Manhunt. Volume 13, Number 5, September 1965

Portrait in Blood by Bob Temmey

“Merrill, I believe I may have to take a chance with you... you might be McMann’s last hope.”

With a final jerk the Capitol Limited ground to a shuddering halt. Two minutes later the exit companionways were open and a hodgepodge of Christmas travelers, overloaded with suitcases and gayly wrapped packages, hurried along the boarding ramp toward Union Station, their breaths white vapor darts.

Buddy Merrill watched them sourly from his stool at the club car bar until the last passed the coach windows, wondered for the dozenth time since leaving New Orleans if he had made a mistake in accepting Steve’s offer. It was a shabby way to drop in on him after three years — almost broke, and not even a gift. It was the gift that was bothering him most. After all Steve had done for him he should have...

“Another gin and tonic, sir?”

“Wha—” He looked up quickly and found the Negro bartender, teeth chalk white and glistening, smiling at him. His eyes automatically swept the club car, found it empty except for the two of them. “No; I guess not.”

He downed the remainder of his drink quickly and stood: a tall, rangy young man with untidy black hair, a pair of deep-set brown eyes and a cleft chin. He was wearing a bulky maroon boatneck sweater, dark slacks and light colored moccasins that had seen more than their share of use. The clothing along with the freckles on his nose and full cheeks made him appear younger than his 27 years. Avoiding the bartender’s dark eyes he reached awkwardly in his pants pocket, laid the last of his change by his empty glass.

“Thank you, sir... and Merry Christmas.”

Buddy walked slowly back through the empty coaches recalling, for some unexplainable reason, the first time he had seen Steve. He was in high school, 15, and Steve was waiting for him outside the principal’s office: a broad-shouldered, bull-necked smiling Irishman, neat in his Marine uniform. There were seven colorful ribbons over his left-hand breast pocket. He remembered trying to pick out the one that represented the Silver Star— The one Steve had received trying to save Brad’s life.

“You’re Buddy Merritt,” he had said, and held out a hairy-backed, hamlike hand. “I’d know you anywhere... Same stubborn chin.” Then he had smiled warmly. “Buddy, I’m Steve McMann... I was with your brother when he died.”

That had been in 1952, shortly after the armistice in Korea. And from that day Steve had been like his own brother; later father and mother when his parents were killed in an automobile crash just after he turned 17. The money that had got him through art school, the periodic checks to tide him over through the lean years had all come from Steve— And now he was coming to him with no Christmas present.

He pushed his coach door open and dejectedly headed along the aisle, so occupied with the past that he didn’t notice the square-shouldered man in the tan trenchcoat — the man with the flat blonde crew-cut and the tracery of scars on his nose bridge — watching him from the seat where he had left his gear.

“I was beginning to think you fell out somewhere in North Carolina, kid.”

“Steve!”

“In the flesh. I waited at the gate: when you didn’t show I decided to see if maybe you got locked in the John. Then I found this crap.” He motioned to the scuffed suitcase, folded tripod and a two by three-foot sketching pad. “I figured if I just took it easy you’d come to me.” His rugged Irish features seemed to explode into a grin as he pushed himself up from the coach seat. “Great to see you, kid. It’s been a long time.”

For a moment. Buddy couldn’t find any words. He grasped the outstretched hand and held it tightly, his eyes locked with Steve’s. He couldn’t help thinking that Steve McMann looked like the typical storybook private investigator. Finally he said, “Too long... I’m glad I came now.”

“Now?”

“I mean...”

“What is it, kid? You got problems?”

Buddy couldn’t look at the probing eyes.

“You’re broke! That’s it! You were ashamed to come without cash!”

Buddy shrugged and looked up sheepishly. “I couldn’t even buy a present.”

“Jesus Christ!” For a long moment Steve McMann just stared; then he began laughing, a deep, bull-throated sound that filled the coach. “Come on; let’s get out of here before I start crying.”

Then Buddy found himself laughing, too. He’d been a fool: he should have known Steve couldn’t care less about a Christmas present— It was good to be close to him again.

They jostled their way through the crowded station, Steve carrying the tripod and sketching pad, Buddy the suitcase.

“Expect you to get a lot of work done here, kid. I’m counting on you staying at least a month. You’re not going to like the weather... pretty wet, but it should serve a purpose... Keep you inside with a brush in your hand.”

“It was raining when I left New Orleans. I’m used to it.”

