I slowed, and he waited for me to come abreast again. "Fill me in, will you?" He'd been letting me ask the questions, according to routine procedure. The director in the field tells the executive only what he specifically needs to know, but will answer most questions; the idea is to leave the executive's head clear of data that isn't essential, and data that could be dangerous.

"Jason checked into our hotel soon after ten o'clock last night," Ferris told me. "We had a secure rendezvous set up for thirty minutes later, so that he could tell me what kind of information Sinclair had been carrying, and hopefully where he'd found it." He combed back his pale wispy hair with his fingers. "So it's not really our day, is it?"

I didn't answer. The Sinclair information was my objective for the mission and after two hours in the field I was being told that the only contact was lost. In a moment I asked:

"You think Jason is dead?"

"I would think so, yes."

"They're working so fast."

He nodded. "These people are different."

"Who are they, Ferris?"

"I don't think they're political, and I don't think they're intelligence. But I think they might be a paid political instrument — a hit group — with access to intelligence sources. They seem too efficient for a government agency; they don't have to wait for orders before they move. As you say, they move very fast."

"Here and in London."

"Just so."

We passed a thin ragged boy kneeling on a newspaper, his head down in prayer. A lot of the people standing at the base of the buildings were in the same attitude, all of them wearing black armbands. A huge military band was pushing its way through the crowd at the end of the square, with the police trying to help them.

"Is this a wildcat group we're up against?" I asked Ferris.