Chapter 1

Decoded, the cables read as follows:

PRIORITY CABLE
TO:	OFFICE OF SECURITY
	WASHINGTON, D.C.
FROM:	GEORGE  L. PUTNAM
	CONSULATE GENERAL
	ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
SUBJECT: BELIEVE LEAK IN CONSULATE HERE. CANNOT PROVE. 
CANNOT HANDLE ALONE. REQUIRE TOURIST OBSERVE WYMAN. 
TOURIST MUST BE UNKNOWN IN EUROPE. KNOWLEDGE GERMAN 
HELPFUL. SUGGEST USE CONTACT PLAN A.

PRIORITY CABLE
EYES ONLY
TO:	GEORGE  L. PUTNAM
	CONSULATE GENERAL
	ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
SUBJECT: MONTAGUE ARRIVING 0930, 15 MARCH 1956. WILL USE PLAN 
A.

	The train clattered and swayed, banged and rattled at crazy 
speed across the Bavarian plains and rolling farm lands on its way to 
Munich. The occupants of Erste Klasse, Compartment A, in Car 5 
surged from side to side in silence. They had been jostled into a 
resistless indifference all the way from Frankfurt, still strangers as 
only Europeans can be. The conversation in several hours had 
consisted of, "Do you mind if I smoke?" or an "Excuse me" when 
someone had to get up and go to the toilet or go to breakfast on the 
dining car.
	Slater didn't care for European trains, and he wondered if the 
railroad bed had been laid on elliptical marbles; but the clacking and 
bumping had jogged him into a relaxed, if some what groggy, state. 
He had long ago given up any curiosity about his fellow passengers, 
as they doubtless had about him. They all looked so serious and 
prosperous. Slater believed that no man on earth could manage to 
look more affluent than a wealthy German businessman. Fat fingers 
with manicured fingernails, spotless silk shirts, heavy serge suits over 
expansive frames, smooth bland faces with small pale eyes that could 
look at you without seeing you.
	Slater hadn't needed to travel first class, but the only other 
possibility had been third class, and he hadn't wanted to endure those 
thin-ribbed wooden seats. He looked out of the window and marveled 
at the rolling landscape of snow-covered fields, neat stone houses 
with tiled roofs, and the scattered, geometric patches of evergreen 
woods. This was the land of beer, of heavy-limbed peasants, of 
classical music and Dachau, of big men who loved little children and 
flowers and war. Slater sighed. He looked at the bland faces around 
him and again through the window at their beautiful country and 
shook his head.
	The train began to jump some of the myriads of switches. 
Tracks appeared from nowhere, and Slater realized he was entering 
the Munich marshaling yards. According to his watch he would be in 
Munich in ten minutes.
	He resisted the impulse to stand up and get his things down 
from the rack. He sat back and forced himself to relax. What is it this 
time, he wondered. All the way from Frankfurt he had tried not to 
think about it. It wasn't the first time he had realized he made his 
living from man's inhumanity to man, nor was this the first time he 
questioned his ability to continue. He hadn't even started his new 
project and already he was having doubts. "They aren't doubts," he 
said to himself. "Be honest—they're fears. You're afraid."
	The train had stopped. Slater stood up and looked around, 
momentarily perplexed. He reached for his luggage with clammy 
hands, thinking, "The legendary Montague is afraid. He's a dirty, 
stinking coward. He searches for fear on Uncle Sam's time. He has no 
right to prove himself at the possible expense of his country."
	Slater dragged his suitcase through the barrier and threaded 
his way through a maze of knicker-clad, rough-shod men and belt-
coated women to the American waiting room. He set his suitcase 
down by the magazine counter and purchased a paperback novel from 
the German clerk. She was wearing the same kind of bluish smock 
they all wore. He thanked her and entered the restaurant of the 
Bundesbahn Hotel.
	He seated himself at an empty table and ordered a beer. He 
placed his hat on the table by his left hand. He took an unopened 
package of MacDonald cigarettes and put them within easy grasp of 
his right hand. He picked up the paperback novel and began to read. 
