 
Panic

TonyNash

ISBN 9781631737510

Copyright Tony Nash (c) 2013

Smashwords Edition

Other works by this author:

The DCI Tony Dyce thrillers:

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High 'C'

Murder on Tiptoes

The John Hunter thrillers:

Carve Up

Single to Infinity

The Most Unkindest Cut

The Iago Factor

A Black Magic thriller -The Devil Deals Death

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

The Makepeace Manifesto

The Last Laugh

The World's Worst Joke Book

The historical family saga:

A Handful of Dust

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage

Hell and High Water

PANIC: (Oxford Dictionary) Sudden and infectious fear, due to uncontrollable and unaccountable general impulse.

This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.

It came in on the ocean mist, innocent as a Kremlin peace dove, drifting lonely, lazy, past the half-dozen thumping, rusty freighters in the Narrows, above the brightly-lit 'Port de Calais', her diesels muted for final approach.

Three miles from the sleeping city it lifted, joyously, brushing skittishly past Liberty's hopeful torch, soaring high, riding the pollution particles over Governor's Island, questing, seeking out and finding at last in the billion-eyed, sweltering concrete jungle the mark inscribed on the last page of the Book of Destiny.

July 19th 0430 Eastern Standard Time

Sam Brady eased his body from the bed, no longer awkwardly after years of painful practice, moved quietly across the room to stand silently at the open window, grateful for the night damp cooling the still-wet perspiration on his brow, looking out at his city.

His city? He smiled wryly - hell, he couldn't even work out himself what he was doing here. How did a quiet old provincial banker, and a cripple to boot, get himself made Mayor of all that?

His gaze swept the darkened Hudson shoreline from the Battery to somewhere up by Grant's Tomb; not even a tenth of it - the Big Apple, still sweltering after yesterday's scorching heat and, if the weathermen were right, another record-breaker today.

Hell - he knew damned well what kind of apple it was: he'd been thrown his first by an armament instructor two years and half a war older than himself, pin out and held two seconds already, with the totally unnecessary order, 'Chuck it!' His last had been tossed by a little yellow teenager in a gook cap as he climbed from his crashed Cobra gunship with hands raised. That time the pin had been out much longer and one of the pieces he caught was still in his right hip.

Sure - it was that kind of apple out there - a 'pineapple' - spiked, tough to keep a hold on, with half the fuse already run. Well, he'd had plenty of practice after that first time, for sure; maybe they had the right guy for the job at that.

The voices had come again three nights ago to torture his dreams: sing-song, raucous, insistent. Sam had tossed, body twisting in the old pain, sweat soaking the sheets and pillow, in spite of the air conditioning. Then the running water, mixed with the jabbering, water, jabbering, water...

His own silent screams had woken him - suddenly, eyes staring mad-wide, seeking the vengeful spectres of the past on the Dekorex ceiling of the present. He felt the hundred and twenty thumping of his heart begin to slow, the steel-clenched fists slowly ease.

Beside him Bibba had lain still, seeming oblivious. Sam thanked his God - she had enough new problems without sharing his old ones - problems he thought were over a long time ago. It would be too easy to blame the heat.

The extreme high pressure system had drifted in from the North Atlantic six days before and come to a virtual stop with its centre over New York State, a seemingly topless mound of acrid heat that lay like a stifling, non-porous blanket on the City, sapping the energies of its citizens and producing a self-regenerating thermal wedge. The temperatures that had increased steadily from the high nineties into the low hundreds were still edging upwards.

The pall of mist, he noticed, had formed again over the river, caused by inversion of air temperature over the water, as on every morning since the heat wave began, thinning gradually through the forenoon, lasting some days longer than others.

His gaze shifted downtown. But for insomniacs like himself and a handful of public service employees, police and criminals, the City slept, recharging its energies for another day of bursting, bustling industry and crime. For a long time he'd regretted the closing of the Mayor's official residence, Grazie Mansion. Tonight he was glad. The view from up here on Riverside Drive was much better. And yet he felt tense inside, with a deep feeling of insecurity that was foreign to his nature, almost despair - he wasn't sure - maybe of foreboding even, of something real but intangible, something he could not put his finger on but maybe powerful enough to destroy him. Not that there wasn't enough to worry about. Six murders an hour in the city itself - so many rapes now the victims shrugged their shoulders, bought another pair of panties and braced themselves for the next time - almost everyone armed with a hand gun.

No one could blame the police. In a force whose total...Sam thought about it for a moment...hell, he had no idea of the real numbers - only the city employees, not the Feds, the CIA guys, the narcos, the IPA, the SWAT-groups, military undercover agents and God knew who else - say twenty thousand at a conservative estimate, but less than one third on the beat. All stood up on Brooklyn Bridge they'd look one hell of a force, but against them during business hours you had upwards of twelve million citizens, a ratio of damned near fifteen hundred to one in real terms. In a peaceful country area a damned good ratio; in this latter-day jungle an impossible task.

Julius was right to be proud of his force - they were a fine body of men, but you had rotten apples in every barrel. Hell - just look what happened in the British vice squad - running their own porno service! If it could happen there...

Sam sighed, wished he could share the loneliness, wished Bibba could feel as he did about the City, could help him bear the kicks and frustrations. He sighed again; the wish was futile - he'd known how she felt a long time now. He turned to where she lay on the big king-size bed, took a long, possessive look at her shapely body, covered only by a light, see-through negligee, her long, naturally blond hair falling gracefully over the pillow, after thirty-three years still grateful for and not a little bewildered by his good fortune.

At twenty she had been a raving beauty. Now, in her mid-fifties, she was still a damned handsome woman, with the firm, uplifted breasts of a woman half her age, and not an ounce of extra flesh on her well-exercised body.

He spoke softly, 'Tell me, Bibba - what did they want with me?'

A fleeting smile passed over her lips as if in answer to the question, and another came unbidden to his lips, 'Was that for...?'

He broke off, wishing even before the sentence was half out that he had not thought of it. It was unworthy and unnecessary. He knew damned well Larry Puleman would have taken her from him a long time ago if she'd have gone.

Puleman - damn! Why the hell did he have to intrude?

Sam felt the anger rise in him as their early life flooded back: childhood - Charlottesville - school - and then that last bloody weekend hunting in the Adirondaks - a weekend whose end for him had been lost in the terrible mists of feverish delirium.

The hot flush of rage for what he knew and yet did not know washed over him. It was a full minute before he turned again to the window, his eyes refocusing on the buildings below.

Sure, he thought, some part of you is bad. That's why I'm here. I love you, Big City, every glittering skyscraper and every crummy booze joint. Just look at you - sprawled out, sweating, copulating, heaving with life, like a ridge backed, prehistoric monster gobbling every race and religion on Earth.

One thing was sure: whatever had woken him, sleep was out of the question. He looked back over his shoulder at the sleeping form, considered for a long moment. Bibba would sure as hell not mind being woken - would welcome it, he knew. She was a healthy woman with a healthy woman's appetites, and it had been a long time. That was just one of the things that suffered from high public office and sheer physical tiredness. But suppose it was like the last time...

He sighed deeply yet again and shook his head resignedly, crept to the door, lifting it slightly to stop the squeak he knew would come from the hinges, closing it just as carefully.

Flicking on the lights he caught sight of his reflection in the window. His smooth, handsome face showed clearly the signs of fatigue and stress, with none of its usual humour. His eyes seemed dull and lack-lustre, and the corners of his mouth were drawn down. Even his hair, almost black, with a small kiss-curl over the right temple, and what he laughingly shrugged off as a trace of distinguished grey, seemed almost totally white in the harsh reflection of the glass. Enough was enough. He switched the light off and limped slowly across to the audio tuner.

In the bedroom Bibba had opened her eyes, staring sadly at the door. She knew what he had been considering in those few moments before he left the room and wished so much that he had come to bed again so that she could try to give him some relief, and with it some for her too. Her right hand moved slowly down to her lower belly.

Sam had tuned to the local station, leaving the volume as low as he could set it. Bibba could just make out the idiotic ravings of the early-morning disc-jockey which followed the last notes of his signature tune, 'Rhinestone Cowboy'.

'And a good, good morning to all you nocturnal night-owls, and a rooty-toot-toot from the king of the beasts, your host with the most from coast to coast - your old pal Cowboy Laurie Dee, here on Station Doubl-ye-zee-zee-oh, in lil' ol' N.Y.C. We got two hours of the very best in country music comin' your way to git you ready for the day, and to start things off, here we go, with some good ol' high-steppin' music from way back home - Marty Hope and 'Havin' a Hoe-down', an' a one, an' a two, an' a one-two-three...

'Damn!' She said softly, as the first tears fell and her hand began to work faster.

~~~oOo~~~

One eye opened \- wide.

Hours of aching in a booze-distorted bladder had nagged him half awake, heaving seasick gentle on the soft, sweaty pillow, one pubic hair longer than the rest tickling his nostrils to the edge of a sneeze with each downward motion, but this was something new, hard and concrete, like a slug from a forty-five between the eyes.

Drunkenly, he struggled for the origins of the idea.

Was it maybe the fuzz klaxon he could hear from the corner of Fulton and Pearl in tear-arse pursuit of some klepto kid in a hot Caddie?

Crap! Two-time loser, he heard goddamn sirens through a twenty-four hour day; they plagued his waking hours and haunted his drunken dreams like the wailing, vengeful ghouls of a God-fearing, middle-aged virgin who last night sinned with a hand between her thighs and 'forgive-me-Holy-Mother-of-God-I'll-light-three-candles' enjoyed it.

His first-born, one and only original thought in forty years of pig-faced debauchery left Mama Crellucci's fat boy stunned.

He winced. Opening the eyelid had detonated something like a small atomic bomb inside his brain.

In the light from the flashing neons across the street he pulled the jungle into focus - bright ginger and tight up curly, tangled, twisted, tacky with sweat and half-dried semen.

He winced again at the released suction as his sweaty ear left the warm, damp flesh of her belly, like a rubber plug yanked from a greasy sink, squinting at the face atop the dormant flesh.

She was no kid, for sure, with gin-soaked bags under the eyes, and noises like an up-country lumber mill on overtime coming from her wide-open mouth. No oil painting either, but he'd screwed worse - a goddamn sight worse!

His head felt as pulped as an end-of-season football. How the hell much had he drunk last night? He could just hear Momma, Jesus-rest-her-soul, telling him he goddamn ought to feel goddamn worse, 'Goddamn it, is God a-punishing you, Guiseppi! He wanta-you to drink-a the whisky, he make-a the goddamn crap come down from the sky, an' no' the rainwater - ah, you goddamn sonofabitch?'

Crellucci permitted himself a small, painful smile: the old lady sure had had a colourful turn of speech.

Some little guy with a ten-pound hammer started smashing a way out of his left temple. Goddamn it, why the hell had he screwed the goddamn bitch on the goddamn floor?

Holding hard on the old-fashioned sideboard he hauled two hundred fifty pounds of shaky, pale-white flab to its feet, switched on the one-and-only fly-stained bulb, with its single overhead glass, its once pristine whiteness stained to a rich mid-brown by thirty years of nicotine smoke and insect mess, peered down at the woman dispassionately for a long minute, hawked and spat the parrot-cage gob onto her belly. She moaned softly, closed her legs, and rolled over onto her side.

The plump buttocks were just too much. Deliberately and viciously Crellucci buried five fat toes in the soft flesh, and felt a vicious joy as it moved outwards like blow-torch-warmed jelly under the force of the blow. Grinning, he thought, 'Joe, you dirty bastard, you're a sadist.' Right now, deep down, there was a desire to control - the urge to kill, to maim, to cut and carve. It would be easy - sure - she jumped from the window!

Naked? And from his window?

Shit! He stabbed his toes into the rump again.

She snorted but didn't wake.

Crellucci turned purple, kicked again, a whole lot harder.

The woman rolled over onto her back, complained sleepily, 'Aw, cut it out, fellah, willya?'

A half-empty bottle of Beam stood open on the table, next to two dirty glasses. Crellucci grabbed off a three-finger hair-of-the-dog, looked up to Heaven, asked reverently, 'Forgive me, Poppa, ah?' and slopped the liquor over the prostrate body from head to navel.

She came up spitting - long, scarlet nails out clawing for his face, 'What the fuc...?'

He hit her hard in the mouth with the back of his open left hand, his cheap imitation ruby splitting her lip, laying the gum bare, sending a splash of saliva and blood spattering onto her sagging right breast, to roll down onto the deflated nipple, following the contours, congealing, till she looked like she'd been hit dead centre with a .357 Magnum, as she careered across the room, hit the wall near the door and slid to the floor.

She looked more surprised than hurt, lifted a hand to her mouth, took it away, stared astonished at the smear of blood and howled, 'Jesus Christ!'

Crellucci grabbed another long slug from the bottle, growled, 'Get out!'

She pulled a face.

'What about my clothes and my twenty bucks?'

He hefted the bottle, 'You still here in thirty seconds, your fanny gets kicked right down the sidewalk!'

She took twenty, grabbing up wisps of clothing scattered over the floor, swearing non-stop in an undertone.

Crellucci noticed there were no panties and asked himself again where the hell he found them.

At the door she spat and hissed at him, 'Screw you, you fat, smelly pig!'

The bottle missed her ear by an inch.

The woman gone, he threw on the crumpled suit, shirt and polka-dot tie strewn like a treasure trail over the floor. His guts felt empty, and the thought of coffee and doughnuts at Pete's all-night diner drove him half crazy, but he needed wheels, and it would be safer to make the grab before dawn. The eats would wait, for a while at least. Wheels were his speciality - how he lived - his one real ability. They hadn't made the jalopy he couldn't start inside sixty seconds. He walked three blocks before looking for a likely take. Just past the corner of Broad and Front he found a sapphire-blue Cadillac De Ville - this year's model, with not a scratch on the paintwork. He eyed it enviously. Guys should be locked up for leaving temptation like that lying around. The only time he got to drive Geld like that was the half-mile to Joey's underground lock-up, where they did the change job. The Caddy was no good, would be too hot, and he needed the car for several hours.

A hundred yards down he found what he wanted - a ten-year-old Ford with battered wings and a paint-job that looked as if it had just come out of a sand-blasting mill.

He left it on the far side of the park and walked the two blocks back to the diner.

~~~oOo~~~

Homer Polanski's wide-open eyes followed the erratic progress of the male cockroach skirting the craters, seeking nourishment in the putrefaction of the spattered brown blotches on the wall over the bed.

Observed from the doorway, Polanski could have been dead - his ugly, almost square head topped with stubble-cropped ginger hair perfectly still, breathing controlled so not even the fine hairs on his lean, naked belly moved. That was one trick he'd learnt in the gook prison camps. Tricks - oh, sure, he was a bundle of them since 'Nam: the old lady in Central Park - sixty-four, the Tribune said - and he'd raped her - God, he'd raped her. Afterwards he'd stood under the shower in the flat for two hours, the water so hot it scalded his skin, scrubbing his penis with a stiff brush until it lay limp and raw and bloody in his hand. Then the young Jewish girl downstairs. It had been too easy - a casual meeting on her way home from a violin lesson, and an invitation to walk home with her. He'd meant to rape her too, but the sight of the back of her head after the Luger had gone off in her mouth...

For months he'd woken screaming, his hands blood red in his dreams, but she had been only the first taste, and he screamed no more.

Now, goddamn it, he'd fallen in love with his brother-in-law.

He slid a hand stealthily under the pillow, feeing for the friendly steel. The 'roach stopped, its antennae twitching, sensing motion and danger, ready for a dash to safety.

His hand found the two pistols. He left the Luger, smiling - what a rude awakening for that old cow in the flat above - a .38 slug between the legs at four-thirty in the morning - it would blow her mind.

Next to the automatic he found what he wanted - the chunky handgrip of the target air-pistol. No need to check - he always kept both weapons loaded and the safeties off.

The 'roach was swinging its head left and right in tiny movements, still unsure. Polanski's grin stiffened as his right hand rose slowly, taking careful aim. That's right, he thought, nice and still, my beauty - don't move...now, come to Daddy!

The finger squeezing the trigger exerted the eighth-ounce extra pressure necessary to release the pellet.

The cockroach's body fell, still twitching, onto the long-sealed envelope on the bedside table, its head another splattered brown stain over the bed. Polanski brushed the corpse off and swore softly, noticing the spot of brown liquid by the stamp.

~~~oOo~~~

Not a hundred miles from Polanski's pad, high in the penthouse of the new Multistate Building, overlooking Riverside Drive, guarded by more than a dozen paid guns, three guard-dogs, electronically-operated doors, closed-circuit TV and infrared intruder detectors, Mario Valicone, East Coast Mafia boss, smiled in his sleep, his dreams full of tiny ants, running, always running, back and forth, looking for shelter they could never find, as his steel-clad boot came down again and again and again, crushing, crushing, crushing...

~~~oOo~~~

Larry Puleman, lifelong con man and now Comptroller of New York City Council, sleeping fitfully in his half-million dollar apartment overlooking the Pallisades, burrowed his good-looking features deeper in the pillow, his twisted mind disturbing his brain even in sleep.

He had sent the girls away at two a.m. - two coloureds, a Chinese and a Mexican - four top-flight artistes in their own profession. Between them they had presented him with every variation a fornicating male could desire.

He'd gone through the motions mechanically, his palate jaded by too many years of innovation. They had left him deflated, physically and mentally. The only thing that could really turn him on now was a woman he could not get, and there were precious few in that category.

Since early childhood not a day of his life had passed without a human being or animal being hurt by him - his only joy the suffering of others, and among those others one stood out - one he intended to destroy utterly; one to whom he owed the most and therefore hated more than anything else in the world. That one: Sam Brady.

~~~oOo~~~

Three decks down in the forward cargo hold of the 'Port de Calais' Sher Hatyaara - 'tiger assassin' - slept, on the alert, instantly ready to burst into energy. Her animal brain was unaware that a parivataka akara had taken over her body again - the twelfth time it had done so, and was driving her fury. Now and then a tiny growl rolled over her teeth as she relived in sleep the last moments before her free world fell in and small brown men surrounded her as the anaesthetic dart drew her down into blackness. Her dreams were full of vengeance, her fangs and claws powerful weapons to use against any man unwise enough to come within their reach. She was big, even for a Bengal tiger of seven summers, and eleven times she had left her protected home in the Nagarjunsagar Srisailam Reserve high in the mountains of Andra Pradesh, to kill the brown animals which walk upright, emerging stealthily from the jungle into villages at dead of night, creeping up to one lying asleep by the embers of a dying fire, breaking its neck with one rapid bite, lifting the still twitching body into the safety of the undergrowth.

She had been clever: a small beast had to drag its victims, could be followed easily to where it slept, heavy after the feast, and weakened by over-indulgence.

Sher Hatyaara chose smaller, sweeter prey she could carry in her jaws, leaving almost no track, as far as the rocky plateau that led up into the hills where she lived. There she had a cave; there she gorged for two days and nights, bones and flesh, leaving only the scalp, and, if a man-child, the genitals, before climbing again into the hills under cover of the dark, to hunt the more intelligent, more demanding antelope.

Now, in place of the occasional desire for different meat, she harboured a hatred for man that filled her every pore, which would have driven her to kill and go on killing, even if she had just eaten her fill.

She heard Randiti enter the hold quietly, stealthily. She caught his man-scent and an eager well of fury began to rise. It was he whose scent had burnt itself indelibly on her memory as she returned to consciousness after the dart had done its work.

She stiffened, seeming to sleep, her eyes closed, her body completely still, waiting her opportunity, for somehow, deep in her primeval being she knew the time for revenge was at hand...

Randiti was not fooled: he had been around tigers all his life. The lack of movement told him she was listening, waiting - waiting to vent an urgent, searing vengeance should he foolishly step close enough to the cage to be within range of those awful claws. And Randiti loved life.

'Ah, you, lady tiger,' he breathed, 'who listen and do not, you would kill and eat your protector? Shame on you for an ingrate. Do you not know, o beautiful, dangerous one, that it was I, Kanja Randiti alone, who saved your skin from decorating the floor of a rich man's house?' Randiti allowed himself the white lie, 'Who spared your bloodthirsty, worthless life, that you may awe and amaze many thousands of the white-skinned in the land of USA?'

In the Hindi of the mountains it sounded like 'WHOOSEA'. The mispronunciation was lost on both tiger and man, but Randiti's tone struck a discord through the blind hate in the tiger's brain - made her relive again that last hunt, searching for truth...

~~~oOo~~~

The small band of poachers was in high spirits. They had entered the game reserve unnoticed, heading north, towards the area where they would surely find elephant.

For two days they had eaten nothing but dry dough biscuits, knowing that to make fire would mean almost certain discovery. Now, today, Karah Jam Singh, their leader, had decided it was worth the risk. His men needed red meat to strengthen their courage, and so they had killed and eaten a succulent young antelope, and now they slept, bloated with the unaccustomed flesh, in a clearing they had made in the twenty-foot high elephant grass - the three men around the perimeter of the small space, the boy in the centre, close to the fire.

They slept the sleep of men with easy consciences, unaware of double dangers closing in on them.

For the boy, Kim, it was the first expedition. Karah Jam, his father, had led such parties for many years, each year visiting the Game Reserve only twice. The money earned from the ivory allowed them to live frugally through the year, buying vast quantities of the rude local beer Karah Jam loved and the small amount of staple food, which kept the huge family just alive.

The smile on the boy's face as he slept had been with him awake - a smile of contentment at his good fortune: he had reached the age of twelve and was a man. Now, for the first time, he could go with the men, could earn a man's share of the rewards of their labour, could give just this once all of his share to his mother, to see her smile for the first time in years, to watch perhaps just a tiny amount of flesh forming under the skin covering her bones.

Or, no, he thought, perhaps not all the money. He would keep for himself just a few rupees - for a new loincloth, to replace the foul rag he had worn since he was eight, and which had long since become the object of much amusement to the girls of his village, hiding as it did so little of his new-found manhood. He straightened proudly as he dreamt of the attention he would attract in his new silk cloth. He would buy also a big, cheap, artificial jewelled clip for the front. And soon he would be able to buy a whole herd of goats, would be able to take a wife, perhaps the over-proud, prancing Raji Karami, daughter of the trader, the richest man for a hundred miles, and beat her every day for a year to teach her submission. That would show her!

He was still smiling when the tiger's jaws closed around his neck, splintering the vertebrae, killing him instantly.

She had followed the party all afternoon, holding back in order not to come up too close behind them. As they made camp she watched from the edge of the grass, less than fifteen feet from the nearest human, the old wound in her flank from the attack three years ago on two men in daylight holding her back, having her wait until the night when they would sleep.

Soundlessly she lifted the boy's body, slipping back like a shadow into the house-high grass.

The three men slept on.

As Sher Hatyaara passed out of the area of elephant grass into the rocky scrub of the foothills, she was unaware of the furore behind her.

Shanti Assawandri had found the tracks of the poachers less than twelve hours after they passed into the Reserve, and was really happy now for the first time in many years.

In all that time he had been unable to catch the poachers. Until two years ago, with the coming of Moka Alawindi, his new assistant and second cousin of the Director, he had falsified reports sent back to Headquarters regarding the number of elephants found dead - always classing them as natural deaths. His days had been filled with the good things of life, with no serious aggravations. In this district he was king, and power was good. Those things which could have been potential trouble he smoothed over in the way that such matters have been dealt with for centuries in his country: the official word was law.

Since the coming of Alawindi his reports had been punctiliously correct and hence personally damaging. He knew the assistant had been sent to learn, in order to take over at the first serious complaint.

The elephant poaching meant his almost certain downfall. Long nights he spent sleepless with worry. With a territory of more than three thousand five hundred and sixty-eight square kilometres and only nine rangers to police the area he was on a hiding to nothing. It was impossible to be everywhere at the same time.

The poachers always came at different times of the year and never visited the same area. For a long time he had believed one of his rangers must be in league with them. Now he knew that was not true. This he had discovered only when he had steeled himself to resort to something as alien to him as eating pig: he had never wasted one rupee in his whole life.

To squander hundreds in the search for information made him sick to the stomach. Alone, he would never have contemplated it. Until the moment the final news came he had believed it to be a mistake. Now he thanked the god that had sent him such an intelligent wife, for it had been Badji who, in the depth of night, as he lay sleepless, had outlined the plan. Spread the word to the traders in the villages, she had said, the men who deal in money and ivory, who know its value and will do anything to have more, that information leading to the capture of the poachers will be rewarded with one thousand rupees.

He had argued vehemently until she pointed out that the reward would be paid only after their capture and, although almost two years' savings, would ensure that he would remain in his post to earn more.

Seven months had elapsed, months in which his first optimism had evaporated completely, until the merchant Balama Karami had arrived at his door in the black of night. He gave names, dates, and the likely route to the borders of the Game Reserve, and Shanti Assawandri had smiled...

Sher Hatyaara slept long and deeply through the night in her cave, her ribcage rising and falling rhythmically with each steady breath, the tip of her magnificent tail twitching now and then in reflex.

As dawn broke, some deep, primeval instinct sent a warning signal to the defence centres of her brain, warning her of danger, and she stirred fitfully, but slept on, too satiated to recognise the peril, unaware of the small group of humans surrounding her lair, keeping well downwind as they took up positions for a long wait.

The sun was less than one hour from its zenith when she woke suddenly, instantly alert, her head upright and very still, only her yellow slit eyes darting swiftly around the cave, betraying her preparedness. The human smell was strong in her nostrils, but now another animal odour mixed with it.

Memory flooded back of her meal - allayed her fears. The source of the other smell, a goat, must be near to be so strong in her nostrils. Not hungry but always ready to kill, she eased her way to the entrance and roved the rocks below with her eyes, searching for her quarry.

The goat stood in the open - it, too, suddenly aware of danger, lifting its head from the grass. A pitiful bleat escaped lips already trembling, where a froth of fear had begun to form. It could not see the tiger but there was no need. Even now it could sense the approach of death.

Sher Hatyaara crouched and slid almost invisible from the cave entrance into the area of large boulders beyond. It would be easy, she knew, to chase the goat, but for the languor on her from her distended belly. She would make this an easy kill.

She narrowed the distance, keeping low, using scrub and rock to best advantage. The goat became frantic, fighting to free the shackle on its legs, jerking and pulling its head in terror, ripping hair in wads from its neck where the collar bit, the air sodden with its bleating.

The men waited, watching, happy that Shanti Assawandri, concealed in the rocks downwind and fifty yards to the left of the tiger's path, would be the one to take the beast. Two hundred yards downhill two rangers watched over the poachers, bound hand and foot to stop them should they try to take vengeance on the beast themselves.

Randiti, close to Shanti, watched as the safety catch was slid forward...

Now he stood two paces from the cage - no closer.

'Tomorrow', he whispered, 'o silent one, we shall part company, you and I, and I can return home to my beloved Kala.'

Randiti did not know just how wrong he could be...

July 19th 0810 E.S.T.

Crellucci went down the stairs slowly, thinking. Maybe he should go downtown, try to see Minelli, but Minelli did not know him, would not see him, would probably have him bounced out on his big fat.

No, it had to be Sachs, the local collector; dapper, five-foot nothing, vicious Sachs, with the steel-grey eyes and the eight-hundred dollar suits, who could send a shiver through the fat man with nothing but a glance.

Sachs knew him, had put one or two jobs his way, and he'd done well for him: half a dozen jalopies, a river job, and last year he'd snuffed out the old guy in the Bronx for a century. Sure, Sachs would see him, would listen, would pass it on to Minelli.

The collector ate over on Forty-fifth, in the restaurant below his flat.

Crellucci turned towards the park.

The restaurant was three miles cross-town and with the light, pre-rush traffic he covered the distance in eight minutes.

There was a space between two cars opposite the window of the restaurant. He backed in and looked across.

The dining room was empty - he'd have to wait. God, he wished he had a drink. The whisky in his system was losing its strength and his hands were beginning to shake with the first withdrawal symptoms when he noticed the uniformed black cop in the rear view mirror, five cars away.

Crellucci had been sweating for over an hour; now it began to pour out of him. What the hell did the guy think he was doing, patrolling in this neighbourhood on his own? Didn't he think that was a good way to get a knife in the ribs? Crellucci's hand went down to his belt, felt the well-known shape, came away reassured.

The cop was checking plates, notebook in hand, looking carefully into each vehicle as he reached it.

Crellucci, used to sizing up fuzz, saw at a glance he was no free and easy checker just passing an hour. This guy's cap was pulled tight over close-cropped hair, his shoulders squared off like a rugby half-back, nose high in the air.

Crellucci groaned. Christ, he was in trouble! Now, with the cop only thirty feet away, it was too late to pull out. It would rouse suspicions, maybe have the cop check in for the number, set the chain in motion for an APB.

He thanked his God he'd snatched the old Ford. He'd only had the goddamn thing three hours. Surely the owner hadn't noticed it was gone already? Crellucci mopped his face with a badly stained handkerchief - these goddamn cops - trained to look for the sweat on a man under tension.

The cop was at the car behind. Sit it out, man, sit it out...

He squirmed in the seat...keep calm...not a thing to worry about...

He turned his head from the nearside, hands shaking like DTs, stared at the restaurant opposite. Sachs had come down and was sitting at a corner table, his back to the side wall, his usual seat.

The cop stopped beside the passenger door. Crellucci felt eyes boring into the back of his head, imagined the youngster checking the number off his list, felt the muscles of his stomach and rectum working...

The footsteps moved off - three, four, five - stopped again.

Crellucci fought the panic that would have him tearing open the door, running...

His heart, overloaded with fatty tissue, sent another urgent pain message. He ignored it, as he had too often lately, writing it off as indigestion, forced himself to turn his head, to look...

The cop had his back to him, checking the plate on the next car.

Crellucci closed his eyes, breathed deeply, felt the tension draining out of his body, bringing him back to the reality of his soaking clothes and the pool of sweat on the plastic seat.

The cop moved off. Crellucci shoved open the door, half fell out, crossed the street in a daze.

At the top step he staggered. Sweat-soaked from head to foot he tried to mop some of the moisture from his little piggy eyes with the soiled, wet handkerchief before pushing open the oak-veneered door.

As it swung to behind him he found himself grabbed from both sides. A tall, hook-nosed hood with a scar from an old knife wound across his left cheek from ear to chin expertly frisked him.

Crellucci recognised him as Karl Farrow, one of Sach's personal bodyguards. Though it was cool and dark in the vestibule after the bright sunlight outside the sweat continued to pour out of him.

Farrow found the knife, took it, grunted, 'Okay, he's clean now.'

The grip on his arms slackened.

'What you after, Fatso?' Farrow's question ended with four pointed fingers thrust hard into the lard over Crellucci's navel. He gasped with pain.

'I gotta see Mr Sachs.'

Farrow laughed \- vicious, sadistic.

'No one gets to see Mr Sachs when he's eating. Not 'less you want a pair of concrete shoes for your birthday.'

'After breakfast then.' Crellucci's harsh breathing came through with his voice.

'After breakfast he eats fat men for lunch.'

Crellucci decided he wanted out, 'Look, it don't matter none. Maybe I'll come back later...maybe...'

Farrow smirked, 'Now, ain't that interesting? First, what he has to say is so goddamn important it can't wait, and now it don't matter. Come in, Crummy, and mind your manners.' He pushed open the door.

Sachs eyed him like a scientist examining a malignant growth under a microscope. Carefully he flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, away from the two-inch thick T-bone steak on the plate before him and hissed at Farrow, 'You tryin' to ruin my digestion?'

Farrow pulled Crellucci's arm, 'Sorry, boss, I'll throw him out.'

Sachs speared a forkful of rare steak. On its way to his peevish slit of a mouth a drop of blood fell onto the napkin folded carefully on his lap.

He looked up, a strange expression on his unlovely face.

'Blood, Crellucci. An omen. I know about these things. My grandmother was a fortuneteller back in the old country. You bring me blood and this I do not like. Nor do I need a jalopy for breakfast. You're lucky I don't ask for blood to be spilled in return. Now get lost.'

Farrow pulled the arm harder. Crellucci resisted. He'd got this far - he wanted to be heard, so urgent was the message still in his ear.

'No, Mr Sachs, this is no automobile.' He fawned, 'I got this idea - a big idea.' He stopped, looked at Farrow meaningfully.

Sachs got the message and motioned with his head, 'Okay, Karl.'

The hood left, glaring at Crellucci.

Sachs leant back in the chair, his eyes boring through the fat man, 'Okay, Crellucci, make with the music. Make it good and make it quick.'

Crellucci began eagerly, the words tumbling out in his desire to be heard, 'See, Mr Sachs, I got this idea: why don't the Mob hit every bank and big store in the City at the same time? Dozens and dozens of heists, and a coupla minutes beforehand, we ring in maybe a hundred false calls - rapes, murders, attacks, riots, burglaries - you name it. They'd be so tied up we'd be clear to Nantucket before they realised what had happened.'

Finished, he ended lamely, 'I thought it would be worth a C-note, Mr Sachs.'

Sachs laughed mirthlessly, 'You come in here looking like a pig that's just crawled out of the shit and ruin my breakfast, pump a crazy idea like that at me and ask for bread? Get out!'

His voice rose to a shout, the veins on his forehead standing out purple, 'Get out!'

Crellucci got.

Sachs sat thoughtful for several seconds, nodded to himself, set knife and fork down, reached for the phone, waving for Farrow to come back in. He jerked a thumb towards the window.

'Get rid of him \- today.'

Farrow grinned, 'Sure, boss. A real pleasure.'

Sachs got his number, asked for Minelli. When the Mafia lieutenant came on the line Sach's voice changed, 'Oh, hello, Tony.' He fawned, 'Look, I've got an idea I want to discuss with you. Yeah, a big one - maybe just what you've been looking for. One you can kill two birds with - one of them an old one, you dig?'

~~~oOo~~~

It had been one hell of a night. Chief of Fire Fighters Abraham Bootz took his aggro out on the gas pedal of the bright red Ford Mustang. Was he going to give those guys on the City Council hell or was he going to give them hell! Thirteen more arson fires in one night - and how could you blame them? Five and six to a room, inadequate sanitation, mouldering, filthy old tenements, no light, too little food - and then the City gives a thousand bucks to anyone made homeless by fire and re-houses them in decent accommodation. Hell - in their shoes he'd put a match to his own home.

He took the corner of Amsterdam and Forty-fifth on two wheels, his square jaw moving violently and rhythmically on the four-stick wad of gum. There'd be hell to pay again when he got home, goddamn it. Why the hell did he have to go and marry her? Seventeen years they lived together without a wrong word. His right hand left the wheel, rummaged in his pants pocket, found another stick of Spearmint, jammed it in with the rest. You marry a dame, you put a rope round your neck. The day after the wedding they had their first ever row. It seemed like there'd been one every day since. Every goddamn thing he did was wrong. Where'd he been all night, anyway? Downtown in some cathouse, she'd bet. A likely story he had to be out at a fire - the fires were for the boys, not the chief. And why the hell should he expect her to get up and make his breakfast, just so's he could light out again and leave her to slave over the housework?

Even the car was wrong: she'd read in some goddamn magazine at the hairdresser's that men bought red cars as a symbol of virility, to flout themselves to women, and while she was on the subject, when were they going to make it again? She couldn't remember the last time. He had some little chick tied up downtown somewhere, she knew - he'd always been so sexy, so hungry. Leopards didn't change their spots.

A hundred times he tried to tell her men get tired, affected by pressure of work, lose their appetites as they grow older, even bought her a couple of books on the subject, but it was wasted effort.

Crellucci staggered into the road from between two parked Chevvies outside the restaurant. The pain in his heart was almost unbearable, his eyes misted so he could barely make out the shape of the Ford on the other side of the road. He neither heard nor saw Bootz' approach.

The red Mustang stood on its nose, all four wheels locked, as Bootz fought to stop. Crellucci's bulk seemed to fill the road centre between the lines of parked cars.

The fat man heard the squeal of the brakes and sharp fear clutched at his throat, holding him rooted to the spot, mesmerised like the snake's victim by the swaying bulk of the approaching wall of steel.

His heart stopped.

Flesh was no match for metal. If the fat man had not already been dead he would have died in mid-air from a broken neck and multiple injuries so bad the coroner's boys were going to give up listing them.

Sachs watched the lump of torn flesh that had been Fat Joe Crellucci hit a parked station wagon and rebound onto the hood of the Mustang. He nodded, satisfied, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, said, 'Okay, Karl, you can forget that. The old lady knew her stuff, I guess.'

Back into the phone he said, 'Yeah, I'm sure, Tony - this is the big one. Be with you at ten.'

He picked up the knife and fork and set to work with gusto. The steak tasted better than ever, and he felt real great. This was going to be a real good day.

~~~oOo~~~

Malone shook his head, shaking beads of sweat onto the casing of the F-30 voice intensifier that was jutting out over the roof, and the magnetic spool next to it.

His shirt lay on the concrete, limp and soggy like a wet rag, in a crumpled heap where he'd thrown it half an hour before. Five minutes ago he'd undone his fly-front and thrown off his suspenders, freeing his plentiful beer gut in the process, and, goddamn it, any minute now he was gonna take off his goddamn pants.

'Man, oh, man - don't he sing bee-ewtiful?'

With a twinge of envy Malone glanced at his prostrate partner beside him, monitoring earphones tightly clamped over both ears, his dark brown Evvaprest jacket still on, tie drawn tightly up at the neck, seeming cool, not sweating at all, or if he was, Malone reckoned it was round the crotch and didn't show.

He guessed he'd never understand coloured guys. Here he'd always thought he hated the whole goddamn caboodle of them as smelly, ignorant animals, and they team him with one who looked and spoke as if he'd stepped out of a band-box: first class Honours degree, top man from the Police Academy - enough to make any self-respecting ex-beat cop feel goddamn inferior. And now they'd even made one Commissioner. What the hell was the world coming to?

Joseph Abalone Savoy smiled. He well remembered the first weeks they'd worked together and the constant anti-black digs of a partner whom he disliked at the outset just as much as Malone hated him, only hiding it better.

Now, after almost a year together, he had developed a deep respect for his sidekick's abilities as a cop. He was straight as a die in a bent world, and had shown that even he could change his mind about such fundamental issues as racialism. Even so, Savoy never missed an opportunity to return, good-naturedly, some of the hammering Malone had given him at the start.

He pulled one earphone forward, 'Dat's de ting us po' black trash been waitin' fo', Massa - de comin' ob de Judgement Day, when all yo' white folks be driven from de face ob de Earth an' we gets our just ree-ward fo' all dese years o' bein' downtrodden.' His grin widened.

Malone took a playful swipe at his jaw, 'Aw, stop makin' with the black face, Sambo!' They knew each other well enough now to know that each was joking. 'What do you think of this guy - for real?'

Savoy grimaced, 'Pure ten-megaton poison! The man is peddling a dream - a dream most of the black community of this bloody great anthill, and the rest of our great, enlightened country, for that matter, will seize with open arms. Someone will have to stop him - soon - before he rips the whole continent apart. Pity they didn't stop him in Cuba.'

'I'm with youse.' Malone scratched his behind reflectively, where the streams of perspiration running through the short hairs on his buttocks tickled. 'Feeling like a barbecued spare-rib is goddamn bad enough, but listening to his drivel gives me the screaming shits. Pity this sight ain't on my thirty-thirty.'

'I guess you...' Savoy began reflectively, but stopped short, 'Wait! Let's listen to this...'

They replaced their earphones.

Although more than five hundred yards from the man standing on the small raised platform in Union Square, his voice came loud and clear through the instrument:

'You will know when the time has come, brothers. You will know what you have to do. I bring you no weapons, no guns, no explosives, no, not even knives. You have what you need - we brought it with us from the jungles and swamps of Africa. The art of making fire! Fire, brothers, fire! You will see their eyes bulge with fear and their white skins turn blacker than yours and shrivel - every white in this city, in this country, in the world! And we will have a black world, brothers, a world where you are the masters, not the slaves!'

Doctor Christmas Nightingale felt the urgent message that came pounding from his heart: 'Stop or die now!'

He stopped, letting the thousand-strong crowd roar approval, giving his frail body time to recuperate.

His heartbeat slowed and he lifted his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter:

'The time is not now - not today, but soon - very soon.' He felt the strength flood into him for one last plea: 'Be ready, brothers. Be ready when the jungle drum sounds. Be ready to burn the white bastards!'

As the tremendous ovation broke out, the two big men standing either side of Nightingale stepped in to support him. He shook them off, whispered, 'Not now.' He waved to the cheers.

Up on the roof, Savoy removed the earphones, looked Malone straight in the eyes without speaking.

Malone was puzzled for only a moment before he groaned out loud,

'Oh, no, Joseph. For Christ's sake, no. That's playin' God, man.'

~~~oOo~~~

Homer Polanski had stood well back from the crowd in the Square. As he listened, a crafty gleam came into his eyes - if these bastards started raising the City the cops would have their hands full dealing with them.

They had their target. It was the opportunity they had waited years for. Just wait till he told the guys. And, he guessed, it was about time that he posted the letter...

~~~oOo~~~

Minelli listened in silence. Sachs got the idea he was not listening, but he was wrong.

For a full two minutes after he finished speaking Minelli said nothing. Then he smiled - an all-over, beatific smile.

'Karl,' he said, 'you're a fucking genius. It's like raising the Titanic or doing a Goldfinger. Why nobody thought of it before beats me. The only snag...'

Sachs said it for him, 'The old man.'

'Right. He'll never go for it. He's even convinced himself he's more or less on the level. Three and a half big ones every week and all he talks about is good relations with the fuzz. He'd bust a gut if he got wind of it.'

'And our heads.'

'Yeah - served up for supper with apple sauce. So - two problems: how to keep it from him - you know how many spies he's got - and how to control his reaction afterwards.'

Sachs hesitated \- he knew Minelli wanted the operation, but he was sweet on the old man's daughter, and blood was thicker than water.

'Don't you want to get rid of him, Tony? You could be the big boss. If you pulled this off they'd have to respect you - even the old man's soldiers.'

Minelli gave a sour laugh.

'You thinking maybe you could step into my shoes, win or lose, Karl?'

Sachs bit, 'Aw, Tony...'

Minelli's grin widened, 'Okay - take it easy already. You got the right idea, but the days are gone you could walk in with a Chicago pie-anna and settle the boss' hash. The citizens don't like it, the fuzz don't like it, and more important, the West Coast don't like it. So what?'

'How about we make like it was for someone else, and he just happens to get his? Might have to make some of that 'collateral damage' they talk about nowadays, but hey-ho.'

Minelli pondered, 'You know, Karl, you're having one hell of a good day. I got an idea: these Council meetings he goes to - a little explosion, say - not big, just enough to finish off the conference room, and it could have been for any one of the top brass.'

'Yeah - two for one - we knock over the old man and disorganise the retribution stakes, eh, Tony?'

'Right.'

'You want I should fix it?'

Minelli's smile was not pretty, 'Uh-uh. I got me a beauty of an idea myself. There's a guy gets up my back every time I switch on the audio. He covers the Council meetings for the networks. With a little persuasion he'll do the job for us. You organise the boys. Play it cool and keep the groups separate. No one but us knows what goes on. They each have decoy and main targets. Timing top priority. Now \- what date?'

'The sooner the better. Less time for the old man's 'ears' to get to him.'

'Right. How soon can you set it up?'

'Seven days should do it, I guess.'

'Okay - the twenty-sixth it is, then, time, four twenty, when the day's takings are almost complete. I want a master list - one copy only - with names and targets. Oh, and Karl - no half-measures. All armed and they use their shooters and get out fast.'

'The loot?'

'We have the old man's yacht ready at pier eighty-three. It leaves thirty minutes after the hits, as a decoy. Get Frazer to buy a steel barge and get it into the dry dock at the pier warehouses - today. All the loot goes in the bottom of the barge and welded in on the spot. Have the sheet steel and welders ready. Organise a team for that. If the fuzz connects us, they'll go after the yacht. I'll take her out and head for the ocean, fast - make it look obvious.'

Sachs eyes were full of genuine admiration, 'Geez, Tony - and I thought I was havin' the ideas.'

'Okay, Karl - let's get the show on the road.'

He picked up the phone as Sachs let himself out and punched a number.

'Hi, Maria,' He said, 'get over here right away will you? I got a little job I want you to do for me.'

He listened and laughed, 'Well, maybe we'll have time for that too before you go.'

~~~oOo~~~

July 20th 0815 E.S.T.

Julius Cardan had been in his office for an hour and a half already, reading reports of the night's happenings and issuing orders.

As head of New York's finest, he dealt with a lot of strange happenings, and some of the night's horrors certainly came under that heading. The murders, rapes, thefts, break-ins, shootings and suicides had an endless variety that kept him shaking his head at peoples' inventiveness when it came to mayhem. The Nightingale business, for example, was a real headache, and one he didn't know how to handle.

His secretary buzzed him and asked if he would see a Deputy Commissioner Dewar, from India.

Julius was puzzled, but agreed. He got up and went to open the door.

His visitor was big for a native of his country, almost six feet tall, with black hair that had more than a trace of silver. The man looked to be in his late forties or fifties, slim and ramrod straight, with a lived-in face that had its share of old scars. Julius was surprised to see that he was, in fact, Indian, and not, as he had expected from the name, English. He did not smile.

Julius held out his hand, which was taken in a tight grip and squeezed.

'Do come in and sit down.'

Julius went back behind his desk and the visitor sat in the chair facing it.

'I'm intrigued, Commissioner, what can I do for you?'

'It is more something I can do for you, I'm afraid.'

Why be afraid, Julius wondered. 'And?'

Have you any experience of shape-shifters, Commissioner?'

Julius laughed, 'Only on the TV, in some of those unbelievable programs.'

Dewar grimaced, 'Unfortunately, they have an element of truth.'

'You are joking, Commissioner - aren't you?'

'Have you heard of the Gilgamesh epic?'

'No.'

'The Iliad?'

'Yes.'

'They both tell of shape changers - they have been known that long, and there is also much in contemporary literature. They have always been a fact of life in my country, and we all know that they exist. We call them parivataka akara, and we take them very seriously.'

Julius had to restrain a laugh. Was this guy for real? He was Indian, sure, but he had an accent like English royalty. Julius wondered if he was being set up by some TV program like Candid Camera, though there was nothing on the guy's clothing or in his hands that could be a lens. It was easy to find out. 'Could I see some identity?'

Dewar put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out two documents. 'I imagined this scene, and expected you to think that I was a mental case. Here is my warrant card, and my passport.'

Julius inspected them carefully. They were both obviously genuine.

He held up his hands, 'Okay, Commissioner. You have my full attention.'

'One part of my duties has been to keep tabs on one of these parivataka akara, which has been causing deaths and disruption in my province for years. They are almost immortal and can only be destroyed when the body they are inhabiting is killed and there is no other body - human, animal, bird - even in some cases plant or tree, available to change into. It has caused tigers to become man-eaters, a sedate, forty-year-old elephant to run amok and kill its mahout and several other people; birds to attack humans, monkeys to cause all kinds of mayhem. I could list you over a hundred cases; those are just a couple of examples.'

'Very well, supposing I accept that at face value - how does it affect me?'

Dewar looked even grimmer, 'I am almost certain that the parivataka akara I have been keeping watch on has come to New York, and will be causing you problems very soon.'

Julius was at a loss, 'So what can I do about it?'

Dewar shrugged his shoulders, 'Not much, except try to contain it.'

'You do call it 'It' and not 'She' or 'He', don't you?'

'Exactly. It can inhabit both feminine and masculine bodies.'

'And can you give me any clue where it's likely to strike?

'Not with any exactitude, but it will probably begin by inhabiting an animal it is used to, and there is a tiger, which has just arrived on a ship from my country. I believe it turned that tiger into a man-eater, and will begin its life in this country inside that animal.'

'Where is the tiger?'

'It has been ordered for your New York zoo, and is presently still on the ship. It will be unloaded tomorrow and would normally be transported directly to the zoo, but I have deliberately interfered with the paperwork, and it will be held on the docks for a few days, until they sort it out. It has a handler with it.'

'Can't we somehow exterminate the damned thing while it's on the docks?'

'It would just change into something else in a flash - probably the person exterminating the tiger.'

Julius exhaled loudly, 'So, any suggestions?'

Dewar shook his head, 'None that would do any good.'

Julius felt like letting go with a string of expletives, but knew it would do no good.'

'Are you going back to India?'

'Soon, but I shall stay for a while. If there is anything I can do, I will. Here are my contact details while I am in New York.'

He stood up and they shook hands again.

Julius watched his departing back. And there he was, thinking he knew every problem he'd got!

~~~oOo~~~

0835 E.S.T.

Sam flicked the ignition with one hand, picked up the receiver and tapped out the number with the other.

The soft, sexy voice cooed back, 'Mayor's office.'

Sam grinned - God, the number of times guys had been taken in by that voice. Elsa Chambers had them drooling into the mouthpiece, making every kind of proposition, including marriage, all to be turned down with a practised, 'Thank you, Sir, but no thanks.'

Sam had often watched her taking dictation beside his desk. Last Tuesday something, some momentary intimacy, made him tell her his thoughts: 'You know, Elsa, I'm sure beneath those horn-rimmed glasses and all that straight-laced efficiency there is a soft, pretty, very feminine woman trying to get out. Why don't you let your hair down and relax? You could catch yourself a very nice fellah and settle down.'

She had looked into his eyes, really looked at him, for the first time, he realised afterwards, her eyes big and moist, hesitating for a long moment before answering in a small, sad voice he'd never heard before, 'You and I both know he is already married, Mr Mayor.'

It was the only time they'd ever touched a personal note. It stunned Sam to realise how very much she must love him. He blushed crimson for the first time in twenty years while she excused herself quickly. She'd been with him since leaving school - had come with him from the bank. It seemed the natural thing for her to do - the perfect secretary, even-tempered, highly efficient, knew his foibles, seemed to live for her work - the kind of secretary who, although a virgin, would, if the boss ever asked her, strip for action, because she knew he needed relief, and that was part of the job too.

Now he understood. For two hours he left her alone, every moment expecting her resignation. Finally he called her to take a letter, and it was as if nothing had ever passed between them.

Sam had been more than glad.

'Morning, Elsa,' He greeted her, 'I'm on my way in. Anything urgent you want to deal with on the phone?'

'Mr Cabot, Deputy Director of Public Health, has asked for an appointment at ten-thirty, and Mr Lee rang to say he will be calling into the office first thing this morning.'

Sam frowned - he also had an appointment with the Police Commissioner at nine.

'Any idea what it's about?'

'I understood he wanted to be there at the same time as the Commissioner, Sir.' She told him.

Sam realised she considered the matter too sensitive for the radiophone, knowing, as he did, that there were listeners working for the media, who would love to get an inside line on anything important. If Abel Lee wanted Julius there it must be a police matter.

'Thanks, Elsa. I'll be there as quickly as possible.'

At the corner of Broadway and Walker he caught a red, and glancing idly at the roadside, where the street-sweeper had left the gutter wet, was not surprised to see it already steaming, the sidewalk hot enough to fry a flapjack. As he pulled away he felt the drag of the wheels on the wet, ruined tarmac of the road, as the rubber sank a quarter of an inch into the surface.

He pushed open the office door at thirteen minutes before nine, surprised to find the Police Commissioner's hat on a peg by the door.

He raised an eyebrow, 'Julius here already?'

'And Mr Lee, Sir. They are waiting in your office.'

'Early birds.' He smiled, 'Hope I'm not the worm. How's the coffee stakes?'

She smiled back, 'Already drinking it, Sir - the Commissioner's black, with three sugars, Mr Lee's white with none.'

Sam reflected: that just about summed them up. Black and white they were, but both good Joes, with little to choose between them when it came to personal qualities and friendship.

Elsa was pouring another cup from the gently pulsating machine in the corner, its little red eye winking instant readiness.

'I'll bring yours in now, Sir.'

'No, that's all right.' Sam put his hand out to take the cup, wondering again how she did it. The move seemed not to have upset her routine one tiny bit.

He cursed them again silently: damned decorators! He missed the old office in City Hall, with its faded paint and slightly musty smell, like all the history of the City surrounded him, giving him a tenuous but definite feeing of belonging. It was pleasant, too, to look down on the green of City Hall Park from only one storey high. It kept his feet firmly on the ground, in contact with the pulse of the City. Up here, in the clouds on the sixty-seventh floor of the City Services Building, he felt somehow out of touch, like a deity on high, without the common touch, which he felt to be so necessary for a Mayor. Right enough, the old place needed a complete going over, and it had waited far too long, what with the drastic cutback in expenditure and all. There had been no serious attempt to rejuvenate the old girl since seventy-eight. No wonder she looked so rough, but she had class - something these towers of glass and steel would never have, no matter how they wrapped them up. At least he had insisted on having his office furniture transferred to the new office for the temporary stay.

He pushed the inner door open, noting immediately the gravity of expression of the two men waiting for him.

Sam had never realised before how much like a bulldog Lee could look. Sitting in the big armchair near the window he was wearing the same pugnacious expression Sam had seen in portraits of Winston Churchill.

Lee it was who had dispelled any doubts he'd had about running for Mayor. Lee had been put forward as Democratic candidate for President of the City Council. They took to each other on sight. At sixty-four, Lee was as fit as most men half his age. He had the air and the shaggy, bearded head of Moses in the picture-Bible Sam used as a child. Resourceful and dead straight, he would have been Sam's first choice of all the men he had ever known.

Lee had finally convinced him, 'It won't be easy, Sam - there's as much graft and corruption here as in any city on Earth. We sure as hell can't stop it, but maybe together we can keep it to workable levels.'

He had won by a comfortable margin over his Republican opponent, John Paul Jones.

Sam was surprised to find he had a landslide, after a short campaign in which everything seemed to go like clockwork, oiled, he found out later, with massive amounts of money from untraceable sources.

Larry Puleman, standing as Comptroller, had a narrower victory after a dirty campaign in which the press, using supplied information, smeared his opponent to death, raking up dirt from way back in his past, much of it innuendo and supposition.

The men behind the party officials had not been long in trying to influence Sam's decisions, particularly with regard to public works. Some of their suggestions smacked of illegality, and Sam had thrown them out. They had tried pressure of one kind and another. Finally, Sam's patience snapped. There was a blazing row, in which he told them all to go to hell. He would have nothing to do with anything that was not open and above board. He also told them he was not as naïve as they must have thought.

Julius for once looked older than his age, and Sam noticed for the first time the grey hairs mixed with the black over his ears. The Commissioner dressed well but not ostentatiously, the light-grey worsted sitting well on his angular frame.

Sam noticed again how handsome the coloured man was - his sharply defined features and aquiline nose softened by the laughter lines around his eyes.

Abel Lee was not the man to waste time on formalities.

'Morning, Sam.' He greeted. 'Not a social call, I'm sorry to say - we got us a rough one - but I'll let Julius clear up his business with you first.'

It was unusual to see Lee so perturbed, and Sam guessed what had brought him to the office must be serious. He turned to the Commissioner, 'What's the latest on Nightingale, Julius?'

The Commissioner pulled a long face. 'Even the name is bad news, Sam. I can tell you he is potentially the greatest danger to law and order this City has ever seen. He is inciting mass arson in simple terms. He has, we must thank God, a following of only about ten percent of the coloured population, most of them on the fringes of the underworld - bums and fanatics. As we know, there's good and bad in all races. Okay - so he has just a few thousands, but they would be enough to cause us one hell of a headache if he gave the word.'

Lee was aggrieved, 'And we can't put the bastard behind bars, where he belongs?'

'Not so easy. Twice we've arrested him, and twice his attorney had him released within the hour on the Fifth Amendment. The man is clever; he never says, 'Go out and burn' - he just gives them to believe this is their natural weapon and what the white races deserve. If he ever gets to bang his drum we're in real trouble.'

Sam was puzzled, 'His drum?'

Julius filled him in, 'His message is that when the drums sound they should all rise up and act. He sounds as though he means it, Sam. Listen.'

He switched on the portable tape recorder he'd brought with him. They listened to the recording made by Savoy and Malone.

When it had finished Lee insisted, 'We must get him into jail!'

Julius shook his head. 'That would not stop the word, and it might inflame an already bad situation.'

Sam agreed, 'He's right, Abel. All we can do is stand back and wait. From what we hear the man is suffering from acute pectoral angina and may not have long to live. I know it's a lousy thing to say, but maybe the problem will resolve itself for us.'

Lee was becoming angry, 'Wait? Wait till when, for God's sake? Till the shit hits the fan and he points it straight at us?'

Sam shrugged, 'How many fires a week can you put down to arson by black militants, Julius?'

'Hard to say, exactly. I would guess probably zero. Abraham Bootz places it at around fifteen to twenty, all small stuff, usually associated with robberies or the protection rackets. Maybe somewhere in between. Certainly nothing of the kind we could expect if this guy's doctrine ever got off the ground.'

'Can we do any more than we are?'

Julius nodded, 'With your agreement, I intend to put two of my best men on undercover surveillance of this bird.'

Sam caught Lee's immediate nodding glance.

'You've got it, Julius. Good luck, and keep us informed.'

He turned, looking directly at Lee, 'Now, Abel, what's the bad news?'

'Remember the placing of the contracts for the power relays?'

Sam nodded unnecessarily. How could he forget? They were the single biggest project the City Government had taken on since he and Lee had been in office. For years the City had talked about ways of avoiding another blackout like those of sixty-five and seventy-seven, and done nothing. The minor breakdown in September eighty-one had convinced them something must be done. Sam felt rightly proud that with the help of the power company they had come up with the answer: three entirely separate mains supplies from different states, running into the City, each with two internal relay stations, all six relays linked automatically, so that overload could be shared between them, with a one hundred and twenty percent overload capability on each station, over and above the maximum power ever previously used in the City. A special City lottery had been set up to fund the project, and it would take six years to clear the debt. Sam was sure the effort had been worthwhile.

The electricity company had been most helpful, checking the plans and agreeing to allow the City to build and run the stations. The power company now billed the Council for the total external wattage supplied, and the City billed its own customers and was alone responsible for the internal distribution of power.

'They seemed open and above board to me.' Sam said, 'You agreed too. Surely there was nothing wrong with them?'

Lee shook his head, 'Not with the quotations, nor the plans. We took the lowest, consistent with top quality, as we should have done.'

'Then what?'

'The five companies concerned have two common factors: one, they were formed immediately before the contracts were signed and workers brought in from all over the States to fill up the manpower hole, two, the sole shareholder in each one of them is a company called 'Eastern Self-Employed Trust' - on the face of it a reasonable set-up. These unit trusts invest heavily in all types of building company, but we were not satisfied and took the investigation a couple of steps further. Eastern Self-Employed also has only one shareholder - Coborn Consolidated Investments, of Philadelphia, and, surprise, surprise, the three shareholders in that company are,' He paused for effect, 'Mario Valicone, Antoni Minelli, and our old friend and fellow worker, Larry Puleman.'

It was certainly effective. Sam almost spilled his coffee.

'Are you saying the contracts were rigged?'

Lee's eyes were bright with anger, 'Damned right they were, Sam, but knowing it and proving it are horses of very different colours. We suspect the tenders were opened secretly before the deadline and the quotes from the five companies which eventually did the job brought down to below the level of the lowest outside tenders, but...' He shrugged resignedly.

Sam finished the sentence for him, ...There's nothing we can do about it.'

'Right in one, Sam. Nothing, more's the pity. That's bad enough, but what bothers us a great deal more is, if they had to cut their quotes, how good were the materials and the workmanship?'

Sam began to object, 'Trundell supervised every part of the job from start to finish...' He stopped, suddenly remembering his own doubt about Trundell's veracity. The job had been advertised coast-to-coast, and Trundell's credentials had been the best of over eighty applicants. The City Council had appointed him on a majority decision. Sam had not been one of that majority.

