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  “Still,” Bellman said, “if you should happen to hear anything, his company and his American friends would be delighted to hear about it.”

  “Of course. But it’s unlikely in the extreme. I really don’t know why you came to me at all, Mr. Bellman.”

  “Let’s just say in times of trouble it’s comforting to take the counsel of a man of intelligence. If you know what I mean.”

  Bulanin gave him the smile again. “Not precisely, Mr. Bellman. But I shall keep my ear to the ground. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

  “Agricultural matters,” Bellman said.

  “Of course. Good day.”

  He shook the hand Bellman offered, kissed the woman’s, just to see how she’d react. She reacted as he’d expected—by pretending not to be pleased. He had the attendant show them out.

  “Damn you,” Bulanin said to his aide, an impossibly eager young man who undoubtedly was nourishing an ambition of his own. “What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing on the man, sir. He is not the Bellman who was touched in Washington.”

  “I know that, who is he?

  “He is not CIA, sir. That’s all we can say for sure. The woman, however—”

  “Yes?”

  “She matches description and photograph of a British agent who was in liaison with the Swedes over the submarine affair in 1978. She hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Not looking that way, at least.”

  “No sir. It does look like the same woman, though, see for yourself.” He handed Bulanin the pictures taken today and a still-damp photo wired from Moscow. “Of course,” the young man went on, “a voiceprint might have clinched it—”

  “But she barely said a word. I know. All right, get back to your regular duties.”

  When he was gone Bulanin went to work, but not on agricultural matters. It was going too far; he was leaving too wide a trail. The agenda of his life required that risks be taken. Bulanin had let Leo Calvin live—at least temporarily—and had pulled strings and juggled documents to make the touching of a minor CIA man seem justifiable to Moscow—as a gesture of good will to Leo Calvin, in order to have a chance to present Borzov with Sir Lewis Alfot, the most valuable man in Britain. As a potential captive, that is. At large, he was probably the most dangerous.

  Either way, delivering him to Moscow would be the kind of coup legendary careers were built upon.

  But now, it seemed, the kind of noise was brewing that led to legendary silences.

  What were they up to? The Americans? The British? Why were they so open, so belligerent? Why were they so contemptuous of the polite fiction that Bulanin was interested in fields and cows? Were they—could they be serving notice that they were willing to go to war over this old man? Was he that important?

  Bulanin wanted to tremble with anticipation over what Sir Lewis Alfot might reveal under the proper stimulus back in

  Moscow. And he wanted to shiver with fear at the thought of what a failure in this project could bring.

  He did neither. Instead, he decided to arrange for a little conference with Mr. Leo Calvin.

  3

  SPIES ARE PERFECTLY CAPABLE of genuine orgasm. Professionally speaking, it’s better for them if they are. When a woman is out to ensnare a man, he is much more likely to be convinced by a woman who is left sweating, shuddering, skin-flushed, and nipple erect by his embraces. A man feels tenderly toward a woman who responds to his technique as a lover.

  Bellman knew all this, knew it before he brought Felicity Grace back to his apartment after lunch (Lancashire Hot Pot and apple pie with custard at a wood-beamed pub) to talk over what they’d accomplished at Kensington Palace Gardens this morning, if anything.

  He knew it when he let her use the bedroom mirror to get rid of the wig and the makeup, and told her when she emerged, “I like you better this way.”

  She’d smiled shyly, a proper little West Country miss. “I wasn’t sure you liked me at all.”

  He knew it when he came to her and kissed her and led her back to the bedroom. He thought about it as they stripped each other and learned each other. And when she straddled him and shook her hair back like flame, sighed, and said, “Mission accomplished,” it was on his mind behind his happy laughter.

  Then for a long time he thought about nothing but the woman.

  The knowledge was back now, but in spite of it, Bellman felt closer to Felicity Grace than he had to anyone in years. He wondered how long he could allow himself to enjoy it—a week? The rest of the day? Till they got out of bed?

  Felicity was snoring softly beside him, close but not touching. That flattered him more than the orgasm had. To sleep in the presence of someone else—especially to sleep naked—was an act of trust Bellman had never been capable of.

  He leaned over and bit her softly on the earlobe.

  “What time is it?” she said, instantly awake.

  “Why? Are you one of those people who keep a double-entry ledger on how many minutes of sleep they get?”

  “No, I just try to catch the news on television when I can.”

  “Excellent timing then. It’s about three minutes to six.”

  Felicity was up and doing a little dance to get into Bellman’s bathrobe. “I want to be sure there’s nothing new on Sir Lewis,” she explained.

  “Sure,” Bellman said. She disappeared into the other room to turn on the television. Bellman slipped into a pair of jeans and padded out to join her.

  He got there just in time for the announcer to tell him he was watching BBC 1. There was a sting of music, then a black woman began reading the news. She had the best diction Bellman had ever heard. Right now she was using it on the lead story—the Sussex Cyclops had struck again, the fourth such killing in the past year.

  The scene switched to a grimy street in Brighton, where an immaculately groomed man held a microphone just the right distance from his mouth. “Sussex CID say there are several differences between this and the previous murders—one, the victim was tied up; two, the weapon used was a hypodermic needle; and three—” dramatic pause, then breathless, all at once—“this time there is a suspect.”

