Conditions were appalling, heavy rain and thunderstorms, and the kind of turbulence that threatened to break the plane up. Several hundred aircrew had died making this run over the past couple of years, Campbell knew that. It was probably the most hazardous flying duty in the RAF or the USAF. He wondered what persuaded men to volunteer for such work and while thinking about it, actually managed some sleep, only surfacing as they came into their Assam destination to refuel.

The onward trip to Delhi was another eleven hundred miles and a completely different proposition. Blue skies, considerable heat, and no wind to speak of. The Dakota coasted along at ten thousand feet and Caine, leaving the flying to Giffard, came back and tried to get a couple of hours' sleep.

Campbell dozed again and came awake to find the wireless operator shaking Caine by the shoulder. "Delhi in fifteen minutes, Skipper."

Caine got up, yawning. He grinned at Campbell. "Piece of cake this leg, isn't it?"

As he turned away there was an explosion. Pieces of metal flew off the port engine, there was thick black smoke, and as the propeller stopped turning, the Dakota banked and dived steeply, throwing Caine off his feet.

Campbell was hurled against the bulkhead behind with such force that he was almost knocked senseless. The result was that he couldn't really take in what was happening. There was a kind of nightmare as if the world was breaking up around him, the impact of the crash, the smell of burning and someone screaming.

He was aware of being in water, managed to focus his eyes, and found himself being dragged through a paddy field by a wild-eyed Tanner, blood on his face. The Corporal heaved him onto a dyke, then turned and hurried back, knee-deep in water, to the Dakota which was burning fiercely now. When he was halfway there, it blew up with a tremendous explosion.

Debris cascaded everywhere and Tanner turned and came back wearily. He eased the Major higher on the dyke and found a tin of cigarettes. His hand shook as he lit one.

"Are we hit?" Campbell managed to croak.

"So it would appear, Laird."

"Dear God." Campbell's hands moved over his chest. "The Bible," he whispered.

"Dinna fash yourself, Laird, I'll hold it safe for you."

Tanner took it from the map pocket and then all sounds faded for Campbell, all color, nothing now but quiet darkness.

In Chungking, Mountbatten and Stillwell were examining on the map the relentless progress of the advancing Japanese, who had already overrun most of the Allied airfields in eastern China.

"I thought we were supposed to be winning the war," Stillwell said.

Mountbatten smiled ruefully. "So did I."

Behind him, the door opened and an aide entered with a signal flimsy. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but this is from Delhi-marked urgent."

Mountbatten read it then swore softly. "All right, you can go."

"The aide went out. Stillwell said, "Bad news."

"The Dakota Campbell was traveling in lost an engine and crashed just outside Delhi. It fireballed after landing. By all accounts, the documents and my dispatches went with it."

"Is Campbell dead?"

"No, that Corporal of his managed to get him out. All the crew were killed. It seems Campbell received a serious head injury. He's in a coma."

"Let's hope he hangs in there," Stillwell said. "Anyway, something of a setback for you, your Chungking Covenant going up in flames. What will you do? Try to get Mao to sign another one?"

"I doubt if I'll ever get close enough to him again. It was always an anything-is-better-than-nothing situation. I didn't really expect much to come out of it. Anyway, in my experience, Chinese seldom give you a second bite at the cherry."

"I agree," Stillwell said. "In any case, the wily old bastard is probably already regretting putting his signature to that thing. But what about his supplies?"

"Oh, we'll see he gets those because I want him actively on our side taking on the Japanese. The Hong Kong business was never serious, Joe. I thought we ought to get something out of the deal if we could, and the Hong Kong thing was all that the Prime Minister and I could come up with. Not that it matters now, we've got far more serious things to consider." He walked back to the wall map. "Now show me exactly where those Japanese forward units are."

1993 LONDON

Norah Bell got out of the taxi close to St. James's Stairs on Wapping High Street. She paid off the cab driver and walked away, a small, hippy, dark-haired girl in leather jacket, tight black mini skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots. She walked well with a sort of total movement of the whole body. The cab driver watched her put up her umbrella against the heavy rain, sighed deeply, and drove away.

She paused on the first corner and bought an Evening Standard. The front page was concerned with only one thing, the arrival of the American President in London that day to meet with both the Israeli and British Prime Ministers, to discuss developments in the Palestinian situation. She folded the newspaper, put it under her left arm, and turned the corner of the next street, walking down toward the Thames.

The youth standing in a doorway opposite was perhaps eighteen and wore lace-up boots, jeans, and shabby bomber jacket. With the ring in his left nostril and the swastika tattooed on his forehead, he was typical of a certain type of gang animal that roamed the city streets in search of prey. She looked easy meat and he went after her quickly, only running in at the last minute to grab her from behind, one hand over her mouth. She didn't struggle, went completely still which should have told him something, but by then he was beyond reason, charged with the wrong kind of sexual excitement.

"Just do as you're told," he said, "and I won't hurt you."

He urged her into the porch of a long-disused warehouse, pushing against her. She said, "No need to be rough."

To his amazement she kissed him, her tongue flickering in his mouth. He couldn't believe his luck and, still clutching her umbrella, she moved her other hand down between them, brushing against his hardness.

"Jesus," he moaned and kissed her again, aware that her hand seemed to be easing up her skirt.

She found what she was looking for, the flick knife tucked into the top of her right stocking. It came up, the blade jumped, and she sliced open the left side of his face from the corner of the eye to the chin.

He screamed, falling back. She said calmly, putting the point under his chin, "Do you want some more?"

He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. "No, for God's sake, no!"

She wiped the blade on his jacket. "Then go away."

He moved out into the rain, then turned, holding a handkerchief to his face. "Bitch! I'll get you for this."

"No you won't." Her accent was unmistakably Ulster Irish. "You'll find the nearest casualty department as fast as you can, get yourself stitched up, and put the whole thing down to experience."

She watched him go, closed the knife, slipping it back in the top of the stocking, then she turned and continued down toward the Thames, moving along the waterfront, finally pausing at an old warehouse.

There was a Judas gate in the main entrance, she opened it and went in. It was a place of shadows, but at the far end there was a glass office with a light in it. It was reached by a flight of wooden stairs. As she moved toward it, a young, dark-skinned man moved out of the darkness, a Browning Hi-Power in one hand.

"And who might you be?" she asked.

The door of the office was opened and a small man with dark tousled hair wearing a reefer jacket appeared. "Is that you, Norah?"