Chapter Twelve.

Tamás Berényi glanced at Stacey and Sándor Reisz.

'Have either of you any thoughts?'

Reisz shrugged.

'It's true what Stendal said. I don't think that we can touch Drescher; but I don't like the thought of a Mossad hit squad running loose in the city.'

Stacey spoke up.

'It won't be a Mossad squad. They use agents to collect intelligence, and conduct covert operations and counter-terrorism. Their primary focus is on the Arab nations and pro-Arab organisations. They won't even be Shin Bet… Israel's internal security service. My best guess is that they will be from a clandestine operations branch known as Metzada, which executes politically sensitive actions which include assassinations and sabotage against foreign targets that are considered a significant threat to Israeli National Security. They are one of the world’s most efficient killing machines. Once Jacob Stendal has made his telephone call, Drescher and Nagler are as good as dead.'

Studying the looks on Berényi's and Reisz's faces; she added;

'There is no point in trying to intercept them. You will not see them; you will not ever get to hear about them… and all you will find is the result of their operation. They are Ghosts. You could have one of them standing next to you on a tramcar, or pulled up next to you at a road intersection and you would never have the slightest suspicion that they were anything other than what they appeared to be.'

Tamás Berényi gave Reisz an uneasy look. That was all he needed; an Israeli execution team roaming the city. He was about to say something, when there was a knock on the door. The young girl officer entered carrying a thin cardboard box on top of which were neatly folded a pale blue shirt and a pair of dark blue slacks. She smiled at Stacey and turned to Berényi.

'The uniform and other garments, Major.'

She placed them on the desk, saluted, and left the office.

Tamás Berényi stood and glanced at Reisz.

'Come on Lieutenant; let's give Officer Mckenna a little privacy whilst she changes out of those ruined garments.'

He turned back to Stacey.

'I hope they fit you. Can I do something about shoes?'

She shook her head.

'At the moment, I don't think even a pair of slippers would work. I'll make do with the bandages… but, perhaps a pair of thick socks might help.'

He nodded.

'I'll see what I can do.'

As he and Reisz left the office and closed the door Stacey opened the thin cardboard box. Nestling in a wrapping of tissue paper, she discovered that Officer Kovács had not been particularly sparing with the Police Finance department's money. She had purchased a set of German "Triumph" brand lingerie, beautifully finished with lace. Stacey checked the bra label. 75B! Slipping off the tattered remains of her blouse, she tried the bra… perfect fit! The matching briefs were size 36. They too, fitted snugly. She reached for the shirt. It was standard Police issue; size 36; long sleeved, with two breast pockets… it buttoned in the correct way for a female, and had darts at the sides so that it wouldn't resemble a tent! The slacks were also a reasonable fit. Now, all she needed to do was something with her hair. She really needed to wash it, but there was probably not much chance of that until she managed to get back to her hotel.

Searching around Tamás Berényi's desk she found a fairly thick elastic band. Winding up her hair into a pony-tail, she twisted it into a neat bun and secured it with the liberated elastic band. Then she sat in a corner chair and gazed out of the window; waiting for the Major's return. She waited for ten minutes before Tamás Berényi reappeared. He held out a pair of thick, woollen socks and smiled.

'Here you are. Boot socks as worn by our patrol officers in winter. They're not exactly "à la mode" for attractive young ladies; but they will give some extra protection to your poor feet.'

Stacey smiled as she carefully put them on.

'Thank you. Major. Somehow don't think that the need for "à la mode" comes anywhere near it at the moment.'

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A youngish sergeant entered and informed them that the Embassy car had arrived for Stacey. Tamás Berényi took her arm and helped her to the door. She smiled.

'Thank you Major; these socks really help.'

As the young sergeant held out his arm to support she turned back to Berényi.

'Could you keep me informed of developments concerning Kóbor? I will be able to be reached at Táncsics Mihály Street 9, in the Budapest Castle District.'

Berényi smiled.

'You may depend upon it, Miss Mckenna. I know the address.'

