Look Both Ways

by BT and Megan Kent
Eroica crossover with Paradox ("Tris and Alex")

# # #

DAY 1

Klaus flashed his plastic visitor's badge under the nose of yet another Turkish police officer -- each successively more officious than the last -- until he reached the maximum security area. Now that he was here, he was no longer sure if he had come to rescue Eroica or to kill him.

He unfolded his wallet, silently displaying a stack of Turkish money and growled, "Eroica." The guard's eyes brightened and, moving with an efficiency as yet unknown in Turks of Klaus's acquaintance, ushered him down the dingy, shadowed corridor and unlocked a door. Hand on the iron knob, Klaus paused to take a deep, calming breath. He would not yell. He would not scream. He would not berate Eroica for this incredible breach of operational efficiency. Not yet.

Consciously in control of himself and his seething rage, he opened the door and stalked into the tiny interrogation room. He shouldn't be here, pulling strings to rescue Eroica, shouldn't be putting his reputation at risk.

The disarrayed curls hid Eroica's face, but a gold stud in one ear reflected the harsh overhead light. Klaus slammed the door sharply and the head jerked up, blue eyes wide and frightened in the pale face.

The pale, unknown face. "What do you want?"

"Who are you?" Klaus's question overlapped the stranger's.

The silence that followed stretched as Klaus considered the puzzle before him. He could see the superficial resemblance now as he mentally compared the handcuffed prisoner to the grainy wire photo tacked to the board outside, and then to the useless thief he had expected to find here.

The most obvious likeness was the mane of blond curls, though in all their missions, Klaus had never seen Eroica's one-tenth so messy and Eroica would never be caught dead or alive in a slogan T-shirt and tattered jeans and no other jewelry than the earring. The blue eyes were paler than the thief's, and this face showed a heavier jaw line and bone structure, but Klaus could see how an unknowing observer might easily make the mistake.

He briefly pondered the likelihood of encountering a near-doppelganger of Eroica among Istanbul's millions of inhabitants, but discarded that in favor of the issue at hand. If Eroica was not here, where was he? Even more importantly, where was the package?

According to plan, Eroica should have been safely out of Turkey yesterday morning after completing a very delicate operation -- Klaus would not use the term "theft" -- under Klaus's supervision. There had been no check-in however, no news at all until the word of "Eroica's" arrest had come across the embassy wire, triggering Klaus's rescue operation. Perhaps Eroica had already escaped. Perhaps he was still waiting for an opening. Perhaps he needed one.

The thought that he might salvage something from this fiasco cheered him. Maybe it would be best if "Eroica" stayed in custody -- his custody -- a while longer. If he could keep the CIA from comparing this imposter with Interpol's more detailed records... It could work.

"Are you from the British Consulate? Did Mick send you?" The false Eroica's voice was tired, but hopeful, and Klaus shifted his attention back to the man in front of him who had the incredibly bad fortune to physically resemble Dorian Red Gloria.

"No, and no."

"Fuckitall, then. I'm not Eroica. I don't know anything about any fuckin' antiques. I just want to get out of here. My name is Alexander Logan. I'm a British citizen and I want to speak with my friends or someone from the Consulate." The words sounded rehearsed, tired, irritated, as if he'd trotted them out repeatedly over the last eighteen or so hours. And if the Turks had been pressing Logan for information he could not have, it was no surprise he looked haggard and pale.

"I am not from your government, but I may be able to help." The steps it would take to extract this man before more intelligent questioners could discover the truth were laying themselves out in Klaus's mind. "One moment..." He turned on his heel and left the confused not-Eroica slumped over the desktop again, retrieving his wallet from his coat pocket. The guard opened the door at his knock, closed it firmly and locked it again, but his attention was more on Klaus's billfold than on his reputedly slippery prisoner.

"The American gentlemen," said Klaus in Turkish. "Where are they?" He had no wish to come face-to-face with the CIA while aiding the man they thought had burgled them.

"With the boss," said the guard, looking significantly at the ceiling above. "They move too fast and expect too much. They do not understand the Arab way of business." The man's eyes were still fixed on Klaus's wallet. "The boss thinks the 'Eroica' is important enough to bring him glory -- long deserved and often overlooked. The Americans offer only thanks, not even as small a gift as you have offered me."

Klaus knew too well the frustration of doing business with Arabs. They were all corrupt, and cash or connections would get you anything. It was disgusting, but it would serve him today.

"Ahhh," said Klaus. "I am a friend of the Americans, and perhaps I can simplify the negotiations, for I agree that your boss deserves credit for capturing the dangerous thief Eroica. Perhaps a glorious price in your hand would let me take him to them more quickly?" He ran a thumb along the edges of the bills.

The guard raised his eyes from the money momentarily to look nervously back toward the checkpoint. "You are not American..." he started dubiously.

"I will deliver him safely," Klaus lied, pulling out two bills adorned with portraits of Ataturk and many consecutive zeros. He was less concerned with how much he'd have to pay to extract the imposter than with the time it would take, but forms must be observed or the guard would become suspicious.

"Perhaps I should ask my boss..." said the guard, making no move toward the money.

"Ah, but I must remember his glory as well." Klaus added two more bills to the offer. "And that of your fellows who aided nobly, I am sure, in his capture." One more bill. He closed his wallet and made a gesture familiar in all Turkish marketplaces: it was the guard's move, to accept or find reasons to raise the bribe. And delay might wipe out the bargain so that they both lost.

"I see that you are a respecter of the Prophet's verities and a worthy keeper for the prisoner. Please convey him safely." The money disappeared into a voluminous pocket and the guard's hand reappeared offering a handcuff key. In another moment the interrogation room door was unlocked again.

"Mr. Logan! On your feet!" Klaus beckoned the bleary-eyed excuse for Eroica to him. Hope and confusion warred in the not-quite-familiar features as Logan pushed up from his chair. This latest example of the English race obviously had no self-respect, no backbone. His jeans were obscenely tight as well as torn in spots, and his T-shirt proclaimed "Make Love, Not War." Klaus sneered at it.

"Who-- are you taking me-- ?"

"Major Eberbach," said Klaus, in case the guard was listening. His own presence would additionally confirm "Eroica's" identity in some minds. The imposter lacked Eroica's polish, certainly, but Klaus was caught again by the physical resemblance in long legs and lewd gait as Logan strode toward him. Stifling the urge to curse at the man for wasting good air, he grabbed an arm and hustled him out the door.

Using the handcuffs to steer him, Klaus guided the Englishman past closed doors, around a corner and past another door where American voices mingled with Turkish-accented English. He took the stairwell rather than risk the lift and whoever might be on it, nodding curtly to the guard at the exit. Once outside the building he ducked left, the drag of prisoner an irritating delay he refused to permit. He tugged harder. Someone might still spot those blond curls, and he'd be damned if he'd get caught after he'd stooped to bribery and lies.

He dragged the imposter along the street and around a corner, pausing to look for a taxi. There was no rattle of feet behind them yet, no shrieking alarms, and still no resistance from the young Englishman. He wondered if the degenerate would try to escape, but dismissed the idea immediately: preposterous for him to try, impossible for him to succeed.

He had managed to kidnap "Eroica." The Turks might never know the difference, and he hoped the CIA would not. Glancing at the soiled mess beside him -- and standing downwind for the first time -- he certainly could tell.

# # #

Alex stumbled after his tight-assed, closed-mouthed savior, relieved to be out of jail but not completely sure he was any better off. The handcuffs still biting his wrists were definitely a bad sigh. "Oi. Get these things off me, will you?"

"Shut up."

Alex cast a backward glance at the corner they'd just rounded. Maybe that jail wasn't such a bad thing after all: aggressive assholes, yeh, but at least they weren't obviously insane. This bloke -- he wasn't so sure. He gritted his teeth. No. Jail didn't suit him. He'd seen the inside of drunk tanks from Oklahoma to Paris, but that hadn't prepared him for this place: grimy white acoustic tile, bright lights and the continuous stream of meaningless questions. Silver heirlooms. International incidents. NATO involvement. Eroica who? He had no interest in antiques, and certainly not in any Turkish relics, but they hadn't listened to his protests.

The hard-faced German hadn't listened either, but they were outside that damned box now and that had to count for something. Now he just had to figure out what this bloke wanted with him and whether or not it was going to be worse than what the Turkish police wanted. One thing was certain: this guy hadn't been sent by Mick. So who had he expected to find? Eroica? Alex decided to remember that name. He wanted to kick the bastard's arse on general principles. For the moment, he concentrated on being out of that jail and getting one more breath of dusty Istanbul air into his lungs. He'd get his answers later.

The German set off at a jog for a nearby intersection, dragging him along by the handcuffs. "Ease up!" he snapped, which earned him what he'd have sworn was a growl and a hard torque on his shoulders. He shut up. For the moment.

The first pause for breath was when the German waved at a taxi and negotiated with the driver in what sounded like very abrupt Turkish. "Get in," he said to Alex. Alex narrowed his eyes but got in anyway, grateful for an opportunity to sit down and all too aware of just who had the key to his handcuffs. In Soho, perhaps, he could've wandered around for hours in them without even a raised eyebrow. Not in Turkey. Besides, fetid as it was the open cab smelled more like freedom than that damned cell.

Presently he decided to try again. "Where are we going?"

"Out of town," the hard, precise voice answered flatly.

"Good," said Alex. "You think you might let me out of the jewelry now?"

"Hold out your hands," said the German, frowning at him. "You -- he shouldn't have had any trouble with them."

"Who?"

"Nothing." He did something rapid and violent to the cuffs which left Alex blessedly free of them.

"Eroica?" That got attention quick enough. Hard green eyes opened wide with surprise, just for a second. Then the expression was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Your capture was a case of mistaken identity. That is all. You would prefer not to let it continue, of that I assure you."

Well, that was bloody obvious. He settled back in the seat to regather his breath and his wits; this was totally nuts. Tris would never believe it.

They had crossed the long bridge over the Golden Horn, but it didn't occur to Alex that they weren't headed for the airport until the cab stopped outside a large, dull building within the city. Alex stared around and identified the train station only when they were within yards of the arched entrance.

He pulled up short. "What are we doing here?"

The German grabbed him by the hair and shoved him backwards, and Alex had finally had enough. "Look, you--"

The sound of an engine backfiring nearby distracted him, and before he could start to yell again he was being jerked along in a crazy sideways run, across the street and into a shaded, musty-smelling lane. There was a second backfire and then a third before his entire body seized up with pure, uncut fear as he realized that someone was shooting at them.

It sounded very little like the shooting on American television shows. It was unmistakably gunfire, nevertheless. Alex heard another shot, and shouting and screeching. He was shoved at the wall like so much furniture, while the German produced a frighteningly huge gun from somewhere and, as if Alex wasn't there, as if it was as normal as picking up a microphone, peered back around the corner and positioned himself as if to shoot back.

"Oh my god," Alex whispered. It wasn't bad enough to be broken out of jail by a nutter, but a nutter with a gun and a vicious fan-club.

Another shot, followed by a nearby crashing rumble, was the signal for the German's gun to make a much louder, rounder crack, then a second. Alex concentrated on hugging the splintery wall, hoping that his knees would hold and his ears would stop ringing before he got out of this. If he got out of this. The German pulled back into the shadows next to Alex, muttering incomprehensibly to himself, ending with something Alex thought sounded like, "...idiotsche Amerikaner!"

Americans? Alex hadn't seen any. "Where?" he ventured, into the relative silence. "Who's shooting at us?"

"Shut-up-Eroica." It was said as if one word, and followed seamlessly from the previous, German, sentence.

He was getting very tired of that name. "I'm not Eroica, dammit!"

"Logan! Shut up!" The German peered around the corner again, then ducked back and glanced down the narrow alley they were hidden in. "Can you use a gun?"

Alex wanted to laugh, or scream, but he kept his voice down. "Hell, no!"

"I should have known. He can't. Don't run yet. If you run, they'll follow you."

"Who? And why are they shooting at us?"

The German glared. "They have no brains. I do not think they are following their orders." He sounded as though this, rather than the bullets, was their real mistake.

Alex looked out toward the street, presumably filled with gun-toting Americans after them for no good reason, and down the filthy alley. "Can we get out of there?"

"Soon." The hand that did not hold the enormous gun closed around Alex's arm again. "When I say, we both run. Take any path circling left. You lead -- now!" The man pushed him and Alex was only too happy to run, finally, cutting left when another narrow opening appeared, ducking left again between tightly packed motors and carts and finally, at a hissed order from behind, turning right into a street stall full of oily steam and smells of fish. His rescuer -- a title Alex was beginning to doubt -- pushed him behind the counter, ignoring the angry cook and the ancient stove burdened with bubbling pots. In spite of everything, Alex's stomach rumbled. "Ero-- Logan, keep your head down."

Alex went back to making himself as small as possible while the German's gun made another of the mind-numbing sounds. It wasn't as loud as the band's amps at full volume, but it was chillingly final in a way no drum kit could achieve. Instead of hungry, Alex was feeling sick again.

There was a distant but enormously loud crash and another shot from outside. The German frowned, tense for the first time since the shooting had begun, and Alex waited for the next instruction. If there was a back door here he hadn't seen it, but he sure as hell didn't want to go back into that street if the only person who knew what was going on didn't know any longer.

The German leaned out for long enough to make one more shot and Alex heard renewed crashing and mixed screams from the street. The man pulled back, smiling now, and finally looked over at Alex. "Can you run again? He cannot follow us now."

Alex nodded stupidly. Running seemed as good an idea as any.

They nipped out of the stall's protection an instant ahead of the stall keeper's startled shout and left him mouthing angry Turkish behind them. Someone was still screaming, and Alex turned to look.

