The room listened in silence.

“That’s what happened at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital before this gentleman arrived.” He pointed to Herbert standing up, leaning on the wall, motionless, cool as a stone. Barnes sat down.

“Can you tell me what your men did to let a wounded man and a woman get away safe?”

“We’re still investigating,” Herbert declared, perfectly cool, his voice indifferent, insensible to the change of mood.

“Actually, it’s already investigated.” It was Staughton’s turn to get up, half confident, half hesitant, thanks to the faces looking at him. The closest to him could almost make out a slight blush tingeing his face. “There were three bodies inside the hospital related to this case. One on the fourth floor belonging to an SIS agent named John Cornelius Fox, the other two on the first floor, Simon Templar, whose real name was Stanishev Yonsheva, a former member of the KDS-”

“KDS?” someone exclaimed. “Where have we seen anything like this?”

“First an agent of the Russian RSS, now one from the former Bulgarian KGB,” Barnes reflected. “Where is this going?” He sat down in the chair, thinking. He had a strong desire to ease the lump in his throat, but a boss couldn’t give the impression he was disconcerted. He turned to Herbert. “Where did you recruit that guy?”

“The Bulgarian was in our service, I admit. As far as the Russian you’re talking about, I have no idea who he is,” Herbert informed him.

“Go on,” Barnes ordered Staughton.

“Well, okay. The Bulgarian had two shots in the back from the same gun that left a bullet in the head of James Hugh Cavanaugh, an American mercenary who had no affiliation with or interest in any side.”

“He was crazy for guns and money,” Herbert concluded. “A failed actor who decided to try out the real world.”

“According to MI6,” Staughton continued, “the shots came from the building in front, conveniently abandoned. The glass in the window had three holes that the forensic technicians are still analyzing, but we assume will correspond to the projectiles found in the bodies.”

“And the one on the fourth floor?” Barnes asked. “How did he die?”

“He was stabbed with six scalpels,” Staughton explained. “No bullet was found in him. The individual named James had several scalpels in his pockets, so he seems a good suspect for the killing.”

“The wrong place at the wrong time,” Barnes suggested.

“According to the receptionist, John Fox and Sarah Monteiro came in at four to visit the man wounded in the explosion, who’s now identified as Simon Lloyd.”

“Good work,” Barnes praised him. He knew Staughton was good with this sort of thing. Comparing and processing information. His development in the field would be slow and complex, but once he got there, he’d be a capable agent. There was time. “What do we know about him?”

“He’s an intern at the Times, an assistant to Sarah Monteiro. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Barnes raised his imposing bulk again to deliberate the orders. This was what was expected of a chief. Listen to the reports and decide how to bring the objectives to safe port.

“This is the situation we find ourselves in, ladies and gentlemen. We have four people beyond our control…” He interrupted himself. “Who’s the fourth?” he asked the room.

Staughton, now seated, replied again.

“He hasn’t yet been identified. He’s an elderly man around sixty years old, but no more is known. A few minutes ago we received the images of the hospital exterior from security, and now we’re working on the identification.”

“It’s not important,” Herbert advised with his hard eyes.

“I’m the one who decides what’s important,” Barnes interrupted. “Here’s the point: we have four people in a Mercedes van. They cannot get out of the country under any circumstances.” A heavy stare swept the room to which he added his guttural, serious voice. “Every trail is important. If you find them, I repeat, if you find them, shoot first and ask questions later.”

“The most probable thing is that they’ll abandon the van,” Thompson suggested.

“They can’t,” Staughton answered.

“Why not?” Barnes was curious.

“Because of the corpses,” his subaltern explained.

“True, the corpses.” Barnes hadn’t remembered them. Everyone exchanged glances, while Barnes thought about plausible solutions. “Why the hell do they want the corpses?”

40

Dawn awakened with the crowing of a rooster just as it does in fairy tales. Here in this rural area, favorable to roosters and hens, pigs, rabbits, and other animals, the wake-up call was heard for a radius of hundreds of yards.

The old man slept on the sofa, a blanket protecting him from the cold that was common at night in this region.

The easy chair where the cripple had sat was now occupied by Raul Brandão Monteiro, sleeping poorly, with his eyes closed, in a very light doze, waking with the smallest chirp of a cricket or crowing of a cock, like this one. The cripple must be walking one of his disciplined rounds, since no precaution was too great when one’s enemies were powerful.

Raul got up, half asleep, put on the shoes that had slipped off his feet while he tossed and turned during the night, and faced the dawn of a new day. He’d spent hours watching the phone in hope of news, ignoring the fact that the phone would be heard when it needed to be answered. He’d checked it over and over, the keypad, the receiver, to be sure the phone was working perfectly. Everything was normal. No one had called.

He went to the bedroom where Elizabeth was sleeping, but the closed door kept him from seeing how she was doing. He didn’t need to see her to know she hadn’t closed her eyes all night, and, certainly, she turned over in bed when he tried without success to open the door. It didn’t matter. She’d come out soon to ask him about their daughter and be angry when he had nothing to tell her. Ring, telephone, ring, Raul wished anxiously as he returned to the room where old JC waited for him, sitting on the sofa with the blanket on his lap for security. “Already awake?” the old man said, smiling.

“I don’t know how you’re able to sleep as if nothing’s going on,” Raul said indignantly.

“The body gets used to anything, my dear captain,” he explained. “Where did you see combat?”

“In Cuanza Norte in ’sixty-three,” the captain answered, thinking of his induction into the army and the two-year commission he served overseas in the war between Portugal and her colonies.

“And tell me something. Did you sleep while you were there?”

He knew where JC was going. For him it was one more routine day in his long life. Nothing out of the ordinary. He adapted to periods like this when he had to change his refuge or was the target of forces as great or greater than his own. He lost no sleep over this because he knew no other reality, no other way to live. Calm and serenity, yes, these could make him lose sleep.

“There’s still no news.” Raul was worried.

“There will be,” the old man declared calmly.

JC got up with the help of his cane and walked over to the table that still had the remains of last night’s dinner on it. He sat down and looked at Raul.

“What’s for breakfast?”

With a sigh, Raul went out to the kitchen to prepare the meal, normally spiced and hearty to sustain a day in the field. Today he wasn’t hungry, so he’d make only enough to fill up the old man’s stomach.

“Good morning, my friend. Everything okay?” JC asked the cripple, who had just come in.

“Nothing new,” the younger man replied professionally and sat down at the table.

The old man poured a glass of water from a bottle on the table, took a box of pills from his pocket, selected two to place on his tongue, and helped them down with the water. The cripple watched him without saying anything.