Although on reflection, Graves knew he should have expected that. With the Republican Convention in San Diego, all the activity of the country had shifted from Washington to the West Coast. The President was in the Western White House in San Clemente; the Convention was eighty miles to the south; and Phelps -what would Phelps do? Obviously, relocate discreetly in the nearest large city, which was Los Angeles. As Graves considered it, Los Angeles became the inevitable choice.

Phelps needed the telephone lines for data transmission. It was as simple as that. LA was the third largest city in America, and it would have plenty of telephone lines that the Department of State (Intelligence Division) could take over on short notice. It was inevitable.

`Here we are, sir,' the driver said, pulling over to the kerb. He got out and opened the door for Graves. `Am I to wait for you, sir?'

`Yes, I think so.'

`Very good, sir.'

Graves paused and looked up at the building. It was a rather ordinary four-storey office building in an area of Los Angeles that seemed almost a slum. The building, not particularly new, was outstandingly ugly. And the paint was flaking away from the facade.

Graves walked up the steps and entered the lobby. As he went through the doors he looked at his watch. It was exactly 5.ins. Phelps was waiting for him in the deserted lobby. Phelps wore a lightweight glen-plaid suit and a worried expression. He shook hands with Graves and said, `How was your flight?' His voice echoed slightly in the lobby.

`Fine,' Graves said.

They walked to the elevators, passing the groundfloor offices, which seemed mostly devoted to a bank.