"Oh god!" Alex gasped. There was a man lying in the street, covered in blood. The people had all disappeared, leaving the man alone in the empty street. Alex stood, staring, and a phrase repeated in his ears, "cannot follow us, cannot follow us..."

Pain jerked his attention away; he was being dragged by his hair down the street. The German cut decisively through the crowd of onlookers gathered at the end of the road, up one hill and down another.

Alex concentrated on keeping his footing until the German stopped stock still. He peered cautiously up at the train station where the insane chase had begun.

A million thought clamored to get out of Alex's mouth, none of them fit to accuse someone who'd just shot a man in broad daylight. Oh man, I want to go home. "Listen, if it's okay, I'll just fade out on my own." Alex edged away, praying that he could get far enough away to catch a cab, that he could get to the plane and get out of this fucking mad country, and never come back.

A huge hand closed on his shoulder, stopping his retreat. "Your description -- Eroica's -- is at all exit points of this city. Of Turkey. I have an escape route set up inside the station for us."

"To get us past them?" This nutter's plans had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

"Yes." The German pulled him around the corner, into another stall which sold western-style souvenirs. Alex appreciated the concealment as much as the shade and the moment's rest.

He backed behind a rack of postcards, wishing for some easy way out of this. If he could only get back to Tris and the others... "If we can get to the airport, there's a plane waiting for me."

"Waiting still? For you?" The German's cold green eyes looked over Alex's grimy shirt and jeans.

"The band won't leave me behind." Alex tried to sound as certain as he could. "They can't perform without me." Well, that much was true.

"Band?" For the first time, Alex thought they might be experiencing a language difficulty.

"Paradox."

"Paradox?"

Alex blinked and almost laughed. Usually he was busy trying to deny his identity in public, not prove it. "Never mind. Mick -- our manager -- will be waiting for me, and if I know him he'll have something ready to take off the minute I show up." They had a show in Syracuse... Wednesday. Tomorrow? Just how long had this nightmare been going on? Tris would be furious. They all would. Oh, please let this work.

The German frowned. "At the airport, immigration officials would stop me." Wouldn't they have stopped him in the train station? Alex didn't bother asking, since by now he knew the answer would be "shut up." If only he knew why the guy was interested in him, now that everyone must know he wasn't the "Eroica" person.

"They won't stop you if you're with me," he said, hoping he sounded confident. He would have said anything to get back to the plane and safety.

"Oh?" The German looked like he might be considering it. Please let him believe.

"I don't even have my passport on me. Mick holds all the papers--"

"So you don't have any identification?"

"No. I told you, Mick will have cleared the plane an' luggage an' all. The police grabbed me at the airport. No one knows where I am--"

"Good. And when we get there?"

"We either go in through a back gate and nobody asks either of us any questions, or if they stop us, I call Mick and make him take you aboard too."

"Will your 'Mick' do this?"

Mick would do almost anything to get his schedules back on track. "If you get me to the airport, he will."

The German frowned again, but not in anger. "It will be difficult to get to the airport without being seen. The men who think you are Eroica are very persistent."

Yeah, it had taken shooting one of them to get away. Alex flashed on the bloody body in the street, and thought he would be sick. It was all so wrong. "Who are 'they'? What do the police want with me... him? Why were you shooting at them?"

"They shot first. However," the man smiled without warmth, "they are apt to be more annoyed with me than you at the moment."

"But why?" Why all of it?"

"I would prefer not to explain."

Well, Alex would have preferred not to have been part of the whole mess, but he hoped that at least the crazy German would help him get to the airport and away. Away. "Ah... we could disguise ourselves." It had always been a lark in the past, sneaking out past the fan hordes. He only hoped it would work against the Turkish police and gun-wielding Americans. At least it was something he could do instead of being dragged around by the hair.

"Yes?" The voice was impatient, even snappish, but the hard eyes stayed on Alex.

Alex took a moment to look over the man's severe suit and tie, his own ratty road-clothes, and the contents of the souvenir shop. "You can wear my shirt, instead of that jacket and tie, and one of those hats." He gestured toward a rack of red baseball caps in one corner.

"What will you wear?"

Alex shrugged. "Who needs a shirt in this weather? You must be sweltering."

"I hadn't noticed," said the German, although spreading sweat stained his shirt and flecked his jacket.

Alex pulled his T-shirt over his head, glad to get rid of the sweaty thing. "Of course, I'll need a hat too." He grabbed two from the rack and gratefully wound his filthy hair up under the cap, then offered the other to the German.

Clear distaste showed on the German's face, but only for an instant. "Yes. And there are clean shirts here." He plucked one at random from a crowded shelf.

"I hope you have some cash, 'cause the police took all I had." The man nodded absently, so Alex helped himself to a tote-bag with a bad painting of the Blue Mosque on it, and stuffed his discarded shirt and the German's shirt and jacket into it. The final item in, with obvious regret on the German's part, was the large gun. Alex was glad to have it out of sight again.

Clutching the flimsy carryall, Alex's new acquaintance cut a thoroughly disreputable figure in a T-shirt that featured a gaudily embellished map of Turkey.

With his hair tucked into the baseball cap the German was surprisingly transformed, not least by the revelation of hard leanness under the suit rather than businessman's flab. Alex felt more comfortable in a way without his shirt, although his recent memories made him wish it were a bulletproof vest and that he was still wearing it. At least they were running his way now.

The German, even in tourist drag, still had the ability to summon a taxi with a single wave. He pushed Alex into the back seat and climbed in after him. The driver took one look at Alex's bare chest and bellowed angrily in Turkish. Alex grinned back at him aggressively. Obscenity, if any, was in the eye of the beholder, wasn't it? Offering some folded cash and a few quiet Turkish words, the German managed to overcome the driver's objections, and the taxi took a bounding leap through the next intersection. Alex went back to concentrating on his stomach.

The bouncy, too-fast ride through narrow alleys made Alex even queasier, but it was better than being shot at. Who did this Major Whoever who'd just dragged Alex through a close approximation of hell think he was, anyway? If he'd just left Alex in jail, Mick would have found him eventually. Wouldn't he? Why had it taken so long, anyway?

Alex had to look up when he was grabbed and physically turned toward the German. "... listen to me now, Mr. Logan. I need your word on this."

"On what?" Alex felt as though his brain was lagging at least a verse and probably a whole song behind the events of the day.

"I said, you must keep silent about who I am, and what has happened."

Well, that wouldn't be too hard, since he had no fucking clue what was up. But, not to tell Tris, and Duff and the others? Not set Fred-the-lawyer on the Istanbul police? "Why the hell should I?" He almost added, How can you make me? but the thought of the gun in the carryall kept him silent.

"Because more is at stake than you know. I can't explain, but will you accept that my interests are consistent with those of your country? I mean you no harm."

"Right." I always get chased by madmen with guns when you're not around.

"Logan," said the German, his eyes hardening, "anyone you tell may become a target of those who are following us. If you value the safety of your friends, you will keep quiet about my identity, about the events since we left the police station, and about Eroica. Will you?"

Alex had only to remember the far-too-real crack of bullets to know he never wanted to hear them again. What would Tris have heard? It wouldn't sound right, couldn't make good music. "Okay," he promised. "Yes."

"Good." And then the German turned to give the driver another command. They lurched around another curve and shot onto a wider road, accelerating bumpily.

"Mr. Logan, what will you tell 'Mick' about me?"

Alex had already handled that one. "That you got me out of jail. I can tell anyone else that you're a roadie with the band." At the German's look of incomprehension, Alex amplified, "One of the road crew -- the men who handle the sound equipment."

"I see. Yes, that will do. We shall try the most direct route in first, and perhaps we can avoid any official questions." He leaned forward and spoke to the driver as they barreled along the airport road, and passed him another wad of currency with more zeros than Alex had thought could be fitted on a single piece of paper. After an exchange of half-shouted conversation, the German leaned back and grimaced. "Our driver considers that your lack of attire is shameful, and so is willing to avoid notice while you are aboard."

"But the bribe didn't hurt," Alex suggested.

The German frowned. "It is quick and effective in this part of the world."

The taxi turned sharply onto a smaller, looping road, stopped briefly for another huge wad of Turkish liras to be handed out the window, and then made an abrupt run through a gate. Beyond, Alex spotted the welcome sight of the Phoenix, Paradox's own 727, and pointed to it.

The German exhorted the driver to speed, and they roared up to the plane only minutes later, tumbling out of the taxi and up the plane's rack-like metal stairs under an open door full of curious faces. Alex had never been so glad to see Simon Nash's ugly mug before.

"Alex!" He heard Tris before he saw him push his way between two of the crew. Mick appeared, waving Kerry, the Phoenix's pilot, into the cockpit before he turned to Alex.

"Where have you--"

"Are you okay?"

"-- been, or were you really--"

"What happened? You're--"

"-- in nick? How'd you--"

"-- sunburnt, but--"

"get out?" finished Mick.

"They had the wrong person," the German answered from behind Alex.

Mick and Tris both looked at him and back to Alex for more information. He opened his mouth to try and explain, but knew that he couldn't. Not if it meant more shooting. Suddenly he realized his stomach wasn't going to obey him this time, and he bolted for the plane's loo.

# # #

Settling back into a seat, Dorian checked that the curtains blocking the view of his compartment from the train's central corridor were shut. He hadn't dared to unburden himself of his booty from the night before until he was well out of Turkey and heading into the deliciously ancient mountains of Macedonia.

Privacy and a degree of safety at last ensured, Dorian removed one of the objects from the hidden compartment in his coat. He'd seen exquisite silverwork before, but this... The silver itself, worth comparatively little, was merely a fitting medium for the delicate, strong craftsmanship that made an ostensibly utilitarian object into a thing of enduring beauty. The curving, twining filigree framed a page of parchment graced with calligraphy no less exalted, no less beautiful in its own right as a form of high art.

It was lovely, and precious, and it had been completely out of place in the tasteless lobby of the American embassy. So he'd taken it, of course. Klaus would be angry if he ever found out, but there was no real reason Klaus should ever know.

The thought of an angry Klaus gave Dorian a shiver of fear -- a shiver that easily became a thrill of excitement. All the time in Turkey, Dorian had had to work alone and he'd missed his men's company, but he'd known with some odd sixth sense that the Major had observed him from a distance. He'd been able to imagine, if only for a moment, that Klaus was concerned for him rather than the damned job. That Klaus cared.

The fantasy warmed him. He'd let it occupy his mind during the tedious flight out of Ankara, when he'd been crouched in a chador and unable to speak for hours. Veils from head to toe were an effective disguise but he preferred women's clothing that was colorful and flamboyant. Did Muslim women dream of someone like Klaus, under their black robes? Of beautiful, ancient silverwork? Of the kind of microfilmed secrets that Klaus worked with? Did they dream at all?

Dorian re-wrapped the graceful frame and its sheet of Arabic poetry -- surely such artistry denoted poetry of equal merit -- and packed it tenderly into his small carrying case before pulling the coat and its remaining secrets more closely around his body. It had been a long day and night, and the job for Klaus wasn't over yet, not until he reached Bonn. There were things more precious than silver or beauty to NATO.

It would be hours before he was to meet Jones. He ought to rest. Maybe he would dream of Klaus.

# # #

The semi-clad figure of Klaus's recent companion gravitated to a thin, dark-haired figure who slid out of the crowd of welcomers and flicked an intense glance from Logan to Klaus and back again in unspoken question. Logan shook his head and they both disappeared into the forward compartment. It left Klaus's view filled with a circle of curious and hostile faces throwing questions at him as quickly as they had at Logan moments before. "Where'd you--"

"Who're--"

"Is Alex okay?"

"Did you--"

"Did he--"

The babble of voices was stilled, or rather superseded, by a speaker-voice from above "Prepare for takeoff." Klaus relaxed slightly as the plane door was locked shut. "Sit down, everyone, and for once use the seat belts. Tim, that means you. Duff, that means you and whatever girls you're with."

Eberbach shrugged and inspected the cabin. It looked like looters had taken over someone's luxury jet. It was wide open in the center where passenger jets had ranks of seats, and bottles and glasses lined the flat surfaces. Logan was nowhere to be seen. The largest person in the crowd shrugged back at him and said, "Mick Royce. I'm in charge of everything but the music. Siddown and shuddup. We'll sort you out later."

Klaus dropped heavily into one of the wider-than-regulation seats as the craft tilted upward on its way out of Istanbul, leaving behind some confused Turkish policemen and at least two CIA agents who were undoubtedly after his blood now that their trigger-happy friend was down and wounded. The damned fool, thought Klaus, starting a firefight in a crowd of civilians.

It wouldn't have been so awkward if Klaus had been on his own, but now instead of merely needing to hide the faux Eroica for a few hours until he was sure the real Eroica had escaped, Klaus should stay out of official sight for days or weeks, depending on how angry the U.S. decided to be officially. Had the agents known the real prize Eroica had stolen, or were they looking for some bauble the thief had had the bad taste to acquire in the course of his business for NATO? Did they assume "Eroica" was still carrying it when they had chased Logan and himself? That might explain their misbehavior.

One thing he'd succeeded in: everyone should now assume that Eroica was in Istanbul and focus their attention on re-capturing him, while -- unless Eroica was even more of an idiot than Klaus usually gave him credit for -- the microfilm and the real thief were elsewhere entirely. It was all in a day's work, Klaus told himself, a matter of history. Eberbachs didn't die in bed. Someday it would be him down in a pool of blood, and the only goal was to make that day come later rather than sooner.

Putting those thoughts behind, Klaus returned his attention to the traveling circus-or-whatever of which Alexander Logan was a member. Someone named Mick Royce claimed to be in charge, which matched the information Logan had given him earlier. Now Klaus had only to convince Mr. Royce that cooperating with his plans would be good for everyone.

