The man who leaned against the door held an Italian Beretta automatic negligently in his right hand. He was of medium build and his eyes seemed very blue in the tawny face. An amused smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “You do seem to have stirred things up, old man,” he said in an impeccable English accent.

The train had finally come to a stop and there was shouting in the corridor outside. Chavasse listened keenly and managed to distinguish Steiner’s voice. He scrambled to his feet and the man said, “Steiner doesn’t sound very pleased. What did you do to him?”

Chavasse shrugged. “Judo throat jab. A nasty trick, but I didn’t have time to observe the niceties.” He nodded toward the automatic. “You can put that thing away. No rough stuff. I promise you.”

The man smiled and slipped the gun into his pocket. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I dragged you in here.” He extracted a leather-and-gold cigarette case from his inside pocket and flicked it open. Chavasse took a cigarette and leaned across for the proffered light.

He hadn’t been working for the Chief for five years without being able to tell a professional when he saw one. People in his line of business carried a special aura around with them, indefinable and yet sensed at once by the trained agent. One could even work out the nationality by attitude, methods employed, and other trademarks. But in this case, he was puzzled.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Hardt’s the name, Mr. Chavasse,” the man told him. “Mark Hardt.”

Chavasse frowned. “A German name and yet you’re not a German.”

“Israeli.” Hardt grinned. “A slightly bastardized form by Winchester out of Emmanuel College.”

The picture was beginning to take shape. “Israeli intelligence?” Chavasse asked.

Hardt shook his head. “Once upon a time, but now nothing so official. Let’s say I’m a member of an organization which by the very nature of its ends is compelled to work underground.”