And a few lilies blow
by MJJ (basara-at-eol.ca) 

1.
   It had been a long chase, this time. International espionage,
Klaus thought wryly, was getting more international by the day.
What had seemed an odd little incident in Germany had eventually
taken him from Italy to Moscow to Beijing to Hong Kong, and
finally here to London. But now it was all over- effectively- bar
a mountain of reports.
   He was supposed to have a week's vacation, which he didn't
want. He'd be back in Bonn tomorrow, making a start on the
paperwork. The idea filled him with anticipation, and a sudden
immense desire for things German-- the sound of his own language,
the order and reliability of his own country, the convenient
weight of a Deutschmark after all the cumbersome currencies he'd
had in his pocket. On a physical level, his anticipation
translated into a craving for familiar food: sausages, potatoes,
and good cold beer. And where was he to get all that in
Whitehall?
   Clearly, he couldn't; but one of the suburbs might furnish an
acceptable English equivalent. He walked out onto the pavement,
hailed a passing cab, and instructed the driver to take him to a
pub.
   "A pub, guv'nor? What pub?"
   "A pub where I can get sausages and--" he remembered the
English term- "mash and beer," Klaus said precisely.
   "'Ave to go a bit out of yer way then. Not much of that
'ereabouts," the driver said genially.
   "No matter. Just go." Klaus bit off the conversation. The
British lower classes had a tendency to be regrettably- what did
they call it? chummy? matey? Klaus called it 'familiar', and
discouraged it.
   The taxi snaked through traffic, slipping between cars where
there seemed barely room enough for a bicycle, hurtling through
intersections on the last second of the amber, and making right
hand turns under the very noses of oncoming lorries. In no time
at all they were spinning happily into the suburbs, and pulled up
in front of a small pub called the Dog and Badger. Approving the
driver's style, Klaus gave him a tip on top of the fare.
   "Is this all?" the man demanded.
   "You can give it back if you don't like it."
   "No- no, it's alright. And a good day to *you*, sir." The cab
pulled off before Klaus was barely out of it. As winner of the
encounter, he could afford to smile at the driver's petulance.
   The sausage and potatoes- mash- weren't bad, and the beer
quite drinkable if nowhere near cold enough. None of it was up to
German standards, of course, but as a promise of the morrow it
was satisfactory. Klaus relaxed with his second mug and
considered what he would do when he got home. There'd have to be
a thorough housekeeping at the office, of course: God alone knew
what those incompetents who worked under him had got up to in his
absence...
   Professional reflexes made him check everyone who entered the
pub from his vantage position in a dark corner, but he almost
passed over the couple with a cursory glance before those
reflexes suggested another, closer look. It was such a common
English type, after all- short, stocky and inclined to go red in
the face, with straight colourless hair and a moustache. But no,
the man was definitely Bonham. And the woman with him had to be
his sister: she looked exactly like him, minus the moustache, of
course, but was also short and round and possessed of a plain if
pleasant face. What were they doing here, Klaus wondered, half
intrigued at this glimpse of Bonham in a private capacity, half
annoyed at meeting an acquaintance- and such an acquaintance-
when he wanted solitude. At least there was no sign that Bonham's
employer, that damned queer and prize thorn in the flesh Dorian
Red Gloria, was likely to turn up as well.
   But Bonham wasn't completely at his ease. Klaus sensed
something a little nervous, almost flustered in his manner, as he
pulled out a chair for his sister and went off to the bar. They
wouldn't be planning something illegal here, of all places, would
they? though if Klaus had learned one thing about Eroica and his
men, it was never to put anything past them. He shifted irritably
in his seat. Eroica's thefts were a matter for Interpol and
nothing to do with him; but his duty to law and order...
   Bonham returned with two dripping mugs and sat down in front
of the woman, who put a hand on his arm and smiled up into his
eyes. Not a sisterly gesture at all, that. Well, well. It seemed
he'd done Bonham an injustice, assuming him to be as depraved as
his employer and colleagues. Evidently he was a real man after
all. But why was he fidgeting, why did his glance keep shifting
from side to side? Not dating nerves, surely- not at *his* age?
   The woman picked up both Bonham's hands and held them between
her own, speaking seriously to him. On her left hand there was a
wedding band. Klaus' eyebrows rose. An assignation, was it? His
lips curled in a smile of amusement not entirely unmixed with
contempt. Who would ever have imagined podgy little Bonham as a
seducer of respectably married women, conducting his Casanovan
rendezvous in a Surbiton local? Although one had to admit that it
was clearly a liaison made in heaven: the two could have been
cloned from each other.
   Really, this was almost domestic. Given who his employer was,
it wasn't surprising to find immorality somewhere in the
arrangement, but compared to his employer's nameless vices--
well, alright, not so nameless: Klaus had many many terms for
them-- *shameless* vices, then, a spot of adultery was like a
breath of fresh air.
   It never hurt to have a hold on people. This one might prove
useful the next time Eroica took it into his head to interfere
with Klaus' work. He picked up his drink and walked over to the
table.
   "Good evening, Bonham. Am I intruding?"
   Bonham jumped and went white, staring at Klaus as if he were
the Angel of Death.
   "Mu-mu-Major," he moaned. There was actually sweat on his
forehead. How intriguing.
   "Henry?" the woman said in bewilderment. "Who is this person?"
   "Ah- ah- Major von dem Eberbach of NATO," Bonham stammered.
"Ah- Major, this is- uh, Constance."
   "Enchanted, Madame," Klaus said, taking her hand and kissing
it. She blushed and looked confused.
   "Oh, please don't call me Madam," she said, her eyes seeking
Bonham's helplessly. "I'm just an ordinary missus."
   "Oh, indeed?" Klaus purred. "Mrs. What?"
   She stared at him mutely, going a deeper red. Clearly she
wasn't as dead to shame as her lover: but then, women had finer
moral sensibilities than men.
   "Mrs.Bonham," said Bonham flatly.
   "Oh dear, Henry, *should* you have-- He knows Lord Gloria,
after all..." the woman stammered.
   Klaus was dumbstruck. He stared at Bonham, who was also very
red in the face- but not, Klaus realized, from shame.
   "Major, may I present my wife Constance," said Bonham, with a
kind of desperate dignity.
   Klaus swallowed hard. "Mrs. Bonham"- he hesitated, the word
threatening to choke him, but it was the least he could do- "Sir-
I beg your pardon. I misunderstood the situation."
   "Don't mention it, Major," said Bonham, struggling with his
expression.
   "You won't, will you, Major?" said Constance. "Mention it, I
mean- to Lord Gloria. Really, we were just talking about how to
tell him ourselves."
   "Madam- I beg your pardon- Mrs.Bonham- believe me, I have as
few dealings as possible with his lordship and I've no sympathy
at all with his-- views. I won't say anything before you do. But
let me offer my congratulations. When did you get married?"
   "Five years ago," said Bonham.
   "Five **years** ago?! You've been married all this time and
you've never told him?! That's insane!"
   "He wouldn't understand, Major. It would put a wall between
us."
   "Ridiculous!" stormed Klaus. "Since when has a normal healthy
man had to worry about the opinions of a pervert? It's
disgusting!"
   "Think what it looks like to him," Bonham said almost
pleadingly. "Who is it *you* rely on most? It's that pleasant
young chap Z, isn't it? The brainy one. How would you feel if he
turned out to be homosexual?"
    "Nonsense," said Klaus roundly, thrusting away the image of
Z- brainy, as Bonham said, talented, with a gift for espionage,
decidedly good-looking and decidedly, for whatever reasons,
unattached, perhaps still a virgin... "Z isn't queer."
   "I'm saying, how would you feel if he was? Wouldn't it make a
difference?"
   "I'd sack him on the spot. The security risks-- But he's not
queer. And the situation's completely different."
   "Not really. His Lordship has a very live and let live
attitude. But it would make a difference in our relationship.
He's my employer after all. Well, I suppose he's still my
employer--" He and Constance exchanged tired looks.
   "What do you mean?" Klaus asked sharply. "You suppose he's
still your employer?"
   Bonham bit his lip.
   "You should tell him, Henry," Constance said suddenly. "He
might be able to do something."
   "Well-" said Bonham, with reluctance, "the fact of the matter
is- his lordship's retired, as you might say."
   "Retired from thieving, do you mean?" Klaus asked in
disbelief.
   "Retired from everything. Retired from the world, he says.
He's built himself a little house on the estate, with a chapel
attached, and he lives there. Doesn't come out. Prayer and
services and fasting- I'm low Church myself, I really don't know
what it's all about. Give me a few hymns and a good sermon and a
nice Sunday pot roast to follow and I'm happy." He smiled at
Constance who smiled domestically back. In love- the idiots,
Klaus thought, embarrassed. "But his lordship naturally wants it
all like it was in the Middle Ages. Come to think of it, Major,
aren't you Roman yourself? Maybe *you* understand it then. This
monk business."
   "Monk!? What are you talking about? Lord Gloria can't be a
monk. He's not even Catholic."
   "There *are* Anglican monks," Bonham said gloomily. "We've got
a monastery about five miles down the road. Not that his lordship
has much to do with them. He seems to have put it together
himself, this- what do you call it, pet?"
   "Taking orders. I was brought up Catholic," she said shyly, by
way of explanation. "I'm not sure if he actually belongs to an
order-" she looked enquiringly at Klaus, who nodded his
comprehension- "but he does seem to live by a rule; and he's
taken the usual vows."
   "Vows?" The idea boggled the mind.
   "Poverty and obedience and the lot. James was so happy at
first," Bonham said sadly. "No expenditures, no money going out,
and he got rid of the hydroplane and the villa in Antibes and the
BMW and the Maserati... But then there was no money coming *in*.
And of course, that vow of chastity- he was suicidal for a week.
James, I mean. Still is, a bit. But now he's mostly angry."
   "Poverty and chastity-" Klaus was trying to fit the words to
his image of Dorian Red Gloria and failing miserably. "Has he
gone insane? What brought this on?"
   Bonham and Constance looked at each other and then away. Klaus
had a presentiment.
   "Well, what was it? Speak up, for god's sake."
   "Well, Major," said Bonham, hesitatingly, "you do remember
what happened the last time you two worked together?"
   "Only too well. Lord Gloria's camping and cavorting nearly
caused our mission to fail. I could have killed him happily."
   "You certainly tried."
   "What?"
   "Didn't you? He told us a long time afterward that you fired a
pistol at him point blank."
   "Aiming carefully to the right of his head. It was the only
way to get him to stop fooling about and behave like an adult.
And it worked. I had no trouble from him after that."
   "He thought you meant to murder him. He was heartbroken."
   Klaus snorted. "Nonsense."
   "Not for him. He wouldn't eat, he couldn't sleep- he stayed in
bed all day, just looking at the ceiling. We couldn't get a word
out of him." Bonham looked reproachfully at Klaus.
   "Your employer is a fool, Bonham. You're *not* a fool, so you
must be aware of the fact." Bonham just shook his head. "Well,
then what happened?" Klaus lit a cigarette.
   "The vicar came round, to ask if he could use the grounds for
the church fete. His lordship always lets him. This time he told
us to say he wasn't at home, but we thought- maybe the vicar
could help him, being in the business, so to speak-- so we told
him how it was and let him into the bedroom. They were there for
hours."
   "After that, there was a change. I suppose you could say he
got religion. He was still sort of sad, but I think he was
enjoying himself. He kept saying things like 'The world
forgetting, by the world forgot' and 'The peace of God that
passeth understanding.' And of course, when he actually started
building his chapel and getting all the stuff he needed- what do
you call those things, pet?"
   "Vestments and altar cloths and chalices," Constance supplied.