 ***** ***** *****

	Even a casual glance at George Hollingsworth, seated 
comfortably in the cocktail lounge of the Hotel Excelsior, would 
reveal that Hollingsworth was a young man whom nice things were 
said about. Clear blue eyes, serene forehead, and regular features—
combine these with conservative taste in clothes and a well-
modulated, cultured voice and here was the perfect picture of what a 
young American diplomat should be. He sat loose and long-legged on 
one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs that were grouped along the 
wall. His expression was alert and serious as he listened carefully to 
the older man seated opposite across the round, highly polished 
cocktail table which separated them. The older man looked very 
much as George Hollingsworth would in later years.
	"I trust you have everything straight, Hollingsworth," the older 
man said.
	"Yes, sir, Mr. Preston," said George. "I'm sure I do."
	"You're really quite privileged, you know." Preston took 
another swallow of coffee. He would have preferred a Scotch and 
soda, but the hotel was under army regulations and the bar wouldn't 
open until 4 P.M. "Very few of us here have ever met Montague. He's 
one of the best."
	"I'm really looking forward," said George, his face lighting up, 
"to meeting one of those cloak-and-dagger boys. I just hope I don't 
gum everything up."
	"Do as Montague tells you and you won't."
	"Tell me, sir," said George, "what do you know about this 
fellow?"
	"Nothing much. That's why he's so good, I guess." Preston 
looked thoughtfully at Hollingsworth. "I hear he's a bit of a terror. I'd 
go pretty slowly with him if I were you."
	"You don't mean he'd pull a gun on me, do you, sir?" George 
laughed. "I'm on his side."
	"He might from all I hear." Preston's tone was quite serious 
and Hollingsworth was visibly shaken.
	"But that's ridiculous. He sounds melodramatic—a sort of 
unreliable prima donna."
	"On the contrary, Hollingsworth, Montague takes his work 
very seriously. He absolutely refuses to meet any of us socially, 
although I understand he's quite acceptable—good back ground and 
all that; but he's been in some tight scrapes and he's done some 
incredible things." Preston took some more coffee. "He doesn't trust 
anyone. I don't believe he'll trust you."
	"But why? Good Lord, I'm trustworthy." Hollingsworth 
managed to look indignant.
	"Montague hates amateurs, and if Webber's suspicions are 
correct, you are about to enter a world you've never even suspected."
	Hollingsworth was silent. It was obvious the old boy was 
romanticizing the whole business. He probably wanted to go himself.
	Preston finished his coffee. "Time for you to go, 
Hollingsworth. I'll pay up here."
	Hollingsworth stood up. "Thank you, sir. I'd like the privilege 
of buying you a drink one day."
	"Hurry up, man. Get a move on! Being late for this kind of an 
appointment can be a catastrophe."
	"Yes, sir." Hollingsworth looked perplexed. He couldn't 
decide whether Preston was joking or not. George took another look 
at the older man and decided he wasn't. He said good-by and left.
	Preston watched Hollingsworth's tall figure disappear into the 
lobby and shook his head. He was unquestionably a nice young man. 
They had spoken well of him in Zurich. Preston was certain 
Hollingsworth would go far in the Foreign Service, but, he shook his 
head, Montague deserved better than that. This wasn't going to be a 
job for a nice young man.
	George hurried across the cobblestoned square, buttoning his 
coat as he went. He turned up his collar against the cold March wind 
and, unseeing, dodged bicycles, three-wheeled trucks, tiny 
automobiles, and American limousines. He looked up at a leaden sky 
and pushed his way through the glass doors into the American waiting 
room. He checked his watch and hurried into the restaurant of the 
Bundesbahn Hotel. He removed his hat and looked for a table. 
	Fortunately, the place was almost empty, and George had no 
difficulty spotting an American, in his early thirties, of average build, 
dark hair, reading a paperback. George hesitated. He checked the 
position of the hat and cigarettes. He wasn't near enough to make out 
the brand. George approached the table.
	"Excuse me," he said. "Do you mind if I join you?"
	Slater looked up at the stranger as though just this moment 
aware of his presence.
	"I beg your pardon, did you say something?" Slater smiled. "I 
guess I was in a fog."
	"I asked if I could join you. It's a pleasure to meet a fellow 
American who isn't in uniform."
	Slater took the young man in from his serene forehead to the 
cordovan shoes and cursed inwardly. "Sure," he said, his voice calm. 
