The most brutal shock hit him then, as he realised with horror that all this had already happened, but the closing had not yet even begun.

Impassively he put on his heavy coat and boots and left the hotel to check the conditions around Dr. Leung's townhouse. He ignored all his training and did not anticipate the results of his planned moves. He had nothing sane to base his conjectures upon. He could not imagine how things could be worse.

He felt positive, however, that they would be.

Eleven.

Major Weston was cramped and cold in the back of the surveillance van. But he was happier to be there than in a warm Washington office. It was the same as the feeling he had about flying and driving. There was a far greater chance of being in a car crash than a plane crash, yet driving always felt safer. In an airplane, he was just along for the ride, a victim of happenstance. In the car, he felt the semblance of control over the situation, however insecure that control might be. He felt the same way now. The van was parked across the street and three houses down from the townhouse of Dr. Christopher Leung. Across the street and three houses down from Adrienne St. Clair. He felt a semblance of control.

A second van was parked twenty feet away from Weston's van. It was one of the decoys. Both vans were orange and white, the colours of the local cable television company. The owner had been most co-operative when the situation had been explained to him.

A master circuit had been taken out of line at the cable company's main switching board. A six-block grid, which included Leung's townhouse, lost cable television reception. It was a Friday night. "Dallas" was interrupted. The office was flooded with calls within minutes. Eight installer/repair vans were dispatched immediately. The drivers were instructed to check every connection in the affected area; a three-day job if necessary. No one in the area would think anything of the cable vans being in the neighbourhood while the service was interrupted. The vans would be invisible.

With that accomplished, a ninth van was prepared as a surveillance station. Again the owner had been co-operative.

Cable companies were monopolies. They needed as much favourable publicity as they could get. The ninth van had been stripped of equipment cupboards and installer's gear and completely reoutfitted by Weston's advance team.

Microtelevision cameras peered at small mirrors angled in concealed holes in the van body as well as the corners of the windows in the driver's section. The cameras were equipped with Startron intensifier CRTs and presented clear images in almost total darkness.

One of Weston's team, arriving in a legitimate repair van, had climbed a telephone pole near the front of Leung's townhouse, ostensibly to check the cable line, and had wired in an inductance phone tap with an FM transmitter.

Every call into or out of the townhouse was narrowcast to the receiver in Weston's van.

A green telephone truck, also a closed van, had been street parked since Weston's arrival. The cable installers had, at their foreman's request, asked the cable customers whose homes they entered if they were also experiencing problems with their phones. No one was. The telephone truck was a second surveillance unit. Weston had run up against the Watcher Section, Section I, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police; Canada's equivalent of the FBI. Weston knew their presence could only mean the Jesuits had discovered St. Clair's whereabouts.

Weston's team had told the owner of the cable company a totally fictional story about needing his company's co- operation to crack an international drug smuggling ring. Weston wondered what story the Jesuits had told the Mounties. Whatever it was, Weston knew they could no more have told the truth than he could have.

Four other RCMP Watchers had been identified so far today. There were definitely others which Weston had been unable to spot. The Watcher Section was notoriously good. It was comprised of people who, for some reason or another, had been unable to qualify as regular Mounties. Sometimes because they didn't match the physical requirements; sometimes because of a criminal past. No matter, at some point in the rejection process they were earmarked for Watcher Section. Their divergent physical appearance meant they were never immediately identifiable as law enforcement officers, and the knowledge that their assignment was the only way they could serve the Mounties made their dedication border on the fanatical.

The intelligence community in the United States had long used 'deviant' surveillance agents as they were known, but had never systemised the practice the way the Mounties had. Partly because there was a resistance to change in American intelligence groups that became particularly strong when faced with suggested alterations from foreign countries. Mostly because it was common knowledge among American intelligence officials that two of the top-ranking Mountie officers were KGB moles. Americans would never accept an operational change that originated, as they perceived it, from the Soviets. As a result, the Canadian Mounties were never seen as a legitimate ally by the United States. They were simply a funnel for feeding misinformation to the Kremlin. All the Americans had to do was allow the Mounties to participate in a few border drug seizures from time to time to keep them in line.

