"Our surveillance has to be good, Mr. Helman. As do all our procedures." He put the hairpieces in a plastic bag and placed them on the back window ledge. He spoke again.

"And now, Mr. Helman, your reputation does precede you. Please lie face down on the floor."

Helman didn't move.

"There is a chance, Mr. Helman, that you will walk away from your meeting. In that case, it will be a distinct advantage for you not to have any more information than you actually require. Do you understand?"

Helman stretched out on the floor, his face near the man's Feet. They didn't want him to know where they were taking him. It was a good sign, a reason for hope. Just as he had granted Roselynne Delvecchio her freedom, seconds before her death.

Helman felt the man's hand on his neck. He felt the strong thumb and forefinger lightly position themselves on the proper spots, and felt nothing else.

Only then did Mr. King press the button on the console to signal the driver that it was safe to drive on.

Helman woke in stages.

First he became conscious that he was thinking and tried to place himself. He remembered lying on the car floor. He was puzzled because now he could feel himself in a sitting position. The seat was soft and comfortable on the parts of his body which did not feel numb. He couldn't feel any of the car's vibrations.

Then he remembered his eyes and he opened them.

Eleven pairs of eyes stared back.

He jerked his body upright from the chair, twisting to see his position, to see if he were trapped. His neck and head caught fire with pain and he collapsed back into the chair, sweat bristling on his face. He fought back the urge to moan.

"There are aspirin, water, and cognac, if you wish any, on the table beside you." The voice came from Helman's right. It was the voice from the phone, from the car.

He turned his head slowly and saw Mr. King sitting a few feet away in a similar chair. For a moment, Helman thought he was in some sort of club.

The walls were dark and fabric covered, the ceiling high and crossed with gleaming dark wood beams, catching innumerable highlights from a brilliant crystal chandelier.

Then he saw the eyes again. All other thoughts ended.

Eleven people sat behind a massive, intricately carved table. They stared at him and their faces were just eyes. He stared back, willing his eyes to focus, to show him the truth of what he saw.

Each face was just eyes. The rest was covered with a black cloth which hung from a cord tied behind the head and crossing just over the bridge of the nose. Their bodies were draped in formless black jackets-perhaps robes? Even their hands were swathed in black cloth, like improbable mittens. "Who are you?" he said, quite softly. The movement of his jaw ripped into the back of his neck like scalding blades.

A voice began. It took Helman some moments to tell from the movement of a black cloth that the speaker was the figure seated third from the left.

"You are Robert Granger Helman. You are also David Michael Franklin, William Terrence Rosner, Stephen Phillip Osgood." The figure paused. He seemed to smile through his mask, then continued. "et al."

They were the names of Helman's 'drops.' The dummy identities he and his broker used to funnel payments, and which Helman used as operating identities when closing deals. He had more than the three the figure had named, all backed by passports, credit cards, social security payments, and mailing addresses, but the ones named were his active ones. The rest were dormant until he had a need for them. Helman was not concerned with the revelation. He had expected it.

"The figure continued.

"All of them born about 1975 it would seem. About the time you came in contact with a 'broker' "-Helman noted with interest that his broker was not named-"and became involved in the closing of certain 'deals.' "

A third person at the table began speaking.

"Mr. Helman, you are what is commonly referred to as a contract killer, a hit man. We have knowledge of twelve of what you call your deals. We have direct evidence linking you to seven of them. We suspect your total number of assassinations at between twenty and twenty-five. However, we feel seven is more than enough to interest the FBI.

And any indictments filed against you would be certain to more than interest your past 'clients.' Panic, we are sure, would be much more likely considering the names you might be persuaded to reveal to save yourself.

"If you live through to your trial date, you can be certain your sister and her children won't. We shall see to that personally,"

In the silence that followed, Helman felt the trap inexorably closing. He looked around at the room he was in: the paintings, the sculptures by the double doorway, and the rich oriental carpet beneath him. All spoke of wealth, old and considerable. The people who faced him, their voices all curiously similar to the man's beside him-a regional accent from a language other than English would fit in with his suspicions-were talking of murder.

Murder, wealth, and a group based in a common foreign location meant only one thing to him. A war was to begin. One of New York's families had linked him with some closings which might have been arranged by another family. They had somehow set him up in the Delvecchio deal, and now wanted him to give evidence about who hired him and why. That evidence could be taken to a war council as justification, in the end, for taking control of New York City. Helman had always tried to stay away from organised crime. Now he felt he hadn't tried hard enough.

It was time for him to react.

