Chapter 1

The thin sliver of a waxing moon cast little light on the dark road along the Swiss-German border where two empty trucks were sitting. Their back doors hung open like waiting jaws as Michael paced along the road side, periodically glancing at the luminous dial on his watch. The Germans were late. He started to motion to his men to pack it in and abort the pick up when he heard the distant sound of rotors.

"Move out!" he ordered. "Do it now!"

He jumped the ditch alongside the road and landed neatly on the far side, sprinting across the open ground of the hop field. Behind him on the road, the trucks peeled off, rear doors flapping. One went east. One went west. The rotors grew louder. Just as Michael reached the trees along the edge of the field, the helicopter flashed into view overhead. A huge belly spotlight sprang to life, its glare searching back and forth across the field, and up and down the road. The spot caught the eastbound truck and the chopper veered sharply after its prey.

Michael stepped out from under the tree. He pulled out his automatic and aimed. Bringing down a chopper with a hand gun was impossible. The only place it seemed to work was in the movies, but he could damn well blind the thing. He fired one shot. A hit. The searchlight blew out. His eyes, accustomed to looking into the light while he aimed were suddenly night blind. As he closed his eyes and waited patiently for his night vision to return, his bullet continued on up through the chopper cabin and into the rotor housing. He opened his eyes and saw the chopper shudder, jerk, and then drop its nose like a wounded bird. Choppers have a distinctive glide path - straight down.

He hit the dirt and went as flat as roadkill. The fiery crash lit the night sky in a flurry of blazing eruptions. Three of them, actually. He counted. The first was the chopper, the second was the gas tank, the third nearly simultaneous one had been the chopper's munitions. He stayed down as the munitions fired off in random directions. Wild bullets straying far from their intended path damn near hit their target as a hop plant next to Michael's face blew to dust.

Eventually the maverick bullets stopped and Michael rose to his feet, dusting off his clothes. He holstered his gun and took out a sharply folded white linen handkerchief from his hip pocket. He was meticulously wiping his face clean when the trucks returned, parking once again by the roadside. The men piled out of the truck and stood staring at the blazing remains of the helicopter. Michael leaped back over the ditch and walked up to them, looking as neat and unblemished as a GQ ad.

Marshall met him. "Christ Almighty! Never seen anyone take down a chopper with handgun. F*****g amazing you are, Michael." The men behind murmured sounds of shocked agreement. A couple of them clapped. They were all experienced enough to recognize the incredible skill required. He dismissed the compliments with a casual shrug, his gaze the cool unruffled one they knew so well. The men were awestruck.

Headlights appeared in the distance. Michael pointed them out to Marshall. Marshall barked sharp orders and the men snapped to. They were ready when the German trucks pulled along side. It took mere moments to switch the loads to the Swiss vehicles. Crates of guns and ammunition were heaved out the back of the German vehicles into the waiting arms of a score of Michael's men. Every man knew his job, and Marshall was a no nonsense top kick. Friedrich's replacement, Eric, worked smoothly with the more experienced men. The swap went down with carefully planned precision. The trucks pulled away in their respective directions. In no time the road was dark again, no vehicles in sight. Without the flickering skeleton of the chopper the entire evening would have seemed an illusion.

Michael, standing alone by the side of the road, turned and walked to a bank of brush. It was camouflage. With the cut off bushes tossed to one side, the sleek black Jaguar hidden beneath them was revealed. Michael glanced back at the burning remains of the chopper before he got into his car.

Damned lucky shot is what it was, he thought.

Michael sat in his new office in Geneva the next day and considered the events of the previous evening. The German crew had been off schedule or they would have been clear of the area before the chopper arrived. That needed to be addressed. The chopper. Where the hell had it come from? Whose chopper was it? Marshall could handle the Germans, but the chopper question was his.

Marshall knocked at the office door. "Enter," Michael answered. Marshall walked in with the anticipated paperwork. He handed it over to Michael and stood at ease. Michael glanced up, "Have a seat, Marshall."

"Yes sir." He looked around and selected the sofa, sitting at attention to the extent it was possible to do so, and looked around Michael's new quarters. Another Oriental rug was on the floor, this one dominated by intense cobalt tones. He like the red one better, he decided. The office seemed even more sparse than the previous one, then he realized it was the lack of any paintings on the wall. The big one with the monks was missing, left behind in Marseilles. Desolate looking thing that one had been, but hard to forget. Michael finished looking over the figures and laid the papers on the table next to him.

"Have you talked to the Germans yet?" he asked.

"Bloody right, I did."

Michael suppressed a grin. "I assume they've seen the error of their ways?"

