First thing in the morning, Klyne arrived back in the main office at headquarters. He brought with him a selection of black sacks that he placed reverently onto the table. Only after doing this did he speak to Alex Henn.
    "Sir, this is the property of the massacre victims. The FBI have finished with them."
    "Have they found any connections?"
    "Only four instances where there are family ties. Now they want us to examine them. Their clothing will be sent over as soon as it is finished with."
    "I hate this," Henn said sadly. "Rifling through other peoples belongings. No matter how many times I do it, somehow it doesn’t seem right. Are you certain there isn’t a link?" he asked.
    "Apart from the family, Sir," said Klyne. "They say nobody was linked."

With their captive safely locked away Tzavros and Steele made their way to the main office which they entered in a subdued manner. The absence of their usual outgoing behavior, which consisted primarily of arguing loudly while each tried to upstage the other, made Henn eye them carefully and at length. Finally as he concluded that both men were looking pale and drawn he inquired, "Mr. Steele, do you have something for me?"
    Steele handed him the computer printout but kept his eyes averted as he spoke. "Sir, our captive is unfortunately unable to be interrogated at the moment, he... He appears to have had a bit of a stroke."
    "A bit of a what?"
    "Stroke, Sir."
    "Mr. Tzavros, What did you do!?" Henn inquired sternly.
    "He didn’t do anything, Sir."
    "I hope not. The trouble is, I know you Russians and your apathetic, thick-skinned ways of interrogation. You wanted something else, Mr. Steele?"
    "He did say... The captive that is… Before his affliction took hold, that the massacre was both a test for the Guardians and to remove a top agent. He said both parts of the operation had been a success."
    "Mr. Tzavros, do you feel ill?"
    "He’s fine, he had too much Chili last night." Steele explained on Tzavros’s behalf.
    "I think that the over-indulgence was probably of Vodka rather than of Chili," mumbled Henn. The derogatory observations and mumbling over, Henn turned his attention to the message.
    "Blast it! They make it sound as if Kijac killed Vinton or is that what they want us to think?"
    "How long have we had Tzavros?" whispered Proctor.
    "Don’t even think it!"
    Tzavros, without having uttered a word since entering, departed for the laboratory to collect any available results. Steele remained and began helping Klyne to unpack the sacks and place the items on the desks into neat piles. Each item was individually labeled stating which body it came from. A complex folder had been compiled which gave lists of each victim’s known history. The first three, name, address and telephone number on each file were circled together. Work and Political Associations were ringed separately. Connections in these fields were being sought by a veritable army of clerks and computer operators in level 4. Six huge trunks stuffed with telephone bills alone, had been delivered by the Phone Company and were now in the process of investigation.
    Job statuses were being checked in case the victim’s place of work held the connection. As were political affiliations that could always turn into a factor in any investigation. If nothing else, then they had to be eliminated from further inquiry.
    Tzavros returned and went straight to his desk without handing over any of the lab reports. Steele who having noticed the stony expression when Tzavros first walked in the office waited expectantly, but without reward. Curiosity eventually made him ask in a puzzled voice.
    "Zav, is that look because you have the fingerprint results. Or have you forgotten where you parked the car again?"
    Tzavros at first shrugged then glanced in Henn’s direction before speaking. "Oh, I got results. Pray we got computer error or misfile or anything... Anything apart from these being correct. Because... If they are... Well, don’t you even think it. We have to have error."
    Steele scowled at the way Tzavros was whispering and the way he constantly eyed Henn. "Why, what’s the problem with them? Oh, no! They’re not yours are they? Because they’re certainly not mine."
    Taking out the reports, Tzavros read them, slowly and quietly. "Person down alley has blood group B... "
    "Same as you..."
    "Not now with jokes. Person down alley tell where our agents go. Someone with finger Print Code CMORPI. Computer say match confirmed: Sukoloff. V."
    "Well it must be a computer fault, for a start he’s not been injured has he? No, Zav, him a spy? I don’t think so." Lost in their own thoughts they worked on, in silence.
