Clarke turned the key in the ignition, revved, reversed a skidding three feet to bring the bonnet free of overhanging branches. Vlad's second spring, aimed again at Clarke's window, sent the dog sprawling on the bonnet directly in front of the windscreen. And now the young esper saw just how fortunate his escape had been. Out in the open — there was little he could have done against that!

Viad's face was a savage black mask of hatred, a contorted, snarling, saliva-flecked visage of madness! Yellow eyes spotted with crimson pupils glared through the glass at Clarke with such a burning intensity that he almost fancied he could feel their heat. Then he was into first gear and skidding out on to the road.

As the car jerked and slewed forward, so the dog's feet were jolted from under him. He crashed over on to his side on the bonnet and was sent sprawling into the darkness of the hedgerow as Clarke straightened the car up and sent it careening along the road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the dog emerge from the hedge and shake itself, glaring after the speeding car. Then Clarke was round a bend and Vlad lost to sight.

That wasn't something he felt sorry about. Indeed, he was still shaking when he switched off the car's engine in the hotel car park in Paignton. Following which... he flopped back in his seat and wearily lit a cigarette, which he smoked right down to the cork tip before securing the car and going in to make his report Frankie's Franchise was wall to wall sleazy. It was a place for habitual wharf-rats, prostitutes and their pimps, pushers and Genoese low-life in general. And it was noisy. An old American juke-box, back in fashion, was blasting Little Richard's raw ‘Tutti Frutti' across the main room like a gale force wind. There was no smallest corner of the place that escaped the music's blast, but in any one of the half-dozen arched alcoves you could at least hear yourself think. That was why Frankie's was so ideally suitable: you couldn't concentrate enough to hear anyone else think.

Alec Kyle and Carl Quint, Felix Krakovitch and Sergei Gulharov, sat at a small square table with their backs to the protective alcove walls. East and West faced each other across their drinks. Curiously, on the one side Kyle and Quint drank vodka, and on the other Krakovitch and Gulharov sipped American beers.

Identifying each other had been the easiest thing in the world: in Frankie's Franchise, no one else fitted the prescribed picture at all. But personal appearance wasn't the only yardstick; for of course, even in the hubbub, the three sensitives were able to detect each other's psychic auras. They had made their acknowledgement with nods of their heads, picked their way with their drinks from the bar to an empty alcove. Certain of the club's regulars had given them curious glances: the hard men a little wary, narrow-eyed, the prostitutes speculative. They had not returned them.

Seated for a few moments, finally Krakovitch had opened the discussion. ‘I don't suppose you speaking my language,' he said, his voice heavily but not unpleasantly accented, ‘but I speaking yours. But badly. This my friend Sergei.' He tipped his head sideways a little to indicate his companion. ‘He know a little, very little, English. He not have ESP.'

Kyle and Quint glanced obediently at Gulharov. What they saw was a moderately handsome young man with close-cropped blond hair, grey eyes, hard-looking hands where they lay loosely crossed on the table, enclosing his drink. He seemed uneasy in his modern Western clothes, which weren't quite the right fit.

‘That's true enough.' Quint narrowed his eyes, turning back to Krakovitch. ‘He's not skilled that way, but I'm sure he has many other worthwhile talents.' Krakovitch smiled thinly and nodded. He seemed a little sour.

Kyle had been studying Krakovitch, committing him to memory. The Russian head of ESPionage was in his late thirties. He had thinning black hair, piercing green eyes and an almost gaunt, hollow face. He was of medium height, slimly built. A skinned rabbit, thought Kyle. But his thin, pale lips were firm, and the high dome of his head spoke of a rare intelligence.

Krakovitch's impression of Kyle was much the same: a man just a few years younger than himself, intelligent, talented. It was only the physical side of Kyle that was different, which hardly mattered. Kyle's hair was brown and plentiful, naturally wavy. He was well fleshed, even a little overweight, but with his height that scarcely showed. His eyes were brown as his hair, his teeth even and white in a too-wide mouth that sloped a little from left to right. In another face that look might well be mistaken for cynicism, but not in Kyle, Krakovitch thought.

Quint, on the other hand, was more aggressive, but he probably had superb self-control. He would reach conclusions quickly, right or wrong. And he would probably act on them. He would act, and hope he'd done the right thing. But he wouldn't feel guilty if it turned out wrong. Also, there wasn't much emotion in Quint. All of this showed in his face, his figure, and Krakovitch prided himself on reading character. Quint was lithe, built like a cat. In no way massive, but he had that coiled spring look about him. Not nervous tension, just a natural ability to think and act fast. He had eyes of disarming blue that took in everything, a thin, even nose, and a forehead creased from frowning. He too was in his mid-thirties, thin on top, dark featured. And he had a talent. Krakovitch could tell that Quint was extremely ESP-sensitive. He was a spotter.

‘Oh, Sergei Gulharov has been trained —, Krakovitch finally answered, ‘ — as my bodyguard. But not in your arts, or mine. He has not got that kind of mind. Indeed, of the four of us, I could argue that he is the only "normal" man present. Which is unfortunate,' — now he stared accusingly at Kyle — ‘for you and I were supposed to meet as equals, without, er, backup?'

At that moment the music went quiet, the rock'n'roll replaced by an Italian ballad.

‘Krakovitch,' said Kyle, hard-eyed now and keeping his voice low, ‘we'd better be straight on this. You're right, our deal was that the two of us should meet. We could each bring along a second. But no telepaths. What we have to say to each other we'll just say, without someone picking our thoughts. Quint isn't a telepath, he's a spotter, that's all. So we weren't cheating. And as far as your man here — er, Gulharov? — is concerned: Quint says he's clean, so you aren't cheating either. Or you wouldn't appear to be — but your third man is something else!'

‘My third man?' Krakovitch sat up straight, seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I have no -'

‘But you do,' Quint cut in. ‘KGB. We've seen him. In fact, he's here in Frankie's Franchise right now.

That was news to Kyle. He looked at Quint. ‘You're certain?'

Quint nodded. ‘Don't look now, but he's sitting in the corner over there with a Genoese whore. He's changed his clothes, too, and looks like he's just off a ship. Not a bad cover — but I recognised him the moment we walked in here.'

Out of the corner of his eye Krakovitch looked, then slowly shook his head. ‘I do not know him,' he said. ‘Not to be surprised. I do not know any of them. I dislike —strongly! But... you are sure? How can you be so sure?'

Kyle would have been caught on the hop, but not Quint. ‘We run the same sort of branch as the one you run, Comrade,' he stated flatly. ‘Except we have the edge on you. We're better at it. He's KGB, all right.'

Krakovitch's fury was obvious. Not against Quint but the position in which he now found himself. ‘Intolerable!' he snapped. ‘Why, the Party Leader himself has given me his — ‘ He half stood up, half turned towards the man indicated, a thick-set barrel of a man in rough and ready suit and open-necked shirt. His neck must be at least as thick as Krakovitch's thigh! Fortunately he was looking the other way, talking to the prostitute.