"Damn Krauts. Talk about their efficiency and then can't show on time. Ripped them a new one, I did."

"Good. I'm sure you did. I don't want to see it happen again." He paused. "By the way, perhaps we shouldn't refer to our German colleagues as 'damn Krauts'. They might resent it."

"Yes sir," Marshall said, somewhat grudgingly.

"How is Thor running?"

Marshall brightened immediately, pride popping out of every pore. "Finest f*****g piece of horse meat on the track. He clocked 2.02 on the 8 furlong last week."

"Impressive. When are you going to race him?"

Marshall frowned. "Problem there. The bloody racing commission."

"What's wrong?"

"I haven't applied yet. My record, you know. Bloody commission won't let me run him if they find out," Marshall said.

"Don't let them find out."

"Thorough b*****ds, they are."

"I'll take care of it. It would be a shame not to race him," Michael said.

"Can you do that? I'd be forever grateful, Michael."

"It shouldn't be a problem. I'll let you know when it's taken care of." It was a promise as well as a dismissal.

Marshall's face flashed the biggest grin Michael had ever seen from him as he left the room. It should only take a few phone calls, Michael thought. He had enough information on the right people in the right places in Britain to expunge more than one criminal record. When he got off the phone, the police records in England didn't know Marshall existed except as the owner of an automobile with two outstanding parking tickets. Too clean would have looked suspicious.

Now, about that blasted chopper. The leak likely came from either Germany or Switzerland. He mentally flipped a coin. It came up Germany. He picked up the phone and made reservations.

************

Chapter 2

He sat in a Bierskeller on the far side of Bonn from the government buildings, sipping one of the local brews, his back to the wall, a nearby exit to both his left and his right, watching the entrance. He would probably have preferred coffee, but the local beer was good and not available in Geneva. There should be something extra involved in coming to Bonn. It wasn't called the biggest little city in the world without reason.

He saw Ernst enter and look around the dimly lit cellar, quickly checking the tables, not only for Michael, but to be sure there was no one there today that knew him. Apparently satisfied, he came to Michael's table and seated himself.

"Guten Tag, Michael," he said.

"Guten Tag, Ernst. Wie geht's?"

"Danke, gut. Was wünschen Sie, bitte?"

"A little information," Michael said, switching to English before Ernst's native Berliner accent made his ears bleed, or before he tried practicing his French with an accent that was near traumatizing to hear.

"What kind?" Ernst asked, motioning to the waitress for one of the same as Michael was having.

"The night before last there was a raid on one of my business transactions. A helicopter was involved. I want to know who sent it. And perhaps why you didn't warn me."

"Helicopter? I know nothing." As the waitress approached the table with Ernst's beer, the two men quit talking. When she was safely out of earshot again, Ernst continued, "I do not like this. I should know. Could it have been foreign?"

Michael shut his eyes briefly and envisioned the outline of the craft in the split second before it's blinding spotlight had turned on. He opened his eyes and gave a complete description, including the probable model and manufacturer.

Ernst frowned. "A new one. This is not a model used by the German government nor by any of our law enforcement. You are sure?"

"Yes."

Ernst sipped his beer and thought about it. "Interpol, perhaps, although I did not think their new helicopters had been delivered. They are on order, perhaps they were delivered early. I will find out."

"The sooner the better."

Ernst asked, "This helicopter. It is no more?"

"It is no more."

"Was this on the Swiss border?"

Michael considered the question before answering, "Yes. Why?"

"Something very strange going on there. There was a report on my desk this morning. A chemical spill it was said. The entire area blocked off by a chemical company. But the local police say when the area opened again, there was signs of something burning, but no chemicals."

"That would be it. The chopper crashed and burned."

"How did that happen?" Ernst asked.

"I shot it down."

"With what? You do not use heavy armaments." Ernst chose not to remember the exceptions. The fact that Michael was not political and didn't involve himself in terrorist or militia activities was how Ernst salved his conscience. Everyone had a right to make a living. Michael's 'protection' helped Ernst make a very good one.

Michael patted his chest where his shoulder holster hung under his jacket. Ernst's eyebrows rose. He whistled softly.

They finished their beers. Michael lay money on the table and they left the Bierskeller.

"You will look into it?" Michael phrased it as a request.

"Of course. Someone is operating in my territory. I would check at any rate. I can reach you on the Berlin number?"

"Ja. Auf Wiedersehen."

"Auf Wiedersehen, Michael."

It was a full week before Ernst called. The message was short. "Meet me." Michael sighed. Not where, not when, not why. Just meet me. He picked up the phone and made reservations again.

