"Hirsch is primarily a medical supplier," Farquharson answered. "Iron lungs, custom-made wheelchairs, hyperbaric chambers, the like. A great deal of that equipment in Germany was either lost in bombings or dragged back to Russia. They accept other work, of course, but that is their specialty." Farquharson shrugged. "That's as much as I know, I'm afraid."

"It has become clear to me," Stavrou said delicately, "that we have acheived about as much as we can here in London. We cannot hope to do any sort of planning without first doing reconnaissance and surveillance." He sighed. "We will need to travel to Essen, the belly of the beast. We will have to see his home, his office, his places of leisure. See about his employees, family, the police in the area. I imagine he may have friends in Bonn, so we must be careful." Stavrou looked at the woman and the other man- American, was he? "Perhaps you two could pose as potential investors or customers, get inside the factory to have a look around, maybe even meet the man himself. You can have false papers drawn up, yes?" he asked Farquharson, receiving a quick nod in response. "Only once we've carefully surveyed and figured out when and where he is weakest will we obtain our weapons and do the deed. At least, this is how I would recommend." He gave a quick nod and smile around the group. "Konstantinos Stavrou, by the way. I was a lieutenant, but do not worry about that. We're all civilians now."

Farquharson coughed once again, politely, setting a cardboard folder down on the table. "First-class to Essen. Your flight leaves at ten tomorrow. I imagine you'll want a wee bit of rest first. Any further questions for me?"