They pushed out the main door into the damp December evening chill and headed past a long line of taxicabs toward the passenger parking area. Overhead the sky was a dark slate gray, and as they walked the street lights of Massachusetts Avenue went on. Christmas decorations glistened.

“And don’t worry about putting me out. I figure a painting or two will cover your end of it. Anyway, I’ve got a few cracks to cover.”

Buddy glanced at him, found him grinning. He realized then that he had needed Steve. He had needed a crutch to support him while he licked his wounds and tried to convince himself he wasn’t a failure. He needed to be near someone close while he decided what he was going to do with his life— He was still thinking about himself when a gruff voice behind snapped him out of it.

“McMann!”

Buddy jerked around sharply. The man approaching was tall, appeared to be in his early 40s. He was wearing a narrow-brimmed grey felt hat and grey topcoat. Buddy’s first impression was of a state department type, but as the man neared he saw something else there: hardness showing in the man’s eyes, the square jaw set in the same rock-hard manner as Steve’s, the thick hands. Buddy glanced at Steve, found his jaw muscles hard, his eyelids narrowed. “Trouble?”

Steve disregarded the question, waited until the man stopped in front of them; then the infectious grin exploded over his face. “Buddy, this is Hardy. He likes to play tag.”

Buddy watched Hardy study him momentarily, then look at Steve.

“You were supposed to call this morning, McMann.”

Steve feigned concern, shook his head. “Damn! So I was. I’ve got a hell of a memory. I guess I had too much on my mind... Buddy arriving... You know how it is.”

Buddy saw a flash of anger in Hardy’s blue eyes.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, McMann. You’ve done your part. It’s time to step aside... Or are you thinking about playing a different game now? Maybe you’ve, decided to sell—” He didn’t finish.

Buddy looked quickly at Steve, saw that his grin had hardened. For a moment he thought Steve was going to slug the man, but he just shrugged, said: “Hardy, why don’t you leave me alone.” Then he turned and walked stiffly away. Buddy was about to follow suit when Hardy grasped his left arm. The grip was uncomfortable, and he realized the man was concealing a lot of power beneath his topcoat.

“Merrill, if you think anything at all about that thick-skulled Irishman try to talk some sense into him. He’s in over his head.”

Buddy attempted to pull away, but the vicelike grip didn’t loosen. “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, but I’m beginning to take a real dislike to you. If you don’t let loose of my arm I just may stuff this suitcase down your throat.” It was strong talk to a man who appeared to be in twice the shape he was, but Buddy couldn’t hold back the anger boiling up in him. He was surprised to feel the grip loosen and Hardy’s hand drop away. He started to turn, but stopped as Hardy spoke. The voice was softer.

“Merrill, I believe I may have to take a chance with you... You might be McMann’s last hope.”

Buddy studied the man’s eyes. Hardy seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you can be sure I’m with Steve all the way. Just get that clear.” The statement had a different effect than Buddy had expected. The last trace of anger drained from Hardy’s eyes. He nodded.

“Yes, I believe you are. But I don’t think you realize what’s going on. You don’t, do you?”

Buddy felt the puzzlement show on his face. “Christ! No wonder Steve cut out. You make about as much sense as an auctioneer.”

Hardy’s expression didn’t change. “I thought so. You don’t... And that means you’re in more danger than McMann is.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to Buddy. “Keep this. Both my home and office numbers are on it. If you find yourself in trouble... call. And tell McMann he hasn’t much more time. We can’t let Josef Dobrynin get to him.”

“Josef Dobrynin?” But Hardy had turned and was already walking away. Buddy watched him head back along the taxi stand, tried to make some sense out of the crazy quilt pattern — when he saw a man who apparently had been staring at them from the depot doorway look quickly down at a newspaper. He was a tall, slim man with unusually wide shoulders, closeset eyes and a lean, dark face with a crescent-shaped cheek scar that was dead white against his swarthy skin. The brim of his black felt hat was turned down all the way around, European fashion, and one end of a dark wool scarf hung down the front of his heavy winter coat. For a moment Buddy believed the man might have been with Hardy, but discounted the thought when Hardy walked by him without recognition — Buddy was still staring at him when he realized Steve had pulled his car up beside him.

“Come on, kid. Don’t let Hardy worry you.”

Buddy turned automatically and found Steve grinning at him. “Who was he?”

“Nobody important. Get that crap in here; we’ve got things to do.”

Buddy disregarded the proding. “Who was he, Steve?”

McMann shrugged. “Jim Hardy... CIA.”

“Central Intelligence Agency? What the hell business have you got with CIA?”