Trundell was a big, ruddy-faced, beefy man - thirty pounds overweight - with a smile that Sam thought came too readily to his lips. On the surface the kind of likeable guy you drink or play a round of golf with, but Sam found it difficult to like him. Over the years he'd found that his first impressions of men were generally correct, and there was something about Trundell he didn't trust. His suits were just a trifle on the flashy side, he had the odd habit of avoiding your eyes in conversation, and Sam thought he drove a car just a little too expensive for his salary, but then the guy could have money saved - he was around forty, and had obviously always earned a good salary.

Lee noticed his hesitation.

'I see you agree with us, Sam.'

Julius chipped in, 'We were up a blind alley for a while, but then we got lucky. I found out that the guy my sister-in-law is dating works at the Lower East Side relay, and we invited them over for supper. The subject got around to the stations after a few drinks, and he spilled a whole can of beans. According to him, the entire wiring used is sub-standard stuff made somewhere in the Far East - says he's never seen insulation like it. Within a week of opening they had trouble with the plumbing and leaks in the roof. Since then it's been one thing after another. His own opinion, and I quote, 'Someone made a packet!'

Sam groaned, 'Oh, no.'

'Oh, yes, Sam.' Lee took up the story again, 'And there's even worse to follow. The guy said that in his opinion the safety margin figures published in the media were pie in the sky. He reckons there is virtually no safety margin if it came to an overload, even a minor one.'

'But why, for God's sake? Valicone himself put up two million as a gift towards the stations. Surely he wouldn't rob himself?'

Lee smiled grimly, 'Unless those two millions were just a drop in the ocean. Think of it, Sam - Public Enemy Number One gets to be Public Benefactor Number One - gets to sit in as a co-opted member of the City Council and Big Mac as a result, and probably pockets four times his initial outlay into the bargain. Nice work if you can get it. That's without the normal genuine profit the companies were entitled to make for the job.'

Sam felt a terrible anger building up inside him. He and Lee had been parties to the entire affair, willing stooges, whose political careers would now be forfeit if the business were brought out into the open, and being honest men they had no option but to do just that. It wasn't fair, by God.

'Looks like a Republican City Government coming up.'

Lee nodded, 'The cruellest thing is that somehow the Valicones and Pulemans of this world manage to crawl out from under while we honest suckers carry the rap.'

'Suggestions?'

'I reckon we call Trundell in to the next full meeting of the City Council. Valicone and Puleman will be there. We put a discussion of the power stations on the agenda - leave it as ambiguous as possible - and ask Trundell to bring along his figures. Now that the stations have been working for three months it would only be reasonable for the Council to be told of their efficiency. That will give us an opportunity to dig deep and bring the whole thing out into the open. At least that way the Council members will realise we've been honest dupes. They we try to carry the racket. If we fail, at least we can say we tried. In the meantime we say nothing and do some further digging. If he agrees, get Bill Stryker, the trouble-shooter for the power company, to do some independent, low profile checking for us. We'll have to put him in the picture, of course, but no one else for the moment.'

'What about Russ?'

Lee considered for a moment then shook his head, 'Russ Martin's a damned fine man, Sam, don't get me wrong - you couldn't have a better Deputy Mayor, but for now I think we keep it to ourselves and Stryker, and we ask him to treat it as confidential until he finds out what the score really is.'

Julius agreed, 'Makes sense, Sam.'

Sam thought it over for a moment. Martin had been part of the sub-committee dealing with the setting up of the relays. It would be in his best interests to keep him out of the mess for now.

'Agreed.' He said, 'I'll get onto Stryker right away and have Elsa add the relays to the agenda for the twenty-sixth.'

He stood, expecting the meeting to be at an end, but realised Julius had something to add.

The Police Commissioner grimly told them about the shape shifter.

Like him, they both wanted to pooh-pooh the idea. Like him, they were finally convinced.

Sam said it for all of them, 'Just what we needed.'

Julius agreed, 'Like a hole in the head.'

~~~oOo~~~

Trundell got the call at nine thirty-five. It creased still more the frown that had been deepening in direct proportion to the rise in the mercury every day since the heat wave began.

He read the outside thermometer through the glass again: ninety-eight Fahrenheit, at this time in the morning. They'd said the figures of two years ago were unlikely ever to be broken, and now the goddamn Council wanted to go over the whole thing again. Could they know something? He started to shake inside, as he had done for months while the stations were being built, waiting for an outside spot check. It had never come, and he thought he'd gotten over it. He hadn't. Who said conscience is the wee small voice that tells you you're about to be caught? Whoever it was, they were goddamn right. He wondered should he ring Valicone; rejected the idea out of hand. Not unless he wanted to wake up totally breathless tomorrow.

He turned back to the station control panel: twenty-two percent overload, repeated through all six stations in the City. Well, at least he knew why - every goddamn air conditioning unit in every room in the City was working flat out. What the hell would it be like around four pm, peak time? He did not like to think - maybe as much as forty percent. Well, the equipment could cope with sixty, maybe just a fraction more, and shared out equally it made no matter. It had been his own estimate that sixty would never be exceeded, even in an emergency, and the Organisation had built the stations around his modifications.

He hoped like hell he hadn't been wrong. His papers dealt exclusively with the original specifications, and he'd trot them out again to the Council. Hell - they'd been approved before he went ahead with the final designs. It would need more than an act of God next time to paralyse the City. Sure - why worry - the guys on the Council were no electricity experts. He would gloss over the figures quickly, confound them with millions of kilowatts. Goddamn it, he'd only been invited so's he could say, 'Well, boys, we've done it. All six new stations running perfectly. We'll never be in the same boat as sixty-five and seventy-seven again.

They'd all clap him and each other on the shoulder and tell each other what great guys they were, and he could come one back here to worry some more on his own.

Not for the first time he wished like hell he'd never taken the two hundred gees, wished the electricity company had not agreed to hand over control of the building and running of the stations to the City. If they'd insisted on control there would have been no modifications and he would have no conscience problem.

~~~oOo~~~

Sam had time to check the morning mail before Dick Cabot arrived. Mostly routine stuff, invitations to meetings, requests by citizens for special attention, and circulars. Among them two crank letters, average for a weekday. After a quick glance he dropped them in the wastebasket, but something made him take one out and read it again.

He'd received hundreds in the last few months, from men and women, with everything from confessions to murder through to a guy who told him twice a week how to run the City, and always signed himself, 'Edgar J. Hoover'.

This was different. For one thing it was the first to hit an intimate personal note. Strange how only yesterday he'd been thinking about the hellhole, and here was a letter referring to just that. Was it that, he wondered, that made him take it at face value?

The writer was a veteran, with a well-earned grudge against the Communists, and an obvious mental stability problem. His own recent nocturnal visitations gave him a fellow feeling for the writer of the letter. God, he thought, but for a lot of luck it could be me.

Just this once he decided to pass the letter to Julius. Maybe he would be able to trace the man and do something to help him.

Cabot was dead on time. His hand taken in a vice-like grip, Sam thought again how much the man epitomised his office. Very fit for a man in his mid-forties, he positively radiated health. He was short and stocky, with jet-black hair showing not the first sign of grey, cropped schoolboy fashion on a well-shaped head, honest, piercing grey eyes over cheeks that almost burned with an open-air glow. Sam would not have been surprised to find Cabot had run all the way over from Public Health. His one vice was speaking his mind. It upset some, but he was Sam's kind of people. An official who always took his duties seriously, his expression today was sterner than usual.

Sam felt his sense of unease deepen. He waved to an armchair.

'Sit down, Mr Cabot, and let's hear the problem.'

Cabot sat and opened his briefcase, 'I'll come straight to the point, Mr Mayor.' He began, 'As you know, we keep comprehensive records of City deaths over at Public Health. Those figures include deaths from other causes than actual disease. One of those causes is pulmonary disorders. The average for this time of the year, based on statistics for the last twenty years, is eleven point three two. The figures for the last two days have been twenty-two and twenty-nine respectively.' He paused to allow the figures to make their impact. Sam waited for him to continue.

'Taken in isolation they could be merely coincidence, but I've been keeping a close watch on oxygen levels, and deaths have risen as the level has fallen. This graph shows the situation clearly.' He passed over a single sheet of paper.

Sam looked at it carefully. Deaths were marked in green and the oxygen level in red. It was clear that Cabot had a point.

Sam pointed to the vertical scale, 'What do these figures indicate?'

'The mortality figures are actual numbers, the oxygen figures are percentages above basic life-support level. In spite of the heat, the light easterly breeze of the last week kept the oxygen level to around thirty percent above basic; not good, but reasonable enough. When that breeze dropped two days ago the oxygen level took a tumble. This morning it's down to eighteen percent and still falling.'

Sam scrutinised the figures carefully, 'These numbers are worrying, and it is good of you to take the trouble to come over here to inform me, but what exactly can we do about it?'

Cabot's gaze was fixed firmly on Sam's eyes. Sam felt as if the man was reaching into his very soul.

'Not a great deal at this point. I intend to broadcast a warning to anyone with respiratory disorders to stay out of the city, if at all possible. Beyond that, we watch things very carefully.'

Sam's heart felt like lead, 'You expect things to get worse.' It was a statement, not a question.

Cabot nodded vehemently, 'Much worse.'

'And what can I do?'

'I would like permission to see you daily while the situation persists.'

Sam nodded, 'You have it, and my thanks for your efforts.'

His visitor rose, unsmiling, 'Would nine-thirty each morning be in order?'

'Certainly.' Sam held out his hand.

Cabot took it briefly, 'Till tomorrow, then.'

Sam saw him to the door and asked Elsa to bring in the City appropriations file.

For the rest of the day he tried to concentrate on the everyday business of the office, without much success. He found it strange that his mind kept coming back not to the problem of the power relays but to Cabot's visit.

~~~oOo~~~

July 20th. 2.30 pm Moscow Time

The cars had come singly and by different routes. No two members of the Politburo travelled together, now that the troubles that began in the Ukraine and Turkestan had spread to the capital. Since the attempted assassination of Dmitri Kalenkov, Minister of Agriculture, a month before, on his way to the Kremlin, each black Zil was escorted by a corps of six heavily armed motorcyclists, and preceded by a Korsoi armoured car. All members had been forced to move to within five kilometres of the Kremlin.

Entering by the Borovitsky Gate, they drove across the totally enclosed trigonal square of the Kremlin, past the huge bronze statues of the heroes of the people, forever marching forward with their submachine guns and their sickles and hammers - socialist banners and red star flying high, and below the cupolas and turrets of the Citadel, heavily guarded by an elite corps composed entirely of White Russian troops.

One by one the cars purred to a halt at the inner checkpoint, by the gate in the newly-erected, electrified steel fence - its fifteen feet dwarfed by the massive outer walls, then eased into the car park in front of the three-inch thick oak door, which admitted to the council chambers of the Praesidium. Here once again papers and fingerprints were checked electronically.

Their owners inside, the cars waited silently, like so many black slugs - private hearses waiting patiently for the bodies of their owners.

Once seated at the leather-topped table they sat stony-faced, without illusions.

It was no ordinary, scheduled meeting, and no secretaries had appeared to take minutes. The summons had been peremptory, and each man knew there was a better than even chance he would not see the next meeting.

Of the twelve round the table, four were new within the last six months. Never since Stalin's day had life at the top been so precarious, and of the men there, not one had no skeleton in his private cupboard, and would have given his high position gladly to become an impecunious Siberian peasant.

Even Gregor Petrov, head of the secret police, sitting to the right of the empty chair at the head of the table, who of them all had least to fear, knew with deadly certainty that his own life hung in slender balance, forfeit to his first wrong decision. At forty-one the youngest of the group and the protégé of the new supreme ruler, he held all their lives in the palm of his hand. It had lulled him into believing he could do as he wished with their families. His attempt to seduce Ivan Konstantin's pretty young wife had failed miserably, and he could only hope his threats to her husband's security would ensure her silence.

Konstantin sat on his right, looking ten years older than his fifty-two, his face lined with worry and his hair twice as grey as it had been six months earlier. He was the replacement for Ilya Komanov, responsible for implementation of the Five Year Plan. Since the Plan consistently failed to reach specification at every six-monthly review, and a scapegoat was expected, as a life insurance prospect he rated zero. That he knew this was attested by a permanent frown and nails that bore witness to constant biting. He was toying distractedly with a fountain pen, given to him by his youngest daughter as he had seen the family off for an extended holiday in Odessa. His glance flicked constantly under hooded lids at Petrov, wondering for the thousandth time if he had been found out in the heinous crimes to which he had felt himself forced: his wife, whom he loved with an all-consuming passion, held in a secret compartment of her voluminous purse forged papers, which would enable her and their two children to cross to the decadent West when it became obvious that his own death was imminent. The scraps of secret information he had passed - her insurance policy on the other side - made him a traitor to the country he had always loved.

The chair at the top of the table stood unoccupied, but even so it held an air of supreme authority, of life and death at the wave of a hand, over them and over the two hundred and fifty million comrades outside the windows of the Kremlin, in the vast territories that stretched north to the Pole, south to the Black Sea, in the east to the Chinese Peoples' Republic and in the west to the borders of Germany.

On the left of the empty chair, Feodor Churanko, Minister of War, studied minutely the whorls in the surface of the table top. White faced, he reviewed again the recent losses on the Chinese border and last week's bungle at the Jungarian Gate, to the south of Lake Baikal. His report had clearly blamed the local commander for acting on his own initiative, but his own aide had overheard the briefing he had given the young officer before his departure to the front, and the aide was an ambitious man...

At the very bottom, on the left, the balding Dmitri Kalenkov, his once handsome face chalk white, brushed imaginary specks of dust from his sleeve, wishing he knew whether the secret figures he'd received only that morning of the grain crop harvest for the year had been received also by the man at the top. If they had, it would have been better for him if the assassination attempt had been successful.

Directly opposite Kalenkov, staring with grim resolution at the ornate ceiling, Yuri Malenchik, Minister for Internal Affairs, considered his chances: rioting continued out of control in seven major cities, unpunished sabotage increased daily throughout the land, and yesterday a bomb had exploded at Moscow Central railway station. They had rounded up over two hundred unfortunates who happened to be on the scene. Some would be shot, but the real culprits were not among them, he knew. The excuse that insufficient White Russian troops were available was no excuse at all.

The ageing Minister of Defence, Ivan Stenoff, at sixty-eight not only the oldest man present, but also the longest-serving member, sat on Malenchik's right. Though not courting death, it now held little sting for him. His raging cancer, hidden, he hoped, from the secret police and the Party, left him little hope of seeing another year. His one lingering regret had been the continued failure of his country to attack the United States. As a voice in the affairs of the Politburo he had been largely ignored during the last years, because of his rigidly held views.

The remaining six included Dmitri Kamenensky, Foreign Affairs, a statesman whose soft background of twenty years in foreign embassies left him automatically suspect; Stefan Kalkovitch, Party Organiser of a Party now on the very verge of disintegration; Mischa Karenshalov, Minister of Relations for the Communist Bloc, more than worried at the ever present rumblings against the interference of the Russians in the internal affairs of the former satellite countries; Viktor Krapov, Yuri Silensky and Aleksandr Malenovsky, responsible for the provinces, in all of which there had been almost continuous rioting during the previous month.

So they waited, each alone with his own disturbing thoughts.

Less than fifty feet away, Gregor Karashilov, Marshal of the Army and Supreme Head of State since the late leader's sudden demise, stood motionless at his window, looking out over the square.

'Let them wait.' He could imagine their thoughts, the silent tension in the room. All the better - they would be so relieved when they heard his proposition that they would vote for the motion without too much thought. He smiled: by so doing they would be helping him to achieve his lifelong ambition - a place in the history books. He, the untutored son of a Ukrainian miner, would lead his nation in a nuclear crisis.

He turned, adjusting his face into the harsh mask of his public image.

All but Stenoff leapt to their feet as the guard threw open the door for his entry. The Minister of Defence moved much more slowly, levering himself painfully out of his seat, his hands on the table for support.

Karashilov ignored them all, taking his seat as if alone in the room. He carried no notes.

He was silent for more than a minute, allowing them to feel the strength of his presence afresh. While still at school he had discovered this power. It was not his appearance alone, striking though it was, nor the power in his almost hypnotic, blue-grey eyes, but an aura that seemed to emanate from his whole body - a dynamic power that at first had frightened him, but which he had learnt to control. It had taken him to the very top.

When he spoke it was to the gathering as a whole.

'You are all aware of the current unacceptable situation in our major cities and in the provinces - a situation which worsens daily. I have today,' He glared at Kalenkov, 'received the up-dated forecast of the grain harvest for the current year. It is, without doubt, disastrous. The severe late frosts throughout the northern states of America, followed by their drought, means there will be no surplus of grain to be bought from them this year. This must inevitably lead to further internal anarchy and decay and means only one thing: certain steps must be taken to unite the republics as they have not been united since the Great War. The plan will need your explicit approval. That approval will not be requested, but demanded!'

The menace in his voice was obvious; he was the strong man and in complete control. Any member who stood in his way would do to only at immediate personal peril.

'I have decided,' he added softly, 'that only one action would achieve this aim: a limited nuclear attack on the Soviet mainland by a foreign power.'

He ignored the gasps of astonishment.

'The United States Sixth Fleet is on manoeuvres in the Mediterranean, and it is known that two of the Chinese copies of our Delta One submarine with ICBM capability are also patrolling that area - like our own submarines, shadowing the Americans. We have, then, a choice of enemies to blame for the incident. We shall immediately place our forces on a war footing, call up reserves, and make a great deal of diplomatic noise, but we, like the rest of the world, will not be sure who is to blame for the incident, and so will not be able to take reprisals.

The device will be a clean bomb in the five megaton range, fired from below the surface by one of our own Delta craft, whose crew will meet with an unfortunate accident on their way home. Any questions?'

His reply was a stunned silence. He continued, 'The target chosen will be one of the cities most troubled by riots, the actual target to be decided by a sub-committee made up of myself, the Ministers for War and Defence, and Comrade Petrov. The attack should not be long delayed. You will be informed of our decision at a meeting in the near future. We will have a show of hands in favour.'

There were no abstainers.

~~~oOo~~~

July 20th 1700 EST

Sam pushed back his chair. For once, he decided, enough was enough. He felt more than usually exhausted. It had been one of those days, with dozens of small snags cropping up; a day when he had worked hard but seem to have achieved nothing.

He pressed the intercom button for Russ Martin's office and the bright, snappy young executive's voice came straight back at him, 'Yes, Sir?'

'I'm leaving early today, Russ. Anything outstanding you want to talk about?'

'No, Sir. Everything under control. Anything you want me to handle before I leave around six?'

'No, that's all right, Russ. See you in the morning.'

Sam lifted himself wearily from the chair and limped through to the outer office. Even his leg seemed to be hurting more today.

'I'm going home now, Elsa.' He forced a smile. 'Anything important comes through now you can reach me there.'

She nodded, thinking no way would she disturb him except for a life-or-death emergency.

'Enjoy the play, Sir.' She said.

Sam frowned, then remembered. Of course, they were going to see the new Helman play this evening. He had forgotten all about it.

'Thank you, Elsa.' He muttered. Right now the thought of going to the theatre did not appeal at all, but it would do Bibba good and, who knew, it might even take him out of himself for a few hours.

For once he wished he had not cut out the official cars for daily work trips, but if he hadn't given the lead he could not have asked others to follow, and it had sure saved a heap of money. Just the thought of driving the short distance home was too much today.

'Could you call me a taxi?' He asked, 'Front entrance in two minutes.'

Elsa picked up the phone, 'Certainly, Sir.'

She watched the door close behind him and her frown deepened. She had never seen him looking so worried and so tired.

Seated in the back of the taxi, Sam allowed his mind to relax, but it brought him no pleasure. Instead, he found himself back up on the mountain, reliving again that weekend...

Though neither had given him cause to feel excluded, Sam found himself looking on while Larry and Bibba, full of life and fun, danced, sang and played the fool. They seemed made for each other.

On the Saturday they had stalked deer, light-heartedly and unsuccessfully. They were eighteen and life was good. In the evening they sang and danced barefoot on the rocky ground to the old battery record-player, falling exhausted at last into their sleeping bags to sleep the sleep of the just, but Sam's dreams had been full of strange alarms and ghostly forms, surges of cold like icy waves sweeping over him. By dawn he was too weak to stand. Somehow they had dragged him down the mountain to the road and into town. It was three weeks before the fever left him; three weeks during which Bibba never left his side. Larry, she said, had to go back to town to take care of some family matters.

Even through his delirium Sam sensed something new in her: an unusual coolness with other people, the nurses, the doctors, visiting relatives, but with him she was as she had always been, or maybe even closer.

The day he left hospital he remembered something else: she had been crying in her sleep when his half-delirious shout woke her that morning on the mountain.

Waiting for the bus he had taken her arm. It stiffened at his touch, but she made no effort to pull away.

'Bibba,' He asked, 'was it...did I make you cry up there?' He pointed up at the blue distant peaks.

Her answer was too quick, too insistent, 'Oh, no, Sam! Not you...' The sentence was bitten off and she turned her head away. The silence lasted a long time, lasted till the dust-grey bus turned into the end of the dust-grey street and she turned to face him again, with a bright, 'Now we can get you home.'

On the bus she was full of bright, unimportant chatter, and yet there was something in her eyes; something hidden; something not to be shared.

A month later at the Fourth of July dance she handed him an even bigger surprise: Larry had begged off with a desperately transparent excuse about, 'Some chick ready for laying', and midnight had seen them alone together, swaying gently to the last waltz, the other dancers unnoticed in another world. Suddenly she gazed deep into his eyes, snuggled closer, breathed almost inaudibly into his ear, 'Will you marry me, Sam?'

He missed three steps, tangled his feet in her dress, almost caused a major disaster among the drifting, dreaming couples and stopped dead, holding her out at arms' length, grinning like the end of the Lincoln Tunnel.

'Say that again,' He said, 'out loud this time.'

She went one better and shouted it out at the top of her voice, 'Will you marry me, Sam?'

'Yes!' He shouted back, over the music, 'Yes...oh, yes!'

The cheers from the floor drowned out the band and the sound of the Municipal clock striking midnight.

Larry missed the wedding. His telegram, from San Francisco, was brief and to the point, 'A good life to my dearest friends.'

When Sam looked through the telegrams and letters of congratulations next day it was missing. He had never asked why.

Their marriage had been highly successful and ideally happy until, thirty-four years later, they met Larry again, it seemed to Sam by mere chance.

It was New York's turn to host the National Conference of Bankers. At lunch on the first day, Sam turned from the buffet, his plate almost empty, with a mental picture of what the calories in the potato salad would do for his already portly figure, to find Larry, looking scarcely a day older than the last time he'd seen him, his hand outstretched, showing off a gold Cartier watch and, as ever, just the right words on his lips.

'Sam...old friend. This has got to be the second happiest day of my life.'

Sam found himself overwhelmed, forced into silence by the plethora of well-turned phrases, praises, and poetic recollections of youthful glories. Somehow he found himself whisked from the convention to an oak-panelled office high over the City, sinking into ten inches of real leather with a Havana-Havana in one hand and a crystal goblet half as heavy as the Eiger in the other, hearing and not believing a word of the craziest scheme he'd ever heard in his life.

'Sam - oh, Sam. I knew it the instant I saw that shaggy head. Larry-boy, I told myself, that's the man we've been looking for. There stands the future Mayor of New York City. Yes, siree! We've got the organisation, all we needed was the man.'

Oh, sure, they had the organisation. A long time later Sam realised he should have heard the word with a capital 'O'.

For the moment he smiled and took his farewell, the idea already forgotten.

The Wednesday after he told himself he should have known better: two airline tickets arrived with reservations for the weekend in the penthouse suite of the Ritz Tower Hotel.

Sam had been surprised at Bibba's reaction - an unusually vehement attempt to veto the idea, but he would have none of it.

'If he wants to throw his money around, honey,' He'd said, 'why shouldn't we enjoy it?'

He had enjoyed it, riding the subway and the taxis, walking the streets and Central Park, taking in the mad mixture: the glitter, the honky-tonk, the lush luxury and utter depravity, the slums and the silver-strewn sidewalks of Fifth Avenue, falling in love for the second time, and if he sensed in Bibba a slight tenseness, he persuaded himself it was because she missed their hometown and her many friends.

When it came, she appeared to accept his decision quietly and without question. Now he knew it had been with resignation.

In the months since the election, Bibba had grown quieter and more thoughtful. Sam knew she hated it: the hustle and turmoil of public office, the almost daily official functions, the intrusion into her private life, the bodyguards and the threats - they were the worst, and last Thursday she had seen a cop shot dead in the street, but never once had she mentioned what was uppermost in her mind.

She had no need to say it. They knew each other too well. Sam knew it was merely a matter of time, a few days maybe, before she decided to leave.

The months in the wheelchair, the years on crutches and sticks - then he needed her. Now, she figured, he had a greater love, and with the hip-joint operation scheduled for next month he should be able to walk almost normally on the flat.

His taxi drew up behind another, and he watched Bibba alight. She looked radiantly happy, her eyes sparkling with vitality. The recent anger began to rise again, and then he remembered: it was the afternoon when she helped out in the kindergarten. Twice a week she came home like this, and for the next few hours he would hear nothing but children.

It was the only time they broached the subject these days. He thought back eighteen years, to Janie's first birthday. They had been so happy, the three of them, with the family around them. The picture came back as it so often did, vividly: the dark haired, brown eyed little girl solemnly puffing up her cheeks to blow out the solitary candle on the big cake, and the round of applause.

He had woken first in the night, roused by the hoarse rasping sounds coming from the next room.

Things happened quickly - the doctor, the ambulance - its siren and lights disturbing the night; the hospital and the oxygen tent; the valiant, round-the-clock efforts of the staff.

All day and long into the night they sat by her bed, watching the colour drain from her face, and, finally, watching her die. Somehow she had inhaled a small crumb from the cake. It had settled in her lungs and induced pneumonia.

Bibba was inconsolable. For months afterwards the tears would come without cause, until her doctor suggested she help with local children's organisations. She had been involved ever since. For years they had tried for another Janie, without success. Sam had often suggested adoption, but for some reason she could not put into words Bibba would not accept that as the answer. Looking at her now, Sam wondered if now was the time.

He heard a voice calling, 'Sam! Sam!'

He came back to the present. The cabby was looking round at him and Bibba stood by the window, calling his name, a concerned look on her face.

He got out and paid.

Bibba took his arm. 'Are you all right, darling?'

He forced a broad smile, 'Sure - fine. Just tired.'

The hand on his arm tightened, 'Come along.' She said firmly, 'You are going to lie down for an hour or so and rest.'

He looked at her and grinned, 'Oh, no. You are going to sit down with me and tell me all about your afternoon and the children; then I am going to take my darling wife out to dinner and the theatre.'

Talk about children she did, amusing him with anecdotes for over an hour. He noticed she mentioned one child more than the others.

'And who is this little Lisa?' He asked, when she paused for breath.

A look he had not seen in a long time came into her eyes and he knew her answer was too light and flippant.

'A new little girl, just four years old. Her parents were both killed in a car crash two months ago, and she is being looked after by her grandmother while they decide what to do with her.' She saw his smiling look and realised he had read her thoughts. She dived on him, her arms going around him tightly, smothering his face with kisses wet with tears, words tumbling out frantically between the kisses, 'Oh...Sam...she is beautiful...long, dark brown hair...eyes so brown they're almost black...rosy cheeks...a wonderful smile...'

He took her shoulders in his big hands, held her firmly, looked deep into her eyes, 'Are you absolutely sure?'

She gazed at him, her face radiantly happy, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, 'Oh, yes - I'm sure.'

He reached out one hand for the phone.

'No time like the present - I'll get Alan Baker on it right away.'

She looked at him incredulously, 'Don't you even want to see her first?'

Sam smiled, 'Darling, I have seen her - in your eyes. She's Janie, isn't she?'

He saw her lips quiver as she nodded, and then the tears came again, hot, salty and uncontrolled.

Sam found it difficult to keep his own emotions in check. He wanted a child more than anything else in the world, and the bonus was the happiness he could see in Bibba's eyes.

More important, it would give her the new interest she needed, and she would stay-----

~~~oOo~~~

Russ Martin woke bright-eyed and clear-headed at the first buzz of the radio-alarm. Carefully, he slid an arm over Helen's naked, sleeping form to turn it off before she woke, moving his body onto the side, close to hers.

The heat of her thigh against his groin began a far from gentle chain-reaction that brought his hand down to caress her breasts, massaging the nipples slowly and gently. He watched them swell, become firm and erect, saw the satisfied smile creep onto her lips.

His hand moved slowly, caressingly, down over the flat expanse of baby-smooth skin to the silky-fine hair below.

Sleepily she murmured, 'Hm - that's good.' Her hand moved out, found him, squeezed.

She opened her eyes, 'Very good!' Can I take out an option?' She moved, sliding her thigh over his stomach until she sat astride him, moaning gently as he roused her with small movements, holding herself high, riding gently to and fro before pausing, spreading her thighs wide, lowering herself slowly onto him, taking all of him into her. She closed her eyes in ecstasy.

'Now this is what I call reveille.'

Afterwards, they lay relaxed in each other's arms, savouring the intimate closeness of this last ten minutes of peace before the rigours of the day, but Martin found the expected release of perspiration did not stop.

Helen noticed it too.

'What's wrong, Russ?' She asked, 'You're wet all over.'

He laughed, and found the effort difficult, 'Is there any wonder?'

She expelled her breath in a sharp, 'Huh! Why should you perspire? I did all the work'

It was true, and now he came to think about it, he had an unusual tightness in the chest and a stinging sensation behind the eyes.

'Must have a cold coming on.' He grunted. He had never had a serious day's illness in his life, and could not believe now it could be anything worse.

She reached out to stroke his forehead, cooing, 'Aaww! My poor baby. No more for you before breakfast in future.'

He smiled, easier now. The pain was receding, 'You just try it.'

She read the fresh intent in his eyes and slid from his tightening grasp onto the carpet beside the bed. They both laughed.

'And now,' she said, mock sternly, 'no breakfast either, unless you move your sweet arse. Look at the time.'

~~~oOo~~~

July 21st 0930 EST

Sam had been at his desk for an hour. To all outward appearances it was a normal morning. He'd spent twenty minutes going over his schedule for the day and considering the official party line for a news conference on City Welfare he was giving that afternoon. There had been eight telephone calls, and Elsa had gone through the mail with him and taken notes for three replies, noticing how often he looked at his watch. He had drunk three cups of coffee, two more than usual. His nerve ends seemed to be jangling, and he knew why.

Cabot was punctual, as usual. His expression serious, he began as soon as his seat touched the chair, 'The oxygen level was down to eight percent above basic level at five yesterday afternoon in Central Manhattan. That was the lowest reading, taken in Central Park at street level. Closer to the rivers it was higher, ranging from twenty to twenty-five per cent above.'

'And the deaths?' Sam was watching Cabot's eyes and saw the pain cloud them.

The Public Health official pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it across the desk. 'The figures for yesterday.'

Sam looked at the page and let out a long, low whistle. 'Forty-seven?'

Cabot nodded gravely, 'Probably twenty more not accounted for. On top of that, literally scores were hospitalised. Of course, we mustn't lose sight of the fact that it could be the heat alone which is responsible for the deaths of some old folk - bums and winos, whose diets are insufficient to cope with the kind of bodily emergencies created by excessive heat and poor oxygen levels, but even so the increase is dramatic.'

'And you think it will continue?'

'I am sure of it.'

'You've seen the weather forecast?'

'Before I left home. One hundred and six today. I was horrified.'

'Makes two of us, but the sixty-four dollar question: how long before the air is totally unbreathable?'

Cabot didn't try to hedge, 'I wish I could tell you, Mr Mayor. Two years ago it reached five per cent above basic level before the weather broke. It was only around that for two days then. It could be that it will never go below that figure, or it might today.'

'And if it does?'

'More deaths, perhaps some otherwise healthy folk. Breathing would be difficult at street level, but most people would survive. As long as the City empties each night, the air gets a chance to rejuvenate itself, so the really rough period is only a short one late each afternoon.'

'Suppose it goes below sustenance level?'

'Death on a quite massive scale. We can't allow that to happen.'

'How much warning would we have?'

'Virtually none. Certainly not enough to evacuate the City.'

Sam got up from behind the desk, walked over to the window and stared thoughtfully down at his City for several moments before turning to say, 'You came here to say something else, Mr Cabot. What was it?'

Cabot's expression was fixed in ice. 'I don't make the decisions, Mr Mayor \- you do, but with a forecast like we had this morning and no let-up in sight, I firmly believe you have no option but to close the City.'

It was there, out in the open now, the feeling Sam had woken with every day for the past week. In his heart he knew he had already made the decision, but the issue was beset with problems - financial, political and social.

He took a deep breath. 'Firstly,' he said, 'I should like to make it quite clear that I agree with you one hundred per cent, Mr Cabot. If it were as simple as that I would do it as of this moment, but for many reasons, and you know them as well as I do, it will have to be a last-ditch decision. You are right: I do have the power to close the City unilaterally, but the Mayor is just one man. He has to take the advice and act on the wishes of his entire Council and other relevant bodies. I know only too well how impossible it would be to obtain their unanimous consent to a closure at this time. They would need to be convinced that disaster was imminent, and I would need to be very naïve to believe that a closure could be effective without their agreement.

Cabot looked grim, 'I guess you mean Big Mac, Mr Mayor.'

Sam nodded, 'I guess I do.'

The Municipal Advisory Council, made up of the President of the City Council, the Comptroller, and several of the leading business and union interests in the City, held much more real decision-influencing power than the City Council itself.

Cabot tried another tack, 'Would it be possible to make a partial closure - say all non-essential shops and offices?'

Sam brightened, 'We can certainly spread the word via the media, stressing the gravity of the situation, and asking for voluntary closure. I will try to arrange for you to have those facilities.'

Cabot's jaw was set rock hard. 'That will not be enough. Dallas Eighty will be like a Sunday-school picnic compared to Manhattan Island. We are not talking about hundreds, but thousands - maybe tens of thousands.'

He knew he had overstepped the mark, but Sam could see he would have said it all again, and in just the same way. At least the man was keeping his cool, and not shouting at him.

'Mr Cabot,' he assured him, 'all I can do is try, but to try convincingly I would like to get closer to the problem. Any ideas?'

Cabot smiled his thanks, 'Have you an hour to spare?'

Sam glanced at the clock, hesitated fractionally, 'Well...thirty minutes, maybe.'

Cabot rose, 'Then I would like you to come with me.'

Sam flipped the intercom switch, 'I'm going out for a while, Elsa. Put any calls through to Mr Martin.'

His PA's voice sounded perturbed, 'He has not come in yet, Sir. I've tried his home. He left at eight-thirty.'

Sam frowned; it was totally unlike Russ to be late. He shrugged, maybe there was a good reason.

'Thank you, Elsa.' He murmured, 'take them yourself then.'

Cabot made Bellevue Hospital in seven minutes. Without stopping at Administration he whisked Sam up twelve floors to Lincoln ward. The sign outside said, 'Chronic Chest Complaints', and beside it, 'NO ENTRY!'

Cabot pushed open the doors.

Sam's gaze took in the entire ward: an oxygen tent over every bed, curtains drawn round one at the far end.

The sister, a severe looking, rake-thin woman in her late forties, came at them like a junkyard dog.

'Are you two blind, or can't you read? Who let you up here, anyway? Now you can just get out, the same way you got in!'

She folded her arms and stuck out her angular jaw. Sam would not have been surprised if she'd given them the bum's rush.

Cabot apologised quickly and introduced Sam and himself. The sister's attitude changed and she began to mumble an apology. Cabot stopped her.

'That's perfectly all right, sister - we understand, and we don't want to take up any more of your precious time than necessary, but we would like a little information.'

She nodded, 'Of course. Anything I can do to help.'

'Would you please first of all tell the Mayor how the situation stands regarding numbers of patients and their condition compared to normal.'

She sighed heavily, 'If this heat wave goes on, we won't be able to take them. Most will go straight to the mortuary. Normally we have here people with long case histories of chronic chest trouble. Most of the people here today have never had a moment's problem in their lives until last week.'

Cabot pointed to the curtains, 'And that one?'

'Collapsed on her way to school this morning. No previous history of chest trouble.'

Cabot nodded, 'Can we see her?'

The sister shrugged, 'It's not pretty - we've had to do a tracheotomy.'

Cabot caught Sam's eye, 'You're not squeamish, are you, Mr Mayor?'

Sam wondered if Cabot could have any notion of what it was like to be covered with the gore and small, bloody bits of what, a second or two before, had been one of your best friends. He decided to keep it simple, 'No.'

Even so, he was not prepared for the sight that met their eyes behind the curtain.

The girl was fifteen or sixteen, with big blue eyes and long, naturally blonde hair. She was as beautiful as a Michelangelo angel, but there it ended.

Her throat had been opened, and a large plastic tube protruded from the still bloody hole. The end of the tube lay on a large square of gauze that had once been white, but was now soaked in blood-flecked phlegm. She was unconscious.

Sam winced, 'This is the general picture?'

The sister nodded emphatically, 'At every hospital in the City. We have taken on three extra wards in this hospital alone.'

Cabot caught his eye, 'Seen enough, Mr Mayor?'

Sam nodded, his expression serious. His reply was interrupted by the opening of the ward doors. Two orderlies brought in another patient on a trolley, the face covered by a mask, connected to a small portable oxygen unit.

The sister excused herself and moved quickly over to the new patient. They followed and heard her ask, 'Another one?'

The nearest orderly grimaced, 'In a bad way - collapsed in his car, but managed to pull over to the kerb. Must have been half an hour before he was noticed.

The sister moved in. They watched with interest as expert fingers probed, tested, examined.

She looked up almost accusingly at the orderlies. 'This man is dead.'

She pulled off the mask that had been covering the face.

Sam closed his eyes, putting a hand out to steady himself.

The face on the pillow, blotched and distorted, was that of Russ Martin.

When he opened his eyes again they held a new hardness, reflecting what he felt inside. His hand went out to take Cabot's shoulder in a vicelike grip.

'Be at the meeting of Big Mac this afternoon - two thirty.' The words were chipped out of granite.

Sam almost ran from the ward.

It was eleven-forty before he got back to his desk, with less than three hours to go before the meeting. He reviewed the possibilities: Dan Gray held about half the banking vote and might or might not play along, depending on his conviction. Karl Millem held the other half, and no way could Sam expect his support. The Union men, Ted Bagley, Neil Choney and Dale Hartmann were unknown quantities. They would either go along with the idea or fight tooth and nail against it, depending on how they saw advantage or disadvantage for their own members, and to hell with everyone else, as usual. Dan Gray was his best bet.

Before facing the big guns he'd need average monthly trade figures and other relevant information at his fingertips, copies of the weather forecasts, estimates of possible savings to offset against losses. Sometime today he'd have to see about funeral arrangements. Worse still, he would have to see Martin's widow.

He walked over to the window and looked down. From up here everything looked normal; traffic jostling for position, and thousands of tiny figures going about their business. Normal? God!

He pressed the intercom.

'Elsa, cancel my Amenities Group luncheon; apologise and re-schedule for a week today - and fix lunch with Dan Gray, Chamber of Commerce. Tell him I'm sorry about the short notice, and say it's urgent. Then contact Mr Lee and ask for Mr Cabot and myself to be included as guest speakers at this afternoon's meeting of the Municipal Advisory Council.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did we get an update on the weather forecast and long-range predictions yet?'

'It was faxed through twenty minutes ago, Sir, and is in your 'In'-tray.'

Sam thanked her, smiling grimly. The situation was beginning to get at him, obviously. Knowing Elsa, where else would the damned thing be? He lifted it out and perused it quickly. The news was as bad as he expected: no change in the foreseeable future. It would have to be tonight...' He pushed back his chair, his mind firmly made up; it would be nice to have some support, but if necessary...

'Hold the fort, Elsa,' he said, on his way out through the outer office, 'I'll be back after the meeting.'

On the way uptown he dropped in on Julius and handed him the letter.

'This may be nothing, but with things as they are I thought you should see it. It went straight into the wastebasket, but I had second thoughts about it. Somehow it's different from the usual stuff.'

The Commissioner looked at the crumpled sheet of paper. It was signed with a childlike drawing of an open hand, and there were two spelling mistakes.

He read, 'Don't worry about the Comies, Sam. No more hellhole. When the time comes, the Movment will act. We remember Kwon-tai.'

Julius looked puzzled, 'Kwon-tai? Where the hell's that? And what's with this hellhole?'

'A prison camp in North Vietnam - my prison camp, and the hellhole was a particularly wet and nasty prisoners' delight, dreamt up by the commandant of that prison camp. The writer is obviously a crank, but he does seem to have been at the camp himself.'

Julius' eyebrows rose, 'A crank, Sam? Sure - he's a crank. But a crank with a gun, or a bomb. Still got the envelope?'

Sam handed it over.

'Posted here in the City.'

'That should narrow it down to a dozen or so - probably a member of the 'Veterans against the war' - we still have them pretty well taped, and some of them are extremists. If not them, we'll try the 'Veterans of Vietnam'. Then again, he may not be a vet at all - just met someone who was there or read about you in the Tribune.' He looked at the stain on the envelope, 'Looks like a messy eater, but I doubt that will help.'

Sam was doubtful too, 'I've somehow got the feeling I should know him. Something about the way the letter is worded. I'll let you know if the idea gels.'

Julius nodded, 'You do that. In the meantime, I'll put a man on it right away and get forensics to have a look at the letter and the envelope. By the way, before you go there's another thing: we've had reports of dozens of mobsters from out of town turning up. Looks like a regular hoods' convention. I've had tails out on some of them, but they seem to be doing nothing in particular -just sightseeing and enjoying themselves. The word is there's something big in the wind. So far I don't know what, but I don't like it.'

'Just what we need on top of everything else. There's no common factor?'

'None. I guess if they're getting instructions it's by phone.'

'Can't you get some taps?'

Julius pulled a face, 'Hell, Sam,' he said, 'these days you've gotta have a Federal case and concrete evidence before they'll even consider it. No chance!'

'So unless there's a leak we'll never know?'

'Not till it happens.'

'And then it'll be too late.'

'Got it in one, Sam.'

The Mayor shook his head, 'It's enough to make a man wonder why he takes up public office. What's with the shape shifter?'

'Nothing yet.'

'Let's hope it stays that way. We've quite enough other trouble.'

~~~oOo~~~

Dan Gray was already into his third lunchtime Martini when Sam arrived. He waved affably enough and shouted from the bar, 'Come on in, Sam. The liquor's fine.'

His still handsome face was alcohol-flushed, and it seemed to Sam that he had put on even more weight round the middle. More than that, there was a very definite hint of neglect in the way his mid-brown, naturally wavy hair was combed, and his suit was worn. It was four months since his wife had walked out. It was beginning to show, and Sam was sorry: Gray had a fine brain and was at the top of his profession.

Sam shook hands with a monosyllabic, 'Dan.' Lunchtime drinks went with the office, but it didn't mean he had to like them.

'Henry.' Gray flicked a glance at the barkeeper, 'Two more - very dry. That right, Sam?'

'You have a good memory, Dan. I guess that's why you're where you are.'

'Could be, Sam, but if you want what I think you want, flattery will get you nowhere.'

Sam was pleased: Gray liked straight talk. It saved a whole lot of bush beating.

'You guessed right, Dan. I need your help, badly, and anyone else you can rely on from Big Mac.'

Gray chuckled, 'Help to close the City? Pull the plug out of our dollar lake? Sam \- you have got to be having me on.'

Sam kept a smile over the ice inside. Had Gray just made a clever guess or could it be his office was bugged?

'You ever know a banker make a joke, Dan?'

Gray rubbed his chin, 'Y'know...come to think of it...' He leant back some, gave Sam an old-fashioned look. 'Y'know, Sam, I don't like politicians - never met one, till now that is, that wasn't feathering his own nest. Now you I don't dig. You sure as hell aren't the usual run of politician, though there's them as would have you be. I'd help you if I could; hell, I got me enough mazuma to last a dozen lifetimes. Why should I care about another couple of grand? But you've got Karl Millem to worry about. Most of the guys on Big Mac side with him, and those boys play rough. You try to cross them you could wind up another Kennedy. You want to leave a widow, okay. Me - I'm gonna die a geriatric coward.' He banged his glass on the counter, 'Henry - two more!'

Sam leant forward, speaking quietly, 'Look, Dan, I know how things stand - my head will be on the block, and I'm not asking you to put yours there with it. The decision has already been taken. The City will be closed for business tomorrow and until the heat wave ends. That is my decision alone, but there will be considerable opposition to the closure, and I would just like you to lend your voice in sympathy with the proposal.'

'And abstain if there's a vote?'

'Of course, if you wish.'

Gray threw his drink down in one gulp, looked at the glass as though he would demand to know why he'd been given it empty. 'Why is it,' He demanded, 'you're the only guy I know can make me feel like a heel, Sam? Okay, okay...don't answer that...I guess I got enough to answer for.'

Suddenly serious he asked, 'Just how bad is it, Sam? On the line, now. I got my own reports, but...' He shrugged.

Sam gave him a resumé of Cabot's remarks and told him of his visit to the hospital and Martin's death.

Gray lifted his empty glass, looked at it, put it back down on the counter.

'And the deaths,' He asked, 'wouldn't they happen anyway with the heat?'

'It's possible.'

Gray gripped Sam's shoulder firmly, 'I'll do what I can, Sam. Taylor and Broadley will follow my lead, but don't expect miracles.' He held out his hand, 'Good luck.'

Sam took it, rising, 'See you at two thirty, Dan.'

Gray nodded, 'Sure, ol' buddy, sure. Take care, y'hear?'

As he left Sam heard Gray order another drink. Had he stood by the door a few seconds longer he would have heard him on the phone.

On the way back to the office Sam went over it again. He knew he was right, on humanitarian grounds alone, but could one man be right when so many would say he was wrong? Who was he to play God Almighty with twelve million souls - even for their own good? Well, there'd be plenty of time to worry about it...

~~~oOo~~~

Just after one, Valicone's car, driven by his bodyguard, Carlo Scazzoni, turned into the entrance of the underground garage below the Ticorama Club on East Fifty-First Street. Scazzoni activated the radio-controlled door and the big limo disappeared inside, the door closing automatically behind it.

The garage ran beneath the whole block, with another entrance in East Fifty-Second, through which Puleman had driven three minutes earlier.

He was standing beside his Jaguar, waiting. It was only one of a half dozen safe meeting places spread around the City.

Puleman opened the rear door of Valicone's Cadillac and got in.

The old man sat hunched in the corner, his grim expression still betraying some of the anger from a heated argument with his daughter. He did not like the way she had changed since returning from the convent school where she had spent the last nine years. Now, she rejected his old-fashioned ideas of paternal protection, and, finally, he had resorted to threats. She had laughed in his face and he'd slapped her. It hurt him more than her, and he was still suffering that hurt.

Puleman feigned respect for the old man - a respect he did not have.

'Mister Valicone,' He greeted, using the word 'Mister' that was tradition for anyone outside the clan.

Valicone regarded him coldly, through lowered lids. 'This better be good, Puleman - you dragged me out from important business.'

Puleman resisted the impulse to sneer. Even-voiced he said, 'They intend to close all business in the City.'

It had the desired effect. Valicone sat upright, his eyes hard, 'Who?'

'Sam Grady - oh, he'll ask for support, but it's his decision.'

Valicone's expression set rock hard, 'No!'

Puleman insisted, 'He has the right.'

Valicone turned his anger against his visitor, 'You get this good, Puleman - you had us put him where he is. You said he was the front man we needed. You said he could be manipulated. Okay - so manipulate!'

'What do you want me to do?'

Valicone hissed the answer through almost closed teeth, 'You take any damned action necessary - and I mean any!'

Puleman had seen Valicone in this mood only once before. It had resulted in the painful death of the man he was talking to. He knew when to quit. He promised, 'I'll take care of it, Mister Valicone.'

'You do that, and don't bungle it.' The threat was clear, 'And while we're on the subject - you leave his old lady alone.'

Puleman feigned ignorance, 'How do you mean?'

Valicone sneered, 'You think you're so bloody clever, Puleman. You should know nothing happens in this City I don't get to hear. My guess is, we'd have less trouble with Brady if you'd stayed away from his wife. If he were from the Old Country you'd be a dead man. Now get with it!'

Though he felt his facial muscles tightening, Puleman bit back the retort that came to his lips, but beneath his seething anger, remembering Minelli's phone call, he vowed, 'One day soon you are going to get yours, Mister Valicone.'

~~~oOo~~~

Mel Pollis stood in shirtsleeves by the window of his office, iron in hand, carefully addressing the ball on the carpet, his target a paper cup on the floor in front of the door, its open mouth towards him.

In characteristic fashion he jerked his head to flick back the kiss-curl of light, sandy-coloured hair that had fallen over his eyes as he bent.

He spent another four seconds of concentration before striking the ball, controlling his breathing, making sure everything was as it should be.

The ball was halfway to its destination when the door opened and Carla Rhodie entered.

The ball scuttled between her legs and disappeared under her desk in the outer office.

She jumped and squealed, 'Ohh! Mister Pollis!' She blushed.

Pollis' face darkened with anger. Christ, hadn't he told the stupid girl he was busy and not to be disturbed? But before he spoke his eyes took in again the trim figure in the well-fitted cotton dress, the neat, perky little breasts, their nipples showing through her soft bra and the dress, her smouldering hazel eyes and large, sexy lips. She was the latest in a long line of secretaries, and she was here for the same reason as all the rest. She had not inspected his bedroom ceiling yet, but he was working on it.

He bit back the hard words and managed a forced smile, 'Could have been something worse between your legs, eh, Carla?'

Her blush deepened, and she hoped he was not on her wavelength. She knew the stories about the other girls. What he didn't know was that she fancied him as much as he wanted her, and had applied for the job when her friend Peggy left, but Carla was deep. He was going to have to wait - if she could! If she played her cards right she could wind up wearing a wedding ring. He was a good catch: well off, handsome, single, just the right side of forty.

Eighteen now, she had been at it since she was thirteen and had learnt it all. Keep him on a string for a while and let him think he'd taken a virgin. It could be done, with a little care and planning. Make him want more and play hard to get. Make it better and better every time until the poor, screw-happy fucker was hooked. Okay, Mr Sexypants - watch out!

'Carla?' His voice interrupted her thoughts.

'Oh! There's a Mr Puleman to see you, Sir.'

Pollis frowned, 'Puleman? Larry Puleman? Did he make an appointment?'

'No, Sir.'

Pollis was puzzled. They'd had no dealings before, but what the hell - if Puleman wanted to see him it had to be important. He knew the man's reputation.

'Okay, Carla, show him in.'

She turned, bending from the waist, to pick up the paper cup, making sure her short skirt rode up far enough for him to get a quick glimpse of the flesh-coloured panties, making him wonder if he was seeing the real thing, and looking for the crack.

Pollis caught his breath, closing his eyes in sweet anticipation as she left the room. Oh, you sweet little beauty, he thought, am I going to stuff that full for you!

Puleman came in grinning, casting a glance over his shoulder as she closed the door behind him.

He turned to face Pollis, 'Nice work if you can get it, and from what I hear you do.'

Pollis reddened quickly, 'I...' He bit the words off, 'What can I do for you, Mr Puleman?'

Puleman eased himself into a chair without being asked, sliding one leg over the arm. He took out a gold cigarette case, extracted a smoke and lit up, his face smiling sarcastically, observing Pollis through half-closed lids, noticing the Health Director's nose wrinkle in distaste at smoke in his non-smoking office. He blew a stream of smoke from his lips directly towards Pollis.

'What can you do for me? He mused, 'Just a little favour, Mr Pollis.'

The Health Director's mind was working overtime, but he could think of nothing that he could possibly do for the Comptroller.

Puleman carefully and deliberately flicked the ash from the cigarette onto the carpet, amused to see the sudden flicker of anger in Pollis' eyes.

'I don't know what I can do for you.'

'You don't? Well, you have a guy working for you, spreading alarm and despondency, with wild stories about dangerous oxygen levels in the City - Cabot. He wants the whole burg closed. Now, we can't afford to let that happen, can we, Mr Pollis?'

Pollis' jaw tightened. Cabot had been bothering him with the details for days. The reports were still in his in-tray. He hadn't read any one of them. He'd told Cabot to get on with it and use his own judgement, he was too busy, but by God, if Puleman thought he was going to ride roughshod over his department, he was very much mistaken.

'Richard Cabot is a first-class man. He has my full backing. I agree with his findings absolutely.'

'That is a great pity,' Puleman hesitated deliberately before adding harshly, 'for you, Mr Director!'

Pollis' head came up sharply. 'What do you mean?'

Puleman was enjoying himself, playing the man like a fish on a line.

'I guessed I could do you a favour in return for a favour. Looks like I was wrong. Oh, well, what the hell - I guess I'd better let the reports go through, after all. Another good man gone.' He sighed heavily and swung his leg down as if to stand.

Pollis' anger had disappeared, replaced by a fear that came up from the pit of his stomach like an avenging thunderbolt.

'Reports?' He gulped.

'Sure - you know, those things detectives and agents write when they've got nothing better to do.'

Pollis paled. God knew how Puleman had got onto it, or what interest he might have, but he knew what was coming. Since the age of twelve his life had revolved around his goddamn prick - copulation his one, all-consuming spare time occupation. He'd screwed from Cape Horn to Alaska and from Yokohama to Rio. A long time ago a big, blonde, heavy-nippled girl from Arizona, who was no sluggard herself at the sex game, had looked up at him at the end of a particularly violent orgasm, 'Buddy-boy,' She'd said, heaving a sigh of contentment, 'You know what you are?' She'd grinned wickedly, 'You're just a goddamn fuckin' machine!'

He'd grinned back and told her he'd have it inscribed on his tombstone.

Till two years back he'd had only one rule: no juveniles, but then...

He'd heard it happened to every man in time, but not to old Mel Pollis, no, Sir! He'd get the jack up till he was ninety. But happen it did, and worrying about it made it worse. Soon he couldn't get it up one time in three, no matter what aids he used. It had gotten so bad, goddamn it, he'd even taken up golf.

He spent hundreds of dollars on aids to erection, both pharmaceutical and physical, and doctors and quacks. In the end, one of them had left him alone in a room and sent in a girl. Pollis could see she was no more than fourteen, but when she stripped off and displayed herself it worked fine. He'd taken her and been damned glad of it. There had been no remorse, even though she cost him four hundred bucks. Since then he'd found a pimp in town who specialised in juveniles, some as young as ten. Along with what he got from his secretaries he'd got it back to a regular basis. As long as it was under twenty, it was okay.

'I don't know what you mean.' He said guardedly.

Puleman smirked, 'Oh, I think you do, Mel, old man.' His voice was soft, but held an edge of menace. 'Shall we just say I have a sheaf of affidavits, one from a certain gentleman who makes his living protecting young ladies, the others from several of those very young ladies, whose mommas and poppas - to say nothing of the detectives in Vice - would not be too pleased to read them.'

'What are you going to do?' Pollis' face was chalk white and his voice had taken on a nervous stammer.

'Do?' Puleman was smug, 'Why, nothing, old man - just as long as you agree to co-operate.'

Pollis knew when he was beaten, 'What do you want me to do?'

~~~oOo~~~

'Sit down, gentlemen.'

Julius Cardan appraised the two men quickly: both bright, both good cops with first class records.

Malone, sixteen years on the City Force, formal education minimal, Detective Second Grade by sheer perseverance, five citations, police medal, no black marks.

Julius chuckled inside; no black marks - was that why he marginally preferred Savoy? Was it colour prejudice or recognition of talent? Savoy, with only three years' service, was the new kind of cop - sharp, intellectual, fit - and black all over, just like himself.

Well, he'd worked hard too - so hard only God would believe it - and he'd made it - a black Commissioner of the City's Force.

During the first months he'd asked himself scores of times if it had been worth it. You could only do the job with cooperation, and getting cooperation from a dozen guys who'd wanted and expected your job and wished like hell you'd drop dead so's they could have it...

'I've read your report, Malone.' Julius knew the neatly turned phrases were not Malone's, guessed even the typing had been done by Savoy. 'Good, clear and concise.'

Malone beamed. Personal praise from the Commissioner, even if he was black, was praise indeed. He could tell Molly he could be in for First Grade; maybe they could get that new convertible yet. Deep inside he knew he'd never make first kick as long as he had a hole in his arse, but a man had to have a dream, didn't he?

'Thank you, Sir.'

A year ago that 'Sir' would have come out sour, with a slight pause before it maybe, just to get over the message, but Malone recognised a good cop as well as Julius and he'd been pleased to see the efficient reorganisation at the top following the Commissioner's appointment: guys who'd been taking graft for years moved to jobs where they could do little harm; three early retirements 'for the good of their health' and one Chief of Detectives who disappeared in one hell of a hurry in the direction of Mexico. If coloured cops meant better cops then Malone was all for it - with reservations, of course.

'Though you do not say so,' This time Julius included both men in his glance, 'I seem to think you believe, as I do, that Doctor Nightingale is a menace to our society and should be put away where he can do no harm.'

Both detectives nodded agreement.

Julius fought hard not to show the hatred he had for the man, doing so much to undermine what he himself had fought for so hard all his life - an equal place in the sun with the white races, by equal merit.

'Unfortunately, he is just one more fanatic. We run him in, he becomes a martyr, ten more like him take up the cry; before you know it we've got us a full-scale war. We have our Sons of Sam, Puerto Rican guerrillas, Commie union infiltrators and underground groups, a couple of thousand arsonists, black power mobs, and Doctor Nightingale, to say nothing of the ten thousand of so assorted murderers, rapists, muggers, burglars, thieves, pimps, whores,' He relaxed a trifle, grinned, 'yes, and even a couple of traffic violators. When you add it all up it makes you wonder how the City ever functions.' He weighed his next words carefully, scrutinising Savoy closely.

'I asked you up here personally because I have in mind to ask you to do something out of the normal line of duty, with the possibility of greater personal risk, and I wanted you to have the opportunity of turning me down to my face, if you so wished.'

Malone dived in with both feet, still bathed in the aura of the earlier praise.

'Ah, sure, most of what we do is out of the normal...' He realised it was not the line to take with the Commissioner, but Julius was smiling.

'It's all right, Malone. I've read your file.' He tapped the papers on the desk in front of him. 'You're a man who likes to do things in an unorthodox manner. Well, that's exactly what is needed now, and that is why you two men were chosen for this job.'

'Undercover, Sir?'

Julius' gaze returned to Savoy. A cool customer, he thought - I wonder if maybe he's just a little too cool?

'You guess right, Savoy. I want you to get as close to our Doctor Nightingale as you can. Learn what strength, what real support he has; find out if he really means what he says. I personally have no doubt he does: his dossier shows he has just spent several months in Cuba, smuggled back in at the beginning of this month. Get us details of his key personnel and when and where he intends to strike. Malone will be your contact.'

He looked pointedly at Savoy's clothes, 'You will, of course, have to look the part.'

Savoy nodded, 'Understood, Sir.'

Julius rose. 'You will report directly to me, Malone. My thanks to both of you. We are depending on you.'

His voice stopped them at the door, 'Oh, Savoy.'

'Yes, Sir?'

The Commissioner was direct, 'Leave the gun at home.'

As Savoy nodded he hoped the Commissioner couldn't read his mind. No way was he going to 'do a Daniel' if he was going into the lion's den.

As they left the building by the side tradesman's entrance Savoy laid a hand on Malone's arm.

