“If he turns up, Colonel.”

“You never know, he just might. You’ve done well, Inspector. I think I’ll have to requisition you for Section Five. Would you mind?”

Would he mind? Savary almost choked with emotion, “An honor, sir…”

“Good. Go and get a shower then and some breakfast. I’ll see you later.”

“And you, Colonel?”

“Me, Inspector?” Hernu laughed and looked at his watch. “Five-fifteen. I’m going to ring British Intelligence in London. Disturb the sleep of a very old friend of mine. If anyone can help us with our mystery man it should be he.”

The Directorate General of the British Security Service occupies a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane, although many of its departments are housed in various locations throughout London. The special number that Max Hernu rang was of a Section known as Group Four, located on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence. It had been set up in 1972 to handle matters concerning terrorism and subversion in the British Isles. It was responsible only to the Prime Minister. It had been administered by only one man since its inception, Brigadier Charles Ferguson. He was asleep in his flat in Cavendish Square when the telephone beside his bed awakened him.

“Ferguson,” he said, immediately wide awake, knowing it had to be important.

“Paris, Brigadier,” an anonymous voice said. “Priority one. Colonel Hernu.”

“Put him through and scramble.”

Ferguson sat up, a large, untidy man of sixty-five with rumpled gray hair and a double chin.

“Charles?” Hernu said in English.

“My dear Max. What brings you on the line at such a disgusting hour? You’re lucky I’m still on the phone. The powers that be are trying to make me redundant along with Group Four.”