“Sounds ominous.”

“I assure you it is. But you know the seriousness of it better than I do.”

“How long does all this take?”

“You’re impatient.”

“Of course I’m impatient, damn it.”

“It shouldn’t take terribly long. We can’t expect to make you over. A few basics—and we do need to restore you to first-rate physical condition. Fortunately you seem to have the remains of a good constitution, according to Doctor Wylie. But that sort of training is peripheral at most. Mainly we’ll be acquiring information and improvising our schemes based on that information. My organization is already casting its lines and in a very short time I expect to have dossiers on each of your enemies.”

At the edge of the trees Homer Seidell came in sight. He walked up the driveway with his rolling determined gait.

Vasquez said, “Homer has instructions to be rough with you. Try to remember who your real enemies are. Homer’s a very good man.”

Vasquez turned away, disappearing back into the house. He left Mathieson feeling uneasy.

4

He jogged in tennis shoes and a gray sweat suit with a towel flopping around his neck. Homer Seidell paced him effortlessly and Mathieson was embarrassed by his own puffing and the streaming sweat.

They came around the corner of the fence. It was still a quarter of a mile up to the house and he didn’t think he was going to make it but he was determined to try, if only because of the half-concealed contempt with which Homer had treated him all day.

Momentum and the slight downslope of the driveway were all that kept him from collapse. When he reached the porte cochere he sat on the steps of the porch panting for breath. There was a roaring in his ears.

Homer went bouncing into the house without breaking the rhythm of his stride—up the steps three at a time … Mathieson was still gulping for air when Homer appeared with a bottle of mineral water and two tumblers. He set them down and handed two chalky tablets to Mathieson. They looked like oversized aspirin.

“Salt,” Homer explained. “Take them with the water. But wait till you’ve got your breath.”

It was a while before he could speak. “How far … did we run?”

“About a mile. That’s not running. Man your age doesn’t start out running the first day. We’ll get your legs stretched out first—legs and chest. You need to learn how to control your wind first.”

“I’ll try it.”

“For a desk man you’re in better-than-average shape. For an athlete—forget it.”

“I didn’t expect to have to learn to be a decathlon contender.”

Homer said, “Think of yourself as Eliza Doolittle.”

“Are you an actor?”

“I have been. Found it a little dull.”

“How’d you get associated with Diego Vasquez?”

“He’s got a small staff. Eleven of us, not counting the office help. We’re all ex-cops and ex-federals. I spent six years in foreign service before the technocrats got to me. I could take working with dummies but when your superiors are imbeciles it begins to dawn on you that you’re in the wrong game.”

“Is ‘foreign service’ a euphemism for the CIA?”

“No, but it was something like that. The Defense Intelligence Agency. We didn’t drag down the kind of headlines the CIA gets but then we didn’t have a public relations staff.”

“Tell me about Vasquez.”

“He’s a fine man to work for.” That was all Homer had to say on the subject: It was a measure of Homer’s loyalty to his employer and it also said something about Vasquez that he could command that kind of loyalty from a man who clearly did not bestow his respect easily.

Homer wore a scuba-diver’s wristwatch with a complexity of dials and buttons. He turned his wrist over to consult it. “You’ve got four more minutes.”

“Then what?”

“Ever done any boxing?”

“No.”

“I won’t make a prizefighter out of you but I’ll teach you a bit of footwork. Half an hour ought to do it for today. Then you’ll have a shower and a swim. You do swim?”

“I know the strokes.”

“We’ll have you doing forty laps. All right, after the swim you can relax a little while. Then lunch, then the handgun range, then rifles. Later on we’ll do another jog around the fence. You won’t feel like it but if we don’t keep doing it your muscles will knot up. Tomorrow morning you’ll feel like a cripple.”

5

Vasquez flipped open the photo album on the dining table. His slender finger tapped a photograph of a sharp-faced young man in a metallic suit. “Him?”

“C. K. Gillespie.”

The pages turned. “Him?”

“Sam Urban.”

“What does he do? What’s his connection?”

Mathieson studied the photograph. “He’s the manager of a restaurant. He’s the collection point for numbers slips——”

“What restaurant, Mr. Merle?”

“It’s slipped my mind.”

“The Cheshire Cat, Route Nine-W, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey.”

“I did remember it was New Jersey.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s safer for them to collect New York numbers slips in another state.”

“Will you forget it again?”

“The Cheshire Cat, Englewood Cliffs. I’ll remember it now.” Vasquez flipped the page over. “Him?”

“George Ramiro.”

“Function? Connection?”

“I’m not quite clear on the relationship. I know what he does.”

“His wife is a cousin of Frank Pastor’s. She’s Ezio Martin’s half sister. Ramiro is an immigrant, from the Azores. He eloped fifteen years ago with the girl, who was an ugly duckling destined to be the family wallflower. Pastor and Martin either had to kill him or hire him. They hired him, and Ramiro turned out to be useful and completely ruthless. You know his function?”

“Essentially he’s in charge of security around Pastor and Martin—he runs the security system and staffs around their houses and offices and cars.”

“If you go in after them by stealth or force, he’s the one you’ll be contending with.”

“I may not do it that way.”

“That’s up to you, of course. But study the backgroundings on Ramiro. You may spot a weak point here and there.”

“Have you spotted any?”

“He plays around with whores sometimes. I realize that’s not much of a lever but it’s all, we’ve found.”

Another page. “Her?”

“Anna Pastor. Pastor’s wife.”

“Good-looking woman,” Vasquez remarked, and turned another page. “Him?”

“Cestone. Gregory Cestorie.”

There was a knock; it was Homer Seidell. “Just about time for the afternoon workout.”

Vasquez pushed the photos aside. “Come in a moment.”

Homer shut the door and approached the table. Vasquez inclined his head toward a chair; Homer pulled it out and sat. Vasquez said, “I’m going to have to return to the office for two days to try to catch up on the most urgent tasks on my desk. You’ll have to take Mr. Merle through a number of things.”

“Such as?”

“Procedures. Methods. Practices. He’s going to have to learn how to recognize a hundred different kinds of locks and know how to get into them with picks. How to field-strip a wall safe or hot-wire a car. How to plant explosives on an engine block——”

Mathieson stiffened. “I’m not blowing anybody up.”

“Granted. But you want to know what to look for. Suppose someone tries to do it to you?” Vasquez went back, matter-of-factly, to Homer: “He’ll have to learn the rudiments of burglar alarm systems—how to spot them and how to get through them. Bugs, wiretaps, infrared camera techniques.”

Mathieson said gloomily, “There’s a lot to it, then.”

6

“He’s got me lifting weights,” he complained. Gingerly he stretched his legs out across the bed and arched his head back into the pillow but there was no comfortable position.

“This was your idea,” she said.

“I could use a little sympathy.”

“It’s the best thing that’s happened to you in years, I imagine. You’re going to end up with the physique of Muhammad Ali.”

He scowled at her. “I’ve always detested cheerful types who make fun of somebody else’s agony.”