What he didn't say was that he was fully aware that Táncsics Mihály Street 9 was also the address of CIA Station, Budapest.

The black Mercedes-Benz swept down through Rákóczi Avenue towards the Danube crossing at the Elisabeth Bridge, and turned north onto the Pest Embankment, heading towards the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. As the driver entered the square in front of the spectacular Hungarian Academy of Sciences building the driver spoke over his shoulder.

'This is Roosevelt Square, Ma'am. It was named after good old Franklin D. in 1947; and across on the other side of the river, you get a great view of Buda Castle Hill. This side of the river is Pest, and the other side is Buda... hence the name Budapest. Once across the bridge, the Station is only about a mile through the Castle quarter. You'll like it. It's the old Joseph Barracks right in the middle of the historic area.'

Stacey nodded. Her feet were hurting and she desperately wanted to shower and wash her hair. She was in no mood for tourist information; but this young marine was only trying to keep her entertained. She decided to play along.

'It really is a beautiful city. It reminds me of Paris.'

She glanced down at the two elegant black leather attaché cases on the rear seat beside her that Malachi Spelling... the Chief Cultural Attaché at the Israeli Embassy in Vienna had supplied to her, and Menke as part of the collaborative assignment between the CIA and Mossad relating to the Operation Plumbat information intercept designated "The Nimrod Manifesto." She sighed softly. He wouldn't need this attaché case now. Although she had been working closely with him she hadn't managed to get close enough to him. He was cold, and single-minded... he had to be. It was a pity; she had liked him, and had been attracted to him... though perhaps not in the same way that she had cared for Sandman... Alex Shepard; her sometime partner back in Laos.

In the quiet moments, she still wondered whether she and Alex would ever have become a permanent item if he had not disappeared into the South China Sea after the Starlifter they were aboard had crashed off the end of the runway and broken up upon impact with the Ocean after being hit by hostile fire as it took off from Cam Ranh Bay Air Base in South Vietnam. His body was never recovered and he had long since been posted as "Missing in Action."

Táncsics Mihály Street was about three hundred yards long with a distinct dog-leg just over half-way down its length. The cobbled street was lined with fine houses with colourful façades in the Baroque or Neo-classical style. The old Joseph Barracks building was a three-storey structure about two-thirds of the way along on the right-hand side; at the point where the street dog-legged to the west. The building itself, had a central baroque gate with an arched frame. Nine windows spanned each of the upper floors; whilst, on the ground floor, four windows flanked each side of the central entrance. The building's ground floor was finished in what Stacey would describe as a Tuscan yellow paint; although the Hungarian name for it was probably something completely different; and the upper two floors were finished in a soft, creamy-beige colour. The driver slowed, and turned the Mercedes-Benz into a narrow, cobbled alley on the right-hand side, three building further along the street.

The alley led to a roadway flanked by a wall that he said was the top of the old Castle walls; and the last remaining city gate... the famous Vienna gate; was about one hundred-and-fifty yards to the left; along the roadway that topped the wall. Turning to the right; he drove slowly along the roadway for a couple of hundred feet at which point the roadway curved to the right into the courtyard behind the building at number nine; which he remarked had been owned by the U.S. government since 1948. One the left side of the courtyard was a three-storey, rectangular, high-roofed building that he said was called the Powder House. It was surrounded by a dried-up moat, and studded with heavily-grilled windows. This, he said, had been the old Habsburg prison. On the other side of the courtyard were two, one-story side annexes. He added that these had been built at the end of the last Century to serve as the Town Military Command… the Platz Kommando Gebaude.

The main building had a row of nine arches on the ground floor which fronted an enclosed arcade; the central arch of which, was larger, and fronted a pair of Baroque gates similar to those at the front of the building. The upper two storeys mirrored the front of the building with nine windows on each floor. The driver stopped the Mercedes-Benz; got out and opened the door for Stacey. As he did so; a youngish man with a buzz-cut hairstyle, and wearing in a sharp suit with a faint bulge under the left arm… a hint of the shoulder holster housing his sidearm… stepped forward out of the shadows of the arcade. Carrying the two attaché cases, Stacey stood awkwardly on the warm concrete; aware that the shapeless police uniform and especially, the thick woollen socks… less shoes, was not, perhaps, the most elegantly fashionable attire. The driver approached the young man and introduced Stacey; saying that Mr. Hallahan wished to see her. The young man studied Stacey.