"You probably have more information about the closings you're talking about than I do," he began. "All of them are arranged through the broker you mentioned.

Except when a name or a face has been in the papers, I often don't know who the deal is, and I never know who my client is." His first approach would be to make them think he was a pawn.

The group at the table reacted oddly, as though of all the things Helman might have said, his last statement wasn't one of the expected ones. The masked figures looked at each other in silence for a few moments. The figure in the middle, who hadn't spoken before, turned to Mr. King and asked, "Does he wish to be commended for his ignorance?

Surely that is the only way he can operate?"

The man in the chair addressed the group.

"No, my Lo-," he stopped abruptly and began again. But Helman had caught it. Was he actually going to call the man at the table "my Lord?"

"No, sir. He believes you are one of the organisations his assassinations have been directed against. He will no doubt assume that his latest assassination, evidence of which we have presented to him, was arranged by you to furnish a hold over him. He believes you will now request him to furnish information about his previous employers so you may use that information against them. He is trying to establish himself as blameless in the planning of the assassinations so you will not kill him."

Another figure at the table seemed impressed with the explanation of Helman's statement.

"Is this true, Mr. Helman?" Helman was confused. Nothing here was making sense. He felt as if he were on display, not about to be subjected to interrogation on the eve of a gangland war. And why was one of the men at the table called "Lord?"

"Who are you people?" Helman had run out of theories. He had no idea what he was doing there.

The figure third from the left spoke again.

"We wish to offer you a contract. We wish you to assassinate for us."

A cold, detached part of Helman accepted that as a legitimate request. That was the reason they had approached him: they wanted to buy his services. He examined them closely. Eleven indistinguishable figures. All with black cloths obscuring their faces and hands. All with the same whisper-hiss way of speaking. Their request seemed legitimate, even if they did not. But the request made no sense. What were they hiding?

They had the resources to completely uncover one of his closings. They had the ability to locate him within minutes of his arrival in New York. They were surrounded by the trappings of wealth. Helman had no doubt that they also had the resources and ability to hire anyone in the world to kill anyone else. Why did they come to him?

"I've retired," was all he said.

Instantly Mr. King was behind him, his steely fingers pressed deeply into the soft muscles just below Helman's skull.

The room turned red. Blood roared through his ears. Helman's head was twisted slowly and painfully up to meet the incredible eyes of the man who held him motionless. The eyes did glow. Or was it the blood being forced from his head? As if at a great distance, Helman heard Mr. King's single word. "Respect."

And then the room steadied and the warm light of the chandelier returned. Mr. King was no longer behind him. He was sitting in his chair. Helman had not been aware of any movement. The group at the table came into focus once more. The figure third from the left spoke again.

"You are an assassin. You will not speak to us otherwise. Your fee shall be the destruction of the evidence we hold against you."

Another voice spoke. From which figure it came, Helman could not be sure.

"Remember your sister and her children. You have no choice."

Helman rubbed gently at his inflamed neck. He knew what the penalty was for saying something to these people which they aid not want to hear, but he had to risk it.

"With all respect, why have you chosen me for this? I'm an independent. I don't compare to the capabilities your organisation has shown in bringing me here. Surely there are others who would be more suitable?"

Mr. King spoke.

"Mr. Helman. They have chosen you. That makes you suitable. I strongly advise against questioning their judgement." A lesser man might have punctuated that threat with an ominous clenching of a fist or some other reminder of the pain which had been inflicted, but Mr. King simply sat still. Everything about these people was understated and brutal. They had no need to threaten, they simply got their way. They were in complete control.

The confusion was leaving Helman. The resolve and, from the shadows, fear were growing.

Again a masked figure spoke.

"It is precisely for those reasons about which you have expressed concern, that we have chosen you.

"There are spheres of influence operating in the world which are far removed, in goals and power, from the areas in which you find yourself. You are involved in the petty circles of criminal endeavour, of corporate enterprise, political machinations. None of them concerns us. Just as we, at present, are of no concern to them. We all of us go our own ways, and only time will tell who is the master."

Helman listened in fascination. Were they mad? After crime, business, and politics, what was left?

The figure continued.

"These spheres are quite rarefied and open only to a few. Much power is exercised among them but a drawback is that all within are known to each other."

Helman saw what they were driving at. "You have never operated in such concerns and therefore are useful as an unknown quantity.

"Simply, we wish to punish one who has fallen away from us and our ways. This person is to be your target. Our usual operatives, and our usual methods, are known to the target, and certain defences are possible. We wish you to carry out this contract because you will be able to move freely without being identified, without causing alarm, until it is too late,"

Helman asked the question his training demanded.

