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ttempt to inject massive sums of money into the country's now non…existent movie industry。 It was a scandal； Archie had said towards the end of the meal； that Britain； once a prime movie…making country； had been denuded of the facilities which at one time had drawn directors and actors from all over the world。
The lunch finished at exactly three o'clock。
Farewells were said on the pavement outside the restaurant； and ‘The Archie and Angela Show …as they were monly referred to in the Press walked slowly to their car which had been parked in a side street some five minutes away。
They strolled； hand in hand like young lovers； he tall； broad shouldered with one of those patrician profiles which remind people of the lineations found on coins of the great old Roman Empire； she petite； snubnosed； with blazing red shining hair falling to her shoulders。
They reached the car； which Archie unlocked； swiftly moving around the vehicle to open the passenger…side door to see his wife safely in； before returning and settling himself into the driver's seat。
They planned to drive to their small country cottage some ten miles south of Oxford。
Archie turned the key in the ignition； and died； together with his wife and three innocent bystanders。 The explosion was heard over five miles away； as it ripped through the car； throwing shards of metal in every direction。 One of the dead was a passing cab driver whose passenger emerged without even a graze。 ‘I saw this great blood…red gash of fire；' this lucky man said to the television news cameras。 ‘I can't recall even hearing the explosion； but the fire seems to have burned itself into my memory。 I shall never forget it because I swear that I saw an arm e flying from the middle of the fire。
Later evidence showed that the bomb had been in place for almost forty…eight hours； controlled by an ingenious device which had allowed the vehicle to be started and driven eight times before the mercury switch was activated to detonate the twenty pounds of Semtex； wedged in a neat package directly behind the dashboard。
Nobody was surprised when the head of the Bomb Squad； a Metropolitan Police mander； gave a Press conference that evening； indicating that the explosive device bore all the hallmarks of the Irish Republican Army。 There was much said about barbarity and a plete disregard for the sanctity of human life。
On the following morning； the IRA vigorously denied having placed the bomb； and on that same Tuesday afternoon； a third assassination took place。 This time in Paris。
Pavel Gruskochev was another household name。
A survivor of the cold war； he had e into prominence about the same time as another great Russian writer； Alexander Solzhenitsyn。
Gruskochev had fled to political asylum in the West as early as 1964； having had his great seminal work； A Little Death； banned from publication within the Soviet Union。 Indeed； he only got out of Russia by the skin of his teeth； with the hounds of the KGB baying at his heels。
The novel was published in London and Paris in 1965； and in the United States early in 1966。 It was a vast and huge literary success； a triumph that would be repeated three years later with After the Onion Skins。 Both of the books tore down the ragged canvas of munism； using every device at the novelist's disposal satire； romance； the shades of real history； fear； and wonderfully vivid narratives which blew away the cobwebs of the mind。
Now； on this Tuesday afternoon in August； the month when Parisians ritualistically leave their city to the tourists； Pavel Gruskochev announced a Press conference。 Every newspaper and magazine in the world had someone there； for the Russian was known for his lack of interest in the Press； nd his almost hermit…like existence。
As well as the representatives of the Press and TV； many of the author's devotees； hearing of the Press conference； rushed to be present； so when the great man stepped up to the microphone…laden podium； in his French publisher's office； he blinked； surprised at the crowd packing the room。
His statement was short； terse； slightly emotional； and could quite easily have been sent out as a written document。
‘I have asked you here； because those who advise me； feel it is necessary for me to say what I have to tell you； here in public； and not as a disembodied voice informing you on paper；' he began in his halting； still highly accented English。
‘This is； I think； a little like closing the door after the horse has bolted； for so many of my Russian friends have already returned to the place of their births。 I have hesitated； and rightly so； for until recently I was still regarded officially as a non…person； that strange term the old regime granted to people who told the truth。 Well； I am no longer a non…person。〃 He held up a small slip of paper and a passport。
‘This morning； I was informed of my reinstatement as a Russian citizen； so； it is with immense pride and pleasure that tomorrow I shall return to the place of my birth； to my roots which； even in a long exile； have remained intact。〃 He went on a little longer； thanking people in France； Britain and the United States for their friendship； help and understanding during his years spent far from his homeland； then； as quickly as it had begun； the conference was over。
People pressed around him； reporters barraged him with questions； men and women thrust flowers into his hand； and one very tall woman； dark and wearing a broad； stylish hat that almost hid her face； handed him a wrapped package。
Later； those near to Pavel Gruskochev swore that the woman spoke to him in Russian； that he smiled at her and clutched the package to him as though it were something very precious。 Certainly there was one photograph of the moment which showed him peering towards his benefactor with what appeared to be almost awe。
Ten minutes later； as he sat alone in the back of a taxi； the package exploded leaving the great novelist as though he had never been； his driver severely injured； and the traffic around the Champs Elysees clogged for several hours。
On Wednesday came the fourth assassination； though at that time nobody was linking any of these deaths one with another。
Twelve noon； Eastern Standard Time； Washington； DC； United States of America。
Mark Fish was unknown to most people。 Only insiders； and the political correspondents； knew him as well as they could know any man in his shoes。 As Assistant to the Director of Central Intelligence； he was usually kept lurking in the background； for the Central Intelligence Agency is like an iceberg。 Everyone knows it is there； but outsiders only see the tip； for the rest is cloaked and out of sight。 Mark Fish was normally out of sight。
On this Wednesday； the DCI was out of the country； so it was Fish who made the trip from Langley； Virginia； to Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House to deliver the weekly personal briefing to the President。 He had been called upon to do this on several previous occasions； so it was nothing out of the ordinary。
The briefing lasted a little longer than usual； and just before noon he returned to his car； was driven out of the side entrance； and then down