The surge of acceleration eased and the plane leveled, so Klaus loosened his seatbelt and surveyed his surroundings. A motley assortment of men and a few girls occupied the other seats, some asleep, some lighting up cigarettes -- the Major smelled a hint of odor too sweet for tobacco and frowned -- one or two reading, several staring back at him. All were dressed in a casual minimum of clothing, from Mick Royce's tieless half-open shirt to the cutoff dungarees that were the only attire on the smaller girl of two in one man's lap.

Royce let out a sigh whose dimensions matched his bulk and fanned himself with a magazine before focusing his glare back on Klaus. "All right. Who are you?" he demanded.

Klaus fought the urge to pat his pockets looking for a cigarette. They were safely stashed in the carry-bag with his gun, which he thought might be best not mentioned in the coming discussion. "Mr. Royce?" he returned. "You are 'in charge,' I believe you said?"

"Yeah, I'm the manager of Paradox."

"I see," said Klaus, although the paradox escaped him. "I'm Johannes Pfeiffer." It was the name on his cover passport which, all things considered, it seemed wisest to use here. Logan might remember otherwise, but he'd been told not to talk about it. From the last look Klaus had had of him, Logan might not remember his own name after experiencing what was patently his first live firefight. "Where are we going?"

"You're not going anywhere 'less you answer some questions." Klaus raised his eyebrows but, noting the man's build and solid authority, did not discard the possibility that Mick Royce would throw him off an aircraft in mid-flight. The situation was clearly irregular. Royce hammered on: "Where'd you come from? What in the hell happened to Alex? What'd you do to him?" The man seemed genuinely concerned for Logan's well-being, a situation of which Klaus determined to take full advantage.

"I got him out of a very unpleasant jail cell. The Turkish police were about to hand Mr. Logan over to some very angry Americans who thought he had something that belongs to them. It seemed simplest to remove him, rather than explain who he really is. And it suits me to accompany you to your next destination. I trust that is not too much to ask in return?"

Royce gave him another glare. "The Istanbul police told me they hadn't got him. And who're you to get Alex out of lockup anyway?"

The Major kept his face impassive. Everything he had seen of Royce and Paradox suggested dubious legality to him. Logan had certainly been no stranger to jail. If they managed to get under-aged sex partners and illegal drugs across international borders on a regular basis, surely they could smuggle one German with well-faked papers. It was just a matter of presenting himself right.

"How come Alex was looking so green, then? What's wrong with him?"

The attention from the others in the cabin suddenly rose. The fat, dark-haired man who'd been fondling his two female seatmates looked up. "Yeah. Alex's got a cast iron stomach. What happened to 'im?" The man looked as if he wanted to be belligerent, but was too drunk to be remotely threatening.

One of the females showed a flicker of interest. "Tris really looked worried."

"Just why is he upset?" pressed Royce.

Klaus considered carefully. The man he'd rescued and dragged through a gun battle seemed important to these people; Klaus sensed the same group loyalty he had seen in Eroica's band of thieves, or even among his own subordinates. Up to a point it was desirable in an organization that had to work in coordination. Logan had been right about the waiting aircraft as well. Klaus assessed the resources which might be advantages in the somewhat precarious position in which he found himself. "He was mistaken for someone else. A criminal."

Paradox was beginning to come into focus for Klaus. A bright logo of the word adorned T-shirts and caps throughout the group. It was an organization of sorts, then. And Alexander Logan was a musician? "I'm sure 'Paradox' prefers the mistake not to occur again."

"Oh?" said Royce, skeptical but interested. "You got him out of jail -- by yourself, did you?"

"Yes." Klaus hoped he would not have to amplify. Royce sounded like he might be getting too clear a picture of the situation already.

"And you can clue us in about how to keep it from happening again."

Klaus watched the man calculate for a moment, then confirmed, "Yes."

"Well?" Royce was obviously no more willing to give ground than Klaus was.

Klaus was confident that he could bargain for what he needed. "I've taken a great risk in extracting your Mr. Logan from where he was being held. Several government organizations may be searching for me -- or him, if you're not careful. All I'm asking is safe passage into the next major city you visit outside Turkey."

Royce nodded, hard-faced. "I know what you want. What I don't know is why I should give it to you. Why shouldn't I just hand you over to whoever wants you?"

The man wasn't an easy sell. "It would reflect poorly on Paradox to be caught sheltering me or transporting me across national boundaries, I think. And I can't guarantee that Mr. Logan won't be subject to more cases of mistaken identity. And also," the Major glanced significantly toward the illicitly drugged smoke and unclad women that littered the plane, "I cannot believe that Paradox is strongly committed to all legalities."

Royce shrugged. "We're pragmatic if that's what you mean, Pfeiffer." The manager thought for another moment, and Klaus reflected that even if that massive girth resulted from drink and debauchery of the sort Paradox evidently indulged in, his wits seemed relatively clear at the moment. "I'd like to hear what Alex has to say for you -- and Tris won't like it--" There was a low rumble of agreement from the T-shirted men within earshot, and several glances toward the forward bulkhead. "But tell me again why I should give a shit."

Careful not to let out his irritation at the invisible authority of this "Tris," whoever he was, Klaus repeated, "I am the only one who knows why Mr. Logan was arrested. He certainly doesn't. I can prevent it from happening again." Klaus wondered how long it would be before the mistake did happen again. He could almost pity Logan if he spent the rest of his life being mistaken for Eroica. Then he wondered if it had already happened elsewhere, or to the real Eroica. The thief's only value was his skill at burglary and avoiding capture. Any other time Klaus would be glad to see the idiot behind bars where he belonged, but as long as Eroica had the film NATO wanted, he must not be found. Klaus reminded himself that Eroica had come through dangerous situations before, but he hated having to trust him.

"Wot? You?" asked Royce, looking him over from baseball cap to dust-smeared boots.

"Yes," said Klaus firmly, hoping it was true. "I'd rather not say how." He'd rather not have to do it at all, but he'd have a hell of a time getting anywhere without the papers he'd had to abandon at the police HQ. These degenerate idiots would be useful to him for just long enough to get him back to Germany. Or at least out of Turkey.

"Not something that will land us all in trouble, the way it has you?" Royce still sounded skeptical.

"No," said Klaus. "The authorities will not care to trouble you further," he glanced again around the cabin, "over this particular matter, while I can deal with them for you. My word on it." He didn't have many more cards in his hand, but he hoped Logan would back him up.

Royce smiled, with cheerful resemblance to a shark. "Right, then," he said, suddenly affable. "If I'm satisfied Alex is safe and well, we'll do it your way." He slapped Klaus heartily on the back and Klaus tried not to flinch from the man's large, sweaty hand. "Wouldja like a drink?" He gestured toward the next seat.

"Do you have any dark beer?" Klaus asked, hopeful but not expecting an affirmative. "Bock beer?"

"Son, we got it all." Royce's eyes moved to the knot of listeners. "Richie, send someone up with a coupla bottles of bock. And sandwiches. The rest of you lot, give us some room, eh?" He glared indiscriminately, and the men suddenly found fascinating conversations to have at the opposite end of the cabin. Royce meanwhile pulled himself to a standing position and lumbered toward the cabin partition through which Logan had so rapidly bolted earlier.

# # #

Tris Lindsay had thought, after four years of playing guitar-god to Alex Logan's banshee wail, he'd come to know every facet of the mercurial singer, but this dazed, clumsy man seemed nearly a stranger. Everything about him was wrong: a fine tremor shook his body, the fear he radiated didn't fit someone Tris had seen face down everything from a squad of angry coppers to a horde of sex-starved fans, and in the subtle, inner hearing that Tris could never explain, he sounded wrong.

Tris watched as Alex tried three times to connect a match-head and a cigarette. Alex didn't even seem to notice his presence and flinched back, surprised -- scared? -- when Tris took the match and fag, lit up, and handed it back. Alex sucked at it hungrily, then coughed. Watching him pace three steps each way in the small space of the forward cabin, relief fought curiosity in Tris's mind. At least Alex was upright and evidently in one piece, but his skin was pale and sweaty under the sunburn, his face was pinched and his eyes strangely glazed. Tris wondered what sort of bad trip was taking its toll. Alex had come out of the loo looking only marginally better than when he'd gone in. Whatever he'd been up to all night, it didn't look like he was enjoying the afterglow. Tris reached out toward him and Alex jumped again.

"Alex," he asked softly, "you all right, mate?"

Alex laughed shortly. "Yeah! Fine. Now." He turned blindly to pace again and Tris laid a hand on his arm. The skin was cool and he could feel the trembling that shook Alex, unstilled and undisguised by the pacing.

"Why'n't you sit down, mate? And cover up -- you'll catch a chill." Alex started to argue, but Tris quelled him with a glance. It wasn't easy, trying to keep a careless young man prone to chest ailments from putting all their livelihood at risk. He was always trying to get Alex to cover up after shows except -- he felt a guilty flush for even thinking it while Alex was so obviously distressed now -- when he was trying to strip the sweaty clothes off him. Now he pulled off his hand knit jumper with a stray thought that Marilee-in-Detroit who'd made it would be thrilled to know Alex was wearing it.

He glared at the blond until it was on, glared again until Alex dropped into the nearest chair. At least he didn't seem in a mood to cause trouble. Tris looked about, spotting a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He grabbed it up, took a drink, and offered it to Alex. The singer was clearly on a bad high -- jittering and touchy -- and even if Tris couldn't identify the source, he needed something to bring him down.

Alex must have thought so as well, for he upended the bottle and drank deeply. Tris saw the liquor hit his stomach, saw the bloodshot blue eyes close, the body sag slightly, but not into relaxation. Alex took a deep breath and began to talk. "I didn't know what-- Took me to-- Soddin' silver antiques-- Eroica-- Callin' me Eroica-- Wouldn't stop-- Sick as a dog-- Hours an' hours--"

There were times in their shared song-making when thoughts flowed between the two of them with fewer words than these, or no meaningful words at all. But that connection seemed broken now, and Alex's words were only words.

"Waitin' for Mick-- Fuckin' big gun-- bloody 'ell-- Bloody, yeah, all over the street--"

Tris struggled to assemble them in some order, to understand what Alex had been up to in the hours he'd been away from them. He'd been gone all night, screwing their scheduled departure and causing grumbling among the crew who'd cut their own partying short to catch the plane. Alex had been known to forget such things when he was high, or fucking, which was why Alex generally didn't get high or shack up with someone outside the band's entourage. Not when he knew he was expected at the airport. And whatever he'd done, he wasn't enjoying it now, and going by the string of words, hadn't much liked it at the time.

As the hours had passed with no word or sign of him, annoyance had given way to concern, then real fear. Tris had pushed Mick, who in turn had bribed or threatened every Turk in sight for word of their missing band mate. The city hospitals hadn't seen him --- well, there wasn't a scratch on him -- and the city police had no clue, or so Mick had said. Mick was generally right when it came to dealing with the police, but... "Jail, mate? Was that where you were?" If so, the Turkish cops had lied to Mick: Tris would have to get Fred-the-lawyer working on it. He'd be damned if some full-of-himself police captain could fuck with Paradox and not suffer the consequences.

"Yeah." Alex breathed again, exhaling fumes, ground out the cigarette and upended the bottle once more. When his mouth was free, he started in again. "Wouldn't let me talk-- Wouldn't let me call anyone-- Wanted somethin' but I couldn't make out what--"

"What about the man you came back with? Where'd he--"

Alex turned whiter than ever and slumped back into the seat. "He's a nutter. Fuckin' loony. Don't wanna talk about 'im, Tris. Please."

"Okay, mate. Later." It was more than a drug reaction, Tris realized with a shock. Alex was frightened of the man. Alex, who didn't scare easily, was scared now in a way Tris couldn't suss. He watched Alex finish the last of the bottle of whiskey and then watched it slide from clumsy fingers. Alex's head dropped into his hands, and Tris listened to the loud breathing that came to him even over the background rumble of the jet engines.

Finally Alex looked up. His eyes were damp and even redder, and they seemed to see Tris for the first time. "Oh God, Tris, I was scared when they took me, and nobody would tell me anything or do anything or let me out. Then he came around." His eyes closed for a moment, then snapped open. "An' he took me out of there, but then--" Alex shivered.

"What, mate? Was he with the cops?" The stranger was a puzzle -- and wouldn't be solved until Alex managed to give them a clue. He seemed to be part and parcel with Alex's troubles, though...

"Ahhh," Alex slurred, and this time when his eyes closed, he leaned heavily sideways. Something was finally slowing him down. If he could sleep this off, maybe Alex would be back to his steady, happy self in the morning. If not, well, Tris didn't like the idea of calling in an Italian doctor, but no more did he want to cancel the scheduled shows.

"Alexmate, you fancy a lie down?" Don't fight me on this, Alex.

The eyelids flickered. "Yeh."

"Okay, let's shift you then." Tris heaved at the near-comatose twelve stone of his singer. "It's not far."

"'Kay," agreed Alex, not moving. But when Tris tugged again at his shoulder, he leaned out of the chair and wobbled with Tris's support to the bed, reserved for just such emergencies, that occupied the other half of the forward cabin.

He lay still as Tris pulled covers around him, sleeping or passed out, but jerked awake with a cry when Tris moved toward the door.

"Just goin' to have a word with Mick, mate. I'll be right next door." Sorting out your stranger before we get into any more trouble.

"Oh," Alex mumbled. "Okay." But Tris could see that it wasn't, and he left the door to the main cabin closed, returning to sit cross-legged on the bed beside Alex. He reached out to stroke the tangled curls, feeling warmed when Alex relaxed under his touch.

"Shh," he whispered, listening as Alex's breathing steadied and deepened.

