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arget。 To do this； the Germans were given the body of a dead alcoholic who'd been transformed after a death of dissipation into a major of the Royal Marines； putatively a planning officer for the fictitious operation to seize Corsica。 The body had been dropped in the water off the Spanish coast by the submarine HMS Seraph； from which it had washed to shore； been duly picked up； delivered to the local police； autopsied； and the document case handcuffed to the cadaver's wrist handed over to the local Abwehr officer。 He'd fired the papers off to Berlin； where they'd had the intended effect； moving several German divisions to an island with no more military significance than the fact that it was Napoleon's birthplace。 The story was called The Man Who Never Was； the subject of a book and a movie； and further proof of the wretched performance of German intelligence； which couldn't tell the difference between the body of a dead drunk and that of a professional soldier。
〃What else do we know？ I mean；〃 Kingshot pointed out； 〃what age and gender； sir？〃
〃Yes； and hair color and so forth。 The manner of death will also be important。 We do not know those things yet。 So the initial question is a broad one： Is it possible to do this？〃
〃In the abstract； yes； but before we can go forward with it； I shall need a lot of specifics。 As I said； height； weight； hair and eye color； gender to be sure。 With that； we can go forward。〃
〃Well； Alan； get thinking about it。 Get me a specific list of what you need by tomorrow noon。〃
〃What city will this be in？〃
〃Budapest probably。〃
〃Well； that's something；〃 the field spook thought aloud。
〃Damned grisly business；〃 Sir Basil muttered after his man left。
Andy Hudson was sitting in his office； relaxing after his Ploughman's Lunch in the embassy's pub； along with a pint of John Courage beer。 Not a tall man； he had eighty…two parachute jumps under his belt； and had the bad knees to prove it。 He'd been invalided out of active service eight years before； but because he liked a little excitement in his life； he'd opted to join the Secret Intelligence Service； and worked his way rapidly up the ladder mainly on the strength of his superior language skills。 Here in Budapest； he needed those。 The Hungarian language is known as Indo…Altaic to philologists。 Its nearest European neighbor is Finnish and； after that； Mongolian。 It has no relationship at all with any European language； except for some Christian names； which were conveyed when the Magyar people succumbed to Christianity； after killing off enough missionaries to bee bored with doing so。 Along the way； they'd also lost whatever warrior ethos they'd once had。 The Hungarians were about the most un…warlike people on the continent。
But they were pretty good at intrigue； and； like any society； they had a criminal element…but theirs had mainly gone into the munist Party and power apparat。 The Secret Police here； the Allavedelmi Hatosag； could be as nasty as the Cheka had been under Iron Feliks himself。 But nasty wasn't quite the same as efficient。 It was as though they tried to make up for their inbred inefficiency by viciousness against those whom they blundered into catching。 And their police were notoriously stupid…there was a Hungarian aphorism； 〃As stupid as six pairs of policeman's boots；〃 which Hudson had largely found to be true。 They weren't the Metropolitan Police； but Budapest wasn't London； either。
In fact； he found life pleasant here。 Budapest was a surprisingly pretty city； very French in its architecture； and surprisingly casual for a munist capital。 The food was remarkably good； even in the government…run worker canteens that dotted every street corner； where the fare was not elegant but tasty。 Public transportation was adequate to his purposes； which were mainly political intelligence。 He had a source…called PARADE…inside the Foreign Ministry who fed him very useful information about the Warsaw Pact and East Bloc politics in general； in return for cash； and not very much cash at that； so low were his expectations。
Like the rest of Central Europe； Budapest was an hour ahead of London。 The embassy messenger knocked on Hudson's door； then reached in to toss an envelope onto his desk。 Hudson set down his small cigar and lifted it。 From London； he saw。 Sir Basil himself。。。
Bloody hell； Hudson thought。 His life was about to get a little bit more interesting。
〃More details to follow；〃 it ended。 About right。 You never knew it all until you had to do it。 Sir Basil wasn't a bad chap to work for but； like most spymasters； he greatly enjoyed being clever； which was something never fully appreciated out in the field； where the worker bees had wasps to worry about。 Hudson had a staff of three； including himself。 Budapest wasn't a major station； and for him it was a way station until something more important opened up。 As it was； he was young to be a Station Chief。 Basil was giving him the chance to stretch his legs。 That suited Hudson。 Most Station Chiefs sat in their offices like spiders in their web； which looked dramatic but could actually be quite boring； since it involved writing endless reports。 He ran field tasks himself。 That ran the risk of his being burned； as Jim Szell had been…bloody awful luck； nothing more than that； Hudson had learned from a source named BOOT； who was right inside the AVH。 But in the danger came the charm of the job。 It was less dangerous than jumping out the back of a Lockheed Hercules with sixty pounds of weapons and rations strapped to your back。 Also less dangerous than patrolling Belfast with Provos about。 But it was the skills learned in the city streets of Ulster that gave him his street smarts as a spook。 As with everything else in life； you took the bitter with the sweet。 But better； he told himself； to take his bitter by the pint。
He had a rabbit ing out。 That ought not to be difficult； though this rabbit had to be an important one； so much so that CIA was asking for assistance from 〃Six；〃 and that didn't happen every day。 Only when the bloody Yanks buggered things up； which was； Hudson thought； not too infrequent。
There was nothing for him to do as yet。 He could not know what needed to be done until he had a lot more specifics； but in the abstract he knew how to get people out of Hungary。 It wasn't all that hard。 The Hungarians were insufficiently wedded to Marxism to be that serious an adversary。 So； he sent off a 〃message received〃 dispatch to Century House and awaited further developments。
The british airways noon flight to Moscow was a Boeing 737 twin…engine jet。 The flight took about four hours； depending on winds； which were fairly calm today。 On arriving at Sheremetyevo Airport； the Diplomatic Courier walked out the forward door and breezed through immigration control on the strength of his canvas bag and diplomatic passport； then walked to the waiting embassy car for the drive into town。 The courier had been there and done that many times； enough so that his driver and the embassy guards knew him by sight； and he knew his own way around the embassy。 With his delivery made； he headed down to the canteen for a hot dog and a beer； and settled into his newest