Jonathan walked on slowly, rolling the leaf pulp between his palms. "I'm curious, padre..."

"The sign of a healthy intellect."

"After hitting that man in my john, your men left. They didn't try to put the hand on me then, presumably because they didn't yet have the photographs."

"Just so."

"Why did they come back later?"

"To pick up the cigarette lighter and develop the film. Miss Coyne was supposed to leave it behind."

"But she didn't."

"No, she did not. And that threw my chaps into some confusion."

"Why do you suppose she broke the plan?"

"Ah." The Vicar lifted his hands and let them fall in a gesture of helplessness. "Who can probe the human heart with only the brutish tools of logic, eh, Dr. Hemlock? She was shocked perhaps by the sight of that poor fellow in your bathroom? It is even possible that some affection for you misdirected her loyalties."

"In that case, why didn't she destroy the films?"

"Ah, there you go. Asking for sequential logic in the workings of emotion. Man is nothing if not labyrinthine. And when I say 'man' I include, of course, woman. For in this context, as in the romantic one, man embraces woman. I shall never understand why Americans doubt the Briton's sense of humor."

Jonathan could. "So your men were running around London looking for both Miss Coyne and me."

"You gave us a few difficult hours. But all that is behind us now. But come now! Let's not look on the gloomy side. Provided you lend your skills to our little project, the police will be allowed to remain in that state of blissful ignorance so characteristic of them." The Vicar stopped beside a fresh grave that did not yet have a headstone. "That's poor Parnell-Greene," he said, sighing deeply, "unfortunate fellow."

"Who's Parnell-Greene?"

"Our most recent casualty. You'll learn more about him later." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "All of them here," he said, his voice resonant and wavering, "they're all ours. All Loo people."

Jonathan glanced at the inscriptions on nearby stones, just legible in the fading light. Passed into the greater life. Went to sleep. Returned home. Found everlasting glory.

"Didn't any of them die?" he asked.

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing."

"The names and dates on the stones are false, of course. But they're all our brave lads." He sighed stentoriously. "Good youngsters, every one."

"No shit?"

The Vicar stared at him with reproof, then he laughed. "Ah, yes! Mr. Dragon warned me of your tendency to revert to the social atavism of your boyhood. It used to pain him, or so he said."

"You seem to be on good terms with Dragon."

"We correspond regularly, share information and personnel, that sort of thing. Does that surprise you? We also have arrangements with our Russian and French counterparts. After all, every game must be played by certain rules. But I must admit that Mr. Dragon was not of much help in the matter now before us, occupied as he is with the dire events on his own doorstep. No doubt you have heard about this Watergate business?"

"Oddly enough, it was mentioned just today at the Embassy. It seems to me to be a lot of fuss over a trivial and incompetent bit of spy-spy."

"One would think so, but it can't be all that trivial if CII has been brought in on it. The affair evidently requires fairly heavy hushing up, and Mr. Dragon is involved in that side of it. I shouldn't be surprised if the statistics on death by accident showed an unaccountable rise over the next month or so. But I take it from your distant expression that you are not overly concerned with this election."

"It's difficult to get excited when the choice is between a fool and a villain."

"Personally, I prefer villains. They are more predictable." The Vicar winked vigorously.

"So it was Dragon who put you onto me?"

"Yes. We knew, of course, that you were in the country, but we had been informed that you had retired from our line of work, so we did not interfere with your visit. At that time we had no intention of using you. There is nothing more dangerous than an unwilling and uncooperative active. But. This business came along and..." The Vicar blew out his broad cheeks and shrugged fatalistically. "...we had no other option, really."

"But why me? Why not one of your own people?"

"You will learn that in due course. Lovely evening, isn't it? That precious moment when day and night are in delicate balance."

Jonathan knew he was hooked. If he refused to cooperate, Loo would certainly hang him for the murder of that poor bastard on the toilet, even though it would make his services unavailable. Like CII, Loo realized that threats and blackmail were effective only if the mark was sure that the threat would be carried out at all cost.

"All right," Jonathan said, sitting on a grave marker, "let's talk about it."

"Not just now. I'm awaiting some last odd bits of information from London. Once I have them, I shall be able to put you totally into the picture. Shall I see you at the rectory tomorrow? Say, midmorning?"

The Vicar made a simple gesture with his fingertips and Yank, who had been keeping them under close surveillance, straining his eyes in the gloom, came trotting over. Literally trotting.

As he ascended the narrow stairs to the second floor of the inn, Jonathan stepped aside to allow Maggie to pass on her way down. She paused and looked at him with troubled eyes. "I suppose it would sound a little foolish to say I'm sorry?"

"Foolish certainly. And inadequate."

She brushed back a wisp of amber hair and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him. "I'll run the risk, then, of being foolish."

"Come on," The Sergeant growled from behind, "I don't have all night to stand about!"

Jonathan turned to him and smiled his gentle combat smile. He beckoned him closer and spoke softly into the bland moon face with its shaved head and crisp military moustache. "You know something? I am becoming very annoyed with everything that's happening here. And I have this conviction that my annoyance is eventually going to purge itself on you. And when it does..." Jonathan grinned and nodded. "...and when it does..." He patted The Sergeant's cheek. Then he turned away and went up to his room.

The Sergeant, not sure what had just happened, scratched the patted cheek angrily and mumbled after the retreating figure, "Anytime, yank. Anytime!"

Yank had come to fetch him down to supper in the low-ceilinged, pseudo-Tudor dining room, a recent addition featuring stucco with capricious finger-swirl patterns and pressed plastic wooden beams placed in positions that could not possibly bear weight. There were fewer than a dozen diners served by a Portuguese waiter in an ill-fitting tuxedo who went about his task with great style and flourish that interfered with his efficiency.

Jonathan and Yank occupied a corner table, while The Sergeant sat alone three tables away and occupied himself, when he was not pushing great forkloads of food into his mouth, by glowering at Jonathan with a menacing intensity that was almost comic. Henry, the driver, sat in close conversation with the bird from the reception desk, who often giggled and pressed her knee against his. The rest of the guests were young men stamped from Henry's mold: longish hair, beefy faces, dark suits with flared jackets, and belled trousers.

"I see that Miss Coyne hasn't come down to supper," Jonathan said.

"No," Yank said. "She's eating in her room. Not feeling too well."

"A girl of delicate sensitivities."

"I reckon so."

It was a classically English meal: meat boiled until it was stringy, waterlogged potatoes, and the ubiquitous peas and carrots, tasteless and mushy. Directly the edge of his hunger was dulled, Jonathan pushed his plate away.