"If I see you again I'll put such a blast through to Local that you'll end up washing the stairs."

He looked even younger than he was. He wouldn't even trust himself to speak until my beer came because he was so frustrated. Then he said:

"You know what happened to KLJ."

"It isn't going to happen to me."

"He was a damned good man." It sounded even more emphatic in German. He was angry about that death. His name was Hengel and I'd recognised him when I sat down.

His photograph, marked with the key-letter for Totally Reliable, had been in the memorandum. Pol had said:

"There are two people you can trust. An American, Frank Brand, and a young German, Lanz Hengel."

Before I'd recognised him I'd thought he was one of the adverse party and that Phoenix – if that was how they still styled their group – had set him to watch contacts of the Lindt girl. It would have tied in.

"Yes," I said, "he was a damned good man. But he was using cover and it didn't save him."

He said with a seething anger: "I was his cover."

"I know. Don't fret. That day in Dallas there were sixty Federal agents manning the inner ring."

"I was specially picked." He wasn't interested in Dallas.

"Then you're slipping." I'd had enough self-pity from the Lindt girl. "Five minutes' tag and I flushed you."

Polsknika A: 775. Plus 5.