“Less than Hardy believes, kid. Hell of a way to welcome you to D.C. Don’t let it concern you...”

“According to Hardy it does concern me.”

“Oh? What did he tell you?”

“As little as he could. He said I may be your last hope... that I should try and talk some sense into you... that he can’t let Josef Dobrynin get to you.”

“Hardy talks too much.”

“Maybe. But just enough to start me seeing things. I thought I saw some guy right out of an Eric Ambler spy novel watching while Hardy and I were talking.” Steve’s reaction sent a chill along his spine. He had stiffened momentarily, then covered it up quickly with one of those explosive grins.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Right over by the depot door. He—” But as Buddy turned to point he found the man no longer there. He turned back, a foolish look on his face, and Steve laughed.

“Get in, kid. You’ve been reading too many books.”

Buddy smiled sheepishly, shook his head. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

They joined the chain of cars on Pennsylvania Avenue, past the Capitol, the White House and the Justice Department, and the gray granite doorways of government, Buddy trying to convince himself that what had happened was normal in Steve’s life. After all, Steve was a private investigator, and there was a certain amount of risk in the job. Even so, Hardy’s warning seemed pretty strong. And Hardy was CIA.

“You’re going to like the pad, kid. Get a chance to do much sailing down South?”

“Haven’t been on the water for a year.”

“I’ll fix that. I’ve got a ketch... We’ll go out tomorrow.”

“Don’t let me change your routine. I’m sponging, remember?”

“You’ee painting. But the rest will do you good. You’ll be back at the canvas soon enough... Then I want to see more like the last one you sent me.”

“Portrait in Blood?”

“That one’s got it, kid.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so, but thanks anyway.”

Steve glanced at him, cuffed him lightly on his chin. “It’s worth a lot more than you think.”

Buddy couldn’t help smiling as he looked at Steve. There was some unfathomable kind of amusement in his eyes. But he had stopped long ago trying to figure out Steve McMann’s mind and just let himself enjoy the man’s company. Steve always had a way of making him forget his problems.

If it hadn’t been for Hardy and the scene at the depot it would have worked now, but one thing Hardy had said kept digging at him. If what Steve was involved in was something routine, a normal private investigating case, then why was it that Hardy had called him by his last name. He distinctly remembered Steve had never mentioned it during his short conversation with the CIA agent — but Hardy had called him Merrill.

Steve had to be involved in something pretty serious if the Central Intelligence Agency had gone to all the trouble to check out a friend who lived a couple thousand miles away.

Buddy tried to get the thoughts out of his head by watching the steady stream of cars move toward them. The headlights looked like gliding fireflies. Red, blue and green Christmas lights winked along the edge of Pennsylvania Avenue. Far ahead the Washington Monument pointed like a great white finger into the sky — Five minutes later Steve’s voice pulled him from his thoughts and he realized they were skirting the Potomac River.

“It’s just up ahead. I’m ready for a drink: how about you?”

“I could use one.” He studied the shore homes as Steve turned off on a side street. They looked to be in the $50,000 class. Steve had been doing well. Then they pulled up before a two-story beach type. The light in the front window showed up the gilt letters on the glass.

“The palace, kid. Come on, let’s get this stuff inside. After a shower you’ll feel like a new man... Then I’m going to take you out on the town. We’ll hit it for old times sake... You still get sick when you drink?”

Buddy smiled as he opened the car door, remembered the time he upchucked when Steve got him loaded on his 21st birthday. It was good to be with him again.

They walked side-by-side with his gear to the door, neither talking, both lost in their own thoughts of the past. Buddy breathed the familiar smell of boats: paint, manila lines, turpentine. At the door Steve managed to fumble out his key, but as he started to stick it in the lock the door opened and a girl was silhouetted in the light.

“I heard you drive up, Steve... So this is Buddy.”

Buddy just stared. She was the prettiest girl he’d seen in years. Her seal-black hair was shoulder length, brown eyes enormous, eyelashes bigger than butterflies. She was about five foot four, somewhere around 23-years-old, and she couldn’t have weighed more than 110. Her breasts were beautifully defined in a tight-fitting turquoise sweater, her full hips beneath an autumn brown tweed skirt.

“Okay, kid, cover your fangs... She’s mine... Maxey, Buddy, and viceversa. My secretary, kid, and the Maxey’s short for Maxine.” He leaned down and kissed her on her cheek. “How come you’re still here?”

Maxey motioned with her head. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Business?”

“John Reed.”

Buddy noticed Steve’s eyes narrow momentarily.

