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me he wanted to be alone.”
    “Did he get any clues? Did anything happen that might lead him to the truth?”
    “No. He read an article in the paper about the space program, but it didn’t seem to mean anything special to him.”
    “Did anyone notice anything strange about him?”
    “The pastor was surprised Luke could do the crossword. Most of those bums can’t even read.”
    This was going to be difficult, but manageable, as Anthony had expected. “Where is Luke now?”
    “I don’t know, sir. Steve will call in as soon as he gets a chance.”
    “When he does, get back there and join up with him. Whatever happens, Luke mustn’t get away from us.”
    “Okay.”
    The white phone on Anthony’s desk rang, his direct line. He stared at it for a moment. Not many people had the number.
    He picked it up.
    “It’s me,” said Elspeth’s voice. “What’s happened?”
    “Relax,” he said. “Everything is under control.”

7.30 A.M.
    The missile is 68 feet 7 inches high, and it weighs 64,000 pounds on the launch pad—but most of that is fuel. The satellite itself is only 2 feet 10 inches long, and weighs just 18 pounds.
     
    The shadow followed Luke for a quarter of a mile as he walked south on Eighth Street.
    It was now full light and, although the street was busy, Luke easily kept track of the gray homburg hat bobbing among the heads crowded together at street corners and bus stops. But after he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, it disappeared from view. Once again, he wondered if he might be imagining things. He had woken up in a bewildering world where anything might be true. Perhaps the notion that he was being tailed was only a fantasy. But he did not really believe that, and a minute later he spotted the olive raincoat coming out of a bakery.
    “Toi, encore,” he said under his breath. “You again.” He wondered briefly why he had spoken in French, then he put the thought out of his mind. He had more pressing concerns. There was no further room for doubt: two people were following him in a smoothly executed relay operation. They had to be professionals.
    He tried to figure out what that meant. Homburg and Raincoat might be cops—he could have committed a crime, murdered someone while drunk. They could be spies, KGB or CIA, although it seemed unlikely that a deadbeat such as he could be involved in espionage. Most probably he had a wife he had left many years ago, who now wanted to divorcehim and had hired private detectives to get proof of how he was living. (Maybe she was French.)
    None of the options was attractive. Yet he felt exhilarated. They probably knew who he was. Whatever the reason for their tailing him, they must know something about him. At the very least, they knew more than he.
    He decided he would split the team, then confront the younger man.
    He stepped into a smoke shop and bought a pack of Pall Malls, paying with some of the change he had stolen. When he went outside, Raincoat had disappeared and Homburg had taken over again. He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner.
    A Coca-Cola truck was parked at the curb, and the driver was unloading crates and carrying them into a diner. Luke stepped into the road and walked to the far side of the truck, positioning himself where he could watch the street without being seen by anyone coming around the corner.
    After a minute, Homburg appeared, walking quickly, checking in the doorways and windows, looking for Luke.
    Luke dropped to the ground and rolled under the truck. Looking along the sidewalk at ground level, he picked out the blue suit pants and tan oxfords of his shadow.
    The man quickened his pace, presumably concerned that Luke had disappeared off the street. Then he turned and came back. He went into the diner and came out a minute later. He walked around the truck, then returned to the sidewalk and continued on. After a moment, he broke into a run.
    Luke was pleased. He did not know how he had learned this game, but he