Fresh CIA recruits, expecting their rolein intelligence work to be glamorous, soon found their expectations rapidlydiminished when they got their first glimpse of their dingy offices. It wasdifficult to believe that these same buildings had been home to one of the mostintrepid wartime agencies, one that had taken on the collective intelligencemight of Germany and Japan.

The CIA barracks complex was divided intosections with alphabetic titles. The "Q" building, overlooking theriver, housed the section known simply as the Soviet Operations Division.Living up to its title, it was here that highly sensitive and secret operationswere planned and executed against the Soviet Union, clandestine work known onlyto a handful of highly trusted and trained senior intelligence and governmentpersonnel.

The office at the end of a long corridoron the second floor of the building had no title on the door, just a four-digitnumber.

It was pretty much like all the otheroffices, with the same green desk and filing cabinet and standard-issuecalendar, but on the desk alongside the photograph of his wife and two grownchildren, Karl Branigan had placed a Japanese officer's ceremonial dagger.on abrass mounting.

At fifty-six, Branigan was a blubbery butmuscular man with a tightly cropped GI haircut and a fleshy ruddy face. Despitehis name he was neither Irish nor German in background but third-generationPolish, the surname arrived at by having a Brooklyn-Irish cop for a stepfather.And despite the closecropped army haircut and the ceremonial dagger, Braniganhad never seen front-line action but had been a desk-bound intelligence officermost of his working life. But the presence of the keepsake gave some indicationof Branigan's character. He was certainly a tough man, a man who made decisionsquickly and decisively, who was almost savage in his dedication to duty, and asa senior CIA officer those virtues were valued by his superiors.

It was almost two o'clock that coldJanuary afternoon when his secretary rang to say that Jake Massey had arrived.

Branigan told her to organize a car totake them to the morgue.

A small elevator led down to the morgue.There was just enough room for the three passengers-Massey, Branigan, and theattendant.

When the elevator halted and theattendant opened the door, they were in a cold, large, white-tiled room withfour metal tables at the far end. Two of the tables had forms under the whitesheets. The attendant pulled back the sheet on the first table.

Shock and a terrible anger registered onMassey's face when he looked at the body underneath.

The man's face was frozen and white asmarble, distorted in death, but he at once recognized the features. There was ahole drilled through Max Simon's forehead, a purple swelling surrounding thewounded flesh. Massey noticed the traces of a powder burn around the skullwound, then the tattoo of a white dove above his wrist. He grimaced and noddedand the attendant drew back the sheet and moved to the second table.

When the sheet was pulled back this time,Massey wanted to be sick.

He saw the perfect white face of thechild, the eyelids closed, the same neat hole in the flesh of the forehead.Nina lay on the metal table as though asleep. Her long dark hair had beencombed and for a moment Massey thought that if he touched her she might comeawake. Then he noticed the dark purple bruises on the body, around the arms andneck, and the marks where the forest rodents had gnawed at her flesh.

The attendant pulled the white sheet overthe girl's body and the two men turned and left the room.

Jake Massey and Karl Branigan had knowneach other for almost twelve years and their relationship had not improved withtime.

There was often an air like cracklingelectricity between the two men which some claimed was the result ofprofessional rivalry. Both were capable and hardened men and both weredangerous to cross. Today, however, Branigan seemed civilized and courteous."Tell me how it happened."

Branigan hesitated. "I guess you andMax Simon were friends a long time?"

"Thirty years. I was Nina's godfather.Max was one of the best people we had." Massey's face suddenly flushedangrily. "Goddamn it, Branigan, why were they killed? Who did it?"

"We'll come to that later."Branigan's hand stretched to a cigarette box on the table, popped a cigarettein his mouth and lit it. He didn't offer Massey one.

"But I'm sure you realize that whathappened to Max and his daughter was an execution pure and simple. They wereboth shot in the head at close range. I assume the girl was killed because shesaw whoever shot her father, or they meant her death as a furtherwarning."

"They?"

"Moscow, of course."

"What do you mean, a warning?"

"Max was gathering some prettysensitive information for us before he was killed. We didn't know about thedeaths until a routine Interpol report reached our office in Paris. We had thebodies identified and shipped back." Branigan hesitated. "Max arrivedin Lucerne from Paris on the eighth of last month, after traveling fromWashington. He took his daughter with him for the trip. She'd been illrecently, and he wanted her to see a Swiss doctor."

"Is that the reason he was inSwitzerland?"

"No, it wasn't. He was there toarrange a meeting with a highly placed contact from the Soviet Embassy inBerne. They were to meet in Lucerne, but Max never made the meeting, nor didhis contact. We think Max and his girl were abducted from their hotel, or maybeoutside in the street. The police checked but no one saw anything. You know theSwiss, they're upright citizens. They see you parking a car on the wrongfucking side of the street and they scream for the cops. It would have beenreported if anyone had seen an abduction. But one thing the Swiss police doknow is that the hunter, Kass, stumbled on the executions, tried to stop them,and was killed for his trouble."

A flood of anger registered again onMassey's face and he stood and crossed to the window. "Why did they haveto murder the girl, Karl? She was only ten years old."

"Because we both know the people whodid it are ruthless bastards. Simple as that."

"Have you any idea who murderedthem?"

"Why'? You got revenge on yourmind?"

"A year ago Max Simon moved out ofmy operation in Munich to work for Washington. Now he's dead and I'd like toknow why."

"Who did it I can tell you prettymuch with certainty. A man named Borovik. Gregori Borovik. We think he followedMax from this country and was ordered to kill him in Switzerland. Borovik's nothis real name. He uses a whole lot of aliases. Kurt Braun is one. Kurt Linhoffis another. I could go on but you get the picture."

"Who is he?"

"A hired killer the Soviets use. Hebelongs to one of their hit squads. The guys Moscow take from prisons and puton the payroll to do their dirty work in return for their freedom. He is aGerman national, speaks English and Russian fluently. Operates all over thegoddamned place. Europe and Stateside, and a mean son-of-a-bitch if ever therewas one. We've got at least three murders put down to him. But I'd get revengeout of your mind. Besides, we've got other plans for you."

"What plans?"

Branigan smiled. "All in good time.And it's revenge of E kind if you care to look at it that way."

Massey sat down. "Then tell me whatit was Max was doing for you that cost the lives of him and his daughter."

Branigan shrugged. "I guess I cantell you that. He'd been buying information from the Soviet embassy official Itold YOU about, information important to Washington. Only someone in Moscow gotto hear about it and didn't like it one little bit. That official was calledback home. What happened to him you can guess."