“I know you have plans for tonight... but I thought you’d want to see him... I told him he could wait.” Maxey’s expression showed that she thought she might not have done the right thing.

“You were right, princess. Never snub a State Department man.” He glanced at Buddy. “I’ll make this short and sweet, kid.”

After introductions in Steve’s office-living room Buddy sat on the edge of a paper-littered desk and studied the surroundings as the two men talked and Maxey mixed drinks at a portable bar by the rear picture window. Steve had done a good job making the place blend into both office and home — wall-to-wall carpeting, modern Danish furniture, French telephone, paneled walls and a big fireplace. There was a tarpon mounted over the fireplace and a half dozen of Buddy’s own paintings on the walls, his abstract Portrait in Blood hanging prominently behind Steve’s desk.

Out the picture window, in the wash of the house lights shimmering on the dark Potomac water, he could make out Steve’s ketch moored at a short pier. Beyond, in the channel, a buoy light winked on and off.

“Pretty, huh?”

Buddy turned, found Maxey holding a gin and tonic in front of him. Her teeth were even and small, her smile infectious. The fingers that held the glass were long and tapered, the nails perfect ovals. Looking at her he couldn’t help realizing what he was missing out of life because of his creative urge.

“I remember Steve saying this is your type of poison... Hope I made it right.”

Buddy took the glass, sipped at the drink. “Perfect.” Her smile practically melted him.

“So you still haven’t come to your senses, Steve. I was hoping Hardy was mistaken.” Reed had a soft voice and a relaxed manner.

“We’ve been through this a half dozen times. You know what I’m attempting to do.”

Buddy turned his attention back to Steve and John Reed. The mention of Hardy’s name renewed his interest. Reed apparently had something to do with the mess Steve was in. That realization set him to studying the man more closely. Reed was fairly short, about 60, and obviously the VIP type. His face was handsome, florid, and his silver hair lay back from a high broad forehead as if it were engraved. His eyes were gray and very wide awake for a man of his age. He looked to be in the sort of condition that comes from daily squash sessions. A custom-made silk shirt and a silver brocade tie showed from the open black felt collar of his topcoat. He was holding a dark Homburg and a pair of pearl-gray gloves in his right hand.

To a man who wasn’t observing, John Reed might have appeared to be the typical Washington phoney, but Buddy realized after listening to the man that such an observation would be a mistake. Reed was alert, calculating and extremely intelligent.

“Yes, Steve, I know what you are attempting to do. You’ve made it very clear.” Reed took a gold cigarette case from his inside breast pocket and snapped it open. He extracted a slim oval tube with an elegant gold crescent, had it lit and inhaled deeply before he spoke again. “And I warned you what a dangerous game you’re playing. You’re a fool to think Josef Dobrynin will come to you. The man is too smart to take such a chance. And you’ve been fortunate so far. Dobrynin won’t be as easy to handle as the man from whom you took the plans.”

Steve shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Buddy watched John Reed draw again from his cigarette. The man stared steadily at Steve, the smoke trickling out his nostrils. It looked like lamb’s wool, and when it reached him Buddy found it the mildest and sweetest of Turkish tobacco.

“Steve...” There was a note of pleading in John Reed’s voice. “You’ve done your part. Now, why don’t you hand over the microfilm and be done with this thing. I’ve no doubt you’re an excellent private investigator; you’ve proved that. But now you’re getting in too deep. You haven’t been trained. Dobrynin is a master spy. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants... Nothing! He’s managed to avoid detection by the best agents of both the CIA and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re no match for him.”

Buddy recognized the stubborn set of Steve’s jaw. “And it’s because nobody has located him that I’ve got to try. This is the closest anyone has been. Nobody has ever dangled this kind of bait under his nose before. He’ll come out in the open... And when he does I’ll be here to meet him.”

Reed lifted his hands in a motion of defeat. “Well, I see it’s no use talking to you, but I’ll give you one last chance anyway. Will you hand over the microfilm... now?”

“No.” There was finality to Steve’s voice, and his jaw was set rock hard.

“Then I guess there is nothing more for me to say. If you are bent on continuing in your insane plan... I believe Dobrynin will not hesitate in killing you.”

The blunt statement stiffened Buddy. He heard a slight intake of breath from Maxey, frowned as Steve turned and winked.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, kid. Government men tend to lean toward the dramatic.”

Reed ignored the gibe. He smiled and his manner changed. “Perhaps you’re right, Steve... I hope so... for your sake.”

