The captain might have been reluctant to risk his ship to pick up prisoners, but nothing else seemed to bother him. He took the submarine north and snaked her through a narrow and little-used channel just north of Tagarsson Island. Clear of coastal waters and Russland patrols, he ordered flank speed, and the submarine raced out across the Nord Sea. The turbines whined, the decks vibrated, and things not fastened down crept across tables and decks.

The mad rush took them across the Nord Sea in fourteen hours, but that wasn't fast enough for the courier. He regained consciousness once, long enough to know where he was and to hear Blade tell him of the destroyer's sinking. That made him smile in deep satisfaction-three hundred or more Russland sailors gone in return for his wife. It wasn't enough to save him. An hour later he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

The submarine pushed on, eventually surfacing five miles off Whitby. Then a helicopter was called, and the courier and Blade were loaded aboard it and flown to a hospital.

The courier was dead when they took him from the helicopter.

R wasted no time. He arrived to debrief Blade only three hours after the courier's death. Blade found himself whisked off to a «secure» room and kept there for the next twelve hours. Blade kept going-he was determined not to let a man so much older than he was outlast him. Besides, he was used to such exhausting debriefings. J's fondness for Blade had never let him be easy on the younger man in professional matters. R was a man cast in the same mold.

After Blade had finished telling every detail of his mission at least five times, R called an end to the debriefing and ordered in a meal. Blade went through the steak-and-kidney pie, grilled mutton chop, Brussels sprouts, and gooseberry tart with cream as if he were eating his last meal. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair, full, content, relaxed, and quite ready for anything else that R might throw at him.

R pulled out cigars, offered Blade one, then lit one for himself. After a few puffs he fixed Blade appraisingly with his one eye.

«I was under the impression we'd handed you a fairly straightforward mission, Mr. Blade.» He seemed to be expecting a reply.

Blade nodded. «I was under that impression too.» He matched R stare for stare. «I don't think I can be held responsible for the complications, though.» His omitting «Sir» was deliberate. It was high time to learn a few things from R. Not what Special Operations already knew about Richard Blade-that would always be out of reach. But he might learn something about what they were planning on doing with Richard Blade in the future.

«Not for the complications that actually took place, perhaps,» said R. «But what about your bringing out the courier? What about your request that the submarine try to pickup survivors from the destroyer?»

They'd been over these points before. Blade knew that, and he also knew that R knew it. Presumably R had some particular purpose in pushing the matter. That didn't make it any less annoying, and Blade didn't see any reason to go on concealing his annoyance. He didn't have to give the impression that he would tolerate being treated like a child. So when he spoke, his voice was clipped and as chilly as liquid oxygen.

«We've been over that several times, sir.. I doubt if there's any profit or purpose in doing it again. The courier stated in plain English that the network in Nordsbergen had been blown. It seemed likely that he might be able to give useful information on how this had happened.»

«Why not interrogate him yourself?»

Blade realized that R was asking the question in perfect seriousness. «As it happened, it was impossible. We had too many-ah, unexpected visitors, of one sort or another.» The phrase drew a thin smile from R. «Even if we hadn't been busy fighting, I would have preferred to bring him out. It would have been better to have him interrogated by someone who knew more than I did about the background of Imperial intelligence operations in Nordsbergen.»

«Such as myself?» said R.

Blade nodded. «In any case, the courier was hit. I could have tried to take a prisoner from among the Russland wounded, but I don't think any of them were in much better shape than the courier. That would have also meant leaving the courier behind. I wouldn't do that.»

«And the destroyer's survivors?»

«The average deckhand probably wouldn't know why his ship was where it was. But an officer who knew something more might have survived. It seemed worth investigating.»

«Not to the submarine captain, though.»

«No, not to him. I'm not sure either of us was really in the right or in the wrong. We had different missions, and so we thought along different lines.»

«You think the submarine had something to do other than deliver you and pick you up?»

There was nothing in R's voice to give a clue to anyone less perceptive than Richard Blade. To Blade, R's polite question blazed like a signal flare, lighting up things that had been in the dark until now.

No, not quite in the dark. For at least six hours out of the past twelve, Blade's intuition had been raising a pointed question. Had his mission been a real one, or-something else? Blade decided that it was time to trust his intuition and put that question to R.

«Yes. I think the submarine's mission was the real one, and I was being sent ashore as part of a diversionary operation. I rather imagine that what the courier died bringing out was a fake, while the real material came out by some other route.» Blade kept his voice neutral. He was too experienced an intelligence professional to get indignant over this sort of deception, although he'd never liked it and never would.

«What was the submarine's mission, in that case?»

«I imagine it had something to do with the device they tested successfully against the destroyer. From what I saw, I suppose it was a high-speed decoy that would match the acoustic and sonar profile of the submarine. They launched it, waited until the destroyer dashed off after it, then fired a high-speed acoustic torpedo straight up its stern.»

There was a long silence in the room while R stubbed out his cigar and lit another one. Then he smiled. «The Imperial Navy wouldn't be at all happy to learn how easily you guessed what they were doing.»

«And you?»

«I'm entirely happy with practically everything you've done or said. You acquitted yourself extremely well. Agents with ten years' experience have done much less well in the face of considerably weaker odds. You've obviously got a great natural aptitude for this sort of work.»

«Thank you, sir.»

«Don't thank me for my good opinion of you until you've seen what it will lead to. You'll be assigned as an Independent Operations Specialist. That means one lonely assignment after another, usually deep in enemy territory. You'll go out on those assignments, one after another, until you start losing your edge or the Red Flames kill you. You won't be finding much pleasure in life.»

«I didn't expect that I was being invited to a year-long party,» said Blade with an edge in his voice. «I expected a great deal of dangerous work, and perhaps a short life. I also expected that it would be of some service to the Empire.»

«My apologies,» said R, and he seemed to be speaking sincerely. He reached into another drawer of his desk and pulled out a decanter of whiskey, a soda-water syphon, and two glasses. «I've said it before, Captain Blade, but I think I can properly say it again. Welcome to Special Operations.»

«Thank you, sir,» said Blade. «Captain?»

«You need military rank, otherwise you'll be neither fish nor flesh nor fowl to the more orthodox military types. Captain isn't really high enough, but it's as high as I can get approved for somebody of your rather modest seniority.