Near Ernst's home was a small neighborhood park. Michael walked past it, through it, and around it. He picked a spot and stepped into the bushes, aimed a silenced pistol at the overhanging streetlight and shot it out. His hiding place was now dark. He waited.

Ernst walked the dog through the park. Michael stood silently watching him pass, then watched for anyone following him.

A short stout woman with an overweight bulldog walked through shortly afterward. The dog did it's duty. She turned and went back home. There was no one else. Ernst returned through the park, walking more briskly. As he reached the darkened area, Michael stepped out of the bushes.

"Guten Abend, Ernst."

Ernst jumped, "Gott im Himmel!" The..... dog?, Michael looked at it again. Whatever it was, it yapped.

"Shhh," Michael hissed.

Ernst scooped the little furball up and it stopped barking. "You startled me," Ernst said.

"What did you find out?"

Ernst looked both directions furtively. "You weren't followed," Michael assured him. Ernst was obviously spooked, and by more than Michael's sudden appearance.

"Nothing solid," Ernst said in a whisper.

"Then why the urgent message?"

"There are rumors..." Ernst trailed off.

"Of?"

"An organization. Very powerful. Very secret," Ernst continued.

"And?"

"You may have attracted its attention."

"More likely that I have a leak," Michael said.

"No. Not that I can discover. A leak would have gone to one of the groups that work for me."

"Then how would they find out about me?"

"They have ways."

Michael's patience was on the thin edge. "Tell me everything. Now, Ernst."

Ernst clutched the furball to his chest and rapidly spilled everything he knew. "It's supposed to be a multi-national anti-terrorist organization. No one knows who it reports to. No one seems to even have solid proof it exists."

"I'm not a terrorist."

"That isn't all they get involved in. Armaments would have caught their attention."

"Part of Interpol?"

"Absolutely not. That I'm sure of," Ernst said.

"Why can't you find out more? Your position should give you the right contacts."

"If they are real, they are very secret. And everyone is afraid to talk about it."

"A super law enforcement agency? That is highly unlikely."

"It's worse than that. They aren't really law enforcement. They aren't confined by law or rules. At least that's what is being said," Ernst concluded.

"That's it?"

"Ja."

"Everything?"

"Ja," he hesitated then added, "except a name."

"Which is?"

"Section One." With that last comment Ernst left quickly, still clutching his little furball.

The stark light of the ¾ moon shone overhead as Michael walked to his rental car, parked in a shadow at the end of the block. The all-seeing, all-knowing super secret organization. Right. Then there was also Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy, and the Bogeyman. He frowned and stepped quickly into the shadow around his car. On the other hand, sometimes things really did go bump in the night. He knew that better than most. He was the "bump" for a number of people.

If there was a Section, he thought, they were probably more than a little unhappy about the loss of their helicopter. On the plane back to Geneva, Michael made several decisions: scatter his organization; halt activity until he knew more; and harvest every contact he had. If the Bogeyman was out there, he had to know. He called Marshall on his cell phone from the Geneva airport and then boarded a plane to Berlin. Marshal made the appropriate calls. Within the hour, Michael's entire organization appeared to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

************

Chapter 3

On the plane trip to Berlin he considered the other thing which had come up in his conversation with Ernst. He had told Ernst, "I'm not a terrorist." How true is that, he wondered. Where was the line between selling arms and using them? It was a thin line at best. He also knew he didn't bother to check the credentials of his buyers too closely.

He turned his face to the window and saw it reflected back at him, the night sky outside turning the window into a mirror. Michael might lie to others, but he didn't lie to himself. He never had. He looked into his own eyes and glimpsed what other people saw. He shuddered.

Berlin. Crossroads of the intelligence community. Everything about everyone was for sale somewhere in Berlin, but it was always a seller's market. Michael went shopping.

Alternately lit neon strips seemed to race around the exterior of the tiny club on the Ku'damm, the Kurfürstendamm, Berlin's "main drag." Michael stepped through the door and to one side, letting his eyes adjust to the weird black light interior and his ears adjust to the deafening music. He looked down at the writhing mass in the dance pit and then studied the crowded catwalks around the sides of the pit. The person he sought would be easy to find if he/she was here.

On the far catwalk, swaying and hopping to the beat, was a six foot two inch woman with flamboyant impossibly red hair piled up in masses of curls and adding another eight inches in height. She wore tight leopard skin pants with matching stiletto heels and a gold sequined top with a tiny beaded purse at her waist. Michael allowed himself a grimace. Trying to be inconspicuous while talking to Candace was an impossible task.