   "-and hiring  choir boys and altar boys and getting someone in
to give the services, and deciding what frescoes and paintings to
have where, well naturally he was very busy and almost like his
old self. To tell you the truth, I thought when he was finished
he'd have got over it and be back to normal. But I was wrong.
When everything was ready he had a big ceremony- I'm not much on
music and incense myself, but it *was* pretty, in its way-- and
took his vows and cut his hair-"
   "Cut his **hair**!?"
   "Oh, just a lock, Major; he wouldn't really shave it all off.
Well, then he said he was a monk, and had to live by these rules,
and he offered to pension us off if we couldn't live in a
monastic household, but of course we wouldn't go. But it's not at
all the way it used to be. We hardly ever see him. He only talks
to the priest he- what do you call it, pet?"
   "His confessor?" Klaus suggested with a touch of irritation.
Bonham's 'pets' were getting on his nerves.
   "Yes, I think that's it. And it seems now he's thinking of
taking a vow of silence as well. I tell you, Major, we're at our
wits' end." He looked at Klaus sadly.
   "I'm sure it's very difficult for you," Klaus remarked
automatically. A vision of the future was beginning to unfold, a
future where there was no danger of meeting that pestering,
persistent presence ever again. Eroica was out of action- off the
scene- out of his hair. However bizarre the cause, he couldn't
help but rejoice at the news. Free. He was free.
   "Major, I was wondering-" Bonham began diffidently.
   "Yes?" He dragged his attention back.
   "You wouldn't go down to the country and just- you know- see
him for a bit, would you?"
   "No," said Klaus, emphatically, "I wouldn't. You can tell him
if you like that I'm delighted by his conversion. I'll light a
candle for him in the Munster when I get back to Bonn- in thanks
for my delivery. Maybe the two of us will meet in heaven, Bonham,
but I've absolutely no desire to see him a minute before then."
   He got up, smiling. "Mrs. Bonham, it's been a pleasure.
Bonham, if you ever come to your senses and decide to look for
more secure employment, you know where to find me. Good-bye."
   He went out and hailed a cab, aware of an overwhelming
content. A wonderful day; a wonderful, wonderful day; and
tomorrow, he was going home.
   His satisfaction lasted right up until his return to the West
German embassy, where the telegram waiting for him changed all
that in a moment.

2.
   "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
   Dorian earl of Red Gloria knelt in the twilight of the
confessional, hands clasped reverently, head bowed penitently.
The air held a faint memory of the incense from morning Lauds,
and from the upper choir loft the soothing murmur of Gregorian
chant rose and and fell like a long wave meeting the shore. The
voices of the day-shift choir- four tenors and a young bass-
weaved together in a simple melodic line. A pity that the boy
sopranos were only for solemn high mass on Sunday. It would be
nice to have that clear fresh sound available all the time, but
the County was adamant about the children attending school on
weekdays. That left the young men who, as full-time employees,
could be kept on call to cover the canonical hours and to attend
on their master's various spiritual exercises. Like confession.
Dorian *loved* confession. It was so medieval. And refreshing.
And- the way he did it- fun.
   "You were telling me, I think, about that Swiss monastery,"
Father Dominic's comfortable voice was saying. "A giant cross
with rubies, I believe?"
   "That was Jamesie. I didn't take anything, unless you count
Brother Sebastian's virginity-"
   "Lord Gloria, we decided at the beginning to concentrate on
the sin of theft: and in view of your past career, that should
keep us busy for the next decade at least. Sins against the sixth
commandment will just have to wait."
   "The sixth commandment forbids adultery, Father. I don't sleep
with married men- well, not often. At least, not that I know of.
I mean, I don't ask, as a rule, but-"
   "Let's keep our minds on 'Thou shalt not steal,' Dorian. And
maybe, while we're at it, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness.' I
seem to recall reading something about a miracle- a weeping
crucifix, wasn't it?- about the time you were there--"
   "There's some salt that makes water condense. Bonham mixed it
up for me. We painted it on the figure's face at night and next
day, with the morning mist, we had a weeping Christ. It was very
convincing. I almost believed it myself."
   "A faked miracle. God is not mocked, Dorian."
   "God will forgive me, Father. I did it for the best reasons.
Without me, that monastery would be a supermarket now."
   "You believe the end justifies the means?"
   "Doesn't it?" Dorian looked surprised.
   "Let's not beat about the bush. Why did you go to that
monastery if not to steal the cross?"
   "Many reasons. I was bored. I wanted to soak myself in the
medieval atmosphere there; and then I wanted to see that
Sebastian was alright, and then I had to keep Klaus from damaging
the frescoes--"
   Father Dominic sighed. "So the Major was there? Why does he
always turn up where you are?"
   "He doesn't. Sometimes I turn up where he is. It's fate,
Father."
   "Fate is a pagan superstition. We say, the will of God."
   "Oh, **yes**," said Dorian happily. "It's the will of God." He
smiled seraphically. "God wants me to have the Major. Religion
*is* such a consolation, Father."
   "I didn't say that," Father Dominic protested. "Oh, well. So
what were you doing with the Major?"
   "He was looking for a microcassette some agent had dropped
into a crack in one of the frescoes: just poking about in it as
if it were a letter box. I was *livid*, Father; I've never been
so angry at him in my life. I told him to his face that he had no
respect for his cultural heritage, and I hit him over the head
with an angel's wing."
   "A *what*?"
   "From a statue. Oh, all the art work there- beautiful stuff,
absolutely priceless- it was in terribly bad repair- that was why
I was angry at Klaus for compounding the damage. And then he went
and **stole** the fresco- stole it right from under my nose- cut
it out and put it in a truck and drove off with it. Can you
believe it? Really, I couldn't have done it better myself. He'd
make a wonderful thief, you know, if he put his mind to it. The
genius is there."
   "He wouldn't be happy to hear you say so."
   "Only because he likes to deny the truth. We're the same kind
of person, really. He likes to think he's the champion of law and
order, but he can't abide rules himself. He's always breaking
them and not noticing that he's doing it. I'll tell you the only
real difference between us, Father: I admit that I'm a law to
myself and he doesn't."
   "There's a slight difference in the focus of your activities,
my son."
   "Yes. Mine are much more peaceful. His are violent. And
pointless. Espionage is just a game of cops and robbers, you
know. It's not real. But beauty- the timeless beauty of great
art- that *is* real. And he knows it. I was wrong about him,
Father, and I'm more than happy to admit it. After he'd got his
microcassette back- oh, and that's another story I'll have to
tell you sometime- he had the fresco taken to Germany for repair
and restoration, all at NATO's expense. The monks could never
have afforded to have it done themselves. Wasn't that generous?
And he pretended all along that the cassette was all he wanted,
and he couldn't care less what happened to the fresco so long as
he got it back. It's part of his act: the cold-blooded agent with
no fine feelings. And then he goes and gives it all away."
   "Lord Gloria, once again we seem to have wandered from the
point..."
   "Well, I'll come back to it tomorrow. It's nearly time for the
Little Hours. Can I have my penance now?'
   Father Dominic sighed. "For your penance, say five Hail Mary's
and a decade of the rosary. And go without butter at dinner," he
added in afterthought.
   "What?" Dorian was outraged.
   "You're not getting the exercise you used to, since you
stopped climbing up the sides of buildings and scrambling over
roofs. You're putting on weight, Dorian."
   Dorian went white. "I am?" he murmured piteously. In terror he
gazed down at the front of his brown cassock as if expecting to
see a Friar Tuck belly protruding from it. "Maybe I'd better make
it bread and water at dinner."
   "Good idea. Bread and water it is. Good day, my son."
   "Good day, Father."
   Dorian left the confessional and knelt briefly to say his
penance. The alarm of Father Dominic's last remark had left him.
If he was getting fat, he'd just fast for a little: fasting had
such a lovely medieval sound to it. And he felt, as always, a
hundred percent better after confession. It was so nice to have
someone to talk to about the Major: to remember all the good
times there had been, the moments of danger, and those other
moments, much rarer, when he and Klaus had seemed to share some
understanding... The pursuit of that fresco had led them both to
the bottom of a lake; he remembered Klaus' strong arms pulling
him to the surface, as his vision had gone black and his lungs
burned for air... Klaus had saved his life then; he couldn't
really have meant to kill him the last time they'd met, surely?
Although come to think of it, the Major had refused to give him
the kiss of life as he lay, unconscious and half-drowned, by the
side of the lake. Well, not **entirely** unconscious: but Klaus
hadn't known that.
   A little fretfully, Dorian got up and went out into the dorter
garden. He sat down on the bench under the flowering pear tree,
feeling sad. His beautiful medieval fantasy was meant to soothe
and console him- "And it does," he thought hastily, "it does-"
but somehow he'd expected, long before this, that the Chief would
need him for a mission and Klaus would come, however unwillingly,
to ask his help, only to receive his serene refusal-"Eroica the
thief is dead, Major. There's only Brother Dorian here." He could
imagine the storming and ranting that would follow, and Klaus'
eventual angry ultimatum: "You're coming with me, now!" that
would precede his own graceful capitulation. He'd acted it all
out in his head many many times. But still the Major hadn't come.
   "They fly from me, that sometime did me seek," he thought--
but no, that was what *Klaus* was supposed to think; and anyway,
it was the wrong period. He looked up at the white fluffy April
clouds moving lamblike across a sullen blue sky. To the east,
behind the lilac trees, a shoal of flat grey stratus back-
grounded the sharp green of the new leaves and the pale mauve of
the flowers. There would be showers, some time before evening...
   "Oh western wind, when wilt thou blow," he said aloud,
   "That the small rain down can rain.
   Christ, that my love were in my arms
   And I in my bed again,"--
and he buried his face in his hands.
3.
    Z met him at Sciphol Airport and drove him into Amsterdam.
    "How did he die?"
    "A gun wound, sir, probably from a hand gun. It looks like he
bled to death. We've put pressure on the coroner, they'll do the
autopsy tonight." Z kept his voice business-like. Almost visible
thunderclouds were building above the Major's head. The explosion
would come eventually: he'd weather it when it did, as he'd
weathered other of Eberbach's furies, and in the meantime not
waste energy trying to avoid it.
   "*Where* did it happen, dammit?"
   "We don't know, sir. Before he got to the museum, certainly.
The blood stains show that. It was three hours after he'd been
abducted at the airport-"
   "*Abducted*," the Major said ferociously. "Right under your
noses while you stood and watched. Health inspectors! Quarantine!
Only an idiot would buy that line for a second!"
   "The SIS man in charge had no suspicions-"
   "That asshole Lawrence! As I said- and just what were *our*
men doing while the KGB walked off with Bowlby?"
   "Mr.N tried to warn Lawrence something was wrong, but he
wouldn't listen. And Mr.S actually managed to follow them part of
the way, but-"
   "He failed," said Klaus with cold finality. "I want them on
their way to Alaska on the next flight."
   "They're already packing their bags, sir."
   "*After* they've filed their report."
   "Yes sir."
   "So," said Klaus, "they grabbed Bowlby and took the microdot
from him. He managed to escape but the KGB was close behind, and
they shot him somewhere near the Museum. And of course no-one saw
anything at all."
   "The police are still making enquiries, but so far no-one's
reported anything. The body was only found five hours ago, after
all."
   "Practically long enough for his killers to be back in Moscow
by now. What about the ticket taker? Why didn't *he* notice a
bleeding man walking into the gallery?"
   "We think Bowlby was trying to lie low and not call attention
to himself. He probably didn't know how badly he was hurt-"
   "You have an answer for everything, don't you?" said the Major
unpleasantly. Z lapsed into a discreet silence.
