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“Who the hell can keep track of this shit?” Dyson muttered. He went on, almost to himself: “Trained at the Farm as an assassin and a munitions expert. Top marks at the academy and in the field. Service loaned you out to various friendly spook services.” He glanced at the sheaf of notes. “Says here you’re single-handedly responsible for some fifteen documented terrorist incidents and probably a good many more undocumented ones around the world. Your cryptonym within the service was Zero, meaning you were top dog or something.”

Baumann said nothing. There was a tentative knock on the library door, to which Dyson abruptly shouted: “Come!” A tall, thin man in his late forties entered, bearing a sheet of paper. His face was sallow and concave. He handed the paper to Lomax and scurried from the room. Lomax scanned the paper, then handed it over to Dyson, murmuring: “St. Petersburg.” Dyson glanced at it and scrunched it into a ball, which he tossed toward a burgundy leather trash can, missing it by a few feet.

“In 1986, you were hired, on a freelance basis, by Muammar Qaddafi to bomb a discotheque in West Berlin. Bomb went off on April 5. Killed three American soldiers.”

“I’m sure whoever did it,” Baumann said, “had been assured by the Libyans that no American military would be present that night. Always better to do one’s own intelligence work.”

“If I wanted to hire an assassin, a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, they’d be lining up out the door all the way to Paris, you know,” Dyson said. “Guns for hire are cheap and plentiful. You fellows, on the other hand-rare as hen’s teeth. You must have been quite in demand.”

“I was, yes.”

“Says your native language is Afrikaans. But you usually speak with a British accent.”

“A reasonable facsimile,” Baumann replied.

“But persuasive. How the hell old were you when you did Carrero Blanco?”

“Hmm?”

“Luis Carrero Blanco.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name.”

“The hell you talking about? Luis Carrero Blanco, the president of Spain under Franco. Blown up in 1972. The Basques claimed credit, but they’d really hired some mysterious outsider. A professional assassin who got a quarter of a million dollars American for pulling it off. That wasn’t you?”

Baumann shrugged. “I wish it had been.”

The old man furrowed his brow and shifted in his wheelchair. He looked puzzlingly at Lomax, then back at Baumann. “If you’re trying to conceal something from me, I’d advise you to-”

“Now I’ve got a few questions for you,” Baumann interrupted, raising his voice ever so slightly.

Annoyance flashed in Dyson’s gray eyes. He scowled.

“How many people were involved in the operation to extract me from Pollsmoor?”

“That’s my business,” Dyson replied curtly.

“I’m afraid not. It directly concerns me and my welfare from now on.”

Dyson paused for a moment and then relented. He turned to Lomax, who said: “Two.”

“In all? Including the phony priest and the chap in the prison commandant’s office?”

“Just those two,” Lomax repeated with irritation. He inclined his head toward his boss for an instant, saw Dyson nod, and said quietly: “They’re both dead.”

“Excellent,” Baumann said. “All loose ends tied?”

“Professionally,” Lomax said.

“Let’s just hope,” Baumann said, “that whoever did the wet work was more professional than whoever’s in charge of security here at whatever this is called… Arcadia.”

Lomax compressed his lips into a thin line. His eyes flashed with anger, his face reddened.

“Look, goddammit,” Dyson said, his voice choked with fury. “You should be eternally grateful-you should damn well kiss the ground I wheel on for what I did to break you out of that hellhole.”

At this, Baumann rose slowly to his feet. He smiled wanly and turned to leave. “I do appreciate your assistance, Mr. Dyson,” he said, “but I didn’t ask for it. If I’m not satisfied that you have taken the necessary basic precautions to ensure that I am not traced, then I must refuse to have anything more to do with you.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Dyson called out.

“Mr. Dyson, you’ve presumably brought me here because of my proficiency at the type of work you want me to do on your behalf. I suggest that we respect each other’s areas of expertise. Now, please tell me how the arrangements were made.”

Dyson told him about how his people contacted certain officials in South Africa and paid them off. Baumann nodded. “All right. I’ll listen to what you propose. But I should warn you that I may well not accept. It all depends on the nature of the job you want done, and the amount of payment you’re prepared to offer.”

Dyson backed up his chair by pushing at the writing table, rattling the inkwell and the Meissen urn. “Do you seriously think you have much choice?” he said. “You’re a goddam international fugitive now. And I know your whereabouts!”

“Yes, you do,” Baumann agreed equably, looking around the room. “And the same could be said of you.”