He worked his way through the crowd. Most gave way easily without even being aware of him. One particularly obnoxious drunk decided to make an issue of it and shoved him. Michael leveled a cold stare at him, but the man was too drunk to focus on the fact that he'd just stepped on a rattlesnake that didn't rattle. Michael's hands blurred and then he walked on. The drunk was still supported on his feet by the press of the packed crowd. He didn't slide unconscious to the floor until Michael had reached the far catwalk.

"Candace." He spoke her name softly, but she heard and whirled around.

"Michael!" She gave a high girlish laugh. "Wherever have you been, Darlin'? Long time no see." Her voice had a definite stateside Texas twang.

"Away. Is there somewhere we could talk?"

She leered. "How about my place, Honey?"

"How about somewhere quiet but public," he suggested.

"Ya'all gonna break my heart."

"Now, Candace."

Candace jumped forward unexpectedly then spun around and slammed an uppercut into the man who had been behind her. As he flew backwards from the impact, her suddenly deep baritone voice snarled, "Watch what you're pinching, A**hole!"

She turned back to Michael and said in sweet soprano, "OK, Honey. The back room. Follow me."

The back room was thick with smoke and no one used tobacco. Michael knew what to expect and took a deep breath before he entered, but the air in the club was heavy with body odors and booze, not much of an improvement. She guided him to a small table and pulled a coke bottle and tiny silver spoon out of the minuscule beaded bag hanging at her waist and sat it on the edge of the table in plain sight.

"Never touch the s**t myself," she explained in a normal baritone, "but setting it out keeps the sellers away. Junk fogs the brain. So what can I do for you if not the obvious?"

"Information from every source you have."

"About?"

"Section One."

"You don't want go there, Honey."

"You've heard of them?"

"Not much," she admitted, "just enough to be scared."

"Find out everything you can, and soon," he said.

"It's going to cost big time."

"I assumed so."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"I always want to know everything. You know that." He smiled. She smiled. They understood one another.

"You in deep s**t, Baby," she said.

"Not yet. And I plan on keeping it that way."

"You got a leak?"

"I think so," he said.

"I'll get back to you. Berlin number?" she asked.

"Yes." He rose and started walking away.

"Ciaou, Baby," she called after him in soprano.

"Ciaou," he said over his shoulder as he left.

Thankfully, the rest of his stay in Berlin was less exotic. Unfortunately, it was also largely unproductive.

Candace left a message on Tuesday. As always, her information was good and concise: Section One was real; it was real bad a*s; and right now they wanted his. They had a mole in Michael's organization. She would have the name by Thursday. She wanted money, and wanted it now. He wired her the amount she asked for without question.

He changed hotels twice and kept a low profile. Candace left another message on Thursday, as promised. The name was Eric. She wanted a passport and a new identity to calm her nerves. She would give him the rest of her information on Section when she was re-established. He agreed even though he could not imagine Candace sliding into a new identity and staying inconspicuous. He made the appropriate calls, and Candace became Carl. Carl had a new identity waiting for him in Tangier.

Geneva to Bonn to Geneva to Bonn to Geneva to Berlin. Dirty little back roads, flaming helicopters, Bierskellers, transvestite nightclubs, two grubby hotels in two days. And now Section One. Too much. His whole life looked more sordid by the minute. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Nice`. He needed to see Nice`. He needed to feel clean.

************

Chapter 4

It was shortly after breakfast time when Michael entered Nice`'s home in Thessaloníki. He handed his bags and jacket to the doorman and walked to the parlor door. A couple in their early forties sat on one of the sofas, their backs to him. Nice` sat on the facing one, her eyes were slightly glazed and she was struggling to look alert. Her smile was a painted artifice to anyone who knew her as well as he did. The movement of his entry caught her eye. The smile became real. She leaped off the sofa and ran across the room. He braced in time to catch her as she hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her face next to his ear.

"Help me get rid of these bores," she whispered in his ear, "or I swear I'll kill them and you too."

"Michael! I'm so glad to see you," she said aloud.

"What are they like. Give me a clue," he whispered.

"Great to see you, too, Nice`," he said aloud.

"Comte. and Comtse. Dalier. Been here two days. Genealogy, night and day, that's all he knows. Talks constantly. Has to have all the attention. She doesn't talk at all. Help." came the quickly whispered answer.

"Can you stay a while?" she asked aloud.

"Of course," he said for the benefit of the couple, answering as he did both her spoken question and whispered plea.

He turned to the couple and smiled broadly, "Hello, I'm Michael." He stepped forward to shake hands with them and took the floor. Took it and kept it. And talked. And talked. And talked.

Three hours later Michael had just begun explaining the minute fluctuations during the previous month in the exchange variable between the Swedish krona and the Pakistani rupee when M. Dalier recalled an urgent business meeting.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Michael said. "It's rare I have a chance to talk about my interests to someone who understands."

