All he could see was a small frown, making a faint crease in the high, pale forehead. «I thought you had an independent income, Mr. Blade.»

Blade did not snap «Where did you learn that?» but it was a close call. He could not avoid stiffening slightly, however. He had not mentioned one word about his living in their conversation. Elizabeth's question was a definite clue-a nasty one, too.

But he was calm again within seconds. He merely said, «Oh, I do. But the chaps at Consolidated Jute seem to think my father's son is worth something. So I go into the Production Division's office two or three days a week. Mostly, I've better ways to spend my time. But I do have to make that call.» He gently pulled himself free from her arm and strode across the lobby toward the public phone behind one of the marble columns.

It was virtually impossible that this public phone could be tapped by the opposition, so Blade was not worried about his brief message getting to the wrong ears as he spoke into the phone.

«J-Traveler here. Bodkin falling. Listen.»

In plain English:

«J-this is Richard Blade. I think somebody's trying to entrap me. I'm turning on the homer in my car. Alert the Special Branch men and have them trace it and follow me.» He had no need to worry either about the message not being passed on. Any of his cryptic call-signs would trigger the alarm on J's telephone monitor and have the old spymaster on the move in minutes. The head of the secret intelligence division MI6 had not lived as long or risen as high as he had by letting critical messages slip by him.

Secure in the knowledge that he had alerted the appropriate people, Blade rejoined Elizabeth. His hand found her arm again. This time her hand squeezed back with more warmth than before. Hand in hand, they walked out to the garage where Blade had parked his MG. They climbed in, and Blade started up the engine, then turned to Elizabeth.

«Would you like a cigarette?»

«No, thank you.»

«Mind if I smoke, then?»

«Not at all.»

Blade reached into the breast pocket of his coat for a gold-plated cigarette case and extracted a Benson ith his other hand he reached for the cigarette lighter and shoved it in. As he did so, he also gave it a small twist to the left. With that twist, a solid-state circuit was completed, and the car's electronic tracer went on. Then he lit the cigarette, shoved the lighter back into its socket, and put the car in motion.

By the CMG's odometer, the four miles Elizabeth had mentioned were more like six. They were well out into the southwest corner of London before they stopped. For the last half of the trip they had followed a zigzag course, turning at irregular intervals down dark side streets. It was a course that made no sense at all, unless Elizabeth was trying to shake off any car that might be trailing them. Several times Blade caught her looking intently into the sideview mirror. If Elizabeth was an agent for the opposition, she was a remarkably clumsy one. Or she was a highly skilled agent pretending to be clumsy to catch him off guard. That had happened before. In fact, Blade himself had done it more than once.

Eventually Elizabeth gestured to the middle one of a trio of Victorian townhouses. Once they had been the modestly luxurious residences of city merchants or bankers; now they had fallen, if not exactly on evil days, at least on less prosperous ones. Blade could see peeling paint, unwashed windows, and untended front lawns under the dim streetlamps.

In fact, the lamplight was so dim that Blade was fully alert as they climbed out of the car. The half-dark street and the totally dark alleys could easily hide enough men to ambush a platoon. But they reached the door, climbed the stairs, and entered Elizabeth's third-floor flat without incident. The name on the flat's door was Elizabeth Hruska. A good enough Czech name.

The flat was an ordinary bed-sitter, with the luxury of a modern kitchen-or at least a modern stove-and a halfway modern bath. Elizabeth waved one hand toward the couch by the kitchen door. «Make yourself at home, Mr.-Richard. The brandy is in the cabinet over the refrigerator. I am going to get out of this dress before I roast in it.»

As Elizabeth had suggested, Blade went to the cupboard. The brandy was there, a Czech brand Blade recognized as highly reputable. He poured out two glasses and cautiously sniffed at both of them. Then he quickly scanned the kitchen. There were more places than he could count where a concealed microphone or even a concealed lens might be lurking. He could never search them all, even if he wanted to.

And Blade didn't want to. He didn't want to give any observers the idea that he was a trained professional at this game-which he had been for nearly twenty years. He wanted to let them think he was a fat and unsuspecting fly that had blundered into their web. At least until the time came for them to discover that they had blundered into his. He grinned.

The spider-versus-spider games of espionage had been his life so long that he could hardly help enjoying it.

The kitchen window opened onto a rust-scarred iron fire escape. Blade looked up and down it as far as he could without opening the window. He noticed that the window locked from the inside. That was usual in this neighborhood. But the lock was open-not usual in this neighborhood. With his eyes on the kitchen door, he carefully flipped the lock closed. Anybody coming down the fire escape and expecting an easy entrance through the kitchen window would get a surprise.

Blade picked up the two glasses of brandy, went back into the sitting room, and sat down on the couch. As an afterthought, he took off his coat and tie and unbuttoned the collar of his hand-made silk shirt. He didn't need anything in the coat, since he did not go armed in England. He hardly needed to, in any case-not with a fourth dan black belt in karate.

The sound of bare feet on the carpet made him look up. Elizabeth had indeed taken off her dress, and practically everything else she had been wearing. Now she wore a long, flowing nightdress, with full-length sleeves and a high neck. It did not conceal very much, however, for it was semi-transparent. Blade did not need to imagine what Elizabeth's body was like any longer. It was a full-fleshed East European body, a hearty young peasant girl's body. Large breasts thrust out the fabric of the nightdress, and proportionately large nipples thrust out even farther as the breasts swayed.

Blade rose to his feet and held out his arms as she approached, with a broad grin on his face. He would have worn that grin even if he had not found her attractive. But Blade was a man of large appetites and a large capacity for pleasure. He had never been able to make love in a cool or detached manner.

Elizabeth took his hands, and a smile spread across her face, telling Blade that she knew exactly what was on his mind. He hoped she didn't know what he was really thinking-when would her confederates make their move, if they were going to make one? And what kind of move would it be? Was this just a blackmail effort, or were enemy agents really going to try a body-snatch on him?

Elizabeth was picking up her brandy glass, and Blade decided not to try answering those questions. He took his own glass, raised it to clink with hers, and said, «Cheers.»

She smiled. «To a good night's work,» she said, and giggled. Then she drained the glass at one gulp. Blade considered the nervous note in her giggle and the gulped brandy. She wasn't quite able to keep up the air of cheerful sensuality that she was trying to project-at least not without a quick drink. It was long odds that this girl was an amateur, caught in something far beyond her depth. How and why? Another question he wasn't going to answer now.

Blade emptied his own glass in five deliberate swallows and set it down on the arm of the couch. It was good brandy; he had to admit that. Then his arms rose again, and reached out for Elizabeth.