"Glad to have your company, but I'm Canadian."
	George sat down awkwardly. The little play wasn't over yet, 
and he didn't want to forget his lines.
	"Have a cigarette?" Slater extended the unopened pack.
	"Thank you. They look like ours. I've never tried a 
MacDonald."
	George opened the pack and took one. If the pack had been 
open, he would not have sat down.
	"Please don't think me antisocial," said Slater, "if I leave 
pretty soon, but I only have time for this beer and two cigarettes."
	"It would be better the other way around."
	"Might at that," Slater smiled. "All right," he said quietly, 
"where's your car?"
	"It's a ’53 Plymouth, gray, U.S. Forces Germany plates 2C-
15873. Its parked up beyond the Excelsior Hotel—on the same side of 
the street. It will be facing you as the street is one way. The keys are 
in the glove compartment. Do you know Munich?" 
	Slater nodded.
	"Drive to the Hofbrau Haus and try and park in the parking 
place there. You shouldn't have any trouble at this time of day. I'll 
meet you."
	Slater stood up. "Sorry to have to rush off. Nice to have met 
you."
	George stood up. He was surprised to find he was only an inch 
taller. Montague's appearance was deceiving. George sat down at the 
table again. He was exhausted. He had felt Montague's antagonism 
during the entire procedure. Old Preston had been right. This fellow 
Montague was hard. Hollingsworth didn't think he was going to care 
much for this cloak-and-dagger business.
	Slater left the restaurant and entered the station again. He 
could smell the coal from the engines, but its pungency was whipped 
away by the wind as soon as he stepped outside. The day was bleak 
but the visibility was good, and he could see the stubby towers of the 
cathedral. He stood on the curb and waited for the commanding 
gestures of the blue-uniformed traffic officer, and then crossed the 
traffic circle. He still had to dodge bicyclists and vehicles of various 
types, and he swore because his suitcase kept banging against his 
shins. He had always expected a people who had lived in a 
dictatorship to be docile in the face of authority, and automatically 
queue up as the English did for theater lines and buses. He was still 
amazed, and invariably irritated, that they did just the opposite, 
stepping on each other's feet, shoving into line, and shouting at one 
another.
	Slater gained the other side and walked into the wind which 
funneled down the street by the Excelsior Hotel. Head down, feet 
wide apart, he pushed his way past the hotel and got into the gray 
Plymouth. Even the elements seemed to be against this assignment.
	Slater sat in the car for a moment and got his bearings. He 
started the motor and turned on the heater. His cheeks were red from 
the wind, and now that he was protected from it, he could feel them 
burning. He put the car in gear and turned it out into the street, waited 
again for the proper signal from the policeman and started out into 
the no man's land. He turned right again toward the Hofbrau Haus.
	The young man had been right. There was very little traffic by 
the Hofbrau Haus and the public parking place was empty. The 
attendant was not on duty and Slater was not dunned for the 
customary twenty pfennigs. He left the motor running and waited.
	Why, he wondered, did they always assign some amateur who 
invariably considered this business some sort of ridiculous game, 
somebody who would undoubtedly blurt out the whole affair at a 
cocktail party?
	A Mercedes with Munich plates pulled up beside him. 
Hollingsworth got out and approached it.
	"Lock your car up, please," he said, "and bring the keys and 
your bag."
	Slater complied and got into the Mercedes. He handed 
Hollingsworth the keys. Hollingsworth took the first left and headed 
for the autobahn.
	Once on the main highway headed for Salzburg, 
Hollingsworth appeared to relax. 
   "My name's George Hollingsworth. What's yours?"
	"Carmichael, Bruce Carmichael," Slater said.
	George was aware that Montague was only a code name used 
for extra security purposes in interoffice and interdepartmental 
correspondence, and he was naive enough to suppose that Slater 
would give a young, untrained Foreign Service officer his right name.
	"Well, Mr. Carmichael," George smiled, "this is a real 
privilege. I realize very few of us know your real name."
	"The fewer the better." Slater's voice was very convincing and 
George winced. He couldn't seem to say the right thing to this fellow 
Carmichael. He'd always heard that the Scots were a dour lot.
	"Call me Bruce," said Slater. "It's much easier."