"You are most knowledgeable," M. Dalier said, "but surely you have explained it all, and most thoroughly."

"Oh, no," assured Michael with perfect deadpan expression, "I could go on like this for days."

Comte. Dalier blanched. The couple left before lunch.

As Nice` and Michael stood on the front step, waving goodbye to them, Michael said softly, "I'm not going to say a word for the rest of the day."

"Fine by me," Nice` said quietly, "I'm so sick of hearing you talk I was ready to keep them and get rid of you."

They were both laughing when they went in to lunch, served on the verandah by Nice`'s more than competent staff. They ate in total silence and enjoyed it immensely. Later that afternoon, as they lounged in the deck chairs, quietly sipping cool drinks, Nice` looked over to him and said, "I didn't realize you knew that much about exchange rates."

"I don't," he said, not bothering to open his eyes. "I made it up." She threw a pillow at him. He pulled it off his face where it had landed and dropped it on the verandah, his eyes still closed.

That night they walked along the beach under the full moon in companionable silence. The dry Mediterranean air was transparent and the moonlight illuminated the beach as though it were midday. The clear crisp beam washed over and through Michael and when Nice` looked at him he could remember who he used to be.

They were still laying around like two lazy cats a week later. The hot Greek sun beat down on the bay leading to the Thermaíkós Kólpos as Nice`'s not so little sailboat bobbled in the gentle waves, expertly handled by two unobtrusive crewmen. She and Michael rolled over to baste the other side and Michael said, "The idea of being 'the idle rich' doesn't seem so bad on days like this."

"Umm." Nice` mumbled, tapping him on the shoulder with a tube of sun screen. He took it, sat up and applied it to her back. He didn't lay back down, but sat with his knees pulled up, his arms locked around them and stared off across the bay to the gulf. She sat up and snuggled against his back, wrapping arms and legs around him, laying her head against his back. "When you have company," she said. "By yourself it gets feeling pretty useless."

He turned his head to one side, glancing down at her over his shoulder. "Not missing your old friends, are you?"

"No. You were right about them. It's just that for people in our class, there doesn't seem to be a middle ground. We all end up crashing bores like the Daliers, but unspeakably respectable, or Eurotrash jet setters."

He laughed without mirth, "Try 'good works'."

"Me and Diana, huh? Look who she has to put up with, Daliers squared." She unwrapped herself and sat next to him. They sat side by side looking across the bay. She turned her head and studied him, "Do you like whatever it is that you do?"

He didn't answer for a while, finally saying, "I don't think 'like' is the word. I'm good at it."

"I'm sure," she said. She didn't explain further and didn't need to. He understood the real question. Did it satisfy something for him? Give him a sense of fulfillment? Did it give his life any meaning? There was only one answer and he didn't want to give it to her. Didn't really need to. She knew him well enough to know what his answer would be.

His cell phone rang. He stood and walked barefoot across the deck and pulled it out of his jacket. It was an automatic call indicating a message had been left on the Berlin number. He dialed it. Carl had left a number in Tangier. He sat on the deck, leaning his back against the cabin and dialed the Tangier number.

"Carl's, Hot Broads and Cold Beer," boomed the baritone voice answering the phone.

Michael blinked. "Carl?"

"Speaking. Spit it out."

"This is Michael."

"Mike, my man. How do?"

"Can you talk?"

"Hold." Michael could hear him talking to someone in the background. "OK. All clear."

"You are apparently reestablished. Do you have more information?"

"Sure do." He proceeded to tell Michael the basic structure of Section One in Europe. It had primary stations in London and Istanbul, substations in all the major European capitols. It was still unclear about who it reported to, but the interesting thing was the personnel. They apparently recruited convicts. Definitely not your run of the mill police force. They were very high tech and scary as hell.

"Are you sure they found me through Eric?"

"Yes. Looks like one of your guys talked a little too much and Section One targeted him, planted Eric on him."

"How much do they know about me?" Michael asked.

"Whatever Eric knows and whatever your guy told him. Don't know how much damage that is."

"Thanks, Carl. Is anyone handling your Berlin contacts?"

"Yes. I sold the club to Myrtle. She's handling it now. She's working on getting you more information. Contact her."

Michael visibly winced and muttered under his breath in French.

"What?" Carl asked.

"I said I think I'm going to miss Candace, she was so low key."

"Yeah, Candace was a good old broad. I'll miss her too."

"Is there anything else?"

"Nope. That's it. Hang hard, Mike." Carl hung up.

Michael held the phone away from himself and stared at it as if it were a strange foreign object. Nice` had edged closer during the conversation and looked at him quizzically. He shut off the phone. "Observing that people are strange wouldn't be original," he said.