'Might I ask what is in the attaché cases?'

She raised an eyebrow.

'You might ask; but that information is for the Chief of Station.'

His right hand immediately moved towards his shoulder holster… then a voice behind him broke the portentous silence that had descended on the courtyard.

'Stand down, Pierce. It's not your call.'

The young man turned and looked back towards the arcade. Standing there was a tall, elegant man; a little over six-feet-tall. His black hair was shot with grey at the temples. His nose was rather long and angular. Full lips, cleft chin; cheekbones broad and square. There was a hint of the Anglo-Saxons in his eyes... very quick and watchful... pale blue-grey; like the northern seas on a stormy day. He had a confident walk, not an arrogant swagger or a march; but a crisp, purposeful stride that seemed to propel him effortlessly across the pale concrete courtyard towards her. He smiled.

'Good afternoon, Officer Mckenna. I am James Hallahan; Chief of Station. We have been expecting you. I understand that you have suffered a little damage…'

He glanced down at her feet.

'May I help you with those cases?'

She nodded, and handed them to him. As they were about to enter the building, he noticed that she was limping. Pushing the left-hand door open, he called inside…

'Everett!'

A voice responded.

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'Yes Sir?'

And a huge Marine Security Guard wearing Master Sergeant's insignia of three Stripes, Crossed Rifles, and three Rockers came forward and snapped to attention. James Hallahan motioned towards Stacey.

'Mr Everett; The Lady has injured feet. Be so good as to carry her up to my office, if you would.'

Master Sergeant Everett nodded.

'Yessir!'

He stepped forward and picked Stacey up in his arms, as though she weighed no more than a small child being carried upstairs at bedtime. As she wrapped her arms around his massive neck to steady herself; she recollected with a twinge of melancholy that the last time she had been picked up in a man's arms; the arms had belonged to Alex Shepard… Sandman; who had picked her up in his arms and carried her to her room at the Marble Mountain Air Facility at Da Nang, South Vietnam, almost a year ago in the late autumn of '68… that first time they had made love.

Master Sergeant Everett carried her up a spectacular three-armed staircase to the second floor as though she weighed little more than a down pillow. At the head of the stairs, he turned left into a long corridor that ran the length of the upper floor; paused at the third door on the right and opened it. The room was large and elegant; the décor was unspoilt Baroque. He gently placed her into a substantial armchair in front of a magnificent desk in front of the window which overlooked the courtyard. She smiled at him.

'Thank you, Mr Everett.'

The big Master Sergeant stepped back.

'You're welcome, Ma'am.'

Then turned, and left the room as James Hallahan entered carrying the two attaché cases. He placed them on top of each other on the desk and sat down behind the desk in a similar armchair flanked by the obligatory, artistically draped, Stars and Stripes flag. She leaned forward and motioned to the uppermost attaché case.

'That's the case that Officer Menke was issued with at the Israeli Embassy in Vienna. It contains the documentation and currency forwarded by Langley with regard to the execution of the Nimrod Manifesto operation. It also contains his Mossad ID documentation and his sidearm which were retrieved for me by the Hungarian Police Major who was our liaison in Budapest. I had thought to return his personal effects to the Israeli Embassy here; but, circumstances overtook me before I could do so.'

James Hallahan opened Menke's attaché case, and whistled softly between his teeth.

'Well; the DD/o certainly gave you the whole shebang! I'll despatch the documents back Stateside by Diplomatic pouch, and send Officer Menke's ID across to the Israeli Embassy in Fullánk Street by courier. Keep a hold of the currency; and you might as well keep Officer Menke's Beretta... it might come in useful because it can't possibly be traced back to us. I'll have our armourer look it over and decide whether it suits you as a back-up piece.'