'I'll see you,' He looked at his watch, 'in an hour in the toy department at Macy's \- by the skateboards. Gotta change and tell Momma not to worry if I don't show for several days.'

Malone nodded, 'Okay.' Deep down he was thinking - Savoy was lucky, or maybe clever - he had a regular half dozen chicks to lay when he felt like it, but didn't tie himself down to one; figured it was unfair to a woman not to know when her man left for work in the morning if she'd see him come home again at night. There was only Momma and Sherilee, his fifteen-year-old sister, and God, how Savoy loved that kid - saved up most all his pay so's she could go through college; protected her like a mother hen fussin' round its chicks. Still, what the hell, he thought, everyone's gotta have someone.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a big grey square of cloth. Keerist, it was hot!

They parted on the sidewalk, turning in opposite directions, not noticing the black shoeshine boy opposite, watching them through the crowd.

~~~oOo~~~

Keeping to his lifetime habit, Sam arrived at the meeting ten minutes early, surprised to find most of the members there before him.

Valicone he knew by sight and reputation. Gray, looking very much the worse for liquor, stood in close conference with Broadley and Taylor by the window. Millem and his cronies had not yet arrived. Hartman, Choney and Bagley were in whispered conclave in the corner to the right of the door.

Sam felt someone's eyes on him and turned. Larry Puleman was leaning against the wall near the door, regarding him quizzically.

He spoke slowly, 'You've got that old dogged look I recognise from way back, Sam.'

Sam tried not to let the anger he felt show with his non-committal, 'Could be.'

Puleman detached himself slowly from the wall and sauntered over. He lowered his voice, 'You've decided to close the City, or try.' He stressed the 'try' just a little too much, catching Sam on a raw edge.

The Mayor's jaw tightened, 'That's right.'

Puleman smiled sadly, 'Aw, Sam, you know you can't do that. Think about all the guys who put you where you are - they'd lose a mint. You owe them allegiance - a debt of gratitude, if nothing else.'

Sam almost snarled his reply, his anger only just under control, 'So I keep the City open and maybe hundreds of innocent people die, just so's a bunch of crooks can make another pile of dollars? Get this straight - I owe them nothing but what I give to all the citizens of this City: sixteen hours a day of hard, honest work - the best way I know.'

Puleman's expression turned serious, 'Sam,' He said, 'this is the last thing I ever wanted to say to you, but it's straight from the horse's mouth, and they mean it: you close the City, Bibba gets it, and not in an easy way. I try to object, they take me out too. Facts of life, Sam. I leave the decision to you.'

He turned on his heel.

Sam's head reeled. He had no doubt they meant exactly what they said. No one crossed the Big League with impunity. Now he felt like losing his temper for the first time in his life: Larry Puleman had just drawn his teeth!

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Abel Lee was not smiling.

'Tell me you didn't mean it, Sam.'

Sam answered look for look, 'Oh, yes, Abel. I meant it.' He let his disgust show through.

Lee regarded him quizzically, 'Do I detect a change of heart?'

'No, Abel - not a change of heart, just a temporary, forced stay of hand.'

'Want to tell me about it?'

'Maybe later. It would serve no purpose now.'

'So, though you came here to tell them you're closing the City, you don't want to tell them now?'

Sam was bitter, 'I want the possible closure of the City discussed, but no, I shall not be taking unilateral action to close it today.'

Lee shrugged, 'Well, I can't say I'm unhappy at that decision, Sam. You're obviously convinced. I'm not, but you know I'd have backed you. It would have been half-heartedly, and it might have shown. Do I take it you don't want to raise the matter yourself?'

Sam shook his head slowly. 'Would you, Abel - as an open subject for discussion? Dick Cabot will more than make up for my silence, if I know my man. He'll have to take over from me.'

Lee's gaze moved over to where Puleman stood chatting to Valicone.

'I think I can add two and two as well as the next man, Sam, and I'm beginning to get angry for you, but I'll respect your discretion and ask no more now. D'you want it on the agenda first?'

Sam considered for a moment or two, then said, 'No, bring it up last.'

That, at least, would achieve two ends: it would give him time to think, and it would bring Dick Cabot to boiling point.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Public Health official enter the room. He laid a hand on Lee's arm.

'D'you mind if we sit down, Abel. I'd rather not give Dick Cabot a chance to find out I'm letting him down before the meeting.'
The took the two seats at the head of the table, standing empty between seats occupied by Dan Gray and Jake Partner, vice-president of Karl Millem's multi-billion dollar finance corporation. Sam studiously inspected the plain white, featureless ceiling, while Cabot selected a seat at the far end of the table.

Lee opened the meeting, explaining, 'We have the Mayor with us, and Mr Cabot of Public Health. They have something they wish to discuss with us later.'

The meeting began with mostly routine matters. Sam was intrigued to see at first hand the in-fighting between the three partisan factions - Gray and his fellow bankers lining up with Lee, Millem and his money-lending cronies siding with Larry Puleman, the three union men voting against damned near everything proposed by either of the other two. He was mildly surprised to find that Valicone kept his own counsel, content to listen and abstain on most issues, but then realised that anything Valicone wanted raised would be taken care of by Puleman.

As the meeting progressed and the minutes ticked away into a half hour, and then an hour, Sam let his thoughts drift away from the business being discussed to concentrate on his unique problem.

There was always tomorrow - early tomorrow, if necessary. Somehow he must get Bibba away somewhere safe tonight.

That was a laugh - where the Mafia was concerned, such a place did not exist. Okay then, a twenty-four hour guard. She'd hate it, particularly now, with the adoption procedure pending, but if he had to put off closing today, dozens more would die, against the one life of the only woman he had ever loved. It was his first real trial of conscience, and he found himself unequipped to deal with it.

Finally he was sure of his decision; say nothing until he'd seen Julius after the meeting. If the Commissioner could give cast-iron guarantees and Bibba would go along, there might still be time tonight...

He felt Cabot's eyes boring into him across the table. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he looked directly over at the Public Health director.

The unspoken question was flung across at him.

He shrugged his shoulders half a centimetre and moved his head very slowly an inch each way. He hoped Cabot could read from his expression his regret.

The business of the meeting proper lasted almost eighty minutes, after which Bagley wasted another ten arguing on a point of order concerning the previous meeting. When he had finally had his say, Lee stood again, his gaze encompassing the table.

'We come to the business of our visitors. You will have heard the broadcasts and telecasts being put out by Public Health, and I am sure we all feel that they are well meant and useful. If any small shop or office feels like voluntary closure for a short period, we must wish them luck. It would seem, however, that there is some evidence in favour of temporary closure of the entire business life of the City. Perhaps we should let Mr Cabot explain.'

He had to raise his voice above the protests that his remarks had brought forth.

Cabot rose.

'Mr Mayor, Mr President, gentlemen. The situation is grave - far graver than any of you imagine. Oxygen levels are far below normal, and there is a serious risk of sudden death to those with weak lungs...'

'...Tell them to get out of the City, then!' Bagley was in his usual form, totally ignoring the normal discipline of such meetings.

As Cabot hesitated after the outburst, Larry Puleman asked, 'Can you give us any firm figures of deaths attributable directly and only to the low oxygen levels?'

Lee stepped in quickly, 'I think we should allow Mr Cabot to complete his report before we comment or ask for specifics.'

Cabot continued, 'My team is collating the latest figures now, leaving out any death where there could be another element. We should have the results within the next thirty-six hours. I expect them to be self-explanatory and to require immediate action, if it has not already been taken.' He almost glared across at the Mayor.

Sam took the full shock of the look, staring his man straight in the eyes.

Puleman took up his line again, 'And you will be able to tell us with certainty what percentage of those people would have died anyway?'

Cabot rose again, 'You must know that that would be impossible, but one thing is certain - the air today is almost unbreathable. I feel we have no option but to consider closing the City for business. I had,' He glared across the table again, 'understood that it was fait accompli.'

'And I disagree entirely!' Puleman's voice carried a hard, almost vicious edge. 'On the grounds of pure economics. We still have most of the huge debt we took on way back in seventy-eight. For each day the City stayed closed the repayment date would go back ten months. I don't need to tell you that that would be economic suicide.'

Cabot flew off his chair, his voice raised almost to a shout, his eyes blazing, 'Are we to put money before human lives? If so, I want no part of it!' He looked straight across at Sam, 'You have the power, Mr Mayor! Why are you asking us? Why not just go ahead and do it?'

Sam took the outburst in silence, his face a cold ask, his heart like lead.

Cabot began angrily to grab up the papers strewn on the table in front of him, with the obvious intention of walking out.

Sam groaned inwardly; a slanging match would only make things worse.

Lee held up his hand. 'Thank you, Mr Cabot. I am sure you will find a sympathetic response when the figures are known.' He shuffled his papers, found one, 'I think perhaps the latest crime figures may be relevant to this discussion. This last week will be the worst for years. Rape - up fifty-seven per cent on average, and we all know that's high enough, homicides up to two an hour. The heat seems to be a trigger to violence: City police officers have arrested hundreds of first-time offenders for affrays, and there is a dramatic and significant increase in arson, particularly in the Bronx and on the Lower East Side.'

Jake Partner chipped in, 'Hell, in this City you can do anything with crime statistics. I don't reckon them as relevant in this discussion. What's the latest up-date on the weather forecast? What about Hurricane Sarah? Won't she affect us?'

Lee looked over at Sam, who rose. 'The long and the short-range forecasts agree: no let-up in the heat wave for at least ten more days, and the likelihood is that it is going to get hotter. What's left of Hurricane Sarah will swing away south and miss us by at least five hundred miles.'

Puleman was on his feet in an instant, 'Ten days? Close the City for ten days? That's worse than crazy! Close to fifteen billion dollars in lost trade - God! We'd be bankrupt forever!'

Neil Choney's dry undertone was just loud enough to be heard round the whole room, 'Not speaking personally, of course.'

Bagley stood up belligerently, 'You want real trouble, just try putting an idea like that to the unions!'

Dale Hartman followed him up, 'Speaking for my own members, I believe we could give such an idea our support.'

Bagley rounded on him in a flash, 'Oh, sure, that figures! Less shit for your guys to shove on the cart!'

Lee called for order, 'Gentlemen! Please!'

Before anyone else could speak, Cabot took the reins again. He seemed to have got himself well under control, 'The point at issue is a simple one: the heat wave will continue and will undoubtedly get worse. The air becomes less breathable every day. There is a resultant increase in crime at all levels, and deaths of otherwise healthy people. If we closed, the port facility and certain freight operations could continue, similarly the Stock Exchange and some high-level banking operations. In asking for closure, it is only of offices and shops selling non-essential items. The figures for lost trade could be minimised. Estimates are difficult, but my office has assessed probable loss at fourteen million dollars a day gross - not, you must admit, a disastrous sum.'

Puleman moved to his feet so fast no one saw him. He was smiling, moving in for the kill, having saved this till last, 'Your office, Mr Cabot? Who, exactly?'

Cabot frowned, 'Why, my staff - the people who work for me.'

'For you? You are the head of Public Health?'

'Well - not exactly. Cabot reddened, 'Mr Pollis is executive head...'

'Ah, yes...Mr Pollis. And do you have his approval for what you have said here today?'

'His tacit approval, yes.'

Puleman smirked, 'His tacit...you did say 'tacit'...approval?'

'Yes.'

Puleman passed a sheet of paper along the desk. 'Mr Chairman, I have here a statement from Mr Pollis which I believe the members should hear.'

Lee picked up the paper, his face growing serious. When he looked up it was straight at Puleman, and bitter accusation was in his eyes. He held the Comptroller's eyes for several seconds before addressing the meeting.

'This statement reads: 'I wish to disassociate myself and my department from any statement made by Richard Cabot concerning the health hazards of the present heat wave. Though a first class scientist and executive, Mr Cabot has an unfortunate tendency to over-exaggerate minimal dangers, no doubt with the best of intentions. It is my considered opinion, based on the figures currently available in my department, that there is little, if any, additional danger to public health in this City resulting from the heat wave. Furthermore, the most recent figures of oxygen levels show a slight increase, and it is felt that the level is perfectly adequate now and will remain so.' It is signed 'M.Pollis, Director of Public Health'.

Lee glared again at Puleman.

Cabot had risen again while Lee read, his face white with anger.

'That is a lie! A dirty, rotten lie! Pollis is an idiot - ignorant of everything that goes on in the Department! A figurehead...'

Lee interrupted him, 'I don't think that will help you case, Mr Cabot.'

'All right, then! What about Russ Martin? Isn't that close enough to home to convince you? A healthy man, suddenly dead?' His impassioned glance swept the table.

Lee tried to make his voice soothing, 'We are told Mr Martin had weak lungs. It could have happened at any time. It is hardly relevant...'

'Relevant? Relevant?' Cabot was shouting at the top of his voice, 'Shit! Bloody, goddamn shit!' He glared fiercely, and then his eyes took on a crafty look. In a much quieter voice he said, 'All right. Do nothing. Stay here, sitting on your fat arses, and die. Me - I'm getting out, now. You can have it - the whole fucking shooting match. You'll be able to find out just how good old Mel Pollis is when you want an advisor. I'll be safe up in the mountains - and I'll sit in my rocker and laugh my head off when I read your obituaries.' He grabbed up his papers and headed across the room. At the door he turned and screamed, 'You fucking ignorant bastards!'

For several seconds after the door slammed the silence was deafening.

Puleman was wearing the smug look of the magician whose rabbit has turned out to have two heads, ignoring the glares from Lee and Sam.

'Did you want to add anything, Mr Mayor?' Lee sounded deflated.

Sam shook his head, 'I think Mr Cabot has said it all.'

'Then I think, in spite of what we have just heard, we might take a vote, not to be recorded, to see how we feel personally at this point about closure. It is, of course, not our decision, but that of the Mayor. Nevertheless, I am sure he would be interested in our views. For closure?'

Three hands rose - Hartman's, Sam's, and that of Ray Hudson, Director of the New York Stock Exchange.

'Against?'

Sam counted the hands - nine. He noticed again that Valicone had abstained. His emotions were mixed: relief at having the decision partly lifted from his shoulders, annoyance that they could be so stupid and avaricious.

Unexpectedly, Lee provided a compromise.

'I suggest we have another meeting in three day's time to discuss this issue only. More figures will then be available, and we shall be able to see if the situation has worsened to any critical extent. Any decision we make then can be passed on and discussed at the Council Meeting on the twenty-sixth. Agreed, Mr Mayor?'

Sam grasped the straw gladly. Breathing space. Time to think. Time to act. He nodded.

'Very well.' Lee ignored Puleman's loud attempt to delay closure, 'July twenty-fourth - three pm. Gentlemen, thank you.'

Lee made no move to go while the others were leaving. Sam held back too, folding his papers.

When the door closed behind the last of them, Lee exploded, 'Goddamn it, Sam, this is one hot potato! Closing the City could destroy it financially. Here we've got the period of highest tourist numbers, and you want to blow the whole thing sky-high. Think, for God's sake, man - we need every one of those dollars. I know you don't give a damn about your popularity rating, but I've worked a goddamn long time to get here, and I want to stay on next term. There are a lot of things that need improving, and I want to be part of that improvement. You'd have every damn boss in every damn sweatshop, and all their employees down on our necks; you'd have the banks clamming up on our credit, lose thousands of tourists and millions of dollars in trade, and all because some crackbrained egomaniac...'

He saw Sam's expression, threw up his hands, 'Okay, okay! I take it all back. The guy sure knows his onions, and he's playing it the way he sees it, but you and I, Sam, we have to see the big picture.'

Sam asked quietly, 'You know Pollis has been got at, just like me, don't you, Abel? And you know who got at him.'

Lee sighed, 'I gotta say, 'No comment', Sam.'

'Of course you do.'

Sam moved over to the window and looked out over the City. Lee let him have his moment of silence, waiting for him to speak.

Without turning, almost as if he were speaking to himself, Sam said, 'Two heads.'

Lee crossed the two paces that separated them, put his big bear hand on the Mayor's shoulder. 'That's the ticket, Sam.'

'I just hope I'm right.' Sam's voice was down to almost a whisper, 'Funny thing is, it's not what I know, but what I feel. I've got the sensation of sitting on the swing at the top of a big circus tent. The guy ropes have been cut and there's no safety net.'

'Aw, hell, Sam,' Lee forced a deal of false, boisterous sincerity into his voice, hoping the Mayor wouldn't read through it to see how unsure he was himself, 'you'll snap out of it. In a week's time this damned heat wave will be a forgotten memory, and you'll be glad you didn't go off at half-cock.'

Sam shrugged, 'Maybe you're right. There's something else.' He told Lee about Puleman's threat.

Lee's heartfelt, 'Fucking bastard!' summed up both their feelings.

'It's not just that, Abel. He as good as told me I'm a Mafia man - put in place with Mafia money and power. That leaves only one course open to me.'

Lee protested, 'Resign? Sam, you can't! You're no Mafia man! Okay, so they set it up, hoping you'd go along, but nowhere along the line have they had you in their palm. Not one decision of yours has been influenced by them.'

'Except the relay-station contracts.'

Lee's jaw hardened, 'Come on, old friend,' he insisted, 'you're letting your judgement get cloudy. We're in this together. If you're not straight, then neither am I, and I'm not ready to admit that yet, even to myself.'

Sam looked down the near-thousand feet to street level.

'I had a lot of time to think during the night, Abel. We sit up here in our ivory towers, controlling the lives and deaths of those people below. It's natural it should rub off; natural that after a while we begin to think of ourselves as superhuman, up in the clouds, separate entities, different beings from the proletariat. But we are not. Power does corrupt, if only the mind. What gives us the right to pontificate, to issue edicts that maybe nine-tenths of the population don't want?'

Lee sighed again, 'Man, oh, man. It really has got to you. Look, the people elected you - you had plenty enough votes without Mafia help. Those people wanted you to make their decisions for them. Okay, so here's one more you've got to make - no - we've got to make. You're too close to the trees now to keep your view objective, so now I help. Fill me in.'

Sam brought him up to date, describing the young girl in the ward and Martin's face.

Lee shook his head, 'Well, if I'd been there I guess it would have affected me that way too, but that's only two people. Okay, maybe a couple of hundred others, but out of twelve million, Sam? The health warnings are going out all day long. No one has to come into the City. No one has to stay. That's their own personal decision, not ours. Then there's the other side of the coin - the prosperity of the City. That's what we're here for, Sam - that's the main thing, and we mustn't forget it. Puleman's threat is just smoke; it makes it more difficult for you to see the issues clearly.'

Sam nodded wearily, 'I guess so, but suppose it does get worse - much worse?'

'Then we close, and we get Bibba to somewhere safe. Can you get her to leave?'

Sam sighed, 'I think so.' No use burdening Lee with his personal problems.

'Well, do that. Then we can concentrate on the other problem. We'll come through, Sam, together.'

'You think so?'

'I'm sure of it, Sam, but I'm equally sure that the right thing to do for the moment is to sit on the fence and be ready to act at a moment's notice if things deteriorate to danger level. We'll get the contingency boys to look at the problem today, and you and I will keep ourselves right up to date with the situation.'

Sam looked at him with real gratitude. He was no longer alone. The weight around his heart was definitely a little lighter.

'Thanks, Abel.' He said, simply, and meant it.

'What about Cabot? We can't let him leave, can we? We both know what he said about Pollis is true.'

'No way! We'll take him on a Special Advisor.'

'Think he'll take it?'

Sam smiled grimly, 'He'll take it.'

~~oOo~~~

0423 Eastern Standard Time July 21st.

At 0423 EST the infra-red sensors of a USAF 647 series 'Hawk' integrated missile early warning satellite, in orbit over the Atlantic, recorded the sudden end-of-track of a submerged SSBN of the Russian fleet in an area known as the Cortal Trench, off the coast of Puerto Rico, one of the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean, with a lowest depth recording of 29,972 feet.

High resolution cameras transmitted the photographs to a ground station five hundred kilometres northwest of Adelaide, Australia, for onward transmission via synch-orbit relay satellites to NORAD Headquarters in Colorado Springs.

Within minutes, electronic intercept stations worldwide recorded considerable increase in high-level cipher traffic on Russian submarine and command-level naval radio nets.

At 0430 the information was passed to and assimilated by the Duty Officer at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. His call woke Peter Landor from a deep slumber. By 0510 the Director himself was in the control room, taking urgent steps to rush deep-sea recovery vessels to the area in an attempt to beat the Russians to the scene, hoping to locate and raise the submarine.

The excuse - humanitarianism. The more obvious reasons would be mentioned by neither side.

Other satellite pictures showed five more Russian submarines and a mother ship converging quickly on the last known position of the missing sub.

The American ships met storm force winds, which hampered their progress. Arriving two hours after the Russians, they stayed within discreet but visual range of the operations.

Their late arrival made little difference. Subsequent intelligence reports, visual observation and later traffic deciphered by the CIA with the aid of their MATSAR computer, using a process involving millions of random-sampling runs to produce a copy of the original Russian twelve-digit master code tape, confirmed that no trace had been found of the missing vessel.

Two days later the Russian News Agency Tass issued a statement concerning the resignation of Ivan Stenoff, Minister of Defence. The short communiqué stated that Comrade Stenoff had been suffering from poor health for some time. Though the latter statement was true, students of Russian politics noted that no mention was made of his military service and subsequent achievements, and added his name to the list of similar 'resignations' reported during recent months.

The loss of the submarine was not reported by the Russians, either at home or abroad, and western intelligence agencies, for reasons best known to themselves, did not leak the loss.

Alan Beaumont, a United Press International reporter with a contact in the Finnish intelligence agency, paid four hundred dollars for the information, but was ordered by his editor to quash the scoop. His attempts to have the story printed in Great Britain through one of his European outlets were met firmly by the threat of a D-notice.

Angry, knowing now that the story must be true, and thinking it too good to be hidden, Beaumont finally managed to sell it to the editor of a small provincial German daily, in which it appeared as a conjecture at the foot of page twelve. The five lines paid thirty-five dollars.

Thus, but for a handful of intelligence operatives and a few bored Hausfrauen, waiting patiently, 'beim Friseur' for their permanent waves, the world remained in total ignorance of the fate of the 'Krasnodar' and her one hundred and twenty-one-man crew.

~~~oOo~~~

July 21st 0510 E.S.T.

On the forty-third floor of the Radio City Building Laurie Dee wiped away the sweat running down his nose as he switched in the music and checked again the glass panels around him. Thank God - only the dark green lit Joe, his producer, to the left, and the coloured technician, Sully, playing with the rows of mixer controls on his console, looking like he expected any moment to take off for Mars.

They hadn't come...yet! Could he have gotten away with it?

He wished the song would last forever, give him time to think, decide what to do. Man - there was just no way out, nowhere to run they wouldn't find him. What in hell had he been thinking about? Why the Valicone chick? She was no real good looker, a little greasy, like all those Italian chicks, eyes too big and mouth too wide, with overblown tits already starting to sag. There were dozens more like her he could have had at the snap of a finger, and no comeback.

The cops? Go to them and say, 'Hey, you guys, I screwed me a minor - lock me up, willya, fellahs, please?'

Nuts! They'd lock him up all right, just so some guy with pull could poke a forty-five through the bars and liberate all his blood cells.

Her old man would have an army of mugs out on the street, all looking for good ol' Cowboy, fingers itching...

He realised Joe was gesticulating at him, switched to audio, found silence, came back to earth with a bang.

'Bet you-all thought ol' Cowboy was takin' a nap there, folks. Well, that there lil' ol' toon jest caught me with my cup o' Java here, but now we got somethin' in a minor key...'

His voice slowed, 'Minor...' and stopped.

He should have known she'd have a bodyguard. The hood was waiting in a big, slate-grey Pontiac. As she'd walked away he'd stood on the sidewalk like an idiot. The car started up and cruised past him, following her at a walking pace. The guy had gotten a real good look at his face. Laurie Dee would never forget his either - a thin face under jet-black hair, with a long scar down his left cheek.

'Hey! What the hell you think you're doin' this mornin'. Cowboy? You drunk or sumpun?' Laurie Dee found the producer at his elbow.

Joe Tooley was an old pal; they'd worked together over three years, but five-ten in the ack-emma makes nobody's liver behave any better.

'Hell, man, after last night's blazing row with Kitty an' an all-night thrash in Charlie's Bar on thirty-fourth I need this kinda crap like a hole in the head!'

'Hm?' Laurie Dee looked up, puzzled.

Joe laboured the point at the top of his voice, 'Okay, Cowboy - you know it an' I know it; you're a big star, chicks all standin' in line to lay you - RKO president holdin' your Caddie door - a big, fat cheque----but there's just one snag, boy - you gotta make with the music, okay? Not me! Now when that tape ends you get with it, uh?' Joe winced. Shouting made the headache a lot worse.

He felt his sleeve grabbed as he turned away, 'Joe!'

Joe slapped his palm down on the desk, sighed heavily, 'Okay, buddy. What is it this time?'

'I'm in trouble, Joe - big trouble.'

'Oh, brother - that's the story of your life, fellah! You're never out of it! You oughta grow up, you know that? What is it this time - you been linin' some chick whose pappy don't dig?'

Dee nodded, 'Maria Valicone.'

'An' who the hell's...Jeesus Keerist!' Joe looked over his shoulder for somewhere to run to. 'THE Valicone?' He gave a long, low whistle. 'Man, you ain't just crazy - you're plumb loco! You realise her pappy is just likely to strap you down on a' anthill, while he burns off your stud farm equipment with a blow torch? An' that's just for starters! How old is she, for Crissakes?'

Laurie Dee had never been a brave man. Inside he knew he was one of the world's hundred percent, genuine cowards. Joe's description had turned him from white to green; he felt his sphincter muscle making dangerous contractions, and had to swallow twice to croak, 'Fifteen.'

Joe screwed up his eyes. 'You stupid fuckin' id...' Behind him the door opened with a bang, making them both leap six inches.

Sully the technician was new; a bright young boy from Minneapolis, with a shock of black fuzzy hair, and electronics on the brain. His earphone cord dangled down to his waist.

Dee had hated the boy at first sight, on three counts: he was black, educated, and a hell of a sight too bright for one of 'them'. From way back, Dee saw 'them' along with the animals.

The row in the front office was a humdinger, and he could have saved his breath - Sully's contract had been signed and was fireproof.

His boss, Halcome, didn't ask him to sit down, and he had more to say, 'While you're here, Dee, I have a few well-chosen words for you. You're getting a damned sight too big for them cowboy breeches! You think you goddamn run the place now. Well, let me tell you, fellah, just one more of your little peccadilloes we'll show you just how indispensable you really are - AND one way to legally break a contract. You're getting to be an expensive embarrassment - a damned sight too expensive and a damned sight too embarrassing. Do you read me?'

Dee read him. Temper flaring he yanked on the door handle.

Halcome read his mind, 'Okay, Dee - slam it if it'll make you feel any better, boy, but then get right into the elevator and go all the way down to the pay office!'

Dee eased the door shut gently.

Tall, scholarly Lawrence Peachey, one of life's true gentlemen, in spite of thirty years as a newscaster, had just come out of the elevator. Seeing the DJ exit from Halcome's office he smiled in greeting.

Dee squared up to him like a bantam cock in front of a turkey, not much more than three quarters the other man's height and build.

'What the hell you grinning at, man?' He demanded.

He hit Peachey in the chest with the flat of his hand, scattering the papers the newscaster held in his hand to the four corners of the corridor, and felt better, seeing them floating down like February snow in Central Park.

Sully spoke deferentially, but Laurie Dee guessed it was tongue-in-cheek, 'Er, excuse me, Mr Dee, sir, but there's nothing coming through.'

Dee's fear tinged with anger. Now he hated the boy on four counts!

He slammed his hand onto the emergency switch that would ensure continuous music for however long the emergency lasted and sneered, 'There, it's bloody going through now.'

He got up and rushed out to the toilet, his underpants already soiled and more boiling up.

Twenty minutes later, with the emergency tape still running, he sat with his back to the far wall, watching the door. He wanted to run, get up into the mountains, hide, South America, Europe, bloody Russia even.

He kept telling himself Joe was right - there was nowhere he could go they wouldn't follow. Up to now, said Joe, they had made no move. Sixteen hours. If old man Valicone had known already, Cowboy would have been a dead man for fifteen of them.

'Sit tight,' Joe said, 'maybe...just maybe, you never know...' As he said it he smiled.

Cowboy hadn't liked the smile - it told him way deep down Joe was not sympathetic \- was even enjoying the situation - welcomed a little just retribution on his Peter Pan buddy. Dee had even asked if he could stay with the Tooleys for a day or two.

'Not fuckin' likely, Sunshine!' Joe growled, 'You think I ain't got trouble enough with Kitty I want some of yours? These guys are pros - any witnesses, they make damned sure they're dead ones!'

Leave off time came with no respite from worry.

Dee had left his car in the Corporation parking lot. He got Joe to drop him at the nearest subway station, made four changes from subway to bus, bus to taxi, taxi to subway, then taxi again, getting out a block from the apartment. He stood in a doorway watching for fifteen minutes.

Finally he was satisfied: he had not been followed and no one was watching the apartment, but suppose they were inside already? He rang the number, listened to the tones for almost a minute before hanging up, soaked in sweat, and not just from the heat.

His stomach churning again and feeling sick to death, he used his key to open the side door of the florist's on the corner, ran up a flight of stairs to the first floor, opened the false apartment door carrying the number 'A1' and got into the private lift he'd paid three months' salary to have installed to keep the fans at bay. The main door to the apartment he had never used, except when he brought home a chick. Outside it read, 'Apartment 101 - Miss Jerry Clayson.' He told them all it belonged to a friend. That way they never came back, or if they did the closed circuit hook-up on the corridor warned him not to answer.

That was one thing he couldn't understand - how did Maria Valicone know where to come? She'd just turned up, said, 'Hi, Cowboy.' when he opened the door, and walked in. She'd had on a tight black sweater with no brassiere, and a miniscule black skirt, and when she'd stretched herself out on the sofa and lifted one shapely knee, her legs slightly apart, he'd seen that she wore only the briefest of thongs underneath.

But why, he asked himself for the thousandth time, why had he screwed her first and asked her name afterwards? Hell - he had to admit to himself, by that time he'd been so hot for her it would have made no difference anyway.

He began to pray for the first time since childhood, in his own fashion, 'God, don't let them kill me, please, God. God, why did you have to make me such a horny bastard?'

In his mind the answer came in a basso profundo from above, 'Don't come to me with your problems - you got yourself in, you get yourself out!'

They came at three fifteen. Not from the lift - they'd walked up in spite of the heat, the sweat running in streams down their faces, soaking their shirts - pros, just like Joe said. Even on the tiny monitor screen he could see they were hoods: sharp Italian suits, noisy ties, one a big guy with a boxer's stance and a nose as big as the Dodgers' Stadium, the other a mean-looking smaller guy, right hand already inside his jacket, obviously the boss, looking around at the ceiling as he came, knowing what he was looking for.

The camera was in the light fitting, concealed well enough not to be noticed by the casual callers, but not for this guy. He grinned, waved with one crooked finger. 'Okay, Cowboy, you can open up, boy. We ain't gonna hurt ya none, are we, Karl? We jest wanna talk to you.'

A man of few words at any time, Karl grunted, surprised to be included.

Laurie Dee tried to move from the chair. He found his limbs frozen. He felt ice-cold, and yet his shirt soaked with sweat in seconds, despite the air-con being on full. His hands shook, his legs too. He looked down - he was shaking all over, like a jelly, waiting to be knocked over.

With a superhuman effort he slipped onto the floor, eyes held on the screen, mesmerised.

'Come on, now, be a good little Cowboy an' open up, or we'll have to do it the hard way, won't we, Karl?'

This time, Karl's grunted answer showed the keen edge of enthusiasm.

Dee's nerves, stretched to breaking point, gave way. He began to sob, real tears coursing down his cheeks, pleading as if they could hear him, 'Please...I didn't mean to...really...not my fault...she made me...she made me...oh...please'

Somehow the words helped to give him the strength to scrabble his way across the thick-pile carpet towards the private entrance and grab the door handle, just as Karl's shoulder hit the door.

Wrenching the handle of the lift door he found himself staring straight into the snub nose of Tony Minelli's Detective Special.

Behind him he heard the apartment door splinter, as the big man's third shoulder-charge ripped it off the hinges.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the shot in the belly to end it.

It did not come. Instead he heard Minelli's coaxing voice, 'Aw, Cowboy. I feel hurt - deep down here,' He held his left hand over his heart, 'that you should want to walk out on me, when I want us to be friendly. What say we step back into the apartment and get chummy, eh?'

Dee grunted punctuation as the barrel of the .38 jabbed viciously into his stomach on every second word, forcing him backwards onto one of the big leather armchairs.

Minelli laughed and spoke to the smaller of the two hoods, 'Okay, Smiley, you and Karl can get back downstairs.'

The misnamed Smiley jabbed a finger at the DJ. 'You be okay, Tony?'

Minelli laughed again, 'With this guy? You gotta be joking!' There was no way he wanted them around while he discussed his business with Dee. The old man's aura of power was spread much wider than his own.

As they turned to go he added, 'Oh, and Smiley...close the door behind you.'

Karl frowned, 'But boss...'

Their laughter drowned out the rest of his sentence.

Minelli's grin faded with their footsteps. He grabbed Laurie Dee by the neck of his shirt, brought his face to within an inch of his own.

'Now, you dirty bastard,' he gritted, 'we gotta finish a little business.' He laid the revolver down within Laurie Dee's reach before very carefully hitting him a dozen times across the face with his open hand.

Blood began to flow from Dee's nostrils with the tenth slap, and Minelli gave it two more for luck before drawing back to look at his handiwork.

The blood had spattered artistically over the DJ's cheeks and hand-made cream suit, and he looked as if he'd had enough already, sobbing like a six-year-old, hit in the playground by an older bully. Minelli considered for a second or two then hit him again with balled fist on the point of the nose, lifting him right off the chair onto the floor, one step from unconsciousness.

Minelli pulled over the other chair, wiped the exercise sweat from his brow with a scented lace handkerchief, took out a packet of Luckies and lit one with a fancy gold Dunhill. He inhaled deeply, blew two perfect rings, watched as they floated upwards, slowly changing shape and losing strength, until finally they died up near the ceiling. He blew the rest of the smoke from his lungs in a long, satisfied stream and kicked the moaning DJ in the ribs.

'Aw, hell, Cowboy - it ain't no fun playin' alone - you're supposed to hit me back, or go for the gun.' He kicked him again.

Dee grunted sharply in pain, sobbed, 'If you're gonna kill me, why not get it over?'

Minelli pretended surprise. 'Kill you, Cowboy? Now whatever gave you that idea? I told you - I want us to be friends.'

The DJ pulled himself, groaning with pain, into a sitting position away from Minelli's foot. 'Then why the treatment?'

Minelli drew deeply on the cigarette again, let the smoke curl out of his mouth with the words, 'I just like to know I can depend on my friends, Cowboy - know they ain't gonna let me down.'

Dee was puzzled. Maybe they weren't going to knock him off after all, but if not, what?

'I promise,' he breathed, 'not to let you down.'

Minelli smiled affably, 'Good...good. Okay - you let me help you up, my friend.' He half lifted the cringing DJ onto the sofa. 'You see, I want that you should do me - and yourself - a little favour.'

Laurie Dee's heart began to pump almost normally again. 'Anything...anything...' He pleaded, 'Just mention it...time on the air, free tickets...' He eyed Minelli craftily, 'introductions...'

Minelli's eyes hardened, 'You bum!' He gritted, and meant it, 'You think I can't get any of that for myself?'

He flicked the butt of the Lucky onto the two grand carpet, watched it burn a neat hole, sneaking a look at the horrified DJ, before using his heel to grind it into the pile.

'You deliver a package, that's all.'

Dee sat up sharply. 'Oh, no...not drug-peddling!' He insisted, 'I...'

Minelli cut him off, 'Yeah, I know all about that year for possession. Get one thing clear: you ain't in no position to refuse, even if it was snow, but it ain't.'

'Then...'

Minelli interrupted him again, 'Just a little briefcase, that's all.' He took out the package of cigarettes again, selected one with care. 'You got an outside broadcast coming up soon, right?'

'The Council Meeting?'

'Bright boy! The meeting starts at three-thirty, with a break at four, when your guys take a powder for twenty minutes, right?'

Laurie Dee nodded, 'That's right, but this time I won't be there. My schedule has changed, with an afternoon show at three.'

'Now ain't that fine? Pre-record it. You just find some excuse to go in there, leave the package and make sure you ain't there at four.'

Dee gulped. The picture had suddenly become clear.

'A bomb!'

Minelli waved a hand deprecatingly, 'Just a small one - won't damage more'n a couple of rooms. What the army guys call anti-personnel.'

Dee sat several seconds open-mouthed, unable to believe he was being asked to kill.

'But,' He gasped, 'the Mayor will be there...the councillors...the police chief...the fire chief...'

Minelli played his ace, 'And Mario Valicone! And if he ain't playin' his harp with the angels at four-five that day, he's gonna be given a certain piece of information about his poor, defenceless little girl, and the dirty bastard who took her virginity and probably made her pregnant.'

Dee gulped several times more, eyes bulging, 'She wasn't...I didn't...she...she....'

Minelli hit him again on the nose, very precisely, like a surgeon choosing exactly the right spot for an incision, then wiped the blood from his hand on the arm of the sofa.

'You tryin' to tell me you didn't line her?'

Dee shook his head.

Minelli's smile was gone. 'Okay, Buster, then you do as I say, or...' He drew one finger across his throat. 'The case will be delivered to you here, at twelve noon on that day. Arrivederci!'

He grinned, flicked one finger in the air and stepped out of the apartment.

Dee closed his eyes. For several seconds he sat without moving, stunned by the sheer weight of the thing he was being asked to do, then he moved, painfully and slowly, over to the phone. He lifted the receiver, punched the number, listened.

'Joe,' He whispered, 'I need you...'

~~~oOo~~~'

Sher Hatyaara lay inside the cage, which had been unloaded from the ship four hours before and sat on the dock in the heat, and the parivataka akara was bored inside the tiger, needing action.

A seagull landed close by and began pecking at crumbs left when one of the dockers had eaten his sandwiches.

The bird screeched loudly at the change. It took off and flew inland, reaching Central Park a few minutes later. The shape shifter had had much practice at what had to happen next.

There were several babies in pushchairs, and one after another it bombed them, spattering wet shit on the infants' faces, their mothers screaming with rage. It then attacked the mothers, pecking at their foreheads and hair. It had people diving for cover before it flew off along West Drive.

Two uniformed policemen, talking quietly together, watching the traffic, were its next targets. It splattered shit on the peaked cap of one, then pecked at the other's face, before flying off again.

Tiring of that sport and looking for another it found the zoo and saw the male gorilla, in a cage all by himself. Bored by the sameness of every day, he was hunched by the bars, having learnt long ago that close to the bars he was likely to get fed titbits.

The beast suddenly sat up, electrified by the takeover of his body.

The parivataka akara considered tricks it had carried out in India. It waited, watching the visitors passing and ignoring them, until a group of young teenaged schoolgirls, accompanied by two nuns from their school, stopped to look at the gorilla.

The beast suddenly sat up, with a huge erection, almost man-sized, and began masturbating like a human.

The girls giggled and started taking pictures, and the nuns tried to move them on, without success.

Suddenly the gorilla ejaculated, swing his penis from side to side, - a heavy stream of semen, that went through the bars of the cage and all over the girls and nuns. They screamed and screamed.

The parivaka akara crossed into one of the girl's bodies, Charleen Madisco, and made her lift her dress, pull down her panties and show herself off to the gorilla.

Sister Mary Eleanor grabbed the girl and yanked her away from the cage, shouting at her. Poor Charleen would be thrown out of the school that day, but the shape shifter had already moved on, into a zookeeper, who had run up to see what the trouble was.

They moved down the roadway until they reached a crossway, where Habsa, the old elephant, was being washed down by his mahout.

Suddenly the pachyderm squealed and charged off down the roadway, scattering human beings all ways, before coming to a halt near some feeding pigeons.

The shape shifter, pleased with its outing, invaded a pigeon and set off back to the docks. Though without human intelligence, it knew that its final mission - the reason it had left the country in which it had been domiciled for centuries - was imminent, and that it involved the tiger.

~~~oOo~~~

July 22nd 0745 E.S.T.

David Hallame woke slowly, smoky coils of sleep holding back his upward struggle to consciousness.

Even through the mist of semi-consciousness he knew something was dreadfully wrong. Now, his eyes open, a mood of depression - the first in his happy life - hung on him like a heavy black cloak.

He searched for reasons through the memories of yesterday. There were none. Business had been fairly good for the time of year, he hadn't overworked and had finished at four-thirty, coming home early to Carrie, waiting and pleased to see him.

Getting out of bed was like dragging a corpse from quicksand. There was a dull, stinging pain in his chest and his sweat-soaked limbs felt heavy and sluggish, the muscles refusing to respond to the signals from his brain. Why was he sweating so much? He could hear the air conditioning working. The thick pile carpet felt like sharp electric needles on the soles of his bare feet. Where was Carrie? An urgent need to see her, to enjoy the warmth of her presence, to feel the safety of her comforting arms, filled his brain.

He felt strangely unsure and afraid. He sighed, unsteady on legs that seemed a hundred miles away - legs that failed to do what he wanted them to. He staggered, feeling his way along the furniture and the walls to the bathroom and the mirror.

It told the whole story: his full cheeks, usually so rosy and full of life, hung slack, yellow like old parchment. Yesterday he was sure that his hair had been darker, with less grey. His eyebrows, normally high and proud, seemed to droop, and his mouth hung down at the edges in a frowning grimace he did not recognise as his laughing face, always ready with a joke or a quip. Even his nose, the butt of many of his jokes, his 'ripe tomato', he called it, sat in the middle of his face like a sharp, dried-up plum. The eyes which always shone with the joy of life stared back at him from the glass listlessly, the whites grey and flecked with red. He had to admit it - he looked as bad as he felt, and now he could feel the irregular thumping of his heart, each beat seeming to jolt his haggard frame.

He tried to call Carrie, but his voice failed, the word sticking in his throat like a croak that seemed to come from somewhere near his toes, wherever they might be.

He sagged, leaning heavily on the basin, trying to vomit without success.

From a long way he heard footsteps, hollow and ethereal, fuzzy in his brain. Behind his reflection he saw Carrie, dear Carrie, enter the room.

The smile on her face disappeared like December sunshine, to be replaced with a frown of anxious consternation. The tray she was carrying almost fell from her hand. Tears formed in her eyes.

'Oh, David,' She whispered, 'what's wrong?'

He tried to force a smile, 'It's nothing, darling. I'll be better when I've had a cup of coffee. The fish must have been off.' He didn't recognise his own voice.

She set down the tray and took his arm. 'You are going back to bed.'

He allowed himself to be guided back into the bedroom, but then he remembered. 'No, I can't. Masters. Remember I have to see him at nine. He's only in the City for one day, and it has taken me eight months to set up this deal.'

She tried to remonstrate with him, 'It doesn't matter, David. Health is everything. The contract is not important. There'll be another one.'

'Not this big.' He felt a little stronger, his willpower taking over. Maybe, he thought, I slept badly - lay on a nerve, perhaps.

'I'll be alright, Carrie, and I promise I'll come right on home afterwards and go to bed for the rest of the day.' How could he tell her their bank balance had been emptied, paying for her last three operations? If this deal fell through they were finished - bankrupt.

She sighed. After thirty-two years of marriage she knew better than to argue.

'I'll help you dress.' She murmured.

Out on the street it was worse. He could hear the breath wheezing in and out of his lungs. Every few yards he had to stop and hold up against a wall, ignored by the crowd hurrying to work.

By the time he reached the corner he knew he would not make it. He turned. The house was less than a hundred yards away. It might as well have been on the moon.

A red mist floated over his eyes, lines blurred, pain disappeared. From a long way away he felt his left foot move, then his right. Something hard held him upright. He realised he had staggered back onto the wall. His lungs felt like raw, red-hot sandpaper. He tried to inhale. Nothing came. His brain numbed. His body sagged and slid down the wall.

The crumpled mess that had been David Hallame lay ignored on the sidewalk, stepped around by people with more important things on their minds.

On Cabot's worksheets it would be death number twenty-seven for the day.

~~~oOo~~~

July 22nd 0900 E.S.T.

Peter Gann perched awkwardly on the edge of the big armchair in Sam's office. A small, vivacious man, with the body and features of a large monkey, he radiated energy like a dynamo. Sparse, fuzzy ginger hair straggled all over his scalp like gale-blown seaweed on an exposed rock. Bushy ginger eyebrows made perpetual movement over laughing brown eyes as he spoke. Thick, fleshy lips well used to smiling held no hint of amusement today. He was in his forty-fifth year of life and his twelfth as Head of the Highways Department.

'The road surfaces are all shot.' He grumbled bitterly. 'Years of work ruined in a few days. Estimates for repair in Manhattan alone top seven million. The worst affected are the bridges: the skeletal steel structures absorb and hold the heat. There's little dispersal. I came across Queensborough this morning. It was like driving through a river of tar.'

Lee, standing by the window, asked, 'Is there anything we can do to minimise the damage?'

Gann twisted in the chair to look at him, his scrawny, hair-covered hands clutching the arms.

'We're looking at the feasibility of pumping water from the river onto the road surfaces. It would mean closing one side of the bridges, alternatively, for say, two hours at a time. We'd have to arrange it so incoming traffic could use the bridges at morning rush hour and outgoing traffic in the afternoon, leaving two bridges available for use in the opposite direction. There's no alternative. Another week like this and there won't be one usable.'

Sam considered for a moment. It would be an unpopular decision, but it would not be the first and it certainly would not be the last.

'Any objections, Abel?'

'Sure - plenty, but none that make any sense. I reckon we go ahead. The public will just have to go along with it.'

'Julius? This is bound to affect traffic.'

The Commission had sat silent up to that point.

'We can manage.' He grunted, 'We've got the CCTV coverage. It will give us a chance to see just how good the controllers are at handling crises.'

Sam rose, 'Thank you, Mr Gann. I'm sure you will do your best.' He extended his hand.

The Highways Chief took it. 'I just hope that will be good enough, Mr Mayor.' He said.

As the door closed behind him, Sam grimaced. 'What next? Are there any other new problems?'

Julius shrugged, 'I dunno if it's a problem, and you certainly can't call it crime, but we've got hundreds sunbathing naked in every park in town. It started with just one couple in Central Park on Sunday, and within four hours the whole area was covered with naked bodies. My guys arrested a couple of dozen then gave it up as a bad job. God knows what's got into them - it must be heatstroke or something. My view is to leave them alone, so long as there's no sexual offence committed in public. There are so many we'd never stop them anyway, and I think we've got our hands quite full enough as it is.'

Sam agreed, 'The least of our worries.'

'I had a call from Commissioner Dewar, the guy from India. He's fairly certain the shape shifter caused some consternation at the zoo today, but it seems to have quieted down again now. One of the most bizarre was one of the big apes masturbating and shooting come all over a bunch of nuns and schoolgirls, if you can believe it.'

'Again, one we'll have to ignore. I had a call from Chief Bootz this morning. There have been four gas main explosions from ambient heat in the last two days.'

Julius showed his concern, 'Wow! That is something to worry about - and one we hadn't really considered.'

Sam nodded, 'Is there anything else?'

He found Lee regarding him quizzically, 'You going to tell Julius about Puleman's threat?'

Sam did so.

The Commissioner showed his anger, 'The dirty, low-down sonofabitch!'

Lee grunted agreement and added, 'I'd like to know what he had on Pollis.'

Julius smiled grimly, 'No great puzzle there: we've been watching him for some time - juveniles.'

Lee's eyebrows shot up in sudden understanding. 'And we have to take it?'

'I guess we have just about enough on Pollis to make a charge stick, but whether he would retract his statement if we offered a deal is another matter.'

'None of the cookies seem to be crumbling the way we want.'

Julius agreed, 'Not right now, but Pollis is a minor problem compared to yours, Sam. Do you want police protection for Bibba?'

The Mayor shook his head, 'Wouldn't work, Julius. Besides, there could be another answer to that problem.'

'You want to tell us about it?'

Sam considered. Why not? Maybe it would help to share that burden too. 'She has been making up her mind to leave for some time now. If our adoption plans go awry it will be the clincher.'

Lee was staggered, 'You mean...for good?'

Sam sighed resignedly, 'Could be.' He said, then added, 'There is no trouble between us - nothing like that - she just can't stand the City and the kind of life we have to lead.' He hesitated, 'No, that's not strictly fair. It's difficult to put into words, but she has ample reason for wanting to leave the City, and I respect her reasons.'

Lee saved them from the embarrassed silence that followed.

'Sam,' He said, 'whatever it comes to, you know you have two friends onto whose shoulders you can hang all your worries. You just keep on doing that - 'kay?'

Julius agreed sincerely, 'That goes double for me, Sam.'

Lee looked at his watch, 'We'll get out of your hair now. I have some letters to answer before the Port Authority meeting at eleven.'

Only minutes after they had left the office the buzzer went on his desk and Elsa's voice sparkled through, 'Mr Goldberg on line four, Sir.'

Sam thanked her and depressed the switch, 'Hello, John. What can I do for you?'

Goldberg's hoarse voice rasped over the line like sand in a jar of molasses, 'Can I see you, Sam - this morning? For both our sakes?'

Sam hesitated. He had a lot to think about and enough work to keep him late at his desk, but Goldberg never rang unless necessary, and it must have to do with City loan business. Besides, the cryptic rider bothered him.

'Sure, John,' he agreed, 'come right over.'

He went back to the draft of his welcoming speech to the Mayor of Hamburg, scheduled for next Tuesday, but could not get his mind on the job. It was like one of those nights when he went to bed overtired and couldn't sleep for the dozens of thoughts that kept intruding into his brain. Finally he sighed and pushed the papers away from him, to sit silently, staring into space, trying to find solutions that weren't there.

His reverie was broken by the desk buzzer, 'Mr Goldberg is here, Sir.'

Sam rose and crossed to the door, opening it to welcome the banker.

''Lo, John.' He greeted, 'Come in.'

Goldberg looked uncomfortable, and Sam sensed more unpleasantness was coming.

The banker was a heavily built man in his early fifties, with an oblong, lugubrious face. Thick, bushy expressive eyebrows almost met over the bridge of his nose, and heavy, hanging jowls exaggerated his overall air of gloom. His thick, fleshy lips bore a thin film of white from the antacid tablets he sucked continually, trying vainly to control the pain from the massive ulcer he had nurtured so carefully over the years on the way up the ladder, suppressing the inherent nice guy underneath until he was now almost unrecognisable.

He favoured the dark, English pin stripe and Homburg, even in this heat, and Sam was not surprised to see the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

Sam motioned to a chair. 'Sit down, John. Coffee?'

Goldberg shook his head resignedly, 'No, thanks, Sam. Had to swear off a long time ago. I miss it.'

He sat gratefully, hating what he had to do. He liked Sam. He could almost feel the ulcer pouring its rotten juices into his overworked body.

Maybe he should have sent Max Sheldon? Hell, no. Max was pure steel all the way through - not the man to handle this.

'Well, John,' Sam tried to inject a joviality into his voice that he did not feel, 'what's it all about?'

Goldberg inspected the carpet, then the table. Finally he raised his sad grey eyes to Sam.

'Way I hear it, you have some crazy notion about closing the City.' Sam nodded, 'You hear right, John. Who told you?'

Goldberg's expression did not change. Banking was like poker playing, and he'd been playing the game a long time.

'Not important. Fact is, if it's true, I have to pass on some information, It is nothing to do with me personally and, off the record, I disagree with the decision.' He stopped, not sure how to go on.

Sam felt sorry for him and helped him out. 'I can guess. If I go ahead the threat is to make life difficult by holding up credit and maybe raising the interest on our outstanding loans, right?'

Goldberg looked even sadder.

'Threat, Sam?' he asked, his eyes wearing a pained expression, 'who mentioned a threat?'

'What do they call it then, a contingency plan, a suggestion, a warning? What?'

'Well - look at it this way, Sam: we reckon our own group would lose close on six and a half million a day from all sources - that's a conservative figure, by the way. Somehow, those millions have got to be recovered. The decision has been to recover them from the source that occasioned the loss. That's the City.'

'I see.' Sam's eyes seemed to betray a hint of amusement that Goldberg could not understand.

'You're not angry?' he asked, puzzled.

'Should I be?' Sam shrugged nonchalantly, 'Banking is banking. You forget I am a banker myself. It is exactly what I would have done in the same circumstances.'

'And your decision?'

'Will not be affected one way or the other. I have a banker's healthy respect for money, especially other people's, but when it comes to the crunch, human life is more important every time.'

Goldberg's lugubrious expression deepened.

'Of course, you're right, Sam, but...'

'Tell your colleagues you have passed on the message.' Sam could feel the anger rising in him now and tried, not quite successfully, to keep it out of his voice, 'Tell them I have received it loud and clear, and tell them...tell them to get stuffed'

'I know, Sam, but if you don't mind I'll leave out the last part. Who knows, the heat wave could end tomorrow and everything be back to normal. We don't want to make an unnecessary wave, do we?'

He rose. 'I'll see myself out. Goodbye, Sam. May God go with you'

Sam closed his eyes with the shutting of the door. He felt exhausted and irritable. The incident had left him with a nasty taste in the mouth, and it was yet another dagger in his chest to worry about.

~~~oOo~~~

Nightingale was in full spate when Savoy arrived in Union Square.

The cop joined the crowd round the old man, not bothering to listen.

He'd heard it all before, and in any case he wanted to give his whole attention to the crowd. Ninety percent were ordinary black folk. Some seemed amused by a man they considered a crank. The light in others' eyes showed they shared Nightingale's sympathies.

Savoy was interested in neither group. He was seeking out the small group of men who, like himself, were not listening.

He found them spread through the crowd, sharp dressers, hands inside pockets, sharp-eyed and watchful. He moved up close to the nearest, a six-footer in his late thirties with a half-inch all-over crew cut and rimless glasses.

From behind him, Savoy said, 'Man, that guy sure makes a lot o' sense, don't he?'

The tall guy turned, gave him a careful once-over, took in his neat tailoring and spats.

'First time you heard him?'

Savoy nodded, 'Man,' he oozed, 'he sure is my kinda people!'

The other man stood thoughtful for a minute, seemed to come to a decision.

''Follow me when he's finished.'

Nightingale spoke for another three minutes, saying nothing new but managing to whip up a frenzy of hate in the bystanders.

He was helped to his waiting limousine by the same two men as before. Savoy watched him driven off, aware he was being scrutinized closely by the big man. He began to move off without looking at him.

Ten paces off he heard the voice behind him say:

'Hey, man - what's your racket? And what's the rush?'

Savoy turned, gave the guy an appraising glance.

'What the hell?' he said, 'You the fuzz, man?'

The big man's thin lips parted in what must have been meant for a smile. 'Are you crazy?'

'What then?'

'I'm with Christmas.'

Savoy sneered, 'Yeah, an' I'm Snow White.'

He made to move off, but the big guy stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. He inclined his head in the direction taken by the limousine.

'Christmas Nightingale - Doctor Christmas Nightingale - the old guy you've been listening to. You want to come meet him? We could do with more guys like you.'

Savoy grinned. 'If it pays more than three hundred a week, count me in. I like his style.' He hoped Malone was getting it all.

A glance at a nearby church clock told him there were still two hours to go before his scheduled meeting with his buddy, who at that very moment was sitting up on the roof with the audioscope. It had all been easy - too easy, he told himself, but what the hell, the Commissioner had said, 'Get close to Nightingale.' He couldn't get any closer. And if the short hairs on the back of his neck were beginning to lift, he could supply plenty of reasons.

He would have had another had he seen the young shoeshine boy at the edge of the crowd watch the two of them walk away and then make a call.

The hood led him to a dark grey Pontiac parked in a side street near the square and flipped open the lock, urging,

'Get in.'

They were the last words he spoke until they arrived in front of a warehouse on the Lower East Side.

'Okay, man, this is where it's at. Say - what's your handle?' Savoy was ready for that one. 'Charlie Sahm,' he said.

'Okay, Charlie, follow me.'

The big man led the way into the building, past three guys at the entrance who looked more like Doberman Pinschers than many canines Savoy had seen.

It was dark inside, but Savoy had little time to notice. Three paces inside he felt the unease of imminent danger, but his reaction time was a split second too slow. His hand had not reached the butt of his revolver when the cosh connected with his scalp.

Returning consciousness came slowly and painfully. His head hurt like hell, but his arms felt worse - as if they were being pulled out of the sockets. When he finally got around to opening his eyes he realised why: he was chained to the wall by wrists and ankles and hanging free. With great difficulty he pulled himself more or less upright, aware that Nightingale sat in a chair opposite, watching him, surrounded by half a dozen of his bodyguards. On a table six feet to his left a sixteen-millimetre projector stood, ready laced with a film.

Nightingale looked around, a self-satisfied smirk on his ugly, pock-marked face.

'Well, how about that, brothers? Our friend is back with us. You said you were our friend, didn't you and you wanted to be one of us? And we believed you, didn't we, brothers? But you tried to pull your piece on us.'

Nightingale drew Savoy's revolver from beneath his jacket, 'Not just any old piece - a police special. So what do you know, brothers, he's the man, the fuzz: a black brother doing down his black brothers. You want to get out of the jungle and join the white man in his marble towers?' His voice changed, became loaded with sarcasm as he put on a blackface accent, 'Man, you is in the jungle. This is more the jungle than that one full o' trees yo' great-gran-pappy used to swing through, and this is where you belong, man, down here - in the jungle, with us, man. But not you. You gotta fight us - us, who're tryin' to set you free, man. You should be shot.'

Nightingale lifted the gun to the aim, his finger tightening on the trigger. Savoy began to pray silently, looking down the barrel, a last prayer for absolution. He felt the sweat spring out on his forehead.

The 'click' of the falling hammer came as a total anticlimax, cutting him off in mid-prayer.

'Oh, no, Mr. Fuzz ...too easy...much too easy, and I have

other plans for you. It's going to be the other way round, my black brother - you are going to kill me.' He smiled, showing two broken teeth, 'Oh, not now, not this moment, not when you want. It will be when I decide.'

Savoy was puzzled - it made no sense at all, and if that's what the guy wanted, why the hell had they chained him up instead of letting him run loose?

'You've got to be kidding!' he spat out, 'I wouldn't dirty my hands with you! You're scum! The reason the coloured people of this country are kept down! Trash like you deserve to be exterminated!'

Nightingale put a restraining arm on the big guy Savoy had met in the park, who was about to step forward to correct his views with his fists.

'Fine sentiments, my friend - I see you hate me anyway, but not enough to kill me, it seems.'

Savoy fell silent.

Nightingale grinned, 'Well, we must see what we can do to make you hate me a little more - to take you 'back to de jungle,' where you belong. Eh?' He jerked his head to the big man. 'Lights!'

The bare bulb overhead was extinguished, leaving only the glow of the standby lamp in the projector. The men moved silently to the side, leaving the white-distempered wall directly in front of Savoy clear.

The first frames went through.

Savoy recognised immediately the steps in front of Sherilee's college. Several students came out before his sister's cheerful smile emerged through the big doors. She started down the steps to cross the road as the dark-brown Ford drew up and one of Nightingale's men, standing now less than a yard away from him, got out and called to her. She stopped and listened as he said something to her, her smile disappearing as he spoke, and when she answered, her face towards the camera, Savoy could clearly see the question, 'My brother?'