Even with Alex asleep, the discordant mood permeated the cabin. The silent, vivid music that was Tris's internal representation of Alex was distorted, as if warped by feedback. He tried to call up in his memory the subtle rhythms of the old market in Istanbul, but they kept speeding up, driven by Alex's heartbeat.

He was still sitting there half an hour later, listening to Alex snore lightly, when Mick tapped discreetly at the door. Had to be Mick. No one else would have the nerve. Well, Duff would, Tris corrected himself, but the drummer couldn't be discreet if his life depended on it. Tris eased gently off the bed, listening a moment to be sure Alex would stay asleep before he tiptoed over to the door.

Mick smiled apologetically when Tris opened the door, and leaned close to whisper an account of some negotiation with a "Hans Pfeiffer."

Tris listened to the demands with growing suspicion. "He wants what?"

"A job. Well, for a few days. Just until he can catch a plane home."

"I don't like it, Mick. He's involved in whatever happened to Alex--" Damn, he wished he knew more.

"Has Alex said anything?" Mick didn't sound any happier about the situation than Tris was.

"Not much." And nothing of that makes a bit of sense. "But whatever went down, it was enough to give him the heavy shakes. I don't like it, Mick. I don't like him." It was a gut reaction, but he didn't want the man around. Paradox on tour didn't need any more complications than they could make for themselves as it was.

"He claims he'll give us more of the story if we keep him on." It was clear that Mick thought the info might be worth it, even if the source was questionable, but Tris's gut said it was a bad idea...

"Let 'im stay." Alex's scratchy voice emerged from the darkened half of the cabin.

Mick twitched his eyebrows at Tris, questioning.

"Alex, are you sure... ?" Tris hoped Alex would take it as a way out.

"I owe him, Tris. He got me out of a rough place, and even if it was a nightmare, he didn't have to do it. He wants to stick with us for a few days, I say yes. 'Sides, I know I don't want 'im mad at me."

"Okay, Alex, whatever." But I'm going to have a word with Mr. Hans Pfeiffer myself, as soon as I get a chance. He saw that Mick had read his thought, and the manager nodded briefly. Both knew that getting the band -- meaning Alex, just now -- back on track had to be Tris's first priority "Just take care of him, Mick, so we're clean and clear. Can you?"

"Don't I always?" was Mick's only response. He turned away and Tris shut the door softly.

Turning back to the darkened cabin, his eye caught the intricate inlay on the frets of his mandolin. Taking it back to the bed where Alex lay dozing again, he strummed it gently to check the tuning. It was an old instrument and fell out of tune quickly. He adjusted it, then softly plucked the tune that had been running through his head since Cappadocia, filling the cabin with the sad but serene mood of the rocky wilderness.

The timbre of the jets deepened, signaling their descent into Sicily. Alex started awake at the "fasten seatbelts" announcements, and Tris aided his clumsy fingers again, getting him into a chair, tightening the belt across his lap before he took his own seat. Alex caught his hands and held them, looking deeply into Tris's eyes. He looked worse for the sleep instead of better, dark circles bruising his eyes, his cheeks hollow and pale under the blond stubble.

Tris waited, and finally Alex just said, "Thanks."

He looked so lost, so empty of the unreserved joy that usually radiated from him, that Tris leaned in, offering a kiss, wanting to spark the light back into Alex's eyes. He was surprised when Alex's hands came up to tangle in his hair, gripping his head, holding him still as Alex kissed him, thrusting his tongue hard into Tris's mouth, tracing its limits. He sucked and bit, inviting Tris to do likewise. It was fast and loud and a little desperate, like a trumpet concerto. Tris's hands were on Alex, struggling to reach what he could but confined by the seatbelt and the fact that Alex refused to let him go.

He felt the plane's landing gear grind down and ignored it, got a hand inside Alex's jeans and freed the hard cock, pumping it quickly in time with their racing heartbeats. Alex dropped his head back against the headrest, gasping deeply. Tris panted, watching Alex's chest rise and fall, feeling the quivering response in the powerful body under his hands and feeling the ponderous floating adjustments of the plane's weight in the air between them and the Earth. Then Alex pulled his head down and Tris bent gladly, finally releasing the seatbelt to better reach his goal.

He licked the top of Alex's shaft, and Alex's whole body arched upward in response. Tris didn't bother with niceties, just took in as much as he could, sucking hard, sliding his hand down into Alex's jeans to massage his balls.

Alex whimpered sharply and then came, shuddering hard, spurting into Tris's throat. Tris let him finish and pulled off, gasping, and felt the earth rush up at both of them. He clutched at Alex's legs, felt Alex's hands holding him as the plane touched down and went into the jerky shudder of a newly grounded aircraft.

# # #

"The crew doesn't need to know any of what you've told me," said Royce, with finality. "You'll be one more roadie, as far as they know."

"Agreed," said Klaus. It had taken only a little suggestion to bring Mr. Royce to the point of insisting that he stay with "the band," evidently titled Paradox, unless and until Logan was declared safe. Klaus suspected that the surrender of his Magnum into Royce's safekeeping had reassured the man far more than any of the half-truths Klaus had given to explain his own and Logan's appearance on the Ataturk International airfield. What Royce thought of it was his own affair; but Klaus estimated that he would cooperate with any measures "Hans Pfeiffer" might suggest in the next few days.

Finally Mick Royce stuck out one very large hand. "You're hired, Pfeiffer, on Alex's say-so. There'd better not be any trouble out of this." The threat in his voice was not well disguised, but Klaus ignored it.

"No, sir, there won't," said the Major, as if to a superior officer. "To whom should I report for road-crew duty?"

Royce looked at him strangely, and Klaus realized that punctilious military courtesy might not be the common mode here. The big man rolled to his feet and leaned against a convenient row of seats. "You're working for Dennis Heyes -- he's the roadie boss -- under Simon Nash, the road manager. Just follow Heyes's group when we deplane."

"Yes, sir." Royce gave Klaus another searching look, then shrugged and obviously dropped Hans Pfeiffer from his list of current problems.

Feeling as though he'd weathered an inept but enthusiastic interrogation, Klaus sank into his seat on -- he now knew -- the Paradox jet. He was not perhaps entirely helpless without the cover Paradox could offer, but it was by far the best for his purposes until Eroica was found.

It had been foolish of the Chief to assign him a cover in Ankara as a diplomat -- the role did not suit him and everyone knew it. Probably that was why the head-up-his-ass Chief had done it: "to keep you on your toes," the Chief would say.

That was over, at least. Eroica had arrived in Ankara on schedule, the Major had cleared the way for him at the American Embassy and the planned acquisition, as ever with Eroica, had gone off smoothly. Eroica had actually been out of the Embassy compound: Klaus had watched for his exit through a not-particularly-convenient window in a line-of-sight building one corner down the street, just within binocular distance. He'd seen the slim black figure slip out and shake its pale curls in the air before melting into the shadows. Klaus growled to himself as the memory replayed, for the gesture had certainly been unnecessary, meant for his watching eyes, and the thought of Eroica flaunting himself was not only repellent, but far too memorable.

Two minutes later, all hell had broken loose.

Hell was the silent, incandescence of breached high security and the writhing agony of national government that had lost an irreplaceable and inadmissible object. Klaus learned of the silent blowup only when he returned to his ostensible and temporary job at the Federal Republic's embassy.

He'd stayed at his post all while reports came in pinpointing a theft at their American ally's embassy -- of some kind of silver-bound art item, it seemed, which meant only that Eroica had played one of his usual tricks. But it had alerted the U.S. embassy's security staff, and whether it was reported or not, they'd have checked their safe and discovered the loss of a certain spool of unclassifiably secret film that they shouldn't have had at all. They couldn't admit they knew it existed, let alone that they'd had it and lost it, but they'd go all out to get it back. They had Eroica's description and access to Interpol's famous unclosed file on him.

The thief had indeed evaded or jinxed the embassy security cameras; the Major rated Eroica's ability on such matters as near-supernatural. However, one description by an alert guard served to finger "Eroica" all too well.

The next report, too many sleepless hours later, had placed Eroica in Istanbul, which was reasonable enough, and in custody of the Istanbul police, which under most circumstances Klaus would consider only simple justice. The report mentioned nothing about a silver art object of any kind, however, nor any information that Eroica had divulged. The Major assumed that the twisty English bastard was finessing the situation. He preferred that Eroica finesse it no further than necessary.

Klaus commandeered a seat on the next flight to Istanbul, expecting to find some complicated trick of Eroica's, but when Klaus had arrived at the police headquarters he discovered a confused and terrified stranger.

Eroica was still at large. The satellite-camera film he'd been sent to acquire was, therefore, still at large also, as was any certainty the Americans might have about who'd stolen it or precisely when or, of course, anything about the silver bauble Eroica had picked up on his own. Why, Klaus thought irritably, hadn't the idiot left one of his "From Eroica with Love" calling cards? Since (by report) the stolen object was a priceless historical or religious artifact lent for display by a prominent Turkish scholar and nationalist, the Americans might consider its recovery as more than incidental. He'd have to speak to Eroica about that little faux pas. Better yet, Klaus thought with sour amusement, the Chief at Bonn would have to speak to Eroica. It would serve them both right.

Klaus had known with his gut, as well as by cold calculation, that it was necessary to free the false Eroica. He'd even relished the chance to confuse the smug, earnest CIA. If only one of the silly Yanks hadn't jumped the gun, all too literally, everything would be fine. That misjudgment had cost the agent dearly, and it had cost Klaus too much. What kind of agent started an unnecessary gunfight in a city street full of civilians? From the focus the American agents had placed on the escape, he'd have thought they were afraid of Eroica, as if he could pose a threat to them!

Had they perhaps been under the impression that they were rescuing Major Eberbach from him? Klaus's mental processes stopped dead at the idea for a moment.

Nonsense. What a ridiculous thought.

Klaus was relieved to be distracted by the muffled thump of landing gear and the grumbling of Paradox crew-and-entourage members complying with the pilot's instructions to fasten their seatbelts or take the consequences and no fucking in the john until the aircraft had come to a complete halt. Klaus growled to himself, buckled his seatbelt, and tried to pick out which of the complement of ill-clad human dregs in the back of the plane were to be his fellow road-crew members until Eroica resurfaced or until some disgruntled government located him.

It was not an inviting prospect.

# # #

Dorian opened his eyes to afternoon instead of morning when the train pulled into Thessalonica. Jones would be waiting as ordered and would be relieved to know everything had gone smoothly. Dorian rarely needed to call on his team for emergency rescue efforts, but there had been a time or two in the past when having someone to watch out for him had made the difference between an entertaining adventure and an unpleasant jail term.

Jones was waiting behind the wheel of a hired limousine and greeted him with a warm smile. Accepting Dorian's small carryall, Jones held the offside door for him.

"Careful with that," Dorian warned when Jones might have thrown it into the luggage compartment.

"Yes, my lord." Jones eyed the bag speculatively, but didn't ask. Instead, he packed it gently into the car and then drove quickly and carefully through the afternoon traffic to an unostentatious hotel which proved, inside, to be a haven of cool quiet.

The room was ready, a vase of roses on the side table and a bath drawn and waiting. Jones took away his sweaty clothes and offered him a silk caftan, but his attention strayed frequently to the carryall that Dorian would not allow out of his sight.

Finally Dorian could open it and show off his prize.

"So, what is it?" asked Jones, as Dorian freed the string that held it closed. Teasing himself (and Jones) a little, he removed the wrapping slowly, piece by piece, stopping to fold each layer before removing the next. It was like undressing a particularly long-awaited lover... if only it were Klaus... As he lifted off the last covering, Dorian stilled, caught anew by the beauty of his find: sensuous curves of silver and light and shadow; smooth ink on old parchment. He took a moment to run appreciative eyes and fingers over the inscribed figures. "Isn't it exquisite?"

"What is it?" Jones's sense of history was less keenly tutored than Dorian's. "I can't make out the picture."

The "picture" might have been a sweeping, abstract pen-and-ink rendition of a mountain landscape or, at another angle, stylized leggy deer in an equally stylized forest. The curves and flourishes had a definite but obscure life of their own. Dorian had loved it at first sight. The enclosing frame was made of frankly abstract arabesques. "It's meant to fool the eye, a bit," he said to Jones, "but in the strictest sense it's not a picture at all." He regarded it with possessive pride.

"The police wire had you stealing it from the American Embassy in Turkey."

"Mmm-hmm," said Dorian, aware of a tiny lump of undelivered responsibility in his belt pocket.

"Are you going in for an Eastern bit of collection now?"

"Not really. It just seemed like a good idea at the time." Dorian caressed the silver frame, admiring the balanced fluting at the edges. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Yeh-- ess," said Jones doubtfully.

"Well, keep it safe," said Dorian briskly. "I'll be back to see it again soon. Just now I've to see a man about a mountain."

Jones coughed. "Ah, yes, m'lord."

Dorian smiled, feeling a quiver of excitement flutter through him. "Well, I do, you know." This double game was most delicious when even his own team weren't aware of it. "Don't expect me back for a day or two," he said. He liked to take a little time to tease the reluctant Major after such escapades; NATO's pillar of virtue wasn't likely to topple into his arms, but the quest was a continuing diversion nevertheless.

# # #

As Klaus left the protection of the Paradox jet, he noted, automatically, the security setup at the Sicilian customs desks. He wore his red baseball cap, hair tucked up inside, and the Turkish T-shirt which still made him wince. His "Hans Pfeiffer" ID, fortunately, showed short hair and an artfully shadowed face that made him look thinner and older than Iron Klaus normally did.