    They had continued like this for quite some time when Tzavros suddenly gave a faint gasp, and froze staring rigidly at a bunch of keys he held before him. One key in particular made him gasp, a gold key, stamped, ‘LAB 1. V.S.’ He continued to stare at it for a few moments more with horror written on his face, then without warning he dropped them onto his desk. He swore when he snagged his fingernail in agitated frustration whilst hurriedly dragging his own bunch of keys out of his pocket and unsteadily he unclipped a similar gold key from the ring. Although he already knew the markings on the key off by heart he took the time to carefully examine them again, ‘LAB. 1. K.T.’ Slowly he laid one key on top of the other, their perfect match confirming what he already suspected. Quickly he examined the other keys on the bunch for any markings and found most had some stamp or other on them, ‘PIA V.S. "Damn it!" he exclaimed and flicked his foot at Steele’s ankle, to draw his attention. "What I do about this?" The questioning whisper left Tzavros like a snake’s deadly hiss.
    Steele took the keys and laid them on his desk, then he reached out and took the magnifier Tzavros held out for him. Tzavros waited, it seemed like an age but was at the most only some few seconds before a strange chortle left Steele’s lips, "Oh, crickey, give me the label."
    His suspicions now confirmed by another, Tzavros passed him a small white ticket marked simply, Found On Body 5.
    The implications multiplied and as the color drained from his face, Steele gave a choked laugh. "This is ridiculous, he’s got a duplicate hasn’t he?... Zav? Listen to me, tell me he has got another set or at least tell me that he has access to another key... Zav?"
    "You know I can’t tell to you that because he can’t have, not for lab. There only two keys as supplied with lock. Keys cut from same piece of metal which fancy electronics in door can recognize instantly. As instantly as they reject all duplicates. Remember the company rep called them imitations."
    "Well he must have done it, somehow."
    "How? Remember we made all those copies to try and bluff systems. Longest one stayed in lock was nearly 1.8 seconds before alarms went off. That was from thousand copies. No, Steele, you know he hasn’t got copy. But has been working in there! How he get in?"
    "Don’t ask me."
    "There’s the finger print! Can computers make error? Will DNA test give same result?"
    They both looked at each other in trepidation, everything starting to take on a sinister meaning. Steele cringed, then he thought to ask, "Zavvy! Just what do we tell Mr. Henn?"
    A cohort of barely audible Baltic expletives delayed any comprehensible reply from Tzavros until eventually he said, measurably, "I don’t know, everything so insane. I mean, what exactly we say?... Hey! Guess what, Mr. Henn? Remember when rescued we was? Well, we didn’t tell at the time but we were rescued by nothing. Same way that nothing blewed ups computers and captured Kijac man. Now guess what discovered we have? You know your friend Sukoloff? Yes of course you do. Well, his fingerprints confirms that bloody handprint found in Morgan’s Alley was his, you knows? Where in same place we was finding Pia shell cases?" Only briefly pausing for a deep breath he continued, "Oh yes, now!!... Keys, his keys, have turned up on somebody. A yet to be identified unknown dead somebody from place where bullets were flying, and up till now we doesn’t know who it is."
    "Calm it, Zav. We have to report it."
    "He would that like, not."
    The conversation ended abruptly however as Sukoloff came in and sitting down near them asked, almost smugly, "this all looks very interesting, What exactly are we doing here gentlemen?"
    Steele eyed him closely, there must have been a trick of the light but he was certain he had noticed a difference. If KIJAC had indeed managed to plant a double agent, then this one was seemingly flawless. In looks and physical shape he was identical. The Russian he spoke was in the same dialect that all translators of regional accents had grown to hate. Tzavros, who had held untold numbers of conversations with Sukoloff about countless subjects over ten years or more, had not spotted anything that could have alerted him to the fact of a substitute being planted. There was nothing anywhere to substantiate his feeling, yet the nagging doubt in his mind continued. If this Sukoloff was a double at best the real one was dead in the mortuary as Body 5. On the other hand the worst case scenario as far as PIA was concerned, would be that he was being held captive. Then thanks to the latest mind adjusting chemical concoctions which KIJAC favored, he could do nothing but reveal all he knew concerning PIA Then again, if he was an impostor why had he rescued Tretow? Surely if he was a KIJAC agent then he would have left him to die? Or was that a ploy to lull them all into a false sense of security? Somehow they had to prove it, one way or the other.
    "I asked what you are doing?" snapped Sukoloff.
    "These are all the belongings from the dead and injured in the massacre, it’s proving more than interesting. You’d be amazed at what we’ve found."
    Taken aback by their obvious anger, Sukoloff casually picked up a pen and read the attached label, Found On Body 12. Carefully he looked around the office, and at the heap of belongings.
    "Sukoloff? I’ll ask you again, how do you get into your lab? Or for that matter, your car?"
    "You asked me that?" he exclaimed.