Buddy, despite the man’s sudden affability, didn’t care for the constant reminder that Steve was in danger — serious danger. He was glad to see John Reed put on his Homburg and walk to the door.

“Oh, Steve... I almost forgot: I sent my chauffeur home when I realized I might have to wait for you for some time. I’ve a dinner appointment at the Sheraton... I wonder if I could impose upon you—”

“No trouble.” Steve winked at Maxey again and puckered his lips into a kiss. “Sweetheart, see that Buddy finds his way upstairs.” He turned to Buddy and grinned. “I’ll be back by the time you’ve showered and shaved, kid... And swallow some butter before I take you out on the town. I’m still not too sure about that stomach of yours.” He was still chuckling as he closed the door.

It was while he was beneath the shower that the real seriousness of the past hour’s happenings really started to get to Buddy. At first it had seemed exciting: Steve McMann, private investigator, holding both the State Department and the CIA at arms length while he played a game of life or death with a Russian spy. But now the full impact of John Reed’s warning — that Steve could actually be in danger of losing his life — was weighing heavily on him. Steve had always been able to take care of himself in any situation, yet, as Reed, and Hardy for that matter, had pointed out, he certainly hadn’t received the proper training to pit himself against a master spy.

And Maxey’s concern after Steve had left them hadn’t helped him discount his worry. She had attempted to cover up while she mixed him a second drink. But while she was saying good-bye at the door 10 minutes later Buddy was aware of her anxiety. As he watched her walk toward the bus stop her shoulders seemed to be rounded forward beneath her blue gabardine raincoat as if she were carrying the weight of the worry with her.

Buddy was dressed and downstairs 20 minutes later mixing himself another drink. He smiled as he remembered Maxey telling him not to get Steve too drunk because he had a lot of work to do in the morning. If Steve was anything like he used to be they would be getting in just about the time Maxey came to work. He knew it was going to be one hell of a night— It wasn’t until 15 minutes later that he remembered Steve said he would be back before he finished his shower, and another 10 minutes after that that the first tinge of uneasiness began to take hold of him.

It was 9:30 when he quit rationalizing and admitted to himself that something definitely might be wrong: it had been an hour and a half since Steve and John Reed had left the office. He knew he should do something, but what? Maybe Steve had been detained with John Reed. Perhaps the man hadn’t really given up and was still attempting to convince Steve to cooperate with him, to turn over the microfilm he had talked about. He would look like a fool if he called the police only to have Steve call or come home after a search was started. That’s when he remembered Hardy, the card the CIA agent had given him at the railway depot.

He had just dialed Hardy’s home number when there was a knock on the front door. “It’s unlocked.” His first thought was of Steve, and a sudden relief flooded through him, but as the door opened a cold chill passed through him. It was Hardy, and the agent’s face was pale with strain— And there was a uniformed policeman standing behind him.

“Merrill... I’m afraid I have some bad news... It’s McMann.”

Buddy stood frozen, the phone receiver clutched tightly in his hand. He could hear a woman’s voice on the other end saying hello.

“He’s dead.”

Buddy was aware of very little that Hardy was saying to him as they drove away in the police squad car. There was something about routine, an identification; then he was being led into the police morgue, to a room with wall vaults. It was over in two minutes, his quick nod as the attendant pulled back a rubber sheet and he stared down at Steve’s body, the small bloodless hole above Steve’s heart.

“I realize how you feel, Merrill. This must be a terrible shock... but I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

Buddy couldn’t speak. He just nodded. He was hardly aware of what was happening the next 10 minutes, the drive to CIA headquarters. Then he was in an office with Hardy and two other agents.

“Sit down, Buddy.”

It was the first time Hardy had called him by his first name, and for some unexplainable reason it struck Buddy as funny. Maybe it was the sorrow that had been building up inside him. Maybe he was grasping at something, anything, that could make him laugh, forget.

“Ordinarily we would wait until tomorrow to talk to you, Buddy, but unless we find that microfilm immediately our country is in grave danger. We must know if McMann confided in you... Did he have the film with him tonight?”

Buddy was still having trouble trying to understand the whole sordid picture. He stared out the window at the night, a bank of white fog in the distance.

“Buddy... this is of the utmost importance.” There was a sudden sternness in Hardy’s voice.

Buddy turned and stared vacantly at the man. “He didn’t tell me anything... There wasn’t time.” He saw disappointment show in the faces of the three men. “The first time I heard about any microfilm was when a State Department man was waiting for us at Steve’s place. That was shortly after we left the station.” He tried to remember the man’s name, couldn’t. “Steve left the office with him.”