The silent film ended, laced onto a new sequence with sound. A room like the one they were in now, with no furniture except a single iron-frame bed came on the screen. Nightingale and nine men stood by one wall; the door opened from outside and Sherilee entered, stopping as she saw the reception committee.

The big man behind her gave her a shove, knocking her to her knees. Savoy swore.

'Save your curses until you have something to curse about, Mr. Fuzz.' Nightingale was enjoying himself.

The big man pulled her to her feet, holding her arms behind her back. She struggled, 'You'd better let me go! My brother is a detective, and when he finds out what you've done...'

Peals of laughter from the men drowned out the rest of her words. Nightingale smirked.

'We've done nothing yet, sister. You and we are gonna make a little movie especially for the benefit of your brother.' He indicated the bed with a nod of his head. Savoy saw the understanding come into Sherilee's eyes. He began to struggle himself, as she was, fighting the manacles around his hands and feet.

Nightingale nodded and the girl was pushed over to him. He raised one hand to the neck of her dress and ripped downwards, tearing it from her body. Beneath she wore only brief pink panties, her full young breasts standing naked and proud. She screamed for the first time. He jerked his head and four of the men threw her onto the bed, holding her with arms and legs wide apart. Savoy was screaming inside, watching helplessly, fighting his chains until his wrists were skinless and bloody.

Nightingale walked to the bed, drew a long knife from his jacket, held it for her to see. Savoy died inside at the fear in her eyes. Nightingale laid the edge of the blade on her smooth young stomach, running it three times lovingly back and forth from her navel to between her breasts, its razor-sharp edge just drawing blood on each run, then he plunged downwards twice, slicing her panties down both legs, whipping the slip of silk away on the point of the knife to the floor, leaving her last secrets bare to the camera and the eyes of the waiting men.

Nightingale nodded to the big man.

The man threw off his clothing in his haste to be ready, standing in seconds bare to his socks and wristwatch.

Savoy stopped struggling, stunned, not believing what he saw. The man was super-normal, his member almost twice normal size. He stepped forward, eyes glittering with lust, showing himself obscenely to the girl, easing his foreskin slowly backwards and forwards. Her screams reached a new intensity as she closed her eyes to shut out what she knew must come next.

The man grunted, 'Hold her!' as he levered himself onto the bed. Savoy tried to jam his eyes closed, but some inner force refused him. The cameraman knew his job well as he followed in close-up the first vicious jab, and the swift spurt of blood as it spread over the bed and the girl's legs.

Savoy closed his eyes at last, shutting out at least the visual part of the horror that seemed to go on and on, as first one then another of the men climbed onto the bed, but he could not shut out the sound.

Sherilee had fainted with the first deep thrust by the big man, and the sound track now was grunts and gasps, interlaced with filthy jokes and encouraging remarks by the watchers.

Only later did he realise he must have been screaming himself the whole time, shouting filth at these animals, himself reduced to the level of the beasts.

'Lights!'

Nightingale's voice penetrated his battered brain. He opened his eyes to a ring of delighted grins.

Apes! Dirty, bastard jungle apes! He knew now why some whites could hate the coloured man so much. Maybe even he himself...

He saw the hated face of Nightingale.

'You bastard...I'll...'

'Kill me?' Nightingale smirked, 'Man, I rather hoped you would.'

Savoy tried hard to come back to reason. It still made no sense at all. 'What have you done with her? Where is she?'

A ripple of laughter ran round the room. Nightingale smirked again. 'Where she can employ her new-found talents to the full.'

Savoy thanked his God, at least they hadn't killed her. If he could just get out of this mess maybe he could trace her to the slave brothel she must be in, probably somewhere in the City. It happened, he knew.

Nightingale read his thoughts,

'You will never find her, Mr. Fuzz. She is out of your jurisdiction, but she will be well treated and fed and may even enjoy it after the flesh has healed.' His eyes hardened. 'But now we have to talk of you. They say blood is thicker than water, but your own blood is thicker than that of your family. Maybe we have not done enough.' He whipped out the two words, 'Castrate him.'

What came next was a living nightmare. Savoy felt himself taken, held fast, his pants ripped off, felt the sharp stabbing pains and the hot blood flow down his legs. He seemed to remember screaming in pain even before he heard Nightingale's last words, 'And break all his fingers - all except the index and thumb of his right hand.'

He was still unconscious when they dumped his naked body in a back alley off Forty-Second Street.

Consciousness returned in a stench of antiseptic and violent while light.

Two faces, one black, one white, were bent over him, looking down. Malone's voice floated through the haze, 'Take it easy, Joseph.' Savoy struggled with the words, 'My sis..ter..?'

~~~oOo~~~

Randiti was puzzled. Shanti Assawandri had explained to him carefully before he boarded the ship:

'Stay with the tiger to its final destination the day after you arrive in America. You will then be taken back to the ship and sail back four days later.' Now he found himself most ill at ease, for more than one reason.

First of all it had been the men in uniform, speaking to him in English, a tongue of which he understood scarcely a word, waving sheaves of paper under his nose, getting more and more angry because he could not understand.

Then came a white-skinned man who had spoken to him in a Hindi he could scarcely recognise. All he had understood was that the papers were no good. The tiger must remain at the docks until other papers were made.

In vain he argued. The tiger must stay; he must stay.

Sadly, standing on the dock, next to the tiger's cage, he watched the ship sail for home and felt himself suddenly afraid.

At first he told himself it was because he had been abandoned in a strange land, but more and more he realised it had little to do with that.

Sher Hatyaara had become quiet, lying almost motionless all day, seeming content. When he looked and spoke to her, she seemed to be smiling, a smile of pure vindictive pleasure. At first he imagined that she, too, was pleased to be relieved of the motion of the ship which had upset his own stomach so much, but gradually he began to feel fear \- a deep, primeval fear that seemed to come from nowhere - a fear that began in his heart and soon reached his bladder and his bowels: a fear that sprang from the look in the tiger's eyes.

On the third day he recognised the source: the look on her face as she regarded him was the same look that she reserved for the meat which he speared through the bars of her cage three times a day.

Brought up with the mystique surrounding the foreknowledge of animals, Randiti knew with a certainty nothing could dispel the feeling that he was a doomed man. Somehow the tiger would kill him.

He found himself checking fifty times a day the locks on her cage, felt his hands tremble whenever in sight of her, could not sleep, could not eat, contemplated suicide by his own razor-sharp eating knife.

He was quickly becoming a wreck of a man...

~~~oOo~~~

July 23rd

Lee had spent a disturbed night. Now he paced the floor like a caged animal, his mind revolving round just one thought.

Yesterday he'd been positive - City trade had to take precedence over the safety of a few human beings who held the key to their salvation in their own hands. Now he was not so sure. The figures worried him, and so did Sam. The Mayor was not the man to take a subjective, impulsive view of a problem. Even less was he likely to revoke a previous decision. What was it Sam had said - more what he felt than what he knew? The feeling must be catching, because it was gnawing now at Lee's own vitals.

Puleman's threat to Bibba and the business of Pollis' statement were thornier problems, clouding the issue, making it difficult to take an objective view. If Cabot and Julius were right, and Lee guessed they were, Pollis had been coerced by Puleman. Okay, so he was using dirty tactics, but only to achieve the same aim he himself had held yesterday.

Now? He wasn't sure, but Sam sure as hell was in a spot and needed his support. If the roles were reversed he knew Sam would not hesitate.

Okay, right or wrong he would go along - all the way. Feeling much happier he walked over to the phone.

It rang as he laid his hand on the receiver. Lifting it to his ear he heard a voice he recognised as Puleman's inquire, 'Jimmy Blaze?' The line went dead.

Lee stood motionless as a rock, the colour draining from his cheeks, the phone held unnoticed in his hand, his only feeling one of a million ice-cold worms crawling all over his skin...

~~~oOo~~~

Jimmy Blaze heard the car from five miles off. Dusk was falling; those few minutes in the day when all the birds and animals seem to stop and listen in wonderment at the change in the world about them.The light afternoon breeze had died and the leaves hung motionless on the tall aspens. Jimmy had stopped too, afraid of scaring the turkey. He'd been trailing the bird for over an hour and would get it when it went up to roost.A car was as alien up in the Ozarks as a whale in a goldfish bowl. Weren't but six cabins on this side of the mountain, and the trail was bad enough for a buggy, let alone one of them pernickety horseless carriages. He smiled, imagining the shaking they must be getting. Only one set of fellahs came here \- the bootleggers. Must've run out of likker early. Weren't due till next Tuesday. Still, Paw had some stashed away, and they could do with the money. He was about to continue his stalking when the engine-noise ceased. Jimmy frowned. Now that was strange - they were still down in the valley, more'n half a mile from the cabin. Maybe the stupid thing had broken down. He shrugged - weren't none of his business. Paw would help them carry the booze down, and he'd give a hand if they hadn't finished when he got back. The turkey was more important to him than any old bootleggers. The sun had disappeared behind the peaks more than ten minutes before. Night would come quickly now and that old turkey would need to go up to roost. He waited, motionless. The bird was close ahead. One false move now and it would break away in fright and he'd lose it, like he'd lost all the others up till now. He watched the deep purple shadows climbing the hills to the east. Others might get fed up with the wait, but Jimmy was not bored. There was so much going on. He could hear, gentle on the air, the croaking of the bullfrogs in the reed-beds down by the creek. A rustle in the undergrowth betrayed the beginnings of the nocturnal search for food by some small rodent, the snapping of a twig a larger animal on the move. The thought crossed his mind that there was no noise from the bootleggers. They weren't usually so quiet. Jimmy did not like them. They were noisy, ill-mannered men, and they all carried handguns. If he'd admitted it, he was afraid of them, but Jimmy was a big-built, hard-muscled, leather-tanned boy from the backwoods, and he weren't about to admit being afraid of nothin'. Thirty feet ahead of him the turkey rose with a loud clatter, making him jump. He'd deliberately worked around so's to keep the bird west of him, giving enough light from the dying rays of the sun in the western sky to see the bird in silhouette. Carefully keeping the rest of his body stock still, he slid his arms up, lifting the old Remington squirrel gun into his shoulder. The stupid bird had flown onto a high branch, and provided a perfect target, even in the near darkness. His heart pounding with excitement and anticipation Jimmy sighted and squeezed the trigger. The light 'plop' of the small-calibre weapon was followed by the most God-Almighty racket as that big old bird crashed down through the branches, thrashing its wings and legs like it wanted to wake the world in its death-throes, a noise halfway between an alarm-call and a death rattle coming from its throat. The crash as it hit the ground seemed to Jimmy like enough to break every bone in its body, but he knew enough about turkeys not to take any chances. He dived into the undergrowth towards the thrashing sounds ahead. If they stopped it would mean the old bird was on its feet and moving, and he'd lost it. He was lucky: the small pellet had broken a wing and severed the gut where it entered the gizzard. It was enough to disorient the bird long enough for him to reach it. He dove in the direction of the noise and felt his hands close around warm, feather-clad flesh. Ignoring the scratches from the flailing claws he moved his body hard over the bird, bolding it down tight while he sought out the neck with his hands. With a kind of reverence he twisted until he felt the bones snap beneath his fingers. The struggles became more violent, then ceased abruptly. Jimmy got to his feet, the prize heavy in his hand, breathless and full of a tremendous exultation. Maw and Paw would be real proud of him. He picked up the gun and set off up the hill, his step light. He was still a half-mile off when he heard the shots and then a woman's scream. Without a second's thought he threw the long-coveted prize to the ground and set off at a dead run through the trees, ignoring the branches and twigs slapping into and tearing the skin of his face. The screaming seemed to go on and on, tearing at his heart. A hundred yards from the cabin it stopped suddenly as a loud report came from the cabin. Jimmy stopped dead. His young mind knew what had happened without his eyes seeing it. He levered another round into the chamber of the rifle and moved forward more slowly and silently, heading towards the still over to the left of the cabin. Paw had been working there when he left. From the top of the rim of earth they'd excavated when they'd built the still he looked down. A figure lay crumpled on the leafy soil. In the poor light he could just make out his Paw's faded denim jacket on the body. Tears flooded to his eyes, and just as swiftly anger dried them. He moved quickly but quietly towards the cabin. As he drew near two men's voices became audible from inside.A deep basso asked, 'Well, Jake, how'd you like that can o' worms?' Jimmy's ears burned at the crude, laughing reply. The door opened and the two men stood in silhouette, one of them tightening his belt. Behind them he could see Maw's body sprawled out on the floor of the cabin. Her dress had been torn right down the front and he could see a large dark stain on her naked belly. Blind with rage he lifted the weapon and fired, again and again and again, levering shells into the chamber as fast as his fingers could work, not aiming, just pointing the gun towards the doorway and shooting. The man called Jake threw his hands up to his face, where the first shot had smashed into the bridge of his nose and lodged in the skull, screaming and sobbing, 'Jesus Christ!...I can't see! I'm blind...Jesus Christ!' He fell to his knees, paroxysms of pain pulsing through his body. The other man took three slugs, in the fleshy part of the upper right arm, in the left shoulder, and full in the stomach, just above the navel. He doubled in pain, staggering out into the yard, swearing obscenely at the pain,The gun empty Jimmy stepped out into the yard, reversed the weapon and brought the stock down with all his might on the man's head, smashing it down again and again until the stock broke into little pieces and he was striking only with the barrel. The man was dead before the last blow fell.

Jimmy turned towards the doorway to tackle the other man, Jake, and came face to face with the business end of a heavy revolver, held in the man's hands. He dove quickly to the ground as the gun spat fire.

Expecting death at any second he lifted his head.

The revolver was still held in the man's hands but was not trained on him but following an erratic, wandering course across the field of fire.

Jimmy saw the blood on the man's face and realised he could not see.

Silently he inched across the ground to the body of the man he had killed. If the one in the doorway had a gun, it was likely this one had also.

It was in his belt. Jimmy eased it out. Using both hands he pulled back the hammer.

A shot from the doorway whanged over his head. He felt no fear. Silently he moved to one knee and then to his feet. An inch at a time he moved forward, keeping to the right of the doorway.

The wounded man could hear something. His head moved jerkily as he turned first one ear then the other to the side to pick up the sounds.

Suddenly, without warning, he fired twice, the shots missing Jimmy only by inches. Still he moved forward until he stood within two feet of the gunman.

The heavy gun held in both hands in front of him, Jimmy yelled, 'This is for my Maw!' as he pulled the trigger.

The recoil threw him backwards onto his butt, his head ringing, his arms aching from the shock.

Slowly, he lifted himself into a sitting position.

The gunman lay on his side in the doorway, his head hanging out over the step.

Blood was oozing from a large hole in his chest. He was very dead.

The strength that had sustained Jimmy up to now left him suddenly. On all fours he crawled into the cabin to where the corpse of the one person he loved most in all the world lay.

The man in him was gone and he was the little boy once more, clinging to his Maw for succour.

His arms went around her and the hot, salty tears flowed unashamed down dusty cheeks as he pleaded: 'Maw ...Maw...don't die, Maw. Please. Oh, God, don't let her die... don't let her die...'

Immersed as he was in his misery, the light footfall behind him had him instantly on the alert. Without turning his head, his sensitive ears, trained to listen for the slightest sounds in the forest, strained to pick up the next move.

There it was - a soft, sliding sound. Using his muscles like coiled springs he threw his body in the direction of the noise, twisting to throw out his arms to where the legs of his attacker might be. He was lucky: his weight alone, added to the surprise of the move, threw the man off balance onto one knee, giving Jimmy time to grab the right wrist above the hand which held his Maw's big dressmaking scissors.

The other man fought with desperation, but his strength was no match for Jimmy's. The boy could see that his assailant was well over six feet tall, but no more than two years older than himself, and he could feel the strength ebbing out of the youth's limbs as he fought for possession of the weapon. Slowly but surely he twisted the other's arm until with a horrible snap the elbow dislocated.

The points of the scissors had been pointing towards the youth's neck when the limb went limp, and they pierced the flesh deeply, in a vee-shaped slash over two inches long.

He screamed, eyes white with mortal fear, staggering backwards. Jimmy followed. The revolver he had dropped lay unnoticed on the floor. His next step brought it under his right foot, sending him crashing to the floor.

The youth acted quickly, smashing his boot into the boy's forehead, throwing his body back over that of his mother.

The lights went out.

Time stood still, the world forgotten. He did not hear the heavy, dragging footsteps cross the floor, was unaware of the presence of others until the ladle of water hit his face.

He came up spluttering, ready to fight again, his fist already in the air, when a well-known voice stopped him.

'Whoa! Hold on there, Jim-boy. Take it easy.'

Ezekiel Lee had heard the shooting from his cabin and had come as quickly as his sprained ankle would let him, his wife Amy helping him along. The path was steep, and it had taken them much longer than they had hoped to reach the cabin, Amy supporting his weight on her right shoulder, her left hand carrying his old but trusted Sharps rifle and ammunition pouch. Lee was a big, rangy backwoodsman who eked out a precarious existence with a small patch of corn and vegetables and what he could earn hauling timber down to Alansville with his mule, His wife was a tiny woman with jet-black hair and eyes so dark they almost matched it.

Jimmy always thought her quick, bird-like movements made her more like a Black Leghorn than most chickens he'd known. They were good neighbours.

When Jimmy pulled back from the body she saw what they had done to his mother for the first time. A hand flew to her mouth as she cried, 'Oh, God, no!' Recovering quickly she dropped onto one knee and pulled the torn parts of the dress together to cover the body decently.

Lee's rough voice was full of an unusual compassion, 'They git yore Paw too, boy?'

Jimmy nodded, sobbing out the words, 'By the still.'

'Tell me what happened.'

Jimmy told him, leaving out no detail. When he had finished Lee shook his head, frowning. 'It sure don't make no sense.'

Jimmy objected, 'But they're bootleggers, Mr. Lee - they're bad men.' He found Lee's eyes boring deep into his own.

'Do you really believe that, boy?'

Jimmy was puzzled. Of course he did. He nodded vehemently, 'Who else?'

Lee beckoned, 'Come over here, son.' His voice was low and serious.

He stopped by the corpse in the doorway, bent down and took something from the front of the dead man's jacket. He stood up with it held out in his hand.

'Know what this is?'

Jimmy gulped, 'A sheriff's badge.'

'The other man's got one too. Now, I believe your story, son, but I know you. These people look after their own. If'n they git a hold of you they'll twist it into murder, killing two lawmen in the execution of their duty. You'd never get to see the outside world again.'

'What am I going to do, Mr. Lee?'

'You're gonna have to get out of here and go as far away as you c'n git, son, tonight. Is there any money in the house?'

'Just a few dollars, in the box, but it's Paw's...'

Lee noticed the tears begin to flow again in the lad's eyes and made his answer deliberately brutal. The only hope for Jimmy was to face facts.

'He won't need it now, and you will. Get it, and anything else of your own you c'n carry, clothes 'specially. If'n you want keepsakes, keep 'em small, or you'll wish you'd never thought of 'em.'

Jimmy stood his ground, 'But Maw 'n Paw. I gotta see...'

Lee cut in firmly, 'You get your things. I'll see to the rest.' He turned awkwardly and hobbled out the door.

Jimmy moved around the cabin in a daze. The clothes he wore were most all he had. There was one spare shirt and a pair of second-hand pants Maw had been given for helping with the Karlin's baby last year.

They were too big and needed altering, she said, but Jimmy knew they'd be kept until his others fell off him.

There was little in the way of trinkets in the cabin. He picked up the only thing that would remind him of them: the faded sepia wedding-picture on the mantelpiece. Looking at it the tears sprang forth again. Neither of then looked much older than he was now.

There were eleven dollars and fifty-three cents in the box; more money than Jimmy had ever held in his own hands before.

Lee staggered through the doorway carrying the body of Jimmy's Paw in his arms. He laid it on the bed, picked up the body of Mrs Blaze and laid her next to her husband. Then he dragged in the body of the man lying outside.

'Okay, son,' he said to Jimmy, 'go and get all the likker yore Paw has stashed away.'

Jimmy frowned, 'What fer?'

Lee put a big, grizzled hand, on the boy's shoulder, 'You only got one chance, son. If the cabin burns down with all four of 'em in it, they might just believe they was killed accidental, and not shot. It's gotta be one hell of a fire to burn that fierce, and the likker will help.'

'No!' Jimmy tried to pull away, to go throw himself on his Maw.

Lee tightened his grip, 'Jimmy,' he urged, 'there ain't no other way! I'll take you across the mountain tonight to Potter's Crossing. You c'n start off from there, but we ain't got no time to waste! Now, git that likker!'

Jimmy looked across at Mrs Lee. She had been quietly helping him find his things. She caught his worried questioning glance. She nodded, her dark eyes holding him, willing a new strength into him.

He turned, and without another word went out to the store. For the

rest of his life those eyes were going to come back to him at moments of stress and danger. Twice he was sure they had saved his life.

He laid the bottles outside the door, unwilling to face again the destruction of his young life, and turned his back on the crude shack that had been home.

He was no more than eighty yards down the track when he heard the crackling of flames devouring the dry wood, and the trees and path in front of him showed clearly in the reflected light.

He began to turn, but remembered Lee's admonition. Instead he set his mind to remembering every detail of the young man's face. If it was the last thing he ever did he would find and kill him!

Lee arrived at his cabin, hobbling, twenty-five minutes after the boy. He took two pieces of paper from the sideboard drawer and stuffed them into his top pocket before going out to get the mule ready, shouting.

'Come on, boy, get up behind me.'

As they set off the sky over the mountain glowed like an early sunrise. They rode steadily through the night. At dawn, Potter's Crossing lay half a mile below them. Lee made a long detour round the five wooden houses that made up the tiny settlement, crossing the river two miles upstream.

On the far bank he motioned for Jimmy to get off and slid off to stand beside him. He put a hand on the lad's shoulder.

'Okay,' he gritted, 'this is it, boy. West over the hills to the road, then keep heading north for Kansas City. Sun over yer right shoulder in the mornings and yer left in the afternoons. Don't hitch no lifts and keep out o' sight as much as yuh can. Lose yerself in the city, git work o' some sort an' stay there awhile till the heat cools. Here, ' he fished around in his pocket and pulled out the papers he had put there the night before.

One was a five-dollar bill. Jimmy began to protest, and Lee held up a hand to stop him.

'You'll need it more'n me, boy, and you'll need this too, sooner'n later.' He handed over the larger of the two papers. 'From now on you ain't Jimmy Blaze no more. You're Abel Lee. He was our son; died when he was two years old. This here's his birth paper.'

He saw the beginnings of rebellion in Jimmy's eyes and stepped in quickly.

'I know, son - tha'ss golddanged hard to take, but yer gotta see it straight: in the eyes of the law you're a murderer. They're a-gonna be a-lookin' fer you, son - awful hard! I'll do what I can to throw 'em off the scent, but mostly it'll be up to you.'

He shoved out a hand, 'Luck, boy, and remember - never look back!'

Jimmy Blaze disregarded the instruction for the last time as he stood and watched the mule and its rider re-cross the river, head up into the tall timber and finally fade into the heat-hazed blue-green of the trees on the lower slopes of the mountain down which they had come. For the first time in his life he felt absolutely alone.

Hot tears stung his eyes until old man Lee disappeared from view. Jimmy Blaze cried until there were no more tears in him, and then he turned his back on everything he had known and experienced in this life.

Abel Lee set off up the hill with a new inner strength. He had one thought uppermost in his mind: he was going to make out, come what may, so that he could find the third man.

Up to now, in spite of years of search and research, he never had.

Another thought struck him: sometime, somehow, he had to tell Sam.....

~~~oOo~~~

Of the original fourteen who had signed the pact, eleven were present in the room. Jason Goldsmith had died in a car smash; Kramvey and Marson were awaiting trial for grand larceny and homicide.

To the eyes of any honest citizen of the City they would have seemed an unlikely bunch: two heads shaven bald, the owners still bearing the gaunt look of regular convicts, the others shaggy, with unkempt, unwashed hair down to the shoulders. Garb ranged from part-military cast-offs to oversize and unlikely garments of all styles and colours, stolen from wherever they could be taken. All had the lean, hungry look of men without permanent jobs, living off their wits and hand-outs.

They looked like no man's idea of an army, but Polanski was well satisfied. Eleven was more than enough; they knew weapons, they had nothing to lose, and all had the same motivation and ambition.

He unrolled the large-scale plan of the embassy and pinned it onto the wall.

'Okay,' he said, 'you know why we're here. We've waited a lotta years for this. Before we start, is there anyone wants out?'

Polanski knew there would be no takers. They all knew what would happen. Anyone who chickened would be ritually murdered by the others: ten stabs from ten knives. It was how they'd started: each one of the original group had to commit homicide, to order. That way, the group had a permanent hold over the individual. Most had found a liking for it, and the group total now stood at sixty-three. Okay, so they were dropouts, the dregs of society, dope addicts and useless bums, but the power of life and death made them feel like men again.

Not one had been honourably discharged from the Army. All had joined the organisation known as 'The Veterans against the War.'

Polanski himself had gone to one meeting but realised from the start how easy it would be for the fuzz to infiltrate and get dossiers on the members. It did not suit his plan. He had recruited his own team carefully from the VATW and they had gotten out while the going was good.

They met irregularly, when there was a job to do. Polanski chose the targets. At first it was arms thefts, the weapons now hidden behind a false wall in his apartment. Later, he chose minor diplomats from communist bloc embassies, and issued his own verbal death warrant. It kicked back at the Commies and embarrassed the Government and the fuzz.

More importantly, it gave Polanski his raison d'être.

'The blacks are gonna have a real jamboree any day now. The fuzz will have its hands full just keeping up with them.

You'll know when it starts - you'll hear the drums. We hit the embassy that same afternoon. Joe,' he spoke to a six-footer standing at the front, wearing a filthy pair of jeans with a five-inch tear down the right leg and a battledress blouse that looked as though it might have originated in the war between the States, stained with everything from soup to old motor oil, 'soon as you know, you grab us a one-ton closed van and bring it here for the arms. We take out the main doors with the bazooka used from inside the van. Lou and Samson,' he nodded towards the two bald ex-cons, 'will take care of that, then they take it into the building to use on the blocking doors between the lower and first floors. There's a steel door they can lower over the stairs in case of trouble. If they get that down we'll need the big one. Apart from that, we take out everything that moves, leave no one alive, and get out fast. You take nothing \- nothing at all, you got that?' he glared, to make his point obvious. 'Joe stays at the wheel of the van with the motor running. Everyone piles in, we drive two blocks and you start dropping off - one every two blocks until only Joe is left. Weapons are left in the van. Joe drives to the docks, finds a quiet alley, leaves the van after dumping two incendiaries in it, one in the cab, the other in the back. We've practised it before so there should be no slip-ups with the getaway. Any questions?'

~~~oOo~~~

It was unusual for Sam to take a lunch-break. Today he made an exception. Bibba met him in the foyer, and they drove downtown.

Mrs Grant lived in Spanish Harlem, on the third floor of a shabby tenement. Sam knew the area and its problems well. Too many families with too many children and not enough money, crowded together in squalor and poverty.

She welcomed them at the door, a frail old lady of seventy-three, dressed in a clean but almost threadbare black cotton dress, her hair pinned up simply on her head, her face creased with the lines of long years of worry, moving awkwardly, her body wracked with the pains of arthritis, but even so Sam could see she must have been a great beauty in her youth.

She made a small curtsey and invited them in.

The apartment was miniscule - one small living room so tiny it was claustrophobic, with an equally small bedroom off to the left.

An old-fashioned two-ring stove squatted uncomfortably in one corner of the living room, with a washstand and water jug beside it. There were no other doors leading off, and Sam guessed there was no bathroom.

The furniture was old and shabby: two easy chairs whose threadbare covers showed clearly their years of use, two hard-backed chairs and a table, a small cupboard near the stove and a sideboard, but the wooden surfaces were polished, and not a speck of dust was visible.

A small radio stood on the sideboard with a variety of knickknacks and several photographs in frames, one of a young couple dressed in the style of the thirties, and several of Lisa, but there was no television.

A small pot of faded plastic flowers stood on the table, making an unsuccessful attempt to introduce a splash of colour to the drab surroundings.

Sam held out the bunch of red roses he had brought, and tears leapt into her eyes. 'You shouldn't have,' She said, 'but oh, they are beautiful. My Tom used to buy me roses when...' She swallowed and hesitated before continuing, 'a very long time ago.' She collected herself, 'But I am forgetting my manners. Please, sit down.' She indicated the two easy chairs. 'You can see I have very little room for the child. I would love to keep her, but I wanted her to have something better than this.'. She waved her arms deprecatingly. 'It seems like a miracle you want to adopt her.'

Bibba had been more moved than Sam by the cramped quarters. They always talked things through before making big decisions, but this time she could not wait and grabbed his arm, looking pleadingly into his eyes.

'Oh, Sam,' She urged, 'couldn't we...?'

He'd read her mind. He smiled. 'I think I can arrange something.'

Bibba took a deep breath. Knowing how touchy old people can be, she phrased the question carefully, 'Mrs Grant, if we found you a place to live close to us, where you could see Lisa as often as you liked - at no expense to you, of course, would you consider moving?'

The old lady's eyes flooded with tears, and Bibba stood and put out her arms to hold and comfort her.

Through light sobs she said, 'You will think me a silly old fool, and I am so grateful for your offer, but I have lived here for fifty-two years, since the day I married Tom. I haven't long to live now, and I would like to die here, in these four poor walls, with the same old wallpaper.'

Bibba's arm tightened around the old lady's shoulders and she whispered, 'We understand.'

Mrs Grant smiled, her cheeks glistening with tears, 'You can see I am not a fit person to see after a child. I can't even control my own emotions.'

They both hastened to contradict her, but she would hear none of it.

'Once, perhaps, but not now. Please - take her with my blessing. Look after her,' she hesitated before apologising, 'I am sorry - I know you will do that. You see, she reminds me too much...' The tears began

again, 'She is a beautiful child, just like her mother.'

Sam rose. There was no point in upsetting her further.

'If there is ever anything we can do...' he insisted gently, making a mental note to do whatever he could without offending her sensibilities.

She shook her head. 'Thank you, but no, Mr. Brady. An old person's foolish pride, you know.'

He did. Helping the aged was one of the most difficult things a city government had to do.

'Would it be in order for our attorney to call on you?' He asked.

She smiled. 'At any time. I'll sign the papers.'

~~~OoO~~~

Malone turned the corner of the ward just as the nurse came out of Savoy's room. She looked flustered and amazed.

Malone grabbed her arm.

'What's the matter, sister? He's all right, isn't he?' The girl looked up at him in disbelief.

'He's gone!' she said.

Malone hit his forehead with the open palm of his right hand in exasperation.

'Jesus Christ!' he exploded. He crossed himself for the profanity. Well, he knew just what Savoy had in mind, but how in hell was he going to stop him? Malone thought fast - what would he do in the circumstances?

A bomb, sure - but where to get one? No, not a bomb - a grenade, and he knew where Joseph would go to get it! He turned and lit off down the corridor at a dead run. Given luck he might get there in time.

The taxi turned into Center Street and stopped outside the number two-forty main entrance.

Savoy growled at the driver, 'Side door, buddy.'

After what those bastards had done to him it was agony walking, and he had no intention of walking one foot more than necessary. He thanked his God the armoury was in the basement.

The half-dozen cops he passed greeted him in embarrassed monotones, looking quickly away. He found he couldn't blame them. After all, how do you say to a buddy, 'Hello, Joe. Jeez, I'm sure sorry you lost your balls'?

Sergeant Martin Ready looked as impregnable as Fort Knox behind his inch-thick steel bars. He was more surprised than the others to see Savoy. His gun had only been handed in this morning with the message that it could be issued to another cop. Savoy wouldn't be needing it any more.

'Joseph!' He beamed, 'Say, whad'ya know, fellah? Hey, I was sorry to hear about your trouble, eh?'

He made a point of looking at the plaster casts on Savoy's hands. Savoy forced a grimace.

'Sure. Say, did they find my gun when they found me, Martin?'

'Right on, Joseph. Strange thing, that - no clothes, but they left

your piece at the scene.' He smiled, lying, 'She's ready and waiting for when you're fit again.'

Savoy nodded.

'Good. Just thought I'd check.'

He made as if to turn away, pretended to go into a dead faint.

Ready swore, reaching for the alarm bell, but stopped himself from pushing it. The guy had trouble enough already and probably shouldn't be here anyway. He took his hand from the alarm and reached behind him for the keys. It was against the rules to have Savoy in the armoury but what the hell - in his state he wasn't gonna start no trouble. He had carried him beyond the door before the plaster cast fell on his head.

Savoy took two grenades - one for Nightingale, one more just in case, which he slipped in his pocket, and was halfway up the steps to the ground floor when Malone burst through the doors. He stopped dead at sight of Savoy. The black cop did not pause in his progress, brushing away Malone's hand on his arm.

Malone followed up the stairs, pleading, 'Don't do it, Joseph - leave it to the law \- you don't know what you're doin'...'

He eyed the grenade held clumsily in his partner's hand, wondering if he could grab it successfully. Savoy held it with thumb and forefinger, the finger through the ring of the pin. He stopped in his tracks,

'Oh, no, Paddy \- you are wrong. This poor, ball-less black boy knows exactly what he is doing, and no one, but I mean no one, is going to stop him. You try and I'll pull the pin and blow us both to Kingdom-Come! Now you just be a good guy and climb those stairs to the top floor and forget you've seen me.'

Malone hesitated. All his training as a cop told him to tackle his old buddy and take the consequences, but hell, he asked himself, wouldn't he want to do the same if he were in Savoy's shoes? He turned to the stairs.

Savoy watched him go, relieved, knowing he would have pulled the pin if he'd had to.

His taxi was still waiting. He gave the address of the building where Nightingale had taken him. It wasn't much of a chance, but it was the only one. He lay back in the seat, too tired to look back to see Malone grab the next yellow cab.

The warehouse stood empty with no signs of life. The birds had flown the coop. Savoy told the driver to take him to a cheap, second-rate hotel two streets down on the waterfront.

It wasn't second-rate but fifth, and run-down, a rendezvous for pushers, pimps and sailors' hookers, but it would do. Savoy pushed open the door.

A tall, sallow guy sat behind the counter, reading a kid's comic without a trace of expression on his powder-white face. He did not look up.

Savoy stopped in front of him, spat out, 'A room for a coupla days.'

The eyes did not lift, nor the expression change.

'Full up.' The voice was as disinterested as the face.

Savoy spoke very quietly. 'You want to get busted every night for the next ten years, or do I get that room - now!'

The head came up sharply, the eyes under lowered lids sizing up the intruder to his peace.

'Fuzz?'

Savoy nodded, noticed the guy was looking at his hands. 'Kinda rough down at the station house?' he drawled. Savoy ignored the question.

'And I want a TV and a radio.'

The man's eyelids lifted. 'Jeesus,' he groaned, 'Whad'ya think this is - the New Yorker?'

Savoy grunted, 'Just make sure I get 'em - pronto!'

The keys hung behind the counter. The man hesitated fractionally before swinging round to grab one.

'Room twenty-four, second floor. That'll be twenty-two bucks a night, in advance.' A thought struck him, 'And another three for the TV.'

Savoy threw a century on the counter.

'I guess four nights will be all I can stand.'

The room was no bigger than a Center Street cell, the only furniture a three-quarter bed that looked as though it had survived many a hard battle, a small, battered table and an upright chair, with two bars missing from the back.

The telephone was on the floor next to the bed.

The sickly smell of stale sweat and even staler smoke washed over him as he opened the door.

'Christ,' He thought, 'This is gonna be some pleasure!'

He eased himself onto the bed, reached down for the phone, punched out the number of the 'Come Inn' on Sixty-Second Street, asked for Benny the Nose.

A loud sniff on the line told him the informer was listening. Tersely he gave him his instructions and the number to call. He'd intended to do this alone but on a re-think he called one of his steadies, Pamela Jane Watkins. It was a considered choice - a red-hot tomato she was, and that might create problems, but she was also a nurse, and he might need one.

He asked her to stop by his house, tell Mama not to worry, grab some of his clothes and the two hundred bucks from inside his copy of Shakespeare, and bring two hamburgers with all the trimmings.

Ruefully, he wondered how the hell he would hold a hamburger, but then - what else did he have for Pamela Jane to hold?

Malone waited in the doorway of the radio shop opposite until Savoy moved off up the stairs. He held a brief council of war with himself. His duty was clear: ring in to the Chief. The omission would put him outside the law and would probably cost him the badge he loved, but Joseph was as good as family, and he was not going to let his buddy down. He'd let the old lady know not to worry later. For now, Joseph came first.

He stepped resolutely off the kerb and moved fast across the street to the reception. He flashed his badge.

'The guy who just booked in - I want the room next to him - and I want to know if he ever goes out - capish?'

The clerk took one look at Malone's hard-set jaw and decided not to ask questions. He handed over the key and did not mention money.

~~~oOo~~~

24th July

Eagerly Bibba helped set out the paint-boxes, the big sheets of paper, and the half-full water jars, in which the children washed their brushes. Any minute now they would be coming into the room like an unstoppable flood, their excited chatter destroying the peace of the afternoon, bringing the classroom to life, and with them would be Lisa

Bibba felt her heartbeat quicken in anticipation. She had wanted to buy her a set of paints all her own but restrained the impulse. They must not spoil her, nor must she, as a teacher's help, give her more attention than the other children.

The bell rang, and Mrs. Tyler, the teacher, pushed open the door, 'Stand by, the riot squad.'

The three to five-year-olds, twenty-two of them in all, came in like four tons of bricks. For a full five minutes confusion reigned while each child was attended to personally by one of the adults, suggestions made on what to paint, little full-length aprons put on over other clothes.

At last, some kind of order returned, as tongues came out and lips were chewed in desperate concentration.

Bibba watched Lisa from a distance for a while, letting the teacher speak to the little girl first.

When she went to look at her work for the first time, she stood behind, watching as the tiny hand dipped the brush into different colours and splashed them onto the paper.

To Bibba the picture could have been anything from elephants under an African sunset to spring in Central Park. She moved forward, brushed half a dozen straggling hairs from the child's face with her hand, put an arm round her.

'Now that is really beautiful, Lisa.' she said, encouragingly, 'Are you going to tell me what you'll call it?'

The child did not turn. In a small, quiet voice she said, 'It's angels.'

Bibba looked in vain for a clue.

'Oh, yes, I see,' she said, hoping the child did not notice her hesitation, 'but why do you want to paint angels?'

This time the little girl did turn. Bibba found herself held fast by the direct gaze of two slightly moist deep brown orbs.

'Because Mommy and Daddy are with the angels, and I want them to be happy.'

Bibba found herself becoming uncomfortable under the gaze. She squeezed the tiny shoulder,

'I'm sure they are, Lisa.'

The slight frown on the little face disappeared, replaced by a beatific smile, the earlier thoughts forgotten.

'I like you.' she said simply.

Bibba hugged her again, 'And I like you, Lisa.'

She took her arm away. 'I'll come back again when you've finished.'

As she went to move away the child spoke again, pronouncing gravely, 'I'm hot.'

Bibba smiled, 'Yes, I know, darling. It is hot.' She moved away, conscious of the disapproving look directed at her across the room by the teacher. She was right - assistants were supposed to share their time between all the children.

Twenty minutes passed before she reached the child again, surprised to find the picture still unfinished and the small, curly head resting on the desk.

She smiled, 'Now that won't do, Lisa. Don't you want to finish it?'

The head stirred and a very small voice complained, 'I'm so hot.'

Suddenly concerned, Bibba laid her palm on the tiny forehead. Warm though her own hand was, the skin felt hot to the touch. The child must be burning up with fever. A sudden, sharp dread turned Bibba's heart to lead. Without hesitation she lifted the child from the stool and crossed quickly to where the teacher was bending over, helping another pupil.

'Mrs Tyler!' she blurted, her voice full of her anxiety, 'Lisa is ill. She needs a doctor - quickly!'

Mrs Tyler was in her thirty-eighth year as an infant teacher. In that time she had seen attacks of everything from measles to malaria and dizziness to dysentry. This one was obviously heat, and no auxiliary helper, even if she was the wife of the Mayor, was going to tell her how to run her class.

'Take her into the sickroom. It's cooler in there. Let her lie down for a while. She'll soon feel better.'

Bibba insisted, 'Would you mind if I called a doctor - just to be sure?'

The teacher regarded Bibba quizzically, 'Do you not think you are being just a little subjective, Mrs Brady?' she asked, her tone stiff, 'This is the child you are thinking of adopting, isn't it?' She saw the look of surprise in Bibba's eyes. 'The school was asked for a report on the child and your work here.' she explained. Her voice softened - after all, the woman did work hard, and put on no airs and graces, as one would have expected. It was only natural for her to be concerned, but they couldn't go calling out doctors every time an infant ran a temperature. 'Give it fifteen minutes. If she still feels the same, call your doctor.' She added a warm smile, 'Stay with her. I can manage here.'

Bibba mumbled a grateful, hurried 'Thank you', and almost ran from the room, her precious bundle clutched in her arms. The small sickroom was at the other end of the corridor. She pushed open the door.

Thank God, she thought, at least it was cool. It had its own air-conditioning unit and it was set at sixty-four degrees.

She laid the small body gently on the couch. The child's eyes were closed and she was moaning gently. Her brow was still feverish. Bibba loosened the thin blouse and as she did so noticed the child's lips. They had taken on a bluish tinge.

She hesitated, undecided, trying to remember all she knew about childhood diseases: the high temperatures they could run without being in the mortal danger an adult would be with the same reading; the old adage, 'If they're crying, they're all right.'

But was she crying? She asked herself. There were whimpers coming from the pathetically small form on the couch at frequent intervals. Bibba soaked a handkerchief under the tap and wrung it out, using it to cool the child's brow, trying, but unable, to forget that other night, to suppress the utter, blue panic that she felt welling up in her.

A rattle came from the small throat. The lips were definitely bluer. Something was dreadfully wrong.

She leapt to her feet and grabbed the phone. She dialled 'Emergency' first, then Sam.

The next six minutes were some of the longest in her life. When the ambulance men found her she was pacing up and down the small room with the tiny bundle in her arms, rocking it to and fro, cooing soothing words.

The child's breathing had become much worse. Though her eyelids flickered she was obviously unconscious.

The medic in charge took one look and rapped out, 'Oxygen - quick!' to his assistant.

~~~oOo~~~

The Big Mac meeting was about to begin. Sam sat on Lee's right, waiting for him to open proceedings. Lee rose,

'Gentlemen - if you please.'

The secretary entered quietly, catching his eye. He paused.

She mouthed the words, 'The Mayor,' and held her right hand up to indicate he was wanted on the phone.

Sam exited and picked up the phone, his expression hardening as he listened to the distraught tones of his wife on the other end.

'Go with her,' he urged, 'I'll get there right away.' He turned to the secretary, 'Tell them I've been called away. Urgent business,'

Lee took the news with outward calm but inner turmoil. It had to be something important for Sam to dash off just like that. Still, he decided, nothing was to be gained by delaying the start now.

He was about to begin again when Dale Hartman rose.

'Can we take it the meeting is open, Mr. Chairman?'

Lee nodded agreement.

'Okay,' Hartman cast a cool glance at each member in turn before continuing, 'Before we start, you ought to be aware of something: we had us a meeting of the union executive yesterday. There was a unanimous decision to withdraw labour until the emergency is over.'

Puleman leapt to his feet. 'You've done what?' he shouted, his voice bordering on a full yell. 'You irresponsible bunch of hair-brained bastards. That garbage'll go off in thirty minutes in this heat. We'll have an epidemic.'

Hartman gazed steadily at Puleman. Keeping his voice low and even, he said, 'Someone had to do something. Seemed no one else could make a decision. Okay - this should speed things up a little.'

Puleman spluttered for several seconds, before threatening, 'We won't forget this, Hartman.'

Lee stepped in, 'I would like to go on record as being disassociated with Mr. Puleman's 'we'.'

Murmurs of agreement rose.

'But,' Lee continued, addressing Hartman, 'Would you please tell us what services will be affected, and when?'

'Effective midnight tonight, garbage collection is suspended, but sewage disposal should be no problem for about seven to eight days. The plants are automated - up to a point.'

'Breakdowns and repairs?'

'Will not be handled.'

'So,' Lee's look was grim, 'in a nutshell, the streets are going to be littered with rotting garbage, and - if we're lucky - the sewage should be okay for just a week?'

Hartman looked pleased with himself, 'That's about the size of it.'

Lee took a deep breath.

'Well, gentlemen, I will now read you the latest report from Public Health.'

He did so, pulling no punches, but not over-dramatizing either. He ended with, 'What do we say now to closure?'

He caught Puleman's vindictive glare and thought, 'What the hell!'

The vote was close, seven for, eight against, with Valicone abstaining. Lee tried not to let his disappointment show, 'Very well, gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I shall pass on the result of your vote to the Mayor.'

Puleman hung back as they filed out.

Lee felt like knocking his supercilious grin off his face. Puleman sneered, 'That was a little too close, Mr Lee.'

~~~oOo~~~

Sam left the car at the front entrance and took the steps two at a time. His urgent query produced an immediate response from the receptionist, 'Operating theatre - fourth floor.' He found Bibba in the corridor outside the theatre, her tear-stained face white with anguish. He took her in his arms and pulled her tightly to him, not daring to ask the question. They stood a long time without moving until footsteps in the corridor made them release their hold and turn. Mrs Grant, walking awkwardly with the aid of a stick, approached, her face showing the obvious signs of stress. She stopped a yard away, and Sam could see she was having difficulty controlling her emotions. She tried to raise a smile of greeting, 'Mrs. Brady - Your Honour.' she swallowed before continuing, 'Thank you for calling me. Is...is...she?' Bibba took a deep breath. 'We don't know...She's...in there.'The old lady's strength of will collapsed. Her head went down and tears began to flow. Bibba stepped forward to take her, helped by Sam, over to a bench seat by the wall. 'Her mother and father - my daughter. - and now Lisa. Has God no mercy?' She pleaded through her sobs. Neither could trust themselves to answer. The door opposite swung open, and a young, white-coated doctor emerged. To Sam's questioning glance he shrugged his shoulders and hurried off towards a door at the far end of the corridor, to return less than half a minute later with a small box-like apparatus. Before pushing open the door he looked across and asked, 'Relatives?' They nodded. 'We're doing all we can,' He assured them, 'but...' he shrugged again and disappeared through the door. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for what seemed like hours but was only twelve minutes, before the door opened again. This time four doctors emerged, three of them avoiding their eyes. Sam heard a deep sob from Bibba. The doctor they had seen earlier came slowly towards them. 'I'm sorry,' he said, simply, 'we were too late.' Through her tears Bibba asked, 'Can we see her?' He nodded. They entered as if in a dream, a dream which was for Sam and Bibba a dreaded repeat of an earlier horrific experience. The small body lay in repose, covered to the chin with a clean sheet. Sam and Bibba stood hand in hand in silence until she turned slowly to him, her face wet with unchecked tears, 'I can't stand any more, Sam. This really is the end.'

~~~oOo~~~

Stryker eased his wiry six-foot frame out from behind the console, his laughing brown eyes not laughing now. He'd checked them all; this was the last. All the same and all bad.

The Lord God who made all men had smiled when he'd fashioned Stryker, fitting the name to the body. Rarely did a woman he passed not turn for a second look. Light-brown, curly hair in a schoolboy cut denied him his thirty-four years, and in spite of the dozen odd of those years he'd spent round the world under the hot suns of desert and in the arctic wastes, his face still had the baby-soft skin he'd been born with and no lines but those of laughter round the eyes and creeping from the corners of his mouth.

Stryker found much in life to smile about: nature had favoured him and he had done the rest. Every morning of his life he spent the first half hour working out, keeping his body in trim. Every evening and weekend he played squash and tennis. He was good enough at both to have turned pro. He was good enough to have become bigheaded but hadn't. He liked his job and enjoyed his relaxation. Hell, it was a great life.

His tool bag stood on the floor by the console. He stooped slightly to pick it up. It had been a clever ploy, using the phone company card to gain entrance. It had given him a chance to check almost all the wiring unescorted, and he didn't like what he had seen: insufficient, poor quality materials, badly used, sloppy joints, bad insulation. If ever a crisis situation came there'd be a devastating breakdown. Well, the Mayor had been right, and he'd have to be told, but Stryker's main allegiance was to the Company, and they'd have to know first. Christ knew what they could do about it.

The old supply lines had been stripped when the new stations were built. How long it would take to replace them and bypass the stations, or rewire the relays to the correct specification was anybody's guess. Building them had been one hell of a strain on the City's budget. This would break the piggy bank! He thought back to the beginning of the project. It had made a lot of sense for the Company: a saving of almost fifteen million a year in maintenance costs, no more customer 'cans' to carry, and no loss of power revenue; a good move for the Company and the shareholders. They'd done a complete check on the original specifications and on Trundell, not that he'd thought it necessary. He'd worked under Trundell on the Mississippi Delta project.

The guy was a first-class technician and had seemed to be straight.

The investigation had backed up his own opinion. What the hell had gone wrong?

There was no way Trundell didn't know what the score was - he'd supervised and directed the whole building programme, which pointed straight to fraud. Well, every man had his price.

As he straightened, Charlie Been, the relay supervisor, poked his head round the doorjamb. A chunky guy built like a tank, with big, burly hands and shoulders like a bullock, and an infectious grin that sat on his face like a permanent feature.

'All finished?'

Stryker forced a grin in return.

'Yeah - you won't get any trouble from your phones for a while. I'm about ready to leave.'

'Have a cup of java first?'

Stryker nodded, 'Sure, why not?'

'Good. The office is just round the corner.'

Been's office was spartan, with just one filing cabinet, a plain, veneered desk and two cheap metal chairs. Like everything else, thought Stryker, pared down to the bare bones for economy.

Been plugged in a small electric kettle and got the makings out of one of the filing-cabinet drawers.

'Sugar?'

'Two, please. Must keep the energy flowing.'

Been grinned lasciviously. 'Yeah, I can just imagine.'

They both laughed.

Stryker took the plunge, 'Some pretty shitty wiring back there.'

Been turned serious, 'Brother,' he said, 'you hit the Mexican on the sombrero! If I'd had a chance to see the works before I signed on the dotted line you wouldn't have seen me within ten miles of this garbage can!'

'Any reason?'

'The old man, Harry Trundell, says it was the best they could do on what the City allowed. Way I see it, they'd have been better off running open wires into a puddle of water. It's wall-to-wall crap, from floor to ceiling. Oh, sure, the dials look good up in the control room, but behind them - shit! It defies expression.'

He poured the water as he spoke, held out a cup.

'Maybe the money voted wasn't enough?'

'What I thought at first, but one day around two months ago I got to look at one of the original specifications. It just ain't so.'

'Oh, how's that?'

'Trundell was here. We had another fault - it's a daily occurrence, but this was a bad one. We had to offload the entire power onto the other stations and close down for repair. We keep the wiring diagrams for the station here, of course, but for some reason he didn't want to use them. He'd brought his own. Using them as a guide he had us change several loops and rewire slightly differently. It puzzled me. After he'd left one of the men here came across a sheet of specifications under a desk. It was one of his that must've fallen off the desk he was working on. I had a chance to compare the layout with our own diagrams and, you won't believe this...'

'Try me.'

'The whole goddamn thing was different! His was a first class layout, with first-class materials from the very best companies. Ours is sixth- grade pigshit by comparison and the materials bore no resemblance.'

'So you think...?'

'Think? Hell, I know! Trundell did a hatchet job on the original specs. Why, I don't know, but the guy is guilty as hell. You should've seen his face when he came to collect the sheet. What he didn't know, I ran off a copy, to cover my own arse if the shit hits the fan.

He gave me the third degree: when had it been found, who found it, who'd had a chance to look at it, had I kept it locked up, why had it taken so long to call him about it? When I asked him, 'What's so all-fired important about it? It's just a spec. We got copies here.' he almost cried, his face showed so much relief. But what the hell can we do? We're stuck with what we got, and he is the boss.'

Stryker stood the cup down on the desk. 'I guess you're right,' he said, 'but surely something ought to be done. The way I hear it, these relays are supposed to take any amount of overload. This wouldn't, would it?'

'They're supposed to stand a hundred and twenty over top. My guess is, and it is just a guess, around fifty to sixty percent, if we're lucky.'

'How serious is that?'

'As long as all stations are working, okay. Total power demand has never gone that high, but if we ever had one, or worse, two stations out for some reason at peak demand time - holy shit, I'd hate to have to clear up the mess!'

Stryker rose. He smiled grimly, 'I'm glad it's your problem,' he lied, 'and thanks for the coffee. He couldn't ask for that copy, but it would be available if needed.

~~~oOo~~~

July 25th 1935 EST Bibba stood by the serving hatch in the kitchen, her back to Sam, trying to hide the misery in her eyes. Even the small sip of coffee she had just taken was too much to swallow. Her hand shook as she replaced the cup, her thumb involuntarily tapping the handle. She knew he was watching her. Fiercely she tore her hand away, almost spilling the hot liquid. He had problems enough, God knew, without worrying about a neurotic woman. 'What's wrong, girl?' he asked, his voice full of compassion. He only called her 'girl' when it was serious. She felt the tears well up, blinked furiously, angry at her own emotions. She turned towards the window, tried to concentrate on the blinding white sun reflections from the towers on the far side of the Park, searing her eyes even at this time in the evening. His hands went round her shoulders. 'I know, girl, I know.' He said. She threw herself round, burying her face in his chest, letting the tears flow freely, hot and salty and uncontrolled.

'Oh, Sam, if only you did.' She sobbed.

He held her gently, his hands quietly massaging her neck, feeling the wetness of her tears on his shirtfront as he turned her towards him.

He rocked her, letting her cry it out, saying nothing, waiting. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet he scarcely caught the words. 'You never asked me.'

Sam took her face in his hands, lifted it gently to look in her eyes. 'Bibba...darling ...' he said, 'I didn't want to know. If you wanted to, you would have told me.'

The tears had begun again.

'I want to tell you now.' she murmured.

'What good would it do, darling? I know how unhappy you are. I know you want to go away. You know I can't - not now - not right now. There are too many things that must be done, too many immediate problems.' He almost added, 'If things go wrong, I'll be out on my neck anyway and we can go together. It would have given her hope, and maybe, just maybe, she would have stayed. The only hope of salvation was for her to go. He hesitated, searching for the right words.

'If you decide you have to go, I'll understand. You could have a long holiday.'

He knew it was hopeless as he said it.

'You could go to Europe, maybe, see how you feel when you come back.'

'Oh, Sam.' The words were punctuated by fresh sobs, 'You still don't understand.'

'I do.' His voice was firm. 'More than you know. But it's your decision.'

He held her at arms' length, his face full of the sadness in his heart, then allowed his hands to drop. She caught at him as he turned away, forced him to face her again, pulled him to her tightly, whispered,

'Sam - I love you more than you'll ever know.'

'But you can't...'

'Oh, Sam, it isn't just the City, nor this awful heat. I'm unsure - unsure of myself, and I'm scared.'

'Scared? My God, Bibba, what of?' He was suddenly angry. Had they got at her, too?

Now the time had come she felt her composure returning. She took a deep breath.

'It was easy for a while - easy to fool myself this was only a passing phase, that after your term of office we could leave and go back to the old life, but, Sam...I've watched you change. You don't need me any more.'

She held up her hands to stop his protest, 'No - not the sex thing, darling - that I can understand. But you belong to the City now, not to me; it rules your life, your days and nights,' Her eyes showed her depth of feeling, 'if it has a wound you feel the hurt, if someone knocks it you feel personally affronted, but then - you're that kind of man - wholly dedicated - that's why I always loved you.'

'Bibba...' he began.

'No, Sam!' Her words were forceful now, and sure. 'Don't say you love me again. I know you do, and always will, just as I love you, but the City is something else - something I just can't take. And,' she hesitated fractionally before taking the plunge, a sob back in her voice, 'then there's Larry. You remember, back on the mountain?'

'No, Bibba!' he interrupted her forcefully. 'Just tell me - do you love him?' He felt the weight in his heart as he steeled himself for the answer.

'Love him? My God! No!' she blurted, 'I hate him, and everything he stands for- I've hated him ever since that night...but he has a power over me I can't control. I have tried, really I have...'

'You mean you have been having an affair?'

'Oh, no - not now, not yet - but it's only a matter of time, and I must go before...' She wished with all her heart she could explain.

'But you hate him?'

'Yes! I hate him enough to kill him!' The answer was vehement.

'Then there's no probl...'

The phone interrupted him. He grabbed the receiver angrily.

It was Julius and his voice sounded grim.

'How's your line to the Lord, Sam?'

Sam grunted. 'I try to keep in touch, Julius. You make it sound like trouble.'

'Trouble, man?' Sam could near the tension in the Commissioner's voice. 'What happened in Miami in 'eighty is going to look like a kid's benefit compared to what will happen here! Savoy, one of my best cops, and black at that, just opened Nightingale's car door and blew our friend Christmas, himself, and another cop into the middle of next year. Savoy was sick - you remember, Nightingale had him castrated, and he was suspended from duty, but what the hell? Some guy just happened to be there and filmed the whole works. The media have it. I asked them to hold it but no joy. You know the story: police cover-up. They'll make the situation a dozen times worse, and it's goddamn bad enough now. They'll burn, loot and pillage. I've cancelled all leave and called in all off-duty officers, but it's going to be one long, hard night.'

Julius could not know it at the time, but by eight o'clock next morning every weary, bored officer in New York could have told him it was the quietest, crime-free night on record.

Sam sighed, hard and long, 'Okay, Julius - I'll get onto it right away, TV and radio, and I'll contact the National Guard, though they won't come in till the trouble starts. Let's hope you're wrong.'

'Not a chance, Sam.'

'Guess not. I'll ring you back at home.'

'No - Center Street. I don't want it, but I can't put anyone else in

the hot seat.'

He rang off.

Without much hope Sam tried each radio and TV hook-up in turn and from each got the same answer: too big a story to hold, too hot to cover up.

Resignedly he phoned the local HQ of the Guard. The Colonel Summers he spoke to confirmed his guess: they would be ready at the drop of a hat if needed, but would stay out until then to avoid initiating confrontation.

Sam put down the receiver, switched on the set.

His face grew grimmer as he listened to the black newscaster making the most of his material.

He groaned. Why did they have to use a coloured man to aggravate an already bad situation?

'Here, on Monroe Street, at five minutes past eight this evening the famous black civil rights leader, Doctor Christmas Nightingale, was blown up in his own car by two City police officers. Acting on tip-off, we asked Police Commissioner Cardan to confirm that these men had until recently been undercover agents watching Doctor Nightingale and his associates. His answer: 'No comment'. Pending the promised official enquiry, we can only conclude from that answer that the tip-off information may have been correct and that these men were acting on instructions. From how high up we can only guess. Doctor Nightingale has always been a thorn in the side of the authorities, and no one in City Hall will weep for him. A reporter happened to be on the scene at the time with a portable camera and seeing the two men acting suspiciously began to film. We have that film and show it to you now.'

Sam felt like spitting blood; it was distorted news reporting of the worst possible kind. No mention had been made of Savoy's injuries, or the fact that he was officially off the force.

The film ran for less than two minutes and began with a long shot of Nightingale's car. As he watched, Sam became more and more aware that something was very wrong. The first shots had a crowd of sailors in uniform on the sidewalk behind the car. When Savoy crossed the road towards the vehicle they were nowhere in sight. The film had been cut, so the car was photographed before the operator had become suspicious of Savoy. It stank!

As the black cop approached the vehicle, he fumbled with something in his hands, reached the door and got in beside Nightingale, leaving the door open. Four or five seconds passed and it seemed Savoy was trying to get out again when the other cop ran over and dived in with them. Immediately afterwards the explosion ripped the car apart, blasting out shop front windows alongside. Sam could see it clearly: Nightingale had not moved a muscle throughout the entire incident.

Sam grabbed the phone.

Julius had seen it too.

'Okay, Sam,' he said, 'I'm sending a guy now for a copy of that film.

I want it blown up and slowed down. I'm with you. The guy was dead before Savoy got in. It was a set-up - even his two tame gorillas and chauffeur were nowhere in sight, and he never even goes to the can without them. But how're we gonna prove it?'

Sam agreed, 'With great difficulty.' He hesitated only moments before adding, 'Look, Julius, I think I'd like to join you - for a while at least.' Julius accepted with alacrity, 'Glad to have you aboard, Sam.'

Sam glanced across at Bibba. The way things were he would have liked to stay. Once again the City had to come first. He shrugged his shoulders.

'I'll be with you in twenty minutes.' He said into the phone.