The road crew members -- roadies? -- chattered and grumbled around him, bored by the customs process and uncaring of the honor of having their own assigned official and an abbreviated ritual -- the latter ensured, the Major was virtually certain, by some exchange of currency and favors from Mick Royce. It was a disgusting corruption, naturally, but it suited his purpose.

"'Ave you bin at the stadium here?" asked a quick-moving little man in a noticeably obscene T-shirt, two ahead in the line of roadies on the wrong side of the customs desk.

"Nah, missed that tour," replied a taller, stringy man just before Klaus.

"'Sa weird one. The sound system's tailored to the echoes..."

"Who's he?" asked a different voice. It was said with eyes flicked toward Klaus and quickly away, by someone with a paunch that rivaled the Chief's.

"New guy. Picked 'im up last stop, I guess."

"He came on with Alex..." began a third voice from the lineup behind Klaus, and then dropped in volume until Klaus could not follow the speech, which had every property of scurrilous gossip. He wondered, with something between amusement and exasperation, how far it already deviated from the evidence any road crew member might have observed. He hoped they did not hit on the truth.

The man who had been presented to Klaus as Dennis Heyes appeared at Klaus's shoulder. "Pfeiffer. Gotcher passport?"

"Yes, sir. It's West German," said Eberbach, a.k.a Johannes Pfeiffer of the Paradox road crew. "Will that present any difficulties?"

Heyes shook his head. "Not in Italy. Mr. Royce handles the entry paperwork for everyone." In cash, no doubt, thought Klaus. "Just answer the guard's questions. Don't say anything you don't hafta, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Klaus forbore to mention that he'd had extensive training and experience in the art of telling immigration guards and other junior officials only what they needed to know. His magnum and spare ammo clips were, he hoped, safer with Mick Royce than with him. No border guard could be expected to ignore them.

"That's fine, just like that," approved Heyes. His eyes were already searching up and down the line of roadies for other problems. The Major recognized a competent sergeant's behavior and nodded a crisp dismissal just before Heyes said, vaguely, "Good man," and moved on.

Whatever occupied the road crew boss, it did not prevent the road crew members behind Klaus from continuing their attempts at familiarity. "You came aboard with Alex," said someone in an elaborately studded leather jacket which did not conceal bulging muscles or, unfortunately, an equally prominent body odor. "He all right? What happened?" This accent was, more or less, American.

"I-cannot-discuss--" began Klaus stiffly, and stopped. He was to blend in with these men. This was not the moment to antagonize his new workmates.

"'Course you can," said the man, ignoring Klaus's tone. "Name's Hickory. What's yours?"

"'Hickory'?" asked Klaus in disbelief.

"Blaine Hickory," confirmed the man, and waited in muscular and affable expectation.

Klaus blinked. The man intended to be intimidating. "Hans Pfeiffer," he said. "I met Mr. Logan in Istanbul."

"An' what happened?" asked Hickory, unfazed by the silence at the end of Klaus's sentence. Other faces turned toward them, listening eagerly.

"Next!" called an implacable Italian voice, and Klaus trudged forward with a feeling of being punted between Scylla and Charybdis. He adjusted his posture to match the slumped shoulders of the man who'd stood ahead of him and mentally rehearsed Pfeiffer's vital statistics.

He must have remembered them correctly, for the guard apparently found nothing amiss with his answers. Between laconic replies Klaus scanned the booth and all visible surfaces, in a manner he knew would be taken for tourist curiosity. Hans Pfeiffer's passport showed only one previous trip outside Germany.

He spotted the wire-transmitted photo of Eroica which had caused all the trouble in the first place, and restrained his reaction when he saw his own, half-expected photograph next to it in similarly poor reproduction. Hans Pfeiffer was nobody the guard should give a second glace to, he made himself believe. It was just as well that the photo had caught his hair at a windy moment, the outline nothing like Pfeiffer's pictured crew cut. Even more fortunately, the guard had probably not had time to study the wire photo and description thoroughly; it could hardly have arrived here more than an hour ago.

Klaus headed into the concourse to join the Paradox roadies there with a sense of returning to a greater danger. He was officially wanted for questioning by NATO, and he had no doubt that any American agents who happened to be available at his arrest would take charge of him. That outcome to the mission would be awkward, to say the least, but he thought he understood its dangers better than the vagaries of rock musicians and their "road crew."

It reminded him uncomfortably of the effect Eroica had on him. Klaus quashed that thought and wondered how he was going to handle working for Paradox.

# # #

The band's progress through Italian immigration was smooth, but not smooth enough to ease Tris's nerves. Or Mick's, by the look of him. At least this time nearly everyone was sober, except Alex, who was as tanked as Tris could get him and therefore quiet, slow-moving, and remarkably docile. He remembered his name and didn't babble anything about jail or blood.

In a hired car of the way to Syracuse, Alex curled into sleep on the back seat while Camy drove and Tris frowned, unseeing, at the Sicilian hillsides. God knew what Duff was doing in the other car -- God and the two groupies who were with him. Tris hoped he'd taken a driver as well and wasn't going to play racing derby all along the highway.

"You get anything out of him?" asked Camy, with a quick glance toward the back seat.

"Nothing much. He's pretty shaken up, is all I'm sure of."

"Who's the German guy?"

"The one Alex came back with?"

"Right. Pfeiffer. He's not shaken at all, or..." Camy frowned.

"Or?" Anything that might explain Alex's overnight incarceration, Tris wanted to know. Immediately.

"He's a strange one. He's like a suit... but harder. He'd eat suits for breakfast. If he were upset, you'd never know unless you were in his way."

"What'd he do to Mick to get a job with us?"

"Well, now, Mick eats suits for lunch and dinner," grinned Camy. "If the guy stays, Mick has a good reason."

"Alex doesn't like Pfeiffer, but he said okay to keep him on."

"What as?" Camy's eyes stayed on the highway.

"Roadie. Temporary, Mick says he says."

"What'd he want with Alex?"

And that, Tris thought, was the question. "I dunno. Alex won't say." The singer stirred in the back seat, but a moment later his breathing told Tris that the he was soundly asleep again. "Let him sleep it off, I guess."

Camy shrugged, but Tris knew he wouldn't forget the new roadie.

# # #

Klaus was perfectly capable of lifting and carrying heavy objects, including massive rolls of heavy-duty electrical cabling. It was the supervision -- not by the crew manager, but by fellow workers -- that annoyed him. Dennis Heyes wanted the cables coiled one way. Croft wanted them rolled up in another fashion. Blaine Hickory merely wanted all the microphone cables to the impressive assembly of noise-makers referred to as a "drum kit" laid out and taped down in a precisely and arcanely significant order, and commandeered "Hans" to redo it when some aspect of the original arrangement displeased him.

Klaus perforce endured Hickory's company and orders for some time, doing his best to deflect the personal questions aimed at him as well.

"You really a Kraut?"

"Yes." It was hardly practical to disguise it.

"Whatcha doin' in Turkey?"

Hans Pfeiffer must have had some reason for being there, Klaus supposed. "Just being a tourist," he said.

"Meetin' people?" asked Hickory.

Klaus adopted the common style of parlance. "Yeah."

"Like Alex?"

Klaus shrugged. "Should I tape the C cable or the D cable first?"

Hickory glanced at the floor where Klaus squatted. "Not yet! Turn 'em over, dammit!" His outrage seemed genuine.

"Why does it matter?" asked Klaus, keeping the disdain out of his tone. He needed to know why it mattered to Hickory.

"They're twisted, and they'll warp and break down faster this way. Lay 'em flat, Hans."

"Yes, sir." Klaus began to re-lay the cables while Hickory watched critically.

"Yeah, like that -- no, make sure that one's even. Okay... Say, you're pretty quick. Ever do this before?"

"Some electrical work," said Klaus truthfully.

"But not for a band," guessed Hickory.

"No, sir."

Hickory was not deterred by the curt answer. "So what else d'you do?"

Klaus shrugged. "I was in the army."

Hickory grinned slowly. "No shit, sir."

Klaus shut up and laid another cable: flat, as ordered.

"Didja like it?"

Klaus said, "It's a living," in as neutral a tone as possible. He thought he could hear his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-uncles contorting under the baronial monuments in the von dem Eberbach portion of the church graveyard.

"Is it now? You're not a real live wire, are you?"

Klaus did not answer. There didn't seem to be any good answer.

"Betcher a live one sometimes," said Hickory softly. "That why Alex likes ya?"

Klaus looked up, surprised and annoyed. "Mr. Logan? He doesn't like me."

"Oh?" Hickory was visibly skeptical.

Klaus stood up. "What part of my statement do you disbelieve? Sir?"

Hickory gave him a careful once-over. "Wee- ell... I'm not gonna call you a liar. I just wonder why you came aboard with Alex."

"Happenstance."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," said Klaus, and after a calculated pause that would have communicated aggressive insolence to a real superior officer, "sir."

Hickory looked him up and down for a long moment and then said, "If you say so, Hans," with patent falseness. "I gotta check the mikes now, so you're done here. Run along."

Thus dismissed, Klaus made his way carefully across the stage, over the new tape markings and branching hoses of cable. The stage was an open stone platform surrounded by a huge half-bowl of stone tiers -- seating, he realized, cut out of the hill itself. In the growing afternoon shadows, a desk covered with ranks of switches and controls illuminated a closed area created by two of the giant amps at one side of the level area. Two men in headsets frowned over it.

"I don't like that echo pattern," said one, eyes closed.

"'S the best we could get in this stone pit," said the other. "Tris'll want to play around with it tomorrow, pretty sure."

The first one opened his eyes and peered over the stage. "Hoi! Pfeiffer!" It was Heyes.

"Sir?" asked Klaus. He'd hoped to get away soon. It was becoming urgent that he contact Bonn.

"The roadie buffet opened twenty minutes ago. What're you doing up here?"

Buffet. Food? The idea had sudden appeal. "Where is it, sir?"

"I thought so. None of those buggers told you, did they? Back past the equipment trucks. Didja see the catering van earlier? There." He hunted in a pocket. "Here's your badge, by the way."

Klaus accepted the large, laminated square adorned with (inevitably) the Paradox logo as well as with his assumed name, unrestrained colors swirling in the background. It was entirely unlike the identification he carried for NATO, or the smugly authoritarian, discreet metal shields of the CIA. Of course not: its purpose was to be visible, not invisible, to the casual eye.

"Don't lose it, don't give it to anyone, and don't try to go in or out of the theater or hotel floor without it," recited Heyes. "Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Hotel? Where...?"

"There'll be a bus for everyone when Tim is satisfied with the sound check tonight. Now get some dinner."

"Yes, sir." Klaus didn't dare ask about a telephone. "Hans" had no excuse to need one. But it seemed that he had been granted powers of egress and re-entrance to the theater area. He decided to postpone dinner until he'd investigated the possibilities nearby.

Half an hour later, after an aggravating tussle with the Italian telephone service and an even more aggravating wait for someone at Bonn HQ to locate an agent with his wits about him, Klaus returned to Paradox's crew grim-faced and utterly devoid of appetite.

Eroica had not reported in, nor had he been arrested or spotted anywhere except for the false alarm in Istanbul, since he'd scampered out of Klaus's sight nearly forty hours ago. Neither police nor border guards nor any of NATO's observers on this case had caught sight of him, nor the microfilm, nor even the silver artifact the Americans were being so loud about.

He must be in hiding. By Bonn's orders, so was Klaus until some sign of Eroica or his booty turned up.

He ate some of the remains of the crew's dinner buffet mechanically, waiting for a summons to more of the setup work, trying to think of possibilities his subordinates hadn't covered.

Klaus lifted, carried, taped cables, and listened to increasingly cacophonous tests of the sound equipment so precisely arranged on the stage, until well after full dark. The roadies -- other roadies -- took it in stride, cheerful even after hours of work, and inquisitive about "Hans" through it all. Klaus realized after the first comments that more connection was assumed between the himself and Alex Logan than merely helping each other to the Paradox aircraft. The comments suggested lewd speculation; Klaus did not know what to say to counter it.

When at last they were allowed to board the bus which had brought them all from the airport, Klaus was in no mood to manufacture yet more conversation on the topic of his total lack of interest in Mr. Logan's personal habits. By dint of ferocious glaring he acquired a seat alone for the ride to the hotel, but it didn't stop a sly-mouthed comment across the aisle from a short, wiry individual whose specialty was lighting equipment, that Alex must now be wearing a T-shirt that said, "My War or Yours?"

Klaus decided that a venomous but puzzled scowl might be the best response, and delivered it with feeling. The man merely stuck out his hand with a grin. "Nigel Starlington." Reflexively, Klaus shook the hand. "You're Hans Fife, right?"

"Yes," said Klaus.

"Boss says we're roommates." The vague nod that accompanied this information indicated Dennis Heyes, hunched over a stack of clipboards in the seat behind the driver.

"I see. Does that mean he wants you to supervise my movements?"

"Nah, it's just a warnin'. 'M gonna party late, so don't lock me out."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll wake you up," said Starlington with undiminished cheer. "An' you might not like it. That's all."

Other chatter around them, overheard and noted even during Klaus's silent glaring, had mentioned a party, evidently a routine occasion for "The band's" evenings. "Would I be welcome at your party?"

It must have been the right thing to say, for Starlington grinned at him and nodded. "Yer on the crew, man. 'Course you'll come to the party." The bus pulled up to a building that had to be their hotel and stopped.

A few hours later, Klaus thought he had been sufficiently appalled for the evening. Food, music and drink of all kinds was available, but so was an illicit cornucopia of substances of the sort labeled "recreational." Even after so short a time in Paradox's company, this did not surprise Klaus, and under the circumstances he considered it in his best interests to ignore it, no matter how openly the items were being smoked, drunk or inhaled.