"There have been other attempts against the target?"

The figure nodded. "There have been other attempts."

And there it was. Nothing more had to be said. Like the Delvecchio closing, Helman was being brought in to correct a mistake. Only this time he had no idea whose mistake it was. His retirement, it seemed, was over. He had to kill one more time or risk the lives of the only people who mattered to him. His dreams and his life were secondary.

They did not have to mention their evidence against him again. They had said it once. He doubted that these people would ever bother to repeat themselves.

"What guarantees do I have that after I complete your contract, the evidence will be destroyed? My family will be safe?"

Mr. King spoke. He seemed to be taking the role of interpreter, as though Helman represented a completely different world to the group at the table; a world which needed constant explanation.

"You have no such guarantees, Mr. Helman. Frankly, you're not in a position to demand them. You also have no guarantee that upon completing the contract we simply won't kill you ourselves."

Helman had known that.

"All I can offer," Mr. King continued, "is an appeal to your professional instincts. Each death is another opportunity for unpredictability. A careful plan can unravel with unanticipated inquiries from those who investigate bodies and death. You represent no threat to us. You don't know who we are, where we are, our motives, or the victim. Why risk a murder investigation when there is no need?"

Helman had no doubt that his body could disappear, just as easily as Joe Delvecchio's.

"Besides, Mr. Helman, at the very least, co-operating with us will buy you time," For the first time, the man's expression changed from one of deadly earnestness. He smiled at Helman.

For no particular reason he could think of, Helman noted that the man's teeth were perfect. White and even and regular, contrasting vividly with dark, brooding eyes.

Surrounded then, by a man with deadly fingers and a movie star's smile, and a mysterious group of people who wore bizarre masks in a peculiar room which, he noted for the first time, had no windows, Helman realised he must make his choice. And he realised that, in actuality, there was no choice to be made. There was only one course of action open to him.

He asked, "Who do you want me to kill?" and the briefing began. An envelope was produced containing pictures of the target, lists of recommended strategies and conditions which must be met.

The first thing he learned was that his target was Adrienne St. Clair, a woman who had just arrived in North America from England. The second thing he learned was that she was deadly. And after he had learned all that they would tell him, Mr. King, again without movement which Helman could sense, was behind him, fingers of steel pushing into his neck.

Helman collapsed, unknowing, without a shudder.

And now that the human would be removed from their presence, the masks could come off.

Seven.

Lord Eduardo Diego y Rey rose from his position at the middle of the meeting table. His fingers worked delicately through the covering layers of loose black cloth wrapped around his hands, until he was free of its disguise.

His hands were gaunt and white. Each bone and tendon marked out in high relief. Not even the blue of arteries showed through the whiteness of his skin, as though something other than blood coursed through him.

His nails were inch-long wicked talons of brilliant white. They seemed to glow in the warm light of the meeting room's chandelier. He moved his hands behind his head to the fastening clip of the mask cord, and it too came free.

King felt envy as he gazed upon the face of Diego. It was the face of a Lord, unmarred by the necessities of the camouflage needed for dealing with the humans. Diego's rank was such that he never had to deal directly with them.

Or else the humans he did deal with were of such rank that he did not have to disguise his true nature.

Diego's skin was paler than any albino's. The white was not just an absence of colour, it was a colour of itself. And his fangs, pushing delicately against his lower lip, had the appearance of marble: a true Lord of the Conclave, ruler of all yber. It was the name they called themselves. Humans called them by one far more foul.

"Mr. King," Diego said, his pale lips drawing back from the exquisite, needle-sharp incisors. His own kind would consider it a smile, as if it amused Diego to call King by the name he took while working among humans. "The situation seems controlled. When it is settled, consider travelling back with me to Spain. There is work there for you which would not require masks, of any kind."

"Of course, Lord Diego," King replied calmly. But in his thoughts he was thrilled. Lord Diego had just offered to be his mentor, an escape from the cruel mutilation of his own fangs so that he might pass among the humans. And such offers led to others; a century or two from now, he might even be allowed a seat on the Conclave itself.

"When this matter is completed," Diego said.

"When the heretic St. Clair has been given the Final Death," King agreed.

"And the human, Mr. King. It would be best if his body could be easily recovered and tied to whatever actions he might commit. When the human authorities have the dead suspect, they will not look further into it."

King nodded. Implicit in all his plans was the feel that Granger Helman could not be allowed to live. If the foolish human had believed what King had told him about going free after the heretic had been dealt with, so much the better.

If Helman did not expect any treachery, the treachery would be that much easier.