~~~oOo~~~

Homer Polanski watched the newscast with exultation in his heart. With Nightingale's assassination it was a sure-fire bet them goddamn drums would beat tomorrow. Taking out the false wall partition behind the sofa he began taking out and lovingly cleaning the small arsenal of arms hidden there for so long. Satisfied at last, he sorted through the small change in his pants pockets for nickels. There were enough to call all the guys. He headed out the door for the phone down the corridor, carefully locking the door of the apartment behind him. His phone might be bugged, but the public one should be secure, and you couldn't be too careful.

~~~oOo~~~

Elsa patted the perspiration from her forehead with a Kleenex. This dreadful heat slowed the thought processes, and she needed to think.

Back in business school they gave her strict guidelines: one, isolate the problem; two, list methods of dealing with it and the advantages and disadvantages of each method; three, choose your method; four, carry out the necessary action.

It all sounded so nice and neat. So okay - the problem was isolated: Larry Puleman!

At first it was the usual playful stuff she got from men who came to the office, then he started phoning her at home, putting on the charm. When that failed, he tried threats:

'Suppose,' he said, 'I tell His Honour the Mayor we've been making it together for years?'

She laughed in his face, told him to try it, knowing it would not work.

Last night he was waiting for her in the lobby below her apartment, and she had gone straight out again, only returning four hours later. Now today there had been three calls.

The lift slowed and stopped at her floor. Still thinking, she covered the ten paces to her door, not noticing how easily the key turned in the lock.

The bathroom was first on the left. She dropped her bag by the door and entered gratefully, stripping off quickly before stepping under the cold shower, turning the tap on full, enjoying the sting of the spray on her body.

'Now, that's good. I like a nice, clean woman.'

His voice cut into her like a knife, inducing first utter panic and immediately afterwards, when she saw his face leering in through the doorway, white-hot anger.

Grabbing the bath towel hanging on the rail by the shower, she whipped it in one swift motion in front of her body.

'That's it!' she raged, 'You've gone too far! Get out, or I'll call the police!'

She dodged past him, his hands out clawing for her, slipping off her wet body, but he got a good hold on the towel and tore it away from her grasp as she pulled away, heading for the phone.

She grabbed the receiver, held it to her ear. It was dead. Ignoring her nakedness, she darted for the apartment door.

He was quicker, blocking her way. Close up, she saw the strange gleam in his eyes and knew this was different. She backed away.

He came after her, laughing quietly.

'Not this time, Elsa. This time you learn what love is like - not from a cripple, with no music in his soul, but from a red-hot stud with a full head of steam and fire down below. Ask his wife - she knows.'

He grabbed her, his fingers gouging into her arms. She fought silently but in vain.

In seconds she found herself pinned on the bed under his weight, his hot hand groping between her naked thighs.

She forced her body to go limp, submissive.

'All right.' she whispered, 'Go ahead. Take it, beast!'

She'd heard most men gave up in the face of such a reaction. Not Puleman.

His grin widened. 'Now you're being sensible,' he panted. He let go her arms to unzip his pants. It was an unwise decision.

As he looked down her right hand closed round the stem of the alabaster lamp on the bedside table. With all her force she brought it down towards the nape of his neck, hard enough to break the vertebrae.

Only quick reaction saved him from instant death. As he flung his head aside, the lamp smashed a glancing blow across his left temple, opening a two-inch gash over the eye and knocking him cold.

She needed all her strength to roll the relaxed, heavy body off her onto the floor. She realised she was crying softly. Beside herself for once, she wanted to run, but first to wash off the filth of the man.

The shower was still running and the cold douche brought back reason. Was he dead? She hoped so, was disappointed when she held a mirror over his open mouth and found he was still breathing. He had bled profusely but not seriously, and the blood was beginning to congeal.

He would live.

She lifted the lamp from where it had fallen by the bed, hefted it in her hand. It would be so easy to strike again, to finish the job. He deserved it.

For just a few moments the resolve was there, but it weakened. Not in cold blood, with him unconscious. She wished she were strong enough to carry him to the balcony to let him drop the sixteen stories to the square.

She replaced the lamp, realising suddenly she would have to get out of the apartment, at least for a few days. He seemed to be out for some time, but she did not want to take chances. Quickly she moved around the flat, dressing, shoving overnight things into a valise. As an afterthought she reached up and took the dusty package from the top of the wardrobe. But where to go?

Something he had said came back to her: 'Ask his wife - she knows.'

Could it be possible he had something going with Bibba? It was not possible - not Bibba, surely? Unthinkable, and yet the Mayor would not mind her calling, and she could ask to speak to Bibba alone - plead woman's talk. If what Puleman said made any sense at all she could ask Bibba for help.

Quickly she left the flat, closing the door but leaving it unlocked. Halfway she phoned. Bibba was surprised to hear her but delighted to have her come over.

At the door Elsa felt a sudden sense of panic. How do you ask another woman if she has been unfaithful?

She need not have worried. As she told her story she saw mixed emotions in Bibba's expression. She left out what he had said about his association with Bibba, but she was fooling nobody.

Bibba's face showed her anguish as she asked, 'Did he tell you about us?'

She read the answer in Elsa's silence and confusion. She put her arm round the other woman's shoulders.

'It's all right, Elsa. It's time I told someone. I've been bottling it up inside for far too long.'

But where to start? Her mind went back to that last night up on the mountain and she heard again the southern breeze toying with the branches of the big Scots firs and the crackling of the dead branches on the fire, its flickering light playing the devil's dance with the forest shadows around them.

Contented, she had drifted into an easy, dreamless slumber.

She woke to find Larry slipping in beside her, naked. She thought nothing of it. Last winter, caught by a sudden blizzard, they had zipped all the sleeping bags together and slept three in a bed, huddled together for warmth. From early childhood they had swum and sunbathed naked together, unashamed. Until now they had kissed only in fun, but for a long time she had known there must be something more. Now, his heady kisses firing the blood in her veins she objected quietly, 'Sam. What about Sam?'

He grunted, 'Out like a light.'

His hand went to her breast, working gently on the nipples, hardening under his touch. She felt her own love juices begin to flow, responding to his passion. He moved onto her and she shivered, thrilled, as his bare flesh sought a way between her thighs.

One last reserve made her gasp, 'Please, Larry, wait till we're married.' He drew back, laughing coarsely, his face in the flickering flames from the dying fire like the mask of a devil.

'Married,' he chuckled, 'you know I'm not the marrying kind, Bibba. That's strictly for the birds. This is for kicks. Enjoy it. You're a lucky girl.'

She began to struggle, silently, fiercely, but her tomboy strength was outmatched. Pinned tightly by his body, she felt her legs forced apart, felt him enter her in a vicious thrust, felt the pain and the blood flow with his semen as he moaned and collapsed onto her.

Shaking with shock she pushed him away easily, disgustedly, like a leech from her body, out of the blanket onto the rocky ground where he lay in a heap, sobs of hysterical laughter shaking his body.

She cried softly, not for what had happened: she told herself it was half her own fault, but because, deep down, she could not hate him, could not even then, with the blood of her maidenhead still wet on her buttocks, turn away another feeling just as deep that was to stay with her the rest of her life.

'Let me tell you something about Larry Puleman.' she said quietly, 'All his life he has been jealous of Sam. He was the son of Sam's father's gardener. The old man liked old Mr. Puleman. Though their stations in life were so different they were more like old friends. When Larry's father was dying he asked old Mr. Brady to look after his son. The promise he got that day was fulfilled to the last detail: Larry went to school and college with Sam, was given every advantage, was treated just like a son.

Everything seemed fine, but then things started to happen. For his eleventh birthday, Sam got a little dog. My God, how he loved that animal - wouldn't go anywhere without it, insisted it sleep in his room. Six weeks later it disappeared. The new gardener found its bones several years later when he dug up a rhododendron that had died. Sam's first car came on his eighteenth birthday. Larry had been given an identical one two months before, for his eighteenth. A week after he got it, Sam's was stolen. It was found smashed to pieces in a ravine. Someone had deliberately let it go over the side of a mountain road. Oh, there were dozens of things like that. No one ever thought of Larry. Certainly I didn't. He was always there, looking as sorry as everyone else, making the right noises. Then, something happened that made me start thinking.'

She took a deep breath before continuing in the same matter-of-fact tone, 'He raped me, Elsa, a very, very long time ago, before I married Sam.

I think he knew I had decided between them. Since we have been here he has been trying to continue where he left off. He hasn't. Now there's you. I am beginning to wonder whether he got Sam to run for Mayor, just so he could ruin him.'

Tears were in Elsa's eyes. 'Oh, Bibba,' she said, 'I am sorry...'

'Sorry? Why be sorry? You have done me a bigger service than I could have asked of anyone. I had begun to weaken. You have given me new strength. I know what I must do now.'

'Do?'

'I am leaving New York, Elsa, and Sam, tomorrow. Maybe, when Sam has run his term, he will come looking for me. If he does, I'll be there waiting for him. If he doesn't...' she shrugged, helplessly. 'I know how much you love him,' she lifted a hand to still Elsa's protest, 'oh, no, please don't - he needs your love, more than he needs mine now. You share something with him I cannot - the love of this City, and I am not a bit jealous of that love. I want you to look after him when I am gone.' She smiled sadly, 'Not sexually - both you and I know Sam would never go for that, though I would not object in the least if he did. He will be lost for a little while. Like all big, grown men he has a lot of the little boy in him. Help him through that period, will you, Elsa, for me?'

The tears were flowing freely down Elsa's cheeks, and Bibba felt her own eyes fill with tears. 'I love him like life itself,' she murmured, ''but I can't share him with the City. A woman I could understand, a municipality I cannot. And there's the other thing.' She lifted her head bravely, 'I must get away from Larry Puleman before he destroys me.'

Elsa whispered through her sobs, 'When will you leave?'

'Tomorrow. The City Council meeting is in the afternoon. Larry always comes before those meetings to try again, knowing that Sam is busy working on his notes for the meeting. I shall leave before he arrives.'

An idea began to form in Elsa's mind.

'What time exactly?'

'Larry is always on time: two-thirty. I shall leave about two-fifteen.'

'Where will you go?'

Bibba shook her head, 'I really have no idea.' she said, quite truthfully.

Elsa got up. Bibba stopped her.

'You can't go back to your apartment, Elsa, and I am not having you staying in a hotel. Larry has so many contacts, you would not be safe. Besides, if you are staying here, it will be quite natural to continue doing so, after I've gone, It solves two problems. We have a very nice guest room. It's yours.'

Elsa protested, 'But what will you tell Sam?'

'Let's say you have been getting weird phone calls and are scared to stay in your apartment. It is true. You have.'

Elsa thanked her. Her mind was made up. The idea had jelled.

~~~oOo~~~

July 26th 0645 EST

Peter Landor pushed back his black leather executive chair and rubbed his eyes. He'd read upwards of fifty thousand words in less than twenty-four hours and paper continued to spew out of the dozens of teleprinters in the Commcen two floors below, information pouring in from all over the world and dozens of sources on the Russian situation: spy satellite feed out, agents' reports, defectors' statements, notes from collaborating agencies, collated radio and radar intercept analysis.

He thanked his lucky stars he was not a Russian.
As if they hadn't had it bad enough before.

The information all tied in: the old Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was no longer. It was no longer a union and not heavy on republics; that much was clear, but Landor had long been a student of the Russian mentality and he was worried.

Most of his countrymen would give three cheers if they had his knowledge. Landor saw deeper. Somewhere along the line that crafty old bastard Karashilov would try to find a way out of the impasse, and he would not care who got hurt.

The worst thing was, he'd had not a word from 'Hat check' since the short report of the sub loss. For the thousandth time he asked himself who the man was. Man - hell - it could even be a woman. A top secretary, perhaps. It had to be someone right at the top in the Kremlin, but who?

They had doubted the information at first; it was just too good, but it had turned out to be impeccably correct. Why no word on the latest situation? Had the traitor been caught? It seemed likely, although the information had from the beginning been sporadic, with long intervals between reports at times.

Landor told himself he would give his back teeth for Karashilov's thoughts right now.

Well, enough was enough. He lifted his lean, six-foot-two frame out of the chair. After his marathon, he guessed it was time to get his deputy, Jack Straker, to take over. He needed to grab a few hours sleep before seeing the President. The bed in the office was too open to interruptions, and anyway, he wanted to see Jane. Things had been bad enough when he left, God alone knew if she'd still be there when he got to the house. He'd tried calling the home number twice and got no reply. He just hoped she hadn't gone off on the booze again.

Maybe she'd even found herself another pretty boy to play with. He wouldn't be the first. Hell, he couldn't blame her. He was the first to admit he lacked handsomeness. Others, more generous, would have said he more than made up for it with his craggy face, like the street map of Paris - a face capable of giving an impression of sincerity, inspiring confidence in the concealment, half truths and downright lies that formed the basis of his CIA work.

Under a receding hairline the bushy eyebrows ploughed across the high forehead like two furry juggernauts on a collision course at the Arc de Triomphe. Large framed, with the physique of an athlete and not a pound overweight, he had just passed his fortieth birthday. He had three passions: his work, fast cars, and Jane. She always said it was in that order, and most of the time he was in no position to argue. She was fifteen years his junior, and they had been married just five years. He'd thought they had a good understanding: he knew her foibles and was able to forgive her. At first. Lately it was becoming difficult. Her drinking had been useful at the beginning - it was something to keep her happy while he played his paper games at work, and for an inhibited girl, man, did she let it all hang out when she was smashed!

They'd met at somebody or other's Fourth of July party. Landor had been dragged along by a girl he'd met in a bar, who left him two minutes after they walked in the door.

He stood in a corner, bored, ready to leave. As he turned, he'd run straight into her. The martini in her hand had soaked her gown. She didn't seem to notice.

Her smile lit up the room, 'Hey - not so fast, interesting stranger. Where to, and why?'

'I was just leaving.'

'Yeah,' she slurred, 'bored the pants off me, too.'

It was an interesting idea. He took a closer look at her.

She was obviously stoned, not that it made any difference to her looks. She held it well, standing steady and erect, her blue eyes clear. Natural blond hair, bobbed in the pageboy fashion popular that year, shone with a lustre that only a lot of brushwork could have produced.

Her figure was something else: her up-tilted, bra-less breasts showing their nipples clearly through the silk of her blouse; shoulders that sat well back as if they were meant to, shaping down into a slim, but not too slim waist, then out again into generous, inviting hips. Her skin was soft and creamy, without a blemish, and her legs...

He held out his hand. 'I'm...' He was interrupted.

'Yeah, sure. You Tarzan - Me Jane. Let's go somewhere and screw.'

She'd taken him in her wide, accommodating mouth, under her armpits, between her breasts and in her tight, violently quivering vagina. She was wild.

Goddamn it, afterwards he could have sworn she'd even taken him in her ear.

Whatever else it might be, it was just what the doctor ordered. The tensions he lived with twenty-four hours a day were gone. For once he fell into a deep, relaxing sleep in seconds.

The buzzer on his personal intercom woke him just after two. For the first time ever he switched it off without answering. Beside him the girl stirred sleepily. There was just enough light to see her features. In sleep they had softened. There was no trace of the hard, brittle exterior of the evening before. He felt a stirring in him, a feeling he had not known for many years; nothing sexual; a tenderness that made him want to take her in his arms and hold her close. For a few moments it puzzled him, then he knew: of all the unlikely people, he had to fall in love with a nymphomaniac lush.

They got married three days later, his first impulsive act in over twenty years. By then he knew she could be the sweetest thing on Earth sober, and had the most mixed-up set of hang-ups he'd ever met - unsure of herself, with deep feelings of completely unfounded sexual insecurity, afraid of damned near everything on two, four or eight legs.

Drunk she became an electric personality, full of zip, zap and zing.

Well, he'd got what he asked for. The good had been bloody good and the bad like hell on wheels. Looking back he guessed on balance he'd have done it all again.

Now he saw her maybe once a week. Even that was too much. He'd have divorced her long ago, but he knew she needed the security of marriage to hold onto sanity. Aw, what the hell, he could afford to keep her. The damnedest thing was, he loved her now more than ever. It was a damned funny life.

He sighed and lifted the phone.

~~~oOo~~~

0740 E.S.T.

Elsa left the Mayor's apartment immediately after a quick breakfast of cereal and coffee and arrived half an hour earlier than usual at the office. She had heard Sam come home sometime in the early hours and guessed he would try to make up on a little lost sleep. It would be some time before he arrived.

She locked the outer door carefully before taking the small box from her bag.

It was exactly as it had been on the day her father gave it to her, the original seals still unbroken. Opening it, she kept her fingers crossed that ammunition would be included in the box, heaving a sigh of relief when she found a packet of fifty snuggled in the corner with a small cleaning kit.

The gun was a tiny .22-caliber Biretta - a lady's gun.

She took the manual from the box, and following the instructions removed and filled the clip with shells. She then read and re-read the paragraph on firing the weapon until she was sure she would remember it.

Setting the safety-catch on, she slipped the loaded automatic into the empty front compartment of her purse, feeling, strangely, completely in control of her emotions, and settled down to work.

The rattling of the doorknob startled her an hour later. For a moment panic caught in her throat as she imagined Puleman outside, then her eye caught sight of the desk clock showing eight forty-six and she relaxed.

A harsh knock came before she could reach the door. When she opened it, Lee stood outside, his face dark with anger.

She thought it was directed at her and began to apologise. Lee waved it aside, and asked gruffly, 'The Mayor in?'

Before she could answer he went on, 'Okay - don't worry - I'll wait inside.'

For the next twenty minutes she could hear him pacing back and forth, back and forth.

She was relieved to hear Sam's dragging footsteps outside the door shortly after nine and when he came in whispered, 'Mr Lee', indicating the inner office with a wave of her head.

Lee turned as Sam entered, his face still betraying his anger.

'What?' Sam began.

'That bastard' Lee exploded, 'has got me by the short hairs too!' Sam was puzzled.

'Puleman!' Lee spat the word. 'If I help you I'm finished! Kaput!' He took a deep breath and began.

When he finished Sam looked at him with deep sympathy.

'Abel, I'm so sorry,'

Lee shrugged, 'It was a long time ago, Sam. Time heals. But...' He shrugged again.

'And the charges? They still stand?'

Lee nodded slowly. 'When it comes to murder the police have long memories.'

'But surely you...old man Lee...his wife...?'

'Both dead, years ago. You know how it is, Sam - someone in high office has to be whiter than lilywhite, or he gets it in the neck worse than Joe Public.'

Sam considered for a moment. 'But you're innocent! Couldn't Julius help?'

Lee smiled sadly. 'Julius is a good friend, Sam, but he's also a good cop.'

Sam had to agree. 'That's it, then - both of us stymied.'

Lee grunted furiously. 'Goddamn it - why is it the crooks always win, while we have to sit back and take it?'

Sam smiled grimly, 'It looks as if the ball is back in my court. So somehow, I don't know how, I'm going to have to hit it.'

With Lee gone, Sam immersed himself in the pile of paper that had been building up on his desk.

At twelve-fifteen he grabbed time to drive the short distance to City Hall Park. He could have sent one of his staff, but it was the one small act of devotion he carried out every week, and he was not going to change his habits now.

As he drove he listened to the thwack of the tyres on the wet, sticky tarmac and shook his head. The bill for road repair when this was over would be astronomical, and as usual the money would not be there without further loans.

Mrs Lacey had her stall just outside the gates of the Park, just a small handcart and an old, saw back chair, where the old lady, in her neatly-laundered old black dress and linen shawl would sit until a customer came.

She sat there today, as he pulled into the kerb and stopped the car, but the rosy glow in her cheeks was missing. She sat hunched up, her head sunk on her chest. At first he thought she was sleeping.

As he approached, she lifted her tired old eyes. A flicker of recognition showed and she moved her limbs feebly in an effort to rise He hurried forward.

'No.' He urged, 'Don't get up. 1'11 get them.'

He picked up a bunch of violets, Bibba's favourite flowers, just as he had every week for the last twenty months, then went round to the back of the cart, a ten dollar bill in his hand. He held it out.

The fingers moved weakly but the arm did not rise.

He took her shoulders in his hands, feeling the sharp ridges of bone clearly beneath his palms. 'Stay quiet.' he said, 'I'll get a doctor.'

Her eyelids fluttered twice, and two whispered words left the cracked old lips, 'Can't breathe.'

Her head sagged limply, the last tiny trace of life extinguished. Sam knew she was dead.

For long seconds he held her cradled in his arms, unashamed tears welling from his eyes.

One of the City Hall guards, a tall Irishman rejoicing in the name of O'Hennessey, had seen the Mayor's car stop and witnessed the drama. He came running.

'Anything I can do, Your Honour?'

Sam looked up sadly. 'Not for her, I'm afraid. Would you get the car blanket from the back seat, please?'

O'Hennessey fetched it.

'Lay it over there, by the cart, in the shade.'

Sam lifted the frail old body gently, with compassion, and laid her carefully, crossing the hands over her chest. She felt no weight at all, like a bag of feathers, dried up, light enough to blow away if there had been a wind.

He turned away, tears stinging his eyes, to find the violets he had dropped in his eagerness to help the old lady crushed into the sticky sidewalk, where O'Hennessey had put his size twelve boot.

His heart told him what he had known for days: the violets! He must do it today. This death was just as senseless as all the rest. It had to stop, and to hell with the consequences. He'd sat on the fence too long already. Sometime, somebody had to act.

Two minutes after he opened the office door it was drafted. He rang the heads of the networks and Dick Cabot, in his new office on the floor below, arranging for a meeting at two. The edict, he decided, would go out at three forty-five, while the meeting was under way.

He would introduce it as fait accompli at the end of the meeting.

The City would close, with or without their approval, and he'd get Julius to provide Bibba with round-the-clock protection. She wouldn't like it, but it was the only way. Then they'd probably both have to get out when it was all over. A grim smile played over his lips. He felt like a man again.

~~~oOo~~~

July 26th 12.00 E.S.T.

Minelli was dead on time. He came up the elevator, swinging the case like it was full of candy.

Laurie Dee opened the door, motioned for Minelli to come in.

Minelli walked briskly across the room, stood the case upright on the carpet by the table, looked around suspiciously.

'You changed your mind?'

The DJ shook his head.

Minelli smiled. 'Good. Just remember what happens if you do. Do what I tell you, you don't see me again, ever. Cross me an' there ain't no place on Earth you can hide I won't find you.'

He crossed to the door, turned, 'Just so's you don't get no crazy ideas, one of my torpedoes'll follow you to make sure you go to the right place. And I wouldn't try to open the case, 'less you wanna be buried in all fifty-two states.

Dee closed the door behind him, watched Minelli's back disappearing down the corridor on the monitor screen, heard the door to the bedroom open behind him. He turned.

'Okay, lover boy, let's get with it.'

Joe looked and sounded grim. 'Sound's like they booby-trapped the lock.'

He hefted the case in his left hand, laid it on its back on the table, bent down to listen to the soft tick. Already he could feel the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck and his palms sticky in spite of the air-conditioning set at sixty. How many times had he had to do this before in the field, and every time the same? It was a weakness and it made him mad with himself and with Laurie Dee.

'Why don't you make yourself useful?' He snapped.

Dee felt the sting. 'What can I do?' He asked.

'Aw, go and make some coffee.' Joe was already sorry. 'Good and strong, with plenty of sugar. Let's hope I'm gonna live to enjoy it.' He turned his attention back to the case, took a small toolkit from his inside pocket.

As he worked he talked. It helped him concentrate and take more care.

'Attack from the rear, that's the boy.' He inspected the hinge along the rear of the case, a steel rod with the ends of the hinge turned over and spot welded. A nice job.

'Okay - so we file just enough off one end to pull out the rod.'

With a small triangular file he cut quickly through the mild steel cover. 'Now lift the case over and tap gently, so...'

The steel bar slid a millimetre or so out of its cover, enough to grip with pliers and withdraw. Totally engrossed, he laid the case back on the flat side and gently prised up the lid, peering in at the wires connected to the insides of the catches. As he had suspected, there were three connections: one from each catch to the end of a clipped-on metal bar, which would touch another wired bar if you opened the case normally; a very simple booby-trap, but there was less than half an inch between the earth and the two positives, and, worse still, all the wires were bare.

'Ah-hah! He let out a satisfied grunt, 'Now, if I can just squeeze my hand through...'

It was tight - very tight, with the locked catches holding the lid fast, but millimetre-by-millimetre his groping fingers crept forward towards the wires, his face tight with tension.

'Here's your coffee.'

Joe had not heard the DJ's footsteps on the thick pile carpet. The case left the table by six inches as his body reacted to the shock. He lay where he fell, stretched over the top of the table, trying to breathe deeply to bring his heart back into line. The two halves of the case hinge stopping the circulation in his hand had turned his fingers white inside the case before he could speak again, and then weakly, 'You bloody stupid sonofabitch!'

Dee looked puzzled.

Joe sighed deeply. 'Just keep out of the fucking way for five minutes. Right out.' He heard Dee's footsteps retreat, then the sound of the bedroom door closing.

He began to wriggle his fingers forwards. Hell, he thought, this really could be what they meant by 'touch and go'. It had to be the centre wire, the earth. If he pulled off either positive and it touched any part of the mechanism it would set it off. Pulling off the earth wire would enable him to open the case from the front and deal with the others. He felt a connection, but which one?

He could feel one end of the bar on which it was soldered, but not the other; it was too far for his finger to travel without shifting his wrist and that would put the whole operation in jeopardy. The sweat was running in streams down his back and legs, running from his forehead into his eyes, stinging, almost blinding him. His fingers inside the case felt like useless, slippery balloons.

'Cowboy,' he spoke quietly, too quietly for Dee to hear, 'If you hear a goddamn big bang, say an 'Amen' an' light a candle for your ol' idiot buddy.'

He looked up: 'Lord, you know I'd cross myself if I didn't have my godda... my arm in this case, don'cha?' He smiled, 'Thanks, Lord.'

On the last word he closed his eyes and pulled hard with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He felt the bar bend but the wire was well soldered and would not break.

The perspiration had gone icy cold. Joe knew this was as near as he had ever been to death. If he had the wrong bar, bending it backwards would almost certainly bring it into contact with the casing of the bomb and detonate it; even if he had the right one, it could so easily touch one of the positive wires or their bars.

It was lucky for Joe he could not see inside. He had the negative wire in his fingers, but as he pulled, the bar to which it was fixed swung ever nearer to the left-hand positive wire. He looked up again, pulled a wry face.

'Okay, Lord, I guess you're right: I deserve to be punished - shit or bust it is.'

He exerted every ounce of pressure he could into the tips of the two digits. Inside the case the negative metal bar swung to touch the positive wire. Half a millimetre from disaster the negative wire gave, flinging its metal bar backwards with the 'Whunggg' of a strong spring released.

Joe let out a heartfelt 'Phew!' He began easing his fingers back out of the case.

Before attempting to open it he looked inside to make sure he had torn off the right wire, then, just as carefully, he worked at the locks with a set of picks and, having turned them, released the catches and lifted the top free.

He let out a long, low whistle. It was neat, he had to admit that; a sealed canister, with nothing but the timing device and the three wires coming from it; no way for him to do what he had had in mind - take out most of the charge, so that it would go off like a damp squib, hurting no one.

He shouted, 'Cowboy!'

The bedroom door opened and a pasty-faced Laurie Dee poked his head round the edge.

'You can come back in now, and I really will have that coffee.'

He was still pondering the problem when the cup was placed at his elbow a minute later.

'Er...can you fix it, Joe?' Dee scarcely whispered.

Joe shook his head, 'Not in the way I'd intended,' he tapped the container, and Dee winced.

'Foolproof - sealed unit. Even the clock has no figures - just a tensioned spring, and God knows how many minutes to a click.

When did Minelli say it would go off?'

'Four.'

Joe considered. 'Okay, then - suppose this thing is five minutes to each click, we'd need to tighten the spring by twenty-four clicks to take it to six pm. The meeting would be over and most of the building clear by then.

If each click is a minute, it would need one hundred and twenty, so...'

He began to move the dial clockwise, a click at a time, listening carefully and counting out loud.

The sweat running all over Dee's body suddenly soaked him. He put a hand on Joe's arm. Joe stopped twisting and counting.

'Sixteen - what is it now, lover boy?'

Dee gulped. 'Could it go off if you tighten it too far?'

Joe nodded, shrugged his shoulders. Now he had got past the initial panic he was cool, calm, enjoying himself.

'Sure could,' he said, 'You wanna go hide your head - be my guest.'

Dee gulped again. He'd been a coward too long. This was his fault.

Even if he died of heart failure he had to stay. He shook his head.

'Okay - suit yourself. Now shut up and let me count.'

The spring jammed solid at a hundred and two.

~~~oOo~~~

1220 EST

Pyotr Barlinskij, standing at the rail, heaved a sign of relief. As the government secret police agent on board, his main job would be over in less than half an hour.

The 'Karlinka' had left Albany on the Upper Hudson the previous morning with a cargo of machine parts bound for Riga. His brief: watch for and prevent defectors. One mistake, one slip-up, and he might as well defect himself. For twenty-eight hours he had stood by the rail and was now almost asleep on his feet, In twenty-seven minutes the ship would have passed out of the Narrows and be far enough out to sea for him to go below for a well-earned sleep. Anyone wanting to defect after that would have one hell of a swim.

Leaning on the rail, a cigarette held between thumb and first finger, he began to reflect. In spite of the thick sea mist the sky was clear above, and the movement of the ship under three-quarter power produced a pleasant breeze to dispel the inherent heat of the day.

He had the deck to himself. There appeared to be no takers for the swimming stakes, but just to be on the safe side he would stay on deck until they hit the open sea.

He saw but did not believe the conning tower over the mist ahead, mere seconds before the bulk of the submarine slid past just inches from the side of the 'Karlinka' on a reciprocal course, and he found himself looking down at an Oscar class SSBN. The Russian markings stood out clearly, the captain standing open-mouthed on the bridge, looking up at him. In seconds it had disappeared into the mist behind.

For what seemed like minutes, but was in fact less than five seconds, he stood transfixed, then he burst into activity, shouting as he ran towards the bridge, where Captain Aleksandr Bykov stood at the wheel.

As he burst through the door he noticed the seaman by the radar monitor behind the captain sit bolt upright, like a man suddenly woken, his eyes full of sleep.

Bykov glared. Like most communist captains he hated the overall authority the landlubber Party man had on his ship, and did all he could without overstepping the mark to stand in his way.

Barlinskij looked and sounded as if he had gone mad. He was shouting at the top of his voice. 'Didn't you see it? There - to port?'

Bykov's voice was full of scorn, 'See what, comrade?'

The veins on Barlinskij's forehead stood out in anger, 'The submarine! The fucking submarine!'

Bykov shrugged. Turning to the seaman at the radar he asked equably, 'Did we see a submarine, Starnovitch?'

The seaman's face showed his guilt but he shook his head vigorously, 'Oh, no, captain, most definitely not.'

Barlinskij screamed, 'Dolt! Idiot! You were asleep!' He rounded on Bykov, 'Reverse course - now!'

Bykov grumbled, 'In this fog? You're crazy, comrade. You'll never find him. We're two miles from shore and he could be anywhere. You could say that in the fog you were not sure if the submarine was one of ours or a Yankee craft. Don't worry, I'll make my report agree with yours.' Bykov's eyes held a crafty gleam: it would put Barlinskij just where he wanted him. With the threat of exposure for falsifying documents hanging over him he would be no trouble in future. Regarding the sub, he thought Barlinskij had been seeing things, and didn't believe it for a second.

The Party man went beserk. 'Numbskull!' he screamed, tearing the wheel out of Bykov's hands and throwing it hard over to port.

The ship heeled alarmingly and in the holds the cargo shifted, giving the ship a ten-degree list to port. In the crew's quarters men were thrown swearing from their bunks and across cabins, and in the galley crockery smashed into a thousand pieces. Bykov tried to wrest the wheel back from Barlinskij and pull the ship onto course again. He, too, was screaming now. 'Are you trying to sink us, you fool? There are ships everywhere! You do that once more, we'll have a collision!'

Barlinskij screamed back, 'I told you, we almost did, with one of our fleet submarines!'

Bykov groaned. It had been just too good a trip. From his contact in Albany he had managed to buy all the western luxury goods his wife had asked for and smuggled them aboard without Barlinskij knowing, and now the police agent had to go mad aboard his ship! He could just imagine the problems when they docked in Riga.

Quietly he tried to pacify the other man, 'Very well, Comrade Barlinskij. Wait \- I will call the sick bay and have them bring you something.'

He noticed Barlinskij's eyes were rolling and he was almost frothing at the mouth, but he was not prepared for what happened next.

The agent let go of the wheel, drew back to the companionway and pulled an automatic pistol from his pocket. He was suddenly very calm and precise. 'Reverse course this instant, Comrade Captain, or I will shoot you dead.'

Bykov had not been at sea for thirty-five years without knowing when to give in to fate. He swung the wheel. 'Two-nine-oh, it is.'

Barlinskij nodded. 'We will make a zigzag track, regardless of the danger from other shipping, and we will search all day if necessary until we find that submarine. As for you,' he snarled at the radar operator, 'if you so much as blink I will have you digging holes in Siberia before the month is out.'

He picked up the voice-tube and snapped, 'Radio operator. To the bridge immediately.'

To Bykov he said, 'The only madman here is you, Comrade Captain. If we do not find that submarine, I will have your command taken from you and will recommend a labour-camp for you and your family for the rest of your natural lives.'

The radio-operator appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide at the scene.

Barlinskij snarled at him, 'Stop staring, idiot, and send this message, top priority and double-encoded to the Embassy in New York City.'

The Karlinka searched for two hours without finding the submarine, having three very near-collisions in the process. When she finally reached the open sea, Barlinskij found that six crewmen were missing, presumed defected in the confusion. He began to make himself ready for retribution, but need not have worried...

~~~oOo~~~

Charlie O'Flynn liked to talk to himself. It helped keep him sane, was one way of making sure there were no arguments, and, sure, didn't it let a man forget whatever was going on in the back seat? He mopped his brow. Where the hell did they find the energy in this heat?

He glanced past his reflection at his passengers. He was no moviegoer, but then who didn't know the face of the girl screaming like a she-devil on the imitation leather? It pouted down from hoardings all over the City, winked seductively out at him every time he opened a magazine. Sheraan Delice, sweet, beautiful, girl-next-door, all-American sex-symbol of the decade, born lustily and painfully, after two bloodily unsuccessful abortion attempts, Käthe Muller, unwanted and unloved produce of the loins of one Otto Jablonski, sometime heavyweight boxer and deckhand on the Yugoslav timber ship Kattarvarnij, and Anna Muller, Reeperbahn prostitute; the result of a vicious ninety-second fuck behind a crate of motor parts on Hamburg's Kellermann dock.

The seeds that would be Käthe, stored up through an extended voyage, had surged powerfully and for a long quarter-minute into her mother's belly, like the swelling, muddy waters of the Elbe less than ten feet away, that would finally carry Käthe away from the Fatherland to her star-spangled destiny in the New World.

She had, for the last five minutes, screamed over and over one phrase: 'Bloody bastard!'

She screamed it again.

The old man had begun the journey from the airport quietly, entreating, cajoling, trying to quieten her. By Ninety-Sixth Street his voice had taken on a raw edge. Passing the Emmanu-El Temple on Fifth Avenue he'd shouted for the first time. Now his face was mottled purple with anger, his rage peaking above that of the girl.

'You nothing, you know - nothing! A cow-faced, pig-rotten bitch - cochonne! Swinsia! Urilnik! Korova! I take you from the gutter. S1ut! Severshchenyi! Nyeryacha! You don't shut up, I put you back! I make \- I destroy!'

Charlie made a mental note of the Russian epithets. Sure, and they might come in handy some day when the old woman started throwing pans again, when she'd been at the gin.

'Now me,' said Charlie, always a man of action, 'I'd t'ump her.'

Charlie's mum had been t'umped every day of her unlovely married life and, Charlie believed firmly, like his father, it had made her a better woman, along with the dog and the walnut tree.

A simple man, he saw everything in black and white: his whites were all pure white and his blacks all started with the letter 'N'.

One thing puzzled him - what the hell was the row about?

The girl he knew, but not her companion. He was well into his fifties, probably nearer sixty, with the pod-gut and heavy jowls that go with easy living, and a thousand dollar English-tailored suit.

Charlie eyed the girl again. The old guy was a dirty, lucky bastard by any reckoning. She was a good-looker all right, with a figure like the angels Charlie dreamed about when he got home early enough to dream, and a cheeky little fanny he'd managed to brush against as he held open the door for her, but for Charlie her main attractions were her mammary glands.

'Ah, sure,' he would say, downing his tenth pint of stout, 'give me tits any day.' and he would pout out his lips and blow through them, shaking his head quickly from side to side, his eyes closed in ecstasy.

He grinned at himself in the mirror. 'You know,' he said, conversationally, 'I've been a tit-man all me life.'

The cheeky face in the mirror winked back at him lasciviously and replied, 'Ah, Charlie lad, that ye have, me boy, that ye have.'

He braked sharply for a red on the corner of Thirty-fourth and Eighth Avenue. One more block and he could get rid of the noise behind and maybe grab a quick cup of coffee.

Behind him the argument reached a crescendo, The girl was screaming in hysterical rage. Charlie's eyes went to the mirror.

She was fumbling frantically in her bag. Charlie watched, interested, surprised and annoyed when she pulled out a tiny, pearl-handled .22 automatic, aimed it at the old man.

'You fucking bastard!' she screamed, 'I'll kill you!'

The man began to laugh, a deep, belly laugh that rumbled round the cab like thunder on a summer day, leaning back weakly, his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable mirth. Tears began to course down his parchment cheeks.

Even more enraged, the girl fought to squeeze the trigger, screamed again in frustration on finding the safety on, struggled to release it.

Charlie whipped round, arm flashing over the seat to whip the tiny weapon from her hand into his big, clumsy mitt.

'Sorry, lady,' he said, 'not in my cab, you don't. Sure, they'd have me filling in forms for the next ten years.'

For one second it looked like she would pounce on him, try to wrench the gun away. Just as suddenly she dissolved into deep sobs, throwing herself on the old man. From all around a thousand horns told Charlie the lights had changed.

He let out the clutch, grabbed another quick look in the mirror. The old man was stroking the girl's hair with one hand, his other clenched firmly over her left breast.

'Da, da, Putzi. Snayo - snayo.'

She was looking up, tearfully, pleadingly, gazing into his face like a little lost child.

'Daddy?' she asked.

The old man smiled, bent down, kissed the wet end of her nose. 'Daddy,' he agreed.

'Holy Mother of God!' said Charlie.

His eyes went back to the road.

A hundred yards down he eased the yellow cab through the inside lane into the covered entrance of the New Yorker, pulled up softly by the uniformed sergeant. Thirty yards away one of a group of waiting reporters had already noticed the cab and begun to move forward.

'Okay, folks, here we are.' Charlie sighed, relieved.

The old man took his hand off the girl's breast, laid it firmly on Charlie's shoulder.

'Just a minute.' He fumbled inside his jacket for his wallet, using one hand to extract a century. 'How much we owe you?'

Charlie had already checked, 'Thirty-three bucks, mister.'

The old man leant forward a little, his voice lowered to keep what he was saying from the sergeant who had opened the rear door for the actress.

'For a hundred you forget what you hear, eh? Max Alexander requests it and would be very grateful.'

Charlie grinned. 'Mister, for a C-note I'd cut me tongue out, sure.'

So that was who the old man was: Max Alexander, the movie director.

No wonder he got the janes. Still, what the hell, with eighty-seven bucks extra from this one, he could afford to finish early tonight, maybe catch the old lady before she got too drunk to know what it was all about, have a little fun himself. His eyes closed, thinking about Sheraan's tits and that cheeky little fanny, instead of his Sheila's two watermelons and broad expanse of buttocks. Hey, he thought, why not Shan Ping's cathouse down on Ninety-Seventh? For fifty bucks he could lay him a late-model oriental.

He grinned again, his mind on other things, held out the tiny handful of metal.

'Here,' he said, 'You'd better take this. I already got me a thirty- eight.'

Alexander took it, slid it into his pocket, keeping it out of sight of the waiting reporters and the sergeant. He leant forward, whispered, 'Thank you, but it was empty. You want to grow old, you got to lessen the odds, eh?' He turned, half lifting the girl into a sitting position. Her tears were gone now and her face uplifted in the 'ready-for-interview' position.

'Come, darling,' he gushed, 'we have arrived.' He leant past her to address the sergeant, 'Max Alexander - the Emperor Suite.'

The sergeant's cynical grin disappeared like a raindrop hit with a laser. 'Yes, SIR!' he said.

As they got out of the cab the reporters crowded round, questions flying in a constant stream.

'Is it true that your next picture will not star Miss Delice?'

'No.'

'Any truth in the rumours of marriage?'

Max cut in quickly to stall Sheraan's reply,

'You know, the old story, eh? We are just good friends.'

'We got word that you are about to stage your biggest publicity stunt yet. What is it, Mr. Alexander?'

'Patience, fellahs, patience. You all come up to my suite at four o'clock, eh? We got caviar, and champagne, all you can drink, and out there in the East River I show you something to make you sit up and hold the front page headlines.'

One red-haired six-footer at the back shouted over the flashes of the cameras, 'Is it right you brought back the Loch Ness Monster from your last trip to Scotland, Mr. Alexander?'

Max grinned broadly, 'You could be right.'

Sheraan had not missed the redhead's brawny shoulders. Her face lit up.

'Oh, no - it's a su...prise!'

Alexander had flashed her a vicious 'belt-up' look.

'I guarantee you'll all be surprised.' He took Sheraan's arm, ready to move off. 'Well, fellahs, see you at four, eh?'

As they moved away, the redhead turned to a fellow reporter.

'You think we get to see Sheraan's dear little ass naked on the bed?'

The other grinned, 'That may be beautiful, buddy, but it sure wouldn't be no surprise, and from what I hear it ain't got no rarity value, neither.

At the door they were met by the manager himself and ushered into the lift.

As it slowed a voice became audible: cultured, clear, English.

Max recognised the Shakespearian line even before the door opened:

'My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

And every tongue brings in a several tale,

And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree,

Sodomy, sodomy, in the direst degree,

All several sins, all used in each degree,

Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! Guilty!'

The sight of the speaker stopped them in their tracks. Dressed in opera cloak and top hat, he stood on the pedestal of an alabaster statue of the Venus de Milo, which now reclined gracefully on a couch by the wall. Tall, even without the hat, he was maybe thirty years old, with finely chiselled, noble features and the haughty savoir-vivre of a Roman patrician. He took up his cue again, missing several lines:

'Zounds, Who is there?'

The ham had always been strong in Max. Twenty years before he made his first movie he had been a Shakespearian actor. He remembered it well, even if the bohemian accent did nothing for the part:

'Ratcliff, my lord, 'tis I. The early village cock

Hath twice done salutation to the morn;

Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.'

The figure descended carefully from his perch, advanced on the party, took Max by the shoulders, earnestly questioned him, his eyes alight with a strange fire:

'Oh, Ratcliff, I have dreamed a fearful dream...'the words tailed off and his eyes opened wide with the fright of a young child, faced with inescapable horror. Over and over again he repeated the three words, almost in a whisper, 'A fearful dream...a fearful dream...a fearful dream...'

'Chummy!'

The voice was female, authoritarian, and totally out of character.

She stood in the doorway of the suite opposite; petite, elegant and obviously highborn, in a sheer silk lounging creation that accentuated her perfect figure and must have cost over twenty thousand dollars from St Laurent or Dior.

She swung towards them, the frown changing to a well-practised smile.

'Please do excuse Chummy. He has had rather a lot to drink - the excessive heat, you know. We English are not used to it.'

As she spoke she took the figure by the arm. 'Come along, Chummy, your friend has quite lost her head.'

'Chummy' grinned broadly, went without resistance, declaiming his farewell speech over his shoulder: 'Parting is such sweet sorrow. Goodnight, good my lord - sweet princess. Till we meet upon the morrow.'

The door closed behind them.

Sheraan displayed her own elegant upbringing and mastery of American English: 'For fuck's sake! Who the hell was that?

The manager smiled, embarrassed,

'Lord Richard Cholmondely Hoagan, and his sister, Lady Elaine Hoagan. He is a trifle eccentric, but quite harmless, I assure you.'

Sheraan bellowed, 'You put a goddamn nut on the same floor as me? What the hell you think I am? C'mon, honey, let's get outa this crummy joint!' Alexander's neck began to go red.

'Sheraan!' he began, 'you...'

She saw the danger signs, threw up her hands.

'Okay, okay, so I get raped in my sleep! So you should care! King Dick! Huh!' She stormed off towards the door through which the bellboy was carrying their luggage.

Alexander felt good; the incident had amused him; something new in a life which was getting short on innovation. He decided he must see more of 'Chummy'.

'My telescope arrived?' he asked the manager.

'Oh, yes, Mr. Alexander. It has been set up by the East-facing window as you requested.'

'Good - good, then perhaps you shall see my submarine.'

~~~oOo~~~

The morning flashed by. Elsa was fully occupied with the calls and papers Sam needed for the afternoon's meeting. When lunchtime came she began to vacillate: she was no killer. No - she could not do it!

At one forty-five something happened to change her mind: a call came in from Puleman. He was his usual obnoxious self and spoke as though nothing had happened.

'Hello, Beautiful.'

She answered coldly, 'What do you want?'

A throaty chuckle came over the phone. 'You pack quite a punch. I'll have a headache for a fortnight. But enough small talk - we'll catch up on the lovemaking some other time. Is the Mayor in?'

In, she thought, but the way he is feeling right now he will not want to talk to you. Still: 'I'll put you through.' she snorted.

He answered quickly, too quickly, 'No - it's okay - I'll see him later. Just wanted to say 'Hi' to you. 'Bye, Beautiful.'

Elsa knew immediately Puleman had only rung to check that Sam was not at home. She flipped the desk switch to the inner office, her mind made up. Sam came on straight away, his voice full of sadness even over the intercom, 'Yes, Elsa?'

'Could you spare me for an hour, Sir? It really is important.'

Sam hesitated, frowning. It was a damned awkward time and he needed her in the office, but she'd never previously asked for time off, and usually worked through the lunch break with him. It must be serious.

'Okay, Elsa, but be back in time for the meeting, won't you?'

'Yes, Sir.' she assured him, knowing it was highly unlikely and hoping he could not read her mind.

She turned at the door and looked back towards the inner office. 'This is for you, Sam. Wish me luck.'

Her blue Volkswagen Golf was parked in the garage below. The ride across town took her eighteen minutes through the light early afternoon traffic. She did not notice Bibba's taxi turn left out of the Park as she turned in.

At the outer door she rang the bell to check the flat was empty. It was two twenty-one exactly. She waited two minutes, went up, and let herself in, leaving the main door unlocked and slightly ajar.

Two full decanters stood on the bar. She poured half a tumbler of neat whisky and took her very first alcoholic drink. It took her breath away and she choked, but the warmth of the liquor spread quickly through her body and gave her just the lift she needed.

She took the gun from her purse, pulled the jacket back to load the chamber and flipped off the safety, just as she had read in the manual.

Satisfied she had it right, she entered the main bedroom, slipped off her shoes and slid into the double bed, pulling the covers right up so that only her hair showed above them. Then she settled down to wait.

She did not have to wait long. She heard him let himself in and enter the bedroom, heard him say, 'Well, goddamn it. You never can tell with women.'

There were sounds of clothing being removed. Slowly she slid her hand up under the pillow.

Suddenly the covers were thrown back and he began to lower himself onto the bed. Surprised, he stopped.

'Hell!' he exclaimed, 'Elsa! What the hell...?' then he grinned, 'Well, whadya know?'

He moved forward eagerly. She felt his lips on hers, his hot breath making her want to gag, felt his vile, erect, naked flesh pressed hard against her.

'Surprise, surprise, and no lamp handy.' He rubbed a hand across the sticking plaster on his forehead. 'You're quite a girl, Elsa.'

She felt the hated hand thrust between her thighs again, felt his quick, jerky motions as he tried unsuccessfully to excite her. She felt cold - cold hate.

He was too worked up, too carried away with his emotions, too busy pulling at her clothing to notice her hand, sliding from beneath the pillow, ignored it as it slid between her breast and his, the tiny weapon concealed in her palm, but as she turned the half inch of cold steel to his chest he drew back, surprised.

He laughed, a deep, belly laugh, moving to take the gun, sneering at her, 'Oh, no, Elsa. You haven't got the g...'

The report drowned out the last word as the tiny slug entered his heart. Surprise was on his face as he died.

She pulled the trigger twice more as his life's blood pumped out onto her blouse.

One last, low, gurgling moan escaped his lips and his body convulsed twice before crumpling heavily onto her.

For a long moment she lay still, expecting his body to move again. It did not, and she eased out from under him.

She found she was shaking violently from head to toe, tried to stand, but her legs felt too weak. She felt sick, the smell of his fresh blood warm and sickly in her nostrils.

She realised she was about to throw up, and the realisation lent her strength to stagger into the bathroom, collapsing in heaving gulps over the lavatory pan.

Afterwards, she felt drained. The whisky had done its work and induced a drugged sleep.

Some time later she awoke suddenly, still slumped over the pan. For a moment she was shaken, unsure, only half-remembering, then clarity returned.

Slowly she pulled herself to her feet. Seeing her reflection in the full-length mirror she retched again.

Her blouse was stiff with congealed blood - his blood.

Using fingers that seemed not to belong to her she tore it off along with her brassiere,

She felt no remorse as she dropped the garments on the floor of the bathroom, but had a sudden thought: where was the gun? It must still be on the bed, under the body.

Her heart was making her whole body pulse, and she remembered the early Yoga lessons she had taken at college: take deep, hard, long breaths - inhale, exhale, inhale.

Her brain cleared slowly until she felt in control again.

Several items of clothing hung on an airer in the corner. She helped herself to one of Bibba's blouses. They were almost the same size and it was a good fit. She walked back into the bedroom. The body was just as she had left it, with no trace of life.

'Thank God.' she whispered, 'Thank God.'

She picked up the telephone, punched out the number of room six four seven one, the outer office of the Council Chambers. If the wall clock was right the meeting was due to start in five minutes.

The secretary answered promptly.

Elsa spoke clearly and confidently. 'This is Miss Chalmers, the Mayor's PA. Could I speak to the Police Commissioner, please?'

Julius' voice came on the line after a short pause.

'Hello, Elsa, what's the trouble? Can't the Mayor make it?'

Succinctly and without emotion she told him everything, including about Bibba's departure.

He heard her out without speaking, wishing it could have been anywhere but in the Mayor's apartment, but more in sympathy with her than he could say. Instead, he said, 'Are you all right?'

She gave an affirmative.

Julius took a deep breath. 'Look, Elsa,' he said, 'a lot of people are going to say you did the community a good turn. I don't know what I can do, but clean yourself up if you haven't already, take the...' He realised the secretary was listening, appearing to busy herself over at the filing cabinet. 'apparatus you used away with you, lock the door and come on down here. I'll see you after the meeting with the Mayor and we'll see what we can do.'

He thought, I'll keep it from him until after the meeting, but then he'll have to know. 'And Elsa,' he added, 'take care.'

He closed his eyes as he put the receiver down. Why did it have to be right now? This would have to be played very carefully, or it could destroy Sam, and the political implications were just too bad to think about. Pity the silly...in his mind he substituted 'woman' for 'bitch'...hadn't killed him the time he went to her own flat. They could have made that a nice clean break-in, attempted rape, justifiable homicide. With things as they were he couldn't see how they could keep Bibba out of it, but, he vowed, by God they would try.

He lifted the phone again, punched out the Center Street number, asked for the Chief of Detectives.

O'Mara was a good cop; efficient, honest and loyal, but whether he would go along with the plan Julius was formulating in his mind there was no way of knowing.

O'Mara came on the line. Julius kept it short.

'Jimmy,' he said, 'I've got one hell of a problem and I'm going to need your help. It's a strange story and I have no time to tell you now. Can you get down here to the City Services Building right away? You can? Good. Ask the secretary for me - the Council Chambers, sixty-fourth floor. I'll see you then.'

As he hung up he saw Trundell come in, carrying the black, executive case he had picked up before leaving the relay station. He was deep in thought, still thinking about that eighty million dollars. It was a whole bundle of hay, but he'd given the City the best money could buy - almost. He had a right to be proud of the new stations, reckoned he'd earned his bread. The stations were automatic and virtually foolproof, even with the reduced safety-margins, but the deep frown on his forehead belied the thought.

Julius glanced at his watch. One minute to scheduled start time. The Mayor was never late and Julius knew he must be waiting for Elsa to return.

He sighed. What a hell of a day.

1343 E.S.T.

The Ferry had left Pier A at the western tip of Battery Park at 1340. For its captain, James Calder, it was the three thousand eight hundred and fourth trip to Liberty Island.

The tourists were as thick on the decks as the barnacles on the ship's bottom, and the usual excited babble of conversation came up to him on the bridge, muted by the mist.

He wished them luck - they were not going to see much of Miss Liberty today.

The river was always busy, and this trip was no exception. Radar showed several blips, one so large it had to be a tanker, moving slowly across them, dead ahead.

Calder signaled half-speed, allowing the tanker time to pass, then increased speed to three-quarters ahead as the ship cleared their bows.

Behind the glowing bright trail on the screen a shadow remained, glowing dully. It was nothing unusual with this particular set, which had a slow inherent fade, and Calder was not worried.

Ten seconds later he was galvanised into action. The faint trace had separated from the bright blip and still remained dead ahead.

Calder rammed the speed control to full astern and spun the wheel hard to starboard. Heart in his mouth he waited for the crunch, staring hard into the mist ahead.

All round the ship passengers slid, fell sideways, jostled one another, complaining loudly. One fat gentleman, who had been in the act of taking a photograph of the woman he'd met only half an hour before, shot across the deck and almost went through the rails, collapsing in agony.

Suddenly, out of the mist, the shape of a Russian submarine appeared, its captain gesticulating and screaming at them in a strange tongue. The last gesture as they slid by less than fifteen feet away was international and understood by all.

The sub was seen by over a hundred passengers as well as the Captain.

Calder wiped the sweat from his brow. He had made an error of judgement, and that was bad enough. To have created an international incident would have been infinitely worse. He'd heard nothing about it, but the sub must be on a state visit. God, what a lucky escape! The vessel had been wallowing side-on to the slight swell, which was strange, but that was none of his business. He was not about to report the incident to the Coastguard, and he prayed the skipper of the submarine had not recognised his ship.

Seventy minutes later, after the return trip, the story began to spread by word of mouth from the disembarking passengers. At first there was disbelief, then growing rumours. It reached the press, radio and TV just after three, twenty minutes before the drums began to sound.

~~~oOo~~~

Harry 'Red' Corrigan pulled the peak of his cap a little lower - a cap whose insignia - that of a Commander in the Russian navy - sat strangely at odds with his soft Irish brogue. 'A piece of cake' himself had said. Well, he should bloody well be out here now! He'd damn soon see what sort of cake it was. A nice clear day and a straight run in, was it? Ah, then, and was it just not? If the mist wasn't bad enough, the bloody engine, stupid little underpowered trollop that it was, had to play up, and sure, here was Mrs. Corrigan's little boy up the sodding creek without either paddle or radar, and a bloody great submarine beginning to wallow sideways under him.

He looked over the length of the craft. They'd made a damned fine job

of the copy, from the outside at any rate. Inside she was nothing but bare metal and an engine, with almost none of the comforts of home except a primus stove - and she'd cost damned near a million dollars.

He swore again. For a red cent he'd call the Coastguard again and have them tow him in. That brought a crooked smile to his lips. What a bloody sensation that would cause. And call them in Russian, too.

'Hello, Coastguard, this is the Russian long-range missile submarine Sverdlovsk. Can you give us a tow, tovarich?'

It'd take some explaining. Two hours back it had been, 'US Motor Vessel Sheraan, ex-Hamilton, to New York Coastguard, just entering the Narrows, berthing at Forty-Third Street, Pier four, over.'

The Coastguard sounded tired and bored. 'Purpose of visit, Sheraan, over.' Harry had grinned, if only the guy knew.

'Pleasure,' he said, 'over.'

'Oh-kay, Sheraan, I got you on the screen, but the Doppler's only just pickin' you out. What speed you makin'? Over.'

'Engine's playing up - we're making three knots. Over.'

'Oh-kay, Sheraan - I'm gonna lose you in the clutter when you get in close, so keep a sharp lookout. There's a whole lot of stuff moving in the river. You need any help, you hollah, 'kay? Over and out.'

The guy was right there - Harry Corrigan had only just stopped holding his breath after the last near-miss. It had been a damned sight too close.

Stopped now, they would have disappeared completely from the Doppler radar screen, which worked only by measuring the rate of change of frequency of moving objects.

Corrigan blew down the voice-tube. 'What's with the motor, Bill?'

Bill Harrison had been with him twelve years, first as fellow-stokers on the 'Arlington', then, after demobilisation, as partners in their own fishing-boat down on the Keys. The last five years had been disastrous, with almost continuous bad weather cancelling out trips, and poor fishing when they had got out. The boat had been heavily mortgaged and finally they had to let it go. Since then they had taken anything that had come along, saving hard to buy another. When this job had come up, they'd jumped at it. With the crazy money offered they could buy another boat outright.

Harrison's weary voice was preceded by what sounded like a monkey wrench being thrown at an engine.

'Frigged, Harry! In one word, frigged. We've run a shaft.'

Corrigan swore, 'And only half a mile to go. Okay, Bill - have the boys come up. I can see the top of the United Nations Building on the port bow; Roosevelt Island must be dead ahead. We'll let the tide take her another couple of hundred yards then heave the anchors over and park it out here in the river. Should be safe enough, shielded by the Island.'

He anticipated Harrison's explosion. 'Okay, Bill - I know there's no way we can get them up again. I'll give himself a ring and he can sort it out. God be praised I made him have anchors and the ship-to-shore telephone installed when they built this floating cinematographic horror. I'd feel a damned sight safer if I'd insisted on the radar as well. My guess is, if we don't get the anchors down we run aground on Roosevelt, and plenty damn quick.'

With the bow anchor in the mud and the submarine lying head-on to the tide he left Harrison and the crew topside to finish the job and went down to telephone.

He tried all the numbers Max Alexander had given him without success. The last was the hotel in the City. The receptionist, who'd been having his coffee break when Alexander arrived, told him, without checking, that Max had not yet booked in. He stumped back up the ladder, wishing like hell he'd ignored Max's insistence on no booze on board.

Harrison raised an eyebrow. 'No luck?'