“Yes; I know. That was John Reed.”

“And I suppose he’s dead, too.”

“No; he’s alive, but he’s got a headache from being slugged. It was McMann that Josef Dobrynin was after.”

“But what happened? I don’t understand all this. What the hell did Steve have to do with the microfilm? Why was he mixed up in it?” There was a lurking anger in Buddy’s voice.

Hardy sensed the young man’s agitation, and for a moment considered just how much to tell him. Then he came to a decision. “Buddy... what I’m going to tell you is known by only a few people... That’s why I must ask your strictest confidence. You will be on your honor not to repeat it.”

Buddy nodded automatically.

Hardy glanced at the other agents, then back at Buddy. “Somehow McMann, through his underworld contacts, learned that highly secret plans outlining a revolutionary advance in the development of the Laser Ray had been filmed by one of the assistant scientists involved in its perfection. In case you are not familiar with it, Buddy, the Laser Ray is a narrow concentrated beam of light capable of generating heat hotter than the sun. It is the perfect offensive weapon in time of war. Since Russia and the United States are engaged in a race to harness the ray’s powers you can realize that any new advance is of the most significant importance.

“Russian agents, after learning of it, were intent on obtaining the secret... and aware of this the young scientist let it be known that his microfilm could be obtained by the highest bidder. Your friend, McMann, did not go to the CIA or the FBI when he learned of this. Instead, he pretended to be interested in buying the film for an important party and arranged a meeting with the man.

“Our scientist was not experienced in such matters. He took the microfilm with him, and McMann was successful in taking it from him... but he was almost killed in the process. The man did have enough sense to come to the rendezvous with a gun. McMann was forced to kill him after our scientist became suspicious and pulled out his weapon.”

Buddy looked from Hardy to the faces of the two other agents, then back at Hardy. It was all beginning to make sense.

“The whole affair was foolish on McMann’s part. Yet, if he had handed over the microfilm to us his part could have been forgiven. After all, the United States owes him a debt... But he chose instead to try for bigger game... For three years the Russians have been obtaining highly secret information from the government through a man we know only as Josef Dobrynin. Although all efforts to locate Dobrynin have been used... his true identity still remains unknown. McMann, through his investigation service, knew of our search for the man. He also felt that with the microfilm for bait he could induce Dobrynin to come to him.”

Buddy shook his head. That would he Steve: always the impossible, always the big try.

“It was a very dangerous game, and McMann realized that he would have to let the CIA in on the plan. He reported the death of the scientist, but nothing we could say, no threats could convince him that he should let us take over. That’s when he told us of his plan to trap Dobrynin... It was finally decided that nothing would be gained by prosecuting him. We could only continue to talk to him. I gave him three days to change his mind. Unfortunately it was one day too much.”

Buddy breathed deeply. He shook his head wondering what had possessed Steve to take such a risk. But he really didn’t have to wonder: he knew. It was like Steve to try something like that.

“It wasn’t long until the State Department was advised of what was going on,” Hardy continued. “John Reed is an official in their investigation department. He had spent many hours trying to talk McMann into releasing the microfilm to him. He even went so far as to arrange a meeting between McMann and the Undersecretary of State. Your friend was very polite, but nothing the undersecretary said would make him budge... He seemed to have a personal vendetta against spies and Communist sympathizers.”

“He hated them,” Buddy said.

“Tonight John Reed asked me to talk to McMann for the last time. It was decided that if I couldn’t change his mind Reed, himself, would talk to Steve one more time... and if he got no satisfaction he would get him to the State Department on some ruse and hold him for sterner measures. We couldn’t wait any longer. We couldn’t take the chance that McMann might fail and Dobrynin get the film... It was on the way to the department that McMann and John Reed were confronted.”

Buddy questioned him with his eyes.

“Yes; we believe Dobrynin was behind it. Fortunately he had no reason to kill Reed. His men slugged him and left him in McMann’s car. The police found him about an hour later, and I was notified shortly after... It wasn’t long after that that McMann’s body was fished out of the Potomac.”

Buddy, for a moment, could visualize the hole in Steve’s chest. He shook away the picture.

“Buddy, we believe Steve was as stubborn with Dobrynin’s men as he was with us. We don’t think McMann had the film with him. He was playing a fool’s game, but he was too smart to get caught that way. Dobrynin, no doubt, would have liked to keep Steve alive longer and get the information out of him, but McMann saw to it that didn’t happen. We found his gun in the car... It had been fired twice. We believe he forced Dobrynin’s men to kill him so they couldn’t resort to torture. We believe the film, is still hidden... You see, Buddy, that’s why I need your cooperation.”

