The wind lashed the rain violently through the air, making individual droplets feel almost as hard as bullets as they smashed into the bodies of the four people stumbling frantically through the rising waters for shelter. The sky was as black as pitch and jagged streaks of lightning seared through the air. The thunder following it was deafening, an artillery barrage to accompany the assault of the stinging rain.

Special Agent Warren Sobchak, a tall, dark-haired athletic young man in his early thirties, kept low, one arm raised to protect his own head, the other covering that of his ward. On the other side of him was his partner, Special Agent Mabel O'Doyle, who likewise had one arm over her head and the other protecting the man between them. Just in front of them was Agent Walt Malloy, their detail leader, scouting the way ahead. They were running, or attempting to run, virtually blind through knee-deep water that thrashed against them, soaked to the skin, bruised all over from the impact of the downpour, O'Doyle limping slightly from an injury sustained in the crash. They hadn't been the only ones affected by the fury of the storm. Their helicopter had taken it full on, and it was only through sheer luck and superb flying that they'd survived this far. The pilot, co-pilot and secretary travelling with them hadn't been so lucky. The same probably applied to the Marine helicopter travelling as their escort. No, they were stranded, and alone, in the middle of nowhere (practically) and at the mercy of the elements.

But at least He was safe. That was the main thing. The man running between them was badly shaken, bruised and a little bloodied, but he was alive. And to the three agents, that was all that mattered.

The safety and well being of the President of the United States was paramount to them.

It was just that he'd picked a lousy time to take 'the scenic route'. He could still hear Him waxing lyrical about it. "Lake Arapaho in all its glory... the sun sinking behind the dam... the sunset glinting on the still waters..."

Still waters, my ass, thought Sobchak. And he bet this water was evidence that the dam wasn't in good shape either. It was up to their knees and rising still. He felt that dam maintenance might be one issue that would be raised in the House sometime soon. If they got out of this...

It was curious all the same. The met report said clear blue skies all the way. Nothing about a near goddamn hurricane...

Sobchak bent his head towards the President's ear.

"How are you doing, Mr President?"

To his credit, the man attempted a smile. As Presidents' went, this guy had a GSOH and was always upbeat about things. It was that kind of attitude that was probably going to earn him a second term, high rate of taxation or not. "Ask me when we reach that bar," he yelled.

"What bar is that, sir?" Sobchak had to practically scream.

"The one I surely hope you're taking me too."

Sobchak managed a smile and raised his head slightly. There were buildings lining both sides of the narrow main street of the small town they'd crashed near. A neon BAR sign flickered fitfully in the gale about four buildings down but right now he was more interested in finding a sheriff's house, a surgery or something as equally safe and secure. Anywhere with some way of contacting the outside world would be just as welcome.

Safe and secure was something he was not feeling right now, and he knew the others felt exactly the same. There was something very wrong going on here, and not just the suddenness of the storm that hit them. The town looked deserted, only the odd light burning in the window. Perhaps it had been evacuated. That was a likely explanation, he considered. All the same, he still felt twitchy. The very suddenness of the storm was damn peculiar.

"I'll see what I can do, sir," he yelled. He glanced across at O'Doyle, who was doing her best to mask a grimace of pain but not succeeding well. He'd suspected when they'd crawled from the wreckage that her ankle was a lot worse than she was letting on, but the fiery red-maned third-generation Irish-American was reluctant to admit to anything even at the best times.

Malloy halted and turned, water streaming down his craggy, impassive features. "Mabel! Warren!" he hollered. "On your left! Ten o'clock."

Sobchak raised his head slightly in that direction, and saw the building Malloy was pointing to. He could just make out a large star and the words SHERIFF embossed its glass front. He glanced at Mabel who nodded slightly. She dipped her face towards the President.

"Come on, sir," she bellowed, picking up her own pace. "Few more steps."

It was a lot more than a few more steps, but it energised the man slightly.

They staggered towards the front of the building, gaining the faint shelter of the roof overhang. Malloy was already at the door, rattling the handle. It seemed to be locked.

"What the hell kind of two-bit dump is this when the goddamn sheriff station is locked at 4.30 in the PM?" he yelled.

The President, pressed as close to the wall as possible to keep out of the storm, managed a wry grin. "This is my home county, Walt... watch what you say."

Malloy grinned back. "Beggin' your pardon, sir... but shouldn't there be someone back there on duty? Can't all be out in this storm."

