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“But don’t ask me to look any deeper than that, Ben. Not yet. It’s never safe, and right now it isn’t necessary.”
    Again Trask’s sigh, this time of frustration. “Right,” he said. “No more guesswork, however informed. It’s time we knew for sure. I’m going to speak to Tzonov. I would prefer all of you off-screen, however, so if you don’t mind …?”
    As they moved out of range, Trask made himself comfortable in a black, padded swivel chair before a large flat screen on a central console. But as Teale made to switch on the televiewer:
    “Wait!” Trask stopped him. “I want you to cover me, all of you. Let’s play the Opposition at their own game and have some mental static around here. Tzonov’s a damn fine, an extraordinary, mentalist. If I’m not covered he’ll be able to read things in my head that even I don’t know are there!”
    And as they shielded him with the combined energy of their minds, Teale switched on.
    The signal from Moscow unscrambled itself onto the opaque screen; a fuzzy hi-tech background blinked into being, while in the foreground sharp features under a high-domed, totally bald head faced Trask and held him with penetrating eyes. He stared back as the picture gained stability and clear, almost better-than-life contrast. On-screen the Russian’s face was certainly larger than life: in order to make himself that much more impressive, he’d given his screen extra amplification. Which was scarcely necessary. The looks of the man were … startling. But Ben Trask was a hard man to intimidate. It’s not easy to impress a human lie-detector, a man who will instantly recognize even the most remote distortion or elaboration. It was the reason Trask had always liked and been impressed by Harry Keogh; not so much by the Necroscope’s awesome powers but by his humility, and his truth.
    “Truth, Mr. Trask?” Tzonov raised his right eyebrow. “But there you have the advantage. As long as your agents keep you covered, you can lie to your heart’s content and remain hidden in their static. As for myself, I have no such safeguard. Nor do I need one, not on this occasion. If I wanted to play games … well, I’m sure you know I have enough clever chessmen, without my own personal involvement. So there we have it: I am here to ask a favour of you, not to lie to you or spy on you.” Tzonov’s voice—well-modulated and without accent, and to all intents and purposes lacking in emotion—nevertheless contained the merest suggestion of a sneer.
    Trask smiled back, however tightly. “For someone who protests my advantage over his own ‘innocence’, you picked that out of my mind easily enough, Tzonov. Naturally I’m concerned about the truth; I always have been and always will be. It happens to be my talent.” While he answered, he studied the other’s face.
    Turkur Tzonov was part-Turk, part-Mongol, all man. Without question he was an “Alpha” male, a leader, an outstanding mind housed in an athlete’s body. His grey eyes were the sort that could look at and into a man, or through him if the mind behind them considered him of little or no importance. It was a measure of Trask’s stature that Tzonov’s eyes looked at him, and not without respect.
    The Russian’s eyebrows were slim as lines pencilled on paper; upwards-slanting, they were silver-blond against the tanned, sharp-etched ridges of his brows. From the eyebrows up he was completely hairless, which was so in keeping with his other features as to make it appear that hair was never intended. Certainly his baldness wasn’t a sign of ill-health or premature aging; the broad bronze dome of his head glowed with vitality to match the flesh of his face, where the only anomaly lay in the orbits of Tzonov’s eyes. Deep-sunken and dark, their hollows seemed bruised from long hours of study or implacable concentration. Trask knew it was a symptom of the man’s telepathy. Tzonov’s nose was sharply hooked, which despite his