   "Did you examine the body yourself?"
   "Yes, sir. I pulled rank on the SIS and got the Dutch police
to let me inspect the body and the clothes in situ. There's no
trace of the microdot"- Klaus made a noise of fury in his throat-
"And the British aren't pleased with us, either, now."
   "It's their own damned fault." The Major was white with
frustration and anger. "*Their* damned carelessness- and *their*
damned traitor that they decided to let back into the west-"
   "The information he brought would have been worth it-" Z
suggested, knowing how provocative a remark that was. They were
getting close to the Museum and it would be better all round if
the Major took out the first edge of his anger on his own men and
not on the English agent or the Dutch police.
   "Shut up! Since when have you been such a fan of those English
assholes? If you like them so much, you can go and work for them!
They're nearly as incompetent as you are."
   "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
   "I said, be quiet! It's all *their* doing. They didn't catch
him when he was selling secrets to the Russians, and they didn't
catch him when he merrily waltzed off to Moscow twenty years ago
with a stack of classified information; and when he decided he'd
had enough of it over there and wanted to come home, they offered
him a goddamned *amnesty*!" Eberhardt was shouting by now. "And
*then* they couldn't stop him getting shot by the KGB! They
should have shot him themselves, years ago! They should BE shot
themselves! And THOSE are the men you admire so much!!!"
   Z cowered behind the wheel, clearly obliterated. Klaus slumped
in his seat, lit a cigarette, and brooded on the disaster.
   Disaster it definitely was, for NATO and the SIS and the CIA
and any number of similar organizations. The returning double
agent had promised a list of all Russian plants in western
agencies, besides a list of all undercover western operatives
currently known to the KGB. It had been a god-given chance to
make security water-tight in NATO, to pull out their own useless
operatives in the east and to feed any amount of disinformation
back through the exposed Russian agents. Klaus had wanted that
information so badly he could taste it. And now it was gone.
   They drove up in front of a two storey stone building
surrounded by an iron railing. The plaque in front said
"Reichsmuseum Kroller-Muller." Klaus jumped out before the car
was completely stopped and strode through the gates and the front
entrance.
   The foyer was full of people- uniformed police, plainclothes,
the staff of the Museum, and several of his own men. A quick
glance showed no sign of Lawrence's sleek black head and fatuous
expression, and Klaus grunted in something between satisfaction
and annoyance. He flashed ID at the uniformed man who moved to
intercept him, and bore down on Mr.F who greeted his chief with
an apprehensive smile. It was the work of a moment to get all the
information that the incompetent F had managed to collect: when
the body had been found, who by, the measures the police had
taken- all of it too late. Too late. He glared at the stammering
F, momentarily undecided whether to take him apart here and now
or send him off to Alaska with N and S.
   "You should have a look at the second floor, sir," Z said at
his elbow. "Bowlby tried to leave a message."
   "What!! Why the hell didn't you say so?" Klaus pushed through
the crowd and took the stairs two at a time, with Z following at
his heels.
   "This way, sir." They went down the corridor, past more
uniforms blocking a doorway, and into a small room at the end.
Klaus' eye went at once to the corner, cordoned off by yellow
tape. The floor was an oddly dark colour, and the wall was
covered with brown streaks.
   "He wrote on the wall--" It was half a question. Klaus
crouched on his heels and peered at the staggering letters
painted on the wall below the level of the paintings. The man
must have knelt, bracing himself against the corner of the wall,
and dipped a finger into his own blood...
   "Looks like `brown' and `tree,' and then `hea' or`lea'," said
Z.
   "I can see for myself," Klaus snapped. "It must be a name.
Browntree. And the next word isn't finished. Look how the letters
run downhill; he was losing consciousness at that point."
   "Are you sure about that?" said a woman's voice behind them.
   Klaus turned abruptly, rising to his feet as he did so.
   "Who the hell are you?! And who the hell let you in here?"
   "The guards let me in, Major," she said, "for the same reason
they let you in." She gave him a quick considering up-and-down
glance. "I'm Elena von Schoedenburg, from UNCLE. How do you do?"
   "UNCLE?" said Klaus, examining her in turn. "Let's see your
ID."
   "Let's see yours, Major." She smiled at him with asperity, her
large blue eyes cool. "I don't think you're in a position to be
asking for my bona fides."
   "NATO is in charge of this investigation," Klaus informed her
brusquely "and I won't tolerate interference from outside
agencies."
   "I'm not here to interfere, Major, merely to co-operate. Our
agencies have worked together in the past- didn't you once help
our men Solo and Kuriakin find a local operative for a break-in
in Rome? Well, now I'm here to return the favour."
   "I don't need your help, Fraulein." The woman's high-
handedness was irritating, but not really confrontational. Klaus
instinctively recognized it as the product of an aristocratic
background very like his own, and for the life of him couldn't
help responding with some of the courtesy that background was
entitled to.
   "Unfortunately, it's yours, Major, whether you need it or not.
UNCLE is just as concerned as NATO and the SIS about what's
happened to that microdot and the information it contains. And
for the record, it's Frau Doktor, not Fraulein. My degree is in
forensic medicine." She turned and crouched down in her turn to
inspect the dark stained area enclosed by the yellow tape. "Which
is one reason I was assigned to this case. Perhaps we could stop
bickering now and pool our resources?"
   Her voice held a note of cool admonishment that made Klaus
flush with anger, feeling like a child being reprimanded by his
governess. He knew UNCLE's jurisdiction here was just as valid as
NATO's, and he had no objection to working with their operatives-
when their operatives were men. But the idea of a female agent
offended his sense of propriety deeply, and he was on the verge
of saying so when the woman spoke again.
   "This second word- it could be a name. Lea. Lea Browntree."
   "Then he would have written it first. This is a dying message,
not the telephone directory!" Fool of a woman, he added mentally.
  "The simplest thing would be to look it up in our computer
base. There's something familiar about the name, now I think of
it." Without responding to Klaus' irritation, she stood up and
cast a slow glance around the room. "Why did he come in here? Why
didn't he seek help from the staff? They could have called the
police, or an ambulance--"
   "He didn't know how badly he was hurt. And very likely, after
twenty years in the Soviet Union, he didn't trust anyone to help
him. Communism encourages paranoia, Frau Doktor."
   She nodded. "A double traitor would naturally suspect everyone
of being likely to betray him. A kind of justice, you could say.
So he just came in here pretending to be a tourist interested in
Seurat-"
   "In what?"
   "Seurat. The man who painted these pictures." She nodded
briefly at the walls around her.
   "You're interested in art?" Klaus inquired with distaste. His
reflexive dislike of art lovers was something he never questioned
any more.
   "Not particularly, but I *can* read labels." Klaus bridled at
the implications of the remark.
   "I don't go around picking up useless information just to pull
it out of a hat, Frau Doktor. That kind of cheap party trick may
be alright for you, but it doesn't impress me."
   "Really, Major?" Elena von Schoedenberg raised pale, almost
colourless blonde eyebrows. "How do you decide what information
is useless and what isn't?"  She had a slender highbridged nose,
and right now she was definitely sneering down it.
   "Anything as stupid as this has got to be useless." Klaus gave
a brief, angry glance at the pastel paintings on the walls. They
all seemed to shimmer like something seen through a heat haze on
a glaring summer's day. It was hard even to tell what they were
pictures of. "You can't even *look* at them straight. What kind
of painting is that?"
   "I think it's called Impressionism, but art history isn't my
specialty. Espionage is. I want to know what was on the microdot
Bowlby was carrying, and what happened to it, and whether there
was any chance he still had it with him when he escaped from his
captors. And I think the beginning of the answer lies in UNCLE's
computers." She turned to go.
   "NATO's," said Klaus flatly.
   She half-turned to look at him over her shoulder. Seen like
that, he was unexpectedly struck by the fine-boned structure of
her face with its high cheeks and pinched, thoughtful mouth. She
reminded him of those portraits at Schloss Eberbach, of his
unsmiling ancestors who had lived in the 16th and 17th centuries
when life was a very serious business indeed. Religious wars,
political turmoil, the constant danger of death from swift and
sudden diseases- that had made for a sober-spirited and duty-
minded group of people. For an instant he almost felt a sense of
kinship with her.
   "Major," she said, turning around completely to face him,
"I've heard about your independent spirit. It's known that you
dislike working with other organizations, and after meeting
agents from the CIA and so on, I must say I have a lot of
sympathy with your attitude. But we'll only be helping the KGB if
we go on working against each other this time. The contents of
that microdot is as important to me and my organization as it is
to you and yours." Clearly, it was costing her something to say
this. She took a breath. "I would appreciate it- I would *deeply*
appreciate it- if you could see your way clear to accepting
UNCLE's help in this matter."
   What she said was undoubtedly true. He still disapproved
completely of a female agent getting involved in anything, but he
had to salute her spirit and her dedication. Mentally, he
shrugged. Well, she was better than that jerk Lawrence, in any
case. Which reminded him--
   "Very well, Frau Doktor. We'll work together as long as you
don't get in my way." He began pacing out of the room, von
Schoedenberg beside him and Z at his heels. "But how many other
people are going to want to be involved in this? The SIS, for
instance- what about *their* agent? And-"
   "If you mean Mr.Lawrence, he was recalled by his organization
this morning. I expect heads are rolling in London just now. And
quite rightly. The man's carelessness was inexcusable."
   "You might as well say, `your men's' and be done with it,"
Klaus snarled. "Thank you for reminding me of the shortcomings of
my subordinates!"
   She looked at him in mild surprise. "What do your men have to
do with it, Major? They tried to prevent the abduction- very
gallantly, from what I hear- but they were under Mr. Lawrence's
authority. What choice did they have?"
   "They didn't have to listen to what that stupid Englishmen
told them to do," Klaus stormed, his former irritation returning
three-fold at the thought of N and S's sheeplike behaviour.
   "I wasn't aware NATO encouraged independent action in the
junior ranks. Don't you find that causes a fair degree of chaos?"
   Klaus glanced at her sharply, but there was no trace of
sarcasm in her voice.
   "I don't encourage it, naturally, but my men ought to know
when to use their own initiative."
   "If they knew that, they wouldn't be in the junior ranks," she
pointed out. "You can't have your underlings making snap
judgments for themselves as if they were in charge. The duty of a
subordinate is to obey orders, after all." Klaus couldn't argue
with that. "And the duty of a superior is to make decisions and
take the responsibility when they go wrong."
   "Hmmph. You sound like my old commander."
   "My father was in the army all his life. I've inherited a lot
of his ideas."
   They were outside by this time, and Klaus looked about him in
annoyance. "Z, where's the car?"
   "It's over here, sir. I had to park farther along the block."
   "I'm parked that way as well," she said, and they turned to
walk past the row of police cars that blocked the street.
   "So," Klaus continued, not entirely certain why he was
pursuing the point, "you're willing to take responsibility for
whatever idiocies your subordinates commit?"
   "Not at all, Major. I dislike it intensely. That's why I'm
with an organization like UNCLE that lets me work independently.
I've often wondered how people in positions like yours, or in the
army, can bear the stupidity of the people beneath them. It would
give me ulcers."
   "Sometimes I think it will," Klaus remarked feelingly.
   "Have you ever considered another job?"
   "Never."
   "Or another organization?" she smiled.
   "Not for a moment."
   "Are those men behind us with you?" Her expression and tone of
voice was unchanged. Klaus didn't turn his head.
   "No. They'll attack before the next cross street. Z-"
   It happened in a moment. As they reached the end of the car
they were walking past, Elena dove into the street behind the
rear bumper with Klaus right beside her, hand going for his gun.
