They reached agreement on the basic points by sundown and elaborated the plan through the night. Only at three in the morning was the car summoned to drive Shannon back to the coast and the airport for take-off on the dawn plane to Paris.

As they parted on the terrace above the waiting car and its sleepy chauffeur, they shook hands again.

“I’ll be in touch, sir,” said Shannon.

“And I’ll have to send my emissaries immediately,” replied the general. “But in sixty days the men will be there.”

Shannon was dead tired. The strain of the constant traveling was beginning to tell; the nights without sleep, the endless succession of airports and hotels, negotiations and meetings, had left him drained. In the car driving to the south he slept for the first time in two days, and dozed again on the plane trip back to Paris. The flight stopped too many tunes to allow a real sleep: an hour at Ouagadougou, another at a godforsaken strip in Mauretania, and again at Marseilles. He reached Le Bourget just before six in the evening. It was the end of Day Fifteen.

While he was landing in Paris, Martin Thorpe was boarding the overnight sleeper train to Glasgow, Stirling, and Perth. From there he could take a connecting train to Dundee, where were situated the old-established offices of Dalgleish and Dalgleish, attorneys-at-law. He carried in his briefcase the document signed before the weekend by Lady Macallister and witnessed by Mrs. Barton, along with the checks issued by the Zwingli Bank of Zurich, four of them, each in the sum of £7500 and each enough to purchase 75,000 of Lady Macallister’s shares in Bormac.

Twenty-four hours, he thought as he drew down the blinds of his first-class sleeping compartment, blotting out the sight of the scurrying on the platform of King’s Cross station. Twenty-four hours should see it through, and they would be home and dry; and three weeks later a new director on the board, a nominee responding to the strings pulled by him and Sir James Manson. Settling himself on the bunk, his briefcase under the pillow, Martin Thorpe gazed up at the ceiling and enjoyed the feeling.

Later that Tuesday evening Shannon was settled into a hotel not far from the Madeleine in the heart of Paris’s 8th arrondissement. He had had to forsake his regular Montmartre hideout, where he was known as Carlo Shannon, because he was now using the name of Keith Brown. But the Plaza-Surene was a good substitute. He had bathed and shaved and was about to go out for dinner. He had telephoned to reserve a table at his favorite eating place in the quarter, the Restaurant Mazagran, and Madame Michele had promised him a filet mignon the way he liked it, with a tossed-lettuce salad by the side and a Pot de Chirouble to wash it down.

The two person-to-person calls he had put in came through almost together. First on the line was a certain M. Lavallon from Marseilles.

“Do you have that shipping agent yet?” asked Shannon when they had exchanged greetings.

“Yes,” said the Corsican. “It’s in Toulon. A very good one, very respectable and efficient. They have their own bonded warehouse on the harbor.”

“Spell it out,” said Shannon. He had pencil and paper ready.

“Agence Maritime Duphot,” spelled Langarotti and dictated the address. “Send the consignments to the agency, clearly marked as the property of Monsieur Langarotti.”

Shannon hung up, and the hotel operator came on the line immediately to say a Mr. Dupree was calling from London.

Shannon dictated the name and address of the Toulon agent to him, letter by letter.

“Fine,” Janni said at length. “I’ve got the first of the four crates ready and bonded here. I’ll tell the London agents to get the stuff on its way as soon as possible. Oh, by the way, I’ve found the boots.”

“Good,” said Shannon, “well done.”

He placed one more call, this time to a bar in Ostend. There was a fifteen-minute delay before Marc’s voice came through.

“I’m in Paris,” said Shannon. “That man with the samples of merchandise I wanted to examine …”

“Yes,” said Marc. “I’ve been in touch. He’s prepared to meet you and discuss prices and terms.”

“Good. I’ll be in Belgium Thursday night or Friday morning. Tell him I propose Friday morning over breakfast in my room at the Holiday Inn near the airport.”

“I know it,” said Marc. “All right, I’ll put it to him and call you back.”

“Call me tomorrow between ten and eleven,” said Shannon and hung up.

Only then did he slip on his jacket and head for a long-awaited dinner to be followed by a long-desired full night’s sleep.

While Shannon slept, Simon Endean also was winging his way southward to Africa on the overnight flight. He had arrived in Paris by the first flight on Monday and taken a taxi immediately to the embassy of Dahomey in the Avenue Victor Hugo. Here he had filled out a lengthy pink form requesting a six-day tourist visa. It was ready for collection just before the closing of the consular office on the Tuesday afternoon, and he had caught the midnight flight to Cotonou via Niamey. Shannon would not have been particularly surprised to know that Endean was going to Africa, for he assumed the exiled Colonel Bobi had to play a part in Sir James Manson’s scheme of things and, that the former commander of the Zangaran army was cooling his heels somewhere along the mangrove coast. But if Endean had known Shannon had just returned from a secret visit to the general in the same area of Africa, it would have quite ruined his sleep aboard the UTA. DC-8 that night, despite the pill he had taken to ensure an uninterrupted slumber.

Marc Vlaminck called Shannon at his hotel at ten-fifteen the next day. “He agrees to the meeting, and he’ll bring the sample,” said the Belgian. “Do you want me to come too?”

“Certainly,” said Shannon. “When you get to the hotel, ask at reception for the room of Mr. Brown. One other thing. Have you bought that truck I asked you to get?”

“Yes, why?”

“Has this gentleman seen it yet?”

There was a pause while Vlaminck thought. “No.”

“Then don’t bring it to Brussels. Hire a car and drive yourself. Pick him up on the way. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Vlaminck, still perplexed. “Anything you say.”

Shannon, who was still in bed but feeling a sight better, rang for breakfast and had his habitual five minutes under the shower, four of them in steaming hot water and sixty seconds under a stream of ice-cold.

The coffee and rolls were on the side table when he emerged. He placed two calls from the bedside phone, to Benny Lambert in Paris and Mr. Stein of Lang and Stein in Luxembourg.

“Have you got that letter for me?” he asked Lambert.

The little crook’s voice sounded strained. “Yes. I got it yesterday. Luckily my contact was on duty on Monday, and I saw him that night. He produced the letter of introduction yesterday evening. When do you want it?”

“This afternoon,” said Shannon.

“All right. Have you got my fee?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it right here.”

“Then come to my place about three,” said Lambert.

Shannon thought for a moment. “No, I’ll meet you here,” he said and gave Lambert the name of his hotel. He preferred to meet the little man in a public place. Rather to his surprise, Lambert agreed to come to the hotel with what sounded like elation in his voice. There was something not quite right about this deal, but Shannon could not put his finger on it. He did not realize that he had given the Paris crook the information he would later sell to Roux.

Mr. Stein was engaged on the other phone when the call came, so, rather than wait, Shannon said he would ring back. This he did an hour later.

“About the meeting to launch my holding company, Tyrone Holdings,” he began.

“Ah yes, Mr. Brown,” said Stein’s voice. “Everything is in order. When would you suggest?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” replied Shannon. It was agreed the meeting would be in Stein’s office at three. Shannon got the hotel to reserve a seat on the express from Paris to Luxembourg just after nine the next morning.