"But—but why did you come here?" Montgomery asked.

"He was still footloose. We had a large operation around him—but he was still footloose. You're British Intelligence. Certainly you would know more about him than I. I wanted all the information I could put together—in advance. I still do. Now what's this about Burrows?"

"Eric Burrows."

"What about Eric Burrows?"

"If Albert Stanley's near, Eric Burrows can't be far behind. They work as a team. And, in my humble opinion, Burrows is far more deadly than Stanley. You know about the recent reorganization of the British Sector of THRUSH, don't you?"

"I do."

"Eric Burrows is now Number Two. Directly under the Chief. Second in command. The new Chief is Leslie Tudor. Burrows was entitled—"

"Tell me about Tudor."

"Burrows was entitled to the top slot. In the regular order of things—in the normal order of importance, growth, escalation—Eric Burrows was entitled to be and fully expected to be the new Chief of the British Sector of THRUSH. Any idea why he didn't get it?"

"No," Waverly said.

"Because he's a psychopath. He's deadly. He's like a venomous snake—a killer. A cold-blooded, sadistic killer. They simply wouldn't take a chance putting a killer like that on top of the heap. That much we know."

"What do you know about the one who is on top of the heap now?"

"Tudor?"

"Tudor."

"Not a great deal, I'm afraid."

"Tell me, Doug."

"We know Tudor's a skillful organizer, a planner, a schemer. A killer, perhaps—but not a cruel, vicious killer like Burrows."

"Do you have a photo of Leslie Tudor?"

"No."

"Can you procure one?"

"Tudor?" Montgomery's brief laugh was grim. "Not Tudor"

"What's he look like?"

"We don't know."

"Any description?"

"Nothing at all, Alex. But nothing. Be sure to pump Stanley on Tudor—as thoroughly as possible. Any bit we can glean, we'd appreciate. This new Chief has been a thorn—for that very reason. We know nothing, nothing visual; whatever we know, we've heard through roundabout methods or hearsay."

"And what have you heard?"

"That whoever he is, he's careful and clever. That whoever he is, a shadowy figure with a passion for anonymity, he's gained the respect of all the THRUSH chieftains, worked his way up, without exposure to us, to the very pinnacle of the British Sector." Montgomery sighed. "Congratulations on Stanley." It had no ring of enthusiasm.

Waverly's eyes were wistful. "You don't sound overly optimistic."

"Pessimistic would be a more precise word."

"Doug, my boys had specific orders. If they've got Stanley, they've got him dead to rights, believe me. They weren't to pick him up on suspicion. Nothing like that—no possibility that he could be taken away from us by tricky lawyers with legal technicalities. Red-handed—or not at all. Those were the orders."

"Not that," Montgomery said.

"What, then?"

"If they've got Albert Stanley without Eric Burrows, then they've only got one end of the stick, and the small end at that. Like having a bull by the horns—there's a lot of powerful animal left over, enough of the animal to do tremendous damage. Quite simply, I'm worried, and I won't pretend I'm not. Ridiculous, isn't it? You people have accomplished quite a catch and here I am being pessimistic about it. Please, let me try again, more heartily." He smiled. "Congratulations on Albert Stanley."

"Thank you," Waverly said.

At that point their dinner arrived. They ate, but neither of them with appetite.

3. A Morning Stroll

FRIDAY MORNING at ten o'clock Steven Winfield came down from the duplex on the eighteenth floor of the apartment building on Fifth Avenue and 76th Street. The doorman smiled at the quick striding, buoyant young man.

"Morning, Mr. Winfield."

"Morning, Patrick."

"We sure have us a beautiful day this day."

The towheaded young man nodded. "That we have."

"And how are Sir William and Lady Winfield this beautiful day?"

"Fine, thank you, Patrick."

"Shall I get you a cab?"

"No, I'm going to walk a bit."

"This sure is the day for that." The doorman opened the door.

Steve crossed to the park side and strolled southward, breathing deeply of the clear air. Central Park was in full bloom, and there was a morning fragrance. The sun was already high, but it was a dry day, and there was a cooling little breeze from the east. It was July 12 and an important day for the Winfield family. It was a day of celebration: July 12 was Steve's birthday and his father's birthday. He was seventeen, his father fifty-two, and this evening—as always on the evening of July 12—there would be the double birthday party. Steve was on his way down to Abercrombie and Fitch.

He enjoyed the noises of the birds in the trees. He whistled intermittently as he strolled southward. He would walk to Fifty-ninth and from there take a cab. He was going to pick up the gift he had already selected for his father—and what a gift. A gorgeous set of golf clubs! He had been saving all year and still didn't have enough money. He had had to borrow the balance from his mother. But what a gift! Expensive, yes; but foolhardy, no. His father would love the new clubs, and he himself would inherit the old clubs— in a sense a double gift. The man at Abercrombie's had wanted to arrange for delivery but Steve had said no. He wanted the joy of looking at them again, then waiting while they were packaged. He would bring them home himself, leave them with the superintendent, then slip them into the apartment when his father was out.

He whistled softly, happily, while he strolled. He loved Abercrombie and Fitch, loved all of America, four years now his adopted country, loved being a Winfield. It was exciting and wonderful to be the son, the only child, of Sir William Winfield. Sir William Winfield. What was the full title here in America? Sir William Winfield, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, Permanent Representative to the United Nations from the United Kingdom.

He stopped whistling, hearing his name called. He saw the long, sleek, gray Rolls Royce slide to the curb.

"Steve! Steve Winfield!"

He moved toward the car. The girl at the wheel was blond and pretty.

"You are Steve Winfield. I mean, I hope..."

"Yes," he said awkwardly.

"There!" she said. "I was certain. Don't you remember me? Pamela Hunter?"

"No, I don't think...

The voice, somehow, was familiar, but not actually familiar. He understood. It was clearly a British voice and any British accent, here in this country, would somehow ring familiarly. He did not know her. Perhaps he did. Through his parents he had met many persons, however fleetingly. She was very pretty.

"It's been a long time," she said. "London. It must be five years. You weren't quite as handsome then. Pamela Hunter. I'm a friend of your mother's."

"My mother's?" His mother was forty-seven. This girl was at most twenty-three.

Her laughter tinkled. "Well, my mother's your mother's friend; not I, really. Look, get in, or they'll be giving me a ticket for illegal parking." She reached back and opened the rear door.

He got in and closed the door. The car purred away from the curb. Sitting at an angle behind her, he could see her eyes in the rear-view mirror. They were large and blue and friendly, and the sweet smell of her perfume permeated the car. Heck, he thought, this is better than a taxi.