	Slater smiled. George was amazed. Carmichael had a very 
warm and disarming smile.
	"Well, George, let's have it," said Slater. "What's the bad 
news?"
	George was about to come out flat-footed with what he 
considered the essential information but hesitated. He was aware that 
Carmichael knew nothing whatever so far, and as is usually the case 
with essentials, they had a way of coming out backward, and then 
sometimes turned out not to be the essentials.
	"If you don't mind, Bruce," said George, "I'd like to give you 
the picture chronologically. That way you can better form your own 
judgment."
	Slater looked at Hollingsworth critically for a moment. 
Hollingsworth could feel the appraisal. "Sure thing. Go right ahead."
	Maybe this guy Hollingsworth would turn out all right. Slater 
began to relax.
	"It all started," said George, "when a fellow named Webber, 
who is assistant to the political attache?, entered the Consulate late 
one evening and discovered a man named Wyman photographing 
some reports with the Recordak."
	"Who is Wyman?" asked Slater.
	"Oh, yes. Excuse me," said George. "Wyman is a young vice-
consul like myself." He paused.
	"Go ahead," said Slater. "You're doing fine."
	"Right," said George. "Well, when Wyman saw he was caught 
in the act, so to speak, he told Webber he was trying to get a 
permanent record of certain classified reports for a special project he 
had been assigned. He said, further, that he did not want to wait to 
pull these reports until they were old enough to be destroyed, as that 
might call undue attention to himself and his project.'
	"This could be true, couldn't it?" asked Slater. "I mean it's 
possible that some documents are photographed by Consular officers 
in order to have a permanent record and, at the same time, avoid 
pinpointing their interests to those who have no need to know."
	"Yes, I suppose so," said George, "but it's news to me. 
Actually, it sounds like a good idea."
	"Did Webber say why he was at the Consulate after hours?"
	"Yes," said George, "he said he had come back to pick up one 
hundred Swiss francs which he had left in his desk. He told Wyman 
that and then went to his desk and took out the hundred-franc note."
	"Did Wyman accept that as Webber's excuse?"
	"I don't know."
	Hollingsworth pulled over to let a Volkswagen pass. There 
was no speed limit on the autobahn, and in spite of the slippery road 
conditions, car after car, usually German, sped past them. Slater 
shook his head. He was forced by circumstances to take so many 
chances he couldn't understand anyone taking risks who didn't need 
to. The German road department had apparently never heard of rock 
salt or didn't believe in using it. Although the roads were plowed, 
only the top layer of snow was off, and the road was covered with a 
thick, rutty layer of ice and hard-packed snow.
	"What did Webber do about all this?" asked Slater as he 
watched the Volkswagen speed out of sight over the top of the hill.
	"He went to Mr. Putnam, the Consul General, but apparently 
Mr. Putnam chose to ignore it. That," continued George, "should have 
been the end of it, but Webber was disgruntled, and maybe even 
somewhat embarrassed. In any event, he decided to conduct his own 
investigation. Beyond the fact that Webber decided Wyman was 
definitely living beyond his income and was extremely interested in a 
redheaded Swiss girl by the name of Trude Kupfer, we have little to 
go on. Webber made some notes and put them in his personal file. All 
we really know is contained in a letter from him to Mr. Putnam." 
Hollingsworth took a letter from his inside coat pocket and handed it 
to Slater. Slater opened it. 
DEAR MR. PUTNAM:
	I felt like such a damn fool in your office the other day that I 
resolved either to nail our subject down with facts or go and hide my 
head. I realize I have taken liberties, but please believe me, I have 
done what I have done with the best intentions. I'm writing you this 
because I'm very much afraid I won't be permitted to give you this 
information in person, as I have gotten in way over my head; and I 
don't know how to swim in these waters.
	First of all, if I don't return, I want you to know that it will not 
be because I don't want to, and my disappearance or death—I don't 
think I'm merely being dramatic—will be because of the subject 
under discussion.
	I followed W to Kitzbuhel. He put up at the Winterhof. For 
reasons of economy, and to avoid suspicion, I stayed at a nearby 
pension, the Eggerwirt. Here is the evidence so far:
	1. W said he was only going to Munich, but he went directly 
to Kitzbuhel.