The women were another matter. They seemed to be all colors and sizes but were generally young and shapely, and while most appeared willing to indulge in any or all acts of the sort also labeled "recreational," they had not been hired. They were volunteers, and most shared an enthusiasm that bordered, to Klaus's mind, on the unnatural. Worse, a few of them attached themselves to him and had to be dissuaded from initiating recreation of either or both sorts.

"This's Ateena," Starlington had introduced the first one. "She's from Syracuse, here tonight."

"And tomorrow," said Ateena, who was teenaged, olive-skinned and voluptuous.

"I'm Violet," said another, edging Ateena none-too-subtly to one side. She was quite similar, aside from being over the age of consent, Nordic-pale, and slender. "You're new, aren't you? Don't you want a drink?"

Violet provided whiskey, and had nearly provided several other items. From a nearby divan on which Starlington and Ateena were making an embarrassingly close acquaintance, the other roadie spared a hand to tug Klaus briefly into a conference. "Vi'let's our welcome committee, Hans. Loosen up, she loves the new boys."

Klaus freed himself and tried to think of a way of detaching Violet without insulting her or the band with which she had affiliated herself, and without joining into any carnal relations, public or private. He had another drink to delay the question, and then another to dull the rising noise level.

A mixed chorus line of topless dancers performed something resembling a can-can to some species of mid-Eastern music. Two singers (neither was Logan) competed to produce the loudest, highest, most discordant noise possible, simultaneously and in opposite corners of the room. Klaus disengaged Violet's arm from around his waist and her head from his shoulder and towed her over to the drinks table to get another large whiskey. "You are a beautiful girl of honorable breeding," he said, experimentally.

"Does that mean you're ready to rock?" Violet's drinks had been laced with something Klaus preferred not to take official notice of.

"I am afraid not. You remind me of Maria Theresa."

"Say what?"

"Queen of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Mother of the Emperor Josef and, ah, of Marie Antoinette." It was amazing how everyone in the world knew of that French-by-marriage trollop and no one recognized a hard-working empress for what she was. "She was a great lady, far above my station. As are you."

Violet swayed dreamily, half her drink gone during Klaus's speech. "Say, mmm, what?"

"I fear I cannot accept the invitation you offer me. It would be wrong."

"Oh, no, you're not leavin'?"

"I fear I must," said Klaus with simulated regret. "Please excuse me. A woman of your radiant qualities will not be long without a companion." He gulped at the neat whiskey and edged back toward the corridor door. "Good-by--"

"Not yet!" This time it was a bouncy (hopped-up, Klaus's mind supplied), petite creature with short auburn curls. She knocked the drink out of his hand, stepped on his foot and leapt into his arms -- or rather, threw her arms around his waist and refused to let go. Klaus shook his head. "No, no, down, off!"

"Aww, honey," said the girl. "Don'cha want ta know if I'm a natural redhead?"

Klaus blinked. "No!"

"I am, ya know," she caroled, at a volume rather higher than necessary for personal conversation.

"Get down!" Klaus dragged her off, or tried to, but one of her hands shoved something into his face and he breathed without thinking.

Adrenalin slammed down his spine and made his brain go cold while everything else heated to flashpoint. The dark-red curls hazed in his vision and he struggled -- with the girl, with his body, with the insane place the world had become -- for control. And lost.

# # #

Planes were drab and not Dorian's favorite means of transport, especially when he was traveling as a mundane (and, it was to be hoped, unrecognizable) businessman very unlike Eroica. However, first class made it almost bearable, and NATO was paying the bill so he wouldn't haven't to answer to James for it, and when Dorian recalled that Klaus should be waiting for him at Bonn, the flight became a delicious exercise in anticipation.

He'd had a spot of fun flirting with the steward, who accidentally (of course) leaned a little too close every time he refilled Dorian's champagne glass. Dorian wondered if all flight stewards were gay or just those in first class. If the airlines were recruiting them deliberately, Dorian thought it was a charming custom.

The boy was diverting but when the plane descended toward Germany Dorian's thoughts again turned to Klaus; all thought of the winsome champagne-server's brown eyes left him when he remembered the steel-edged green ones he hoped to see in a few hours. Dorian sighed happily.

The cold green eyes had shown no sign of warming to him yet. This was Eroica's second -- no, third -- job for NATO this year. He ought to bill them for the lost opportunities; these missions of Klaus's were becoming a serious drain on his time. Dorian wouldn't have minded at all if only he'd been able to gain some foothold with Iron Klaus. Just occasionally, in split-second glimpses, Dorian thought he must have made some impression, for the green eyes would flicker at him once too often, the manner be a shade suddenly too brusque for simple dislike. There were signals -- Dorian would swear to it -- that the Major noticed him, reacted to him, and... refused to acknowledge any of it.

The Major was the proverbial immovable object, or wanted to be. Dorian, who knew himself to have been irresistible in the past, was beginning to wonder if his credentials had been revoked, flirtatious airline stewards notwithstanding.

His reverie was interrupted by the landing announcement. It was eleven in the evening, weather clear and cool -- far too late to bother Klaus's office with a trivial bit of news such as his arrival, or was it? It might be amusing to drag Klaus out of whatever evening plans he had; Dorian had wondered now and then if the tiny flashes of reaction were simply to the breaking of the Major's iron routine.

Variety, he thought, was the spice of life. Klaus needed more of it.

# # #

Alex had thrown himself into partying with an intensity that had him truly wasted in record time. He'd consumed an enormous amount of alcohol, pot and hash, and was currently eyeing the redhead in the corner who had been passing out the amyl nitrate poppers. Should he or shouldn't he?

Two girls in shorts and see-through blouses were enacting what they called Bacchic revels and what Alex called a damn fine strip show. He ignored the scuffle in another corner: the road crew seemed to have it under control and tonight, somehow, brawling wasn't a very appealing diversion. He reached for his drink, noticed there was a semi-familiar groupie attached to it now, and kissed her hand as he repossessed the glass to drain it dry. The girl -- Susan? Sharon? -- moved around to rub his shoulders, and the sensation started a painful sort of relaxation that he knew would become better very soon.

Someone tapped his arm lightly and he looked up to see Tris's roadie Steve, looking anxious. "What?" Alex snapped.

"Er, Alex, that German guy you brought in is causin' problems, and won't settle down for nothin'. C'n you have a word with 'im? We got 'im in your sitting room." Steve jerked his head toward the indicated door.

Alex glared at him, but Steve waited without backing down. And Alex definitely owed "Hans" a favor for the jailbreak, whatever his methods... "Okay, I'll see to it." He dropped a second kiss on the groupie's kind hand, then pushed to his feet. The room wobbled for a moment, then steadied, and Alex let it settle firmly into place before he left to deal with his "little problem."

Stumbling across the threshold into his suite, Alex almost didn't recognize Hans-Major-with-a-big-gun-Pfeiffer. The German was held between two strong roadies, struggling in their grasp, obviously too dazed to put up an effective fight. The unfocused eyes tried to follow Alex, and seemed to flare with some unnamed emotion. Alex nodded that he could handle the situation and the roadies left hurriedly to return to the party.

"Hans" fell back against the wall and barely managed to hang there. Alex, who'd seen more drunken, drugged amateurs than he'd seen sober businessmen, recognized the genuine object. "Hans" was gone. Abso-fuckin'-lutely wasted, on drugs or booze, or probably both. A basket case.

"Dammit, Hans!" yelled Alex, frustrated at having to concentrate on someone else's needs, let alone this man's, "couldn't you--"

He was interrupted by a spate of rapid-fire German, meaningless to him. Then: "How did you get here? What are you doing here? Did you drug me?"

This was followed by more German, some of it curse words that Alex recognized. He watched, dazed but curious, as the man ran fingers into his dark hair and tried to pull handfuls of it out by the roots, his eyes and teeth clenched shut in a fury of pain.

When "Hans" seemed to come back to the present he looked at Alex again, now with confusion and something else: sorrow, longing, deeper pain? His eyes had focused, but they were lost, as if he could see Alex but didn't understand why he was there. It was a feeling Alex knew well himself, and had seen in Duff: What's happened to make the world such a strange place? I don't understand it any more! Help!

It made him feel more charitable, in this moment, for his odd savior. "Why don't you get some sleep, Hans? It'll be better in the light of day," he offered, although he wasn't at all sure how many days it would be until he himself felt better. He didn't like to think about taking the violent death of another human in stride. Maybe this wild spell was "Hans" falling out of step over it, a delayed reaction. Alex slid a hand around the broad shoulders, steering his wasted charged toward the bedroom.

In a move too fast for Alex's muddled brain to follow the German exploded, and Alex was flung against the wall, his head rapping sharply back on it, while the heat of a hard, muscular body pressed against him from chest to knees.

Hans was shouting angrily in German again, and the only syllables that made sense were "Eroica," and "vertrunkene Idioten." He shifted to accented English: "perverted hands," "keep away," and "damn pervert" were repeated in apparently random order.

Shocked sober, or relatively so, Alex tried to free himself, but Hans only leaned harder against him. The man's erection was obvious, rubbing against Alex's groin in contradiction to the shouted tirade.

Alex tried to twist free again, thinking wildly that he didn't fancy being raped against the wall of his own hotel room. There was only one of Hans, but he was actually bigger and stronger than Alex, and the events of the afternoon made it a good guess that he'd had combat training more systematic than a dozen or so Welsh bar brawls.

Alex thought of calling for help. The knowledge that he could, however embarrassing it would be to have some of Simon's minions find him in this compromising position, gave him the confidence to relax his muscles, lean back against the wall and look up into the crazy German's eyes. They seemed unable to fix on Alex: they'd flit to his face, then away, rapidly scanning the room, the floor, then back again for a quick peek as if Alex might have disappeared or changed in the time he'd looked elsewhere.

"Hans," Alex tried again, softly this time. "Hans, let go."

Maybe he got through, because at least Hans seemed to see him now, looking closely at his face, his hair, then deeply into his eyes. "You -- you are not -- Dorian -- Eroica. You... Logan--"

He released Alex abruptly, turning away and drawing himself up in a puffed-out military posture. He swayed a little, but otherwise pulled it off. When he turned back around, there was only a tiny trace of a blush on his cheeks. It faded quickly and was replaced by stiff formality.

"I will thank you to keep your hands to yourself. I shall be going now, and I thank you for the service you've done me. I apologize for your inconvenience."

"But..." Alex knew the futility of trying to argue with a drunk; he had experience from both sides of the fence. He tried anyway. "You'd better stay here."

"I am not a--" Hans clamped his mouth shut, but Alex still heard an echo of "pervert" with that peculiar spitting sound that the German had added during his tirade. "I am not interested--"

Did the bloke really think this was Alex's idea of a seduction routine? For chrissakes, where'd he been all his life?

"Listen, mate, I'm sorry to burst your little bubble, but I've got plenty of willing bedmates. I don't need to force meself on the likes of you. You're in disguise, hiding from someone, right? Whatever you told Mick?"

Hard green eyes drilled straight into his for a shocking instant. It almost made Alex lose the fragile thread of his argument. "Uh... Hans. These rooms are inside Paradox security, maybe the best-protected place in the city tonight. No one will bother you here. You can even lock the door. All right?"

Hans made as if to argue, but Alex wasn't interested any more. He wanted another drink. Or three. He went out and closed the door firmly behind him. Let the guy stay, or leave. It was none of Alex's business which he chose.

# # #

The decision of whether to notify NATO Intelligence of his arrival now or later was taken out of Dorian's hands, for the lovely Agent G was waiting for him in the Immigration area, scanning the crowd with an air of resigned endurance. The noticeably cheap imitation of a Chanel from the fall collection caught Dorian's eye, and he made a mental note to remind Klaus to raise his subordinates' salaries. One just couldn't afford to live on what NATO paid its personnel. It was a frequent complaint of James's as well.

G's expression changed to an excited, peremptory wave and Dorian almost thought the agent was glad to see him. When G sent a withering glance over Dorian's shoulder at the brown-eyed steward's farewell -- a little more effusive than airline standard -- Dorian was sure of it. Dorian blew a kiss back at the steward before offering his arm to G. He allowed himself to be steered through several layers of bureaucracy and hustled into an ugly, plain car headed for the government center.

G carefully did not mention the mission, so Dorian followed his lead and chattered on about Yves St. Laurent, a subject for gossip which invariably cheered up G; but once they were inside HQ, he felt entitled to ask after the Major.

"He's not in yet," said G, with a furtive look from under his lashes. "The Chief's in a snit about it. Everyone's keeping out of the line of fire."

"But..."

"Hssst!" G warned him. They were at the chief's door. G tapped on it.

The bellow from within sounded like a tormented farm animal, and G pushed open the door hesitantly. "Eroica's here, sir. As ordered." The agent scurried away before Dorian could think of anything more to say. The Chief was in the office, and evidently working, at nearly midnight. The hour alone meant something was wrong.

"Well, don't just stand there, Eroica, come in and close that door!"

The Chief looked even worse than his usual obese self. There were circles under his eyes and a gray tinge to his skin that spoke of too many hours awake with only coffee for company. Or -- Dorian re-evaluated the scatter of small boxes littering the room -- coffee and a really good German bakery.

"Now that you're here," the Chief asked in a reasonable, if forced, tone of voice, "where is the film?"

"I had thought to hand it directly to Major Eberbach."

"He's not here, and not likely to be here for some time -- a topic I will discuss with you presently -- and I must have that film now!"

The Chief was very neatly frothing at the mouth by the end of the speech. Dorian considered it in the best interests of his personal safety and dignity to hand over the capsule of microfilm. "What's so bloody important about it, anyway?" he asked, as the Chief examined the tiny canister minutely for some verification invisible to Dorian.