Z flattened himself against the pavement. Shots rang out and the
car's windows exploded in Klaus' face. Instinctively he threw an
arm over his eyes without looking to see if his bullet had
reached its target. There was a second shot beside him and a cry
from up the street.
   "Got him," said Elena tightly, and Klaus saw that both men
were down. The police were running towards them from the
direction of the museum. He kept his gun ready as he emerged,
until he could be sure they really *were* police. A swift glance
to the side showed that Elena had done the same. His eyes went
round, and his breath stopped in his chest. An MX-14. She was
holding an MX-14... In a dream he followed her towards the group
huddled by the two bleeding men. Someone else seemed to be in
control of his body, giving directions to the police, checking
the wallets of the would-be assassins for non-existant ID, and
supervising their removal to prison hospital, while his eyes kept
going back to the gun now hidden once again under Elena's jacket.
   "Patch them up," he instructed the police officers. "I'll be
around tonight to interrogate them."
   "We'll be around, Major," Elena corrected him, unsmiling. A
suitable retort was on the tip of Klaus' tongue, but he bit it
off. She was undoubtedly a nuisance, but he needed to get to know
this woman better. This woman who owned an MX-14.
   "We'll be around," he said. He heard Z's not quite
sufficiently muffled gasp of surprise, and silently promised him
a comprehensive tongue lashing later on. Afterwards. After he'd
gotten his hands on that gun.

 4.
   Dorian was pacing the north cloister, reading his offices
aloud in a low voice, as prescribed by St.Benedict. "Beatus vir,
cui non imputavit Dominus peccatum, nec est in spiritu eius
dolus." `Blessed is the man to whom the Lord hath not imputed
sin, and in whose spirit there is no guile.' The cadences of
liturgical Latin mingled with the soft plash of rain on the
cloister's tiled roof. Below that he could hear the constant purl
of water as it ran along the eaves and out the open mouths of the
gargoyles that stood at each of the cloister's four corners,
projecting over the deep green lawn of the quadrangle. A soft
breeze brought him the heady smell of the lilacs, and his
aesthetic senses delighted in the contrast between their over-
sweet, nearly rotten scent and the archaic austerity of the Latin
he was reading. Which would win, he wondered in amusement- the
lean purity of the Little Office which seemed to require the cold
bodiless scent of lilies as a background, or the decadently
perfumed flowers which begged to be balanced by a more fleshy, a
more earthly poetry: something from the Silver period- the
Pervegilium Veneris, perhaps, or Propertius...
   "False treacherous man!" an invisible voice hissed nearby.
"Foul foresworn felon!"
   "That's not Propertius," said Dorian reflexively before
recognizing that it *was*, alas, James, and a James to all
appearances in one of his worst early Victorian melodramatic
moods.
   "James, dear," he began placatingly, but the rancorous voice
overrode him.
   "I'm *not* 'James, dear', I'm not even 'dear James' anymore,
you priest-loving hypocrite--"
   "James," said Dorian firmly, "I refuse to have a conversation
with someone I can't even see. Come out and talk like a man."
   James' face, alive with ill-usage, appeared above the coping
of the outside cloister wall. His dark hair was plastered to his
face and his threadbare tweeds smoked a little in the damp. Not
the least unfortunate aspect of James' economies was his refusal
to waste money on dry-cleaning, and wet weather definitely
brought out the worst side of it.
   "Jamesie, come in and get dry, for heaven's sake," he said in
exasperation. In response, James' face crumpled like a desolate
infant's.
   "Don't call me that!" he wailed. "Don't pretend it matters a
bit to you whether I live or die! You've abandoned me- you've
abandoned *all* of us- you don't care what happens to us anymore-
all you care about is that horrible bald old man who won't let
any of us near you--"
   "*James*," Dorian remonstrated. "I've told you before- that's
not baldness, it's a tonsure. And he's not old, just middle aged.
I could hardly have a confessor who's younger than me, after all.
And he doesn't-"
   James' howl cut him off. "This is sickening! I want to die!
How can you love an ugly old man like that?! It's too horrible!
Oh, my lord,"- he fell on his knees suddenly, grabbing at
Dorian's hands, who tried not to flinch away from the enveloping
smell of musty wet wool- "say it isn't so! Say it isn't so! I'll
die if it is. I'd even rather have the Major than *him*!!"
   Dorian couldn't forebear laughing. "Oh, so would I," he said
heartfeltedly. "My sweet idiotic James, you're being absurd.
Father Dominic is my confessor. He knows the secrets of my heart.
He consoles me-" James opened his mouth to howl- "*spiritually.*
He's like a real father to me. And of course I'm not in love with
him. It would be incest, practically."
   James looked at him with dark suspicion. "Well, *he*'s in love
with *you*, then. He wants you for himself. He keeps everyone
away from you."
   "He's not in love with me," Dorian said firmly. "I'd know if
he was. You'll admit that much, surely?" Sullenly, James nodded.
"And he doesn't keep people away from me: I keep away from
people. I'm sorry, James, I just don't want to be in company
these days. I have to think - about a lot of things- about what's
important to me- and what's not-" The old sadness washed over
him, and his eyes stung. He tried to keep his voice steady.
"Sometimes it seems that nothing matters, after all- not people,
not stealing, sometimes- not even art. I have to believe that
beauty is important, but sometimes-" his voice dried to a
whisper- "I can't even believe that."
   James was looking not merely baffled, but almost panic-
stricken.
   "My lord, this is - this is- it's silly. You're getting too
fanciful. Why don't you call a halt to it all? Really- it's
gotten out of hand. Can't you see? Just- let's go back to the way
we were- like the old days. With the gang- and the paintings we
lifted- and the jewels- I bet a nice crown would make you feel a
hundred per cent better, how can you say diamonds and rubies and
emeralds aren't important, of course they are, and beautiful too,
and you like beautiful things, right, you always did-" James was
gabbling by now. Dorian put a quietening hand over his mouth.
   "Hush, Jamesie, you're talking nonsense again. It's alright,
you know. Everything will be alright- someday... I just have to
get through this first. Why don't you go have a nice bath- you're
soaked through, you'll catch your death- get into a really good
hot tub with the Financial Times and see how your stocks behaved
themselves yesterday. Wouldn't that be nice?"
   "Don't treat me like a child," James huffed, but there was a
gleam in his eyes. "And what will you be doing?"
   "I have to finish my office," Dorian said, "and go to the
chapel for Sext-"
   "WHAT!!"
   "SexT, James. It's a liturgical service. And then confession."
   "With that priest." James glowered.
   "I go to confession every day, James. It wouldn't hurt you
either."
   "Me?! *I* don't have anything to confess."
   "Oh no? I bet if you examined your conscience you could find a
host of sins." Dorian was smiling. "The way you treated those
poor fathers at the monastery, you and Lawrence. Getting them to
dance and sing popular songs for the tourists and making Brother
Sebastian dress up as a bunny girl. God is not mocked, James."
   James was red with anger and mortification. "That Brother
Sebastian! It's because of him that you started this silly monk
business, isn't it?"
   "Maybe- a little. A sweet reminder of a sweet young man."
   "My lord!!"
   "And you know, James, if jealousy isn't a sin it's certainly a
grave fault. And covetousness- that's one of the deadly seven.
And hatred- that's another. I'm afraid your soul is in grave
danger, Jamesie."
   "The only person I hate is you!!" James yelled, and turned and
ran away down the cloister. Dorian tried to smile at his
childishness, but somehow teasing James was no longer as amusing
as it used to be. `James isn't the only one who hates me.' The
thought made his heart contract suddenly. After a minute he got
up, slowly, and turned towards the chapel. He'd have to tell
Father Dominic about how unkind he'd been to James.

5.
   Prison regulations allowed only two visitors at a time, so Z
perforce was left to wait by himself in the corridor. He judged
that the Major would require only about half an hour to learn
what he needed to know, and took out the copy of Learn Russian in
Thirty Days that he always carried in his inner pocket. It was no
more than twenty minutes later that the Major came bursting out
into the corridor with the Frau Doktor hard on his heels. His
chief wore the strangest expression, somewhere between rage and
satisfaction. His companion merely looked thoughtful.
   "They don't have it," Eberbach said abruptly as he swept them
to the exit. Z had to double-time his steps to keep up. "Bowlby
escaped before they got to the place where they were going to
interrogate him. They never even saw the microdot. They jumped us
because they thought *we* had it." He flashed an odd look at
Elena, part triumph, part something else. "So we're back to this
mysterious Browntree. Who is *not*, I'd be willing to bet, a
person."
   Z made a noise of inquiry. True, the computer had turned up no
Browntrees living in Amsterdam, but there were half a dozen and
more people by that name known to NATO in one connection or
another. Klaus turned to him, green eyes flashing.
   "Use your head. How could he have arranged in advance to meet
someone here in Amsterdam? He was going to be met directly on his
arrival by the SIS. He didn't expect to be jumped by the KGB, and
he did expect to be at a safe house for several months at least."
   "Unless his return home was just cover for another betrayal
and this was all arranged before he left Russia," Elena said.
That thought had occurred to Z as well; but he was oddly relieved
that the woman had said it instead of him. "Those KGB agents,"
she continued. "They were unusually incompetent, even for
Russians. Suspiciously so. Couldn't hold on to him for even
thirty minutes. Couldn't find him even when he was wounded and
bleeding, even though they looked for over two hours- they said.
I say they weren't trying."
   "Why did they wound him so badly if it was all just a set-up?"
Z asked. It was the one weak point in the argument.
   "Accident," the doctor began, but Klaus was already saying,
"The agents weren't in on it. They were the ones set up. Bowlby's
masters in the Kremlin ordered him back here, pretending he was
fleeing to the west, and sent a couple of incompetents after him
just to make it look convincing. They knew we'd have our
suspicions. Mischa must have thought those idiots would miss
Bowlby when he 'escaped'- and he was almost right."
   "But that means-" Z was working it out- "the microdot contains
only disinformation. It's useless."
   "It tells us what the Russians want us to think. That could be
very useful."
   "Then why is it missing?" Elena asked. "Who'd want a lot of
disinformation? No, the situation is a lot more complicated than
it looks. Bowlby had something he needed to hand over right away,
before he could be searched by the SIS. The abduction was
arranged to give Bowlby time to meet his contact here in
Amsterdam. I think he did exactly that. And I think it was his
contact- not the KGB- who gave him the wound that killed him. You
saw those men shoot. They looked like they'd never held a gun
before in their lives."
   Z had to agree with the doctor's contemptuous assessment, but
what she was saying made no sense. Klaus was already protesting,
"His contact killed him? Why the hell would he do that?"
   "She."
   "You still think the contact was this 'Lea Browntree'? There's
no-one by that name in NATO's computer. You aren't going to tell
me you found one in UNCLE's?"
   "Lea Browntree, no. Lea Brunbaum, most definitely."
   Eberbach looked stunned. "Lea Brunbaum- surely not-" He pulled
himself together. "Ridiculous!" he snorted. "There's no record of
her ever using an alias before."
   "There's no record of her working as a contact before. If your
information is like ours, there's no proof that she's involved in
espionage at all. We *think* she's a deep agent for the East
Germans- we *think* she's the one called Isolde- but as for
proof-" She shrugged her shoulders.
   "I know all that," Klaus snapped. "I mean-" he seemed at a
loss suddenly- "I mean, I know," he said more calmly. "There's
not a scrap of proof that she's anything but what she seems to
be- an East German escapee married to a rich manufacturer, who
spends her time quietly in the country. But of course she's
Isolde."