  Bellman saw Felicity bite her lip.

  “And,” the reporter added, “there is reason to believe he might be an American.”

  Felicity turned to him.

  “Not me,” Bellman said, “honest.” It failed to get a laugh. Felicity turned back to the screen.

  The reporter went on to interview a few neighbors. They said the dead woman (whose name was Margaret Hepwood) and her husband had lived there only a few weeks, and kept mostly to themselves. But they were sure the husband, who gave his name as Thomas Hepwood, was a Yank. At least two of them actually said “Yank.”

  Bellman was going to make a comment, but the words never made it as far as the front of his mouth. He was looking at the screen with eyes wide, but that wasn’t enough. He sprang from his chair and knelt on the floor three feet from the screen.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?” Felicity demanded. She seemed put out that anything might be.

  Bellman gestured for silence. Not that he was hearing anything special. The announcer was saying that the husband had not been seen by anyone since a few hours before the time of death as fixed by the coroner. The police were seeking him to, in the fine old British phrase, assist them in their inquiries. A police artist had drawn this composite sketch of the man. Police believed him to be an American (or perhaps a Canadian) over six feet tall, very fair hair, pale complexion, blue eyes...

  Bellman tuned out. He didn’t need the description. He knew what he looked like.

  “What’s the fastest way to get to Brighton?”

  Even through his excitement Bellman noticed how quick she was with the information. “It’s forty-five minutes from Victoria,” she said, “but we might have to wait a little while for a train. We can drive down, if I can beat the traffic as far as the A-23.”

>   “Get a police escort, if necessary.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. “We may not need it.” She was running to the bedroom. The robe flapped behind her, then came loose like a shed skin in her haste to dress.

  Almost as if, Bellman thought, she’d been trying to figure out how she was going to get him to Brighton.

  Which was ridiculous. He tabled it for now, sprinted for his own clothes. This kind of plum needed to be picked while it was fresh.

  4

  “ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY SURE this was a Sussex Cyclops murder?” the red-haired woman asked.

  “No,” said Detective Inspector Maurice Stingley. “She was born with a goddam hypodermic needle sticking out of her left eyeball.” DI Stingley’s mouth worked, the result of perfectly balanced impulses to laugh sardonically, curse, or spit.

  He did none of them. Instead, he hastened to apologize. That really made him want to spit, but he was under orders. Stingley was a burly, balding man of forty. He had a wife, a teenage daughter, an overdraft, and an incipient ulcer. He also had university-trained, public-relations-minded superiors.

  A lot of big things had happened in Sussex lately. Last fall, the IRA had just missed killing Mrs. Thatcher and the entire British Government with a bomb at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, where the Tories had been having their annual conference. They’d come up with a suspect on that one—and Scotland Yard called them naughty when they released the composite picture to the papers. Not in private either. The Big Boys of the Yard had gone openly, embarrassingly public with their criticism. Relations between the Sussex Constabulary CID and the Yard were still somewhat cool over that one.

  Then, a little less than a month ago, Sir Lewis Alfot had disappeared from his estate. There was no evidence—not the slightest bit—that it was a crime of any sort. The old man might have turned senile and wandered off. He could be living under a bridge like a troll, for all anybody knew, or on a ship at sea under a new identity.

  But try telling the public that. They loved the old fart. Stingley was rather fond of him, too, but you had to be realistic. The public, though, were having none of being realistic. The beloved Sir Lewis is gone, the beloved Sir Lewis has obviously met with Foul Play, and I ask you, what are the police doing about it?

  Thank you, sir, glad you asked. The police are busting their bloody arses over it. They are giving it every spare moment, every moment not spent chasing leads to the Provos, or examining another corpse left by this Cyclops madman.

  The Cyclops. Damn his eye, Stingley thought, and fought another impulse to grin. A grin wouldn’t do—he was still being abject, and he didn’t want to give the wrong impression.

  The Cyclops. The Yard were in on this one, but were keeping a low profile. Cool relations. The Cyclops was Stingley’s main responsibility, had been since the second murder back in May. The first one had been in February, then May, then a long layoff until November, now again in January. The first three had been in the suburbs and towns outside Brighton, the fourth had been right here in town. The public weren’t too pleased with the police over this one either.

  It was something about the eyes. Something chilling about having something other than light, or nerve impulses, or whatever the hell it was normally, pass from eye to brain. It caught the imagination and held it in a tight if somewhat clammy grip. What did it feel like to push a pointed instrument into someone else’s eye? What did it feel like to have it happen? What did it look like, inside that mutilated head, before the lights finally and irrevocably went out?

  Stingley had lived months with those questions, plus one other—what kind of madman would run around doing it to people? He had plenty of clues, but no answers, and neither the public nor the press were too pleased over that. There had been talk of asking Sir Lewis to form one of his famous commissions to look into the matter. Stingley was almost willing to bet that was why he’d left town.