Corrigan shook his head. 'Sure and isn't his honour still out somewhere on a train, I guess, probably screwin' the backside off the wee tart he named this sardine can after?'

Harrison grinned, 'Jealous?'

Corrigan grimaced and began to shake his head. He stopped and reflected for a second.

'Ah,' he said, 'an' maybe you're right, but since that sort of comfort is not available to the troops, let's have one of the boys round up a nice steamin' mug of cocoa, eh?' It was an order, not a suggestion, and the young crewman he nodded to moved away down the ladder.

Harrison pulled a face. 'Ugh! Cocoa! We should get blood money for this. Not a bar in sight, and me with a low beer-indicator light.' He turned serious, asked, 'You thinking like me, Harry?'

Corrigan shrugged, 'You mean, you'd feel a damned sight safer wearing civvies than these damned Russki uniforms, parked out here in the East River in a Russian nuclear sub?'

Harrison scratched his ear reflectively, 'And right under the United Nations Building. We'd be persecuted as a minority group, if the old 'Arlington' came steaming up the river.'

The mist accentuated the noises of the river and the City, disembodied them, left Corrigan the sensation of a dream world where time stood still. The feeling stuck late into the afternoon.

~~~oOo~~~

14.05 E.S.T.

Charlie replaced the cab phone, nodded to his face in the mirror.

'Ah, well, there ye are, Charlie me boy, it's that good, clean livin' ye do that earns you the best fares. Millionaires' Row, indayd - that'll be another ten-cent tip, I wouldn't wonder.' He gunned the motor and eased the car out into the traffic.

It was only four blocks from Fifty-Ninth. Sure, the lady would not have to wait long.

He was surprised to see her at the door with her cases. These addresses, they usually expected you to bring the whole caboodle down from the top floor, while they stood back and watched you sweat, and sure, wasn't he doing enough of that as it was?

'Good afternoon,' she said. Her voice was educated, almost English, with no trace of the New York twang. 'I'd like you to take me to Kennedy Airport, please.'

'Sure thing, lady - be there like on a magic carpet, we will.'

He held the door open for her, got back behind the wheel, looking in the mirror, his one-man conversation starting again in his brain.

'What about that for a woman, Charlie?' 'Ah, begorra, Paddy, you're right! Now, there's a woman I could really go for: well brought up, but not snooty; good clothes without bein' showy.'

He started the motor, let in the clutch. 'She has a hell of a lot of cases an' she's been cryin'. Leavin' the old man, maybe? Some crazy, horny old guy who's got snagged on some fifty-dollar hooker and don't know when he's well off.' Charlie weighed his chances, it wouldn't be the first time he'd let a fare cry on his shoulder while he slipped her a quick one below the belt This one did not look the type, but sure, it was worth a try. With the rush hour about to start it would take the best part of an hour to drive to Kennedy, and it would help to pass the time. He flicked a cheerful grin towards the back seat.

'You want the radio on, lady? You look like you could use some cheerful music.'

Bibba forced a smile. She'd hoped it didn't show. She shook her head. 'No, thank you.'

'Okay,' thought Charlie, 'End of conversation.' Still, he was intrigued and what the hell had he got to lose, anyway?

'How about a wee slug, then? Plenty of joints on the way. Some good spots, lady \- make you forget your troubles.'

Bibba's smile this time was real. It made her feel good to know that she still looked attractive enough for a man of this taxi driver's charm to make a pass at her.

'It's a nice offer, er...?'

'Call me Charlie, ma'am.'

'...Charlie, and I appreciate it, but...' Yes, she thought, why shouldn't she tell him? It was about time she shared it with someone, 'You see, I have no troubles except this City, and I want to get out of it and forget it as quickly as possible, so, please, I'd just like to reach the airport as soon as I can.'

Her reply stunned him more than a slap in the face. It stopped him dead for over a minute. For Charlie it was a long silence.

'You mean,' his voice showed his disbelief, 'you don't like this old Burg?' He began to sing in a melodious baritone: 'We'll have Manhattan, the Bronx and Statten Island, too, it's lovely going to the zoo...'

Bibba smiled again, more sadly. Would he believe she was married to Jimmy Walker's first cousin?

'You sing beautifully,' she said, 'and I love the song, but without putting too fine a point on it I hate every part of this City: what it stands for, what it does to people, how it lives, looks and smells; every public office and every private little mess it creates in people's lives.'

She realised how much hatred showed in her vehemence and cut off the tirade.

Charlie found it difficult to believe his ears. He thought he'd heard everything, but this he'd never heard, and he loved his City, with a loyalty that only a third-generation New York Irish could hold in his heart. This he just could not allow to go unanswered. Sex was forgotten: hell - this was serious! He pulled into the kerb and leant over the seat back.

'Lady,' he said, fixing his eyes directly on her, 'can you spare half an hour? No charge; this one's on the house, but I can't let you leave like this. Will you let me show you just a little of what this ol' Burg is made of? Please?'

Bibba hesitated. It was the last thing she wanted, but he seemed so perturbed about it, and what was a half hour, after all?

'Well...'

Charlie beamed, 'Ah, that's fine. Away we go, then.'

He turned the cab and began: street by street, intersection by intersection; he gave her facts, figures, dates, politicians.

On Forty-Second Street: 'D'ye see that, now - Kips Bay, where the English landed in September 1776. Will ye look at it now, and just imagine - less than a hundred years ago it was nothin' but a shanty town, with pigs runnin' up and down between the huts.'

At Washington Square: 'D'ye know they used to hunt duck there in the marshes?' At Greenwich Village: 'Used to be an Indian village called Sapohanickan, covered in woodland and with lots of fish in the streams.'

The Financial District, 'They called it Nieuw Amsterdam, did the Dutchies. Built a fort, and a big wooden wall. That's where we get the name Wall Street.' Even then they spoke eighteen languages here, and they had a damned great ditch, beggin' your pardon, ma'am, in the middle of Broad Street.' At Central Park: 'A swamp, where squatters lived in mud huts. In the Depression they drained the reservoir and used it to house the people made homeless. Called it Hooverville, they did.'

Bibba glanced at her watch. It was three-eighteen. It was enough. 'Thank you,' she said, 'it was very interesting, but it does not answer my problem. Could we go to the Airport, now, please.'

Charlie sighed. He had done his best.

'Sure, lady,' he said, 'if that's what you really want.' He headed for the Bridge.

His silence did not last long. While she was in the cab it was his duty to try.

'Did you know the Port of New York handles over one hundred and eighty million tons of freight a year, and over half a million passengers? 'T'is the second largest port in the world. Twenty-plus thousand ships a year.'

No answer.

Did you know they call it the 'Centre of the Universe'?'

No answer.

Turning into the Airport entrance he finally got to Sam: 'Best thing ever happened to this City! Course, they'll get rid of him - squeeze him out with a crooked vote, maybe, or more likely a bullet some dark night. He's too straight for the crooks behind City Hall. On borrowed time - too good to stay, with what he's done to the System. I wouldn't have his job for all the gold on Wall Street. God, the stress that man must be under.'

Bibba found the back of Charlie's head swimming fuzzily. She realised she was crying, and bit her lip hard. The cab was just pulling up at the terminal building.

'Charlie,' she said, 'do you think you could take me to where he is?' Charlie spun round in his seat. 'Where who...?The Mayor?'

Light suddenly dawned as he realised why her face was vaguely familiar. He swelled with pride. 'Mrs. Mayor!...Well, I'll be a fu...' He bit the profane word off. 'It'd be an honour, ma'am!'

Swiftly he slapped the gearshift into first and started a U-turn. 'Where is he?'

'City Services Building, and please hurry. I'd like to get there before he finishes his meeting.'

~~~oOo~~~

1433 EST

Max Alexander sat at his telescope, fretting.

'That damned mist. I can't see a thing. And where is Corrigan? Why has he not called? The reporters are due in ninety minutes, and no word.'

He picked up the phone. 'Reception - this is Max Alexander,' he made it sound like the King of Siam, 'I have had no calls. Why?'

The receptionist remembered clearly the call from Corrigan, but was not about to admit the mistake. It could cost him his job.

'There has been only one, Mr. Alexander, before you arrived, from a Mr. Corrigan.'

Max swore and snapped, 'Get me LOCATAIR 47-32!'

Corrigan's voice came on the line a few seconds later, his relief clearly audible. In a few words he put Max in the picture. The producer swore again.

'Okay,' he said finally, 'I tell you what we do: I get a tug now to come bring you in. You wait for my call.'

It was not as easy as it sounded. For once, his name did not work miracles. Every tug in the port of New York was busy. The earliest available was six o'clock that afternoon. He took it and rang Corrigan with the news.

The Irishman's curses were hot enough to burn the wires, but Alexander had hung up before he reached the part about what he could do with his fucking submarine.

~~~oOo~~~

1520 EST

The timing was perfect. The black technician, Sully, left alone to monitor the transmission of the pre-recorded one-hour light-music show, had the studio to himself. The tape was already on the number two machine. He waited calmly for the second-hand on the wall clock to tick round to the minute. As it did so he flipped back the switch for the number one recorder and pulled down number two. An evil smile spread over his face as he monitored the first seconds of the tape. The drums would be sounding now in thousands of apartments and vehicles all over the City.

Unhurriedly he took off the 'phones, crossed to the open door, shut and locked it carefully and dropped the key into his pocket. Whistling cheerfully he headed for the elevator.

On the rooftop of a house near the end of Thirty-Second Street the drummer stood alone, a massive man with rippling muscles glistening with sweat in the glaring, mid-afternoon sun, wearing nothing but a loin-cloth. He held the drum tightly under his left arm, his body rigid at attention.

As the clock on the church of St. Michael opposite moved to twenty-five minutes past the hour he lifted his right hand and let it fall in the first, powerful beat.

Each slow stroke fell like a whiplash - staccato, even. For more than a minute the drum beat alone, then from a neighbouring rooftop another joined, in perfect time with the first, then another and yet another, the sound spreading out in all directions.

Within minutes the drums were sounding all over the City.

In shops and department stores, on building sites and street locations, coloured people downed tools, left sales unfinished, walked out on customers and bosses. A fervent religious light in their eyes, they headed for the streets, to watch or take part.

At forty-three different locations around Manhattan Island's business centre, Nightingale's men drew their Molotov cocktails from their clothing, lit them and threw them.

The first targets had been chosen with care: the ground floors of the largest department stores in the City and ten of the City's main buildings. At one of them, the City Services Building, the last of the councillors had just reached the seventh floor when the attack began.

Simultaneously, firebombs left earlier in sealed containers for deposit in the vaults were exploded in twelve of the City's major banks. At all locations any resistance was met by shots intended to kill.

Their initial objectives obtained, the groups moved on to lesser targets, other department stores, smaller shops and buildings, hotels and public transport depots.

The mood spread. Thousands who had come to watch joined the rampage, crowds surging into shops, offices and homes, burning and killing, looting and raping. Switchboards in Center Street and the precincts were jammed with calls. Within twenty minutes every fire appliance in the City was in action, trying vainly to cope with the ever-widening ring of fire.

Anarchy ruled.

When the smoke began to rise thousands of workers flocked to the windows of factories and office blocks. Switchboards were jammed. Instant decisions were taken to go home right there and then.

The mass exodus began from the skyscrapers.

~~~oOo~~~

Charlie's cab crossed back over Triborough Bridge at three thirty in light, mid-afternoon traffic. Near the Manhattan side he swore to himself: Roosevelt Drive was blocked with halted cars as far as the eye could see.

He took the turn-off for First Avenue, where a light smoke haze was drifting lazily over the traffic, its origin down somewhere near the next intersection.

It was all of ninety seconds before they ran into their first jam.

The cause of the hold-up was seven or eight cars down, where a crowd of two hundred or more people, filling the sidewalk, were spilling over into the road.

Charlie grumbled, 'Now, what the divil...?'

He shoved open the door with his elbow and stepped out gingerly onto the hot asphalt.

Bibba heard him groan, 'Ah, dear God.'

She leant out of the open window.

'What is it?'

He turned, wearing a pained expression.

'I should stay in the cab, ma'am. If he jumps it won't be pretty.' She looked up at the office building. A grey haired old man stood precariously balanced on a tiny ledge seven floors up. Three men at an open window on his right seemed to be talking to him. Every few seconds he shook his head violently and made a motion as if to jump.

Another figure in police uniform appeared at the nearest window on the would-be suicide's left, eased himself carefully through the frame and began inching his way towards the old man, while the men at the other window held his attention.

The cop was taking no chances. As he lifted his hand to immobilise the old man with a blow the other turned his head. Without hesitation he spread his arms like the wings of a bird and launched himself from the ledge.

The cop was caught off-balance. They saw his arms flail in an effort to restore it. He failed.

In a last desperate effort he threw himself down onto the ledge, fingers clawing for a hold, as first his legs, then his body, slid slowly over the edge. Bibba gasped. He was suspended by only his fingertips.

Another man climbed quickly through the window. As swiftly as he could he moved towards the man suspended from the ledge. They heard the loud 'Aahh' of the crowd as he bent to take the man's wrists, clutching for the hand, which lost its grip at that instant.

He put all his weight behind his grip on the one wrist he held, but it was no use. Slowly but inexorably his grip loosened, until, with a horrible scream, the policeman fell. His body crashed onto the sidewalk with a sickening thud, less than a foot from that of the old man.

Charlie decided on action, He got back in and slammed the door behind him. Without a word he swung the cab over the sidewalk, turning back the way they had come. Half on and half off the road he eased the car between the inner line of stopped vehicles and the pedestrians, ignoring the horns and the shouts of obscenity, back sixty yards to the last intersection, squeezing through to turn left onto West Hundred and Sixteenth Street. Four blocks later he turned left again into Park Avenue, where the traffic seemed to be moving normally.

Not for long. Soon they were down to snail's pace with thick smoke billowing around them as they moved. Every couple of blocks they had to pull over for police or fire vehicles, their lights and sirens working. They seemed to be everywhere.

Charlie was puzzled. 'Sure, there always seem to be cops around, but I've never seen this many before. Maybe something happened. Should be on the air.' He twisted the knob of the radio.

Slow drumming filled the cab.

'Now what the hell is that?'

Bibba explained.

'Holy Mother of God,' breathed Charlie, 'as if it wasn't hot enough already. Do they think we want to see hell before we're sent for?'

'That,' her voice was grave, 'is exactly what they want.'

'Aw, sh...oot!' He slammed the brakes on. They had run into another jam.

He looked over his shoulder. 'You'd get there quicker by subway, Mrs Mayor, but I don't like the look of it out there at all. If you don't mind the wait I think you'll be safer in the cab, and I've got old Betsy here, in case they start anything with us.'

He shoved his hand under the dashboard and pulled out a large, old-fashioned revolver, which he brandished around with such bravado she found herself smiling in spite of the situation.

Across the street smoke and flames were billowing out from the shop door of a large delicatessen. Out of the smoke three coloured youths appeared, laughing hysterically.

Charlie swore, 'Black bastards...ah, pardon, ma'am.'

Bibba was beside herself, 'Where are the police? Where are they?'

'Gone home for a snack, most like.' opined Charlie, 'Never there when you want them and on the spot if you shoot a red.'

He was wrong.

A burst of fire from an automatic weapon somewhere on their right dropped one youth, his open shirtfront spouting fountains of bright red blood from a half dozen holes in his chest, and sent showers of chips flying from the bricks on the wall behind him.

The other two turned, their eyes rolling whitely. Their arms shot into the air like pistons.

'There they are.' Charlie pointed across the street at a window above a grocer's shop. The muzzles of three rifles projected over the sill. Behind them they could see blue peaked caps.

Two spaced shots echoed round the street. One youth took the bullet in the left eye. Dropping his hands to his face, he clawed frantically at the wound before pirouetting slowly in the last dance of death, collapsing over the sidewalk into the road. The other was hurled backwards by the force of the shot onto the shop window.

It smashed into a thousand pieces.

His mouth shouting wordlessly the youth disappeared in a cascade of cans and boxes stacked inside.

Bibba was struck dumb.

Charlie spoke for both of them, crossing himself, 'Holy Mother of God.'

As if at a signal the traffic began to roll forward slowly. When they came to a stop again half a block down they could still see the two bodies lying where they had fallen. No other living being had approached them.

\---oOo---

Inside the air-conditioned towers life maintained its ice-cool lie, false from the perspiration-free thighs of the executive secretaries on the upper floors to the water-coolers humming gently in countless corners, on final countdown for their apparently imminent journey to the stars.

Outside, every foot of street and sidewalk reached out, trapped the heat, waited for the next sweat-soaked pedestrian or motorist to arrive, to lash out reflected heat, searing garment-irritated skin, sucking oxygen from lungs already strained and sore from taking in air unfit to breathe.

By three pm there was not an ice or soft drink left in Manhattan. By three-thirty, in-sun temperatures were hitting one-forty, shade one-oh-eight, oxygen level only six points above danger-level. Citizens were collapsing and dying on every street.

The Mayor's statement came over as a special bulletin at three forty-five. It was bald and to the point:

'BY ORDER OF THE MAYOR, ALL NON-ESSENTIAL BUSINESSES WILL REMAIN CLOSED TOMORROW AND UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.'

A dozen or so small businesses had taken the hint from Cabot's midday information broadcast and closed up early. Their employees made the bridges and subways by four and sat swilling beer and iced-coffee at home before five.

They were the lucky ones.

~~~oOo~~~

Turning away from the phone, Julius looked around.

Lee was already in his seat, head down, engrossed in his notes.

Bishop Huggings stood by the table, talking down his nose to the union man, Ted Bagley.

Julius forced a grim smile. What the hell could those two have in common? Bagley, with his foul-mouthed, unfunny jokes, and the dry-as-dust, humourless churchman. My God, Julius thought, he even looks dried up: over six feet tall, and thin as a rake, leathery cheeks with no trace of colour in them. Not the slightest hint of humour in the cold, grey eyes; thin, skinny, pinched-up lips, sparse grey hair plastered down on an almost pointed cranium. Now there was a warm-hearted soul you could go to for the milk of human kindness.

Bagley, big, broad-shouldered and ruddy of complexion under a shock of ginger hair, which looked as though it had not been combed in a week, seemed to be enjoying himself at the Bishop's expense. If he was, it was obvious there was little satisfaction in it.

Trundell stood alone by the window, looking down, his shiny black briefcase between his legs. He was wringing his hands together absentmindedly. Julius could see the sweat on his forehead from across the room. Oh, yes, boy, he thought, you deserve to sweat. You're a mess, and you're in a mess, and so are we because of you. Sweat, you bastard, sweat!

Valicone stood at the far end of the room, talking to three councillors known to be in his pocket: Drue, Baenkler, and Truejohn, small-thinking men, all three, who had climbed on the nearest bandwagon with the hope of some spin-off. Julius pulled a face. They might be right at that, the way things were going.

The rest stood chatting in small groups around the room, waiting for the Mayor.

At the foot of the table the television team, three men and a woman, had set up their cameras. Dee came in after them with the briefcase and approached Lee Harris, the crew chief.

'Can I sit in as observer, Lee?'

Harris had never liked the DJ and now he liked him a damned sight less. Laurence Peachey was his best friend.

He took a deep breath. 'I tell you what you do, Cowboy!' He made the last word sound like a barrel of rotting shit, 'You get your fucking arse out of here inside twenty seconds or you won't have to get up in the morning for your early show! The boss is only looking for one more little thing, and I'm just the one to give it to him!'

Dee feigned hurt. It was exactly what he had hoped for. He shrugged, 'Okay - I only asked.'

Harris' low-voiced, 'Fucking bum!' followed him down the room. By the table he paused briefly to tie his shoelace, leaning against a chair. When he rose, no one noticed he no longer had the briefcase. It was tucked under the table between two chairs. One of them had the name 'H.TRUNDELL' on a printed card in front of it.

Julius walked across. He and Harris went a long way back, all the way to high school, and Harris was one all-right guy.

He stuck out a paw. 'Lee.'

Harris took it, grinning, 'Julius. Good to see you, fellah.'

'Bad news, Lee. First part of the meeting is in camera, not on it. Sorry.'

Harris grimaced, 'Aw, shit!'

'Can you take five? Won't be much more than that.'

Harris shrugged, 'Sure thing.' As an afterthought he added, 'I smell a scoop. Can you lay it on me?'

'Not right now, Lee, but I'll try to make sure you get it first. 'Kay?'

Harris pulled a face. It wasn't okay, but he knew it was all he would get for now. 'Sure,' he said, 'thanks, Julius.' He moved off, beckoning the team to follow.

The Mayor came in through the door, looking worried. He spotted Julius and hurried over to him.

Julius forced a smile. 'Hi, Sam.'

He got a nod in reply. 'I know who wrote that letter, Julius.'

'Soldier?'

'A private - Polanski - Homer Polanski. I can't prove it, but I'm sure it's him. We had a whole lot of trouble with him in the camp, always stirring up trouble wherever he went. He certainly knew about the Hole. He spent enough time in it.'

'Unstable?'

'Crazy as a coot, even then. He's our man, and I'd say he was ready for anything with no thought for the consequences. I heard he was dishonourably discharged. It was a pretty nasty case.'

'I'll get a man on it right after the meeting.'

Sam glanced at his watch. 'We had better start.'

They went to their seats and the rest followed suit, sitting where the name cards indicated.

Sam frowned seeing Puleman's empty place. He rose.

'Gentlemen.' The faint murmur of conversation ceased. 'We seem to be missing Mr Puleman, and I did not want to begin without him.' He hesitated, seeing Julius trying to catch his eye.

'Yes, Commissioner?'

'Puleman will not be attending this meeting, Mr Mayor.' He felt like adding, 'nor any others.'

Sam looked puzzled. Julius had said nothing a moment ago. Had Puleman got wind of the investigation and taken off somewhere? It was more than possible.

'Any reason given?'

Julius was noncommittal, 'He gave none himself.'

Sam shrugged. At least with Puleman out of the way he was without his most vociferous opponent of the closure.

'Very well, we'll proceed without him. First item on the agenda is the question of the power station relays.' His voice held a note of gravity that was not lost on the meeting. 'The Commissioner and a small team of detectives have been investigating allegations concerning these stations.' He looked directly at Trundell. The man had gone deathly white. 'We have found that they were built in a slipshod manner with low-grade materials. We also have evidence of bribery. It is obvious that this was a deliberate act, intended to defraud the City of millions of dollars. This is bad enough, but what concerns us much more is that the safety factors which should have been built in were not, and this could put the City in the greatest jeopardy.'

While Sam watched Trundell, Julius had kept his eyes on Valicone. He had to admit the man was cool. Not by a muscle did he betray the feelings he must have inside.

Everyone began talking at once.

A full minute passed before Sam could restore some sort of order. He gave them all the information he had, and then looked across at Trundell. 'Mr. Trundell, have you anything to say?'

The relay station chief spoke in an emotion-choked voice he did not recognise as his own. He was aware of Valicone's eyes on him and knew he was writing his own death warrant, but he felt calmer than at any time in his life. He had made his decision.

'You're right - about everything. I took a bribe to cut corners. I'm sorry.' He hung his head.

Bedlam broke out again, with Bagley shouting loudest, and Sam caught the word 'lynch'. He banged the gavel and had to bang it again before order was restored. He looked across and nodded at Julius, then spoke to Trundell.

'You will leave the meeting now. A detective Martin is waiting outside. He will take you into custody, and you will be formally charged.'

Trundell lifted his head, his eyes watery. In a small voice he said, 'The power supply is in danger today. We were near critical limit when I left. Will you let me go back to the station to oversee the afternoon high point? We will have to shed load, and I know the system better than anyone. Two hours will not make much difference to the police.'

Sam looked around at the angry faces. The thought passed through his head that had it been the bad old days they would have had him hanging from the nearest tree.

He was inclined to veto the suggestion, but what Trundell said made sense. Things must be pretty tight, and he did know his job. Sam guessed he had been put in a corner where he either agreed to the changes or took the final dive. Deep down he felt some sympathy. The Mafia could be very persuasive when they wanted something.

'Very well - if the Commissioner agrees.'

Julius nodded. 'It won't make that much difference.'

Trundell bent to pick up the briefcase by his chair. Julius escorted him to the door, where he turned. With a note of defiance in his voice he said, 'Even built with rubbish, they are still damned good stations!'

Julius gave hurried instructions to Martin, waiting in the outer room, and returned to his seat.

Sam began again, going through the other facts as they knew them. Throughout, Valicone sat impassive, staring into space. Sam made no allegations \- just detailed the results of the police inquiries, the companies involved, the stockholders' names. He left them to draw their own conclusions, very careful not to say anything which could leave him open to a legal action should Valicone manage somehow to slip off the hook.

He ended, 'Therefore, while no one is intimating complicity in this affair on the part of Mr Valicone, I feel it should be put to a vote whether he continue to serve as a co-opted member of this Council until such time as the matter has seen fully investigated and taken through the courts. I ask for a vote...'

He was interrupted by the opening of the door. The senior secretary from the outer office, a prissy woman of around thirty-five, with catlike features and blonde, wispy hair, crossed quickly to him and whispered in his ear.

Sam looked up.

'Center Street on the phone for you, Commissioner. We'll wait till you come back.'

Julius exited quickly. He was back inside thirty seconds, carrying the phone, his expression serious.

'They've started the drumming!' The words came out like machinegun bullets.

Sam gasped, 'Oh, my God!'

The Bishop glared.

'It was next on the agenda,' Sam had got hold of himself again, 'and you've all received the minute concerning this issue which was sent to you last Thursday. You will also have heard of the death last night of Dr. Christmas Nightingale in circumstances which were, to say the least, disturbing.'

'Yeah, more police brutality!' Delatter interrupted him, glaring across at the Commissioner. He had good reason to hate the police. Twice, early on in his career, he had been indicted before a grand jury for embezzlement. His choice of attorney had been good, and he had beaten both raps. For a lesser man the path to the White House might have been considered closed, but Delatter had, if nothing else, determination. For the last fifteen years he had played it absolutely straight. He had backed all the right minority groups when they had been popular and he had gained a big following; enough to succeed in local government. At forty-three he was on his way again, but he had not forgotten.

Sam ignored him. 'The National Guard will not come in unless the action has started, but if you agree we will call them with the situation in a moment.'

Delatter scrambled to his feet, hands on hips, 'You're going the whole hog on this rather soon, aren't you?'

Sam fixed his stare on him. 'Can you find anything wrong in asking them to stand by in case they're needed?'

Delatter shrugged nonchalantly, 'I guess not.' He sat down.

Julius spoke, 'My feeling is, only one thing will stop them. We will be outnumbered at least ten to one. With odds like that the only way to get the message across is to shoot to kill anyone found committing arson or looting.'

Uproar broke out, Delatter shouting loudest, 'No way do you get my approval to a blank ticket for every trigger-happy cop in this City to use its citizens as a target gallery.' He sneered, 'Even its second-rate citizens. No way!'

Sam banged the gavel for order again.

'How does the meeting feel: for the Commissioner's suggestion?'

Only three hands rose, his own, Julius' and, surprisingly, Valicone's. Julius spoke into the phone, 'Is Captain Rodgers there?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Put him on.'

After a pause Rodgers came on the line, 'Rodgers here, Commissioner.'

'Okay. Get this and get this good, Captain: if there's no law enforcement out there all hell is gonna break loose. I want control centres set up on every junction. If they have no radios tell them to use the phones. As soon as an officer reports in have him stand by there to take calls and organise any other cops he sees. Send out all non-essential personnel from the offices - same orders. Shout out of the damned windows if you have to, but get some order out there. Keep me informed and keep this line open, but don't talk to me if it means losing a call from outside. Got it?' He began to listen carefully, his frown deepening.

'The hell you say. How many?' then, 'Damn!'

He felt the cold sweat on him. Something else had taken over now, something that had always made him stand out from the crowd, a sixth sense for trouble with a capital T. He could feel the reek of it as Rodgers spoke, 'During the last four minutes we've been jammed with calls reporting break-ins, all small stuff, all over Manhattan, uptown, downtown, all over, mostly near the rivers. We've got every car and most foot-patrols engaged. A full-scale crime-wave.'

'Any car reported in yet?'

'Yes, Sir, one. Reported finding the premises undamaged and no problem.

Oh, wait one, Sir, another coming through now. Well, I'll be! It's the same story, Sir. Seems they were both hoax calls. It just don't add.'

Julius relayed the information. Valicone dropped his head, thinking hard. Much as he hated the fuzz, and black fuzz at that... oh, the hell with it! This was personal: Minelli was going to get his before he could work it the other way round. It was on the cards if he had gone this far. The boy was ambitious - too ambitious. He must know no way would Valicone let him get away with it, and would have to make an attempt to rub him out today. Well, so be it - he'd see about that!

'It's a set-up,' he said, his tone flat, 'I caught a whisper this morning. Decoy out all the police then hit all the banks and big stores at the same time.'

Julius groaned, 'Oh, no, not that too. The hoods' convention - hundreds of them. I saw it and I didn't see it. Of course, it had to be that.' Into the phone he gritted, 'Ignore the calls. They're spoofs to tie up our manpower while they hit all the banks and big stores. Send our men to them, and don't forget Diamond Row. Right now - no questions.'

In the pause while Rodgers was carrying out his orders, Sam took over again, 'In the circumstances, gentlemen, I declare this meeting an Emergency Session, as of now. It will be held in camera. Would someone please inform the television crew?'

Lee went. He was nearest.

Julius was listening on the phone again. They waited until he reported, 'Lots of fires, all in large stores so far.'

As Lee re-entered, Sam called across, 'Ask the secretary to get some more phones in here, would you, Abel?

~~~oOo~~~

'I must insist' General Ulysses Faircorde's right hand went to his forty-five, stopped his speech dead when he found it was not there, ruined his train of thought. Hell, why had Tom taken his revolver? He felt goddamn naked without it. How in hell could he make his point if he didn't have his peacemaker to wave at the goddamn opposition? It had seen him through many an argument with his staff and sent many a good infantry officer diving for cover. Surely they knew these goddamn Russkis? Hell - force was the only thing they understood, and what the hell was he doing here anyway, talking arms limitation with the bastards?If he had his way he'd throw Comrade bloody Konyets and his whole bloody delegation through the twenty-seventh floor window of the United Nations Building into the East River, and if they survived the fall shoot the bastards as they were swimming to Roosevelt Island. It would make the rest of the nations a goddamn sight more united! He shook Tom Barnett's restraining hand off his arm angrily. Konyets was wearing that supercilious bloody grin of,his, his finger tapping annoyingly at the end of his Russian-held cigarette. 'General,' he smirked, 'you have the wish to say something?' Faircorde struggled, finally remembered what he wanted to say: 'Er yes I er was going to say ah, yes why don't we call a halt to the proceedings for one day? We have only gotten through one three-line paragraph in nineteen hours, and I guess you and your party are just as anxious to get some sleep as we are on our side of the table.' Barnett sighed silently with relief: at last the old man seemed to be getting a little sense. Konyets observed the shape of his right index fingernail carefully for a whole half minute, letting Faircorde get even hotter under the collar. At last he said, smiling confidently, 'Of course, General, if you wish. Naturally, in our country, we are used to displaying more stamina, but we quite understand: the decadent life here in the West would, of course, mean that you would tire more quickly. We will resume at eight thirty this evening if that will be sufficient time for you to recover.' He rose as Faircorde began to splutter, reaching again for the non-existent forty-five, and led his five-man delegation from the room. The stenographer had turned to the window, the muscles in her cheeks working. Like the three junior members of the delegation, Barnett grinned widely. Unlike them, he made no pretence of hiding it. 'I think,' he said, 'that was touché, General.' Faircorde felt the red-hot anger coming up in waves from his boots. It exploded as it hit the surface. 'Well,' He thundered, 'I'm goddamn right, aren't I?' He stormed out of the room, heading for the stairs and the roof.

~~~oOo~~~

Polanski's men had moved fast. Within twenty minutes of the truck being stolen they had loaded the arms and collected the entire force. Twenty-five minutes later they were outside the Embassy. Joe Speasy spun the wheel and the truck careered towards the middle of the road. As he slammed the brakes on and reversed at speed towards the front door, Polanski threw open the back doors of the vehicle. The bazooka spoke once and the door, along with several feet of wall, disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoke. Before the shocked and bewildered officials on the lower floor could collect their thoughts they were under fire from automatic weapons spouting fire and lead.

~~~oOo~~~

Upstairs in his office the Russian Ambassador, Stefan Konstantinov, was perusing again his contingency orders. A feeling he could not understand had been with him most of the afternoon, even before the message had come through about the submarine.

He was sixty-two, and today he felt his age. In the old days he would have welcomed action. He had seen plenty, in Afghanistan and many other places. After his service he had been absorbed into the security services and had served all over the world, first as an agent and later as a controller. Finally, he had been put out to grass in the Diplomatic Service.

Now, he had grown used to the quiet life.

He observed his hands minutely. Even they looked tired, wrinkled and gnarled like the hands of an eighty-year-old Siberian peasant. Of late he had worried about his constant, steady loss of weight. At seventy-three kilograms he was but a shadow of his former self, and he guessed his days were numbered, but had done nothing to have his feeling confirmed. He had always been a fatalist. When he looked in his mirror to shave in the mornings a gaunt, worn face stared back at him under wisps of thinning hair that had once, not so very long ago, been a thick, curly black mop. Even his handmade new suit, bought less than three months ago, hung on him as if on a coat rack. The noise of the explosion and the shake of the building had him on his feet and halfway to the door when it burst open.

His personal secretary, Anya Piroshka, a plain, middle-aged woman with mousy-coloured, stringy hair and a large wart on the side of her nose, a wart that annoyed him more and more every day, stood in the doorway, her mouth working silently.

He shouted angrily, 'Comrade Piroshka!'

Her eyes were staring widely. One word escaped her lips, 'Attack.'

He reacted automatically, running to slam his fist onto the button on the side of his desk. Over the stairs a heavy steel sheet crashed into place like a guillotine, sealing off the first floor of the building from the ground floor. Polanski, in the lead, had just passed the point where it fell. The man behind him was not so lucky. The blade, sliding at speed in its groove, sped down at the precise second that he was underneath it. It entered his cranium at the point where the bones met. Four-tenths of a second later one half of his body lay one side of the security door, the other lay on the stairs below it. His split open guts and his life's blood had spattered everything in sight on both sides.

Konstantinov grabbed open the top drawer of his desk, pulled out the Luger, his favourite weapon and a relic from his service days, and slipped off the safety. Then he flicked a switch on his desk and a small television screen on a table near the door began to glow.

A picture formed of the foyer below, and he took in the destruction and the men moving around, looking at the metal door that blocked their upward path. He pressed another switch and the picture changed to the upper landing. A man alone was stalking along the corridor close to his secretary's door, warily swinging the muzzle of his submachine gun. A door opened at the far end of the passage and Konstantinov saw Peter Karamasov, a Second Secretary, emerge with a large pistol in his right hand. The attacker lifted his gun and the Ambassador saw blood spurt from Karamasov's chest before he slumped to the floor.

The man had reached the outer door of the office and reached for the handle. Konstantinov pulled Piroshka urgently behind him by the arm and pressed in close to the wall. He heard the outer door open, heard the footsteps approach across the parquet floor. The man was moving slowly, expecting trouble.

Polanski knew he was alone, knew the odds against him getting out alive were astronomical, but he was happy. This was why he had been put on Earth. He would die, but he would take as many of the red bastards with him as he could. They would only have handguns, he guessed; if he was careful he could make them pay dear for his life.

The muzzle of the gun appeared at the door, no more. For a half second that seemed like eternity nothing moved, then six inches more of barrel moved forward, and with it a hand.

Konstantinov leant back, his finger tightening on the trigger of the Luger.

The shot caught Polanski between the first and second fingers. With a scream of pain he dropped the weapon. As he did so, Konstantinov stepped out, held the gun within an inch of his forehead and pulled the trigger a second time.

Polanski's body jerked once before it hit the floor.

Piroshka screamed.

Konstantinov turned. 'You stupid bitch.' he said disdainfully. He crossed quickly to the wall beside the closed circuit TV and slid back a small panel recessed into the wall. Behind it a row of switches were marked with various codes. He looked at the screen. The men below had brought in a bazooka and were setting it up to fire at the steel door.

Konstantinov smiled grimly and depressed the first switch.

Two machineguns, concealed in the side walls of the foyer, began spitting death, working on full traverse of the room, a crossfire that nothing could live in. Konstantinov surveyed his handiwork for several seconds, making sure none were left alive, then turned and strode purposefully out of the door.

In the corridor doors were opening, men and women spilling out in confusion. Konstantinov shouted, 'Get back to your desks! Emergency destruction plans in operation, now!'

They fled.

Konstantinov took the stairs up to the next floor and entered the radio room. Gregorij Alexandrovitch had heard the disturbance and sat shivering with fear, but that fear had not caused him to leave his post. His orders were clear: stay at his post until relieved, even if ordered out at gunpoint. He seemed pleased to see the Ambassador.

Konstantinov growled, 'Get me Messel.'

The operator moved two switches on the equipment in front of him and handed the Ambassador the microphone.

'Messel!'

Almost immediately a hollow voice answered from the loudspeaker above the panel.

'Here.'

'Condition North Pole.'

'Condition North Pole.' verified the voice.

Konstantinov handed the mike back to the operator. He could leave Messel to direct the special demolition squads to their respective tasks. There would be no slip-ups; Messel knew his job too well. In a very short time, New York City would have no telephone communication with the outside world except radiophone or satellite phone, no usable bridges and no petrol refinery. He congratulated himself again on his contingency plans. It had been his own personal decision to use motorcycles for the teams. Even now the men would be leaving the safe, inconspicuous house on Maiden Lane, dispersing to their tasks. When he had cleared up here, the helicopter would be waiting in New Jersey to pick him up for the start of a devious journey that would take him across the border into Canada and on to Moscow.

He came back to the immediate present. 'Contact Moscow again.' Gregorij Alexandrovitch lifted sad eyes. 'The line is very bad today, Comrade Ambassador. Since two o'clock I have received nothing but garble on the half-hourly checks. It must be due to this terrible heat.

Konstantinov's face clouded swiftly. Damn this heat: all this God-forsaken hellhole of money and decadence had to offer. Even Anna had succumbed to its temptations. He had shipped her home to stand trial.

Could he blame himself, a good Russian, for obeying the code? Could he, on the other hand, accept blame for divorcing a woman he still loved desperately, for renouncing her when he knew it was only a matter of time before the secret police twisted her evidence to incriminate him? No smoke without fire.

How many times had he used the phrase himself to incriminate innocent men? And yet, it was a good system, a little severe, perhaps, but at least it ensured that no one, no fellow traveller, no sympathiser, no soft Communist escaped the net. One knew where one stood. It was not possible to be a ninety-seven or eight per cent Russian, and if a comrade fell foul of his own code, then he must accept his fate stoically for the good of the remaining millions.

The rest of the embassy staff were busy burning papers, destroying anything of potential use to the enemy. He was alone in the radio room with the operator. The man was sweating profusely, not alone from the intense heat.

He knew conditions could not be blamed, only men. The navosj had hit the ventilyator and he was sitting right in front of it.

So, every message had been garbled. Why did they have to use this super-speed equipment all the time? Four hundred and fifty words a minute - one 'bleep' and it was all over, and the slightest malfunction in send or receive equipment, the most minute sunspot activity or satellite antenna deficiency and you lost the whole shibotsky. His anger at the system exploded into personal invective.

'You imbecile!' he bellowed, 'Dolt! You will contact Moscow immediately! Immediately - do you hear?'

Alexandrovitch sat silent, thinking: the Ambassador wasn't a bad comrade as ambassadors went, and he had known a few, but with his own head on the block who could blame him for shouting? Not that it helped. Gregorij Alexander Alexandrovitch would not normally have voiced an opinion. He should not have known, but did, what Messel's role in life was, and reasoned, quite correctly, that things were as black as they could be. His political instructors had told him what to expect from his decadent western captors: torture and a quick death if he was lucky. prolonged torture and brainwashing if he was not.

His fingers crossed, he cut into the Ambassador's tirade of abuse. 'Comrade Ambassador, there is a way...'

Konstantinov's eyes bulged with anger.

'You mean to tell me, idiot, you have let us stand here, wasting all this time, when the message could have been sent through? Imbecile!' He lashed out, landing a vicious blow on the operator's temple.

Alexandrovitch swayed, fainting, holding onto the table.

'It...it is no longer permitted, Comrade Ambassador, and would in normal circumstances be punished severely, but as things stand...'

Konstantinov's sudden temper had improved after landing the blow. He felt mollified. 'Tell me!' he commanded.

'I have,' Alexandrovitch admitted, 'a Morse key on which I practise from time to time. In the old days, when one could...' He pulled himself up short; no need to incriminate himself more than necessary, in case they ever returned to Mother Russia. No need to tell the man he had used the Embassy transmitter to work amateur radio stations all round the world, using a false American callsign.

'Yes, and?'

'I could connect it to this circuit and send the message by hand.'

'Well, do it then, man. Now!'

'It would contravene all regulations, Comrade Ambassador, and they would have to find someone who could read Morse.'

Konstantinov permitted himself a sad little smile. He felt deflated, even a little sorry he had taken out his wrath on the man.

He laid a fatherly hand on the operator's shoulder.

'If I read the signs correctly, Comrade Alexandrovitch, we are unlikely to face trial for their contravention. As the Americans would say, 'Fuck the regulations! Find the key!'

~~~oOo~~~

1550 E.S.T.

The Council Chamber looked and sounded like a war room.

Julius had set up a permanent line to Center Street; Bootz was trying to keep track of new fires, centralising the dispatch of apparatus to deal with the biggest, as and when it became available. He was fighting a rearguard action. Sam had called in the National Guard and was giving them sitreps as they headed towards the City from their camp at Springfield. The Bishop was contacting churchmen all over Manhattan, giving instructions on citizen relief. Lee, Head of the Civil Defence Committee, was mobilising all local headquarters, firing instructions decisively into the phone.

A large-scale map of the City had been brought in. Truejohn and Jenny Singer, the only woman member of the Council, were helping Cabot stick coloured flags on the board to show major incidents and fires.

Thanks to Valicone the police had not been caught with their pants down. Those who were not shot by Nightingale's men as they entered their target buildings found the police waiting for them on the outside. The few that got away had trouble moving on roads snarled up with slow moving traffic held up by fire fighting vehicles and smoke. Only eight reached the barge. Between them they had just thirty thousand dollars.

Cabot looked up to find Sam at his side.

'How is it?'

Cabot grimaced, 'Forty-three major fires and dozens of small ones, more coming in every minute. Looting and personal assaults widespread all over the City.'

Sam shook his head sadly, 'About as bad as it could be.'

Suddenly Julius shouted, 'Hold on a minute!' As the din fell he asked, 'Say that again.' and then, 'Jesus Christ!'

The Bishop muttered something inaudible.

The Commissioner turned to Cabot, a strange gleam in his eyes. 'Work out what to put up for this one: there's some kind of rumour about a Russian submarine in the harbour, and now some guys are attacking the Russian embassy.' Sam caught his eye. In one breath they said, 'Polanski!'

~~~oOo~~~

It was worse than a hothouse on the roof. The concrete had taken the bombardment all day, absorbing energy until it could take no more, and then began to re-emit the heat. Trapped inside the low parapet, with no trace of a breeze, it had filled the open-topped box-like shape with air heated to over one hundred and forty degrees. Faircorde felt it reach out to engulf him, felt the sweat burst out of his pores, felt it sapping his energy. The parapet was only ten yards away. He headed for it, hoping for a breath of cooler air from the river.

At first he saw only the pall of mist, with Queensborough Bridge sitting squat across it, then, as his eyes became accustomed to the glare, he saw the tops of the houses below on Roosevelt Island. Compared with the air on the roof, the outside air really did feel cool. In spite of the City noises, it was kind of peaceful up there. The anger inside him began to subside.

He stood without moving for almost five minutes and was on the point of turning away when he saw the mast of a ship sticking out of the mist.

The ship was heading west along the river, dragging behind it a large area of turbulence, disturbing the stillness of the mist.

As it passed Roosevelt Island the mist rolled away from the middle of the river behind it.

Faircorde stood transfixed. Before his eyes a Russian nuclear submarine lay anchored in midstream. All his anger against Konyets returned, focussed onto one spot on the river below. He rubbed his eyes. It was still there.

He moved faster than at any time in the last ten years, across the roof, through the door and along the corridor to where an armed guard stood on the stair head.

The man looked surprised. It was the first time he'd seen a general run. Faircorde's demand surprised him even more.

'Give me your gun!'

The young soldier went red, gulped half a dozen times, began to splutter,

'S-s-s-sir, I c-c-c-can't do...'

'Don't give me that bullshit, boy!' Faircorde roared, 'Hand it over!'

'C-c-c-could I ask why, S-s-s-sir?'

Faircorde spluttered with anger. He was losing precious time. He grabbed the soldier's arm. 'Come with me.' he shouted.

Together they ran back the way he had come. At the parapet Faircorde threw out an arm, pointing down onto the river. 'Look at that!'

The soldier looked. He gulped again.

'I c-c-c-can't see anything, Sir.' he said.

Faircorde looked too, his neck mottling purple.

The submarine had disappeared again under the blanket of mist. He threw up his hands and screamed, 'Goddamn shit!'

The guard looked on helplessly.

Faircorde's eyes took on a crafty gleam.

'You get your revolver out, boy, and wait,' he said, 'just wait.' They waited - two minutes - three.

Suddenly Faircorde let out a whoop. The mist had moved again and he had seen something.

'There! Look!' he shouted.

The guard looked but saw nothing.

'Keep looking!' Faircorde screamed as the soldier went to turn his head away, 'You'll see it in a minute!'

The guard was still frightened of him, but no longer subdued. A general he might be, but it was obvious he'd blown a fuse.

'There!' Faircorde yelled jubilantly.

With a swift grab and a twist he had the gun out of the guard's hand. Raising it, he gauged the trajectory he would have to use to reach the submarine. He pulled the trigger as the soldier stood helpless. There was nothing in the manual to cover this situation, and he had looked, and seen. He asked himself what he should do and decided there was no answer to that one.

Faircorde saw the man on the conning tower of the submarine look upwards. Swearing, he loosed off the rest of the rounds, pulled the trigger once more, said 'Shit!' in a loud voice and charged off across the concrete again towards the door. A forty-five was no good in this situation, and he was determined to get that sub!

~~~oOo~~~

1600 EST

Jean Bernardson threw a last quick, 'Thanks a million, Kitty.' over her shoulder. No locking up tonight - this was the big one. After a lifetime of getting laid on first dates that were usually the last, and enjoying every minute of it, she had for once taken Kitty's advice and played hard to get.

It looked as though it had worked - at least tonight was a fifty-dollar dinner and, she hoped, the big question.

But first she had to get home, to the one room dump in Flatbush Avenue over in the Bronx she called home. She might just make the four-fifteen if she hurried.

The sidewalk was jammed and she had to use elbows and bag to carve a passage through, careful to protect the hairdo she'd spent her last fifty bucks on during the lunch break. That had been Kitty's idea too:

'Accentuate your best asset, hon. Give that mop the best you can afford, an' leave your figure to speak for itself.'

Jean realised right away it made sense. Her hair had always been the thing that attracted the opposition. Bright copper-red with a natural wave and shine, it flowed like a mane down to her shoulders. Men said it gave her a wanton look. By nature or design she lived up to it. Her mouth was just a little too large and one of her front lower teeth not perfectly straight. Together they made her conscious smile a trifle crooked, but when she smiled naturally her face glowed like the sun on the beach at Malibu. Her eyes, too, over-round and slightly large for her high-cheek boned face could have given her a cow-like appearance but for the shock of her hair. If she said so herself, her legs were good if not perfect, and her body well stacked and vital. When she stood naked in front of the full-length mirror morning and night checking for non-existent wrinkles she admired what she saw. Watching her own hands running over her body she'd say, 'Hell, you turn me on, it should work for the guys.'

Ten minutes later, soaked with her own juices, she'd groan pleasurably, 'Oh, yeah!'

At twenty-nine it was still a pretty good body, even if she had used it hard.

If the sidewalk was bad, the platform was worse. Using elbows and knees she squeezed her way up to a position four heads back from the tracks. The thin cotton dress was stuck to her and she could feel the rivulets of sweat running between her breasts and down her legs, the crush so intense she found it impossible to lift her arm to look at her watch. The platform clock showed four-twelve. Thank God \- only three minutes.

The air in the subway was even more foul than usual, over laden with the taint of stale perspiration and smoke.

Cutting through the crowd she had at last squeezed between the two men now slightly behind her and to each side. The old guy on the left, jammed tightly to her at a three-quarter angle must have been seventy, He looked a sweet old guy. Hell, he'd even smiled when she jabbed an elbow into his ribs to make him move. She could see him smiling now, out of the corner of her eye, although he must have been feeling rough in the rotten atmosphere. The guy on the right was in his early twenties with high, plucked eyebrows and a supercilious look.

Jean had classed him immediately as gay and gave him not another thought. Guys like him did nothing for her.

Seconds later she began to change her mind.

The hand started on her right buttock. At first she thought it a leg brushing hers in the crush, then she felt the fingers deliberately squeeze the flesh. The hand moved gently across the smooth round bulge.

Far from annoyed, she found herself becoming aroused and more than a little inquisitive as to which of the two unlikely candidates was her secret admirer. So much so that when the hand left her she felt cheated, but only for a moment, until she felt the hem of her dress being inched upwards in small, jerky movements, felt it slide above her thighs and then the hand again, on bare flesh this time, sliding inside the waistband of her panties, caressing the smooth, round flesh of her well shaped buttocks, one finger sliding wetly down the cleavage between them.

Though her feet were jammed tightly together so that she could not move either of them sideways, she lifted one from the ground, catching someone in the shins with her toe in the process.

With her legs a little open the hand could reach its destination.

The motions began slowly, jerkily, as the fingers struggled with their awkward task, then faster and faster. She tensed every muscle as her excitement mounted, waves of pleasure making her forget where she was, ignorant of her own low moans and the stares of those around her, content only to enjoy to the full the hot, sticky flow as the climax approached.

The orgasm came in pulses of white-hot sugar-pain. She clenched her teeth to stop the scream her body sent to her throat, a throat dry with excitement.

The hand had felt the tension and the release. Slowly, caressingly, the fingers slid back the way they had come, easing out of the waistband and allowing the dress to fall again. Slowly the pleasure waves receded. Where before she had been damp with perspiration, she now felt soaked to the skin, but deliriously happy. She wished she could turn, could see in the eyes which of the two it had been. Not the old guy, for sure - it had been a young-feeling hand, smooth as her own fanny.

Maybe Plucked Eyebrows wasn't so kinky after all. She let her head back a little, close to his, was about to say, 'Thanks, fellah.' when another head touched hers from directly behind and a voice whispered softly in her ear, 'Get out at Jay Street.'

Bile rose in her throat and she almost gagged. The voice was a woman's.

The foot she'd lifted earlier would do. She stabbed backwards and had the pleasure of feeling the crack of her stiletto heel on bone and hearing the shriek of pain over the rumble of the train slowing for its stop two yards away.

~~~oOo~~~

1615 E.S.T.

There were so many fires Cabot had run out of coloured flags. He crossed to his seat at the table to get a coloured marker pen from his briefcase. He put his hand under the chair and pulled out what he thought was his. He frowned. His case was brown, this one was black. He stood it on the table and groped around for his own. Trundell had been sitting next to him on that side. The guy must have forgotten to take it, feeling the way he did.

Cabot walked back over to the map. Sam was standing in front of it, weighing up the current situation.

Cabot stopped beside him. 'Looks like Trundell left his briefcase behind.' He said. He waved a hand towards the table.

Sam frowned, puzzled. 'No - he had it with him when he left.'

Cabot shrugged. 'Oh, must be somebody else's.'

Sam felt another twinge in the short hairs on the back of his neck. He crossed quickly to Julius.

Very quietly he said, 'There's a briefcase on the table, Julius. Looks like Trundell's, but he took his with him.'

Julius' eyes lifted. 'Oh, God, no, You don't think...?' Sam nodded slowly.

'Well, we can soon find out.' He shouted, 'Quiet, everyone!'

When the noise died down he said urgently, 'Does that case on the table belong to anyone here?'

No one spoke, but there were several scared glances.

'I think,' said Julius quietly, 'someone had better take a look at it.'

He looked at the faces around him: men used to power, some, like Valicone, the power of life and death. Now the power was his, and he felt no sense of danger.

'Get out quickly,' he ordered, 'and go out into the corridor to the left-hand end. There's a stairwell at the other end. I'll take it there and open it.'

They went gratefully, happy to leave the heroics to him. Only Sam remained. He hesitated.

'Julius, I appreciate what you're doing, but the Bomb Squad...'

'Wouldn't get here for twenty minutes, Sam, if at all. That could be too late. 'He smiled, ' Look on the bright side; if it goes off there'll just be one more good negro.'

Sam rose to the bait, 'Now, hold on...'

Julius beamed. 'Sorry, Sam. Couldn't resist it. You know that wasn't meant for you.' He jerked his head towards where the others had gone. 'Some of the congregation wouldn't cry no tears for me.'

Sam nodded, 'I guess you're right. You take care, eh?'

Julius grinned, 'I sure as hell intend to.'

He gave Sam thirty seconds to get to a safe distance before gripping the handle. The case looked so damned innocent, but then so did most of the nasties he'd seen in the past ten years.

It weighed less than three pounds and lifted easily. If it had a device inside it was anti-personnel and no building destroyer. He grinned again: that was a hell of a consolation.

Gingerly he stepped to the doorway, looked down towards the small crowd huddled thirty yards away at the end of the corridor before walking slowly to the stairwell at far right, holding the case firmly and stiffly in his left hand so carefully he realised he was holding his breath.

Halfway between floors the architect had designed a wide, triangular platform stair as a spacer. Julius stopped and eased the case down onto the floor, using his body as a shield between the case and the outside wall. It wasn't much, but it might save the wall. He breathed in and out deeply several times before kneeling beside it. Flexing his fingers first he put his big hands out to grip the case firmly, using his thumbs to flick open first one catch, then the other. He found himself listening for a ticking that wasn't there. His heart, usually powerful and steady, was beating fast and erratically, his mouth so dry he could not have spoken if he'd wanted.

His dusky face had turned a muddy grey. Where before he had been cool and sure of himself he now found he was sweating, fingers sticky and shaking slightly, but still unafraid, more full of a strange excitement, the bitter-sweet enjoyment of mortal fear.

He offered up a short prayer before lifting quickly.

Only when he opened them again did he realise his eyes had been closed.

Inside the case there was nothing but papers. He picked out half a dozen, realised instantly they were plans and requisitions for the power relays. Dropping them back into the case he got to his feet and ran full pelt down the corridor.

'Relax,' he shouted, 'it's Trundell's!'

They came fast, silence disappearing under the gabble of relieved voices until one, Valicone's, shouted over the rest:

'Then whose case did he take with him?'

The silence returned, faces looking at faces for confirmation. One by one they remembered.

'Sure, I saw him walk out the door with it.'

'Yeah, that's right, he changed hands to get hold of the door handle.'

'He's right.'

Julius summed up for all of them, 'He took a case, and this one is his. Then the case he took must be...' He yelled, 'My God, the power stations!' He made a dive for the phone.

~~~oOo~~~

4.18 E.S.T.

Trundell watched the control panel with deepening gloom as the demand for power crept relentlessly up to and beyond the previous maximum. It was only a matter of time before something blew.

For the last ten minutes he had been load shedding. The other stations had similar instructions, but still the load increased.

Very soon they would have to close down whole areas instead of reducing voltage.

Since leaving the meeting Martin had not left his side, watching him every second, pushing up his blood pressure until his head was bursting and his vision so blurred even the readings on the dials grew indistinct.

He worked almost automatically, his mind on his own troubles. If he lived, what could he expect? At best a ruined career, a long term in prison, his money confiscated. At worst a long drive off a short pier - a nothing future. His first reaction was the right one: there was nowhere to go, nothing to live for. He felt his heartbeat quicken. The gun was in the drawer of the console, where his briefcase stood. He had to distract the cop's attention, get rid of the other two operatives in the control room.

'Jenkins, Marshall,' he tried to speak normally, but heard the quaver in his voice himself. He hoped it was hidden from the detective, 'go down to the fuse room and check the ambient temperature. I don't trust this gauge.'

As soon as the door closed behind them he spoke to the detective. 'There's a switch on the wall over by the door - that one - below the two blue lights. Will you switch it up when I tell you?'

The cop hesitated, and Trundell thought for a moment he would refuse, then he moved towards it, taking him out of sight, behind the console. Trundell slid open the drawer.

'Are you ready?'

He lifted the gun, slid off the safety, opened his mouth.

As the hammer fell, the contacts of the mechanism in the briefcase closed.

~~~oOo~~~

Flatbush three-oh-four pulled out ten seconds late, uneasily crammed to over-capacity. The mainly commuter passengers were hot, sticky with sweat and short-tempered. Like Jean Bernardson, in the second car, most of them had made a breathless dash through crowded, sweltering streets, and had a crushed, soggy wait on a platform filled to overflowing with steaming, smelly humanity. Never of the purest, the air in the subway seared the lungs, heavy and tainted, and the heat had even penetrated the depths. Office girls, their undies stuck to them, jostled for starting positions, for once ignoring the fanny-rubbers and worse.

When the doors opened, those at the front had been crushed, rushed, lifted bodily and cast like rag-dolls into compartments already over-full, sheer weight of bodies jamming fifty more in each compartment than the designer of the cars had intended.

The guard, fed-up and almost drugged with the heavy-laden atmosphere, shrugged and turned away, ignoring the daily breach of regulations.

Slowly, very slowly, the motors began to move the heavy train with its three thousand souls northeasterly towards the river tunnel and the sparser civilisations and breathable air of the outer suburbs.

The train was two hundred yards under the river when the power went - at first just motive power.

Groans and sighs mingled with more pithy epithets as the passengers jostled for more comfortable positions.

A nun, in habit, lucky to have a seat, crossed herself silently. A slim, blonde-haired pickpocket in the front car slipped another billfold into his pocket as the elderly gent on his left fell against him with the sudden stopping jolt of the train. Two boys from Hoboken playing hookey from school held their heads back trying to get enough air to breathe. No one worried - it happened all the time.

When the lights flickered twice the rumble of conversation died quickly.

It was one thing to be stopped, quite another to be in total darkness. The lights came on again, brighter than before, to audible sighs of relief, and the conversation restarted.

Three minutes later it died again as the lights flickered, dimmed, extinguished. For several seconds no one spoke, then, suddenly, a woman's shriek shattered the inky silence.

In seconds, bodies were fighting with bodies, unseen, unknown, punching, kicking, scratching. Knives were pulled and used, blindly, unfeelingly. Bodies were pulled down and trampled, blood and flesh mashing on the metal floor. Hands found throats and squeezed. Fingers found eyes and gouged. Knees found testicles. Hair was torn out by the roots. The air was one long scream.

By the door of the second car a hoodlum with the unlikely name of Jason Fleese felt the headache taking over his body. His mind, affected by three terms in mental institutions, cracked. He pulled the gun from his inside pocket and held it in front of him. Blindly he pumped at the trigger until it was empty, the slugs smashing their way into the bone and muscle of bodies close in front of him.

Jean Bernardson took two, full in the breast. Her body slid slowly down onto the floor as blind panic took the crowd. Within seconds her face was unrecognisable, her expensive hairdo a mass of bloodied straw.

