Leslie Mothershed was in a state beyond euphoria. The moment he had returned to London, clutching his precious film, he had hurried into the small pantry he had converted into a darkroom and checked to make sure he had everything on hand: film-processing tank, thermometer, springtype clothes pins, four large beakers, a timer, and developer, stop-bath solutions, and fixer. He turned out the light and switched on a small red overhead lamp. His hands were trembling as he opened the cartridges and removed the film. He took deep breaths to control himself. Nothing must go wrong this time, he thought. Nothing. This is for you, Mother. Carefully, he rolled the film into reels. He placed the reels in the tank and filled it with developer, the first of the liquids he would use. It would require a constant temperature of 68°F and periodic agitation. After eleven minutes, he emptied the contents and poured the fixer over the reels. He was getting nervous again, terrified of making a mistake. He

Leslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his chateau in the South of France, his enormous yacht. “And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official Royal photographer?”“Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for my showat the BBC …” His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him) with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face. “Excuse me,” the man said diffidently. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you’re a photographer.” “So?” “Do you do passport photos?Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The ma

DAYFIVEBern, SwitzerlandRobert had come to a dead end. He had not realized how much he had counted on obtaining Mothershed’s list of names. Up in smoke, Robert thought. Literally. The trail was cold now. I should have gotten the list when I was in Mothershed’s flat. That will teach me to … teach. Of course! A thought that had been in the back of his mind suddenly came into focus. Hans Beckerman had said, Affenarsch! All the other passengers were excited about seeing the UFOand those dead creatures in it, but this old man kept complaining about howwe had to hurry up to get to Bern because he had to prepare some lecture for the University. It was a long shot, but it was all Robert had.He rented a car at the Bern airport and headed for the University. He turned off Rathausgasse, the main street of Bern, and drove to LanggassStrasse, where the University of Bern was located. The University is composed of several buildings, the main one a large four-storey stone building with two wings,

Dustin Thornton was getting restless. He had power now, and it was like a drug. He wanted more. His father-in-law, Willard Stone, kept promising to bring him into some mysterious inner circle, but so far, he had failed to fulfil that promise. It was by pure chance that Thornton learned that his father-in-law disappeared every Friday. Thornton had called to have lunch with him. “I’m sorry,” Willard Stone’s personal secretary said, “but Mr Stone is away for the day.” “Oh, too bad. What about lunch next Friday?” “I’m sorry, Mr Thornton. Mr Stone will be away next Friday, also.” Strange. And it became even stranger, because when Thornton called two weeks later, he received the same reply. Where did the old man disappear to every Friday? He was not a golfer, or a man to indulge in any hobbies. The obvious answer was a woman. Willard Stone’s wife was very social and very rich. She was an imperious woman, almost as strong in her way as her husband. She was not the sort of woman who wou

Day SevenOrvieto, ItalyHe stopped the car on a hairpin bend on Route S-71, and there across the valley, high on a rise of volcanic rock, was a breathtaking view of the city. It was an ancient Etruscan centre, with a world-famous cathedral, and half a dozen churches, and a priest who had witnessed the crash of a UFO.The town was untouched by time, with cobblestone streets and lovely old buildings, and an open-air market where farmers came to sell their fresh vegetables and chickens.Robert found a parking place in the Piazza del Duomo, across from the cathedral, and went inside. The enormous interior was deserted except for an elderly priest who was just leaving the altar.“Excuse me, Father,” Robert said. “I’m looking for a priest from this town who was in Switzerland last week. Perhaps you …”The priest drew back, his face hostile. “I cannot discuss this.”Robert looked at him in surprise. “I don’t understand. I just want to find …”“He is not of this church. He is from the church