"None of your business, Thief. Wait here." And the Chief departed, moving at amazing speed for a man of his bulk. Dorian was left alone in the small office for the first time of any of his visits to NATO HQ. It was temptation too great to resist.

His perusal of a fascinating note -- a list of dates and cities -- was interrupted by G almost immediately, long before Dorian could find any compromising diary entries or other interesting evidence about the Chief's private life.

# # #

DAY 2

Hitting the floor didn't wake Alex so much as the sound of his head impacting the wood parquet. The pain and dizziness kept him there until Tris's uncombed head leaned over him, questioning him in what seemed to be a foreign language.

Very slowly, very carefully, Alex levered himself to a sitting position, making an effort to breathe deeply and praying for the room to stop spinning. It finally stilled, remaining blurry. The pounding in his head fought the waves in his stomach, and Alex, groaning, carefully rested his sore head against the mattress and prayed to die. Soon.

Tris appeared in front of him again, the long-fingered, guitar-calloused hands offering water and tablets. His garbled sounds slowly resolved into words that only made Alex feel worse: "breakfast" and "sound check."

Alex swallowed the pills gingerly before he looked up to meet Tris's eyes. "'M gonna die before noon. No doubt about it. No hope." Alex wished it were true. Death would be better than this.

Suddenly he remembered, as if hearing it again, the booming explosion of the gun. He saw the limpness of a dead human body hitting the ground, the gore splattered across white and gray paving stones on a hot summer day.

Lunging for the loo, he promptly threw up what little there was in his stomach.

He dropped back to lie on the tile, panting heavily. He wasn't sure he wanted to move again. Ever. The tile was comfortably cool against his skin, and he didn't trust his stomach to keep its place if he tried anything more ambitious than absolute stillness.

Darkness loomed before his eyes and he waited to pass out, until he realized it was Tris stepping across him, flushing the loo and turning on the taps. The noise was a physical assault, but Tris eased it by kneeling next to him and wiping his face gently with a cool, damp cloth.

"You okay, mate?" Tris whispered. "Doesn't usually take you like this."

Alex moaned softly in reply.

"Whyn't you wash up and come back to bed, eh?"

Alex didn't think he could make it. "Uuhhhn. Can't."

"I'll help. C'mon." Tris worked an arm under Alex's shoulders and lifted, handling Alex's weight almost easily. The room spun, but they ended up side by side near the tub and relatively vertical. Tris pulled him into the tub step by step, and Alex leaned heavily against him, clutching the silk robe for support and clenching his eyes closed against the nausea.

Without Tris's hand to steady him, Alex would have fallen when the shower hit his skin. He managed to stay on his feet under it, letting the water sluice over him, breathing deeply and trying to master his body's reactions. Some time later, Tris helped him out and toweled him off.

Alex was gratefully submissive as Tris steered him back to the bedroom and onto the wide bed -- Alex had jumbled memories of two (or more) groupies, and two or more bottles, that had shared the bed with him and Tris last night. And Tris was awake and sober, keeping up a quiet patter of words that soothed Alex without quite penetrating his daze.

When his head was lifted into Tris's lap, Alex relaxed utterly, knowing that the relief he'd prayed for so desperately would soon be delivered. Tris's callused fingertips brushed against his face, following a pattern that Alex couldn't identify. It was familiar, nonetheless: circling, tracing his bones, pressing softly against his temples. As it moved, the ache drained out of his body away into the surrounding air to leave Alex first relaxed, then tingling and alive.

He smiled his relief up at Tris, seeing him clearly for the first time since he'd so rudely awakened himself. Tris's curls were still unkempt from the night, and the circles darkening his eyes indicating that he'd not slept well either, but still he smiled sweetly down at Alex.

Alex smiled back. "Did you say somethin' about breakfast?" His body, cleansed of the chemical reactions, was making its usual demands. Clearly. "Where's Sam?" Just occasionally Tris could persuade his personal assistant to fetch for both of them. Well, it had happened.

"'E's still in Lebanon, tryin' to get that tambur so we can use it on the next album. Remember the long-necked double-strung thing we saw? He probably won't be back 'til next week." Tris gave him an indulgent smile. "You'll have t' get your own breakfast this morning."

"You want anything?" Alex asked, feeling on the bed stand for the phone.

"No, I'll just have some of yours." Tris rolled out of bed and into the bathroom as Alex began to dial.

Alex bounced into his own room an hour later, stomach full of breakfast and head full of Eastern minor melodies in Tris's thin voice. Tris had elected to stay in, talking (and singing and scribbling) variant harmony with Camy, but Alex wanted to sneak out into town and see if he could find any Syracusan music. For that, he needed clean clothes. With a little luck he might find a folk festival complete with native band, where he could try to talk with the musicians.

Alex nearly tripped when he saw "Hans" passed out in his bed. The alcohol and this morning's hangover cure had effectively wiped out last night's fiasco until just now.

No matter. It was morning, a new day, time for Paradox to get back to normal. Or as normal as it ever got.

He shook the exposed shoulder gently, and the room exploded. Alex was flung painfully backwards, landing even more painfully on his arse halfway to the door. His hands went automatically to his throbbing face; they came away bloody.

"Fuckitall! What'd you do that for?" Teasing his split lip with his tongue, Alex finally looked up at his attacker. The man's hair was mussed and his eyes were wild with... fear? Had Alex heard that "Eroica" name again?

"Touch me again and I'll kill you."

Alex did not doubt for a minute that the man was serious. On the other hand...

"It's my room, mate. I'll thank you to remember it."

Something, perhaps embarrassment, passed quickly across the hard face. "You may have gotten the wrong idea about what I wanted..."

"Don't know what you wanted, mate. All I wanted was some clean clothes. Nothing more. Not last night, not now."

"Are you trying to tell me that Dorian... that you... that we didn't... didn't..." Alex couldn't tell if the man was more relieved or skeptical. "You kept your hands away--?"

"It should be obvious mate. I slept elsewhere, somewhere I was wanted. I" unlike some people in this room "don't go where I'm not wanted. You needed a place to pass out quietly, that was all." One eye prickled, and Alex's testing fingers confirmed that whatever semiconscious punch Hans had hit him with had scored a black eye as well as a split lip. Alex could admire the technique, in the abstract. "For all I care, you can pass out again until sound check."

Maybe he'd better find some ice. Alex remembered belatedly that rambling a strange city could be dangerous, but from the look of things, staying in this room just now would be more so.

# # #

Klaus bolted and chained the door behind Logan, wondering if it was sufficient to guard him against the insanity that surrounded him. Grabbing his trousers from the floor -- the floor? -- he extracted a mangled cigarette and lit it. What had possessed him to allow these decadent perverts to affect him this way? He tried, once again, to resolve the details of the previous night, but all he could recall was the burn of the alcohol, the raucous pounding they called "music," and anonymous hands groping him intrusively. He tried to shake the memories off.

Verdammt perverts! He should have taken more precautions, not let them inside his guard just because they looked... not harmless, but almost too stupid to fear. But he'd been the stupid one, allowing himself to be drugged. He would flay any one of his men for being so careless, and the thought of reporting his indiscretion to the Chief nauseated him. He hoped it had been no more than reaction to the drugs.

What he had to do now as find Eroica. Contact Bonn and hope Eroica had turned up, so that he could leave this madhouse to its inmates. He had to finished the mission, had to go where the mission took him. Even with Eroica. Even here.

If anyone found out the details of the indignities he'd suffered at the hands of these Paradox weirdos, he'd be mortified. He was mortified already.

It was irrelevant now. He could change back to his own passport and be in Bonn in time for supper, if only the mess of NATO's operation and being wanted by the CIA were cleared up. And that would depend on the whereabouts of the real Eroica and the microfilm, on whether the mission were completed and he could be called in openly.

First things first. Klaus completed his morning routine of push-ups and sit-ups, then showered in the inefficiently well-equipped, so-called "luxurious" bathroom. He had his eyes tightly shut as he rinsed soap from his hair when he had a sudden flashback. It was only an impression -- blond curls, heat pounding through his groin -- and then sanity returned and he cranked open the cold tap, banishing the memory, and an embarrassing stir of response, with the suds.

He shaved with borrowed gear and dressed in his own clothes after a hurried trip to "his" -- Nigel Starlington's -- room, where he was grateful to find the roadie still asleep. He left the hotel, nodding to the guard at the elevator and slipping his Paradox badge into his inside pocket as soon as he crossed the security perimeter. No need to advertise his connection with that bunch of perverted lunatics. He located a public telephone and placed a collect call to Bonn HQ, hoping for good news.

What he got was Agent A, nominally in charge of the squad in his absence and occasionally competent. "Oh, good, sir. We've been trying to reach you." How? Klaus thought. "Eroica was quite worried--"

"Eroica was worried? He's there? What's going on? Where is he? Where's the film? Report!"

"He said he had a little trouble getting out of Ankara, had to disguise himself as a woman."

"And while he was enjoying himself--" began Klaus, hotly, but A was continuing:

"... film canister to the Chief. The Chief wants--"

"That pervert!" spat Klaus, mentally including both the thief and his superior in the insult.

"-- to speak with you immediately. Please hold."

Klaus roared into the handset, but he was already in telephone limbo. He counted the next four and three quarters minutes in fifteen-second intervals, checking his watch on the half-minute for accuracy. It didn't calm him, but did occupy a tiny portion of his brain. He would hand up at five minutes.

As if he had been counting the minutes on his end, the Chief picked up at four minutes and 55 seconds. "Ah, Eberbach, what mess have you landed us in this time?"

"Sir, I have not--"

"Nonsense. Eroica is here, the film is here, and you are there! No! Don't tell me where; I know! And meanwhile, the Americans are scrubbing their agent's blood off the streets of Istanbul, and your name has been mentioned prominently. I'm looking forward to your explanation of this."

"Sir..."

"No. Not now. I can't talk. Do not cross any borders under your own name. Do not in any event contact this office again. We'll contact you within the week. Keep out of sight while we try to clean up this embarrassing international incident."

The Chief hung up the phone, and Klaus threw his at the cabina telefonica wall. The little old lady in line behind him tut-tutted at him in Sicilian Italian from beneath her black kerchief. Klaus gave her an evil glare before stomping out and back toward the hotel.

Back at the Paradox hotel, in his shared room, Klaus sat down in the one chair and put his head into his hands. He was going to have to stay with Paradox, perhaps for days. At least it was comprehensive cover. The antics of a rock band outstripped anything he could cook up on his own so completely that he wondered how NATO Intelligence, or perhaps the Brits with their infamous MI6, had missed the possibilities until now.

"Gotta head?" inquired a bleary British voice.

His worries had almost superceded Klaus's headache, until now. "I think so," he said, realizing that one discomfort might be alleviated. "Is there somewhere I might find aspirin?"

"Dennis'll have some, if you want to ask him. At least you had some fun last night."

"Fun?"

"Turnin' Vi'let down an' all. She said you had style about it, though."

"Oh, God."

"What'd Alex think?"

"What?"

"Were you fightin', or what?" Bright eyes peered at him from under a pillow.

"None of your--" The entire incident had occurred within hearing, and probably within view, of a large number of Paradox crew and hangers-on. Not all of them could be expected to lose all memory of it. "... Mr. Starlington, I don't believe I should talk about it."

"Hah!"

"What?"

"Nothin', nothin'," said Starlington. "Lissen, y'got any other clothes? Y'can't work in a suit an' tie. It ain't done."

"I'm sure I can fulfill my duties in any clothing, Mr. Starlington."

The stiff tone did not quell Klaus's roommate. "Y'd better wear somethin' decent, like a T-shirt. Take that black one."

The indicated garment on top of a heap of Starlington's things had the Paradox logo on the front, and long sleeves. It would be good camouflage and comfortable enough. "You're being too generous. Why?"

Starlington grinned from under the pillow. "Alex likes you. Just wear it."

"Mr. Logan doesn't..."

"Yeah, we know. Just wear it, okay?"

"Thank you," said Klaus stiffly. When he picked it up, the back of the shirt displayed a devil with two chained nude figures, male and female, in medieval woodblock style. "Was ist's... Mr. Starlington, if this is a joke, it is not funny."

"'Scuse me? What's wrong? It's the double-sided Paradox tee for this tour."

"This picture..." Klaus turned the shirt to show it, "is disgusting."

"Yeah ain't it somethin'? It's the only extra shirt I have. Wear it."

Klaus sighed. Now that his memory was jogged, he had seen this picture, among the decadence, last night on at least one person. "Thank you," he said again, and mentally cursed his Chief, Eroica, Paradox, and his own stupidity in rescuing a jailed unknown who looked like the thief. He must have had his reasons. He wished he knew what they were.

# # #

The raised voices were clear to Tris through the closed hotel-room door long before he could pick out words. Alex and Duff were having a set-to, and purely by volume measure, they'd been at it a while.

"... none of your business, you big lug! Who asked you to protect me, anyway?" That was Alex, sounding insulted that Duff wanted to paste someone. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.

"Nobody busts up a friend a' mine and gets away with it." Who was busted up? "And what's wrong with you, you din' plaster 'im back?"

Tris paused outside, listening carefully, wondering whether he'd be safe in entering. More than once, bystanders had suffered more damage than either Duff or Alex during a dust-up.

As if on cue, there was a loud impact and the door shuddered under the weight of one of the antagonists. Alex, by the yelp.

"Fuck off, Duffy. I can handle my own problems."

"Yeh, well, fuck you too, mate!"

The door swung open suddenly, spilling light into the shadowed corridor, and Alex strode out, nearly knocking Tris into the opposite wall. "Sorry," he muttered through his disheveled curls, already running down the passage toward the elevator.