That was the real problem with the American intelligence organisations, thought Weston. They felt, justifiably, so powerful, and so assured of their purpose, that everyone else, Canadian Mounties, British MI-6, or even American citizens, were contemptible in comparison. The image of Washington shattering like thin ice came back to him. This time the ice grew and he saw it as a glacier breaking up: giant, crushing icebergs drifting ponderously in their courses, blindly, inexorably pushing forward until the all-encompassing sea had consumed them, leaving no trace.

Weston didn't want his fragment, the most important fragment, consumed. The Nevada Project must survive for anything else to survive. The only possible answer lay three doors down, in a townhouse basement.

"There's another one." Davis, sitting on the small bench beside Weston, pointed to a walking figure on one of the four television screens on the camera surveillance console. "Let me get him on zoom." The image expanded. The man's face filled the screen. His eyes moved ceaselessly between the vans and the townhouse, but his gait was relaxed and his posture indicated disinterest.

"Look at his eyes go. He's taking it all in. Pretty slick."

Weston studied the man's face. He didn't look familiar.

"How do you know he's with I Section?"

"He was by about an hour ago in a taxi." Davis scanned a log book on the console's desk ledge. "There it is," he said, reading from his notes. "14:27: red and orange taxi, Volare, Metro Cab, licence Delta Young Baker three three zero, southbound, approximately 5 miles per hour. Driver female, Caucasian, short dark hair. Both hands on wheel. One passenger. Male, Caucasian. Light hair, blue parka. Appeared to be checking house numbers. Reference number two two five nine seven."

Davis ran the video recorder deck back to the log number. The image on a second screen broke up and then solidified as the shot from earlier in the day when the cab appeared on the streets came on. Davis held it on fast forward until the passenger's face came into close-up view. He froze the image.

"See? Same guy." Both faces on the two screens were identical.

Weston said, "Okay, that's number five. Cook, you want to get a look at this one?"

The third man in the van turned away from his bank of monitoring equipment at the front of the compartment. He leaned over and looked at the faces on the screen.

"Jesus, The Mounties have brought in a mechanic."

"What do you mean, a contract man?" Weston was concerned. The Jesuits of the Seventh Grade used others unmercifully to gather information, but generally they kept the killing to themselves. The involvement of soldiers at Heathrow was, so far, the one bloody exception.

The third man squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrating on the past.

"I'm sure of it. At Langley. He was in the system. 'Domestic Operations'."

Davis reacted for them all. "That's crazy. You've confused the file code. Or his face." Langley meant CIA headquarters in Langley, West Virginia. The CIA were forbidden to operate domestically but no one in the van doubted for a moment that they did. What was crazy about Cook's statement was that the CIA would maintain a file- evidence-that was in a position to be seen by an operative of another agency.

"No, I haven't." Cook looked defensive. "He's freelance out of Miami. Anybody can have him. And it looks like either the Jesuits or the Mounties do."

The camera had pulled back to a medium long shot. The man was passing by the van. In less than a minute, he would be gone from the street.

"Or else he's still working for the CIA," Weston said.

He turned to Cook. "When were you in Langley? And why?" Cook had been in the Nevada Project for seven of its fifteen years. Weston had to know why one of his agents had been in contact with another agency. Jack's statement might have been a slip revealing a different set of loyalties.

"Two years ago, Major." The agent looked surprised. "When we were having labour problems with Malton Chemical. You were going to go yourself. The file that guy was in," he said, pointing to the diminishing figure on the screen, "was offered as one of our options. He had done that kind of work before."

Weston remembered. He felt shock that the tension of his assignment had led him to make an error of recall. Malton Chemical was one of the main sources of the Nevada Project's operational funding. It had begun as a Delaware corporation-a CIA front-at the height of Vietnam. Agents were infiltrated into most major munitions manufacturers throughout the world by being hired away from Malton Chemical. The subterfuge that had created the company was so successful it was turning a profit. The company had been reassigned to the Nevada Project in 1969. Most special agencies received their funding in this way. It meant millions of dollars earmarked for covert or classified operations never had to be approved by Oversight Committees. The Nevada Project was, theoretically, responsible to no one for its operating budget.