Buddy felt helpless. “But Steve told me nothing! I hardly had time to talk to him!”

“And I believe you. But he hid that microfilm someplace, and Dobrynin will attempt to find it... He may even decide to ask you?”

Buddy’s eyes widened. “Me? But...”

Hardy sat on the edge of the desk. “Now, Buddy, tell me everything that happened, everything that was said from the first moment you saw McMann at the depot until he left you at his home. He may have given you a clue without your knowing it.”

It was almost midnight when Hardy drove Buddy back to Steve’s house. He obviously had been disappointed at what Buddy had recounted. But Steve had purposely kept him in the dark — probably to keep him from danger. It was the way Steve had always been: even in death he was watching over him.

“Buddy, one of our agents is going to keep an eye on Steve’s place for a few days... Until that microfilm is located you’ll be in great danger.”

Buddy looked at him sharply. “Danger! What danger can I be in? I don’t know where the microfilm is.”

Hardy stared grimly ahead at the mist blanketed street. “I know that... but Dobrynin doesn’t. There’s a good chance he may send someone to find out just what you do know. The methods the man will use to extract that information might not be too pleasant.”

The disclosure left Buddy with little to say.

Five minutes later Hardy slowed the car and turned onto the street that fronted Steve’s house. He strained his eyes ahead at the mist. “There. You see that car parked down the street?”

For a moment Buddy could see only the rolling mist; then the outline of a car took shape as Hardy pulled up before the house. His first thought was of Dobrynin. It sent a shiver through him, and it was only then that he realized he was scared: a Russian spy might be after him.

It was one thing associating himself with a hero in a book, but this was real. There was someone waiting to torture him for information he didn’t have, a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill — who already had killed once in the past few hours. And now he was after him! He realized he was clenching his fists on his thighs, and that Hardy had noticed his fear.

“Take it easy... It’s our agent. He’s going to park there for the night. In the morning we’ll have another man here... and you’ve always got the phone. You can call me anytime... Do you still have my card?”

Buddy nodded, felt some relief wash through him.

“The picture may not be as bad as I’ve painted it. Dobrynin knows by now we have a man planted here. It would be foolhardy to try to get to you under the circumstances. He may have given up trying for the microfilm, too: we’re too close to him now. Rather than take a chance he may have decided to let this game end... He’s too valuable for the Russians to lose.”

The statement partially reassured Buddy. He managed a halfhearted smile. “I hope you’re right.” Yet, there was still the underlying fear throughout his body.

“How long do you plan to stay in Washington? I’d like to suggest that you make plans to leave as soon as it’s convenient. Nothing will convince Dobrynin more than your departure that you know nothing... or that if you do you have given all the information to the CIA and the microfilm is in our hands.”

Buddy nodded. “Just long enough to get Steve burried. I’ll have to settle up his business. He’d expect me to do that.”

“Has he any family?”

“Just me.” And he remembered 10 years before when his parents were killed and Steve had taken him under his wing. “I know how you feel, kid,” he had said. “I lost my family before I was even old enough to know I had them. You’re my family now!”

“Well, see to it as fast as you can... And don’t worry: I’ll keep an eye on you... Now, you’d better sack out. It’s been a tough day. I’ll call you in the morning.”

As Buddy got out of the car he realized that his entire body was wracked with fatigue: the trip, Steve’s murder, the session at the CIA office had taken its toll. He would welcome sleep, a chance to forget the agonizing picture of Steve lying dead on the morgue slab with a hole in his chest.

He remembered when he got to the door he didn’t have a key, then recalled he had not locked it when he left with Hardy and the policeman. He stepped inside and groped for the light switch, found it, but as the light flooded the room his heart seemed to skip a beat — Steve’s papers were strewn over the floor, the office was a shambles: desk top cleared, drawers pulled open, filing cabinets gutted of their folders. Even the carpeting had been pried loose and rolled to one side of the room, and every chair and cushion had been slashed and the stuffing thrown on the floor. He could see by the way his paintings were hanging askew that whoever had done the job had even looked behind them.

He turned to call to Hardy, but as he stepped outside he saw the red tail lights of the agent’s car disappear. For a moment he considered yelling to the CIA man in the darkened car down the street, thought better of it. He’d wait until Hardy got home, call him then. If anyone was scouting Steve’s house he didn’t want to give the CIA man’s presence away.