O'Doyle rubbed at the glass and peered through the window. "Can't see anyone... wait a minute... there is someone back there..."

Malloy pressed his face to the glass. "Yeah... there is someone. Right at the back." Malloy hammered on the window with the butt of his automatic, but there was still no response.

"He must be able to see us - at least hear us," O'Doyle called.

"Yeah..." murmured Malloy. "But he ain't... and I don't like it."

Sobchak was about to lean across too and take a look when the sound of engines suddenly snarled through the air. They whirled round and saw two sets of headlights approaching them down what was the road.

"Cars?" shouted O'Doyle.

"More like boats..." answered Malloy slowly.

"Yeah, but who?"

"Who indeed..."

Malloy stepped away from the door, weapon raised to high port. Automatically Sobchak and O'Doyle did the same, falling in between the President and the street, keeping him covered. Malloy's instinct for danger had proven many times over the years before, and had saved the lives of many colleagues... and at least three previous Presidents.

He jerked a thumb back towards the door. "Get that open and get him inside," he commanded.

Sobchak didn't need telling twice. He took one step back and forced the door open with one mighty kick. Between them, he and O'Doyle hustled the President inside, the rising water washing in with them, as the vehicles drew before the building. Their lights were piercingly bright, dazzling the interior, picking everything out clearly.

Including the man sitting with his back to them behind the desk at the rear of the office. He was a sandy haired individual, dressed in a brown police uniform. He didn't react to their entry at all, just remained slumped in his seat in front of the station radio. Sobchak was pleased to see that, at least until he noticed that the front of the set was dented and smashed. He tightened his grip on his pistol.

"Sir?" called Sobchak, approaching him cautiously. No reply. He reached out and swung the chair round.

He gasped and stumbled backwards with surprise.

The man's throat had been cut, a clinical, professional wound that stretched from ear to ear, practically. The front of his uniform stained crimson. His face was pale, eyes bulging with shock. The severed handset from the station radio was clasped in his right hand.

"Jesus," exclaimed the President.

Sobchak reached out and felt for a pulse, an automatic reaction though he knew it was pointless. There was none, and the wrist was cold and stiff.

"Been dead a while," he murmured.

"Murdered," said O'Doyle softly.

"Jesus," repeated the President, looking pale himself now.

Outside the engines suddenly cut out. Sobchak turned and pulled the President down behind a desk, O'Doyle ducking down with them so that they crouched in the water, which slowly lapped into the room through the door. He raised his head up to look for Malloy, who was still outside, standing in front of the door like a sentinel. Get in, get in, he silently urged...

"Secret Service," he heard Malloy yell. "Identify yourselves."

Sobchak fancied he heard a low chuckle outside from one of the boats, then a sound that made his heart skip a beat; the snick-snick of an automatic weapon being primed.

"Shit."

Malloy heard it too and dived backwards through the door. But he was just too late. A machine gun opened up, then another, and another, and suddenly the room was full of bullets. The front window gave in with a colossal groan, letting more water flood in.

"Malloy," O'Doyle screamed.

Malloy was caught right in the middle of the murderous hail. His body jigged and danced under the impact of the bullets and he staggered back into the office before falling to splash flat on his back, dead.

Sobchak was frozen only for a second. He levelled his pistol and screamed: "Shoot the lights."

O'Doyle snapped out of her horrified trance and raised her weapon too, firing shot after shot in tandem with her partner. One of the lights died, then another, but another snapped on immediately, keeping the room brightly lit. And the desk they were behind was scant protection against this kind of onslaught.

With a throaty roar, the engines started up again and one of the vehicles - Sobchak still couldn't make out what they were exactly - crashed forward towards the gaping window. More machine gun fire from its occupants swept the room, making the agents duck back on top of their ward.

It was hopeless, Sobchak thought desperately as he struggled to reload his pistol. If that thing got in here...

The vessel reached the lip of the window frame - and then exploded in a sudden roar of flame. There were screams and someone inside the boat was blown backwards out of it several feet through the air to disappear beneath the water. The defenders only just ducked in time to avoid the shrapnel, but Sobchak felt the blast singe his face as he ducked low over the President again, and a large burning fragment impaled itself in their desk. The vessel continued to hurtle forward through and into the room but it careered past them and smashed into the wall beyond them. There was another, smaller explosion - gas tank, possibly - and the flames leapt higher, licking the wall and ceiling. The room started to fill with smoke.