	2. He said he did not like or know how to ski, yet he had ski 
clothes and he rented skis the first day. I don't remember the name of 
the rental place, but it is a little red shack across the road from the 
Talstation, on the right as you face the Hahnenkamm. I believe it's the 
last one on the way to the practice slope. I observed him go up in the 
cable car and waited by the ski school in the hope that he would come 
down that trail. He did—and not very much later. This certainly 
would indicate some real skiing ability as the Streif is an Olympic 
run, very tricky and steep in parts. 
	3. When he left Zurich, both his bank accounts—he has two, 
one under the name of Martin Hazel—were extremely low. (I have a 
friend in the Zuricher Kantonalbank.) After the second day in 
Kitzbuhel, W was suddenly quite affluent and was observed changing 
greenbacks to schillings.
	4. Although the weather has been perfect for skiing, he has 
only been once in the three days up to now.
	5. He has been chummy with no one. He has tried, 
unsuccessfully I believe, to get acquainted with a redheaded German 
woman who calls herself Ilse Wieland.
	6. He is staying in room 28. He has eaten dinner at the hotel 
only once, and that was the first evening. His other lunches and 
evening meals have been taken at various other places in town.   	
    What has made me most suspicious is that I know I am being 
followed. I have tried to keep from being observed by W, but I am 
sure he has seen me, and somehow called out the watchdogs. 
Furthermore, they have become less subtle.
	I cannot describe them too well and I am only sure of two. I 
don't believe they are local, but I think they are Austrians. One of 
them, the taller of the two, looks to be in his middle thirties and is 
over six feet with thin, straight, blond hair, heavy features and small 
eyes. He seems to be posing as a local resident, as he wears work 
boots and brown whipcord trousers that resemble riding breeches. 
The other is dressed like a tourist and recently moved into my 
pension, room 23. He is about five feet, nine inches, has dark, wavy 
hair, speaks German and is very clean shaven. His skin seems to have 
a waxy quality like an artificial apple. He's lean and looks about thirty 
years old. He watches me like a hawk while I'm in the pension; and 
the other one takes over when I'm outside. I haven't been able to get 
the dark-haired one's name as yet, but I wanted to get this in the mail 
in case my time is running short.
	This letter is somewhat cryptic, because I'm having someone 
else mail it for me, and it might get in the wrong hands. The mailman 
is a German by the name of Heinz Mahler who says he was a prisoner 
of war in Russia. I believe he will mail it. He lives in Munich and 
works at the desk of the Bundesbahn Hotel.
	I realize the information is scanty, and you may feel it is my 
imagination. I hope that I will be able to talk to you in person soon. I 
intend to leave here tomorrow morning. If I'm not in Zurich by 
tomorrow evening, you should need no further proof that something is 
wrong. Needless to say, I hope you don't get that kind of proof.
Sincerely.	
C.L.W

P.S. You can check my personal file in the office for other info 
obtained in Zurich. The name of my banker friend is there. Please 
respect the confidence and protect him. He may be useful in the 
future. 

	Slater folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.
	"That fellow Webber shows real promise. He was at a 
tremendous disadvantage. I'd like to talk with him."
	"I'm afraid you can't," said George. "This letter was received a 
week ago, and we haven't seen or heard from Webber since."
	"Looks like whatever Wyman was up to was important, and 
his friends really meant business." Slater turned to George. "What 
about Wyman? Is he back at the old stand?"
	"Yes."
	"Does he really have two bank accounts?"
	"Yes."
	"How do you know?" asked Slater.
	"I phoned Herr Baumann," said George, "and asked if Martin 
Hazel had an account there, and Baumann said yes."
	"Did you find out how much Hazel had in there?"
	"Baumann didn't want to tell me at first, but when I told him I 
was a member of the American Consulate, he said that Hazel had sent 
in a postal money order for $835."
	"Well, he got quite a piece of change." Slater shook his head. 
"I'm underpaid." 
	Hollingsworth looked shocked. George apparently had no 
sense of humor.
	"What about Wyman's Swiss girlfriend? Have you checked 
her?"
