Villon nodded silently and the attendant pumped the gas. When he finished he went around to the front of the car and pointed. Villon pulled the release lever and the attendant raised the hood.

"You better take a look at your fan belt. She looks pretty worn."

Villon got out of the car and leaned on the fender opposite the attendant. He said in an undertone, "Do you have any idea of the unholy mess your bungling has caused?"

Foss Gly stared back across the engine. "What's done is done. The weather closed in at the last minute and the first missile lost the target. It's that simple."

"It's not that simple!" Villon snapped back. "Nearly fifty people killed for nothing. If the air safety inspectors discover the true cause of the crash, Parliament will be in an uproar demanding investigations into every organization, including the Boy Scouts. The news media will cry for blood after they learn twenty of their top political journalists were murdered. And the worst of it is, the Free Quebec Society will be suspected by all."

"No one will trace the blame to the FQS." Gly's voice was cold and final.

"Damn!" Villon struck the fender with his fist. "If only Sarveux had died. The government would be in confusion and we could have made our move on Quebec."

"Your buddies in the Kremlin would have loved that."

"I won't be able to count on their support if we have another setback of this magnitude."

Gly extended a hand toward the engine as though he was working on it. "Why get cozy with the reds? Once they get their hooks in you, they never let loose."

"Not that it concerns you, but a government along Communist lines is Quebec's only hope of standing alone."

Gly shrugged indifferently and continued to pretend to work on the engine. "What do you want from me?"

Villon considered. "No percentage in panic. I think it best if you and your team of specialists, as you call them, continue your cover employment as usual. None of you are French, so it's doubtful you'll come under suspicion."

"I can't see the percentages in waiting around to get caught."

"You forget that since I am minister of internal affairs, all security matters pass through my office. Any leads pointing to you will be quietly lost in bureaucratic red tape."

"I'd still feel safer if we left the country."

"You underestimate events, Mr. Gly. My government is cracking at the seams. The provinces are snapping at one another's throats. The only question is, When will Canada shatter? I know it's coming, Charles Sarveux knows it, and so do those English stiff-necks who out speech each other in that old stone relic by the Thames River. Soon, very soon, Canada, as the world knows her, will be no more. Believe me, you will be lost in the chaos."

"Lost and out of a job."

"A temporary situation," said Villon, his tone heavy with cynicism. "As long as there are governments, financial corporations and wealthy individuals who can afford your special bag of dirty tricks, Mr. Gly, your kind will never be forced to sell vacuum cleaners for a living."

Gly gave an indolent twist to his head and changed the subject "How can I get in touch with you in case of a problem?"

Villon moved around the front of the car and clutched Gly's upper arm in an iron grip. "Two things you must remember. First, there will be no more problems. And second, under no circumstances are you to attempt contact with me. I cannot run the slightest risk of being tied to the FQS."

Gly's eyes closed for a brief instant of surprise and pain. He sucked in a breath and flexed the bicep as Villon increased the pressure. The two men stood there, neither giving an inch. Then, very slowly, a taut grin of satisfaction began to stretch Gly's lips and he glared into Villon's eyes.

Villon released his grasp and smiled grimly. "My compliments. Your strength and dimensions very nearly match mine."

Gly fought back an urge to massage the stabbing pain in his arm. "Lifting weights is as good a way as any to kill time between assignments."

"One can almost detect a faint resemblance between our facial features," said Villon, climbing behind the wheel of the Mercedes. "Except for your repulsive nose, we might be taken for brothers."

"Stick it in your ear, Villon!" The belligerence in Gly's voice was unmistakable. He glanced at the old couple still perched on the bench waiting for a bus, and then at the meter on the gas pump. "That'll be eighteen sixty."

"Charge it!" Villon snarled, and drove off.

Villon buttered a slice of breakfast toast and read the caption on page two of his morning newspaper.

NO LEADS IN TERRORIST ATTACK ON PRIME MINISTER'S PLANE

Foss Gly had covered his tracks well. Villon kept his hand on the investigation, and he knew that with each passing day the scent grew colder. He subtly used the influence of his office to play down any connection between the assassins and the FQS unless definite proof was found. So far things were working smoothly.

His satisfaction faded to a chill as Villon thought of Gly. The man was nothing but a savage mercenary whose god was a fat price. There was no telling how a mad dog like Gly might run if he wasn't held on a tight leash.

Villon's wife came to the doorway of the breakfast room. She was a pretty woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes. "There's a phone call for you in the study," she said.

He entered the study, closed the door and picked up the phone. "This is Villon."

"Superintendent McComb, Sir," in a voice as deep as a coal pit. "I hope I'm not interrupting your breakfast."

"Not at all," Villon lied. "You're the officer in charge of. Mounted Police records?"

"Yes, Sir," McComb replied. "The file you requested on Max Roubaix is on the desk in front of me. Shall I make a copy and send it to your office?"

"Not necessary," said Villon. "Please give me the basics over the phone."

"It's a bit bulky," McComb hedged.

"A five- minute capsule will do." Villon smiled to himself. He could almost imagine McComb's state of mind. No doubt a family man who was irritated as hell at having to leave a warm bed and a warm wife and a Sunday sleep-in to dig through old dusty records to Satisfy the whim of a cabinet minister.

"The pages are over a hundred years old, so they're written in hand script, but I'll do my best. Let's see now, Roubaix's early life is sketchy. No date of birth. Listed as an orphan who drifted from family to family. First official record is age twelve. He was up before a local constable for killing chickens."

"You did say chickens?"

"Snipped off their heads with wire cutters in wholesale lots. He worked off damages to the farmer whose stock he had decimated. Then he moved to the next town and graduated to horses. Cut the throats of half a herd before he was apprehended."

"A juvenile psychopath with a bloodlust.

"People simply wrote him off as the village idiot in those days," said McComb. "Psychotic motivation was not in their dictionaries. They failed to understand that a boy who slaughtered animals for the hell of it was only one step away from doing the same to humans. Roubaix was sentenced to two years in jail for the horse blood bath, but because of his age, fourteen, he was allowed to live with the constable, working off his time as a gardener and houseboy, Not long after his release, people in the surrounding countryside began to find bodies of tramps and drunks who had been strangled."