Someone inside the boat was screaming, screeching in absolute agony, and as he turned to look someone, torso alight, leapt from the inferno to plunge into the water that now flooded the room. They threshed and kicked, the water extinguishing the flames, still yelling and screaming as they struggled to rise. Some sort of weapon was still clutched in one hand.

O'Doyle swung round and pumped three bullets into it. The figure jerked back and crashed beneath the water once more, never to rise again.

"So long," muttered O'Doyle laconically.

Then, more machine gun fire - but a different sound, and above them. The occupants of the other boat fired back briefly, but he heard a scream and the heavy splash of someone else falling into the water from the vessel. The engine roared, and the vessel suddenly swung away and disappeared back down the street. There was a final burst of fire from above, then a pause. Something dropped down with a splash from the roof in front of the door, and silhouetted there he saw a dim figure hurrying forward, weapon in arms. O'Doyle raised her weapon again automatically but something made Sobchak knock it aside. The figure came forward and crouched before them, and in the glow of the flames he could just about make out their features; a sturdy black woman with short hair and a concentrated frown of aggression on her face. She cradled some sort of assault rifle across her knees and nodded towards them.

"Is that the President there?"

He managed to struggle up between the two agents. "Yeah - who are-"

She shook her head abruptly. "The name's Roz Forrester, but this ain't the time or place for an introduction."

As if to accentuate her point, something popped and banged in the wreckage of the boat, making them duck. Already the wall was alight and burning fragments had set light to other items of furniture. Flood or not, this building was quickly catching light.

The woman stood, held out a hand and beckoned them up.

"Come with me if you want to live..."

Sobchak exchanged a glance with O'Doyle. She shrugged.

"What have we got to lose?"

They helped the President up and followed the woman quickly from the building.

***

"No more bets, Madame's et monsieur's, no more bets..."

All eyes around the table fastened onto the roulette wheel as the croupier gave it a spin, the little steel ball clattering and clunking around the slots as the device reached peak speed before gradually slowing. A hush settled around the table as the players and audience awaited the outcome with baited breath.

Two pairs of eyes in particular studied the wheel. The first belonged to a tall, brown skinned man with menacing hawk features, dressed in an immaculate grey Nehru jacket, sourly impassive, dark eyes gleaming under the casino lights. His hair was similarly immaculate - too immaculate to be natural.

The other pair of eyes belonged to a tall, blond, broad shouldered and good looking young man in a white tuxedo, a red rose in his buttonhole. He had a big grin on his face, totally at odds with the tension around the table, to which he seemed completely oblivious.

The ball bounced across a few more slots, then finally settled into a hole.

The audience and other players gasped. Even the croupier, a man renowned for his coolness, raised an eyebrow, and had to clear his throat before announcing the result.

"Number 17, black. The gentleman wins again."

The dark man narrowed his eyes as he studied the ball's resting place, before glancing up at the young man before him at the other end of the table, who was happily scooping up his winnings. The dark man studied him for a moment, like a snake examining its prey, before speaking in a heavily accented voice.

"You are enjoying a great deal of fortune this evening, young man. That is your fifth win in a row. Quite remarkable."

The young man glanced up at him and grinned, seemingly oblivious to the venom dripping from the dark man's words and his look.

"When you're hot, you're hot," he chuckled. He looked questioningly at the croupier. "Is it really five times?"

The croupier nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Wow... my lucky number."

"Perhaps you ought to stop now... while you are ahead," rumbled the dark man. "No one enjoys such good fortune for long."

The young man grinned. "Naw, just getting warmed up," He raised a finger and a tall auburn haired waitress appeared by his side, her brief dark silk uniform accenting her impressive figure perfectly. She gave the young man a smile that would have melted a polar ice cap.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Her voice was low and sensual and implied there was a lot more available than just a drink from the bar.

His grin widened.

"JD on the rocks, angel." He flipped her a gambling chip and winked. "Keep the change."

The waitress smiled her galactic smile again, slipped the token down the taut front of her uniform, winked and shimmied away. The young man turned his head to watch her departure, lips forming to breathe a silent whistle of appreciation.

The dark man frowned dangerously. "Perhaps then you would care to play again, mister, er..."

The question was left hanging in the air for long seconds before the young man realised it was addressed to him and he tore his attention away from the waitress's legs to turn and smile winningly at the dark man.

"The name's Cwej... Chris Cwej." He winked and tossed a handful of chips onto the board. "Spin it again, Sam."

