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be this one from a Paris-Match article done by some woman journalist in nineteen seventy-one. Who are the other two with him? Devlin, is it? Liam Devlin and Martin Brosnan."
    Ferguson crossed the room with surprising speed for a man of his bulk and took the news clipping from him. "My God, Liam Devlin--and Brosnan. I'd forgotten they'd had dealings with Barry, it's so long ago."
    "But who are they, sir?"
    "Oh, a couple of anachronisms from the early days of the Irish Troubles. Before the worst of the bombings and the butchery. The kind of men who thought it was still nineteen twenty-one with Michael Collins carrying the flag for Ireland. Gallant guerrillas up against the might of the British Empire, flying columns, action by night."
    "1 think I saw the movie once, sir," Fox said.
    "There was a man called Sean McEoin, a flying column leader who later became a general in the Free State army. In nineteen twenty-one, he was surrounded by Black and Tans in a cottage near his own village. There were women and children inside, so McEoin ran out in the open with a gun in each hand and shot his way-through the police cordon. Devlin and Brosnan are the same kind of idiots."
    "1 can't say I came up against anyone like that during my time in Ulster," Fox said, feelingly.
    "No. Well, it's as well to remember that the IRA, like the British army or any other institution, consists of a very wide range of human beings. Still, you cut along now. I want to give this some think time."
    Fox left. Ferguson poured himself a brandy and stood at the window, looking down into the square, thinking, with regret, of Jack Corder and the others he had sent against Barry.
    "Somewhere," he said softly, "that bastard is still laughing at me."
    Barry, at that precise moment, was doing roughly what Ferguson was. Standing at a window with a large cognac in his hand, only the apartment was in Paris and the view was of the Seine. There was a discreet tap at the door and when he opened it on the chain, Belov was outside.
    "Well?" Barry demanded as the Russian entered. "Considerable Service Five activity, Frank. They know you were behind the whole affair, so they're leaving no stone unturned t o f ind you--with full assistance from British intelligence on this one, I might add. Your Brigadier Ferguson and Pierre Guyon of Service Five are old friends."
    "Well, that makes a change. I didn't think DI5 and the French intelligence service were on speaking terms. How can you be sure that Ferguson and Guyon are such good pals, or have you an informer in Guyon's department?"
    "Anything is possible," Belov said.
    Barry showed his surprise. "I thought British intelligence had cleaned out all its moles by now. What about Corder? I had to find out about him for myself."
    "To be honest, Frank, at the moment we're getting only peripheral information, but we expect that to improve."
    "You'd think," Barry said, "DI5 would check its employees' credentials right back to the womb."
    "Perhaps they do, Frank. But in this case it wouldn't do them any good."
    "At least there's no one left who can finger me at the moment, except you, of course, old son."
    Belov's smile was forced. "On the whole, I think it would be sensible if you dropped out of sight for :a while."
    "And where would you suggest?"
    "England."
    Barry laughed. "Well, it's a novel enough idea. The last place they'd expect. Would you have somewhere specific in mind?" "The Lake District."
    "The colors can be glorious at this time of year." Barry poured himself another cognac. "All right, Nikolai, let's have it."
    The Russian opened his briefcase and took out a selection of maps. "It's painfully simple. The balance of power as regards ground forces in Europe is hugely in our favor, mainly because we can put at least four thousand more tanks in the field than the NATO forces."
    "So?"
    "The West Germans have come up with a rather brilliant new weapon, light enough to be carried by any infantry section. When fired, its pod releases