He pressed a concealed button under the edge of his desk; placed the Beretta in front of him; closed the attaché case; and placed it on the floor. Within a couple of minutes there was a knock on the door. Hallahan stood up from behind the desk; walked to the door and opened it; to allow a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties; wearing thin-rimmed spectacles and a white lab coat to enter. He introduced the man to Stacey.

'This is Marius Neumann; our armourer. There isn't much that he doesn't know about firearms. He was deputy head of the small arms proving detachment of the Reichszeugmeisterei at the Bergen-Hohne Training Area in the southern part of the Lüneburg Heath, in northern Germany during the War; and afterwards he was one of the German scientists recruited by us under the Operation Paperclip programme.'

He handed the Beretta across the Neumann.

'Marius; could you go and check out this weapon to see if it is suitable for the Lady?'

Neumann took the weapon and glanced at Stacey. He nodded.

'A little heavy, perhaps; but I will give it a thorough inspection. It should take me about twenty minutes.'

As he left the room she turned back to Hallahan.

'Considering what has happened; is "Nimrod" still viable, Mr Hallahan?'

Hallahan nodded.

'Of course. I have been in contact with my opposite number at the Israeli Embassy; and he informs me that Officer Jacob Stendal will be leading the hunt for this Hungarian courier. We will of course, provide him with back-up in Budapest; but, if my suspicions about Officer Stendal are correct; he won't need much help from us.'

Stacey nodded.

'From the way he was talking when I last saw him at Budapest Police headquarters; I'm pretty certain that they will be pulling in one of their assassination squads to take out both the courier, Kóbor, and the two men who roughed me up. Then, of course, there is whoever executed Officer Menke. I have a nasty feeling that World War Three is about to break out on the streets of Budapest, and our guys really must be aware of what they are about to be facing.'

Hallahan gave her a thin smile.

'Not your concern, Officer Mckenna. As soon as the medics have attended to your feet and declared you able to walk about; you will be flying to Tel Aviv to intercept whichever Nimrod courier turns up there. We are in close liaison with the Israelis in this matter and any developments will be signalled to the Tel Aviv Station Chief.'

He was interrupted by the armourer returning. He looked up and said,

'Well, Marius? What's the verdict?'

Marius Neumann placed Menke's Beretta on the desk. He turned to Stacey.

'What is your weapon of choice, Miss Mckenna?'

She studied the Beretta on the desk and looked up at him.

'I carry a nine-millimetre PPK/S.'

He motioned towards the Beretta.

'This cannon is twice the length and almost twice the weight. It also carries an extra round in the magazine; and the balance is not up to your PPK/S. I think that you might well find it unwieldy. The muzzle velocity is almost half as much again and because of that; the recoil is… shall we say?... robust. The good point is that it's a second series, Egyptian Contract 951. The sights are slightly larger; it has a simplified, narrower grip and external "thumb-spring" magazine release, rather than the push-button release in the lower-right grip of all other 951 versions. Its reputation for accuracy, power, and uncanny reliability in desert conditions is unparalleled; and the nine by nineteen-millimetre Parabellum it uses is the world's most popular and widely used military handgun cartridge... which I guess is why Officer Menke carried this weapon. However; my opinion is that you would be better suited with your existing weapon.'

Hallahan nodded.

'Thank you. Marius.'

Neumann smiled at Stacey and left the office. Hallahan pushed the Beretta across the desk.

'Take it with you. It might be useful as a clean back-up weapon. Now; let's get you out to a safe house and arrange for the medics to attend to you.'

Gusts of icy wind knifing in from the Danube buckled the mullions and rattled the panes in the windows of the corner apartment on the top floor of the safe house lost in the labyrinthine streets of the Buda hills. Much of the area was honeycombed with medieval passageways and cramped courtyards; damp, and smelling of the sewers. The black Mercedes-Benz slowed and came to a halt in a narrow cobbled lane off Országház Street in the heart of the Castle Quarter. Master Sergeant Everett jumped out at the same time as the driver began to open his door, and made his way around to Stacey's door, offering her his hand as the door opened. She took a deep breath to counteract the pain in her lacerated feet before taking his hand, and gingerly placing her feet on the uneven cobblestones. He smiled, and, again, picking her up in his arms as though she weighed less than a child; strode into a narrow alley flanked by towering buildings. He glanced at the driver, who was moving ahead, with his hand already resting on the butt of his automatic in the holster at his waist. Everett glanced at Stacey.