	"Only enough to find out," said George, "that she's rather 
promiscuous—for those who can afford her. She showed me some of 
the expensive presents Wyman gave her. I don't like women like 
that," George added decisively. "I would suspect her of anything, 
but," and George looked somewhat crestfallen, "I must admit I don't 
believe she is involved."
	Slater chuckled inwardly at such naivete?, but he was pleased 
that Hollingsworth had been so thorough.
	"Just one more thing, George. I like your thoroughness, but I 
hope you are not as free with names with other people as you have 
been with me. From now on don't volunteer a name, unless I ask for 
it, and please refer to me only as Montague—even when talking with 
Putnam; he knows me by no other."
	"Right!" George tried to cover his embarrassment. "I'll be 
more careful in the future."
	"Does Wyman appear to be suspicious that you are onto him?"
	"No," said George, but there was some doubt in his mind. "I 
don't think so. No one has confronted him with Webber's 
disappearance. To my knowledge, no one has been assigned to watch 
him directly. Mr. Putnam apparently received orders from your office 
to leave him strictly alone."
	"Good." Slater nodded. "Do you happen to know if he's 
planning another excursion?"
	"Yes, as a matter of fact, he has asked for permission to take 
another long weekend. He plans to leave Friday evening and be back 
on duty Tuesday morning."
	"Do you have photographs of Wyman with you?"
	"Yes," said George, secretly pleased, because the pictures had 
been his idea. "They aren't too good, but I believe they are more or 
less characteristic."
	George handed some snapshots to Slater. Slater looked them 
over carefully.
	"He's a good-looking devil. Looks rather husky."
	"He is," said George. "He must weigh 190. His hands and 
wrists are big. His eyes are blue and his hair, as you can see in that 
profile, is short, wavy and thick. He has very expensive taste in 
clothes. He is aggressive and very sure of himself. His one weakness 
seems to be his desire to keep up with the so-called international set."
	Slater was silent. He examined the photographs carefully, 
weighing the odds, and grimly considering what might have happened 
to Webber.
	"Have you a picture of Webber?"
	"Yes," said George frowning. "I had a terrible time finding 
one." George handed him a small passport-type photograph.
	"Is this the best you could get?"
	"It's the only one." George was apologetic. "But," he added, 
"it's a surprisingly good likeness. He's slim, about five ten, and very 
pleasant looking, as you can see."
	Slater looked at his watch. "You better turn around and take 
me back to Munich."
	They were almost at the Rosenheim turnoff, and 
Hollingsworth made the change-over there.
	"We want to know," said Hollingsworth, as he headed the car 
back to Munich, "what information Wyman is taking out, how it is 
transmitted, how he is paid, and by whom. We obviously would 
prefer that you do not disturb the mechanism, if possible, and, of 
course, we would like to get Webber back."
	Slater stared out of the car window. He slumped low in his 
seat. There were a great many things he wanted to say in response to 
that last request. He was boiling inside, and he was tempted to take 
out his anger on Hollingsworth; but he knew Hollingsworth was only 
asking what Putnam had instructed him to ask. Slater looked at the 
snow-covered hills which were higher on this side of Munich—hills, 
which grew larger and taller as you approached Salzburg, and then, if 
you turned south, suddenly became Alps.
	"That was quite a speech you just made," said Slater finally. 
"Putnam must think I'm a one-man army." He shrugged. "I should be 
used to it by now, but I'm not." And then, suddenly, his anger got the 
better of him. "Tell me why, Hollingsworth! Why does Webber's 
return rate such a low priority?"
	Hollingsworth was mortified. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carmichael, 
believe me! I know you don't think much of us amateurs. I know now 
that Putnam was a fool not to have Wyman investigated at once, and 
probably Charlie Webber was crazy to try it on his own." 
Hollingsworth took a deep breath and continued, "There was no order 
to my requests, or Putnam's, I'm sure. Charlie Webber was one of us 
amateurs; and although he was somewhat aloof, he was greatly 
admired."