  So. After all the excitement, the police in Sussex found themselves decidedly short of friends. And Stingley was under orders not to reduce the number any further, especially when the friends in this case were a woman from Whitehall (or something) and the American was someone she kept looking to for approval.

  Stingley apologized again. “You know, press on your back all day, one more question gets me leaping for a throat.,”

  Miss Grace smiled at him. Quite pretty when she smiled, actually. “Not at all, DI Stingley. I phrased the question awkwardly. What I meant was, aside from the MO, is there anything that tells you that this murder was committed by the same person who did the others?”

  Stingley tightened his lips. Then he thought, all right, the brass have laid down the law. Cooperation it shall be. He got up, walked to the door of the CID office, which fortunately they had to themselves for the moment, looked about the corridor, closed the door tight, came back, and sat on the edge of his desk.

  He leaned forward before he spoke. “Fingerprints,” he said.

  “Fingerprints,” the American said. It was the first time he’d spoken since “good evening.”

  “Fingerprints,” Stingley said. His voice was bitter. “Our friend the Cyclops has left fingerprints around like Easter eggs. This is the fourth murder—the third time he’s left his dabs on the weapon. We always get the thumbprint, sometimes the index finger as well.”

  “This hasn’t been released,” Miss Grace said.

  “No,” Stingley said. “Nor leaked, either, which is bloody surprising, these days. We’ve kept it in for two reasons.”

  Stingley paused, took a breath, looked at his audience. Cooperate, he told himself. Orders. From above.

  Still, he hesitated. “This is strictly confidential, you understand.”

  “Of course,” Miss Grace said. “Naturally,” said Bellman, the American.

  “Well, the first reason is that the distribution of the prints gives us the way our man strikes. Righthanded, but not overhand, or even a little bit to the side. You see, on the screwdriver—he killed the postman with that, we got only a smudged partial print, no good for identification, because of the grooves on the handle; the icepick—that’s the one where he did the tart over in Hove; and now this hypodermic needle, all the thumb-prints have been at exactly twelve o’clock. Pointing toward the top of the head, I mean, as it stuck from the victim’s eye.”

  It occurred to Stingley that might be a little strong for the average stomach, but his listeners were taking it as if it were Jackanory.

  “There were no prints on the switchknife—he killed the one and only skinhead in a village of about a hundred and fifty on that trick, used the victim’s own knife—because, we think, his thumb was over the gap where the blade was when the knife was folded. Which is consistent with what we think he does. You’ve got it, there, Mr. Bellman.”

  The American was drawing his right arm straight back, then pistoning it forward. There was a puzzled look on his face.

  “We’ve felt the same way,” Stingley said. “Why the hell would he strike that way, like the power portion of a snooker shot? It doesn’t seem exactly natural, does it?”

  Stingley sighed, remembering the theories that little bit of deduction had inspired. The best one was the Sussex Cyclops was a top snooker player, and all they had to do now was go out and clap the irons on Steve Davis or Terry Griffiths or Ray “Dracula” Reardon.

  “Anyway, you know why we’ve kept it back. It’s our litmus paper for false confessions, which we get by the dozen.”

  “You mentioned two reasons,” Miss Grace said.

  “Oh, yes, the other reason. The other reason, miss, is that we don’t want to look bigger charlies than we already do look.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the prints haven’t done us a damn bit of good, aside from letting us know the killer’s stroke. We’ve run them through the Yard, through Interpol, through the army, Civil Service, the Home Office, Social Security, every damned thing we could think of, and sod all. After eleven months.”

  “W
ell,” Miss Grace said, “thank you for cooperation—”

  That was when DI Stingley decided he could use a little cooperation back. “Don’t mention it, don’t mention it at all. I am curious, you know, just what your interest is in all this.”

  Miss Grace looked a question at Bellman. If Stingley were any good at reading faces, she’d like to know the answer to that question as well. But that was ridiculous. They were working together, weren’t they?

  Still, it was the American who did the talking. “Your composite picture.” He gestured to a photocopy of it on Stingley’s desk. “How good are your witnesses?”

  “Better than average. They all gave descriptions that could be the same human being. And they all agreed he was an American. They all like the drawing, too. Interviewed them separately about it, of course.”

  “An American,” Bellman said. “All right. I think the man in your picture is an international terrorist. The one I’m here looking for. His real name is Leo Calvin, and he’s been working for the Russians for years.”

  Stingley fought a grin and lost. “Come on,” he said. “Pull the other one, why don’t you. Isn’t this sort of thing small beer for an international terrorist?”

  “If I knew what he was up to,” the American said, “I would be in place first and capture him.”

  Stingley was still grinning until he looked straight into Bellman’s eyes. “Uh—well. I guess you really mean it, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t travel from the United States to London to Brighton to jerk you off, okay?”

  “But we don’t even think he’s the killer!”

  Miss Grace seemed a little concerned over that one. “But the news said—”

  “The news can say what they like,” Stingley said. “They don’t know everything, and we don’t tell them everything.”

  “Why don’t you think he’s the Cyclops?” Bellman said. He didn’t seem nearly as displeased by the idea as the woman had been.

  “Fingerprints.”

  “Again?” Miss Grace said.

  “Again,” Stingley said.