in my lap back in 1954. Nasty problem, really, though I don't expect that you know the half of it yet. My 'section,' shall we call it, was within M.I. Six and linked with the Chancellery of the Exchecquer. Or Treasury, as you'd term it.'
'Money, in any language 'Currency if you like,' said Whiteside.
'That's how I became involved with Arthur Sandler.'
'Currency manipulations again?'
Whiteside smiled.
'You are a barrister, aren't you? The incisive question quickly and succinctly. No matter. You'll have a few of your answers presently.'
The smile disappeared.
'The trouble is, sir, for you, there will be other questions. Maybe you'll help us with those ' Thomas opened his hands to indicate that he had no idea of what Whiteside was speaking.
'Ah, yes' Whiteside continued, 'you're owed a few explanations.
Shall we start with Arthur Sandler?'
'I'd love to.'
'You know him as an industrialist and a financier, I would think' said Whiteside.
'And with a bit of chemistry added in. Correct?'
'Reasonably correct ' 'Ah, yes. Some of the espionage nonsense, too.
You know about that' ' Thomas nodded.
'What you don't know about is Sandler's greatest singular skill.
The nice word for it is engraving.'
'Engraving?'
'And the not-so-nice word for it is forgery. Or counterfeiting, if you prefer.'
Thomas offered no reply. He merely sat there in puzzlement until Whiteside spoke again. He studied the intense acerbic man in front of him, a man with a Latin teacher's face and voice combined with the crisp assurance of a major in infantry.
'Daniels, either you're an actor of inordinate skills or you know nothing about this. In either event, I assume you would like to hear more' 'I ' would.'
'Have you ever heard of Operation Bernhard?'
The two shrewd eyes watched Thomas as he thought. Thomas shook his head.
'What about Sachsenhausen? Name mean anything?'
