His intention was to reach the sanctuary of Sir George Harvey’s compartment. There he would be safe, at least until they reached Hamburg. But first, it was necessary to make Steiner believe he had left the train.

He turned the corner at the end of the corridor and reached for the handle of the emergency-stop lever above the door. As the train started to slow, he opened the door and the cold night air sucked it outward, sending it smashing back against the side of the coach.

He moved on quickly into the next coach. He was almost at the end of the corridor and within a few yards of Sir George’s compartment when he heard voices coming toward him. For a moment, he hesitated and then, as he turned to run, the door of the compartment opened silently. A hand reached out and pulled him backward through the doorway.

He lost his balance and fell to the floor. Behind him, the door clicked firmly into place. He started to move, ready to come up like a steel spring uncoiling with explosive force, but he paused, one knee still on the floor.

Lying on the bunk in front of him was an American Army uniform with the sergeant’s stripes showing on the neatly folded tunic. On top of the tunic rested a military cap and on top of the cap, a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed spectacles.

The man who leaned against the door held an Italian Beretta automatic negligently in his right hand. He was of medium build and his eyes seemed very blue in the tawny face. An amused smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “You do seem to have stirred things up, old man,” he said in an impeccable English accent.

The train had finally come to a stop and there was shouting in the corridor outside. Chavasse listened keenly and managed to distinguish Steiner’s voice. He scrambled to his feet and the man said, “Steiner doesn’t sound very pleased. What did you do to him?”

Chavasse shrugged. “Judo throat jab. A nasty trick, but I didn’t have time to observe the niceties.” He nodded toward the automatic. “You can put that thing away. No rough stuff. I promise you.”

The man smiled and slipped the gun into his pocket. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I dragged you in here.” He extracted a leather-and-gold cigarette case from his inside pocket and flicked it open. Chavasse took a cigarette and leaned across for the proffered light.

He hadn’t been working for the Chief for five years without being able to tell a professional when he saw one. People in his line of business carried a special aura around with them, indefinable and yet sensed at once by the trained agent. One could even work out the nationality by attitude, methods employed, and other trademarks. But in this case, he was puzzled.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Hardt’s the name, Mr. Chavasse,” the man told him. “Mark Hardt.”

Chavasse frowned. “A German name and yet you’re not a German.”

“Israeli.” Hardt grinned. “A slightly bastardized form by Winchester out of Emmanuel College.”

The picture was beginning to take shape. “Israeli intelligence?” Chavasse asked.

Hardt shook his head. “Once upon a time, but now nothing so official. Let’s say I’m a member of an organization which by the very nature of its ends is compelled to work underground.”

“I see,” said Chavasse softly. “And what exactly are your aims at the moment?”

“The same as yours,” Hardt said calmly. “I want that manuscript, but even more than that, I want Bormann.” Before Chavasse could reply, Hardt got to his feet and moved to the door. “I think I’d better go into the corridor and see what’s going on.”

The door closed behind him and Chavasse sat on the edge of the bunk, a slight frown on his face, as he considered the implications of what Hardt had said. It was well known that there was at least one strong Jewish underground unit that had been working ceaselessly since the end of the war in all parts of the world, tracking down Nazi war criminals who had evaded the Allied net in 1945. He had heard that its members were fanatically devoted to their task, brave people who had dedicated their lives to bringing some of the inhuman monsters responsible for Belsen, Auschwitz, and other hellholes to justice.

On several occasions during his career with the Bureau, he had found himself competing with the agents of other Powers toward the same end, but this was different – this was very different.

The train started to move, the door opened, and Hardt slipped in. “I just saw Steiner. He’s been raging like a lion up and down the track. It was finally pointed out to him that you were probably several miles away by now and he was persuaded to come back on board. I don’t fancy your chances if he ever manages to get his hands on you.”

“I’ll try to see that he doesn’t.” Chavasse nodded toward the American uniform. “A neat touch, your disguise. After the crime, the criminal simply ceases to exist, eh?”

Hardt nodded. “It’s proved its worth on several occasions, although the spectacles can be a bit of a nuisance. I can’t see a damned thing in them.”

He locked the door, pulled a stool from beneath the bunk, and sat on it, his shoulders resting comfortably against the wall. “Don’t you think it’s time we got down to business?”

Chavasse nodded. “All right, but you first. How much do you know about this affair?”

“Before I start, just tell me one thing,” Hardt said. “It is Muller who is dead, isn’t it? I heard one of the other passengers say something about a shooting and then Steiner marched you along the corridor.”

Chavasse nodded. “I had a cup of coffee just before Osnabruck. Whatever was in it put me out for a good half hour. When I came round, Muller was lying in the corner, shot through the heart.”

“A neat frame on somebody’s part.”

“As a matter of fact, I thought it was your handiwork,” Chavasse told him. “What exactly were you looking for in my compartment?”

“Anything I could find,” Hardt said. “I knew Muller was supposed to meet you at Osnabruck. I didn’t expect him to be carrying the manuscript, but I thought he might take you to it, even to Bormann.”

“And you intended to follow us?” Chavasse said.

“Naturally,” Hardt told him.

Chavasse lit another cigarette. “Just tell me one thing. How the hell do you know so much?”

Hardt smiled. “We first came across Muller a fortnight ago when he approached a certain German publisher and offered him Bormann’s manuscript.”

“How did you manage to find out about that?”

“This particular publisher is a man we’ve been after for three years now. We had a girl planted in his office. She tipped us off about Muller.”

“Did you actually meet him?”

Hardt shook his head. “Unfortunately, the publisher got some of his Nazi friends on the job. Muller was living in Bremen at the time. He left one jump ahead of them and us.”

“And you lost track of him, I presume?”

Hardt nodded. “Until we heard about you.”

“I’d like to know how you managed that,” Chavasse said. “It should be most interesting.”

Hardt grinned. “An organization like ours has friends everywhere. When Muller approached the firm of publishers you’re supposed to be representing, the directors had a word with Sir George Harvey, one of their biggest shareholders. He got in touch with the Foreign Secretary, who put the matter in the hands of the Bureau.”

Chavasse frowned. “What do you know about the Bureau?”

“I know it’s a special organization formed to handle the dirtier and more complicated jobs,” Hardt said. “The sort of things MI5 and the Secret Service don’t want to touch.”

“But how did you know I was traveling on this train to meet Muller?” Chavasse said.

“Remember that the arrangement with Muller, by which he was supposed to contact you at Osnabruck, was made through the managing director of the publishing firm. He was naturally supposed to keep the details to himself.”