"No," she agreed, "but I have a feeling some of your acquaintances might put a whole new spin on the word 'strange'."

"You have no idea."

The vacation was over.

************

Chapter 5

"How did we find Eric?" Michael asked.

Marshall recalled the chain of events. "Cristoph put us on to him. Heard about some of his work, he said. Suggested we check him out. Why?"

Michael explained. There was a very long silence on the phone.

"Marshall?"

"I'll kill the little son of a b***h."

"Not yet," Michael said coolly.

"Let a fox into the chicken coop, he did. I'll strangle him with my bare hands, I will."

"Fine. But first I need to know everything he told Eric."

"I'll find out," Marshall assured him.

"I have to be sure we have all the information. The men aren't supposed to be in contact with each other. Find out to what extent that's been violated."

"Right you are."

"Do you want me to handle him?" Michael asked.

"The men are MY responsibility. I'll handle them both." Marshall's professional pride was seriously injured and Michael's offer was an insult. His voice carried strong tones of wounded vanity. Fortunately Michael recognized it immediately. It would have been hard to miss.

"Of course you will. I meant if you need any special equipment."

"Oh, no I don't think so." He sounded somewhat mollified.

"Don't touch Eric, though. Don't let him find out about Cristoph."

"Why not? Want the little b*****d yourself, do you?"

"When the time is right. Most of all, I want Section One off my neck. I need Eric to unhook them."

"Need help?" This time it was Marshall's turn and Michael responded in a way that helped assuage Marshall's damaged pride. Being diplomatic was not Michael's strong suit, but when Marshall hit him over the head with a verbal brickbat he did notice.

"That is a possibility. I think not at this time, but if I do, I'll let you know. When you've got the information, leave a message at the Berlin number."

"Yes sir."

"How is it going with the racing commission?"

"Bloody great. Application accepted. Thor's going to blow those b*****ds away."

"Great. Let me know when his first race is scheduled."

"Right you are." Marshall sounded happy again.

Michael hung up and considered his next move. He needed to get someone in Section One under his thumb, someone from whichever station had assigned Eric. If Cristoph had met Eric, then the odds were in favor of it being the station in that area, and Cristoph was from Bonn. Why was it always Bonn? He was developing a real dislike for that town. Move now or wait for further information from Marshall? Move now, he decided. The worst that could happen would be that he would develop a profile on the Bonn substation. He started making calls. It should be quicker now that he knew what he was aiming at.

It was. With more exact directions, his informants zeroed in on the Bonn substation, plowing every possible source. By the end of the day he had a general outline of the Bonn substation and two names. One was the head of the substation, Kriemer. The other was Jason Murch, a highly placed cold op. Starting at the top was Michael's preferred style, but not necessarily the best move here, he decided. He picked Murch, high enough to know a good deal, low enough to attract less attention. He called his Bonn contacts back and gave them a specific target: Murch. His instructions were simple and clear: find out everything.

He was about to leave his office when Marshall called back.

"Yes?"

"Cristoph told Eric his last name, and everyone else's first names. He didn't know their last names, you and I are the only ones who do. Said he told about some of our jobs, raid last month on the government armory, the piece of work in Bonn two months ago, and that things seem to be run out of Switzerland. Of course Eric was there on the border for the exchange when the chopper showed up. That's it."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes. He was out of reasons to lie."

"With first names and a good idea from meeting them of their country of origin, a good organization could probably track our men down," Michael said.

"Likely, yes."

"Especially you. Did you mention horses during the Swiss/German thing?" Michael asked.

"Damn."

Michael took that as a 'yes'. "Take a vacation, Marshall. Tell all of the men to stay low. Let me know where you are."

"I can't leave Thor."

"Merde." Michael thought rapidly. "For 24 hours?" he asked.

"No longer, Michael, I've got to take him in day after tomorrow for inspection by the commission."

"OK. Disappear for 24 hours."

"Cristoph's body?" Michael asked.

"No one will ever find it," Marshall assured him.

After they hung up, Michael shifted into overdrive. He was in the air and headed for Bonn within two hours. Before he cleared the Bonn airport, he had automatic calls from his Berlin number and a meet scheduled with one of his informants.