    "We like to know how they did it?" answered Tzavros tersely. "Replace you that is. What is Sasam? And, how much information have you leaked out?"
    Sukoloff started to laugh, but thought better of it. "Oh, good Lord, you think I’m a double planted by Kijac don’t you?"
    "Too right we do!"
    " No, my friends."
    "Are these your keys?"
    "Yes, you see I was attacked and I didn’t report it, would you? It was all very, very embarrassing and certain items were stolen from me. You’re right, Pia has been infiltrated by a spy and I’ve gone undercover to find the person responsible."
    "Undercover? Don’t talk rubbish, I would have been told."
    "If you are worried then one of you can accompany me wherever I go. Whatever, but we must find this spy before somebody else is killed."
    "Before someone else is killed!" said Steele scowling. "Who did he kill?"
    "All those innocents. He attempted to kill Tretow. My keys please."
    "I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to inform Mr. Henn of our suspicions. You see, we have other things that link you to that alley," snapped Steele.
    "But I already told you other things I’d lost. What was, my gun? I was there, no!"
    "Fingerprints!" spat Tzavros. "You imitation of Sukoloff."
    "Oh, come on now," Sukoloff said giving a thin laugh. "I told you following a suspect I was. It easy to leave fingerprints and you know it."
    Steele then raised a finger and moved it very close to Sukoloff’s face. "Blood stained fingerprints? Yet you’ve got no sign of injury have you. But the blood, and there was enough, was Sukoloff’s. It was Vacily’s blood so it can’t have been yours."
    "Oh, I remember, I had nose bleed... Old age you know. I not a spy... Please, just for a couple of days trust me, I am Sukoloff."
    Tzavros slowly gave him the keys with a warning. "One more leak, one more agent hurt or disappear I will kill you. And, if you are Sukoloff then you know me. Tutor or friend, if you hurt the Pia, I kill. Do we understand each other?"
    Sukoloff looked into the amber eyes, yes, he understood, this man was so like him he knew he would not hesitate at the slightest provocation to kill him. More words now would be quite meaningless and so, with a nod, he left.
    "Why on earth did you give him the keys? If he is a double agent then we are in big trouble. We should just report it and let someone else make the decisions. Plus, he still didn’t tell us how he gets into his lab, or drives his car. He has to be removed. I think he is a ringer. He’s agent X20."
    Giving one of his self satisfied smirks, Tzavros said, "We don’t have proof, yet. And I don’t want to be one to tell Mr. Henn we suspect his friend is dead. Now let’s see?... Yes, that pen, he held it, yes? I will get fingerprints from it and if they don’t match then we have proof that man isn’t Vacily, OK?"
    Steele nodded in agreement, doubtfully. The whole situation was crazy, any sensible agent would have reported this immediately. There again nothing seemed to add up, he could not possibly have been in New York one minute and New Jersey the next without a car, could he?

The fingerprints Tzavros had carefully taken from the pen were confirmed as being Sukoloff’s and with this being so they knew the man in the office was the real thing and not a ringer. Even so, both Steele and Tzavros were surprised, something did not feel right. It was not anything they could put their finger on it straight away, but just something.
    After the large sealed black bag, labeled, Body 5 Possibly PIA, had landed on the desk with a loud thud, Steele tipped out the contents to begin his examination. The loud thud repeated itself as a standard PIA issue holster containing its pistol rolled off the top of the pile of bloodstained clothes and landed on the desk. It was obvious at the first glance, given the amount of dried blood on the jacket and shirt that the wearer had died of massive wounds to the chest.
    Taking the FBI report from the small plastic bag he gave it a cursory scan, then laid it aside. Deciding to start with the holster he picked it up and having extracted the pistol one look was enough to see it had not been in the holster when the man had been hit. He looked again at the way the coagulated blood had been scrapped by the barrel as the pistol had been pushed in. For the merest second his breath faltered as his mind juggled with the idea that someday, someone could be doing this for him. Now, unlike in the early days lost somewhere in the mid sixties, all weaponry had to be anonymous. So taking the serial numbers from both the holster and the pistol he phoned them through to the armory.
    "No, I’m sorry." A shrill over efficient voice at the other end told him. "I am not able to pass on the requested details. The chief armorer has to personally ratify the request and he will contact you with urgency to pass on the details as requested."
    "I need them now! All you have to do is look in the book!"
    "As the chief armourer is not here right now you will have to wait with patience until you are contacted."