	Slater was silent. His outburst was inexcusable. He knew well 
enough that Webber, and he as well, were expendable. How he hated 
that word, that word and two others—the "big picture." The Webbers 
and Slaters, or Carmichaels and Montagues, were all infinitesimal in 
the "big picture," but he had only himself to blame. This was a 
voluntary job like all the others. It was simply that now he knew what 
to look forward to. Find Webber. Who is Wyman's employer? Who's 
making the pay-off? How? What has Wyman already told? What will 
be Wyman's next job? To Hollingsworth those requests probably 
sounded like an exciting challenge—a strenuous little game of cloak 
and dagger. To Slater they meant fear, naked stinking fear with death 
at the end, and no recognition should he, by some miracle, be 
successful. This was the last assignment—win, lose or draw. After 
that, somebody else could take his place. In the meantime, he was 
going to stay alive. 
	Slater looked at George. "Forget it, George," he said. "I guess 
I'm a little on edge. We haven't much time. I suggest we arrange our 
future contact procedure."
	"Yes," said George uncertainly. He took his eyes off the 
slippery road for a minute to have a look at Carmichael.
	For the first time, George noted the lines of worry. Carmichael 
couldn't be more than thirty-five, and he looked hard muscled and 
very fit, possibly too much so, like an overtrained athlete. 
Hollingsworth decided Carmichael was like a watch that has been 
wound too tight. Someone or some thing would open the back, and 
the tight mainspring would snap out of its case and strew the works 
all over the place. George felt apprehensive, but not for himself. He 
didn't want to see this man, whose exploits were legend, suddenly 
come apart at the seams. It was George's turn to get angry, angry at 
the people who continued to put the pressure on a man who had 
already done so much. Why couldn't they give him a rest? Montague, 
or Carmichael, was battle-happy.
	Slater knew he was being assessed and he didn't like it. He 
wanted no judgments from a young, smooth-faced diplomat.
	"Give me your phone number in Zurich," said Slater, "and 
always leave a number there where you can be reached at any time of 
the day or night. I don't want you to call me under any circumstances, 
at least for the present. I will arrange for some method of two-way 
communication, when I get located. When I call you, I will call 
myself Karl. Don't be alarmed if you don't recognize my voice. I will 
know yours, and I will always ask you the time before I give you any 
instructions. Do you speak German well enough to understand a 
phone conversation?"
	"Yes. I also speak the Zurich dialect." George was proud of 
his linguistic accomplishments. Much to his surprise, Carmichael 
immediately switched to Zurich Deutsch. George was glad he hadn't 
been bluffing.
	Slater was pleased. There weren't half a million people in 
Europe who could speak or understand Swiss German. The Swiss Air 
Force had spoken it on their intercom during World War II and had 
driven the Germans crazy trying to understand it.
	"All right," said Slater, "now let's set up our meeting places. If 
I suggest on the phone that we have a drink in Munich at the 
Bundesbahn Hotel at ten hundred, that means I'll meet you on the 
southwest corner of the Staatsbrucke in Salzburg at eleven hundred. 
That goes for all meeting times: they will always be one hour later 
than either of us indicates on the phone.
	"If I suggest the Winkler Cafe? in Salzburg, we shall meet 
where we met by the Hofbrau Haus. If you say no, I will expect you to 
be there. If you say yes, but mention another time, I will add one hour 
to your suggestion and be waiting for you at the new time. Should 
either of us give an unqualified yes, that will mean the meeting is out 
of the question.
	"If, for reasons of emergency, either of us wishes to break into 
clear conversation, he must ask, 'How is Horst?' and if the reply is, 'He 
has been ill lately,' we can go ahead. If, on the other hand, the reply 
is, 'He's fine and wants to be remembered to you,' that will mean we 
can't now, and the one who has given the answer will try to call back 
from somewhere else later or will give another number where he can 
be reached in an hour." Slater paused and then asked, "Do you think 
you have all this straight?"
	George frowned. "I think so. Let's see, all meeting times will 
be one hour later than stated. The Winkler Cafe in Salzburg means 
the Hofbrau Haus in Munich, and the Hofbrau Haus means the 
southwest corner of the Staatsbrucke in Salzburg. A negative answer 
means everything is understood and will be complied with. A 
qualified yes with another hour means okay, same place, but at the 
new time, again plus one hour. An unqualified yes means the meeting 
can't be held. I'm not to call you yet. You will identify yourself as 
Karl, and we will speak Swiss German. You will identify yourself by 
asking immediately for the correct time. Should either of us wish to 
break into clear conversation, we should ask how Horst is. If the 
answer is that he's ill, it's okay to go ahead. But if the person says that 
he is fine, then that person will call back as soon as he deems it safe 
to do so or will give another number where he can be reached in an 
hour."