'Sorensen is taking point to check out the safe house, Ma'am. It's about sixty yards farther on through a snarl of alleyways and passages. No one will ever get to you in here unless they have been given exact directions.'

The old safe house was unobtrusive; located as it was, down the maze of meandering passages, between ancient apartment blocks rearing over narrow grey alleyways; and flanked by shadowy chasms of flaking, smoke-grimed stucco that was the very heart of this ancient quarter of the city. The building was entered by way of a massive, arched entry door from which the dark green paint was flaking. Sorensen was waiting by the entrance. He nodded to Everett.

'All clear, Master Sergeant.'

To the left of the entrance, an unused concierge's room guarded the narrow hallway and stairs. As Everett carefully carried her up the staircase she wondered whether she would still be in Budapest when Stendal unleashed his executioners. They were probably en route from their shadowy base somewhere out in the inhospitable wastes of the Negev Desert in Southern Israel right now. On the top-floor landing, Everett put her down carefully; supporting her weight until she was standing comfortably. He nodded.

'There you go, Ma'am. Mr Hallahan has arranged for a medic to come and see to your feet. He'll be along directly. Anyone else who turns up will be one of the bad guys; so stay sharp.'

She nodded.

'Thank you, Mr Everett; I'll be ready.'

He smiled, and started back down the stairs. As he reached the intermediate landing, he turned and glanced back at her.

'Take care, Ma'am.'

She smiled, and turned to the dark-wood door of the apartment. It was unlocked; the double locking, rim dead latch bolt was retracted. She hesitated. This was the safe house; but it was always better to be vigilant… you tended not to end up dead that way. Drawing her Walther, she silently cycled the slide and flicked off the safety. With the condition of her feet, kicking the door open was not an option. Nudging the door open with her hip, and holding the Walther in the stable, two-handed grip, she surveyed the room. It was deserted. The apartment had been obviously uninhabited for quite some time. It was basically a bed-sit; with one room laid out as living and sleeping space. It contained a table and chairs, two old, but comfortable armchairs; and a separate toilet and bathroom. The cooking facilities and sink were in one corner opposite a large, single bed. Next to the stove and sink were an ancient washing machine and an equally ancient refrigerator. The walls were papered in Anaglypta, which was painted in a soft, powder-blue colour. For what it was; the apartment, although slightly shabby, was well equipped and not overlooked by the neighbouring buildings.

Gingerly; so as to keep her full weight off her feet, she crossed to the window and glanced out from behind the sun-discoloured net curtains. The building opposite had no windows facing her… just a blank, stuccoed wall. The courtyard below had only one access leading back out into the maze of deep alleyways. She smiled. This safe house had been carefully selected. It was as secure as any safe house ever could be… one way in, and the same way out… and nobody could keep the place under covert surveillance. Satisfied; she turned to check the place out. The refrigerator contained two fresh bottles of milk, eggs; and a selection of cheese and butter. Above it was a large, double-door cupboard built into the wall. This contained cereals, a loaf of bread; a packet of a somewhat dubious-looking Russian Caravan tea, a tin of Nescafé coffee; and a bottle of Jack Daniel's black label, ninety-proof Tennessee whiskey. The cupboard also contained the usual domestic crockery and cooking utensils.

Stacey smiled to herself. At least she could have a half-decent cup of coffee. A pity it was freeze-dried, and not freshly-ground coffee; but if it had been good enough as a staple for the guys fighting in Europe and Asia during the last war; it was good enough for her. As she was boiling a kettle on the stove, she heard a knock on the door. Picking up the silenced Beretta that she had laid on the table; she limped to the opening side of the door and stood against the wall. A muffled voice spoke.

