regiment. Salim did not mind that. There had been the occasion, back in 1943, when he had confidently assured Rommel's emissary that, when the time was ripe, he would bring the Azaran army over to the German side.
'Herr Kaufman,' he exclaimed, extending his hand. 'Take a, pew.' He was rather proud of his mastery of the English vernacular. It inspired a friendly attitude he had found.
Kaufman bowed slightly from the waist and smiled. His light blue eyes, enlarged by the thick lenses of his rimless gold spectacles, were appraising everything on the desk and around the room.
He continued smiling as he deferentially murmured that he had been ordered by his superiors to wait on the Ambassador.
'By Intel,' nodded Salim. What else were you told?'
Kaufman stared back unblinking. 'Nothing else, your excellency.'
Salim offered him a box of heavily chased silver. 'Smoke?'
The other withdrew a case from his inner breast pocket.
'These, if you don't mind.' He selected a small, almost black cheroot and lit it.
Salim got up and walked across the room to a table where some photographs of Azaran were displayed.
'Interested in archaeology, Herr Kaufman?' he asked. 'We are particularly rich in relics: Greek temples, Roman arenas, Turkish mosques, Crusader's castles, British anti-tank traps.
They've all had a go at us.' He turned and eyed Kaufman.
'And now Intel. Your employers are taking a deep interest in my small and harmless little country.'
Kaufman puffed out a cloud of smoke. It eddied over Salim, who made a gesture of distaste. 'And if my employers are indeed keeping their commercial information up to date? As routine, of course. Is this important to you?'
Salim lowered his voice. 'It's not unheard of for business interests to finance a breakaway state. And we propose to break with the British oil interests, Herr Kaufman. Their field has not been a very exciting one. We believe you will have more to offer than oil.'
Kaufman thoughtfully shook the ash from his cigarello.
'Our collateral?' he enquired.
Salim rubbed his hands together. 'Let's be frank. You're a trading organisation. Probably the biggest commercial undertaking ever known. Just what cartels and groups are involved no Western government has been able to discover. Holding companies, secret understandings, private agreements, patent monopolies, offices registered in small and tolerant countries.
But why need I tell you all this? You know it. You also know that with the Common Market and the increasing tendency for Governments to co-operate, the Intel organisation will find it harder to pursue its private way. Nobody very much likes such a successful enterprise.'
'This may be true,' Kaufman agreed.
'Your registered offices are in Switzerland,' Salim went on.
'I read with interest the other day that both the Canton and Federal Governments are getting impatient over income tax matters. They hint at laws enforcing investigation of accounts and so forth. Your directors seem usually to meet in Vienna, capital of a tolerant and non-committed country.
But Austria would not, could not, afford to ignore pressure from her powerful neighbours. You are, in fact, an organisation without a home.'
Kaufman seemed unimpressed. 'We have offices in at least sixty countries. And influence in as many.'
'The offices are merely trading posts, innocuous and politically negligible. Your influence is in jeopardy.'
Salim crossed to the map of the Middle East which was spread across half the rear wall of the study. 'That little area painted red is my country. It could be the home sweet home for the headquarters of Intel. No interference. In return just some expert help for our own plans.'
Once more Salim sat down. 'What do you know of Thorness?'
Kaufman pondered for a moment.
'Thorness?' he repeated, as if the word meant nothing.
Salim made a gesture of impatience. 'I have information that you have long been in touch with the British Government's experimental station at Thorness. Unofficially, of course. I believe that you could even explain an unfortunate fatality to one of the scientists there, named Bridger, but no matter. I mention it to show that I am not without knowledge of your current activities.'
'They are no longer current,' growled Kaufman. 'The station has been virtually destroyed. The computer and everything associated with it were blown up and burned.
That, at any rate, is what I have so far ascertained.'
'Blown up ?'
'That is correct.'
Salim was nonplussed. His Court of St James's manners disappeared as he waved away the cloud of Kaufman's cigar smoke. It was as if some latent violence in him had exploded.
'Please refrain from burning those filthy things in here. If you wish, go to the toilet and smoke there.'
His visitor obediently stubbed out his cigarello. He seemed impervious to insults. 'No thank you,' said Kaufman after he had carefully extinguished all the burning remains. 'But if you wish the interview to end...?'
Salim glanced at the file on his table. Everything had suddenly changed and what was expected of him now was something which he understood. Action. He re-read the copy of the appreciation of the situation he had dictated a few days earlier. A smile hovered round his mouth. The gods might after all be working in their mysterious way for his benefit, even with this Thorness debacle.
'There's a Professor Madeleine Dawnay at the station,' he said. 'I am offering her a post with our Government's bio-
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and half-collapsing easy chair. 'Can we stay for a bit?' he asked.
The man hovered around helplessly. 'I suppose so,' he said without enthusiasm. 'Where have you come from?'
Fleming was occupied in removing Andre's coat, pulling gently at the sleeves so as not to touch her hands. 'The sea,' he said shortly. 'By boat. It's gone now. Smashed, I hope.'
The man poked at the logs, sending up a cascade of sparks. 'I must confess I find you difficult to understand,' he observed.
Fleming straightened up and grinned. 'I'm sorry. We're a bit flaked. Tough weather for a sea trip.'
The other man was looking at Andre. He sort of shivered as he saw the shapeless, purplish flesh around her fingers.
'What has happened to your friend's hands?' he enquired diffidently, as if ashamed of ungracious curiosity.
'She burnt them. Touched some high voltage wiring. You haven't anything hot, have you? Soup?'
'Only out of a tin.' The man drew a deep breath, ashamed of his attitude. 'I'll get it. You must forgive me,' he went on, smiling almost boyishly. 'It's just you were so unexpected.
My name's Preen. Adrian Preen. I - er - write.' He glanced longingly at the table with the sheets of large, scrawling writing. 'I'll get the soup.' He went through the rear door, closing it carefully behind him.
Andre shuddered, moaned, and opened her eyes. Fleming knelt down beside her. 'How do you feel?' he whispered.
Her eyes were vacant, but she was able to turn her head and look at him. She even smiled. 'I'm better now,' she murmured.
'My hands throb. What has happened?'
'We're running away,' he said, caressing her hair. 'We started running two nights ago when we bust up the computer.
Remember?'
She frowned and shook her head. 'Computer? What computer? I can't remember anything.'
'It'll come back,' he assured her. 'Don't worry your head about it.' He got up and crossed to the table, glancing at the manuscript. 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,' he read aloud. 'This is a rum do. I hoped for a shepherd, but we've found a sheep. Wonder how he manages to make a living with this stuff?'
He was interrupted by the click of the latch and he stood away from the table. Preen returned with a couple of steaming bowls on a tray. He grabbed a stool and placed the tray on it alongside Andre. 'Condensed tomato, I'm afraid,' he said apologetically.