Michael picked up his cappucino at the Kaffeehaus and strolled out through the park next to it, a local newspaper tucked under his arm. It was a clear bright morning, but chilly. The park bench he selected was only warmed slightly by the sun. He sat the newspaper down on the bench beside him, and watched the women pushing heavily blanketed strollers through the park. Here and there on other benches were business men taking a break between appointments. He blended in with them well enough. A petite brunette walked up and sat on the bench, laying her newspaper beside her, next to Michael's. She munched her krueller and drank her coffee while she eyed the men. Finally she rose, taking Michael's paper and leaving her own behind, and walked away, passing the trash container as she did, and tossing her empty paper cup and napkin into it. Michael picked up the newspaper and opened it to read, quickly removing the envelope inside and slipping it into his overcoat pocket. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, he too rose and tossed out his empty cup, leaving the discarded paper on the bench.

Rather than go back to the hotel and waste precious time, he found a quiet corner of the park and opened the envelope. It made for a very interesting read. Lizette was good. Section One apparently held their cold ops under threat of 'cancellation', a bureaucrat's euphemism for murder. Murch was the team leader of the Bonn substation, but as subject to cancellation as any of the others. Eric worked for him. So far, so good. Without a doubt, Murch had passed Eric's information on up the line. Not good, but controllable. The documents Lizette had given him included a wealth of information about Murch, including where he banked. Michael had a plan and he left immediately for Murch's bank. It was the main bank in Bonn and Michael knew it very well indeed. Some days, Michael thought, you really do get lucky.

He smiled at the bank president's secretary who was trying very hard not to melt. "He normally doesn't take unscheduled appointments," she said.

"I hate to be a bother, I know you're busy," Michael said, "but we're old friends and I have only a couple of hours in Bonn." He dropped his head slightly to one side, a wave fell over his cheek and he fixed her with his intense green eyes. "If you could just tell him Michael is here?"

"Of course," she said and advised Herr Lerner over the intercom.

"Merci," Michael said and kissed her hand.

Herr Lerner came rushing out of his office. He saw Michael and went a little pale, but recovered quickly and forced a smile, extending his hand to Michael. "Michael, good to see you again. Come in, bitte."

"Likewise," said Michael, shaking hands with him and following him into the inner office.

As soon as the door shut, Herr Lerner rushed on, "I've sent all the reports. I've done nothing wrong."

"Very satisfactory," said Michael. "But I have a small project for you."

Herr Lerner looked very relieved and sank into his desk chair, indicating as he did, that Michael should also make himself comfortable. Michael chose the side chair, but pulled it around so that it faced Lerner from his own side of the desk. Michael quickly spelled out his instructions. Lerner wasn't please, but compliant. Michael didn't care whether he was pleased or not.

"Do it now," he said. "I'll wait." Lerner left the office and strolled to the bookcase. He returned to the chair and sat reading until Lerner returned 45 minutes later.

"It is done," said Lerner, handing Michael a small stack of paperwork.

"Gut. Auf Wiedersehen." Michael paused to thank the president's secretary on his way out, kissing her hand again. She was still smiling at the door he had departed through when the president appeared at her desk.

"Always let in him right away, and find me if I'm not here," he instructed and abruptly returned to his office. Once he was back at his desk, he convinced himself that it had not been such a bad turn of events. He might have broken half the banking laws in the country, but he was still breathing. With Michael around, that counted for a lot.

It was now early afternoon, and Michael was acutely aware of the passage of time. Marshall would only stay submerged for 24 hours. He had to work fast, or Section One would close in on him. He placed a few rapid phone calls and set up a secondary postal cut out system, this one in Florence, Italy. Section One, he decided, should not be mixed with his regular Swiss postal cut out. Better to be overly cautious than take the risk that Section One stumble across his regular information flow.

With that system set up, Michael visited his favorite print shop. They printed art reproductions, software boxes, and the second best falsified documents in Europe. The best came out of Brussels, but Heinrich was here in Bonn and speed was essential.

The receptionist remembered him and held out her hand expectantly. He kissed her knuckles lightly and complimented her hair. She glowed and then guided him personally into Heinrich's amazingly cluttered office.

"Michael, a pleasure," Heinrich said as the receptionist departed. As soon as the door shut, he added, "What do you need and how soon?"

"Immediately," Michael answered and explained his requirements. Heinrich left and in the background, Michael could hear one of the presses grind to a halt. Immediately proved to take about an hour.

As Michael left the print shop, a small package under his arm, he checked the time. Late afternoon and growing dusk. He hopped into his rental car and raced across town to Murch's neighborhood. He parked, pulled his gun, aimed, and shot out the porch light of the apartment complex. Then he waited. Waiting was always the hard part.

************

Chapter 6 of 6

Michael easily identified Murch from the photo Lizette had included, even in the dim light the tiny remaining sliver of moon cast. He watched as Murch parked his car and walked toward the apartment complex. He walked like a trained man. Alert, aware of his surroundings. Michael wouldn't easily take him by surprise. It was early evening, but the sun had set so Michael had removed the lightbulb from the overhead light. When he quietly opened the car door, the inside of the auto remained dark and Michael stepped out undetected. He walked in a line to intercept Murch, stopping a good ten feet away from him, his gun held down to his side, hidden in the folds of his overcoat.