***

Colonel Gyorgy Semeyanov pulled another cigarette from the pack in the front breast pocket of his uniform and stuck it between his lips with a heavy sigh. He'd picked a bad time to give up smoking. Three weeks without and then this happened. Now he couldn't stop again. He wouldn't have put it past the tobacco producers to be in league with whoever was committing these atrocities. God knew they killed enough people as well, and likely him too. Just like his poor uncle Gennardy. Three years fighting in Stalingrad to be killed by a miserable leaf. He lit up and took a deep drag, coughing slightly at the heavy taste that filled his lungs. Ah, who cared. The way things were going that was likely to be the least of his worries. Of anybody's worries.

"Comrade Colonel?"

Varisov, the operator of the machine just in front of him, had swung round and was looking at him. His expression was not hopeful. Semeyanov nodded slowly.

"Another negative scan?"

Varisov swallowed. Semeyanov didn't know why the man looked so mortified. It wasn't like they shot anyone for not doing their job right any more. Especially if you couldn't help it. "Yes sir."

Semeyanov blew out a cloud of smoke that curled and billowed lazily in the confined space of the scanner room. With the door closed, the smoke caused a haze around the dim red neon that lit the area and tainted the air with a bitter, heavy tang. He would have opened the door but the corridor outside wasn't heated and the draught from the main doors of the little tracking station ran straight down it all the way from the North Pole. Semeyanov, like most Russians, was used to the cold, but that didn't mean he liked it. So the door stayed shut, and they stayed warm and had to put up with his smoking.

He didn't think Varisov was a smoker but he was certainly getting a good supply of his second hand smoke, as was the operator of the second device, Statsinsky. Perhaps that was why he looked so terrified. Maybe he too had an uncle Gennardy who'd fallen victim to the weed.

Statsinsky didn't seem to care, but then Statsinsky never seemed to care about anything, except his work. A dour, brooding lump of a man, he was hunched forward over his machine and staring at the screen unblinkingly through thick spectacles, as if hypnotised. To look at him you might have thought he was ill, but that was simply his way. That was the result of Nineteen years as a tracking operator, and in that time Statsinsky had become the best operator in the unit - the entire brigade - and Semeyanov turned a blind eye to his little peculiarities and studious lack of formality. Semeyanov had long ago learnt that, inspite of what the State told you, it paid to let the individual have their head sometimes.

He reached down and patted Varisov's shoulder, before leaning forward to peer at the screen, head dipping quite close to the younger man's.

"Run it again," he murmured. "And widen the range by another kilometre." Semeyanov considered for a moment. "Better make that three kilometres."

"Why not make it ten? Twenty? A hundred? Bozhe moi, we'll never find anything on these."

Statsinsky's low mutter of complaint took them both by surprise. Varisov swallowed again and glanced from him to his superior.

"That will severely effect the machine's operating capacity, comrade Colonel. It is already stretched as it is."

"Then stretch it further, comrade Corporal," chuckled Semeyanov. "What more can we do?"

Statsinsky permanent scowl deepened. "Invest in some superior Japanese equipment, Colonel. That's what we can do."

Semeyanov laughed dryly. "Sure, Statsinsky. I'll beg permission from the Marshal for a little trip to Tokyo and draw a few million roubles while I'm at it." He thumped the man's back. "I'll bring you back some of the rice wine they drink so much of. What is it called, saki?"

Statsinsky sighed. "You're the only one being sarky - ah."

He suddenly stiffened and held up a hand, the other pressed to the chunky earphones covering his skull. Semeyanov leaned forward urgently.

"Something?"

"Yessss..." Statsinsky's eyes narrowed to slits behind the thick lenses. "Not sure what... but something..."

Semeyanov glanced at the other man. "Varisov?"

The younger operator was gurning in concentration, but he was only a rookie and hadn't developed the ears for a job like this yet. But he was eager to please. Possibly he realised how cushy this job was when compared to cowering in an APC in Chechnya or locked inside one of the fleet's rusting atomic subs.

Sadly, Semeyanov preferred experience to eagerness any day, and he turned his attention fully to Statsinsky, who was totally immersed in what he seemed to be hearing over his earphones.

"What? What is it?" Semeyanov hissed.

"It's... it's... a very strange signature. Not heard anything like it."

"Could it be...?"

"I... don't know..." He dipped his head almost towards the face of the monitor before him, hands working the controls to try and get a lock on. "It's close... it's very close..."