    The receiver rattled as he threw back the phone. Nuts, he thought, he only wanted to know who the gun was booked out to last. Tersely he snatched up the jacket from Body 5, certainly this man did not feel much at the end. There was a small hole at the front where the bullet had entered but half of the back had been shredded as the bullet had exited. He knew immediately this was the telltale sign of either a dumdum, or one of those needle filled monsters that burst open when they hit a bone. Steele put his finger through the hole in the sleeve and whistled.
    "Zav! The hand print that we found was the left hand wasn’t it!?" Tzavros’s nodding confirmed it was.
    "Curious." said Steele dryly as he gently wagged his finger through the hole.
    "This is joke. Someone plays kiddings!" said Tzavros heavily. He stood there poker-face holding what once had been a white shirt. "Have you seen the collar?"
    "Yes, It’s got purple lipstick on it."
    "It not lipstick, it’s... Well, it one of my experiments."
    "Your experiments never work."
    "This one did, a little. I invented pen whose ink could be used as a tracker. The ink is invisible and goes bleep. You can track spies for miles."
    "The ink is purple, thick, shiny purple."
    "That the bit that didn’t work. Come to think of it, I expecting him to murder me once he realized it only stayed invisible for three hours. The suit I marked wasn’t cheap one. But he never complained."
    "Look, Zav, you’ve lost me, how do you know it’s your ink?"
    "The secret ingredients in invisible ink when combined with secret ingredients in tracer react to make..."
    "Purple lipstick."
    "No! Well yes, but if I use the scanner..."
    "A flashlight with an orange bulb in it."
    "Yes, no, stop interrupting. The light reacts with chemicals..."
    "Get on with it. I don’t need a lecture."
    "You can see writing."
    "After all that, are you telling me that your tracer is a marker pen?"
    "No, well yes, because chemical which was meant to send out beep..."
    "Didn’t work. How did you mark Sukoloff’s clothes?"
    "The symbol of Pie and a S."
    Steele rifled through the other clothes and shone Tzavros’s orange light on each purple mark. Each time he did the purple vanished to be replaced by Tzavros’ code. Eventually he looked up at Tzavros. "They are all his, aren’t they," he said at length.
    "Yes," replied Tzavros. "They all his, every one carries Sukoloff’s lost property label."
    "Zav, you know he told us that he’d lost a few possessions including his gun, well, in what kind of mugging would he have had all of his clothes stolen? And why was this dead man wearing them all? Even his shorts?" queried Steele.
    "I don’t like this! All these his. Have you ordered tissue type on stains yet?" asked Tzavros. "Because..."
    Steele interrupted while shaking his head. "I daren’t, what if?... I’m terrified they might be... Oh, forget it, you really don’t want to know what I’m thinking."
    As Sukoloff walked in Tzavros whispered. "Get type match done, someone’s playing games. At very best they want us believe that he was shot wearing these clothes."
    An audible yawn heralded Sukoloff’s arrival that broke Henn’s stern features into a smirk, throwing out his bait he commented, "you’re getting old. You’ll have to cut down on the late nights."
    The hook taken immediately, Sukoloff responded with a knowing smile and said, "I had a very early night, thank you."
    Henn’s lip twisted slowly, then his smirk opened into the broadest of smiles. This was the ammunition he had fished for, all he had to do was reel him in. "Well that’s the problem you see, you’re too old for very early nights, play cards or something less energetic."
    Landed, gutted, cleaned and ready for the kitchen, Sukoloff tutted, glowered at Henn, then turned and walked off until he planted himself, not to lightly on the stool next to Steele. There he slouched, elbows on desk, looking straight ahead.
    When asked, Steele politely though reservedly, informed Sukoloff of their new finds who shrugged at the news. Then having stood up he mumbled matter-of-factly he would find out about their mysterious Body 5.
   After spending some thirty minutes on the telephone while sitting at the desk in the corner Sukoloff made a number of calls. He spoke in a low tone with various authorities and eventually they heard him say bluntly, "No, it’s definitely not one of our men." Then replacing the receiver he rose and left without a word.

Information coming in from Henn’s field operators was scarce and so far only two small outposts with a possible connection to KIJAC had been found. There had been no sign whatsoever of the main base, nor for that matter, had there been any sign of either King or Bajak.