Labour problems two years earlier had threatened profits. Since the CIA had set up Malton in the first place, Cook had gone to them for advice. Assassination of one of the union officials had been one of the options suggested. Weston could not remember how the problem had been resolved.

"I want him brought in. We have to know who bought him. If it's the Jesuits or the Mounties, okay. But if the CIA has somehow tangled itself up in this, we've lost it. Consider him armed and dangerous."

Davis flipped a toggle on his console and spoke into a small microphone.

Down the street, Granger Helman turned the corner and disappeared from the camera's sight. A minute later, Cook followed him, closing quickly.

The Watchers in the telephone van had been unable to determine the identity or the allegiance of the man whom, they too, had spotted twice. When they saw the American agent follow him, they knew something important was happening, but they had no idea what.

The wait for Cook's return, for the crews of both surveillance teams, was tense. Eventually, both teams realised it was also useless. Cook was found shortly before sunset. His right index finger had been ripped off, presumably when he was disarmed, and his neck was broken.

Granger Helman had disappeared.

Twelve.

The voice had said, "Nothing to worry about on this end." And at least four people on that end, in Miami, had been killed.

By whom? Helman had no clue, no concept. Somehow it was linked to him, the killer who was to kill no more. Four were dead in Miami. One in Toronto. But he had no worries at that end. Just here. Just now. Especially from the man in the hotel room chair opposite him. Mr. Rice had returned.

"What am I to do with this list; assassin?" Rice looked up from the sheet of hotel stationery Helman had given him.

His voice was more guttural, harsher, as though he had no more patience to control his natural way of speaking, regardless of whether or not Helman could understand him.

"I had no time to prepare. Those are the items I require to fulfil my contract with your people. You said yourself I shouldn't use my bare hands." Helman had the feeling Rice was suppressing an urge to snarl, literally snarl at him.

"I fail to see how guns, fertiliser, and children's toys can fulfil your contract."

Helman fought hard to control his own anger. He had no patience for the man he must deal with. His disgust at having slept that morning while waiting for Telford's call-something he had never done in the past, and no professional could condone-and his experience with the man who had followed him that afternoon, had left his nerves raw. But he was familiar with the penalty for not showing respect.

"Mr. Rice, your people have come to me because of my abilities and experience in this field. One of the reasons I have that experience is because I have been successful. And I have been successful because I do things my way, on my own, with no accomplices, and no witnesses. I don't care that you 'fail to see' how I can fulfil my contract. I don't care if you can't read a word on that bloody sheet. All I care about is me doing my work and you doing yours. And if you can't do yours maybe New York better send up someone who can!" Helman's voice had risen in anger and intensity. He was close to screaming.

Then he was halfway across the room, slumped beside a bed, his head ringing and his eyes exploding with red and black flashes. He hadn't even seen the blow. Rice was back in his chair.

"The next time, assassin, you shall not be able to regret your foolish behaviour because you shall be dead."

Helman tried to struggle to his feet. The left side of his body was useless. Rice had connected with a pressure point, paralysing his arm and shooting molten tendrils of pain through his rib cage, into his neck and leg. He had never experienced anything like it. He sagged back against the bed.

Rice spoke again. There was no trace of gloating in his guttural voice. "I am unfamiliar with the various specifications which you may require from some of these items. I propose to provide you with currency to obtain them yourself."

Helman shook his head, slowly. His jaw ached and it was difficult to form words. "Must get me guns," he managed to whisper.

"You forget the conditions, assassin. Guns are not required."

"Not for her. Her bodyguards. One tried to kill me today."

For a moment, Rice looked surprised. "Today, assassin? During the day?"

Helman nodded yes.

"What did you do?"

"He had a gun. Got too close. I took it away from him. Broke his neck. Left him by a house. I need those guns for her bodyguards. I don't have the contacts for buying them in this city."

"What was he wearing, assassin?"

Helman was furious. He was incapacitated, at the mercy of a maniac with a hair-trigger temper and an unbelievable knowledge of what seemed to be a type of karate. And he was being asked about the clothes of a man who had tried to kill him.

"Ordinary. Open coat. Suitjacket. Brown, grey, I don't know."

"Did he wear anything around his neck, assassin?"