   "There's something you may not know, Major. THRUSH has lately
been putting out feelers here and there- to the French and the
CIA, among others- asking if they're interested in classified
Russian information. Someone in the Politburo's ready to sell
secrets for cash, using THRUSH as their agent and Bowlby as the
conduit. And it looks like Brunbaum was in on it with him,
planning to betray the Soviets- or at any rate, the current
regime. The East Germans don't love their masters any more than
we do. Bowlby had real information to pass on, information that
someone would pay good money to get hold of. Brunbaum probably
got greedy and decided that she'd have a larger share without
him. I've been working on this case for a week now, trying to
trace the route the information would come by. Bowlby seemed a
reasonable guess as the courier, but I had no leads on his
accomplice at this end. Now I do."
   "It's just too unlikely," Klaus protested, but without his
usual heat. Z's eyes narrowed as the Major fished out his
cigarettes. Something was definitely going on here. Back at the
West German Embassy that afternoon, Klaus had been riding a huge
wave of energy quite different from the explosive irritability
that usually drove him. As he'd scanned their computer findings
and rained orders on the embassy underlings, there'd been a
hidden excitement in him whose source Z couldn't determine. And
now- what had happened to that curt dismissiveness that was the
Major's stock in trade? He sounded almost as if he was treating
the doctor as a serious partner. "For one thing, why would he
know her by an English alias? And not even an alias- just a
translation of her married name. It's a coincidence. It has to
be."
    "Major- may I have a light?" Elena had taken out her own
cigarettes. A little startled, Klaus snapped the lighter for her.
   "I didn't know you smoked," he muttered.
   She smiled, a quick ironical smile. "Have you ever known an
agent who didn't?"
   "It's a filthy habit," Klaus said with conviction, "especially
for a woman."
   "If I ever retire, I'll quit," she said carelessly. "I was
going to say- the Soviets have very pedestrian minds. Since she
was meeting an Englishman, they gave her the simplest code name
they could think of. It's only for this one mission, after all."
   Z, remembering Mischa, had to agree. Russian intelligence
wasn't, very.
   "You do keep her under observation?" Elena asked.
   "General observation, of course."
   "Do you know where she is now?'
   "I can find out. The information is as close as the nearest
telephone."
   "There's a box across the street," Elena pointed out.
Eberbach's mouth tightened and Z braced himself for the
explosion. It didn't come. The Major turned on his heel with
military precision and strode through traffic to the public
phone. Z watched him go with the beginning of concern.
   His chief was impervious to women. So much was common
knowledge at the office. Young and beautiful women in the
organization, stunningly elegant women in the theatrical world,
charming and witty women from the international jet set, even
gentle, refined women of the upper classes- Klaus watched them
all with an observant but jaundiced eye, like a policeman with
habitual criminals. Women, the Major said, were the weak point in
any man and any organization. Z, who was particularly susceptible
to well-bred innocence, owed the continuance of his career to the
Major's congenital distrust of the opposite sex. More than once Z
had been taken in by some sweet confiding woman who turned out to
be in the pay of the other side. Each time the Major had stepped
in before he could commit himself irreparably, had summarily
disposed of the interloper, and had then flayed his subordinate
so thoroughly and devastatingly that, almost in spite of himself,
Z had learned to practise caution when in female company.
   If the Major showed signs of weakening now, then this was
clearly no ordinary woman. He turned to look at Frau Doktor von
Schoedenburg, who was watching the Major across the street. Her
thin face- handsome, not beautiful, Z thought- was empty of
expression, but there was- was there?- just a suggestion of
wistfulness in the pale blue eyes. They shifted suddenly to
confront his own, and whatever had been in them vanished into a
look of cool appraisal. Z dropped his own eyes, blushing a
little. Bashfulness and his boyish features were his greatest
assets: they made women melt and men dismiss him. Sometimes, of
course, as with Eroica, they made men melt; and this time,
evidently, they made the woman dismiss him. Her gaze returned to
Eberbach who was crossing back towards them, lighting another
cigarette en route.
    "She was hunting at a friend's place near Bremen yesterday
and today, and returned home this afternoon." Klaus didn't look
at them. The implication was obvious. Bremen was a few hours'
drive from Amsterdam. She could have been here this morning when
Bowlby was abducted.
   "Alright- so it's a possibility," Eberbach said suddenly,
explosively. "But I'm not convinced. Maybe she has the microdot,
but I'm not wasting man power on close surveillance. A search of
her house-"
   "Castle," Elena corrected.
   "It's a large country house, no more," Klaus said, with the
firmness of a castle owner. "A search will be impossible when
she's at home."
   "She often goes hunting at friends' estates. The next time
she's out-"
   "That might not be for days- or weeks." Klaus' eyes went
distant. "But if we could *get* her out-- A game hunt would be
best at this time of year--" He paused, staring into space,
drawing on his cigarette. "Not Schloss Eberbach- she knows who I
am-- Not the Chief either, of course. Dammit, everybody I know
with a country place is in NATO."
   "My father isn't." Klaus looked at her, but she dropped her
eyes. "It's not huge, but we had hunting parties there when my
mother was alive. And I don't think I'm well known to the
operatives in this country. UNCLE is mostly criminal activity,
after all."
   "Yes," said Klaus slowly, "Yes, that might work. We have to
talk about this." There it was again, that energy vibrating from
him. "Z-" he wheeled suddenly, making him jump- "You're off. Go
back to the embassy. I'll see you later. Doctor, come with me."
   "My car, Major," she reminded him.
   "Leave it. I'll drive you back here. Or Z can take it for
you."
   She hesitated a moment, then took her keys from her bag.
   "Drop it at the Hotel van Dam," she said as she gave them to
him, and turned and walked off with the Major.
   Either UNCLE paid very well or the von Schoedenburgs had
money, Z thought, as he went in search of Elena's Benz. He
decided it wasn't really his place to lay bets with himself on
whether the Major would come back to the embassy tonight or not.
And anyway, he knew that he would.
6.
    Klaus drove them to a pub he knew, one of Amsterdam's famous
brown houses, named for the age-mellowed colour of the wooden
tables and chairs. This one was run by an ex-NATO operative,
which guaranteed its safety, and the beer was almost as good as
Germany's. As he brought Elena her glass he had a sudden
flashback to- God, was it only this afternoon? watching Bonham do
the same thing. He shoved the image out of his mind. Bonham-
Eroica- no, dammit, stick to the business at hand.
   "Now," he said, "will there be any trouble from your father?"
   "No," she said with an odd smile. "I think he'll be delighted.
Suddenly inviting a dozen people home for the weekend is
something my mother might have done. I don't behave enough like
her for his tastes, most of the time."
   "I can believe it. What does he think of your working for
UNCLE?"
   "He disapproves, naturally. Like yourself, he thinks it no job
for a woman."
   "It isn't. Why do you do it?"
   She sighed impatiently. "Major, why do you do your job? The
thrills, the adventure, the romance?'
   The words touched an unpleasant nerve. "Don't be stupid," he
snarled.
   "Precisely," she said, unmoved. It was reassuring, in its way,
to have someone who didn't cringe when he yelled at them. His
subordinates, his servants, the staff at the various embassies
where he stayed- they crumpled like wet tissue whenever he raised
his voice. It was annoying.
   "I do my job for the same reason you do- because someone has
to." She gave him a long look. "The von Schoedenburgs have been
soldiers since the 12th century," she went on, in the voice of
one giving a debriefing report. "We fought to protect our lands
and our vassals, then in the service of the Landgrave, then,
ultimately, against the invader, against Napoleon and his army.
We pride ourselves on our military ability, naturally, but also
on the way we use that ability. My ancestors protected the weak
entrusted to them, even when the weak were brutish and ignorant
peasants who resembled animals more than men; and they served
those to whom they were sworn even when, as often happened, those
above them were as brutish and ignorant as the peasants beneath
them. That's the sort of family I come from."
   She took out a cigarette. Klaus snapped his lighter for her
even as she reached for her own. Her eyebrows rose fractionally
in a moment's surprise, but she said "Thank you" and held the
cigarette in the flame, not looking at him.
   She sat back, exhaling smoke through her thin nostrils. "My
father had three daughters. I'm the last, after a gap of eight
years. After me, they knew there'd be no more. I won't say he
raised me as a boy- the idea would have shocked him deeply- but
he wanted a companion to take hunting and to walk the lands with
him and to tell the story of my family to, and I was it. We have
a tradition of service for almost eight hundred years, and no-one
to carry it on. My oldest sister is married to a banker, the
second to a cabinet minister's secretary. I do what I can. Does
that answer your question?"
   The astringent note was back in her voice, and Klaus realized
suddenly that he was being warned off her territory. How odd to
meet a woman who *didn't* want to talk about herself, endlessly.
And too bad that this one wanted to be reticent. There were
things he needed to know about her, and no conversational warning
signals were about to stop him.
   "You could get married," he said bluntly. "To a soldier, if
you like."
   "I've never met a man who was comfortable with the way I can
shoot," she said, equally blunt.
   "You're good," he said grudgingly. "But that gun you use-
isn't it too heavy for you?'
   "I weight-trained until I could manage it. A gun like that is
worth it."
   "An MX-14." Klaus kept his voice dead-pan. "A very accurate
gun, of course."
   "More than 'accurate', Major," she all but snapped. "This is
the best crafted gun in the world. The workmanship, the handling,
the balance- it's a pleasure just to hold it-" The colour had
come up in her cheeks, and she spoke with intensity. Klaus felt a
flame begin to light his soul. This woman *understood.*
   "I've never actually seen one before." It was hard to pretend
indifference with the excitement running through his veins like
this. In a minute, if he was lucky, he might actually have it in
his hands. To grip that smooth haft, feel the solid weight in his
palm- "Where did you get it?"
   "I took it off a THRUSH agent in Prague. And I can't tell you
any more than that." Suddenly she had withdrawn into herself,
into her own private world, leaving him alone outside. She
shouldn't do that- it was too much, to be given a glimpse, a hint
of a promise, and then to see it vanish in front of his eyes. He
should show her- he should *order* her- to- to- what?
   Klaus stared at her, dumbfounded, bereft. Her cold blue eyes
looked back, untouchable, only very mildly interested in this
conversation: waiting for him to get to the point of this
meeting. But wasn't *this* the point?
   In his mind there was a sudden fleeting impression of yielding
suppleness, of a softness like rose petals that could
nevertheless wear away metal. It came from that instinctive
centre that told him when to duck, when the seemingly empty
street held an armed assassin, when the apparent innocent was in
fact both experienced and dangerous.
   He never questioned that instinct, only acted on it. He didn't
question it now, though his mind would have risen in revolt if
he'd thought rationally about what he was about to do.
   "Please," he said humbly, in a small voice he barely
recognized as his, "may I look at it?"
   Elena's eyes went wide. Her face was motionless, then
suddenly, shockingly, the blood rushed into it, redder and more
red, in painful crimson waves across the pale skin. The ice
maiden sat abashed, utterly and completely at a loss; and her
hand went under her coat to the holster in the small of her back,
and brought out the MX-14.
   "Please?" Klaus said again, and held out both hands.
   "Major-," she started to say, her eyes flicking back and forth
helplessly between his face and her gun, "-Major-" She bit her
lips and then, curiously clumsy, blurted, "If I let you hold it,
will you give it back?" and immediately blushed fiery red again.
Klaus, delighted, could see the irritation in her eyes. She knew
she was losing and was helpless to save herself.
   "Yes," he said seriously, to reassure her, "I promise. On my
honour as an Eberbach."