Tris moved into the doorway, taking in the scene. Duff was panting slightly, pacing around the knocked-askew furniture. Duncan Cameron and two roadies leaned against a table, Camy holding, and apparently trying to read, an English newspaper. He'd found yesterday's Times somehow, Tris noted. The roadies were more interested in the mess, but probably only because they had money on it.

"Whassup, then?" he asked the room at large.

Duff and Steve and Joey all started in, but with skill that Tris had always admired Camy took over the story. Alex had shown up for the trip to sound check with a black eye, and a preposterous excuse for how he'd gotten it.

"... Duff leapt to a few conclusions and decided to kick the new roadie's arse. Out loud. Alex said no."

"An' Alex never ducks a fight," said Duffy, suspiciously.

"He certainly didn't duck one with you," shrugged Camy. "Business as usual, mates. Are we on for sound check or not?"

"Any time," said Tris. "Car's downstairs waiting." So Alex had protested an attack on Hans, resulting in the fight Tris had just witnessed. Or, almost witnessed.

Curiouser and curiouser. Alex hadn't had a black eye when he'd left Tris's room this morning. And it wasn't like Alex to let anyone get away with planting a facer on him. Tris as well as Duff would have expected to see the culprit laid out and bleeding heavily.

"Camy, I know you wanted to work with the echoes in this theater. We really ought to get there." Camy had gone on about Greek drama theaters when Mick suggested this tour date, something about natural amplification of voices. It did sound interesting to Tris, worth a long sound check session.

"Fine by me." Camy folded his newspaper. "Duff? You'll like the reverb here. It should be loud enough to give even your drum kit a boost."

"What? Never!" said Duffy, his attention successfully caught.

"It's a bit like a cave," said Cameron, leading the drummer out of the room. "A topless cave. The Greeks knew a lot of things..."

Tris followed them thoughtfully and resolved to do a little exploring of his own.

Once at the theater, with Duffy pounding away onstage and Tim and several roadies (including Hans Pfeiffer) in attendance, it didn't take much for Tris to learn more. A shared cigarette, an interested look while hanging around two or three of the more talkative members of the crew, and he got the whole story. Except it couldn't be the whole story because it didn't fit the facts Tris already knew.

The story around the road crew was that Hans had come on to Alex last night: "Like a man just out of prison," was the description he heard. Remembering Alex and jails, he winced. Alex had protested, fought the man off, and walked out, the story went. But he hadn't gone back to the party and this morning he'd been sporting a bruised eye that had the new German's name on it. Alex had laughed it off, but the German feller, Hans, had been stiffer and more formal than ever when he'd joined the crew prior to sound check. Ergo, the two of them had been screwing. And playing some rough games, too. The gossip was too juicy for the crew not to be enthralled.

It still didn't sound like Alex, for whom sex was straightforward play regardless of partner or position. For that matter, so was fighting. Boom, and it was over. The idea of Alex as anything but sunny-tempered in the aftermath of either strained credibility. So why was he so edgy about Pfeiffer?

# # #

"Paradox," said Dorian thoughtful to Mr. Z. "I think I've heard of them. You say the Major pulled someone out of jail, and you think it's a rock musician and that the Major is moving around with the band he belongs to."

"Yes, my lord," said the blond agent.

"Well, where are they? Why hasn't the Major come back here?"

"If he's sticking with Paradox, they're due in... uh, Vienna, tomorrow. A few days after that, Munich."

"Can't you get him out of Austria?"

"The Chief says not yet. It might be best to let him get into Germany before we attempt direct contact."

"And why does the Chief say this?"

Z smiled slightly. "The Major has managed to get his ass in a sling -- the Chief's words. The Americans are angry at him. With reason."

"What were they doing?" asked Dorian. The Major generally exercised his temper by shooting at inanimate objects instead of people -- unless he had to.

"We want to ask the Major that. By report, they were trying to take custody of 'Eroica' from the Istanbul police when the Major came into the situation."

"But I-- Is there a double? And why shouldn't the Major let them have whomever it was? He must have known it wasn't me -- mustn't he?"

"We want to ask him that, too." Z's eyes lifted to Dorian's for a meaningful instant. "We hope he'll make his way back here before anyone else catches him. By then, the situation may be negotiable. This is all extremely confidential, not to be mentioned outside this sub-department. The Major's safety depends on it, Lord Gloria. I hope we can trust you."

"Is he safe?" asked Dorian. "With, ah, Paradox?"

"Maybe." Z sighed. "They'll have some kind of security, I think."

"A rock band?"

"They have tons of expensive equipment and they do some big transactions in cash -- they must guard it."

"What about the people?"

"There are four band members..." Z's eyes flicked briefly over Dorian's hair and face. "The singer is very striking, and he's very popular with the fans... ah..." He shook his head. "Excuse me, please. I have to report to the Chief. We'll be in touch with you about this operation."

"I want to help, if I can."

"Yes, I don't discount that."

"If there's any question of his needing a pick-up at short notice or something, will you call me?" Dorian pinned Mr. Z with his eyes. "You, not the Chief. You know my methods could make a difference."

Z nodded slowly. "Yes, they might. If you can do anything, my lord, I'll call you."

"And I'll call you tomorrow." Dorian smiled at him. "For news."

"Ah, yes, my lord." And he ushered Dorian out of the Department offices before Dorian had quite learned everything he wanted to know.

# # #

Alex felt the heat even in the shade, as he looked over the crewmembers on the Syracuse stage from his vantage point in the stonework. Half were working, half eating a late lunch from the backstage buffet table. Hans Pfeiffer's red cap caught Alex's notice among the lunch-eaters. The German was sitting on a far corner of the stone platform, away from the others, with a plate of food on one knee and a beer by his side.

Alex's curiosity overcame the memories of Hans's temper and even the black eye, in this sun-drenched open space where everyone knew him and nearly everyone was his friend. Alex took his lunch along to the corner square of stone that Hans occupied, sat down, and put down his full plate to twist the lid off his lager.

Hans drew away a little, not really moving but gathering his arms and legs closer in. He didn't say anything, however, and Alex decided to wait him out.

Tipping back the bottle, he drank a third of the beer, then tucked into his first sandwich. He didn't even pretend to hide the fact that he was staring at "Hans." Hans stonily ignored him.

"What're you after here, really?" he finally asked. It wasn't quite what he wanted to know, but it was a start. "Not my safety, even if that's what you'll do to stay here, yes?"

The German rolled his eyes at the heavens, but it occurred to Alex later that the gesture had taken in the whole stage area, where all the other crew members were keeping their distance.

"I talked to Mick. He said you'd keep me out of any more jails."

"Yes," said the German curtly. "While I am here."

"No shit?"

"No shit, sir."

Alex looked for a grin and didn't find it. "So why?"

"It's not your business. This," he gestured widely to encompass the stage, the crew, and a grape-juggling contest on some of the stone-tier seating, "is your business. You ought to mind it, not mine."

"But someone made it my business, didn't they?" Alex would not soon forget the feeling of being closed in and of no one believing who he was, or the smell of blood in a crowded street. He could still touch the fear, but it was a goad, almost a thrill, now, instead of a numbing pressure. "Who's Eroica?"

"No one you should know."

"Maybe not. But you know him."

"For my sins," said the man, apparently sincere.

"I thought," said Alex, "that maybe you liked the feller."

Hans glared at him alarmingly and did not move otherwise. Alex's hair tried to stand on end. "I do not. Like. Eroica. In any way."

"Is that why you came looking for me, him I mean, in jail?"

"No!"

Alex spread his hands. "Okay. You don't." He tipped up his bottle for the last swallow of lager, suddenly thirsty. When he lowered it he said, "'M writing a song about Istanbul, y'know. Do you want to hear it?"

"No!" Hans's eyes glittered even more brightly, his body more tense. "You cannot talk -- or sing -- about that. It's... it has to stay quiet, you fool!"

"Hadn't you better keep your voice down, then?" asked Alex, although he was certain the eyes on both of them -- some of the roadies' and Tris's and Camy's -- were out of earshot. He remembered the inexplicable appearance of "Major Eberbach" at the Turkish jail, the quiet ease with which he'd freed Alex once he decided to. "Are you some kind of spy, maybe?"

Hans's reaction was another of those hair-raising glares. "Don't talk nonsense."

"How long will you stay with us?"

"Until there is no more danger of your being taken for Eroica."

"So Eroica looks like me?"

Hans closed his eyes, and when he opened them, a hint of apology accompanied his glance at Alex's blackened eye. "For my sins. For yours. I regret that you were drawn into his affairs."

Alex nodded acknowledgement and leaned forward to drop his empty beer bottle into a rubbish bin. The button of his cutoffs dug into his full stomach, so he popped it open and lay back to enjoy the noon sun. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Hans, eyes again averted, was gathering up the remains of his lunch, preparing to flee the field.

Alex grinned up at him. "Careful, everyone in the crew can see you."

"And you!"

"Ah, well, but everyone always sees me, mate. I've never been mistaken for anyone else before. It was," he slowed for an instant when the thrill reverted to sick horror, "a memorable experience." Two, or perhaps three, willing groupies and far too much alcohol had not been enough to bury the memory.

Unsubtle footsteps announced a new arrival. "'E's not botherin' you, Alexmate, is 'e?" rumbled Duff's voice overhead.

"I was just leaving," said Hans, with patent relief, and removed himself.

"Nah, I think I'm botherin' him," said Alex, and closed his eyes, careful of the bruised one. The sun would probably be good for it, and this enclosed bowl was warm. They might not see any more sun this whole tour.

"Joey's got your mikes set up," said Duff. "Wanta try 'em?"

"Not yet. Is Tris out there?"

"He's fussin' with Tim and the soundboard."

"I'll be up soon, Duffy And thanks for checking. He's okay, just confused."

"I'll say," muttered Duff, and left Alex alone in the sunlight.

# # #

The Greek amphitheater might have been an interesting experiment, but Tris didn't think he'd go out of his way to play in one again. The band's amps could not be omitted from the show, and had had to be adjusted and re- (and re-re-) adjusted to keep the sharp stone echoes from blasting them all in the face with their own sound -- or with jagged distortions of it thrown back by the tiered wall of the theater bowl. He couldn't imagine what the Sicilian audience would make of it.

Camy, initially more curious than Tris, had withdrawn into a bemused round of conferences with Tim and Dennis, broken by pursed-mouth headshaking. Only Duffy was having fun, sending his backbeat into paroxysms of resonance, playing timed duets with himself and generally using the echoes, as Camy had said, like a giant reverb machine.

Alex still wasn't talking about whatever had happened, or about Hans, except... Tris squinted into the sun... to Hans. It didn't look like a very comfortable conversation. Maybe Hans Pfeiffer was only a helpful, if surly, acquaintance, but Tris doubted it.

Hans had sloped off to do whatever unoccupied roadies did before Alex got up from his nap and tested the front stage mikes. Even when he started gingerly, the resulting doubled and redoubled echoes were overwhelming.

"Look, it's a small place," said Alex finally. "Turn 'em off. Except this one you use in 'Clouds.' Let's try it."

They tried it. The band's balance held for the first time here, with Alex's voice booming over the guitar line. Tris played the break, and whatever Tim had done kept the echoes under control. They were making music again.

The concert that night, in the warm Syracusan dusk, was adequate but less than their best with the band's fire muted by the ceaseless downpour of echoes. That might not have mattered except that Tris didn't know what Alex was thinking, and twice had to use cue signals instead of their usual intuitive accord to create the stage magic that should have been effortless between them.

# # #

The road crew, of course, spent two hours when the concert was finished taking down the stage equipment and packing it for the next leg of Paradox's tour across Europe, on which they were scheduled to depart in the morning. Most roadies -- even Heyes -- worked with careful haste, eager to join the post-concert party. It was, Klaus understood from innumerable comments, likely to be even louder and more disreputable than the previous night's festivities, and it couldn't start properly until the roadies arrived.

"We owe it to 'em to be there," said Starlington, to someone on the other side of the drumkit.

"Absolutely, we owe 'Teena another evening's fun," said another voice. "She's a doll, and built."

"She likes short guys." Starlington was shortest man in the crew.

This was answered by a guffaw. "She likes anyone who'll share a joint."

"I've got a joint," said Starlington, with lewd emphasis, "and I'll share."

In Klaus's opinion, everyone involved would be much the better for a cold shower and a ten-kilometer run. Certainly, he would be. He was only anxious to finish the "load out" as it was called, so he could have a cigarette.

He spent some time, while meticulously coiling heavy cables as Blaine had shown him and stowing them for transport, telling himself that an Eberbach should not turn away from a difficult or unpleasant challenge, even when it endangered his moral fiber to such a degree. He slid amps and speakers onto dollies and trucked them over the none-too-level stone floor -- stones Plato and Aristotle might have walked on, which did neither them nor Paradox any credit, being a mere coincidence -- while his better conscience argued to him that it was his duty to avoid temptation.

Temptation? Was he, Major Klaus von dem Eberbach, tempted by cheap women, illicit drugs and an atmosphere of indulgence?

No, he was repulsed by their presence. He neither needed to avoid them for his own sake, nor did he care to seek them out merely to prove that he had no interest in them.

Alex Logan would undoubtedly be among the revelers, as he had been yesterday.

Alex Logan was also no temptation. Nor was Eroica. Klaus had no need to attend the crew's party, with its distressing plentitude of substances and persons of no interest to him.

As they returned to the hotel he braced himself for an argument with Starlington, but it turned out not to be necessary. When he flopped down on the less-used bed in their room and simulated sleep, he was quickly abandoned.

The roar of inebriated voices remained nearly constant but several rooms distant for some time. Klaus got up and opened a window on the warm Mediterranean night and smoked three cigarettes in quick succession, to calm his nerves. Alex Logan had wanted to write a song about the events in