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'Have I hell. This is mine - nobody else's. I'm going to do some more checking. I'll keep you posted.'

After he had put the phone down, she got her address book and quickly found Bruno Fischer's number. When he answered, he sounded as if he was still in bed.

'Bruno - Katherine Riley.'

'And what can I do for you so early in the morning?'

'When's John due back from Helsinki?'

'He isn't. He decided he needed a break. Flew straight to Athens and carried on to Hydra. He'll be there now if you want him. You've got the number, haven't you? The one good thing about that barbaric place is that he is on the phone.'

She rang off then turned to another page. One thing about Hydra. It was possible to get through directly by automatic trunk dialling. She punched out the lengthy series of numbers. It took her three separate attempts before she got through.

'John, is that you?'

'Katherine! Where are you?' He sounded pleased.

'Cambridge. I think I can get away for a few days. Can I come over?'

'You certainly can. When do I expect you?'

She glanced at her watch. 'I've a few things to clear up here, but I might just catch the afternoon flight. If not, this evening at the latest. That would mean I couldn't get across to the island till tomorrow morning.'

'I'll have Costantine waiting at the dock for you.' After he had gone, she sat there for a long time without moving. Nonsense! Absolute bloody nonsense and at that moment, she actually found herself hating Asa Morgan with all her heart.

Morgan waited at the counter of the Telegraph information department in Fleet Street. The pleasant young lady, to whom he'd stated his requirements five minutes earlier, returned with a bulky file.

'Mikali - John,' she said, 'and there's a lot of him.'

Which there was. Morgan took it to one of the tables, sat down and started to work his way through. There were gaps of course. The clippings were mainly English and American, but there were also some French. A review of a concert to fit the Vassilikos assassination, another that matched the Russian in Toronto.

Finally, there was an article in Paris-Match which Morgan read slowly. His French was only fair, but he managed to get the gist of it. It was an account of Mikali's time in the Legion and there was a particularly graphic description of the affair at Kasfa.

Then he turned to the next page and saw the pictures. One of Mikali in paratrooper's beret and camouflage uniform, holding a machine-carbine with negligent ease. The other, a close-up of him wearing the regulation white kepi of the fully trained legionnaire.

Morgan looked at that hard young face, the cropped hair, the blank eyes, the mouth. He closed the file. It was enough. He had found the Cretan.

It was just after one when Baker was admitted to Ferguson's flat by Kim. The Brigadier was enjoying a sandwich lunch by the fire. He was also reading The Times.

'You look agitated, Superintendent!'

'Asa's left for Athens on the eleven-o'clock plane. Special Branch at Heathrow had no authority to stop him, but the news did finally percolate through to us.'

'By which time he'd gone, naturally. British Airways, I presume?'

'Olympic.'

'How very unpatriotic of him.'

'I checked with them. It seems he booked the flight by phone and arrived with ten minutes to spare to pick up his ticket. He only had hand luggage with him.'

'Greece,' Ferguson said, 'and Cretan. Somehow they really do seem to fit together, don't they? I don't like it;'

'Do you want me to notify Greek Special Branch in Athens to pick him up?'

'Certainly not.'

'All right, sir, do we have a DI5 man at our Embassy there?'

'Actually we do. A Captain Rourke, assistant in the military attache's office.'

'Maybe he could follow Morgan when he gets in?'

'It's certainly a thought, Superintendent, except for the unfortunate fact that as you yourself pointed out, Asa Morgan can't be followed unless he wants to be. Still, if you'd like to give Rourke a ring, please do so. The red phone generally achieves the