And as the Manhunt for the Mystery Intruder AKA Reichsmarshall Hermann Goering began, secretly at first, without enlisting the assistance of the press, because Inspector Ferguson, with the approval of his superiors, wanted neither to frighten the public by the impossibility of the evidence, but also avoid alerting the suspect, what of the man himself? where has he gone? where is he hiding? has he changed his appearance? how far has he walked since Connor O'Hare's last sighting of him? and does he even know he is being sought? well now, in his subconscious, the meaningless text which he had observed outside the newsagents, just round the corner from the building he had been unceremoniously ejected from, had been translated and he realised that it was about him! 'Goering Commits Suicide in Nuremberg!' was unbelievable, particularly as here he was alive and, well, not so well at the moment, but he began to register the city through which he walked and it slowly dawned on him that it was not Berlin, not Germany, but in fact Glasgow, in Scotland; unbelievable, utterly impossible, yet the evidence of his own eyes was unassailable; now Hermann was nothing if not pragmatic and he decided to act on the information he could gather, so he picked up a discarded newspaper and checked the date: October 16th 1946 and read the full story, across most of the front page and then in a two-page spread inside, discovering that there had been a War, that Adolf was dead, Germany had been defeated and was in ruins and the victorious Allies, Britain, America and Russia, had prosecuted the surviving leaders of the Reich in an unprecedented Show Trial at the end of which they had naturally been found Guilty and were due to be sentenced today, and that He had been true to the Spirit of the Officer Class and denied these usurpers the pleasure of dangling him from a rope; and yet here we was, walking about and reading about years of which he had absolutely no memory whatsoever! was it shock? was it amnesia caused by concussion? so many questions, so few answers, but his training and experience as a pilot in the Luftstreitkräfte which earned him his reputation as an Ace, had taught him how to survive where many fell, and in his rise through the Nazi Party he had seen good men fall foul of Adolf – Ernst Röhm and Gregor Strasser among them and had given him the cunning and deviousness necessary for survival and, whatever had brought him here, now, his chances would depend on making the best use of his own particular skills and ingenuity; he could not walk aimlessly around and expect not to be seen – he was plastered all over the papers and his face must be known here, he had no money or papers, only his wits and these were well-honed by his years with Adolf; realizing that he was in a largely residential part of the city, with side streets full of tenements and few shops, he began to think like a wolf and, passing through one of the darkened closes, found himself in a wide back court that occupied the rectangular empty space of a whole block, bounded on all four sides by tenements, divided into sections by the stumps of railings embedded in concrete and hidden from eyes on the street, but conspicuous to any looking down from the many windows; and the back-court had lines of laundry hanging out to dry in the damp morning air; he quickly spotted what he needed – a pair of trousers which looked large enough for him, shirts and on one line a dark jacket which he guessed would suffice; taking what he needed, he went into one of the closes and warily climbed the stairs until he found what he had expected: a shared toilet on one of the half-landings; stepping inside the small space, he quickly shed his outer clothes and pulled on his finds: Perfect! he would now look like an ordinary working man going about his business – now he needed an identity and money! he was well-educated, had a good command of English, could pass himself in any level of society: he was a hippologist, having had his own horses since boyhood; he had a good command of mythology, aware of the legend of the barghest, believed to be British but drawn from Saxon tales of the Black Dog which terrorized Hallowed Ground on certain dates and he knew that in a fortnight it would be All Hallows Eve, Halloween as it was commonly called here: so he would find a Sepulchre that was unattended, uncared for, unvisited and that would provide him with shelter for a few nights, while he made his plans and should anyone venture near, he could give a good simulacrum of the bark of a wolf-hound which would chase them off and then he saw what he wanted: a workman's jacket hanging on a post, as if it's owner had just left it for a few moments, and a few seconds were all it took to empty the pockets and, after stuffing a wallet, coins, cigarettes and matches into his own pockets he was gone, out a different close into a different street and making his way towards the Northern outskirts for he remembered from reconnaissance photographs that there were several cemeteries lying in that direction and he walked as quickly as he could without seeming to be fleeing, towards what? the next phase of a plan which was beginning to crystallize in his mind!