Semeyanov and Varisov leaned forward too, caught up in the moment.

"Oh yes, it's closer than you think..." murmured a different voice.

It took them a few seconds before they realised there was a third head between them as well.

"Bozhe moi," exclaimed the Colonel, staggered back and clutching at his chest unconsciously. Varisov uttered a tiny girlish shriek and shot backwards in his chair, the headphones, still connected to the panel, torn free from his head to clatter to the floor.

Statsinsky merely turned his head and blinked slowly, as if dazed.

The newcomer grinned at Semeyanov and straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. He wore a baggy white linen suit with a crumpled red tie knotted loosely at the collar of his shirt. A curious straw hat was jammed down on a tangled mass of dark curly hair. Even more curiously, an umbrella with a strange red handle hung from the top pocket of his jacket. It took Semeyanov a moment to realise it was a question mark. It wasn't the sort of outfit he'd expect to find anyone wearing in Siberia. But then he hadn't exactly been expecting visitors of any kind.

"Hello there," the man said, still beaming. "I'm the Doctor, and I think I'm in a position to help you... if you're prepared to help me." He looked from man to man. "What do you say?"

Varisov swallowed again, rubbing at his ears. Semeyanov reached shakily for another cigarette.

Statsinsky merely looked the newcomer up and down, shook his head and turned back to his screen.

"Crazy," he muttered.

***

Twelve straight wins; that ought to do it, Chris thought as he got up from his chair. The dark man hadn't taken his eyes off him since about the fourth win, so he'd succeeded in getting his attention. Which was part two of the mission accomplished. Part one was simply finding the man, though Goddess knew it hadn't been simple. It seemed like he'd scoured every gambling joint in Bangkok to find the guy. It wasn't because of his stupid disguise, either. The man was just exceptionally elusive.

But his renowned love for gambling had finally found him out. The man had ties with many of the casinos in town, and it was just a matter of time before he turned up at one. And here he was.

Now, the rest was up to him.

He nodded to the croupier and gestured to his winnings. "Would you make sure these are safe, my good man, while I'm away?"

The croupier bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "Yes sir."

Chris winked at him and pressed a suitable expensive chip into the top pocket of the man's jacket. The croupier beamed delightedly. Everyone loved a winner, especially when they were generous with it.

Well, almost everyone.

The dark man was regarding Chris inscrutably. "Leaving, Mr Cwej?"

"Only temporarily..." The auburn haired waitress passed close by again and he caught her eye. She gave him a slow, seductive smile as she shimmied past that made his heart thump and put his imagination into over-drive. He felt heat and colour rushing to his face and he made a supreme effort to control himself. Keep your mind on the mission, boy, he warned himself.

He looked back at the bald man and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, and shot a meaningful look at the waitress before wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. A corner of the dark man's mouth twitched, whether through amusement or disgust Chris couldn't quite tell, though he strongly suspected the latter emotion. Then Chris heaved himself away from the table and walked - staggered - with an over-exaggerated list towards the bathrooms.

From the corner of his eye he caught the dark man gesturing to someone, and sure enough, two huge guys poured into tight fitting black tuxedos fell in surreptitiously - or as surreptitious as someone of their size and obvious menace could - behind him.

Chris allowed his grin to widen. Phase three of his mission was about to get under way...

***

Sobchak helped their rescuer heave the dusty old bureau up against the attic door and stepped back, wiping his hands. She thumped the mahogany side of the object approvingly.

"Built to last," she declared. "Possibly not the best shield against nine millimetre bullets, but under the circumstances..."

"It'll do," finished Sobchak. He glanced at the woman. "Nice work back there, by the way."

She pulled a face. "Not really. I wasn't aiming to blow the boat up like that. Must have hit the petrol tank by mistake. It was only a crukking stun grenade too," She thumped the bureau again, in frustration this time. "Now we're stuck here... for now."

"I'm grateful, all the same..." he glanced further down the attic, where the President sat resting in an old armchair, O'Doyle standing close by his side watchfully as always. "And so is the President."

She grunted, as if that didn't mean much to her, and moved past him to look out of the skylight set into the sloping roof of the house they were now sheltering in. After making a speedy withdrawal from the sheriff's office, the woman had led them to a simple two-storey building at the edge of the town's small residential area, not far from main street. There she took them up to the attic, safely out of the way of weather and the flooding, and hopefully out of the view of their pursuers.