'Miss Mckenna? I'm James Campbell; with the medical facility at the Embassy. Mr Hallahan asked me to call round.'

Cocking the Beretta; Stacey slipped off the dead latch and replied.

'OK. Come in.'

The door opened, and a youngish man stepped over the threshold to find himself staring into the black, impersonal eye of the silencer. He was carrying a well-worn, Gladstone-type doctor's bag. He gave her a nervous smile.

'Good afternoon, Miss Mckenna. Mr Hallahan said that you needed to have your feet attended to.'

She lowered the Beretta and stepped back.

'Sorry, Mr Campbell. You just can't be too careful.'

He nodded; walked over to one of the armchairs, and placed his bag on the floor beside it. As she watched; he pulled the cheap coffee table across in front of it and moved the other armchair to a position opposite and in front of it. He asked her to sit in it. Opening his bag he pulled out a selection of medical instruments and a pack of dressings. He then asked her to put her feet up on the table and sat down in the other armchair. With infinite care, he removed the heavy Police boot socks and began to unwind the soiled bandage around her left foot. He studied the sole of her foot and glanced up at her.

'Jeez! It looks as though you've been running through broken glass.'

She nodded.

'That's exactly what I had to do.'

He winced.

'OK. Let's have a look at the other foot.'

With the other bandage unwrapped, he studied her feet.

'Well; whoever patched you up did a good job. I can't see any remaining glass splinters or signs of infection. I'll clean the lacerations again and re-dress them.'

He reached into the depths of his bag and withdrew a wad of absorbent cotton and a small phial of liquid. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves; he raised an eyebrow.

'This is probably going to sting. It's surgical alcohol; but it's the only thing I have available over here.'

Stacey gave him a thin smile.

'OK, Doc; let's do it!'

James Campbell tore off a ball of the absorbent cotton; poured a little of the phial's contents onto it, and studied her.

'I'm not a doctor… just an ex-Military medic who's now a lowly civilian Medical Assistant. Are you ready?'

She nodded, and winced as he gently swabbed the lacerations to her left foot, and then repeated the procedure with her right foot, using a fresh ball of alcohol-soaked absorbent cotton. He replaced the latex gloves with a fresh pair and glanced up at her.

'Yeah; that smarts a little doesn't it?... But I have something here that will help. It has a mixture of ingredients which have protective, soothing, analgesic, and anti-bacterial properties.'

He rummaged in his bag and brought out a small, pale yellow-and-blue, flat circular tin about two inches in diameter and three-quarters of an inch deep. He held it up for her to see. Across the blue band in the centre of the lid was blazoned the word "Germolene" in elegant white script with the words "Aseptic Ointment" beneath it.

He smiled.

'It's made in England. I managed to get this from a friend at the British Embassy.'

Unscrewing the lid, the thick, pink ointment it contained smelled of hospitals and quickly permeated the whole room. It smelled as if it would cure even the bubonic plague. He applied the cream and rubbed it in gently; then applied more to a piece of soft, white gauze, and placed it on the sole of her foot. He then applied a fresh bandage and secured it with surgical tape. Moving to her right foot, he repeated the procedure, removed his latex gloves, and put the lid back on the little tin.

He looked up.

'How does that feel?'

She smiled.

'A lot better. Thank you.'

He nodded.

'Just take it easy and stay off your feet for a while. This ointment is really impressive, and will start the healing process in just a few days. You'll smell like a dentist's surgery for day or so; but it really will be worthwhile.'

As he began packing his medical paraphernalia back into his bag, he glanced up at her.

'Just one more thing. Jim Hallahan said that he would be sending someone round with fresh clothing for you. They will knock on the door and use the code word "Nimrod." He said that they would arrive at four o'clock; so be ready for them…'

He glanced at his wristwatch.

'That gives you about half an hour to settle in. OK; that's it. Just try to stay off your feet as best you can for a couple of days.'

Stacey smiled.

'Thank you, Mr Campbell. I don't figure to be going out dancing any time soon!'