Helman was incredulous. "He had a tie on. I don't remember seeing the label. Why is this important?"

"It's not important, assassin. Just interesting. You'll have the guns and the money before sunrise."

Rice put the list down on the broadloom beside Helman and left the room. It was two hours before Helman was able to stand.

In another hour, the message light on his phone began flashing. There was a parcel for him at the desk. Helman had it brought to his room and opened it on his bed.

Five thousand dollars in Canadian currency, five times what he estimated he would need. And the guns.

He had specified two: a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and, as back up, a slim, five-chambered .44 Bulldog, easily concealable in the small of his back. Fifty rounds of Keith semi-wadcutters-bullets that could solidly pass through cars yet mushroom fatally in body hits-were included, as well as Alessi concealment holsters and silencers for each weapon. Despite himself, Helman was impressed with Rice's ability to deliver.

He worked with the weapons for a while. Loading and unloading, adjusting the holsters, until he felt as confident as he could without actually test firing them. Then he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn't even attempt to sleep. He knew it would be useless.

Helman thought only of the day after tomorrow. The day when it would all be over. And he would present the head of Adrienne St. Clair to Mr. Rice. Or he would be dead.

Either way, it would all be over.

Eventually, he did sleep. And in his dreams, the things in the basement were telling him he was wrong.

Thirteen.

The detonator was warm in Helman's hand. He had four minutes left until he would press the transmit button. It would take an additional forty-five seconds to run up the stairs and into the lab, and anywhere between thirty seconds to two minutes to decapitate the body, depending on her location when the charge went off.

At one minute before detonation, he would attach the auxiliary antenna that ran up the side of the university building which contained Dr. Leung's research facilities. The antenna ended at the third floor window of the lab that Leung and St. Clair worked in during the night. That placed the antenna within six feet of the charge. Even the child's toy car remote control which Helman held would be sufficient at that distance, and unlike high-powered and sophisticated radio control equipment which was available from only a few outlets, no one could ever trace the purchase of one of thousands of similar toys, available anywhere, to Helman.

Leung and the girl had arrived eight minutes previously in the doctor's TR7 and parked at a meter in front of the building. Helman was giving them ten minutes to establish themselves in the lab.

What Helman assumed to be her bodyguard's car, which had followed them from the townhouse, was parked across the street from the building. There were four lanes of traffic and two sets of streetcar tracks between them and the stone front steps of the building. With his head start, Helman would be able to lock enough fire doors to slow the bodyguards down to give himself the time he needed. The confusion added by the students who were constantly moving into and out of the building would also help.

One minute. Helman, hidden in the shadows at the side of the building, connected the auxiliary antenna.

The university building was at least a hundred years old, and looked it. Helman had studied it the previous afternoon, after his encounter with the man who tried to kill him. It had been perfect for his needs.

Old buildings were constantly undergoing repairs and renovations. The granite-blocked university structure, covered in the bare, brown ivy vines of winter and stained black by years of traffic exhaust, was no exception.

Three doors down from Dr. Leung's lab, which was deserted in the daytime, plumbing was being replaced. The work crew had left their acetylene welding outfit locked in the room. After five o'clock, Helman had taken fifteen seconds to open the lock. The two tanks of acetylene and oxygen were now chained to a radiator pipe beside a hole Helman had made in the wall of Dr. Leung's lab. Helman's charge, composed of untraceable chemicals derived from a fertiliser available at hundreds of non-regulated stores, and the radio detonator adapted from a toy car's radio control, was strapped tightly to the bottom strut of the welding cart, hidden by the tanks' bulk. It would shatter the bottoms of both tanks, causing the gases to mix violently and trigger a second, far more powerful blast.

By the clutter of personal papers in Leung's lab, Helman assumed that he had worked at the University for years.

Leung should not be surprised at discovering his office was in the midst of unscheduled renovations.

Ten seconds. Helman adjusted the straps of his shoulder holster through his new winter coat, a nondescript olive drab--the land worn by repairmen and outdoor workers-and checked a final time that his machete was securely in place. He kept his eyes on the seconds as they counted down on his digital watch. For the last few seconds, the mist of his breath no longer obscured the watch. Everything seemed silent.