The rain was still hammering down and the sky was still as black as pitch. Roz wiped at the condensation and peered out. Sobchak joined her. Nothing was moving outside.

"It's not getting any better. I'd hoped maybe they might switch it off, but they're obviously erring on the side of caution."

"Who's going to switch what off?" asked Sobchak.

She nodded towards the President. "He knows. Ask him."

Sobchak raised an eyebrow. Combat might have been her strong point but protocol certainly wasn't. "Ma'am, he's the President of the United States, and I'm only-"

"The guy who's supposed to take a bullet for him," she snapped. "I think he owes you a moment or two of his time for an explanation of things every now and then."

She moved past Sobchak, who frowned darkly at her. "You don't get it..."

"Maybe," she muttered, coming up to the President. O'Doyle watched her warily, fingers rippling briefly around the butt of her pistol. It was clear Mabel still didn't trust her. Sobchak wasn't sure if he should feel the same way too.

"How are you, Mr President?" she asked, quite respectfully.

He nodded. "Quite well, thanks to you, young woman. You saved us from quite a nasty situation back there."

She shook her head. "It isn't quite over yet, sir. Not by a long way."

The President looked grave. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Roz frowned slightly. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to save the other man who was with you."

Sobchak saw O'Doyle's lips tighten, though she didn't say anything. Walt Malloy had been something of a guru to her, and though she barely showed it - she was way too professional for that - he knew she must be grieving badly.

"Walt Malloy, yes..." the President sighed sadly. "He was a good man."

"The best," murmured O'Doyle. The President glanced up at her, then reached up and patted her hand gently. He knew how close they'd been as well. This President was a man who liked to get to know the people around him. Especially those who were prepared to stop a bullet for him. He always treated his security details with the utmost courtesy and respect, whereas some politicians Sobchak had protected looked straight through you. He wasn't that sort of man. The public may not have thought much of him at times - Congress certainly didn't - but he commanded the utmost respect from his troops, stemming from his army days, and he reciprocated it as best he could. Sobchak guessed he was feeling Malloy's death as well, and it hardened his resolve to see him through this crisis.

The President cleared his throat and returned his attention to Roz. "We'll mourn Walt later, but at the moment, I'm extremely grateful for what you did in saving the rest of us." He paused, looking a little uncomfortable. "And at the risk of sounding ungracious..."

"You'd like to know who and what I am, and what exactly am I doing here?" Roz smiled slightly. "Under the circumstances, all you really need to know is that I have been sent here to protect you to the best of my abilities. Any explanation of my exact circumstances would be, well, difficult. But you can believe when I say that I'm here to help you, and that I'm as concerned for your welfare as your bodyguards here."

The President didn't look quite convinced, but he was also a man who adapted quickly to situations and got on with them. Action before explanation had been one of his mottos, Sobchak remembered.

The President leaned forward. "Are you a soldier?"

"I suppose my original training could be classed as military, but my background is really in law enforcement."

"You're a cop?" said O'Doyle incredulously.

"Not in any sense you'd understand. Now," she said, turning away suddenly and looking towards the window. "What you really need to know and understand is that there is a large group of heavily armed men out there trying to capture you, Mr President. They are quite ruthless and utterly dedicated to this mission."

"And who are they working for?" the President asked.

"A man named Kanara." She glanced back at him. "You probably know him better by the name of Dr Flood."

"Dr Flood?" The President uttered a short, dry laugh of disbelief. "That maniac is responsible for all this?"

"I believe you have received detailed information about his plans, and how he intends to carry them out."

"Yes," he said slowly. "I have."

"You don't sound as though you believed them."

"I have to say I did not. The reports were a little... incredible." He glanced at Sobchak and O'Doyle. "Somewhere in the world is a very crazy individual calling himself Dr Flood who claims to able to control the weather and is threatening to destroy the planet with it." He looked back at Roz. "These claims, coupled with that ridiculous nickname of his, makes him sound, well, more than a little comic-book."

Roz leaned forward slightly. "There is nothing comic book about this man, Mr President. He's very real. A highly dangerous and highly rich madman with the capacity to ruin this planet and the will to do it. Look outside, sir. That's proof of his ability to do so."

"I think I see that now," he replied quietly. "And all this... coming after me in this way... is part of his plan?"

"Oh yes. Kidnapping you would be an incredible advantage to him. It'll show to everyone else in the world that he really does mean business for a start, and you would make quite a hostage."

"He'd gain nothing. The Vice President would just take over."

