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someone to meet you. He will introduce himself as ... Alain Dreyfus.' The first name which came into her head. 'Have patience, Isabelle. It could be a short time before we can contact you. Now, would you give me your address and phone number?'
    She wrote the details down carefully, asked Isabelle to repeat the address to make sure she had it down correctly.
    'Isabelle, have you got a job? I see. Don't throw it up. Carry on your life as usual - as far as you can, considering the terrible bereavement you have suffered. And no police. Why was Henri working for an insurance company? He was checking on a suspicious death where a claim for insurance had been made.'
    'I must get back to my job now.' Isabelle said in a lacklustre voice. 'I have at least done what Henri asked me to if something happened to him.'
    'You did the right thing. We will investigate. But, don't forget, no police...'
    She put down the phone and sighed heavily. She was wearing a white blouse with a pussy bow. She fiddled with the bow before she looked at Tweed.
    'God! I hope I handled that reasonably well. You do realize what has happened?'
    'With no time to think you reacted brilliantly. And am I right in assuming Francis Carey is dead?'
    'Yes. Murdered through the agency of two DST men who took him from a bar to the Gare St Jean late in the evening yesterday. In Bordeaux ...'
    She gave a terse account of what Isabelle had told her. Tweed listened with an expressionless face. When she had finished he drummed the fingers of his right hand lightly on the desk top and looked at Newman.
    'I fear you were right. Carey was too inexperienced to send him on that mission. My deadly mistake.'
    'Rubbish!' Newman snapped. 'Not too long ago Harry Masterson, an area chief in Europe, experienced as hell, was also murdered. It's part of the risk run by anyone belonging to SIS. I'm sure you warned Carey before he agreed to go. So stop blaming yourself.'
    Tweed was suddenly galvanized into action. 'Two DST men? It's unbelievable. Monica, try and get me René Lasalle on the scrambler now. We'll soon find out the truth...'
    There was silence as Monica dialled the number. Paula sat at her desk, plucking at the pleats of her skirt, playing back in her mind the conversation with the distraught Isabelle. Monica nodded to Tweed, indicating the DST chief in Paris was on the line.
    'René,' Tweed began in a decisive tone, 'Tweed here on scrambler ... You are too? Good. I sent an agent to the south of France as we agreed. I've just heard he was murdered last night in Bordeaux - at the main station. After being hustled out of a bar by two men who said they were DST. . .'
    'Good God! You did say DST? That's impossible. No DST men are operating in the Bordeaux area. I should know.'
    'Then they were impersonators...'
    'That I will not tolerate. As soon as this call is ended teams will be flown to Bordeaux to investigate. But I need more information, if you are willing to reveal that.'
    'Certainly. The agent was masquerading - with papers -under the name Henri Bayle. He was working as a barman at some dive called the Bar Miami. From the timing I was given the murder must have taken place something in the region of 11 p.m. Apparently in some underground entrance which is reached by a ramp. Someone other than the two fake DST officers actually committed the murder.'
    'And who told you this?'
    'An informant whose name I would sooner not give. The informant sounds reliable. Carey was due to transmit a radio signal last night and nothing came. I assumed it was inconvenient.'
    'And you heard this news when?'
    'Five minutes ago.'
    'My teams will be flying there immediately. Tweed, I would appreciate it very much if you could fly to Paris to see me. There are developments you should know - and they may be linked with this assassination. I send you my sympathy. But, most important, can we meet?'
    'Yes. Very soon. I have to fly elsewhere in Europe first. May I call you as soon as I can come on to