Feet and arms smashed at windows and doors. Those who escaped, scrambling to the safety of the track, stumbled blindly back the way the train had come, striking out wildly at any living body they met on their way. From the entire train, two men, one black, one white, emerged at the station on the far shore.

~~~oOo~~~

Reaction had set in. Elsa drove as if in a dream, mechanically, unaware of the crush of traffic, the fires and the hold-ups. Time had lost all meaning. When the traffic lights went out she sat at the corner of East Eighth Street, less than halfway to her destination, surrounded by the sound of thousands of motor horns, with no thought of moving, blind to her surroundings.

She saw but ignored the approach of the three coloured men, offered little resistance when they forced her from the car and bundled her into a nearby house.

The dark interior brought her back to reality. When they unzipped their pants she began to scream.

They left her naked body next to the corpse of the owner and put a match to the house on their way out.

The news had reached the stands at three-forty. Paperboys had been making the most of it for over half an hour:

'Russian nuclear submarine in New York Harbour! Read all about it!'

The late headlines made the most of the news, and the columns below blossomed with wildly exaggerated rumours. By four-twenty most of New York had heard the story. Many ignored it as wild rumour, but the considerable percentage who worried about the possibility of nuclear war began to worry more. The City began to get the jitters.

In Union Square the pundits of doom began pounding out their message afresh from hastily erected platforms.

The truck carrying Sher Hatyaara was halfway across the intersection of Leonard and Broadway when the lights went out.

The driver, used to heavies and in no mood to give priority to passenger cars, kept his foot hard on the gas.

He heard the sirens too late.

The first patrol-car, carrying Sergeants Pike and Wheeler, ripped the wheel from his hands and stood the truck on two wheels; the second, manned by patrolmen Kossov and Pirelli, travelling at speed only yards behind the first and with no gap to find, hit beneath the cab, spinning it onto its roof. As the trailer fell onto its side, an Oldsmobile out of control slammed into the bars of the cage roof,

Dazed by the triple impact and alarmed by the steam hissing from the Oldsmobile's torn radiator, Sher Hatyaara shook herself. The anger from the pain of a crack on the head as the trailer turned over joined forces with a more primeval lust as her nostrils picked up the smell of human blood and fear close by. The parivataka akara sensed that its time of Destiny was near.

Half the hood and the front wheels of the Oldsmobile lay inside the tiger's cage. Her sharp eyes measured the gap between the metal of the car and the twisted bars of her prison. There was room. A burst of joyous lust welled up inside her. Gingerly she took the first step onto the hood.

Finding it solid beneath her paws she edged forward, peering first into the hole in the windshield of the sedan, where the passenger, an obese woman in her late sixties, had been knocked out in the crash, her head hitting the screen, knocking out a large part of it.

The driver, a man young enough to be her son, had crumpled below the steering wheel, comatose.

The woman was trying to focus her eyes through a film of blood that had run down from the multiple cuts on her forehead. An atavistic fear tightened her gut even before she saw the tiger's head framed in the hole. She had just left Molineux' store wearing her purchase on her collar - a big brooch of bright metal, cut to reflect light from every angle, like a score of mirrors. As she struggled, the tiger's eyes were plagued by the intermittent flashing, its ears assailed by the woman's wails and whimpers. As it lifted its paw she screamed. One stroke of the limb was enough to break the woman's neck, almost lifting the head from the body.

Two men from another car were bent over her in the doorway, trying to help, when she screamed. One of them pulled himself from the interior to escape. If he'd had the sense to crawl under the car he might have made it. As he pulled himself erect, a blow from the big cat's paw smashed in his skull like an overripe watermelon.

The tiger sat down on the roof of the Oldsmobile and looked around, disdainfully ignoring the other human in mortal anguish below, enjoying the waves of heavy-smelling fear coming from him as he tried to run backwards, his eyes never leaving her, tripping, falling, crying, 'Oh, Jesus! Oh, dear God...oh...oh...oh...'

For the moment the surging mass of humanity scattering around her was forgotten. Through all the scents she could smell one against whom her whole being longed for revenge.

Randiti had been knocked out in the crash, but was coming to. At first he thought the blood that covered him was his own, but when full vision returned he found himself lying on the upside down roof of the cab. The driver's body lay on top of him, his head almost severed by the jagged edge of the windscreen. He had bled like a stuck pig all over Randiti.

Blood worried Randiti not at all. He had seen much worse in the western Indian states at the time of partition. Cautiously he moved his body. Nothing seemed broken. He eased out from under the driver's body and began to slide out through the window.

Sher Hatyaara saw and waited. She waited until Randiti gained his feet and then she sprang. In the split-second between seeing her and dying he had no time to make absolution with his gods.

Her weight smashed him to the ground and her jaws tore out his throat in one massive bite as they fell together. Not satisfied, she bit his head again and again until it was nothing but a bloody, pulped mess.

Viciously she bit into the body, lifting it from the ground and shaking it. Only then did she let it drop. There were other live humans to be considered, but before leaving him she tore a large mouthful of flesh from his neck, chewed once and swallowed it.

She leapt back onto the roof of the Oldsmobile and looked around casually, licking her lips. Then the parivataka made her roar.

Until that moment many of the pedestrians and halted motorists on the streets were unaware of her presence.

Kossov and Pirelli had been crawling out of their wrecked vehicle. Kossov was badly concussed and his vision blurred. When the tiger roared he reacted automatically, drawing his handgun and firing at the nearest shadow. It was the other patrol car. His shots ricocheted off in all directions, save one slug, which smashed through the side window and into the forehead of Sergeant Wheeler, slumped unconscious over the wheel.

Sher Hatyaara roared again and sprang down to the road. The occupants of the stopped cars were abandoning their vehicles and joining the screaming, jostling hysterical mob surging away in all directions from the intersection. Screams and shouts mixed with cries of pain as the weaker ones were knocked down and trampled underfoot by the blind, fleeing mob.

Panic had them by the balls, and as those who had seen the tiger met those who had not the craze in their eyes had a hypnotic spreading effect. Without knowing why they too turned and fled for their lives, the sheer panic spreading from street to street, block to block, until the whole City was fleeing from untold horrors, trampling and killing hundreds of the less able unfortunates who got in their way.

The tiger ignored them, concentrating on the movements of Kossov and Pirelli, sensing that trouble could only come from them. She crouched, as if back in the jungle, her body low on the ground, her tail twitching slowly from side to side. She crawled forward, one paw at a time, stalking.

Kossov, still unable to see clearly and baffled by the receding noise of the fleeing mob, stood unsure, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. Pirelli, with a broken leg and right arm, lay on the road the far side of the car, moaning quietly.

Kossov sensed rather than saw the tiger. He lifted the revolver, waving it from side to side, unable to see the target. He had forgotten the gun was empty.

A sudden low growl from close in front of him turned his blood to water. He pulled the trigger and heard the click of the firing pin striking a dead shell.

He yelled, 'Joe! Are you there? I can't see; What the hell is it?'

Pirelli opened pain-closed eyes. The car had ended right way up and underneath it he could see the forepaws and shaggy underbelly of the tiger.

'Jesus.' he breathed. He passed out.

Sher Hatyaara had reached her distance. Her hind legs tensed and she sprang, striking Kossov full in the chest, smashing him to the ground, where she dispatched him with one blow of her paw.

Almost nonchalantly she stalked around the car to where Pirelli lay. Her jaws opened and closed once. His skull shattered like the shell of an egg under attack by a spoon.

She heard the two shots and felt the needle-pains in her left hind leg.

The slugs had torn through flesh but missed the bone. She roared with pain and anger. Coiling her powerful muscles she leapt onto the roof of the police car, down to the ground and, with one bound, onto Sergeant Pike, standing with revolver raised by the other car. He had recovered consciousness in time to see her attack his comrades. Wheeler was dead.

Now he was doing what he could. When Sher Hatyaara pounced he was too slow on the trigger.

She lifted her head and looked around. It was very quiet. As far as she could see along Leonard Street and Broadway not a single human being moved. She was in complete control of that section of Manhattan.

She sniffed the air disdainfully and set off, heading east along Broadway.

~~~oOo~~~

'Ma-as-ax!'

The Delice's bellow welled like a small tidal wave out of the bedroom. Alexander unglued himself from the eyepiece of the telescope with a heavy sigh.

'Ach - mochitsaya!' He swore, then quoted, 'And the voice of the turtle shall be heard in the land.'

He ambled across the lounge to the door of the bedroom and sighed again.

She lay face down, spread-eagled on the counterpane, without a stitch on. 'My God,' he thought, 'that a man should see such sights. Time was, it would have turned him on, and he would have done the business. No longer, more the pity. His gaze took in the half empty gin bottle beside the bed and the thousand-buck Fifth Avenue gown thrown in the corner. With difficulty he controlled his temper.

'Like what?'

'Reporters,' she slurred, 'on their way up.' The giggle and a loud hiccup that followed annoyed him more than the words. He'd heard the phone ring and wished now he'd answered himself.

'So what the hell you doing - posing for photographs, or what? Get dressed - now.'

He picked up the gown from the floor and threw it at her. She did not move.

Alexander moved nearer the bed, lifted his right arm well above the shoulder and brought it down with a loud 'thwack' on her rump.

She screamed and began to swear vilely at him, but as he moved in with his fists balled she grabbed the dress and pulled it on with one wriggling motion.

He looked her up and down with disgust.

'You,' he said, in a quiet, cold voice, 'you are a mess.' He turned on his heels.

He was two paces from the door when the bell rang.

'Schtostokaya al!' he swore again, turning back, 'And do your hair, slut!'

He slammed the door behind him and screwed his face into a smile before answering the bell.

'Well, hello, gentlemen, lady - come in - help yourselves to champagne and...'His words tailed off as he realised only two men and a woman stood in the corridor.

His smile returned, 'Oh, I see - the rest are coming later?'

The taller of the men shook his head. 'Nope, Mr. Alexander - this is it - the whole damn shooting match. And,' he grinned ingenuously, 'I guess you're lucky to have us. I'm Carter from the Star, and this is Bob Danvers, Chronicle, and Nancy Breen from the Express.'

Alexander was perplexed. 'But why? Don't they want the news - the...' he searched for the word, 'the scoop?'

The woman, a tall, willowy blonde with the hard-bitten look of a long-time reporter and a sullen, I-wish-I-was-anywhere-but-here expression on her face, answered for them,'They don't want your news, Max.' It was obvious from her tone she didn't either, 'They've got plenty without it. You'll be lucky to make the bottom of page twelve.'

Alexander realised he was frowning and made a conscious effort to stop. 'What do you mean - page twelve? Don't Max Alexander always rate page one? And this time the biggest story of all.'

The Breen woman looked down her nose at him again and he remembered her. She'd given him a hard time at a press conference six months before and a rotten write-up in her column. He disliked her instinctively, and the sweat stains under her armpits and thick beads of perspiration on her forehead made him like her even less.

'With the black population of this City ready to break out in riot and reports of a Russian submarine in the East River my editor needs your news like a broken master tape in his video editing machine.'

Alexander's jaw dropped. 'A Russian submarine? But that's my. Submarine. That's why I brought you here - to see it. See - there's my telescope.' He waved to a side table, 'The pictures - the write-up. She is the star of my next movie, 'THE SEA QUEEN'.'

'An' tha'ss me.' Delice had come silently out of the bedroom, trying to restrain her voice in her interview tones and failing miserably.

'Maxie's star - his one and only.' She ran her fingers through the old man's hair, knowing how he hated it, deliberately flicking it out of place over his forehead.

'Shaaron!' he began angrily, 'You...'

'That's right, ain't it, honey?' she interrupted him, 'And you are gonna make me an honest woman, too. Tell the nice lady and gen'lmen.'

The man called Carter was shaking his head in disgust. 'Aw, come on, Mr. Alexander \- we know how you feel about publicity, but using this, man, it's just not on. This could be real serious. If that's all you've got for us, I got better things to do.'

The Breen woman lifted her nose up another half inch with a supercilious sniff. 'So have I.'
They were out of the door before Alexander could object. He shouted down the corridor after them, 'No...wait - you don't know what you're missing...this movie...eighty-million budget...'

The only answer he got was their retreating backs turning the corner. Behind him Delice began to laugh hysterically.

'The great Max Alexander - movie mogul - given the cold shoulder by a couple of newspaper schnooks - hahahahahahahaha...'

His open right hand caught her hard on the cheek and the laugh turned to tears. He began to swear viciously.

Suddenly he realised the reporter Danvers had not left but was going through the blurbs lying on the table, his face showing the disbelief he felt. He kept repeating two words over and over, 'My God. My God. My God.'

Max stopped swearing. 'So okay, already - you got a God! So what the hell?' His dander was up and he was letting his real self show. He did not notice Sharon leave the apartment, nor heard her swearing to get even with him.

'My God.' Danvers repeated again, 'You really have. And the world out there believes we're being attacked by the Russkis. My God.' He grabbed the phone, waved his hand,' Okay?'

Max shrugged grumpily, 'I should care.'

Danvers lost no time.

'Colin,' he said to his editor, grinning, 'Get this and get it good, and hold page one. The submarine belongs to Alexander. Yes - Max Alexander. It's just a bloody movie stunt.'

Alexander saw his grin disappear as he listened, and the back of his neck begin to go red.

'No!' he almost shouted, 'I am not drunk. Yes, I know he would...yes...but...Jesus Christ! Colin, listen, will you!' His neck went almost purple with anger and he finished sourly, 'Yes, Sir, Mister Saunders.'

He hung up and looked over at Max hopelessly.

'He won't listen. The bloody fool just won't listen.' He looked close to tears.

Alexander was flabbergasted, 'But why?'

Danvers lifted his hands, palms up, in a characteristic gesture for him.

'Face it, Mr. Alexander, when it comes to a news story, you're a non-starter compared to a genuine Soviet sub in New York harbour. He thinks you've just grabbed on the idea as a publicity stunt, and even if he believed it, he wouldn't want to believe it.'

'But that's just what it is.' Protested the old man, 'A publicity stunt.'

'No-one's going to believe it, and I mean no one. Sorry, Mr. Alexander - he told me I either drop the story or I don't go in for work tomorrow. I've got a wife and two kids.' He lifted his hand again and repeated, 'I'm sorry.'

Alexander shrugged. It was true: his entire career had been built on one publicity stunt after another. He opened the door for Danvers.

'Okay,' he said, 'You're a good man. Take it easy, eh?'

He closed the door, turned to look for Delice, swore.

'Now where the hell is that bitch?'

Halfway to the door he had a sudden idea. He picked up the phone.

'Get me the President,' he demanded. Listening, he reddened with anger, 'What do you mean, 'What President'? Our President! The President of the United States, dummy!'

~~~oOo~~~

Corrigan had stayed on the conning tower. It was not so important now. Max had assured him the tug would come at six, on high tide. The butterflies in his stomach had calmed down to a steady, controllable flutter. Plenty of ships had passed them, but all well to one side or the other. He had heard them, but seen only the superstructures of two of them over the mist. He had almost begun to enjoy the situation, sitting out here in a giant cotton wool cocoon, while the rest of the world went by. The skyline of Manhattan poking out of the mist lent the scene an air of unreality, like a futuristic painting of a city of the next century.

When the explosion came it was close enough to rattle the plates under his feet.

Harrison was first up the ladder. He gasped, 'What the hell was that?'

Corrigan shrugged. 'Dunno, but it was too bloody close for comfort.' He listened for a moment.

'What do you make of that?' He waved a hand expansively towards the invisible Manhattan shore, from where the sound of thousands of motor horns disguised the sudden absence of traffic roar.

As Harrison listened with him there came a new sound they could not distinguish: the muffled panic screams of hundreds of voices, mixed with shouts and howls of fear.

Harrison frowned, 'God Almighty knows.'

'Aye - an' He's not telling.'

~~~oOo~~~

The cab crossed Ninety-Sixth Street at snail's pace. The whole street seemed ablaze to left and right as far as the eye could see. A furrier's and a boutique on the nearest corner looked unoccupied, both full of smoke, their doors standing open. There was no sign of police or fire brigade.

The smoke was lying thick in the street and even with the windows closed and ventilation off its acrid fumes choked then to the point of vomiting, The heat in the cab was appalling. Perspiration had soaked their clothes, and Bibba's hair ran wet with sweat.

For the first time they saw people huddled in doorways, coughing, their eyes running with tears, and two bodies sprawled out on the kerb, apparently lifeless, an old lady beside her shopping bag, its contents spilled out over the sidewalk around her, and a small boy, his left arm dangling lifeless over the kerbstones into the road.

Bibba reached for the door handle, appealing, 'Oh, Charlie, we must do something.'

Charlie turned, his hand taking her wrist firmly.

'They look dead. If they are, you can't help them, if they aren't, there's nothing we can do. Look at the state of the others out there. The police will take care of them.'

Bibba opened her mouth to protest; who was he to tell her what to do? She was saved from the decision by the arrival of two policemen, who arrived running out of the smoke. She saw them check first one body, then the other. They looked at each other and shook their heads. The last she saw they were disappearing again into the smoke at the double. The bodies were left lying where they found them.

They reached Forty-Second Street at four-seventeen and again came to a dead stop. On the way they had seen over a hundred lifeless bodies on the sidewalks, passed more than a dozen cars whose drivers slumped over their wheels, four of them driven over sidewalks into shops and houses. No one stopped to help. They had seen so many fires they had lost count.

On Forty-Second there was less smoke. Breathing was easier. The sound of police sirens had been with them for over an hour, mostly distant. Now they could hear little else. The world seemed full of their ugly music.

Suddenly a crowd of almost twenty black youths burst out of the doorway of an insurance office, all kinds of blunt instruments in their hands, from chair legs to umbrellas. They seemed full of a strange devilment, their eyes afire with the same light Charlie and Bibba had seen before.

The sight of so many parked cars at their mercy filled them with a new lust. Shouting foul abuse they fell on the automobiles, weapons flying, smashing windows and hauling occupants out into the road, where their clubs rose and fell with murderous, deadly intent.

Charlie saw two cops emerge from a police car sixty yards ahead, revolvers in hand.

'Keep your head down,' he warned, 'there's gonna be some shooting.' Bibba turned from the back window.

'There are six more coming up from behind. Look!'

The two groups of cops were working a pincer movement, keeping low and threading their way through the cars towards the youths.

Suddenly the air was full of shots. Six of the group died on their feet.

The rest hit the deck, fast.

More shots followed, ricochets whining off car panels like whiz bangs on the Fourth of July.

Bibba shrieked as the taxi windscreen fell in on them in a shower of Triplex She began to cry quietly.

Charlie tried to pacify her, 'Keep your chin up, ma'am.'

She lifted her eyes. 'What are you trying to make me - a contortionist?'

Charlie looked puzzled.

She smiled, 'Head down - chin up?'

He grinned. At least it had done the trick. 'Don't worry - we're still alive and kicking.'

'Charlie,' her voice held a hopeless tone, 'is there anything we can do?

'Sit tight and pray,' he said gruffly. He hoped he sounded more optimistic than he felt.

Screams and shouts brought their attention hack to the street. A howling mob surrounded the six policemen who had been shooting behind them. None of them could be seen through the crowd of black faces around them, their arms and weapons falling viciously.

The two cops ahead had begun shooting again, trying to pick their shots to miss their colleagues, unaware of the five coloured men who rose from the cars behind them. Hidden by the vehicles, they had crawled round to out-manoeuvre them.

The shooting stopped suddenly.

A knife flashed in the air, then again.

Bibba screamed. One of the men was holding a head in his hand, severed at the neck. As they watched, horrified, it was passed from hand to hand, each man rubbing his hands on the bloody stump and daubing the blood over his face and clothes. Filled with blood lust they turned from the corpses of the police to drag screaming drivers and passengers from their cars onto the street, where they brutally murdered them.

Bibba saw them coming. They were weaving through the cars, ignoring the occupants of other automobiles. There were two of them, armed with hand-guns taken from the murdered policemen.

One was the ugliest man she had ever seen. Someone had tried facial surgery on him, knowing he was not going to pay the bill.

He had only one eye, the left, and over the socket where the other should have been the flap of the eyelid hung loose. A knife scar eight inches long ran through the eyelid up into the hairline above, and down his cheek through the lips, almost as far as the jaw. If the wound had been stitched, someone had badly botched the job, leaving the right side of his mouth permanently crooked. Whoever had used the knife on him had also cut off his left ear.

The other was a youth of no more than sixteen. His tee shirt and pants hung on him like cast-offs on a scarecrow, but he held the revolver as though he meant business, and the fire of savagery burnt in his eyes.

When they reached for the door handle she screamed.

Charlie had seen them coming too. He had half turned, his right arm holding the gun level on the back rest of the front seat, his left over the weapon, concealing it.

As the door opened to its full extent he fired twice.

The first shot hit ugly-face full in the nose. It disintegrated into blood-spattered flesh and mucus, and he careered backwards into the youth, knocking him off balance as he tried to level the gun in his hand.

Before he could recover, Charlie shot again, striking low in the youth's chest. The boy's eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open, but he still stood and the arm lifting the gun kept moving upwards.

Chaclie pulled the trigger again. The hammer fell with a click.

Charlie froze, expecting death. Mesmerised, he watched the boy's trigger finger whitening.

He had forgotten Bibba. Her handbag, thrown with all her force through the open door, struck the youth in the face, throwing off his aim for a second time.

Charlie had closed his eyes, waiting, saying a last prayer to his Lord. He felt the heat of the shot in his face and his hair pull as the slug passed two millimetres above his skull. When he opened his eyes again the youth had sunk to his knees, holding the revolver over his chest where Charlie's bullet was burning in his lungs.

An involuntary spasm ran through his body, jerking his trigger finger. The revolver had been lying parallel to his chest. The shot missed the stomach but hit the scrotum, ripping the soft flesh into shreds. The boy screamed, rolling in agony.

The driver of the Cadillac on their right had locked his doors on the inside when the shooting started and got down below window level. Now he lifted his head and peered over the sill. He saw the bodies lying in the road and recovered his courage. Shoving the door open, he slid out onto the asphalt.

They saw a heavily built Eurasian in an expensive suit, with short-cropped ginger hair and a pencil moustache. Bibba noticed his eyes first. They were peevish eyes, with no laughter lines, and his thin, aquiline nose gave him an air of cruelty.

They thought he had got out to speak, but instead, without warning, he lunged with his foot into the side of the wounded youth's head, then again and again.

Bibba leapt out of the cab, grabbing his arm.

'Stop it!' she screamed, 'Stop it! You make us as bad as they are!' The man shoved her roughly away onto the boot of the cab and screamed at her, 'Fuck off!'

Two more men joined him from other cars, all kicking the now lifeless body.

Suddenly Charlie's voice stopped them short.

'One more kick,' he spat out, 'and you're dead!'

He had picked up the ugly man's police special from where it had dropped in the road and was holding it rock steady.

The men turned, looking sheepish. The Cadillac driver pouted.

'Hell,' he said, 'We're only doing to him what they've been doing to us. Did you see what they did to those cops, and the people from the cars? And hell, you shot the slob. We're only kicking.'

Charlie growled, 'Yeah.' With great satisfaction he brought the barrel of the gun down on the side of the guy's neck and smiled as he crumpled. The other two backed off towards their cars.

Hundreds of hooters were blowing. With the wreaths of smoke, the searing heat, the screams and the blood it was a scene out of hell. The cab's dashboard thermometer had climbed to one forty-two.

Bibba bent to pick up her handbag. 'I must go,' she said, 'I must be with Sam.'

Charlie was in no mood to argue. The odds didn't look good here. The original pack of ruffians was still up ahead of them, smashing and killing, and more could join them at any time.

'I think you're...'He was about to say 'right', but cars further along were moving again. He grabbed her arm.

'Jump in. Let's see how far we get this time.'

He slid behind the wheel and slapped the cab into gear.

'Just hold on a little longer. While we can move and stay in the cab we have some protection.'

The street ahead was like a rally slalom, filled with empty cars, whose occupants had been slain, or who had fled. It seemed impossible to get through, but Charlie did not hesitate. Under his breath he said 'Fuck the cab, and the company!' Where there was no space he made one simply by smashing into whatever was in the way until a gap big enough to get through was made. The cab began to look like one of the entrants at the end of a destruction derby. Progress was slow, but they were moving. The ruffians ahead were grabbing door handles as the cars crawled past, looking for more victims. When the cab had almost reached them Charlie lifted the gun and fired twice through the hole where the windscreen had been. Two men fell and the others pulled back, letting them pass.

Slowly they crawled to the next intersection. Fifty yards before it, they felt and heard the explosion. The traffic lights went out.

'Jesus!' Charlie said, 'What was that?'

Cars were jammed all four ways across the intersection. It was obvious this one would never be sorted out, but Charlie still felt like keeping the protection of the car body round them. They heard shots continuously now, some distant, some near. Better to wait and see.

Ten minutes passed. They felt like limp rags, their clothing soaked and lungs raw from coughing.

Suddenly he pointed, 'Hey, look!'

On the sidewalk people were running now, screaming, hands held high in supplication, faces twisted in utter terror. The crowd swelled, cramming the pavements, the runners clawing each other as they ran, pulling down any too weak to stand the pace, trampling them underfoot, their screams drowning out all other noise.

Bibba felt the crowd panic reach out for her, felt the breath stuck in her chest and throat, her nerve ends tingle with an animal in-the-trap, claustrophobic sense of sheer despairing fright. The buildings, no more gentle giants, leant inwards, almost blocking out the last remaining blue of the smoking sky.

Suddenly she was out of the door; her legs began to move, time and consciousness to slip away.

Charlie's grasp almost drew blood from her upper arm.

'Oh, no, lady!' he gritted. He jerked his head in the direction of the sidewalk, 'Sure, an' they're not goin' your way.'

He was right. The crowd was fleeing westwards, away from downtown Manhattan.

Bibba's head was reeling, but the grip on her arm brought her back to reality. The crowd was fighting its way from the centre of the City towards the rivers and the suburbs, away from where Sam, her beloved Sam, with his game leg, would be trapped.

'I'm...all right now.' she whispered.

'That's right,' said Charlie, 'if Mrs. Mayor can do it, so can old Charlie, but how, lady, that's anybody's guess.'

Bibba let out a long breath, felt the sense of panic lessen.

'Through the cars.' She suggested.

Charlie nodded. The road was clogged with halted automobiles, some of them on fire, but there was room enough between them, and the fleeing people were crushed on and around the sidewalks. 'Good thinking. Okay. I don't know what we're going to find out there, but it can't be much worse than here. Keep an eye out for firearms. We could do with another.'

The noise was deafening: scream after scream, the cries of men in mortal torment, of women in hysterical fear. It was like a forest fire had hit a stretch of brushwood. From a surging tide, they became a mad tidal-bore, heaving, pushing, fighting, fists and boots flying, fighting for every inch. They saw smaller men, women and children go down to be trampled to death in seconds, their screams horrific to the ear. No one was stopping to loot now. Those who had already dropped their booty and joined the stream. There was more shooting, some in the crowd.

Bibba felt tense again.

'Oh, Charlie, what is it?'

He crossed himself. 'Tis like the divil himself is comin' an' maybe Mrs. Flynn's little boy had better start to learn to shovel, but if you can stick it, ma'am, so can I. The whole world's gone crazy.'

He hesitated, whatever it was had got him by the short and curlies too.

It was as if she had read his thoughts.

'You don't have to come with me, don't have to leave your cab. What if something happens to it? What if...?'

Charlie almost growled at her, 'Lady - you're my fare. You booked me to get you to His Honour the Mayor, and that's still our destination, even if we have to go through hell and back to get there, and I have to carry you all the way on me back. Sure, it looks as if it might come to that yet.' He slipped the heavy revolver into his waistband and slammed the driver's door.

He began to insert the key in the lock but did not turn it. Slowly he withdrew it again, took hold of the handle and reopened the door.

He shrugged, looked up at the buildings, swirling in smoke.

'Okay,' he shouted, 'you want a ride - take her, she's yours!'

Nonchalantly he threw the keys onto the front seat.

~~~oOo~~~

The main team of three men detailed to disrupt telephonic communications took only eight minutes to reach their target.

They had long ago memorised the plan of the building and the layout of the relays and switchboards in the main control exchange. The entire operation had for years been computerised, with only the occasional technician in attendance. The mobile antennas were on the top of the same building.

It was too easy. They shot dead the two security guards, laid their charges and left. Six minutes later the entire telephone network of Manhattan would go dead. Other teams were dealing with outlying masts.

All over the States similar action was being taken by men and women, some high up in the military forces, sleepers for many years, whose moment of truth had arrived.

~~~oOo~~~

Sam turned from the phone. He shook his head slowly. 'I got through to the power station. It rang once, then nothing.'

Julius grabbed the phone and called the Center Street controller he had been speaking to, 'Commissioner back here. What's the situation now?'

He listened, sighed, a long, defeated sigh. Lifting his eyes, he said,

'Don't bother, Sam. I guess we're too late. Center Street has just lost all power, radio, lights, everything. Almost simultaneously they felt and heard an explosion. I don't know if you've noticed, but the air conditioning has just gone off here. Listen.'

They listened. He was right. There was no low buzz from the unit. Julius turned back to the phone to issue the most decisive order of his career.

'Arm every man in Center Street and in the precincts: clerks, armourers, everyone \- including yourself. Get them out onto the streets. Basic law and order - that's your brief.'

'Traffic control, Commissioner?' asked the voice.

Julius vented his anger on the man, felt instantly sorry.

'Traffic control? Bloody traffic control? Man, there won't be any goddamn traffic to control! You'll have your hands full just shooting looters and arsonists.' He took a deep breath, said, 'One moment.' He turned to the committee members.

'I need a decision, gentlemen. Do I have your agreement to a State of Emergency?'

Horror showed on several faces, but only the Bishop voiced an objection; his nose haughtily in the air, 'The Church must disassociate itself...'

Julius cut in on him, his voice raucous with anger, 'Sure! Sure, Bishop - disassociate away! The Church never killed anyone, did it?'

His words ended, his glare remained. The Bishop opened his mouth to speak again but thought better of it.

One by one, some reluctantly, the rest nodded.

Julius lifted his palm from the phone. Into the instrument he said firmly, 'Now get this straight, and make sure your men understand - anyone found committing an indictable offence, ask no questions, shoot to kill. No arrests. Got that? Good!' As an afterthought, he added, 'Oh, and good luck.'

As he called up the West Side Precinct House he shook his head sadly, 'He's gonna need it.'

At West Side and each of the other precincts he got the same story and handed out the same instructions. From the Eighth Precinct he was given a report of panic in the streets, from the Sixteenth that they'd had no contact with car or foot patrols for over fifteen minutes. After the last he hung up, sighing.

'Well, there it is. I guess Harry Trundell didn't do such a great job after all: there's no power anywhere in the City. What traffic was moving before will be completely snarled up now. The great metropolis has come to a grinding halt, and on top of that we've got thousands of arsonist maniacs on the loose, God knows how many vicious criminals knocking seven shades shit out of the businesses, and panic on the streets. That's without the submarine and the Embassy.'

He wiped his forehead where the sweat had already begun to form, 'And it's getting goddamn hot in here. What do you say, Dick - got your slide rule handy? How long can we last in here with no air circulating?'

Dick Cabot blushed. Up to now he'd kept his own counsel among these big fish, very conscious of his junior standing, doing his job but not pushing himself forward.

'We don't have to worry for a very long time, if we open all the doors, and if the air gets stale we could always break a window.' he said.

Sam's eyes held a twinkle. 'What? Destroy City property? I'm surprised at you, Dick.'

Cabot's blush deepened several degrees before he realised Sam was joking.

The noise rose steadily as the seriousness of the position began to hit home. Sam let them get on with it. He took Julius by the arm, pulling him to one side, speaking quietly.

'Let's try to find out the score from the other relay stations. Try the West Side.'

Julius called, but there was no answer for over a minute.

He was just going to call one of the others when a voice came over the line, 'What the hell do you want? Who is this? Don't you know we've got a fucking emergency?'

'Police Commissioner here,' he said, 'and we are perfectly aware of your emergency. How long's this mess going to take to fix?'

As he listened his expression became grave. Suddenly, in mid-conversation, he was cut off. The phone had gone dead.

He rattled the cradle without success, threw down the instrument angrily, grabbed up and tried two others. Both were dead.

Deflated, he looked around at the silent, questioning faces, smiling grimly.

'At least three days,' he said, his eyes blazing, 'at least three bloody days.' His voice went up to a bellow, 'And maybe weeks! Who said 'it could never happen again'?' He turned away, biting his lip. More quietly, he said, 'And now the phones are gone.' He pulled his mobile from his pocket and tried that. No signal!

'Are there any radiophones in the building?'

All he saw was a mass of blank faces and shrugged shoulders. Then

a babble of voices rose.

Bootz was heard over the rest, 'I'm for trying to get to the station to help the boys. How about you, Julius - you heading for Center Street?' Lee agreed, 'We sure as hell can't do any good here now.'

Julius eyed them quizzically.

'Have you any idea how long it takes to walk down sixty-four flights, Abe? Twenty seconds a flight - say twenty-one minutes, and how long to Center Street on foot? With the way things are down there it could take an hour - if I'm lucky. Anything could happen in that time. Someone has to stay here, in case the phones come back on. I understand, you all want to go down and try to get home. Okay, I guess I speak for Sam when I say 'Thanks for your efforts.' You all did fine. It's a pity we failed.'

His gaze swept the assembly, looking for confirmation. Inside he was wishing he too could go down onto the streets. Maybe he could help.

Sam's lower jaw set determinedly. 'I'm going nowhere with this leg, Julius.' he said, 'You get on and leave me to control things as far as possible.'

Julius showed his relief. Sam was the only one of the committee he would have trusted to handle things his way.

'You sure, Sam?'

'I'm sure, Julius. I'll be just fine here till this thing gets sorted out.' he smiled. 'It's me being a coward - I keep cool up here while you sweat it out on the street.'

Julius looked at the beads of perspiration on the Mayor's face and his sweat-stained shirt.

'Sure, Sam,' he drawled, 'Cool, man that's the word.'

There was no point in worrying Sam about Elsa now. He turned to the rest, 'Okay, then - who's coming along for the ride?'

Valicone pulled a face. 'Some ride - ten years it must be since I walked fifty yards one time, but I got scores to settle down there. I'll come with you.'

Lee had been standing by the window, thinking.

Cabot coughed politely for attention.

'There is something else you ought to know, gentlemen.' he said. 'Each of those fires is consuming vast quantities of the remaining oxygen. It may be only a very short time before life at street level without breathing apparatus will be impossible. When that happens the fires will go out, of course, but there will be no one there to cheer.'

Delatter growled, 'They're still burning now, aren't they? There must be oxygen. I'm for going.'

A murmur of agreement rose. Lee turned from the window.

'Just look at that smoke,' he said. 'If this building has been ignited...' He stopped suddenly, embarrassed, as he caught Sam's eye.

Sam laughed with a joviality he certainly did not feel. 'If that happens, you'll all have to walk back up again, won't you?'

~~~oOo~~~

Faircorde sped as fast as his chunky body would allow down corridor M8 to the signals room reserved for American diplomats.

An armed guard outside demanded his ID.

Faircorde fumed, 'Do you know who I am, soldier?'

The man's eyes narrowed. 'I recognise the face, Sir, but I must see positive proof of identification.'

The General rammed his fist into his pants pocket and drew out his wallet. 'There!' he almost shouted.

The guard took the wallet, extracted the card and checked the authorisation signature on the back. Without haste he reinserted it into its plastic case and returned it.

'Thank you, Sir. You may enter.'

With a sardonic smile he opened the door and made an almost imperceptible bow.

Faircorde let out a loud 'Hrrmmph'

The signals controller, a young, fresh-faced lieutenant, who looked as though he might have been just out of training college, sat at the desk in the centre of the room, surrounded by banks of computer screens and radio equipment. Two of the three phones on the desk in front of him were red.

Faircorde marched directly up to him.

'Get me a line to the President.' he growled.

The lieutenant looked startled.

'All the phones are out, General.'

'Don't bullshit me, soldier! You know as well as I do that those are direct lines.'

'Is he expecting the call, General?' he asked.

'Goddamn it, no, boy! This is a national emergency he knows nothing about! How in hell would he be expecting the call?'

The lieutenant blushed, 'I'm afraid, Sir...' He placed his hand protectively over the red receiver.

'Afraid!' Faircorde roared, 'My God, and so you should be, boy! If I don't get that call, and mighty damned quick, you'll be out on some damned parade ground by the end of the week with the rest of the squaddies.'

The lieutenant tried, aware of the stares and amused grins of his team. 'But the rules, General.'

'Rules! Bloody rules!' Faircorde was building rapidly to a storm, 'The US about to be annihilated and you talk about rules? Get your hand off that bloody phone - now!'

The lieutenant capitulated, removing his hand with one last try, 'You will have to take full responsibility, Sir.'

His big, hairy mitt reaching out for the phone, Faircorde growled something that sounded remarkably like 'Shit'.

A sharp, bright-boy voice came over the wire, 'Peter Barnes.'

Faircorde grunted angrily. Another young bloody upstart he'd have to climb over to get to Kelsoe.

'This is General Faircorde, in New York City. I want to speak to the President.'

'Could I know the nature of your business with the President, General?'

Faircorde snapped back, 'No, you goddamn well can't! Get me the President, right now!'

When the voice came back it held a ring of steel. 'That will not be possible unless you state your business with him, General.'

Faircorde held himself in check with great difficulty. 'My business' he gritted, 'is national security.'

'I am sorry, General,' the aide seemed to be enjoying himself, 'you will have to be more specific.'

Faircorde let him have the full force of his not inconsiderable venom, 'Okay, you shiny-arsed nitwit - imminent nuclear attack!'

A gasp rewarded his efforts, followed a second later by a, 'One moment, General.'

Another voice came on the line, one he recognised well: the tired, slightly irritable voice of President Kelsoe.

'What is it, General?'

Faircorde's voice took on a deferential tone, 'Mr. President, Sir. There is an SSBN of the Russian Fleet in the East River here - right down there under the UN Building. The city is under attack. No, Sir, no mistake, I can see it from here, Sir. No, Sir, I have not been drinking There's smoke everywhere - US citizens dying in the streets, and... No, Sir, I haven't seen them, Sir. The goddamn thing is sitting out there right under the windows of this building.'

Faircorde spluttered as he listened, his red neck deepening in hue almost to purple.

'You ...you...you...' he stammered, years of military discipline fighting his anger. Anger won, '...goddamn Milwaukee cow-lover! You get a goddamn strike force in here right now or I'll...' He heard the line go dead.

Kelsoe stood in the State Room with his chief military adviser, Martin L. Jackson, and his aide, Peter Barnes. He looked grim.

Jackson frowned. 'Sounds like big trouble, Sir.'

Kelsoe nodded. 'You heard. Either old 'Blood-and-guts' Faircorde has blown a fuse or we have a red nuclear submarine attacking New York City. I favour the first alternative; he was never too stable, but we'd better check it out. Get me Strike on the phone, Peter.' To Jackson he added, 'How in hell can a Russian nuke get into New York without the Navy knowing? What're our Hawk satellites doing - playing tag up there'

Jackson shook his head. 'There is no way, Sir. I'd stake my reputation on it. That submarine is a figment of Faircorde's imagination.'

Kelsoe wasn't impressed. 'What about that one that disappeared recently in the Cortal Trench? Could that somehow have made it to New York?'

Jackson had been considering that, without telling his boss. 'I'd have to check it out, but I don't think so.'

'Either way we'd better go down to the War Room and have a look at New York on the screen - let the brass have a look-see what we've got.'

In the communications room Faircorde's blood pressure had reached boiling point. His face had mottled blue and his breathing was hoarse and difficult. For two minutes he swore without repeating himself. When he ran out of fresh invective and paused, the young lieutenant cut in brightly, 'Anything else I can do for you, General?'

For a moment it looked as if Faircorde would hit him. Instead he took a deep breath.

'Yes, son,' he said deliberately, 'why the hell not? Get me General Falloman at Strike, and use codeword, 'GOLDEN EAGLE'.'

He waited impatiently while the lieutenant patched through, angry when he found that Falloman was not in the Control Center. 'Tell them I want to talk to him, top priority.' He ordered.

The lieutenant passed on the message and turned to say, 'They're trying to reach him, Sir. He's on duty in a few minutes.'

Faircorde began pacing the floor, relieved to hear the young officer say only a few seconds later, 'Just one moment, General - I have General Faircorde for you.'

He grabbed the receiver.

'That you, Spike?' he asked.

Falloman's voice held a gallon of ice. GOLDEN EAGLE had been arranged way back in Nixon's term in absolute secrecy by seven of the top generals. It was to be used only in extreme emergency, with the President either dead or incompetent, or if it was considered that a military takeover was in the best interests of the country. It had never been implemented, and he thought it had died a natural death. Things were nice and quiet under Kelsoe, and Falloman was not looking for a court martial as a traitor. He had spoken with the President less than three hours earlier, discussing the daily readiness state. Kelsoe had been very much alive and very competent, and the world state readiness board in front of him now in the control room was a quiet as the grave.

'This had better be good, Slim.' he said quietly.

Faircorde bellowed down the phone, 'Good, Spike? Christ, if it was good, would I be calling you? It's worse than bad - it's a bloody disaster! We got us a Russki SSBN in the East River here in New York City. God only knows what it's doing, but half the City is in flames and the power's out! We're on stand by power, or I wouldn't be talking to you now.'

'For God's sake, Slim, why the hell are you? Surely the President is the man you need to talk to.'

Falloman's ear burned as a string of four letter expletives blasted their way over the wire, ending with '...that shit-arse bastard! He wouldn't listen...told me I was drunk! Drunk? Man, I tell you, if we don't take countermeasures in minutes this whole goddamn country is flattened, dead, finished - capish?'

The line was silent for several seconds, then Falloman asked softly, 'You sure you haven't been drinking, Slim?'

Faircorde's tirade in reply was cut off with 'Okay, stand by. We've got two aircraft in your area now. I'll get them to take a look-see. Where exactly is this sub supposed to be?'

Faircorde told him.

'Okay,' he grunted, 'stay on the line.'

Falloman turned to his aide.

'You heard the man. Get those birds over there now, patch in the satellite picture of New York, and get me the President.'

The yellow phone on the desk began to buzz. The captain went to pick it up.

'I think you've got him already, Sir.' he said.

~~~oOo~~~

Alex Smalls of New Jersey switched off the radiophone with a grim look on his handsome face. It was the call he had lived all his adult life for, and he wished with all his heart it had never come.

Born Aleksandr Aleksandrovitch Malenskij in Riga, he had been recruited at college. Schooled for three years in American English and sabotage at the Tashkent school of espionage, he had been planted in the United States at the age of twenty-two for this one important operation.

Starting as a gate guard at the Bayonne New Jersey plant, the largest single petro-chemical installation on the eastern seabord of America, he rose quickly to become Chief Security Officer.

His secret appointed task: total disablement of the plant.

The years of western decadence had mellowed the young killer his masters had trained. His initial plans for total destruction by explosives had changed with the years.

When the new computerised operations room was installed in nineteen eighty he saw it as a way to carry out his orders and also save unnecessary loss of life among a group of people he could not call friends but nevertheless respected. Those in the Control Room would have to die, but at least he could minimise the death toll. His own life was expendable. Let the men in the Kremlin destroy them if they would. He would do only what he had been explicitly ordered to do.

Throughout the years of the Cold War and during the Czechoslovak, Cuban and Afghanistan crises he had waited longingly for the chance to carry out his assignment. His plans had been well laid over the years, and his equipment was ready, but now his deep patriotism was on the wane.

Letters continued to arrive via a secret post-box from his mother and sister in the homeland, but eight years ago he had noticed a subtle change in them. He now firmly believed they had been replaced by an official letter writer. For all the years in the States he had lived alone at his Kremlin masters' insistence, buying his sexual pleasures on the open market, avoiding all friendships or attachments. Until last November.

Catherine Hayter would not take no for an answer. She had seen him getting off the bus on the corner of Newland Street, noted his blond good looks and strong shoulders and had decided, 'That's for me'.' It was her first ever, and last, irrational act. She followed him into the little Italian cafe and sat down next to him with a smiling, 'Do you mind?' He had treated her with his usual cold nonchalance, but somehow, as they sat together without speaking, her perfume, and the very femininity of her affected him in a way no woman had ever done before. Though he was unaware of the fact, he was one more victim of the male menopause.

When he left she took his arm and walked out with him.

He felt bewildered, angry with himself, but happy for the first time in his life.

Ten days later they were married, and on the eleventh day he told her the truth about himself. Together they planned his self-effacement and a new life in the Mid-West. On the morning of the twelfth day, she had gone to the shop on the corner for a carton of milk. He never saw her again.

When the telephone rang at seven-thirty that evening he grabbed it eagerly. The voice he heard told him she would remain well providing he remembered his allegiance. He was back to square one. He told himself he should have known better. Before midnight he had found six bugs hidden around the apartment.

And now the call had come.

He sat behind his desk, switched on the microphone in front of him and selected 'Master Control Room' on the distribution panel. Into the mike he said clearly, 'Fire Practice in two minutes. Fire Practice in two minutes.'

His fire-fighting suit hung in a grey steel locker behind him. Unlike the suits of the other security men it had a gas mask in the face-piece, installed secretly by him. His next move was to take down the fire extinguisher by the door. It was, he considered, one of his little masterpieces.

It looked, felt, and operated like any other fire extinguisher, unless the screw in the base was turned twice anti-clockwise with a coin. The pump handle then activated a small, pressurised container of Tribosan nerve gas, small, but enough to kill a regiment. Smalls turned the screw with a nickel.

Ready for action, he strode purposefully the few yards to the Control Room door.

The two armed guards facing into the corridor were expecting to see a fire fighter and made no move to check him. Unhindered, he pushed open the swing doors and strode in.

Though the operators at the huge wall-panel were unaware of the fact, Smalls knew every switch, knob, and dial on the panel and the computer codes as well as they did.

At a glance he saw that only one tanker was being off-loaded into the huge holding-tanks on number four terminal. Another ship had just finished offloading and was pulling out of the installation into the Narrows. On the television monitor for that part of the bank he noted with satisfaction that the entire workforce for that sector was working around the tanker and paying no attention to the other outlet pipes.

All other terminals were free and the TV screens showed only a handful of men occupied with tasks on the quays.

He smiled; Lady Luck seemed to be with him: normally at least four and anything up to ten tankers would be discharging at any one time.

No one in the Control Room paid him heed as he approached.

By a waste-bin near the panel he held the extinguisher out, pulled the lever and pumped quickly.

Harold Levy, watch master on duty, had seen Smalls enter but paid no particular attention to him. Fire practice drills were a part of the establishment's routine, but this he had never seen before.

He bellowed, 'Hey, cut that out!'

They were his last words. The gas, spreading quickly with the flow of the air-conditioning, reached the two men farthest from him only three seconds after the nearest. They dropped without a flicker of a muscle.

Smalls ran to the doors quickly, called to the nearest guard, 'Hurry, an accident!'

He almost mistimed it. The first guard took one look and ran forward into the room, dropping like a stone with his fourth pace. The second, more wary, had taken only one pace when he stopped dead, staring at Smalls. One hand went down for his revolver, the other out towards the large red general alarm button by the door.

Smalls watched the revolver come up, the guard's knuckle whitening under pressure, watched the finger close with the button. As their tips brushed the paint the guard convulsed once, his eyelids jerking, before he, too, collapsed.

Smalls pulled the body to one side, slammed down the side-lever that sealed the doors shut against possible insurgents. It would give him time enough.

He took the ten yards to the master computer on the control panel at a dead run. His first act was to smash the alarm-bell out of its housing on the console with the butt of the fire extinguisher.

The buttons that opened the main inlet and outlet valves were on the top row under a steel cover carrying the legend, 'ACCESS TO WATCH MASTER ONLY'. The panel was locked electronically.

Without hesitation he tapped out the combination, which, as Chief Security Officer, it had been his province to issue. Ripping it open, he jammed his right hand on four buttons at a time, leaving out the third outlet on Number Four terminal, where petroleum was flowing inwards.

On the keyboard below he tapped out code 99-12-47: full flow outward on all pipes. Satisfied with the show of alarm lights flashing on the panel above his head and knowing that at fifteen minutes a time only one outlet could be re-closed by hand before the entire contents of the tanks had been discharged, he turned to look at the monitors.

He could see men swarming about like ants on the quays, could imagine orders being shouted over the dozens of alarm-bells which must be ringing.

He smiled grimly. He was not proud of himself, but if there had to be pride it could be in a job well done.

Twisting off the base of the extinguisher, he removed a small wad of plastic explosive, a detonator and two rolls of thin wire, each terminated at one end in spring clips. Jamming the explosive under the steel cover over the buttons, he inserted the detonator, made the connection, and unrolled the wires quickly as he moved away from the panel.

He heard and ignored the running footsteps in the corridor and the pounding on the door.

The first shot took him in the fleshy part of the upper arm. It made him wince but did not slow him. The second caught him in the back, the bullet passing out again through his right lung after severing the main artery. As he sank to the floor his two hands holding the ends of the wires came together.

He died with a smile on his lips. They had taught him well at Tashkent: no one on Earth could now stop the discharge of upwards of two hundred million barrels of petrol and crude oil into the water. He hoped it would save Catherine's life.

What he did not know, and probably would not have cared about if he did, was that the tide was flooding and the volatile mass had begun flowing towards New York City at a steady six knots.

~~~oOo~~~

For two blocks they dodged and weaved low through vehicles stopped at all angles, while the shrieking, hysterical mob fought its way along the sidewalks, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, they were alone, the sounds of the mob dwindling away into the distance.

They stood up straight and took a good look round.

On the sidewalks lay scores of bodies, some still moving feebly.

Charlie read her thoughts. 'Oh, no, ma'am.' He said firmly, 'There's nothing you could do, nowhere to take them, and no one to help you. We've still got three blocks to go, and whatever started that off came from in front of us. We'd better get moving, and we'll have to keep our eyes peeled.'

She was torn by mixed emotions, but there was sense in what he said.

They moved off again, on the sidewalk this time, stepping over and around corpses mutilated by the passing of hundreds of pairs of feet. Many times Bibba stopped to take a closer look at a body that still seemed to have life. Each time he forced her on, pulling at her arm. It was easier going on the sidewalk, but both were wheezing and choking and finding it difficult to breathe.

The smoke hung heavy over the streets, but in spite of the shield against the sun, the sidewalks, streets and buildings emitted enough stored up heat to keep the temperature at over one hundred and five.

They passed dozens of buildings on fire, but there was more smoke than flame, and the fires were not spreading. Now and then they caught a glimpse of human figures staggering along in the distance, men and women who had come down from the skyscrapers trying to find their way home.

Passing a florist's on fire they were suddenly flung to the ground and showered with thousands of shards of glass from the shop window. A gas main had exploded.

Charlie helped Bibba to her feet.

'You okay, ma'am?'

Bibba was dazed and shocked. The myriad of glass particles stuck into her face, neck and legs had made small rivulets of blood flow.

'I think so. Nothing seems broken.'

He took a large red handkerchief from his pocket, 'Stand still, I'll see if I can get rid of some of that glass.' Carefully he wiped her face and neck, removing most of them. She took the cloth from him. 'Now you.'

When she had finished he asked, 'Think you can go on, or shall we get inside somewhere and rest up?'

She had no chance to answer. She was grabbed around the waist and almost thrown between two cars on the street.

Not knowing what was happening she felt his hands dragging her further into the cars. They stopped, and she opened her mouth to speak, only to find his hand clamped tightly over it.

Very slowly he eased his way up to look through the side window of the car they were hiding behind. She slid up carefully beside him.

Somehow, she never knew how, she managed to stifle the scream that came unbidden to her throat. Standing on the sidewalk, close to where they had been a moment ago, stood a tiger, its tail twitching angrily, its nose sniffing the air.

Charlie slid out the revolver. 'It knows we're here. It saw us.' His voice was the merest whisper. 'If it gets us, I'll try to save two shots.'

The tiger moved forward slowly. Bibba felt her legs begin to shake uncontrollably, her knees turn to jelly.

Charlie raised the gun.

Suddenly there came a scream close at hand. For a moment Bibba felt sure it had come from her own throat.

The tiger turned its head quickly. With a huge bound it set off along the sidewalk, fast.

Charlie slid higher to look over the cars. A young woman was running along the sidewalk away from them, the tiger in hot pursuit. Charlie winced in anticipation of the coup de grace. He slid down again and took Bibba's hand. Thank God she hadn't seen.

'Come on,' he said gruffly, 'let's get out of here, quickly.' Bibba searched his face. 'Did she...?'

He looked directly into her eyes. 'She saved our lives - as long as we move before it comes back.' He began to haul her unceremoniously through the parked cars. Over his shoulder he muttered, 'At least we know now what caused the panic.'

It was just two blocks and it almost finished them, but they made it. It was just four thirty-two when they turned the corner of Pearl and Pine.

There were few fires here and the smoke had lifted, leaving the tall buildings visible up to the third floor, their upper limits invisible through a heavy layer of smoke.

They had slowed to a crawl, stumbling with each step, supporting each other, taking in huge gulps of air that contained about two percent oxygen, choking with the pain of lungs tortured with smoke, heads aching.

Bibba caught her reflection in a shop window as they stopped to rest. What a sight she looked. Somewhere back near where they'd seen the tiger she had lost her handbag, her hair was a tangled mess, soaked in sweat and hanging like rats' tails, her clothes filthy and dishevelled, her face a mass of blood and scratches. She forced a smile.

'Tell me how I look, Charlie, and please lie.'

Charlie was as gallant as ever: 'Ah, sure, ma'am, you'd still win first prize in the Easter Parade.' His smile broadened. 'An' if you're interested, my original offer still stands.'

He was pleased to see it brought a genuine smile in reply.

'Thank you, kind sir, but the Mayor is waiting for me, and he has first call. Are you coming up with me? You would be safer.'

Charlie shook his head. 'Not this trip, ma'am. You'll be okay now. I ought to try to get home. The old lady...'

She felt awful. 'Oh, Charlie, and I've dragged you all the way here.'

She looked as if she was going to cry. He grinned cheerfully.

'Ah, sure, no, ma'am - 't'is just around the corner from here.' He hoped she wouldn't guess he lived in Harlem. 'I'll just come in with you and check the lower floor.'

The foyer of the City Services Building was empty. Empty, that is, but for the body of a coloured man in his twenties, slumped over the bottom two stairs leading up to the second floor. He had been shot several times in the head and chest.

Charlie shrugged, looking around at the charred carpet and woodwork.

'Seems they didn't like what he was doing here. Still, it all seems quiet now.' He listened carefully. 'You know, it seems too quiet. Are you sure His Honour's still up there?'

Bibba had a moment of panic. Supposing Sam had come down before the power went off. She would be up there all alone. It didn't bear thinking about. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

'He'll still be there.' she said bravely.

Charlie searched her face with his eyes. She seemed determined.

'Okay, ma'am - if you're sure. Think you can make your own way from here?'

She began to cry in earnest. He put his arm round her shoulders like a brother.

'Now then, Mrs. Mayor, that won't do, will it? What will His Honour think - you arriving all tear-stained, an' all?'

She took his face in her two hands and kissed him gently on the lips. 'I'll never forget you, Charlie.' she whispered. She turned away, and he watched her until she disappeared round the bend in the stairwell.

~~~oOo~~~

Corrigan stood on deck, unaware of approaching fate. The small crew were in good spirits, awaiting the arrival of the tug, scheduled for six o'clock, when the tide went slack.

He heard the whine of the jet motors from a distance, as Harrison joined him from below.

He grinned in greeting. 'Airports must be clear of fog, the birds are still flying.'

'Yeah, lucky them.'

'They're getting damned close. Sounds as if they're over the river ahead.'

Harrison's head jerked up and an explosive, 'Bloody hell!' blurted from his mouth as the two fighters swept directly over them at less than one hundred feet, making them both duck, near enough for them to see the rivets in the plating.

The aircraft disappeared from view and the noise faded.

Harrison looked worried.

'That guy who was shooting at you from the UN building - you don't suppose?'

Corrigan shook his head violently. 'Hell, no, Bill! Alexander will have told the world by now. His press conference was scheduled for four o'clock. They're probably on exercise.'

Harrison was skeptical, 'Over New York - at that height?'

Corrigan sniffed.

'D'you smell anything?'

'Yeah! Nice clean marlin we're gonna catch from our new boat.'

'No - have a good sniff, it's getting stronger.'

Harrison inhaled hard through his nose.

'Christ, yes - gasoline!' Corrigan pointed towards the surface of the river. 'For God's sake, look at that!'

The surface was a mass of swirling rainbows.

Harrison shrugged, 'Another goddamn ship losing fuel. Anyone would think there was no shortage.'

'You think that's all it is?'

'Sure. What else? It will pass in a couple of minutes. You just wait and see.'

Sixty seconds later it was ten times worse, the air thick with fumes around them, but they had little time to worry about it.

Suddenly Corrigan yelled, 'Hey - they're coming back - I can hear them!' Twelve seconds after he finished speaking the aircraft appeared over the mist, flying directly towards them again...

~~~oOo~~~

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Bibba forced herself on, her leg muscles tight knots of pain. She had not stopped once to rest, knowing it would be almost impossible to carry on again. She had met no one, seen and heard no sign of life in the massive building. Now she heard men's voices.

After the street she was taking no chances. She slid quietly through the open door of an office marked ' INTERSTATE CO-ORDINATOR' and pushed the door gently until it was almost closed.

Breathing had been easier in the building, but her lungs and throat still felt raw.

The voices grew louder. There were several men coming down the stairs towards where she stood hidden.

She felt her body begin to shake with fright, a fear that made her hold her breath.

The voices were outside the door, a jumble of tones she could not distinguish. She felt a cough coming, tried to hold the exhalation in vain, tried to choke back the noise and only made it worse.

A paroxysm of coughing racked her body, making tears run down her cheeks. Weakly she leant against the big, teak-veneered desk.

The door opened slowly. Mesmerised, she watched it. Her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her head went dizzy. Through the fog she heard a voice she recognised, 'Quick. Catch her!'

When she came to they were standing all around her. Julius held a paper cup to her lips while two men she did not recognise supported her weight. She drank. The water was warm but tasted good.

The questions came thick and fast. She tried to answer them all as best she could. They began to discuss the merits of staying above street level.

She took her weight on her own legs. 'Sam?' she asked, 'Where is Sam? Isn't he with you? Is he all right?'

Lee answered, 'He's fine, Bibba. He's minding the shop on the top floor.'

Her hands fluttered nervously, 'I must go to him, now.'

Julius eyed her, considering her condition.

'I'm coming with you,' He said firmly.

Lee objected, 'You've got things to do down below. Let me.'

Jenny Singer stepped forward. 'You both have important things to do. I'm sure Mrs Brady would rather have a woman with her.'

Bibba overrode them. 'No. It would not be fair to drag you all the way back there. I'm fine now, really I am.'

They eyed her dubiously. Julius summed up, 'You'll be all right if you take it easy. There's no one above here but Sam. We haven't seen a soul on the way down.

She forced a smile. 'Then everything will be fine.' She even felt better. Seeing faces she knew made what she had seen on the street seem like a fading nightmare. Even the pain in her legs was becoming bearable.

Symbolically each one of them shook her hand and wished her 'Good luck'. She felt they needed it more.

After they had left she decided to waste two more minutes. A different woman with a clean face and a smile emerged from the washroom and placed her foot confidently on the next step upwards.