"He's an idiot, and valuable time would be lost while he tried to decide what to do."

The President frowned. "That's a bit damning, if I may say."

"Damning but true. You're a respected man, sir. You have the ability to get things moving, and not simply in your own country. That's why it's vital you remain at large. Kanara is a global menace. It will in all probability take a global effort to defeat him."

The President grinned. "You haven't seen my approval ratings recently, have you?"

"Sir, if you'll pardon the liberty, she is right, sir," said Sobchak. "If this guy is threatening world safety, it is paramount that you're in a fit state to help assist in his defeat."

O'Doyle nodded too. "I concur with Warren, sir. With respect to the VP, he's not half the force you are, sir."

He looked at each agent, then nodded slowly. "You might be right. I would carry more weight than Frank in a time of crisis. He's a great economist, a witty and informed debater, good orator, loves his country... but he's got a way to go before he'll make a great world leader." He glanced at Sobchak warningly. "But you didn't hear me saying that, right?"

Sobchak grinned. "Yes sir."

"Heard what, sir?" replied O'Doyle, also grinning.

He clasped the dusty arms of the chair and nodded to Roz. "Okay, what do I have to do?"

Roz pursed her lips, then began:

"Well, first off, we have to-"

O'Doyle suddenly held up a hand. "Engines," she hissed. "Listen."

And from somewhere outside came the familiar snarl of motors. Several motors...

"I think we might have to move again," said Roz slowly, reaching for her weapon...

***

"I suppose it would be pointless to ask how you got in here, hey?"

Semeyanov was standing close by the door, a cigarette jittering between the fingers of his right hand, studying the little man closely. He was sitting at Varisov's station making rapid alterations to the settings. He hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing. Statsinsky was watching on with weary bemusement, and Varisov merely stood back and gaped. Semeyanov wasn't exactly sure what to do himself. Correct procedure should have been to arrest him and lock him away, but there was a purpose and confidence about the man that made him very unsure. The only other person he'd met who'd had that air about him had been a Colonel in the KGB he'd encountered several years back. Very take charge, 'do as I say', no questions asked. The little man didn't exactly look like KGB - and Semeyanov could usually spot them a mile off - nor indeed did he look or sound particularly Russian, but his authority, despite his appearance, was unquestionable.

But he had to do something.

The Doctor - Doctor who exactly he hadn't said - didn't even look round from what he was doing. "Yes, Colonel, I'm afraid it would," he answered shortly.

"Ah." Semeyanov paused for a moment. "Or, I suppose, expect to see any credentials?"

"My credentials are impeccable," the Doctor snapped, "but seldom viewable. Or retrievable, for that matter."

"No ID at all?"

The Doctor looked round briefly. His eyes were dark and full of warning. "I've never been much of a one for names and identities, Colonel. Though I've had many in the past."

I bet you have, thought Semeyanov. Perhaps the man was some sort of spy. Western, undoubtedly. MI5 or CIA. He didn't look the Ian Fleming type - possibly more the Le Carre model. Semeyanov positively devoured Western spy fiction, and he loved Le Carre in particular. Maybe there was more than a little of the George Smiley about this man, and that thought began to worry Semeyanov even more. He glanced at the intercom by the door. It would take a minute or so to rouse the guards from their quarters. He and the others weren't armed, so it wouldn't be too difficult to hold him until they arrived... would it?

The Doctor smiled suddenly, as if acknowledging the uncertainty and tension in the room for the first time. "Knowing who I am isn't really important, Colonel, and in many ways, it's better for you if you didn't. But," and he leaned forward urgently, "it is important for you to understand that I'm here for a very important reason, and only to help solve the problem you've been assigned to investigate."

"Ah, and which problem might this be?" Semeyanov asked with all innocence.

The corners of the Doctor's mouth curled down slightly, and he turned back to the machine with a disappointed sigh. "Let's not play games, Colonel."

Semeyanov chuckled nervously. "Funny, I was about to say the same to you."

"I'm not playing a game, Colonel," the Doctor warned. "You know exactly what I mean."

He rattled in a sequence of commands on the keyboard set before the screen and punched the return key with a flourish. The display changed to show a map of the Pacific picked out in glowing green. The Doctor tapped the screen with a forefinger.

"Somewhere in the middle of that is a very mad scientist currently going under the ridiculous pseudonym of Dr. Flood. His real name is in fact Ronaldo Kanara and he's no more a proper scientist than I am a..."

