"Thank you," Rodgers said, "and I'm very sorry. Sometimes American interests are hidden in the things we do."

Senator Fox looked at Rodgers a moment longer, then shifted her gaze to Martha. Bidding the woman a good morning, the Senator walked quickly from the office, her aides trailing close behind.

Rodgers didn't remember turning and picking up the budget, but it was in his hands as he started toward the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thursday, 2:30 P.M.,

Hamburg, Germany

Henri Toron and Yves Lambesc were not tired. Not any more. Jean-Michel's return had wakened the men, and the telephone call from M. Dominique had brought the two French bears to full attention.

Full, belated attention.

It was Jean-Michel's fault, of course. They'd been sent to be his bodyguards, but he had chosen to go by himself to the club in St. Pauli. The three had arrived in Germany at 1:00 A.M., and Henri and Yves had played blackjack until 2:30. If only Jean-Michel had wakened them, they'd have accompanied him-- alert and ready to protect him from the Huns. But no. He'd let them sleep. What did he have to fear, after all?

"Why do you think M. Dominique sent us with you?" Henri had roared when he saw Jean-Michel. "To sleep or to protect you?"

"I didn't think I was in any danger," Jean-Michel had replied.

"When dealing with Germans," Henri had said gravely, "one is always in danger."

M. Dominique had called as Yves was putting ice cubes in a hand towel for Jean-Michel's eye. Henri took the call.

Their employer did not raise his voice. He never did. He simply gave thiln their instructions and sent them on their way. The two knew that they would be disciplined with a month of extra duty for having overslept. That was standard for a first infraction. Those who failed the cause twice were dismissed. The shame of letting him down was far more painful than the fingertip they were forced to leave in the basket of one of M. Dominique's little guillotines.

So they had cabbed to St. Pauli, and now they were leaning against a car parked down the street from Auswechseln. The streets were beginning to grow crowded with tourists, though the twenty-yard stretch between the Frenchmen and the club was relatively clear.

Barrel-chested, six-foot-four Henri was smoking a cigarette, and the inch-taller, broad-shouldered Yves was chewing homemade bubble gum. Yves had a Beretta 92F pistol in the pocket of his jacket. Henri was carrying a Belgian GP double-action pistol. Their job was simple: to go to the club and get Herr Richter on the phone by any means necessary.

For over two hours, Henri had watched the club door through the twisting smoke of cigarette after cigarette. When it finally opened, he tapped Yves on the arm and they hurried over.