  She sighed deeply, sadly, and put the gun on the table. Klaus
picked it up reverently. It was beautiful- beautiful- it was
better than he could ever have imagined. He checked the stock,
the barrel, the casings, half dreading to find something not as
it should be, half hoping that he would- but no, it was perfectly
maintained. He wanted to strip and clean it anyway, to have the
sensation of handling its inmost parts and to see them all fit
together again snugly.
   "It's wonderful," he said in an awed voice, and looked up to
see the shining light in her eyes.
   "Yes, isn't it?" she said, simply. They stared at each other
for a long moment
   "I use a Walther," he said at last.
   "I noticed. You seem able to compensate for the lag."
   "I adapted it myself. After having a Biretta for ten years,
switching over..." He stared to explain, and didn't stop for
quite some considerable time after that.

7.
   Z was finding the Russian verb form taking on German case
endings, and closed the book. The Major wasn't back yet. He
considered with slight trepidation the possibility of another KGB
attack, and then the even more unlikely possibility- that-
   The thought made him uneasy, and he wondered why. It wasn't
that he had anything against women in general- the contrary, in
fact- or Frau Doktor von Schoedenberg in particular, although she
was definitely not his type. Much too intimidating. But the
Major- the Major was behaving very unusually, and that had him
worried. Iron Klaus should be- iron. Impervious. Unbendable. The
way he was with Eroica. Z had followed Eroica's pursuit of the
Major with a good deal of pleasure, impressed by the Englishman's
inventiveness and sympathizing not a little with his dilemma. He
hadn't realized till now that half his enjoyment came from
knowing the thief couldn't win. But this time- this time-
   He shifted unhappily to his side. He'd always thought himself
an adult, and flexible as a good agent ought to be. It ate at him
to find he could think like a child still, and be troubled
because his father figure wasn't being-- whatever it was Z wanted
him to be.
   He turned to his other side, thinking he should stop thinking
and turn off the light- go to sleep... A break-in at the Brunbaum
home-- Briefly he remembered a short stocky Englishman he knew,
with a pleasant face and a moustache- steady reliable Bonham--
they'd be working together again soon. How surprised he'd be to
hear about the Major-- am I really thinking of telling him, Z
thought in a clear-headed moment, knowing that the idea of
discussing von Eberbach's private life with anyone should shock
him to his toes and aware that it didn't; and didn't answer the
question.
   And just as his hand was reaching for the lamp on his bedside
table the door snicked open and the Major himself walked in. He
looked pleased with himself and the world in general and when he
glanced at Z he didn't even try to frown.
    "You're still awake?"
    "Yes sir. I was studying-" He raised his Russian text from
the table.
    "Um," the Major grunted, and sat down on the other twin bed,
lighting a cigarette. "It's settled. Next Saturday. It's short
notice for the guests, but the invitations will come from Frau
von Achenberg, the Frau Doktor's sister. She's a bit of a
butterfly, so no-one will be surprised. The Brunbaums will be
gone overnight on Saturday, and our operatives can search the
house at leisure.
   "Yes sir."
   Klaus glanced over at Z. The intelligent blue eyes were
watching him.
   "We're *not* using Eroica." He breathed out smoke, and smiled
suddenly and brilliantly. "He's retired."
   "Retired?!"
   "Retired," Klaus confirmed with immense satisfaction. "I'll
tell you the details in the morning."
   "So who will we use, sir?"
   "You, probably. And the least incompetent of your colleagues."
   "Ah- I see."
   Klaus picked up his pyjamas and headed to the bathroom. "Don't
wait up for me. Good-night, Z."
   "Good-night, sir."
8.
   "Come along, pet. There's no need to be nervous."
   "I know." Constance tried to smile, but her hand gripped the
lace-edged handkerchief tightly and twisted it a little.
   "He's a lovely person, really. You won't even remember he's a
lord after two minutes."
   "Yes dear. I know." With an effort she kept her hand from the
collar of her best dress. It *was* straight, surely?
   Bonham opened the little wicket gate that separated Dorian's
hermitage from the rest of the estate. Ahead of them a flagstone
path led to the cloister and the chapel
   "Well," he said, as if bracing himself. He yanked at his tie
one last time, jerking the knot loose. "Let's go."
   "Henry- wait-" A sudden wave of amused affection loosened
Constance's nervousness. "Your tie's all crooked, love. Let me do
it for you."
   "I hate the beastly things," Bonham complained, standing still
for her. "A man can't breathe in them."
   "Ah well- it's only for a bit." As she finished reknotting the
tie, their eyes met. After a second, both smiled. Bonham took her
hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the edge. She blushed,
and her heart pounded suddenly. Afterwards...
   "Let's go, pet," was all Bonham said, but his face told the
rest of the story. Eyes lowered in embarrassment and happiness
and still, she knew, smiling foolishly, she turned to follow her
husband, and almost ran into him as he stopped short. Ahead of
them a solid middle-aged man in a black cassock was coming down
the path.
   "Good morning, Bonham," he said in a pleasant voice tinged
with a faint upperclass accent. "Aaah?-" he glanced at Constance
with an alert and not unfriendly brown gaze.
   "Uh- good morning," Bonham answered in the usual confusion.
He'd never called anyone 'Father' in his life, including his own
Dad, and wasn't going to start now, but he didn't know what else
to say. 'Sir' seemed all wrong, somehow. He fell back on the
usual mumble. "Mmh- this is my wife Constance. Connie, this is -
er- Father Dominic, Lord Gloria's chaplain."
   Father Dominic blinked in momentary surprise, but he smiled at
once and held out his hand.
   "Mrs. Bonham, is it? This is a great pleasure. A recent event,
I take it?"
   "Yes," Bonham said swiftly. He didn't want a replay of his
scene with the Major. Eberbach was in any case an old acquain-
tance, while the priest was practically a stranger. "We're just
going to tell his lordship." He balked at asking where the Earl
actually was. He shouldn't *have* to ask.
   "You'll find him in the cloister, probably. If you'll excuse
me now, I have some business. Mrs.Bonham, my good wishes. A
pleasure to have met you."
   "Thank you, Father." Constance beamed in relief. The first
member of the Gloria household she'd encountered had been
pleasant and not at all peculiar. "May I have your blessing?"
   "Certainly, my daughter." He made a sign in the air, while
Constance crossed herself. Bonham looked away in embarrassment.
Religion was for inside churches, not out of doors, but he said
nothing until they were alone again.
   "Well, that wasn't so bad."
   "Oh no- such a nice man. But I feel a little silly. I had the
idea somehow that he was a Catholic priest."
   "Isn't he?"
   "I don't know. I've never seen a priest put his fingers
together like that when he gives the blessing." She illustrated
with her thumb and first two fingers. "He doesn't- he wouldn't
belong to a sect, or something, would he?" Her voice dropped in
apprehension.
   "I'm sure his lordship checked his references very thoroughly
when he hired him. He- oh- " Bonham's voice dried up. Before them
a golden haired brown-robed figure was sitting in one of the
cloister windowseats, head bowed, gazing at the flagstones.
   "He's so *thin*," Bonham murmured in dismay. He hastened
forward and Constance, heart thudding, had to trot to keep up.
   "My lord," Bonham was saying in mixed anxiety and reproach.
"Are you alright?"
   Dorian looked up with a smile of pleasure.
   "Bonham- how lovely to see you. It's been- how long has it
been?- I forget-" He broke off as Constance came up to them. He
looked momentarily at a loss, but continued, "Is this your
sister? Do introduce us, love."
   "This is my wife," said Bonham, still looking at Dorian with
impatient concern. "Her name's Constance. My lord, what have
you-" He broke off in dismay. Dorian had gone white, and put an
unsteady hand to his forehead.
   "Oh dear- I feel-" He started to say.
   "Put his lordship's head down, love. He's going to faint,"
Constance said matter-of-factly, and was amazed when Dorian
himself complied by laying his head down on his crossed arms.
Bonham crouched beside him, patting his back in distress.
   "I'm alright, Bonham," Dorian said after a moment. "You don't
have to keep pounding me like that. It's just that to-day's a
fast day and I get a little giddy."
   "A fast day?" Bonham echoed in bewilderment, thinking vaguely
of clocks that gained time.
   "A day when I don't eat. Let me up, will you? I want to kiss
your bride." Bonham and Consance both gaped, and the latter
suddenly found herself enveloped in a brown serge embrace. A sea
of gold hair flashed before her eyes, the scent of roses filled
her nostrils, and two very warm and very experienced lips met
hers briefly. "My dear, I'm delighted," Dorian's voice murmured
in her ear. She gazed transfixed into those chicory blue eyes.
Nothing had prepared her for Dorian's angelic beauty, experienced
at such close quarters, and her head swam. "So *that*'s why," she
thought obscurely, as something suddenly became perfectly clear
to her. Dorian let her go, and turned to enfold Bonham.
   "Congratulations, old chap. I'm sure you'll be very very
happy. Look, let's go sit over in the garden. We've a million
things to discuss."
   He drew them out of the cloister and into a small grassy area
dotted with fruit trees. Constance was doing her best to mind her
manners and not stare, but with only mixed success. All those
curls- and that wide curved mouth- and the amazing blue eyes- no
human being could *be* so beautiful, she told herself, but
her eyes contradicted the statement at once. She reached
unconsciously for Bonham's hand as if to reassure herself with
that familiar everyday touch.
   Dorian led them to a stone bench and sank down gracefully
beside them.
   "Now tell me- when did all this happen? It's a lovely
surprise, but I feel as if I'd neglected you. I should at least
have been there to give the groom away." His teasing smile
flashed at Constance and she smiled back, light-headed.
   "Look, my lord. the fact of the matter is, we've been married
for five years..."
   "Five **years**?!" Dorian exclaimed, very much as Klaus had
done. "Bonham! Why ever didn't you say?" He looked from one to
the other in perplexity.
   "I didn't want to bother you. It's a private matter, after
all. But now that so much has changed here-"
   Dorian smiled suddenly. "You thought you'd come out of the
closet?"
   Bonham flushed and held Constance's hand tighter. "Well- yes."
   Dorian was laughing softly. "Oh dear, oh dear. Mrs. Bonham-
may I call you Constance? Or is it Connie?"
   "It's Constance to my friends."
   "Constance, then. You must think me a monster. Truly, I am
sorry."
   "Oh please- I do understand. It's always just been part of
Henry's work."
   "Mmm, yes. It's not as if he had an ordinary job. I hope you
don't mind too much?" He looked at her with interest.
   "It's what he does," she said simply.
   "He does it very well. Your husband has a most unusual set of
talents. I could never have managed without him in the past."
   "The question, my lord, isn't the past. It's the future. What
are you intending to do from now on?"
   Dorian looked away. "What I have been doing. Caring for my
soul. Thinking things over. Why?"
   "Is the organization finished, then? For good?"
   "For the time being, yes. Things have changed with me too,
Bonham."
   "Are you sure you're well?"
   "Perfectly." He looked back in surprise. "Why do you ask?"
   "You don't *look* well. You've lost at least a stone- and this
talk about spending whole days not eating- it can't be good for
you."
   "All monks fast. The Irish hermits used to eat only three
meals a week." He smiled at Bonham's look of shock and
disapproval. "And slept no more than three hours a night, and had
only two baths in their life: once when they were born and once
when they died."
   Constance, who knew teasing when she heard it, smiled in
amusement, but Bonham was stiff with indignation.
   "You're not going to start something like that!"
   "God forbid," said Dorian piously. "I'd hate to smell like
James in bad weather. The point is, my way of life's really quite
rational. You don't have to worry." Bonham looked unconvinced,
but Dorian went on. "As for the future- I don't know when I'll
work again. It may be never. I wish I could tell you, but I
can't. I just don't know. I understand- now you have a family-" A
thought crossed his face and he looked enquiringly at Constance,
who blushed bright red and shook her head quickly.