~~~oOo~~~

Sixty feet below ground in Minuteman Launch Facility Bravo Three Lieutenant Joe Baker felt his eyes closing involuntarily. The old spaghetti-western on the tiny screen was boring him. Blood, blood, and more blood. Jesus, they'd fired off enough rounds to start World War Three, but story? So many characters had come in standing and gone out feet first there was going to be no one left for the finale, 'less they opened up Boot Hill.

He forced open his lids and glanced over his shoulder at the other half of the two-man team.

Sergeant Daniel Beeson sat as he always did in the Command Center, head down over a book. What the guy was gonna do with all that learning Joe could not understand, but good luck to him.

Twenty days now they'd shared the duty, and Beeson had hardly spoken a word except duty-wise. Joe had glanced at the titles he read the first week: 'Psychology of Modern Warfare', 'Chess Moves and War Moves', 'Electronic Warfare', and one in French: 'La Guerre Ideologique N'aura jamais Lieu'. The man must be a walking encyclopaedia on modern warfare. It had worried Joe at first: guys like that controlling a missile-complex with fifty Minuteman ICBMs at his fingertips. He could be working towards starting his own war. Joe had asked himself should he make a report to I Branch. Maybe the guy knew something he did not. He'd spent a sleepless night thinking about it, but decided not in the end. The keys were locked in the red safe. To launch the missiles, both guys had to turn their keys simultaneously. One man could not do that.

Before launch was possible, confirmation had to be obtained from a distant launch facility. Before he could do anything at all, Beeson would have to break the launch-code, then the war-order code from the President. One chance in sixteen million. Failing all else, Joe would shoot him with the revolver they all wore for just that purpose.

He was relieved when the book titles changed the next week: 'Sexual Deviation in the Human Female' and Zigmann's 'Sexuality and Sensuality'.

Beeson was normal after all, or was a sex maniac warmonger. Either way he made it very clear he wanted no conversation. Joe, used to guys who jawed too much as partners, enjoyed the peace for a while. Now he was looking forward to the first of the month and a new partner

The rotation plan was for security: no two guys ever stayed together for more than one month. On duty it was twenty-four hours on, forty-eight off, twice around the clock with nothing to do except periodic communications checks with NADCOCC, SAC and their coupled control station.

Beeson was lucky - he had found an answer to the boredom. Joe wondered if he thought about the danger. He'd be a damned unusual Minuteman if he didn't.

If the balloon ever went up in earnest they were the primary targets - the first to get the big bang, even before the cities, the airfields and the industrial complexes, and the Russkis knew to the inch where they were. Joe had managed to stop thinking about it, but not so Mary Jane. It had got so bad he'd had to send her home to her mother's in Boston. Beeson just didn't seem to care.

The bored feeling persisted, worse than usual. Only eight hours into the shift, lousy TV programs and a non-talking partner. Pity there was nothing to liven the day up, but even if they had a Red Alert it would only be a practice, like the last couple of dozen, and cancelled ten minutes later. Even a lesser alert, a Cocked Pistol or a Fade Out, would help to break the tedium, but fat chance of that.

His eyes went back to the small screen. Three more guys had just bitten the dust, and the killer who, if things went as they had up to now, would be the next to get drilled, had just quoted that memorable line beloved of all makers of Westerns: 'Vamanos, muchachos!'

Joe gave in. He closed his eyes.

~~~oOo~~~

Peter Landor woke slowly. Sleepily, he felt for the dormant form that should have been beside him. When his hand found nothing he opened his eyes wide. Clear thought returned. Jane had not come home last night. It was not the first time.

He called his friend, Lieutenant Stevens, before going out to check all the local bars himself. He found nothing. Checking back at home he found two cases and some of her clothes were missing. Finally he had collapsed, exhausted, on the bed, without undressing. Somehow, in the night, he had crawled under the bedclothes

He would have liked to spend the day looking for her but, as always, the job had to come first. He was due at the White House at noon.

He lifted his wristwatch and swore. It was already ten to three. Well, let Kelsoe rant and rave, he had to sleep sometime.

He washed, shaved and dressed quickly. On the way out he grabbed two frozen sandwiches from the freezer and a carton of milk from the fridge. It was an hour's drive. The sandwiches would thaw out before he got there.

The traffic turned out to be a lot heavier than he had expected, and it was twenty minutes before five when he checked in with the gate guard.

Hurricane Lucy was just blowing herself out, bending the trees and making the lawns look like early autumn with fallen leaves.

Leaving the car, he turned his jacket collar up against the wind. Even inside the building he could still hear it, a soughing backdrop to the low hum of conversation as he passed the guards and entered the War Room.

One look told him Kelsoe was angry. With him were Air Force General Nathan Loose, Henry Barclay, Army Chief of Staff, Martin Jackson, the President's Chief Military Advisor, Brian Fox, Deputy Co-ordinator of NASA, Julian Corde, Naval Advisor, and Peter Barnes, his personal aide.

Kelsoe spotted him and dived straight in, but not with the reprimand Landor was expecting. 'This goddamn submarine in New York, Peter. Why the hell haven't we been informed?'

Landor just stopped himself from demanding what the hell Kelsoe was drivelling about, but, used to the President's outbursts and too damned tired to get excited, he contented himself with, 'Mr. President?'

Kelsoe grimaced, 'Don't tell me you're another one who doesn't know a goddamn thing about it.' He waved an arm expansively, 'Why do I have advisors if they can't advise?' An exasperated sigh, 'Look - there's a goddamn Russki nuclear sub sitting in the East River next to the United Nations Building - I've got that bellyful of wind, Faircorde, shouting 'Nuclear Attack' down the phone, and no-one knows how the goddamn thing got there!'

Landor sized up his man. Famous for his outbursts, Kelsoe reckoned they got brains working faster but, Landor guessed, this time he was not play-acting.

'On the face of it I'd say it was impossible, Mr. President. Have you any reliable corroboration?'

'No,' Kelsoe had to admit it, 'and I can't raise Karashilov.'

Landor smiled grimly, 'We have up-to-date satellite tracking of all Russian fleet subs. What does Naval Intelligence say?'

Julian Corde answered, 'The nearest sub is over four hundred miles east of our seabord. That was ten minutes ago.'

'Therefore, unless they have a magician in the Kremlin, that submarine does not exist.'

General Loose harrumphed loudly, 'Well, we'll soon find out. Two of Falloman's F131s from Strike have gone to eyeball the situation. We should hear in a few minutes - Strike Command will relay their RT.'

Jackson took over, 'We were discussing their recent sub loss in the Cortal Trench when you came in. Could it have been a hoax?'

'No.' Landor was firm, 'No way. They had kittens in the Kremlin - of that I am sure. The information came from the most reliable source.'

'Hat Check?' Kelsoe was incredulous.

Landor glared at him, furious, aware of the puzzled frowns on the faces of the others. If nothing else he was in for a rough time explaining why he had kept secret a prime source of information. Oh, sure, they'd been passed anything of importance, and it had all been important, but he had labelled it as Comint intelligence or credited it to lesser agents. Now the cat was out of the bag.

He tried, uselessly he knew, to cover up the slip.

'Just after the loss we intercepted a message from Karashilov, personal to the Commander of their Atlantic Force. The area where the sub sank was to be guarded as a first priority - no time limit - and every effort made to lift her. We'd have dearly liked to get our hands on her, she was only eight months old, one of the most recent Oscar-class; eighteen thousand tons, with up dated Snoop Tray radar.

Her missiles are the newest Bulava SLBNs - five-megaton warheads, with five and a half thousand mile range. We could have had a field day with her. The message has since been authenticated by the continuing presence of at least two of their vessels - a mother ship and a sub - in the area of the accident. Further Comint has revealed that their attempts to locate her have failed, and they've used the world's best bathysphere. Add to that our own tracking material. No - I am positive that sub was lost.'

'Then explain this one.' Kelsoe glared at each man in turn. No one answered.

'Okay,' his voice was much quieter, 'then what do we do about it? Peter?' Landor had been considering the question for several seconds before it was asked.

'If it is a Russian nuclear sub and there with the authority of the Kremlin, we have only one possibility to consider: an overt act of aggression. If such was the case, why surface? Why not stay well offshore and loose its missiles? The whole thing doesn't add, not to make any sense, and we've had nothing new on the sub nets - no unusual traffic, no extra signals load, just the normal, routine traffic, but' He paused for effect, 'just supposing it is one of their subs, and there without the Kremlin's permission - that would mean one of two things: either the captain has gone mad and has decided to make a personal, wide-open attack on New York, or, if he's still sane, has decided to defect with his submarine and crew.'

Kelsoe was impressed. 'If that were true, it could explain the apparent sinking, a spoof on the instigation of the captain. It makes a lot of sense. Could he have got the submarine to New York without our satellites seeing him?'

'If they closed down the nuclear reactor - yes, they could have used the standby diesels or electrics. Running as deep as he could, they would be damned difficult to detect.'

'Let us take the second hypothesis as being feasible, then. The question is, which of the two alternatives does he mean to adopt, and how much time have we got?'

Henry Barclay jutted forward his rubbery double chin. Landor had been pinching too much of the limelight. 'There's no answer to that, Mr. President!' he boomed.

Kelsoe turned on him in fury, 'I know that, you bloody fool! So tell me what we do about it!'

Landor's brain, tired though it was, flashed him the answer: 'Sink it.'

A chorus of incredulous voices gasped, 'What?'

He smiled, a thoughtful smile, 'I said sink it.' If we act fast, we get him before he can fire off any missiles - if, and it's a hell of a big 'if', he's managed to bypass the Kremlin control system. My guess would be he'd try to bring the nuclear pile to critical mass if he wanted to cause trouble. Success would depend on his ability as a physicist, or on what brains he's got helping him. If he's come to defect, we only lose the man. We can lift the sub with no trouble at all from the bed of the river. It'd be a piece of cake.'

Kelsoe beamed, 'Brilliant, Peter! I ought to make you Head of the CIA.' It was as near as Kelsoe ever came to cracking a joke. He turned angrily to the others, 'Now, why couldn't one of you come up with that?'

Landor broke in with a rider, 'There is only one snag I can see. If the Kremlin knows about it, they will consider how we might react. If they decide we might retaliate, they may decide to get in first. With that thinking, we ought to inform them. On the other hand, if they know we've sunk it, they might take that unkindly too.'

Kelsoe nodded, 'Right again, Peter. Leave that one to me. I'11 get Karashilov on the hot line. We take no action until I speak to him. Now, what about that bloody satellite picture?'

Barnes lifted the phone, spoke briefly.

'Ready now, Sir.'

The wall screen began to glow. Within seconds a clear picture of the skyscrapers of New York became visible.

There were gasps all round.

Kelsoe spoke grimly, 'It looks as if Faircorde was telling the truth. Look at that smoke. What the hell is going on?'

'If you'll wait a moment, I'll have it changed to infra-red, Mr. President.' Barnes picked up the phone again.

The picture cut and was replaced by another. This time they could see the streets clearly.

Jackson spoke for all of them, 'Christ, just look at that. Bodies everywhere and a complete jam from one end of the Island to the other.' Fox spoke for the first time, 'There's the sub. Ask them for a close-up.'

When the picture changed they were looking closely at a Russian submarine with two men in naval uniform on the conning tower.

Kelsoe fumed, 'That does it! Get me Karashilov immediately, and I don't care if they have to carry the phone to the can!'

~~~oOo~~~

The members were more than usually jumpy. These unscheduled, drop-of-a-hat meetings were becoming too regular. Each sat silent, lost in his own thoughts. Whose turn for the block was it this time?

One thing was obvious - it was not good news.

The doors burst open and Karashilov entered like a gust of wind. Before they were halfway out of their chairs he ordered, 'Sit.'

They sat.

He wasted no time on preambles, 'I do not need to remind you of the recent loss of our submarine off the American coast. At the time I was less than satisfied with some aspects of the disappearance.' Their eyes showed that they remembered his displeasure, and the payment exacted on poor old Stenoff. 'After the investigation I retained the files relating to the key personnel on the vessel - it now seems with good reason.'

Always imbued with a sense of the dramatic, he paused for effect before dropping the bombshell: 'That submarine is now in New York Harbour.'

The immediately ensuing outcry he hushed with one severe glance.

'You will find, in the folders before you, the details of Captain Feodor Pledoroff. Born in the Province of Kazakstan, educated at the state schools there. A youth leader at eighteen, five years at Leningrad University, where he graduated with top honours. His career in the Navy has been exemplary and systematic twelve-monthly checks on his character and loyalty revealed no defects. Married with four children, all living and of good health in Tashkent. There would seem to be no question of him defecting to the West and handing over the submarine, but we must assume that the Captain could have been killed or had control of the vessel taken from him. This leaves the only other officer capable of running the vessel: First Officer Leonid Breshinsky, at least as well qualified as the Captain and, it would appear, of unquestionable loyalty and integrity. However, I have spoken on the telephone with the director of his old school. The old man is retired now and rambles somewhat, but remembers Breshinsky very well. He says the young man's essays and poems were unique and on a single theme: war with the United States. This was then not seen as a character weakness - rather the reverse. We have, then, a possibility, remote but nevertheless real, that Breshinsky has taken over the vessel, thus explaining its disappearance, and has entered New York on a suicide mission with the intention of making an atomic strike against the United States.'

Andrei Gosenkow, replacement for Stenoff as Minister of Defence, knew his death knell had been sounded but spoke bravely, 'But why go into port on the surface? Why not attack submerged from the safety of the Atlantic?'

Karashilov sneered, 'As you should know, Comrade Gosenkow, the missile programs are controlled from the central computer here. Our technical advisors are adamant that Breshinsky would not have been able to change them. There is only one way he could use the missiles: to deliberately bring the warheads, and, if he so desired, the vessel's own atomic pile, to critical mass. The resulting explosions would virtually wipe not only the City of New York but also half New York State off the map of the world. We have fed the information available into the central computer and the machine confirms my own feelings as a sixty-seven percent probability.'

'How long would it take for the piles to reach critical mass?'

'Depending on the method used, anything from one half hour to five hours. We also have no way of knowing when the initial action was taken. He entered harbour under cover of fog. It is possible he waited until anchored; this would be roughly three hours ago. It is just possible he may wait until the fog lifts. It could mean detonation at any time.'

'But the Americans...'

'Will launch an all-out retaliatory attack, Comrade. Yes!'

'The hot line?' Konstantin, a coward since birth, flushed with the heat of the bile he felt rising in the pit of his stomach.

'Kelsoe has already tried to reach me. I was 'not available', but I must speak with him as soon as we reach a decision at this meeting. Do we tell them the situation and offer to make reparations after the catastrophe, trusting that they will believe us and not retaliate, or do we launch an all-out attack now, using the Karkov Plan?'

Petrov looked around the table, his foxy grey eyes sizing up the reactions of the men sitting there. He cleared his throat.

'There is another way, Comrade Marshal.'

All heads turned.

'If we implement the plan the Comrade General suggested at our last meeting - use one of our own ICBMs to attack a Russian city - it would kill two birds with one stone.'

Karashilov nodded thoughtfully, as if he had not thought of it himself. 'Making us the attacked rather than the attacker in the eyes of the free world. Yes, even the Americans would have to think twice before retaliating for their own destruction, but which city? The committee has not yet decided.'

'Riga,' offered Churanko, 'that would certainly put an end to the riots.'

'Or Petrograd.'

'What about Smolensk?'

Petrov looked round carefully. 'It seems to me the target should be on the borders of our country, where it will do least harm - a small city, not over-important to the economic life of the Union, and the one which has been the most trouble with riots. I suggest Odessa. It is past time we taught those Ukrainian bastards a lesson.'

Konstantin's face had gone deathly pale. He leapt to his feet, eyes blazing, shouting: 'No! No!' His fist banged the table in emphasis of his words.

Karashilov raised an eyebrow, his voice quiet and cold as bare steel.

'You will explain to us the reason for your outburst, Comrade.'

Konstantin felt twelve pairs of eyes on him, cold eyes without compassion. It would be no use appealing to them for mercy, either for his family or for himself. He felt the life draining from him, felt as he looked - a drab, sorry figure.

He groped for excuses.

'Not Odessa, Comrades. It has such history, so many beautiful buildings.'

Petrov's eyes sparkled with scarcely-veiled amusement, 'Thinking of going there for a holiday, Comrade?' Inside, he was thinking, 'Now I've got you, you bastard. You've been up to something, I know, but up to now you've been clever enough to escape detection. So that's where you sent your wife and children. Well, you're not getting off this hook.'

Karashilov glared. 'There is no time for pleasantries. You will restrict yourselves to the subject under discussion. It is decided - Odessa is the target.'

He addressed Churanko, 'You will have the missile re-programmed immediately. It must strike within one hour, and,' he made the threat obvious, addressing the whole assembly, 'under no circumstances is any warning to be given. Do I make myself clear? Comrades, the war we have prepared for so long may soon be upon us. We have superior strike capability, we have the element of surprise if we act quickly enough. A war will tie the people together as they have not been since forty-five. The next few months may well be spent below ground, but in the end the Russian peoples will be supreme. You will alert all forces for an imminent global attack on the American mainland and on all nuclear bases in the United Kingdom and Europe. Ten minutes after our missile has landed on Odessa and the news has been broadcast to the world, we begin the attack. I will go now to talk with Kelsoe. With luck I shall be able to win some time.' He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his chair. 'We will meet again in A-bunker in thirty minutes from now.'

~~~oOo~~~

Sheraan didn't hesitate. She'd knocked - okay, not too loud, but she'd knocked. They hadn't locked the door, so what the hell, they must be inviting guests. Besides, she wanted to see what their personal belongings were like.

The suite was identical to the one occupied by herself and Max, but the lounge was empty. For a moment she thought they must be out, and she was halfway back to the door, ready to leave, when she heard the sounds from the bedroom. They were sounds she recognised instantly, sounds that came with the activity she had dedicated her life to mastering, sounds whose origins had got her where she was today.

She was intrigued. Was it the stuck-up sister being stuck up by some Yankee lover, or was the idiot brother with some local chick he'd bought for the afternoon? There was one way to find out.

Slowly and silently she pushed the bedroom door ajar and stopped, open-mouthed.

Chummy was standing on his head in the corner, hands on the carpet, feet on the wall, wearing nothing but a brief black woman's suspender belt and a big smile. Sheraan gasped: his erection was something else! An expert in such matters, she had seen black guys like King Dong and Mountain Man, but this was bee-yewtiful! Not the length, maybe just a little over normal, but the girth - God! Her insides twisted at the thought of it inside her - as thick as Chummy's wrist! Christ, what a pole!

The bitch of a sister stood naked in front of him with a can of pressurised whipped cream, liberally spraying Chummy's nether regions and removing it with her tongue. From the noises Chummy was making he was thoroughly enjoying it.

Suddenly she bit him. The effect was electric. His whole body shook and he threw himself from the wall, smashing her backwards to the floor, where they writhed around frantically as he tried to jam his flailing member into her in places it just would not go, his eyes rolling wildly.

The girl was screaming at him, 'No, no, Chummy! Doggy! Doggy!'

The message got through. Scrabbling, pulling, using her hair and breasts to turn her, he got her on all fours, then from two feet he lunged.

She screamed and kept on screaming with each demented stroke, as the action got fiercer and fiercer.

Sheraan could stand no more. Her legs were running wet with her own juices. She stepped clear into the room, shouting at the top of her voice, 'Hey, you incestuous bitch - get off! How 'bout some action for me?'

If she had shot the girl the effect would not have been greater. She flew up, eyes wide and staring, to cower by the wardrobe, whimpering, 'No, Mummy, please no.'

Sheraan ignored her. She was watching Chummy. He seemed not to have noticed. His heaving strokes continued just as if she'd still been there under him.

Sheraan's eyes gleamed. Hauling her gown off in one easy motion she moved down to the floor, backing up to him on all fours.

'Come to Mommy,' she urged, before she, too, screamed.

Neither of them saw or heard the girl leave.

~~~oOo~~~

The picture on the wall screen flickered and died, Kelsoe screamed, 'What the hell's happening? Get that back right now!'

Barnes tried. When he hung up and turned his face was white.

'They've lost it, Sir. The satellite is out of range now.'

Kelsoe was flaming mad. 'No more pictures? Why the hell not?'

Fox chipped in. A loose, gangling man with a permanent frown, he found the situation just. He had fought hard and long enough against the cuts in the NASA appropriations. This was just one of the results, and there would be no apologies from him.

'You will remember, Mr. President, when the new program came up for review two years ago, it was believed among those who felt they knew what was required,' his gaze was direct and impossible to mistake, 'that twenty-four hour coverage of our potential enemies was the major requirement and partial cover of the United States was acceptable. We can give you Washington, Detroit, the Missippi Delta at all times, but New York is fringe coverage. Perhaps this will make a convincing argument for the next round of negotiations.'

Landor was watching Kelsoe closely, expecting him to explode. He did not.

It was almost as though he had not heard facts he did not want to know. Instead he turned to Barnes.

'Any contact with Karashilov yet?'

Barnes shrugged. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, where it had been most of the last twenty minutes, he said, 'They still can't find him.'

Kelsoe seemed suddenly unaccountably calm. 'A hot line,' he said, 'not much use, is it, with no one at the other end?'

Landor had just opened his mouth to suggest an alert when the huge loudspeaker in the corner crackled into life with a burst of static, then the voice of the Strike pilot.

~~~oOo~~~

Alexander stood fuming, staring at the telephone in front of him, and cursing inside about being an American citizen and a big taxpayer, when the door behind him burst open. So, he thought, the bitch is back.

He turned, his pent-up anger bursting out.

'Filthy, cow-born whore! Charassnika! Syphillitic bit...'

His mouth fell open slackly. Even to an old man, Lady Hoagan's stark naked body was something else. At any other time he would have signed her up on the spot, but things were happening just too fast today, and she did not look in the mood to be made a star - or any other way.

Her eyes were blazing with a wild madness and her whole body shook with rage. She came towards him demanding,

'A gun! Quickly! A gun!'

Max never knew why he fished in his rocket and withdrew Sheraan's Biretta. Silently he handed it to her.

Without another word she turned and ran from the room.

Max came to. Suddenly he remembered replacing the magazine. The gun was loaded. Shit!

As he reached the corridor he saw her bare backside disappearing into her own suite.

He followed at a run. Bursting into the bedroom he was in time to watch and too late to act.

Sheraan and Chummy were still playing the two-backed beast. They had not seen Lady Elaine coming or took no notice if they had.

One after another, Sheraan first, she held the tiny gun to their heads and pulled the trigger. Both died instantly. Before Max could move she opened her mouth and inserted the barrel. The shot was muffled, but the tiny slug had done its work. She slid slowly and gracefully to the floor, her body landing across the other two.

Max gazed down sadly for a few seconds then heaved a huge sigh. Just like in one of his movies he took his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingerprints from the gun, slid it back into Lady Hoagan's hand and made sure there was a good new set of prints. Just as carefully he wiped the door handles as he left. In the corridor he closed the door behind him with the cloth and walked slowly back to his own suite.

Later, there would be questions, many questions, but he would know nothing, have heard nothing. Sure, Sheraan had a gun. Yes, that was it. No - she went out to shop for some feminine things.

Smiling slightly, not least at a sense of relief, he bent his head again to his telescope.

~~~oOo~~~

Faircorde heard the whine of the F131s even before their starkly efficient streamlined shapes hurtled past the window along the river.

In the lead aircraft, Major Peter 'Jikes' Mulligan did a quick double take. At sea level the mist was thick, but from above there was not the shadow of a doubt: a Soviet nuclear submarine sat on the surface of the East River, right smack in the middle of New York City, with a captain and another officer in Red Navy uniform on the 'con'.

He flicked the mike switch.

'Yeah, Strike One, this is Warhorse Leader. Affirmative, I say, affirmative. Tiger shark sighted, surfaced, coordinates Tango Sierra three eight four, Bravo Romeo one four seven. Uniformed crewmen on board.'

The earphones crackled, 'How does the City look?'

'I'll overfly, Strike One, but there's lotsa smoke and I guess lotsa fires. Warhorse Two, this is Warhorse Leader, conform to me.'

The two aircraft lifted, Mulligan elated with the opportunity of doing what most Air Force fighter pilots would give their eyeteeth to do - over-fly New York City through the skyscrapers.

Most of the City was shrouded in smoke rising from hundreds of fires, but in two places they had a clear view of the streets, jammed nose-to-tail with stationary cars, pedestrians scattering, running, conveying a sense of panic even to the men in the aircraft.

Mulligan flicked the mike switch again.

'Yeah, Strike One, this is Warhorse Leader. Looks bad. City at a standstill, panic in the streets. You want we should attack the sub?'

After a pause the controller's voice came back, 'Negative for now, Warhorse Leader. How much fuel you got left?'

Mulligan had already checked, 'Seventeen minutes.'

'Roger, Warhorse Leader. Stay in area and stand by.'

~~~oOo~~~

Falloman spoke into the yellow phone urgently, listened impatiently. Finally he argued, 'But Mr. President, Sir - the City is under attack.' He listened again, his expression hardening.

'I see, Sir. Very good.' He hooked the receiver back onto its cradle, swore gently, 'Bloody hot line. And while he's getting his goddamn buddy in the Kremlin off the goddamn john we get wiped out.'

He had not been made Chief of Operations for his indecision. It made no difference he'd voted Republican. He picked up the other phone.

'Okay, Slim - you got it.'

He turned to the controller.

'Get all staff on full readiness, we're going to be busy. Red Alert One! He picked up the phone with a direct line to the Commander at the Strategic Air Command.

'Hello, Peter, this is Spike Falloman. It's Golden Eagle Day, buddy boy, and things are already popping. Red Alert One, and you'd better get the lead out!'

~~~oOo~~~

The further they went the hotter it got. By the time they reached the thirteenth floor the stairwell was as hot as a chimney, the heat rising in waves to meet them, each hotter than the last.

Every jacket had been shed and left behind, even Scazzoni's, Valicone's personal bodyguard, revealing a shoulder holster that came as no surprise to anyone, and shirts had been opened down to the waist or discarded on the stairs. Only the Bishop kept on his collar, and it was beginning to tell on him.

His complexion had gone mottled grey and purple and his breathing had become harsh.

Suddenly his step faltered, and he would have fallen headfirst but for Cabot, who grabbed his arm as he fell.

They all stopped. Julius knelt beside Cabot over the prostrate body. 'Damned idiot.' He growled. 'What does he expect, with this tight round his neck?'

He undid the collar and pulled it off, unceremoniously flinging it from him down the stairs, then opened the shirtfront.

Lee's gaze turned to ice: on the right side of the churchman's neck, in exactly the position he remembered, was a long-healed but distinct V-shaped wound.

The searing fire of vengeance, its flame quietened with the passing of the years, burst into new intensity, surging white-hot through his veins, the old, tormenting images, burnt forever on his brain, flashing again through the blood red curtain before his eyes. The intervening years dropped away as if they had never been; the other men forgotten, he was alone again in that shack in the Ozarks with the murderer. His fists clenched steel tight. His body shook as if with the ague. If he had had a weapon in his hand at that moment he would have plunged it again and again into that black heart.

He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and a voice shoutin, 'Lee! What is it? What's wrong?'

The red mist began to fade. He could hear many anxious voices. He felt his arm taken, heard Julius' voice, quieter this time, urging, 'Come on, Lee. Snap out of it.'

Lee felt the shaking ease. His vision cleared. He was back on the stairwell of the City Services Building, looking at a group of worried men.

Julius let out a huge sigh. 'Thank God. For a minute there it looked like an epidemic - first the 'Bish', then you. How'd you feel now?'

Lee forced a painful grin. 'I'm all right.' His lips felt like two steel bands he had to force apart to speak.

A low moan came from the churchman, and his eyelids fluttered before opening fully.

Cabot helped him into a sitting position on the stair.

'You'll live too, I guess, Bishop.' he said.

Awareness returned suddenly. The Bishop's hand flew to his neck, the tips of his fingers touching the scar.

'Where is my collar?' he demanded, 'Who removed my collar?'

Lee noted the reaction coldly. If he had needed it, here was proof positive.

Cabot's voice showed his scorn, 'If that's what you want, Bishop, I'll put it back on and let you die.'

The churchman realised he had overreacted. 'No,' he insisted, 'no. Thank you. Let us continue.'

As they moved off again, Lee hung back, his mind working overtime. Somehow he must have his revenge. Now was the wrong time, but there was always the street

He found Julius had stopped a few stairs down. The Commissioner was regarding him quizzically.

'I guess it's none of my business, Lee, but if you want to confide in me I'll listen. For a minute there I thought you were going to kill him. I've only seen a look like that once before in my life, when I walked in on an axe murderer as he chopped his fifth victim.'

Lee hesitated, but only for a moment. He had the feeling, getting stronger all the time, that nothing mattered any more - or would not matter much longer.

'It was a long time ago. He raped and murdered my mother, and probably had a hand in killing my father.' He was surprised to hear how matter-of-fact his voice sounded, now that he spoke the words for the first time.

Julius nodded. Holding his hand up to his neck, he asked, 'And you...?'

Lee felt the weapon again in his hand, as the blood lust welled up afresh. 'Scissors.' he gritted.

'And now you want revenge?'

'That idea had crossed my mind.'

Julius smiled grimly, 'Come on, old friend. Let's follow them down. Maybe you'll change your mind by the time we reach ground level. If you don't, I'll lend you my revolver.' Julius could not believe it was his own voice offering complicity in homicide Stranger still, he found he meant just what he said.

~~~oOo~~~

Sher Hatyaara stood on the roadway between cars left by fleeing owners, a road empty of live human beings, looking around her.

For some time she had ignored the bodies lying on the sidewalks and the streets.

Nothing moved, but from a shop halfway along the block she could hear sounds of smashing wood and glass, and raucous voices. Still motivated by the parivataka, and wanting to kill, she moved cautiously onto and along the sidewalk until she stood outside the store.

The noises were louder, the sounds of three young black boys taking out their accumulated anger on the banks of televisions and radios stacked up along the walls and central cabinets.

The ringleader slammed a chair leg through the last fifty-two-inch colour screen with smiling satisfaction. He looked around him happily.

'Okay, man!' He shouted, 'That does it! Let's look for some more.'

They hooted with laughter and yelled obscenities as they moved out towards the door.

The first out was not looking where he was going, shouting back over his shoulder, 'What say we hit a bank next?'

He did not see the body of the tiger flying through the air towards him. He lived only as long as it took for his body to reach the sidewalk, where he was dispatched with one bite through the neck.

The next boy had witnessed the death and fell back onto the door, a silent scream blocking his throat, his legs not responding to the messages sent by his brain. His sphincter muscle relaxed, soaking his legs with his own excreta. He stood mesmerised as Sher Hatyaara rose from the body, walked slowly towards him, stood erect on her hind legs in front of him, pinned him to the door with her front paws and ripped out his throat with one easy motion.

The last boy cowered in the shop behind a smashed, overturned showcase. In his hand he held the old-fashioned single-shot pistol he had found in the drawer by the till.

The tiger stood over the body of her second kill, unsure. The human smell beneath her was too strong, covered any other smells.

She did not like the interior of buildings, but the urge to kill was strong, and she was sure there were more humans inside.

Slowly she stalked forward, stopping to sniff the air after every step. Ten feet inside the door she smelt it - the heavy, half-sour smell of human fear over to the left.

The boy's teeth were chattering with fright, the whites of his eyes huge, his whole body shaking. He held the pistol before him like a shield and waited.

The tiger took her time, moving only inches with each step, until she moved around the last obstacle.

The boy knelt only inches from her. He could feel her breath on his face. Blindly he pulled the trigger.

Sher Hatyaara recoiled with the searing pain of the wound as the lead slug tore through her pelt, chipped a tiny piece off one rib and entered her lungs.

The boy fell backwards to the floor. Crying in mortal fear, he scrabbled on hands and knees in his urgent need to move out of range.

The tiger followed, ignoring the pain now, intent only on vengeance.

The boy felt the weight of her paw on his back, crushing him to the floor.

As if with malicious delight she prolonged his death, crushing first his shoulder in her mighty jaws, picking him up and shaking him until his teeth rattled, then chewing his legs and arms, enjoying his screams of agony.

Finally, tired of her game, she bit through the skull, spilling his brains into the dust of the floor.

He did not have the satisfaction of seeing the soft froth tinged with pink around her nostrils as she breathed. The parivataka akara, which had urged the tiger on, now realised that a new body would be needed very soon, and forced the body back towards the door...

~~~oOo~~~

The little group reached ground level at last and emerged into the smoke-hazed sunshine of the street. For the first time the Council members found out what it was like to breathe the putrid air.

All were deeply affected. They stood silent, unsure, now that the moment of decision was upon them, looking around at the jam of silent automobiles.

To left and right not a living soul was in sight, except for a bedraggled Alsatian that sat dejectedly on the sidewalk near the corner with Fulton.

It heard them and stood, then took a half dozen uncertain steps towards them before stopping to assess the situation again. Reassured, it limped on, one hind paw bloody, where a nail had been torn off.

It stopped five yards short of the group and sniffed the air, its eyes observing first one, then another.

Suddenly sure, it moved forward to stand beside Lee, looking up into his face as if for confirmation of acceptance of new ownership.

Lee reached down a hand to pat the dusty head, A single wag of the tail rewarded him as the dog muzzled its head against his leg.

Julius smiled, 'Seems like you've found a new friend. Dogs are always good judges of character.'

The corners of Lee's mouth rose marginally in the beginnings of a smile that did not quite make it.

'I hope so.' he said.

Julius looked around at the faces of the others.

The Bishop still looked in a bad way. Cabot had sat him on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of the building for support. Julius did not give much for his chances. He glanced back at Lee and could see the same thought in his mind. Julius caught his eye, lifted his hand to the butt of his revolver and raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

Lee's hesitation was only momentary. A big smile broke out on his lips as he shook his head slowly from side to side, What was it the Bible said, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'? Let Him have it.

He moved the few paces over to the Commissioner, held out his hand. 'Take care, old friend.'

Julius found his hand taken in a vice-like grip for a long second, before Lee turned on his heel and moved away down Pearl Street, heading towards Battery Park without a backward glance. The dog limped along at his heels. Julius frowned - Lee lived in the opposite direction.

His departure helped the others to decide.

Valicone's face showed the strain of the descent, but the old man was a fighter. He had stamina. If anyone made it, he would, and he was being driven by the strongest motive power known to a Sicilian - vengeance!

He knew he could now trust no one in the Family, except Scazzoni. If Minelli had set up the bombing he must have the backing of the top men, and he knew where Minelli would be.

He drew himself up to his full five-six, punched Scazzoni's arm. 'Okay, Carlo,' he gritted, 'We try for the yacht.'

He looked around, showed a mouthful of gold fillings, 'Arrivederci - gentlemen.' Before turning his back on them he made a deep bow towards Jenny Singer, 'Madam.'

Cabot heard a gasp from the prostrate figure on the pavement. Quickly he knelt by the Bishop's side, taking the churchman's wrist in his hand. Julius noticed that the Bishop's head had dropped forward.

Cabot looked up. He shook his head slowly from side to side. 'That's one won't have to worry how to get home.'

He stood, addressing those who were left.

'We're near the river - that's the place to head for. There'll be more air there.'

They seemed undecided, almost in shock.

'Okay,' he added, 'Have it your way, but that's where I'm headed.' He turned and strode off towards the corner.

One by one they followed until Julius stood alone with the dead Bishop.

Julius looked around him, smiling grimly. He was no fool. Coming down was his first serious mistake in a long time. He knew it would be his last. The urge to go back up to the top of the tower was strong in him, but it would be wrong very wrong. On the other hand, what could he do, one man, against the obvious odds down here?

He looked up at the sky. Where he could see blue it had an ominous, dark tinge.

He slid the revolver from its shoulder holster, checked the chambers, slid it back,

Straightening his shoulders he stepped out purposefully, heading west.

~~~oOo~~~

Minelli checked his watch again before pressing the starter. The powerful twin engines of the Moonraker sprang into life.

He grinned over at Maria Valicone, lying all but naked on the luxurious cushions of the rear seat.

'The boys should all be back at the warehouse by now. Let's go out and play ducks and drakes with the fuzz, and you'd better get some clothes on - it won't be so warm out there.' He was rewarded with a pout for his trouble. He ambled aft to cast off the one remaining painter, then returned to the controls to shove the gear levers forward into drive. The boat purred forward through the narrow channel formed by the dozens of other craft moored by the piers, the first fingers of mist curling around it as they moved towards the thicker bank over the main stream.

Once out into the river he turned the nose towards the open sea and opened up the throttles. The bow rose as the hull went up onto a first-degree plane, sending four-foot sprays out to both sides.

Momentarily, he took his eyes from the radar screen to glance at the log.

'Thirty-one knots,' He yelled, 'they'll have to go some to catch us.'

The radar showed no signs of fast pursuit yet, not that he expected it so soon, just the large blips of heavy vessels moving slowly.

The girl joined him at the console. She had donned a dark brown bathing robe with a matching fur collar that left the cleavage between her deeply tanned breasts still clearly visible.

'Should we be going so fast in this mist?'

He laughed and was about to answer her when his nose wrinkled. He sniffed and frowned. Suddenly there was a strong, unmistakable smell of petroleum. It got stronger. He swore, throttled back and switched off.

'Must be a leak from one of the tanks,' he explained, 'or a gasoline hose off on one of the engines. I'll go and check.'

He went below.

It was strange: the smell in the engine room was not as all-pervasive or as strong as it was on deck, and a quick check told him there were no leaks. He climbed back to the cockpit.

Maria Valicone yawned and stretched lazily.

'What's wrong, Tony?' she asked, 'have we sprung a leak?'

Minelli wore a puzzled frown, 'Damned if I know,' he said, 'There's a hell of a stink of gasoline, but it isn't in the boat. Seems to be in the air, but...' He dashed to the rail and peered out onto the water.

'Holy Mother of Jesus.' he breathed, 'We're riding on a gas lake.'

'What difference does it make, if it isn't ours?'

A sudden, deep fear made him snap, 'Don't be a bloody fool! One spark and we're dead!'

Her eyes opened wide in horror.

'You mean...?'

'I mean if I start the engines we may explode, and if I don't the tide will take us up the Hudson until we hit the shore.'

'Well, that's all right then,' she said brightly, 'the tide will take us past the gas and then we can start the engine.'

He gave her a sour look. 'God, you're a stupid bitch at times.'

She pouted, 'You don't say that when I've got my legs open.'

There was no answer to that. He fell silent, working it out. Starting the engines was too much of a risk. The gas must have escaped from a tanker and might only be a small patch. Better they wait it out here and let it pass. He switched on the radar transponder and let go the anchor. 'Come into the cabin,' he offered, 'I've just thought of something to pass the time.'

They had just begun when the river ignited.

~~oOo~~~

The National Guard unit had come to a halt four miles from Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic was stopped as far as the eye could see.

Colonel Summers did not hesitate. Ordering his driver to do a U-turn on the freeway, he led the convoy back the way they had come to the first exit.

Ten minutes later they were on the shore at a point half a mile east of the Bridge, hauling their inflatables and outboards from the wagons. At one point they stopped for a few seconds, listening to the sound of jet aircraft passing close by. Summers frowned; it was unusual, but maybe the Air Force had been asked to check too.

Five minutes later they were afloat for the short crossing to Manhattan. Sergeant Dan Meaker lifted his close-cropped head and sniffed the air. 'Can you smell gasoline, Sir?' he asked.

Summers had already noticed and dismissed it. He had not noticed the rainbow streaks on the surface of the mist-covered water.

'Probably from the outboard tanks, Sergeant. They've been jolted around pretty hard the last ten minutes.'

The small convoy, twelve boats with fifteen men in each, moved out into the current. Summers had looked and guessed it at five knots.

He had made allowance in his heading for it and wasn't worried. They'd hit the other shore somewhere on the Island, and it didn't matter much where.

The petrol stench was much stronger now and it worried him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Suddenly his eyes popped open wide. In front of them, big as a wall, rose the steel plating of a Soviet submarine with its captain on the bridge, staring back at them. He was shouting something, his hands raised, palms towards them, but Summers could not hear what.

He thought quickly. Like most of his countrymen, he equated any ethnic minority group militancy with Moscow-inspired subversion. The City had riot trouble, and here was obviously the root cause. He whipped round, shouting, 'Prepare to attack! We're going in!'

Swiftly he unslung the carbine from his shoulder and slammed back the bolt. As he did so he heard again the scream of approaching jets. He saw the Russian skipper turn and lift his eyes westwards into the sky.

Meaker slapped him hard on the shoulder and he whipped round in time to see two fast launches approaching the submarine on the other side, He also saw something Meaker had not: the men in the launches were training weapons, not at the submarine but at his own boats. He swung the carbine and loosed off a clip that went high as Meaker moved his weight readying to fire, lifting the inflatable on Summer's side The shots reached the riverside, where they killed three and wounded eight of the people who were massing there for safety.

The roar of the jets drowned out almost all other sound, but Summers clearly heard the whoosh of the rockets and the explosions as they hit the submarine.

Smirnov's answering fire was more accurate.

Summers saw flame from the muzzles of the guns on the launches a split-second before the nine-millimetre slugs hit the inflatable. Meaker and the private sitting immediately behind him took the first two, the third blew a hole the size of a fist in the outboard's petrol tank.

The next sound he heard, and the last, was the world exploding.

~~~oOo~~~

Smirnov's party had pulled away from the pier less than two minutes after Konstantinov's call. The six-foot two, Kiev-trained assassin had no need to give orders. Each team of three men knew their tasks exactly. The launches - sea-going, diesel jobs with twin Z-drives, looked ordinary enough, but would leave most stuff on the river looking like it was going backwards. They were fully maintained and kept at instant readiness by a small team of mechanics who doubled as crew.

The crews of the two craft, whose targets were the bridges at the mouth of the river headed east, the other two west, led by Smirnov's boat, keeping close station in the fog, heading for Queensborough Bridge and the others.

Suddenly Smirnov shouted. He had been peering into the fog ahead, but just for a moment had looked over the starboard beam. What he saw astonished him. He had not been informed of the reported presence of the submarine.

The surprise made him hesitate one second too long. Before he could grab the wheel and throw the boat around he had lost sight of the sub. He swore, reaching for his two-way radio. In English he said, 'I have just seen one of Nash's sea fish in the river.' Nash being the Russian word for 'ours', the Ambassador would understand.

Konstantinov in reply seemed to have lost leave of his senses in the emergency. In plain language he said, 'Board her! Immediately! Contact the captain and tell him the situation. Take care - he may be here to defect, and could be dangerous.' He turned to the radio operator. 'Send to Moscow: "Submarine located, in New York's East River. Am trying to contact crew." Ask for acknowledgement.'

It was four minutes before Smirnov saw her again, through the fog less than sixty yards away. Again they were heading parallel to the sub, but he was not about to make the same mistake twice. Throwing the engines into reverse he stopped, holding station, keeping her in sight, before turning slowly towards her. Over the radio he said, 'We have her in sight. Approaching now,' then, 'Wait - there are more boats, with American soldiers, trying to board her. We are attacking.'

He gave the order swiftly. As he was speaking he heard the sound of approaching jets, but ignored them for several seconds in the excitement of the exchange of fire between the boats. Not for long. Moments later his voice over the loudspeaker in the radio room of the Embassy carried his deeply patriotic hurt: 'Fighters...two fighters...attacking...they are attacking our submarine...The ship is hit...is sinking You bastards! Bastards!...You bloody, bloody bastards!'

Konstantinov heard one final sound come over the air: 'Aaaaahhh'

~~~oOo~~~

The first run had been west east. There were bridges on both sides. Mulligan decided to do the attack run in the opposite direction.

He flicked up the red cover on the stick, to leave bare the firing button under his right thumb, his left hand sweeping up and along the row of arming switches above his head. He felt a strange sense of elation. His first real kill. This was what he had been trained for, what he had dedicated his life to.

In the mirror he could see his wingman only yards from his tailplane. This was going to be a piece of cake.

He jabbed the mike switch.

'Tally ho!'

An answering 'Tally ho!' echoed his cry as the Starfighter shook with the recoil of the departing rockets.

On the conning tower of Max Alexander's white elephant Corrigan had seen the National Guard boats first and had held up his hands in an attitude of surrender just to make things clear. When the officer in the lead boat pointed his weapon across the water behind the submarine he had looked that way and saw the others, crewed by men in civilian clothes. He watched incredulously as they began shooting at each other, then the sound of the approaching aircraft took his full attention.

This time they were lower and seemed to have a purpose.

Half joking he shouted at Harrison, 'This is where we get it, Bill. Keep your head down.'

Before he could realise how true his words were his body separated into thousands of pieces. The rockets struck just after. 'Jesus' and just before 'Christ'.

Mulligan began to say, 'Mission successful'. The second word was never uttered. His aircraft, caught in the tremendous burst of heat from the igniting petrol, exploded instantly. His wingman, blinded, and out of control, his aircraft damaged by flying debris, flew on three hundred yards.

He was unable to lift the aircraft and flew at full speed into the confusion of automobiles and people on Queensborough Bridge.

~~~oOo~~~

Kelsoe had been pacing the floor for five minutes, muttering.

Landor heard him say more than once, 'I don't trust that Russian bastard. He's up to something.'

The rest of the men in the room had fallen silent, waiting. Most of them felt Kelsoe had a point, but there was a limit, and Karashilov's continued silence was ominous.

The hot-line phone bleeped. Kelsoe whipped round to grab it.

To Barnes he ordered, 'Switch out that loudspeaker - quick.'

Into the phone he fawned, 'Ah, Comrade Karashilov, old friend, how are you? Good, good. No, I did not ring up to enquire after your health. Look, we got us a little problem here. There seems to be one of your nuclear submarines in New York Harbour. What's it doing there?'

Karashilov smiled to himself, but the smile did not come through,

'You are mistaken, my friend. We have no submarine in that vicinity. I am afraid someone has given you some false information. Unless,' a hard edge crept into his voice, 'the United States has arranged a little fiasco in order to use it as an excuse for retaliation.'

Kelsoe almost choked. Trying to keep the anger out of his voice and not succeeding in the slightest, he snapped, 'You know as well as I do, our policy is one of continuing détente: defence, non-aggression. Like you, we've got enough problems at home without worrying about other people's.'

There was a slight pause before Karashilov answered, his voice carefully non-committal.

'We have no submarine unaccounted for. The nearest to New York is six hundred kilometres out into the Atlantic, as I am sure you know from your infrared spy satellite tracking, Mr. President. The vessel is not a Russian ship.' His tone becoming grimmer he continued, 'However, there is a much more serious matter to be discussed. I have received a message from our Ambassador in New York. The Embassy has been attacked by an armed mob. This is not the act of a friendly people. Ambassador Konstantinov is a personal friend and a Hero of the Soviet Union. We find it most alarming that your government allows such a thing to occur.'

He paused for effect and would have been gratified to see Kelsoe's face.

The American President looked as if he had been hit between the eyes with the bolt from a crossbow. He jammed his hand over the mouthpiece.

'Peter!' he urged, 'Their Embassy in New York has been attacked! For God's sake find out what's going on - and tell Strike to put all missile bases on standby for Red Alert One.' He looked around, seeking help or inspiration. 'What the hell do I tell him?' he pleaded.

While he spoke, Falloman had issued the orders to the pilots. The rockets had done their work.

Kelsoe fumbled, at a disadvantage, just as Karashilov had predicted, 'Now there is where we have the problem. There seems to be a breakdown of communications in the City. Nothing's moving and there are fires everywhere. Rest assured if there has been any damage to Russian property, a full investigation and restitution will be made.'

Karashilov broke in, 'Of course, we would not presume to make war on the strength of an isolated incident...' he paused to take the flimsy from the red-faced major from the comcentre, who had just entered the room. His voice gloating, he continued, 'I have just been told that the submarine you thought was ours has just been attacked and sunk by your aircraft. This is open aggression!'

Kelsoe jammed his hand over the mouthpiece again, hissing, 'I'll get that bastard Falloman the electric chair for this! Get him on the box - now!'

Into the phone he yelled, 'Aggression, Gregor? God, man, you just told me the submarine was not one of yours! How in hell can it be aggression?'

Karashilov, noticing the frayed edges in the President's voice, permitted himself a tiny smile. 'That it is not one of ours is of no importance. You thought it was a Soviet submarine and attacked - that is what is important.

I must call a meeting of the Praesidium and discuss the situation with my colleagues. At the very least we shall require considerable reparations, but we are also a peace-loving nation and a confusing situation needs to be understood before any decisions are taken. I will call you back in one hour. Perhaps then we shall have some answers.'

He hung up, leaving Kelsoe spluttering at the other end.

~~~oOo~~~

Tens of thousands of citizens had reached the shores, where it was easier to breathe. The first clustered down by the water, on piers and wharves, where no fires could reach them. As more and more arrived, pushing and shoving from behind, those at the front were forced nearer and nearer to the water. Fighting was rampant, everyone struggling to reach the front.

Little by little, lines gave way.

First one, then a dozen, then hundreds were pushed, thrown or fell into the fast-flowing rivers. Many drowned immediately.

The strong swimmers, used to strong tides and not frightened, struck out for the far shores, or turned on their backs to float, letting the tide take them. Thousands more took over every boat on the waterfront, by force where necessary, crowding every foot of deck and roof space.

Hundreds of craft were stolen and headed in directions their new owners hoped would take them from the fear that lay behind.

A huge flotilla of small boats moved on the oily-smooth waters of both rivers.

Thousands more had reached the bridges and were clawing their way through, over and around the halted automobiles and any human being that got in their way.

Few noticed the scream of the jets as the F131s came in for their strafing run.

When the rivers ignited, every boat became a brief, floating funeral pyre as its fuel tank exploded. The flames, reaching hundreds of feet into the air above the waters, set fire to the clothes and hair of almost everyone on the bridges. Car tanks, already overheated, exploded, completing the holocaust.

The tens of thousands crammed by the rivers were caught in the sudden sheet of flame. Many dived, screaming, into the bubbling surface, in their urgent need to extinguish the flaming shrouds that engulfed them.

A new menace came. The explosion, needing oxygen to fuel it, caused a tremendous outrush of air from the shores, a sudden hurricane that struck without warning, sucking thousands more into the rivers.

The oxygen gone, smaller fires in buildings near the shores flickered and died. With them died every human being still on the streets, their lungs collapsing inwards with the sudden change in pressure.

The wall of fire over the rivers roared brightly for almost two minutes. When it died, the blanket of mist had disappeared entirely, leaving only wisps of smoke curling lazily upwards.

Max Alexander saw his submarine at last as its bow, hit by four rockets, slid gracefully below the surface.

~~~oOo~~~

The last five floors were the easiest of all. Bibba felt a new spring in her step as her goal drew closer. It seemed only seconds before she stood in front of the heavy, mahogany door.

She pushed it open slowly.

Sam stood by the silent telephones, his back to her, staring out the window, in a state of shock, horrified at the holocaust.

Without a word she slipped her hand in his.

He turned, quietly.

He seemed to have aged fifteen years since she last saw him. In his eyes she saw the hurt and pain suffered by his City.

She squeezed his hand, whispered, 'Sam.'

He tried to force a smile that would not develop.

'I'm glad you're here.' he said simply, 'But how...?'

'Along the road to hell.' She looked deeply into his eyes, 'Oh, Sam. How could I ever think of leaving you?'

He folded her in his big bear arms, 'Sshh.' His grip felt weak, without a trace of his normal strength.

'It's hot in here.' she said, 'Let's go up to the roof.'

She led him by the hand like a lost child through the outer office. The secretary had left a portable radio on the desk. Bibba picked it up as they passed. Music would do nothing to cure the problem, but it might help to take their minds off it just a little.

They moved out into the corridor and to the last flight of stairs.

~~~oOo~~~

What began as a ripple had swelled to a tidal wave: men, women and children had run \- blindly, gasping, choked with primeval fear and panic, lungs searing with pain from lack of oxygen and smoke inhalation, pushing, kicking, fighting, trampling everything in their path, choking and coughing through the clouds of dense smoke issuing out of hundreds of buildings and hanging in the windless streets - leaving behind streets littered with the dead and the dying.

More than eight thousand had been trampled to death in the rush to the rivers, the bridges and the tunnels, only to die there.

Sher Hatyaara lay where it all began, on the body of a young, pregnant black girl. Though not hungry, she had smelt the milk ready to flow and had eaten just the breast.

Now she lay quietly, awaiting the death she knew would not be long delayed. The two bullets in her leg were merely nuisance, but the lead pellet that lay in her lungs was burning like fire, and deep down she knew it would kill her.

The parivataka akara knew too that time was running out, and that it would have to leave this body it had grown to know so well

Sher Hatyaara felt serene and at peace. Vengeance had been sweet, and death would not be hard.

Her senses dulled by the pain, she did not hear or see Julius approaching, but the parivataka prepared itself for change.

Julius, too, was in a state of almost total shock, choked and gasping for breath, wandering almost aimlessly towards Center Street, dazed by the extent of the catastrophe around him and the minimal amount of oxygen he was breathing, He had searched in vain for a live member of the force he commanded.

Man and tiger came face to face as he passed through the last line of abandoned vehicles left by the sidewalk.

For almost a minute they eyed each other, neither moving, both seemingly uncomprehending. The tiger's reaction came first. For twenty minutes she had lain supine. Now, when she tried to move, her body felt like lead.

The man awoke with the tiger's movement. He felt no fear, no surprise. This day could bring no more.

Automatically, he drew his police special and slipped off the safety. Without conscious effort he loosed off the entire clip into the tiger's face as she sprang.

Julius saw the body flying through the air towards him, too weary to step aside, and expecting death.

She fell short, her head crashing into his stomach, knocking him down like the last pin in a bowling-alley.

All the shots but one embedded in the hard bone of her skull, and would have caused her little more than a bad headache. The one lucky shot entered the brain through her left eye. She died as she fell.

Julius observed the body of the tiger through half-closed eyes. He felt a power take hold of him, pushing him into action he didn't want to take. The tiger's body meant nothing to him. It was peaceful down here on the street, the heat of the asphalt on his tired body.

It would be nice to close his eyes and sleep but something inside was pushing him to move on with a sense of urgency. He had no idea that the parivataka akara that Commissioner Dewar had told him about had taken over his own body. It would only be in control for a few short minutes, until he also died.

The parivataka had enjoyed centuries of shape changing, and was unaware that in a very short time there would be nothing to change into.

It would be the end of a very long story, and oblivion. Had it had the thought processes of a human being, it would have realised it had made the worst mistake ever, and should have stayed in the mountains of India.

~~~oOo~~~

The phone connected with Strategic Air Command Headquarters trilled. Barnes lifted the receiver.

When he turned, his face was ashen.

'Someone just launched an ICBM from the eastern end of the Mediterranean - under water.'

Kelsoe groaned, 'Oh, Christ!' He looked as if he'd been hit hard in the gut. 'One of ours?'

'They don't know. Oh, hold on, Mr. President.' He listened again, said, 'Thanks.' and put the phone down.

'It was an atomic warhead of between five and eight megatons - it's just obliterated Odessa from the map.'

Everyone began to speak at once.

Kelsoe shouted above the din, 'Shaddap!'

His voice was shaky and sweat ran on his face.

'Could it be one of ours?'

Julian Corde answered, 'The Sixth Fleet is in the Med., Mr. President, as you know. We have five nuclear submarines in that area. The Russians have thirteen and there are two others which we believe to be Chinese.'

'Contact our fleet at once. We have to know who fired the damned thing, and quickly!'

The fog in Landor's mind cleared suddenly. 'The crafty old bastard.' He said quietly.

They all stared.

Kelsoe looked angry. 'What the hell is that supposed to mean, Peter?' he demanded.

'Karashilov - I knew he'd do something like this. It's been bothering me for days: how could he pull his people together, stop the rioting and get them to accept the continually lower standards of living. It all fits - unites the people with a common cause, punishes one of the provinces where the worst rioting has occurred, and makes us look like the aggressors.'

They were silent. What he said made a lot of sense.

Finally Kelsoe asked, 'Okay, Peter. Obviously you know the man a lot better than we do. What is his next move?'

Landor took a deep breath. The moment of truth, but was his own thinking free of bias? He thought quickly. No - it was like a game of chess. Karashilov had made the opening move. Now he was playing for time, There could be only one reason. There was but one move he could make.

'He will launch an all-out attack!'

Kelsoe looked as if he might burst into tears. His voice held a pleading note. 'Peter - are you absolutely sure?'

Landor felt the confidence building in him. 'Absolutely. What would you do in his position?'

Kelsoe bit his lip before answering, 'Then we have no option...'

~~~oOo~~~

Joe Baker leapt from his chair when the alarm sounded, thirteen across forgotten, but Beeson had beaten him to the safe. Wrenching open the door they each grabbed a key.

The war order code was already up on the minicomputer screen. Joe punched the numbers into the decoder and was rewarded by seeing the set of red lights come on along the missile control banks.

Beeson's face had gone deathly white and Joe asked himself if the other man was cracking up. To his surprise Beeson spoke, 'Is it the real thing?'

Joe shrugged, 'I sure as hell hope not, but I've got a nasty feeling I'm wrong. We'll know if we get the launch code.'

They did not have to wait long. It appeared on the screen as he spoke. Punching in the numbers lit up the second row of bulbs.

Joe grabbed the mike.

'Foxtrot Four, ' he asked, 'do you read?'

A tin can voice answered immediately, 'Read you five by nine.' 'Do you confirm launch?'

'Confirm.'

The third and last row of lights came on. The missiles were armed, targeted and ready to go.

Danger was forgotten. Joe turned, 'Right, Beeson,' he said, 'the key.' Beeson was backing away towards the entrance door, his face blanched. His mouth worked silently and his eyes held a mad, staring look.

Joe took a step towards him and stopped. Beeson had his revolver in his hand and it was pointed directly at the lieutenant's heart.

Joe tried authority. 'That's an order, Beeson! Jump!'

Beeson found his voice, stammered, 'No...we can't...people...millions of people...'

Joe groaned inside. Jesus, no - just like in that crappy western. They'd have a shoot-out and there'd be no one left to finish the plot.

He tried reason. 'If we don't send those birds now, one of theirs is gonna land on us.'

Beeson's eyes flashed, 'No! I won't do it! I'm going!'

He turned and grabbed for the door handle. Joe did not hesitate; whipping his revolver from the holster and flicking back the hammer in one motion he shot Beeson in the right leg, just above the knee.

Beeson fell with a scream of pain, his gun clattering from his hand onto the floor, out of his reach. Joe holstered his own weapon and crossed the space in two strides. Grabbing Beeson by the scruff of his neck he dragged him to the locks.

'Now you're going nowhere, Beeson, so you might as well-put that damned key in the lock and turn it!'

The man was blubbering, moaning about his leg. Joe slapped his face hard.

'Do it!'

Beeson reached up.

~~~oOo~~~

By five twenty-five New York at street level was a dead city. Even the fires, feeding on what little oxygen had been left, had died.

Bodies lay everywhere in the grotesque attitudes that their dying, lung-exploding paroxysms had left them.

Life, such as it was, continued only in the upper levels of the towers.

On the top floor of the New Yorker, Max Alexander sat alone in his dream world, his eye still glued to the lens of the telescope. He had seen his submarine at last, for the few brief seconds it took to sink. Since then he had been casting around, looking for signs of life in the streets. He had

found none. Now he had begun searching the windows and roofs of the skyscrapers.

Far to the west the first mushroom clouds were forming over thousands of acres of destruction. Though he did not know it, his own life had precisely eighty-four seconds to run.

Suddenly the traverse of the telescope stopped. His eye had caught a flicker of movement. He looked harder.

Over on the top of the City Services Building he could see two figures. It looked like a man and a woman, and they seemed to be dancing...

~~~THE END~~~