    On Henn’s most urgent orders electronic sweepers had chased around the whole of PIA headquarters looking for hidden bugs and microphones. In only a few days, Henn had taken the whole organization from private investigations to the secret agency it had once been. Every computer code had been changed and the communications console completely dismantled and reassembled. Closed departments were reopened. Security cards given out. Anybody within a five mile radius of headquarters who at any time had appeared to have a connection with KIJAC... However remotely, at any time, and for whatever reason, had been put under surveillance.
    Klyne and Tanen were assigned one of these rewarding joys of life, that of trailing a suspect. It usually turned out to be one of the most monotonous jobs possible, but there was always the chance of some unexpected high adventure.

They had followed their two charges almost till lunch time. Occasionally they had snapped candid film of them, both still and moving, as and when they thought it necessary. Klyne had also snapped one of Tanen’s front teeth. As he was about to take another all action picture of their charges eating incriminating hot dogs, Klyne caught him unawares whilst performing a particularly neat emergency stop routine between a bus and a garbage truck.
    Stringing together a series of deleted expletives Tanen had called in to headquarters. He had reported his injury and no-one at headquarters was amused, the laughter in the background was only at a joke someone had told before he called in. Eventually, through the titters, he had managed to make arrangements to see the organizations’ dentist back at headquarters as soon it was practicable for him to do so. A quick job he was assured, but he still remembered his last visit. Now he was accompanying Klyne in pursuit of their quarry toward Central Park. His lips were tightly clamped, though irreverent muttering still came from the side of his mouth. Seeing the two men sit on a vacant bench and take out their lunch, Tanen motioned he was off to the dentist and left Klyne to continue the surveillance alone.
    Having taken off his jacket, Klyne laid it on the rough grass, just far enough away to not be obvious but close enough to be able to watch them. He had sat there maybe a full half hour in the heat of the sun when he sighed in boredom. He was too far away to overhear their conversation and they did not look as if they had any intention of moving. He lay down and watched them whilst leaning on his elbows, but the grass was taller than he had imagined. He scanned the park and on another bench just a little further away but to his right two of New York’s finest young ladies were eating lunch. They were scantily clad and sunbathing during lunch. Now this held more interest. He glanced over occasionally to the two men but more and more of his time was spent watching these two girls. What were they? Secretaries, dancers, models, the list, like his fancies was endless.
    His daydreams vanished as he jumped in surprise when a shoe poked him in the ribs and the man who had joined him sat down next to him.
    "Cor, Mr. Steele, how long have you been here? You made me jump. I thought I was good at sneaking but that was clever."
    "Training, I was taught by the best remember. Now is there anything happening?" Steele pointed towards the two men, "On that bench?"
    Klyne shrugged. "Nothing that seems very important. They’re sunbathing I think or maybe they’re bird fanciers. You know the feathered kind not the kind you fancy. I think they’re harmless and we’re just wasting our time."
    "Bird fanciers, the kind I fancy!" teased Steele. In one motion he suddenly signaled Klyne to silence and dropped down next to him. A third man was joining the two on the bench, Steele whispered urgently, "Klyne, start filming... Now!"
    Klyne raised the camera and squinted. "What am I filming? I can’t see properly." He was still lying flat so the grass just obscured his view. Holding the camera up above the grass and pointing he hoped, at the bench. Under orders from Steele, he kept the button depressed and the camera took shots automatically until the film ran out. Keeping to their ‘low’ profile they waited until their targets were on the move and followed at a discreet distance. When, well before leaving the park, the three men separated, Klyne was given orders to follow and report on the newcomer. While Steele would return to headquarters, taking the film with him for immediate processing. The other two targets would have to be worked again later.
    Told that he would have to wait one hour or so before he could see any prints, Steele took a stroll over to the debriefing center. He was certain their captive from the raid on the KIJAC base in Morgan’s Alley could shed some useful light on matters.
    He swore, after today he would become a pessimist, they only get pleasant surprises. Having arrived full of optimism, he was swiftly disappointed when as soon as he arrived he was informed the captive was a raving screwball and to forget any idea of anything worthwhile coming from their questioning. Until now he had jabbered ceaselessly, about floating ropes, about exploding computers and about ghosts. Every question put to him was answered in some gibberish, in most cases the answer had nothing even to do with the question. Sometimes apparently he became even more hysterical, screaming things such as, "Help, don’t let him get me!" While he would point, despairingly, usually at an empty corner of the room.
    The optimism rushed back as quickly as it had departed, there was information to be had here, he could feel it. Dismissing the men Steele told them he would try a different, gentler, man on man approach. But that takes two to make it work. The instant the captive saw Steele he went berserk.