   "Oh- oh well- but someday, there may be children, and you'd
like a secure income. My offer of a pension is still open."
   "I like to be working," Bonham said. He chewed his moustache,
eying his employer. "Major von dem Eberbach has offered me a
position at NATO."
   Dorian's eyes went very blue.
   "You saw the Major? When?"
   "Yesterday, in London. I told him about you."
   "And?"
   "He said he never intended to shoot you, that time. He just
didn't like the way you were acting."
   "That's nice to know." Dorian's voice was cool. His eyes
looked away to the flowering trees beyond the walls. "Anything
else?"
   "He congratulates you on your vocation."
   "I'm glad I've finally done something to please him. Well,
Bonham. Will you take him up on his offer?"
   "I'd rather work for you."
   That brought him back. He turned and put both arms around
Bonham's shoulders. "I know, my dear. And I *am* sorry. I wish I
knew what I was going to do- but- it's so hard, trying to think
things through." There were tears in his eyes.
   "My lord," Bonham said helplessly, looking at him in worry.
"Couldn't you- I don't know- do a rest cure or something? This
is-"
   "This *is* a rest cure." Dorian smiled at him. "No worries-
simple food- healthy activities- beautiful music all day long and
beautiful art all around me- solitude and reflection- it's just
what the doctor ordered. I feel much better for it. Really."
   "I wish you looked better."
   "Monastic pallor, Bonham. Wait til the summertime. I'll be
brown as a berry. Well, my dears-" he got up- "it's been a lovely
visit, but I'm afraid it's time for services. Constance, I'm glad
to have met you- at last. Good luck." The warm mouth touched her
cheek this time. "Bonham, you're a very lucky man. Look after
her." He gave him a hug, then walked them to the gate and stood
smiling and waving good-bye until the curving gravelled drive cut
off their view of him.
   Bonham took Constance's arm.
   "Damn. It didn't work."
   "Telling him about the Major?"
   "I hoped it would shock some sense into him. He'll lose
everything if he doesn't get a grip on himself."
   "Maybe- it might not be a bad idea?"
   He looked at her in surprise.
   "I didn't realize- just hearing and- seeing from pictures-
but- he's quite extraordinary, Henry. So intelligent- and
charming- and- and beautiful. He could be more than just an art
thief, however dashing and- and glamorous." Constance was having
trouble putting her feelings about Dorian Lord Gloria into words.
   "An art thief is what he's always wanted to be," Bonham
protested.
   "Yes, but now? If he wants to be something else, maybe it's
for the best?"
   "Mmh," Bonham said gloomily. "And what about us?'
   "Oh, you know money's not a problem, not with your special
contracts. And Lord Gloria- I think he's worth waiting for, until
he can decide-"
   "You don't think I should join NATO?"
   "Oh Henry- you weren't thinking of it seriously?" She looked
at him in consternation. "All those foreigners- and we'd have to
live in Germany-"
   "They're a good team- A and B and Z, and that lot. It's steady
work, and there'd be a wider field to do it in. NATO gets up to
more tricks than his Lordship, even."
   "But- oh dear, Henry..."
   "It's alright, pet. We won't go if you don't like the idea."
   "No- it's not that exactly- It's... well, I didn't mean to
tell you until I was completely sure- I haven't been to the
doctor yet--" Constance was blushing a deep painful red. Bonham
looked bewildered, then poleaxed.
   "You think- you mean, you- **Pet**." He grabbed her hands.
"Really? Really?"
   "Henry, dear- your *voice*." She lowered her own. "I don't
know. It's only been a few weeks. I was going to see Dr. Simpson
next Tuesday..."
   "Connie..." Bonham was smiling like a madman. "Connie. Connie.
Oh, Connie."
   "Henry... Dear, at least wait until we get to the car..."

    Dorian moved slowly back to the bench. His legs felt like
stone, and there was an odd bruised feeling in his chest.
    So Bonham was married- had been married- all these years. It
was scarcely credible. Bonham's Terrible Secret. The words wrote
themselves in his head, complete with capital letters and early
Victorian flourishes. He laughed shakily, then stopped himself
while he still could. Oh, but it was funny. There'd been nothing-
*nothing*- to indicate such a thing. How nice to be Bonham- calm,
steady, keeping his lives effortlessly separate one from the
other.
   How many other secrets did he have? How long had there been
this- connection- to the Major? The aching in his chest got
worse. Klaus- Klaus wouldn't take Bonham from him as well as
everything else? 'He congratulates you...' Yes, he could see
Klaus saying it- saying it with amusement and contempt and, no
doubt about it, relief. To Klaus he was just a nuisance that had
at last consented to take itself away. Nothing had changed.
Running after the Major hadn't worked. Running away from the
Major hadn't worked. It seemed that nothing would work: nothing
would bring him the man he loved, and he couldn't stop loving
him. Suddenly he could see how it would be for all the rest of
his life: he would feel this way, forever, and it would never get
any better. No hope. There was nothing for him, anywhere, ever.
The horror of that vision held him immobile for a moment, and his
heart hammered in panic. Then he made himself take a deep breath,
and another, and another. There had to be another way- there had
to. There had to. Because he couldn't go on living if there
wasn't.
9.
   "That *fool*. That *asshole*. That-- bloody stupid queer-
loving FRUIT!"
   The Major raged about the office like a loose firecracker,
spitting sparks. Z sat still, declining Russian nouns in his
head. When the Major and the Chief came up against each other, it
was never the Major who won, but von Eberbach's amour propre
required a few explosions before he would give in.
   "Major? Whatever is the matter?"
   Frau Doktor von Schoedenberg walked in as Klaus finished his
last string of epithets.
   "My Chief. He *insists* we use Eroica on this mission."
   "Eroica? The art thief?"
   "He's the one we used in Rome. An amateur thief and full-time
pervert."
   "Why on earth would your Chief use someone so untrustworthy?'
   "He's a pervert himself."
   Her eyes were sympathetic. "It must be hard for you, working
under a man like that."
   "It drives me *crazy*. I don't care about his liking for
queers- men that age often go strange. But he won't listen to
*reason*. Eroica doesn't work anymore. He's off on a religious
kick, playing monk."
  She looked amused. "Some sort of Buddhist sect?"
  "Pseudo-Catholic. You know how flamboyant homosexuals are."
  "Yes indeed. And with no respect for religion."
  "Absolutely." That aspect hadn't occurred to him before, but of
course it was true. Eroica was insulting Klaus' faith with his
stupid little games. Indignation fanned his anger.
  "But what's the problem? If Eroica isn't available--"
  "He wants me to go and make him come! 'Of course he'll do it if
*you* ask, Klaus!'" He mimicked the Chief's middle-aged tones in
sick fury.
   Elena looked puzzled, and then indignant. "You mean this
pervert- Eroica- is- attracted to you?"
   "It's not because of anything *I've* done!"
   "Naturally not. But your Chief- he wants-- that's disgusting!
Unpardonable! He has no *right*-"
   "He has no shame." It was good to have a sympathizer. He could
feel the tight band of irritation in his head begin to loosen.
"Well, he'll see. The last I heard, Eroica was going to take a
vow of silence." The idea suddenly struck him as very funny, and
he smiled broadly. That chattering ninny... "It's a waste of
time, naturally, but it'll be fun to see what Brother Dorian
looks like- unless of course he's walled himself up in the
meantime."
   He stood up. Elena was looking shocked.
   "You're not going to go?"
   "Oh, I'm going. Orders are orders. But I don't expect to
succeed. Z, make my reservations at the airport. Doctor, have you
had lunch?"
   "No," she said, glancing at Z.
   "Well, let's go." He pulled her out into the corridor in his
wake, and off towards the Embassy dining room.
   "I'd like a look at your father's place before the weekend."
   "Certainly. We can go see him any time."
   "I'll be back from Britain tomorrow. We'll go then."
   "Major." She stopped, forcing Klaus to turn back towards her.
"Orders are orders, as you say. But there are some orders that
shouldn't be obeyed. If it's a choice between obedience and
honour--"
   "What do you mean?"
   "Don't you realize how you compromise yourself by going along
with your Chief's attitude? Men like Eroica are unnatural and
shameless. No right-thinking person could stand to be in the same
room with them. The very idea makes me sick. And you intend to go
and -treat with him. Don't you see what that does to your
reputation?"
   "My reputation speaks for itself. No-one could think *I'm* a
pervert."
   "You have a pervert for a boss and you go to perverts' houses.
You countenance corruption. How do you reconcile that with your
own conscience?"
   Klaus shrugged. "It's work. There's nothing I can do about
it."
   "You could make a stand on principle. Refuse to put up with
your Chief's methods. Go over his head if you have to." Elena
spoke with deep intensity. "Don't you have a father?"
   "Yes." Klaus blinked at the sudden change of topic.
   "Does *he* know what you do in the course of your work?"
   "Of course not." Klaus was losing his temper under this
onslaught. "It's none of his business."
   Elena looked at him, mouth a tight line.
   "I thought you a man of honour, Major. I'm sorry to see I was
mistaken." She turned to go, but Klaus grabbed her arm and yanked
her back.
   "Just a minute! *No* one questions my honour--" he yelled at
her.
   "**I** do, Major!" she stormed back at him. "Sodomy is a
filthy vice and men who practise it have lost the right to be
called human. They're vermin, and should be stamped out. And
that's what you choose for your friends-- that's what you choose
to spend your time with--and you think you're still above
suspicion? If you play in mud, Major, you can expect to get
dirty." Her voice shook in anger, and there were tears in her
eyes.
   "Eroica is *not* my friend!!" Klaus bellowed in outrage. "And
I don't *choose* to spend time with him! And as for stamping out
vermin, Frau *Doktor*-- you and your colleague Goebbels seem to
agree on that point. What else do you and the Nazis have in
common?"
   She went suddenly white, then slowly took a deep breath.
   "Major," she said, her enunciation over-precise, "you
shouldn't have said that. You'll realize that when you've calmed
down." She turned and was gone.
   "Women!" Klaus spat, and went back in the office.
   "Get your coat on. We're going for lunch."
   "Yes sir." Z knew better than to comment on the sudden change
of plan.
   "Women!" Klaus continued to rage as they left the building.
"They're completely irrational: perfectly calm one minute and
having screaming hysterics the next!"
   "Yes sir," Z agreed. The Frau Doktor hadn't struck him as the
hysterical type- more of an icicle, in fact- but if the Major
said she was, then she was. Or at any rate- his mind expressed an
uncharacteristic reservation- she was the Major's idea of an
hysteric.
   "They're all lunatics. I'm damned if I know what you see in
them." He gave Z a bad-tempered look.
   "It's hard to explain, sir." He hoped his tone was
sufficiently apologetic.
   "Even someone like the Frau Doktor turns out to be just a
bunch of hormones. There's no sense in her. So she doesn't like
queers. Well, who does? God knows I don't. The Chief's making me
waste half a day on this stupid wild goose chase off in England,
and she acts like I'm going because I *want* to. She called *me*
a queer-- just for obeying orders. The stupid cow! What's wrong
with her, dammit?" He rounded on Z. "What do *you* think?"
   Z jumped, floundering a little in surprise.
   "Me, sir? I don't- I don't know the lady well enough--"
   "Shut up! When I ask for your opinion, I expect to *get* your
opinion. God knows, I've seen you fall for enough women in your
time with NATO- and vice versa-- You must have learned something
about them."
   Unlike a number of his colleagues, Z had long since decided
that attempts at temporizing served only to irritate the Major
and make a bad situation worse. It was much less wearing simply
to tell the flat truth and take the consequences. But his mind
stuttered over giving a frank opinion in this case.