	"Good," said Slater. "This may all seem like hogwash to you, 
but I assure you it's of the utmost importance. Don't forget it.
	"Now," he continued, "the next thing to arrange are the danger 
signals." George looked puzzled. "I've got to know," said Slater, "if 
you think someone is following you. That's for my protection. For 
your protection, you need the same information."
	The word "protection" and the idea of being followed caused a 
responsive twinge in Hollingsworth, but his admiration for the man 
he knew as Carmichael was rapidly increasing.
	"In Munich, I will be standing by the blue-and-white parking 
sign nearest the Hofbrau, and I will be looking for this Mercedes. 
Remember, George, you must always use the same car. If my hat is 
on, keep right on going and wait for me at the Bundesbahn Hotel 
restaurant, where we first met. If I don't show within two hours, forget 
me and go home. I'll try to phone. If I take my hat off, everything is 
all right as far as I know. If the meeting is to be in Salzburg, follow 
the same procedure, but wait for me at the Hotel Horn in the Getreide 
Gasse. Better get a city plan, so you will know where it is. In both 
cases take at least fifteen to twenty minutes to get to the second 
meeting place."
	"Sure," said George, "but why?"
	"Because," said Slater evenly, "if I get there first, I can watch 
you go in and satisfy myself that you aren't being tailed."
	"I see." Putnam had been right; Carmichael was not going to 
trust him entirely. "What do I do to indicate that I'm being followed?"
	"In the case of Salzburg, you will be turning right to cross the 
Staatsbrucke. Turn on your right directional signal and move past me. 
I'll know. In Munich you will be turning left. Use your left signal and 
keep on going. My arrival, before you, at the second meeting place 
will allow me to tell whether you are clean. If I don't meet you, you'll 
know you're still under surveillance." Slater looked carefully at 
George. "If you think you have all that, repeat it. If not, let's go over it 
again."
	The two men went over and over the entire procedure. George 
was finally convinced he had never learned any lesson so thoroughly. 
By the time Slater was satisfied that George had the signals straight, 
they had reached the outskirts of Munich.
	"I have one more request to make, George, before you drop 
me at the Hofbrau. I want you to have Wyman at the bar of the Baur-
au-Lac Hotel in Zurich at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You can invite 
him for coffee."
	"I'll try, but Wyman and I aren't on very good terms."
	"Then get someone else to invite him, Putnam himself, if 
necessary, but get him there. I would like to look Wyman over in the 
flesh."
	"Right." It was obvious that Carmichael really knew his 
business. "I don't suppose I could drive you to Zurich?" George 
smiled. 
	"I'm afraid not." Slater returned the smile.
	The Mercedes maneuvered nicely through the narrow streets 
and George pulled into the parking place by the Hofbrau Haus. Slater 
got out and grabbed his suitcase. He set the suitcase on the sidewalk 
and, keeping the door open, poked his head inside.
	"Hollingsworth," he said, "sorry to have been quite so ornery. I 
think you can see this is no business for amateurs, but I think you'll 
do." George was obviously pleased. "And one more thing, don't worry 
about me. I'll admit I'm honed down pretty fine at the moment, but 
I'm not going to bust apart." George flushed scarlet. "If Webber's still 
alive, I'll get him out."
	Before George could say anything, Slater had shut the door, 
picked up his bag and was walking across the street toward the main 
entrance to the Hofbrau Haus. The wind had picked up the bottom 
flap of his coat, and he was forced to hold onto his hat with his free 
hand. To George, he looked a lonely figure, tall and slim and straight, 
despite the wind. Slater disappeared into the beer hall, and George 
put the car in gear and drove off.
        Carmichael --Montague-- was a strange man, also positively 
clairvoyant. George's face flushed again at the thought that he had 
been caught in judgment. As George turned the corner, he realized 
that, in spite of their long conversation, all he could distinctly 
remember of Carmichael was a strong face, dark hair, green eyes and 
a surprisingly gentle smile. If, as he had said, Webber was alive, 
Carmichael would find him.