    

"No! Not you, go away. He always follows you about," he wailed pitifully, then having raced to all the corners of the room in an attempt to find an exit he hurled himself at Steele’s feet and moaned. "Oh, please don’t let him get me." Equally suddenly he shot to his feet and stood in front of Steele, hands on Steele’s shoulders he looked him straight in the eyes and pleaded. "Look, tell him I wasn’t the one who ordered him killed. Just tell him it was King that gave the orders. As soon as King saw him there he almost jumped for joy, ‘Get him!’ he said. ‘That’s one of them. Kill him! Then there’s only Henn left. With their best gone Pia won’t be able to stop me.’" Letting go of Steele’s shoulders he sat on a chair, then continued, now in a much more subdued manner. "So we chased after him. He didn’t look that great. Just an old man who was trying to run." He paused for breath and Steele sat in the other chair, his mind racing. The man continued, his voice now at a normal pitch, for all the emotion it now showed he could have been reading aloud from the telephone book. "That is until they shot him. Then he was different. You see, he just stood there. He had this great big hole through his chest. Blood was spurting out of both the front and the back and he just stood there on the plate looking up at the sun. He didn’t even cry out. He just stood there proudly grinning." The voice rose in pitch again. "I know why he was grinning. You see, all the time he was planning to come back and haunt us. King was wrong you see. Removing Henn and Sukoloff won’t make it easier for Sasam. It will make it worse." He was screaming at fever pitch again by now. "It will make it worse because ghosts can fight ghosts. Tell him I didn’t do it, tell Karlof..." His words then descended into gibberish again and insane laughter reverberated around the room.
    There was no more to be learned here today, if ever again. With a cold shudder coursing through him Steele left the debriefing room. On the way past, he told the staff he now agreed with them, he too was certain the man was mad.
    When he left the debriefing section, Steele headed back to the main office, there were matters troubling him, not least the interview he had just had. Feeling himself trembling he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers as he walked slowly, head bowed in deep thought, towards the main office door. It was a funny thing, he thought, the point at which you draw the line relating to madness. Take for example the KIJAC agent he had just listened to. Every one who had contact with him regarded him as mad, totally mad with incoherent rambling and jabbering. Yet that man had for just a few minutes related to him the same things he himself had witnessed, and while doing so he seemed sane, totally sane yet very, very frightened. His head swam, as two comments the man had made, ‘Go away, he always follows you about!’ and ‘I didn’t kill him, tell K Karlof...’ echoed repeatedly around the inside of his head until they reached a pitch. Steele stumbled, the noise stopped and he regained his composure, was he going mad too? What was so desperate he wanted... ‘Tell Karlof...’ Tell Karlof what? Who was Karlof? He rolled the possibilities over in his mind a number of times, Karlof, Su-Karlof! Surely this man did not mean Sukoloff? Did he mean, ‘tell Sukoloff that he did not kill him...’ Steele banged his fist into the wall and thought, Blast! He’s not the only one off his trolley, I am too. He needed people, badly. As a drunk Steele shook his head to sober himself then entered the main office.
    Inside the office he planted himself between Tretow and Klyne while hoping nobody had noticed his antics outside. It took a little time to catch Tzavros’s eye but he had managed a quick signal to let him know something certainly was amiss. However before any further communication could be had they were interrupted by the hustle and bustle of the photographic labs’ whiz-kid technician.
    "Wow, clever pickies Mr. Steele, Sir." He said throwing a pile of photographs onto the desk in front of Steele. "I delivered them myself, just like you ordered... Call me if you need any enlargements." He left after dissolving into riotous laughter.
    Unperturbed by the sneers, Steele casually picked up the pictures and started to flick through them, God, he thought, was I like that at the same age. There was nothing "clever" about them, they were just the usual stakeout photos. These were pictures of two men walking. The men eating hot dogs and pointing at pretty ladies. Pretty ladies Klyne, he mused, he definitely had a point with those two in the park. God, Klyne, you wasted a lot of film on these. Two men sat on a bench and... He whistled, then turned the photo to look at it from different angles. He handed it to Klyne. "Do you remember this?"
    He shook his head. "No, Mr. Steele. If you remember my view through the grass wasn’t that good in that particular direction."
    Puzzled, Tzavros scowled as he watched Steele scribble a note which when finished was passed over to him together with the photograph. The message on the note simply read, ‘He wasn’t there!’