   "Maybe she just has a phobia about homosexuals," he heard
himself saying, and was disgusted at his cowardice. "There could
be someone in her family-"
   "Is there?"
   "I- I don't kno-"
   "Didn't you do that background check on her?" The Major was
glaring at him.
   That'll learn you, my boy, he told himself. "Yes sir. She has
no brothers. Her father has an excellent military record, and was
apparently quite devoted to his wife. Her only uncle died before
she was born- executed for taking part in the Brandenburg Plot
against Hitler-- sir?"
   "Nothing," said Klaus, his face expressionless. "Well," he
said after a moment, "that's not it, then. Give me another
opinion."
   Z took a deep breath. "The Frau Doktor obviously admires you
very much, sir. It's obvious too that she has strong principles.
The fact that you work with someone like Eroica doesn't jibe with
her view of you."
   "But why call *me* a queer? It makes no sense."
   Z swallowed. "She could be jealous."
   "Jealous??"
   "When women get irrational, it's usually that."
   Klaus looked thunderstruck. "Jealous- of Eroica? Z, that's
stupid. It makes no sense-"
   "You're going to England on a pointless errand. It really
isn't necessary, sir. If you just told the Chief you'd gone and
Eroica had refused, how would he ever know? And you could spend
the time here on preparations for that break-in-" He stopped,
aware of an overwhelming sense of menace. The Major's face was
like a thundercloud coming over the Krakenberg.
   "Are you suggesting," Klaus said very gently, "that an
Eberbach and an officer in the German army should *lie* to his
commanding officer?"
   Z knew that was the Major's custom when it suited him, but it
seemed unwise to point the fact out now. He put a quaver in his
voice. "N-no, sir."
   "Is it perhaps *your* habit to lie to *me* when I give you an
order you find irksome?" Lightning seemed to play in the air
around Z's head.
   "No, sir. You always check up on us," he added quickly.
   Klaus snorted. "If you all weren't so useless, I wouldn't
*have* to check up on you. And if I weren't the only person in
the service who understands the idea of duty, my life would be a
lot easier. As it is, between incompetents and hysterics, it's
hell." His face closed in on itself, and his attention turned
away from Z, who breathed a small sigh of mixed relief and- so it
seemed- regret.
9.
    "Father," said Dorian, "whatever am I to do? I can't go on
like this."
    "So you've finally realized that? Good. I was wondering how
long it would take you."
   Dorian blinked. "You knew I was having doubts?"
   "I hoped you might be."
   "Father, shouldn't you be *encouraging* my religious
vocation?"
   "I am. Are the doubts you feel only about your conversion- or
do I dare hope you've realized the dilemma of your whole
existence?'
   "What do you mean? What's wrong with my existence?"
   "You've put yourself in an untenable position, my son. You
want something you simply can't have."
   "I want something I don't have, and I can't be happy until
I've got it. That's different."
   "Your present unhappiness, Dorian, now and for the last six
months, has come not from wanting the Major but from the growing
realization that you'll never have him.
   "*No*," said Dorian instantly.
   "Oh yes. Think for a moment- think calmly and logically. How
long have you been trying to win the Major's attention? How many
years? And are you any closer than you ever were? Does he treat
you any better than he ever did? Has he softened- weakened- given
way-"
   "It's himself he's fighting, Father. I know he'd love me if
he'd only give himself the chance."
   "Why do you think that?"
   "Because I love him."
   "And so it's unthinkable that he not love you."
   "Yes. I believe in love, Father- ruler of gods and men."
   "But the Major doesn't. He believes in force. In principles.
In duty. I ask again: what reason do you have to think he'll love
you?"
   "It's beyond reason, Father. It's a matter of faith. You must
understand that."
   "You're confusing faith and hope. To believe what you don't
understand because authority tells you it's so is faith. To
believe that things are a certain way because you want them to be
that way is illusion. Faith always has some rational grounds. I'm
asking, what are yours for believing the Major loves you? Or will
love you? Or- most importantly- can love you?"
   "I sense-- sometimes-"
   "No-- wishful thinking again. What has he *done*?"
   "He's saved my life several times."
   "Once, I think you said, by not pulling a trigger when he
could have. That's not love, Dorian. The last time he *did* pull
the trigger."
    Tears ran out of Dorian's eyes but he blinked them away.
   "I love him, Father. I *will* love him, always, whatever he
does. He can't make me stop loving him, no matter how hard he
tries. That's always been the basis of our relationship."
   "And a very satisfactory system it is too," Father Dominic
said in hearty approval. Dorian looked startled.
   "Why, here you are- grandly, passionately, hopelessly in love.
The thrills, the romance, the drama! The heaven of hope, the hell
of despair. Will I see him today, will he call me this week? Any
hour, any minute, may bring the rapture of an encounter, a sight
of that wonderful face. Definitely gives you a reason to get out
of bed in the morning."
   "Father!" Dorian was enraged. "This is serious!"
   "Very serious. For a number of people. Your previous partners,
for instance. The young men you've charmed into loving you but
whom you couldn't, of course, take seriously. That poor little
accountant of yours: too useful to be let go, too much of a
nuisance to be endured. Getting importunate, were they? A little
tedious? And you were tired of putting them off? Or just running
out of excuses?"
   "Father!!" Dorian broke in angrily, but his confessor was
remorseless.
   "Well, no matter. You found the perfect solution. 'I'm sorry
gentlemen- his Lordship's affections are spoken for. Permanently.
By the Iron Major, whom he can't ever have.' What a relief it
must have been. No more entanglements, no more suicidal lovers,
no more tiresome scenes: no need to be bothered by other people's
feelings ever again."
   "NO!!" Dorian shouted. "It's not like that! You don't
understand at all!"
   "Maybe not. For instance, I don't know whether you've simply
deceived yourself about the Major, or whether you just don't care
if you destroy him."
    "What!!" Dorian checked in shock.
    "Let's say you're right about him. Maybe he *is* as attracted
to you as you are to him. Maybe there's a limit to how much
physical provocation he can take from you. Maybe he's reaching
that limit. Maybe *that*'s why he tried to kill you- as a last
desperate attempt to save himself. Because mark my words, Dorian:
if you destroy the Major's defences, you destroy him."
   "No-"
   "Had you thought what would happen afterwards, if you won? Did
you think the Major would just throw away the behaviours of a
lifetime and turn into- oh, say, Mr.Jones?"
   Dorian almost laughed. "No, of course not. I wouldn't want him
any different. Just the same as before, but in love with me."
   "The same as before. And what is that? Think, Dorian. Think
what you've told me about the Major. A law unto himself, a
warrior, a captain, a lone wolf on the edge of society, committed
to protecting that society but not really part of it. A dangerous
man, you once said. I'd say, very dangerous. Thank God for all of
us that he decided to be on the side of law and order. Because if
not-"
   He shook his head. "Dorian, Dorian- you've been playing with
fire all these years. Have you never realized it? Don't you know
what's inside the man? You must have glimpsed it at least once-
that wolf soul of his?"
   Dorian was silent, his eyes remembering.
   "He keeps it caged, bound by duty and obligation, tied to his
role of watchdog. Of course he'd like to be free- on the other
side, as you are, running on the mountains. A legal and sexual
outlaw. But if you let him loose from the chains he places on
himself, what will you have? Not a lover of art and culture like
yourself. Not a part of civilization at all. A man who's
fascinated by guns and the instruments of death- a man with no
human ties, a man who despises virtually all of the human race.
You'd have an assassin, Dorian, a death dealer, a force of
darkness. The Major understands himself much much better than you
do. I salute his courage and his determination in keeping his
desires chained, and I'd beg you, for your sake and his, not to
tempt him to unloose them. He's not for any man, Dorian- or for
any woman either. Be satisfied of that. But he's not for you,
unless you want to earn his everlasting hatred. He won't forgive
you for turning the key to his cage."
   Dorian looked away. He wanted to deny it all- but... but...
   "You want me to give him up- give up any hope-"
   "For his sake. You could do it for him, even if you couldn't
do it for yourself?"
   Dorian put his hands over his eyes.
   "Let him go, Dorian. He's a dream- a dream of the ideal, of
the beautiful, not for everyday life. There *are* some things too
precious for possession. Hasn't there ever been a work of art you
couldn't get for love or money or all your skill at theft?"
   He thought immediately of The Man in Purple.
   "One," he said. "Every time I think I'll get hold of it, it
slips out of my hands. As if God doesn't want me to have it."
   "Maybe God wants to remind you that you're only human. I
wonder if He isn't a little jealous that you don't love Him as
much as the Major."
   He had to smile a bit at that.
   "Would God be jealous?"
   "If it was you- possibly."
   "Is that why He's making life so hard for me?"
   "Whom the Lord loveth He chastiseth. But He only chastises His
favourite sons."
   "My father let me have anything I wanted. Why should God be
less kind?"
   "Not a good system in principle, Dorian. If God let you have
anything you wanted, he'd be like a parent who lets his child
make himself sick on candy because he doesn't care enough to say
no. God has given you much- beauty, intelligence, wealth, love,
satisfaction. But He keeps something back- one man, one painting-
for the good of your soul. Lest you forget about Him."
   "Then what am I to *do*?"
   "I'm not sure, Dorian. I'm celibate. But I understand that the
best way to handle an importunate suitor is to give him what he
wants."
   "Well, it does work- sometimes-" said Dorian. "But I don't
quite see-"
   "God loves you- He wants you for His own- He's pursued you as
you pursued the Major. Well, give Him what he wants. Be kinder
than the Major. Become His."
   "I've already taken vows--"
   "Child's play, Dorian. Serious vows. Commit yourself to God's
will- be intent only on Him- cut your ties with the world, and in
the final silence of the cloister, listen at last for the words
of God. Be certain He will speak to you, when your ear is opened
to hear."
   "You mean- vows of silence?"
   "That for a start. Sever your communication with the outside
world- live only in your heart... I'm not saying forever, to
start with. But try it for, say, a fortnight. Attention withdrawn
from outside distractions, will focussed wholly on God's love-
and see what happens."
   "I could," said Dorian slowly. Attention withdrawn from the
outside world- from the empty world where the Major never
appeared- where, if Father Dominic was right, he *must* not
appear-- Dorian's bruised soul felt as it had when he was a small
child tormented by his sisters: betrayed, in pain, and not able
to understand why he was being hurt. He wanted someone to run to
for consolation. Then it had been his father- his protector, his
friend-- Now... Now...
   "I will," he said. "You can make the preparations."
   Father Dominic was watching him.
   "All the great saints have had moments of tribulation when it
seemed that they stood alone in a dark night with no-one to
succour them," he said gently. "I don't know why God does this to
those He loves. Maybe it's like the training of an athlete or a
dancer- there must be moments of appalling pain, when the body
says 'I can't *do* this, have mercy, don't make me'-- but if you
stop then, you never discover that indeed you can do it, you can
achieve that perfection."
   He stood up to go.
   "Good night, my son."
   "Good night, Father. And thank you."
   Dorian walked down the length of the chapel nave and stood
below the crucifix that hung above the altar. It was a Gothic
piece from the 12th century, all angular lines and formal
severity- a far cry from the fleshy 17th century nudes he
normally rejoiced in. Something about its almost primitive
simplicity had caught his fancy on a trip to the Black Forest
years ago, and he had brought it back with him. Now he felt a
fellow sympathy with it. This Christ was suffering as he did, as
the Christs of Rubens and Caravaggio did not. He wondered if,
after all, the love of God might not be more satisfying than the
love of man; and knew in his soul that he didn't believe it was.
Not if the man was the Major.