He trailed off suddenly, as if struggling to think of something he wasn't. Semeyanov pursed his lips, and suggested softly:

"Authorised KGB official?"

The Doctor frowned and whipped his head from side to side negatively. "No, no, I was a Party member long before you were born, comrade... I just let it lapse, that was all." He turned his attention moodily to the screen again. "I never seemed to be able to get on with Comrade Stalin as well as I should... but then most of his ideals were totally opposed to mine."

"Comrade Stalin, yes," muttered Semeyanov. Maybe the man was no George Smiley after all, and just a wandering idiot.

"Anyway," the Doctor exclaimed suddenly, "getting back to my original point, this man Kanara, or Flood, or whatever he's choosing to call himself at the moment, is threatening to do terrible things to the biosphere unless certain ridiculous demands of his are met."

Statsinsky peered at his commanding officer. "Ridiculous demands? Colonel, what is he talking about?"

Semeyanov pulled a face. It wasn't really the Russian way to keep junior staff completely informed of their duties. All Statsinsky and Varisov had to know was that they were looking for something. Not why. "Statsinsky, as our friend just said, the less you know the better."

But the Doctor had other ideas. He turned to look Statsinsky in the eye. "Comrade, out there somewhere is a madman who seeks domination over the entire planet. Do you even know how he's trying to accomplish this?"

Statsinsky frowned. This much he did know. "Some sort of high energy source... used to stir up changes in the atmosphere... yes?"

"Yes, via a number of satellites recently placed in high orbit around key areas of the Earth."

"Launched by those damn Chinese," growled Semeyanov.

"They didn't know what they were sending up, Colonel. And they're suffering as badly as everyone else now." He looked back at Statsinsky. "Now these satellites are causing massive changes in the atmosphere, to be precise. With the result of creating highly extreme weather conditions. Very exact and very localised."

"Targeted, in fact," added Semeyanov.

"Precisely targeted."

Statsinsky nodded. "The flooding in Volvograd..."

Varisov chimed in. "The hurricane that ruined the Nykortny space launch site..."

The Doctor nodded and smiled. "Yes, and not just in Russia. All over the world." He began to tick things off on his fingers. "The river Thames in England, flooded. Greater London under three feet of water. Ice storms over Peking, China. Temperatures reached as low as minus thirty." He glanced up at Semeyanov. "Biting the hand that fed him, you could say."

Semeyanov grunted. The Doctor continued listing the planet's woes.

"Tidal waves across the Eastern shores of Australia. Much to the chagrin of the surfing community. Hurricanes in North America, ruining their space launch sites too... "

"All this we are aware of, Doctor," sighed Semeyanov. "Which is why we have been instructed to locate the source of this devilry... and assist our forces in putting an end to it."

The Doctor spun round and round on his chair suddenly. "But you're having no luck, are you?"

"Not yet," admitted Statsinsky grudgingly. "But we will."

The Doctor brought his chair to a halt. "You won't. He's using some very impressive shielding from your equipment. And some very impressive devices for locating the sites which have equipment which would have the power and range to detect him." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Almost too sophisticated for this time period..."

"This is the best we have, excluding what we have at Nykortny."

"What you had at Nykortny," the Doctor corrected mildly. "Why do you think he destroyed it? And wrecked most of the other better sites?"

"But not everywhere," insisted Statsinsky.

"Oh no, of course not... he's not that exacting, and he doesn't quite have the capability to cover everywhere at once. It's also very probable he doesn't perceive such out-of-the-way stations such as yours as a threat." A slow smile spread across his face. "Which will be his undoing."

"How?" Semeyanov wanted to know. "How do we find him?"

"Boost the power?" suggested Varisov.

Statsinsky scowled. "We're practically at full power and full range as it is."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, that won't do. He will simply detect you and whistle up a storm to blot you from the map, just like he did to Cape Canaveral, and Woomera, and Fylingdales... and Nykortny." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "No, we will simply use what we have here to trace him... and put an end to this reign of Flood, as it were."

Semeyanov folded his arms. "I say again, how?"

"Simple," the Doctor smiled. "What's the best way to track anybody?"

Semeyanov shrugged. "I don't know... put a bug on them?"

"Correct."

"You're going to bug him?" said Statsinsky in disbelief.

The Doctor grinned. "Oh yes, quite literally you could say," He pulled a watch from inside his jacket and studied it closely. "Any time now, I should think..."