"Jason Murch," Michael said.

Murch was already aware of him and registered no surprise at being stopped. "You want me?" he asked starting to walk closer to Michael.

"Stop there," Michael said and raised his gun just far enough for Murch to see it. Murch stopped. "Over against the wall, under the porch roof." He followed Murch into the open porch area. "Against the wall, spread them." Murch complied.

"You cops should know better than this," Murch said.

"I'm not a cop." Michael raised his gun and struck Murch once on the back of the head. He dropped to his knees, stunned. Michael kicked him flat and frisked him, taking two guns and a knife off of him before Murch recovered enough to stand. Michael stepped back several feet, his gun still in hand.

"Now we can talk," Michael said. Murch held the back of his head and leaned heavily against the wall. He caught the envelope Michael tossed to him. "Read," Michael ordered.

"It's too dark," he said.

"Here," Michael tossed him a small flashlight.

Murch read, and even in the dark he looked sick. "This is all a lie."

"Do you think you can convince Section One of that?" asked Michael.

Murch read through the papers again. It was a very convincing audit trail that showed him receiving large amounts of money into his bank account in conjunction with the three armaments shipments Section knew about through Eric. It was solid. Michael's people knew their jobs.

"What do you want?"

Michael tossed him another envelope. "Now read this one," Michael said and waited as Murch did so. The information in the packet proved very convincingly that Eric had engineered the armament shipments himself, accepted funds, and lied to Murch. According to this packet, Michael's entire organization was a fiction devised by Eric.

"I don't understand."

"Either you give Section One Eric's package, or I give them yours. Pick one," Michael said.

Murch tossed his own package back to Michael.

"Good choice," Michael said.

"Eric will talk," said Murch.

"No he won't," said Michael. "Call him and arrange a meeting now."

Murch didn't even have to think about it. He pulled out his cell phone and called Eric, ordering him to meet him in the parking lot. As he and Michael walked toward the lot, Murch said, "I assume there are other copies."

"Don't pretend to be stupid," Michael said. Murch shut up. No one would run this kind of scam on Section One without plenty of back up, and well protected copies.

When they reached the lot, Murch walked over and stood beneath a overhead light while Michael stepped back into the shadows behind him. They only had to wait twenty minutes for Eric. Michael watched him park the car, get out and walk toward Murch.

"What's up, Jason?" Eric asked.

Michael aimed Murch's gun and fired. Eric fell dead. Murch stood in place, not shocked, except by the speed with which it had all happened. Michael came out of hiding and walked over to Eric's body, retrieving his gun and turned to Murch.

"Hold very still," he said and aimed Eric's gun at Murch.

"What the.." Murch started to say.

"I said, hold still." Murch froze. Michael fired. Grabbing his arm, Murch started swearing profusely.

"Shut up," Michael said.

Murch shut up, but glared at Michael. "Here is what happened," Michael explained. "You discovered Eric's deception and confronted him. He tried to kill you, but you were the better shot, and killed him. Hand the packet of proof in to Section One. Got it?"

"Got it." Murch straightened but continued holding his bleeding arm. "Is this the last of it?"

"No. This is what you will do," Michael said. "Once a week you will make out a complete report of the week's activities. It will include everything you know, from Section One decisions and activities to whom the Admin's are sleeping with. You will mail it to this address," he tossed a note with the newly established Florence address on it to Murch. "If anything urgent or unusual occurs, you will not wait until the end of the week, but will send the information immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will continue doing this forever. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You may be told to do something else. This is unlikely, but possible. If it occurs you will perform without question. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will know the directive comes from me. It will be signed simply, 'Michael'. If I call you, I will simply say, "This is Michael." If your position with Section One is threatened, you will explain that in your reports. The threat will be eliminated. Both you and your position will be protected." Michael stepped back into the darkness.

Murch stood waiting for further instructions and it was quite some time before he realized that he stood alone over Eric's body. He searched the area and found both his and Eric's guns, and called Section to report Eric's lies and their tragic outcome.

The moon was a thin pencil line and cast no more light than it had the night the chopper had appeared. Only one month had passed, but Michael's world had changed. There was a new player involved, and one that required very careful handling. He decided that returning to the Geneva office was a greater risk than necessary and stood thinking in the airport parking lot after returning the rental car. Istanbul, he decided, and walked toward the terminal to buy a ticket. In his dark coat, in the dark night, through the dark lot, he was invisible.

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