He walked back into the office, staring at the mess, and locked the door behind him. At least it proved Dobrynin hadn’t got the plans from Steve. But he could have them now; and if he did Buddy knew there was little the CIA or the State Department could do about it. The Russians would have a hundred ways to get them out of the country — and Steve’s death would have been for nothing.

He went upstairs steeling himself against the mess that he expected in Steve’s bedroom— It was as bad as he had suspected: the place was a mess. The intruder had evidently made his entrance by forcing the porch French doors. They were open, and the room was cold and damp. Steve’s clothing had been taken from the closets and searched. Suits, sport coats and trousers were piled in a heap on the floor. The bed mattress was slashed, the dresser drawers pulled out, contents emptied. As was the case downstairs the carpeting had been pried loose and rolled up. Even the bathroom was a mess, and the top to the toilet closet was off and resting against the stool. Whoever had made the search had missed nothing.

He stared at the mist shrouded porch. Thank God whoever the man was hadn’t slashed his paintings— And with that thought he stiffened. There was a sudden tingling in his stomach. The paintings! He stood rigid, recalled his earlier conversation with Steve.

“I want to see more like the last one you sent me.”

“Portrait in Blood?”

“That one’s got it, kid.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so... but thanks any way.”

“It’s worth a lot more than you think.”

He remembered the amusement in Steve’s eyes — and it came to him in a flood.

He came unglued all at once and took the stairs in threes. He ran to the Portrait in Blood, quickly scanned the varying red abstract, the front of the frame, but nothing had been tampered with. He jerked the painting from the wall hook and looked at the back: still there was nothing to indicate anyone had tampered with it after he had sent it to Steve a month earlier. Carefully, nervously he searched the mess on the floor looking for something to pry out the nails holding the canvas in the back. He tried first with a ball point pen, found it was no use. Cursing, he brushed a pile of papers and folders to one side, saw a gun and a strange holster, then a pliers. He was like a mad man. He ripped out the nails and the canvas frame fell away — and then his body went cold.

It was practically hidden from the naked eye — the thin line in the lower part of the main frame. Hardly breathing, he stuck a fingernail at one end and lifted— A three-inch long by one-half inch wide piece of microfilm came into view.

His fingers felt numb as he held the film to the light. It revealed dozens of tiny equations that he realized would take him a lifetime to understand. One thing that he did understand, though — he was holding the plans to his country’s newest weapon advance, and there was a Russian spy who would stop at nothing to obtain them.

All the assurance he had gained from Hardy only a half hour earlier was replaced now by a gnawing fear. He realized the sooner he got rid of the microfilm the sooner he would be safe. He started for the door, stopped suddenly and forced a laugh. What the hell was the matter with him? Five minutes more wouldn’t make that much difference. By now Dobrynin was convinced the plans were not in Steve’s house. The search had been thorough. He could call Hardy and let the agent come for the plans. It would be better than running out on a darkened street calling to the CIA man in the car. It was possible that Dobrynin had someone watching, and that the agent would be murdered even before he could get to the CIA offices.

Buddy found the phone beneath a pile of papers on the floor, dug out the card Hardy had given him, and dialed the agent’s home number. He was on the last digit when he realized that something was wrong. He had heard no dial tone. The phone was dead. He lifted the cord and it gave to his touch. Of course! The intruder had pulled it loose in his wild search. He had probably done the same to the upstairs phone. But why? Was he waiting outside? Was he waiting for him to walk out so he could kidnap him and take him to Dobrynin? The coldness again passed through Buddy’s body. Yes; that was it. The man hadn’t found the microfilm so he was going to kidnap him and find out if he knew anything about it.

Buddy realized that he would never make it to the agent’s car. It was likely the man wouldn’t be able to help him anyway: it would be a simple thing for someone to sneak up behind the man in the darkness and the mist and put him out of action while the kidnaper did his job.

Buddy’s eyes swept the room as he tried to think of some way out, stopped suddenly on the gun and the strange holster on the floor. Relief flooded through him. He picked up the gun and removed the cartridge chamber— It was filled with bullets. But what was the strange holster? It took him 15 seconds before he figured it out. It was made like a man’s stocking garter, elastic at the top and bottom, and was built to fit around the calf.

He knelt and pulled up his right pants leg. Yes, that was it. It snapped on just below the knee, and the lower clasp just below the curve of the calf. He left it snapped there and stood, feeling a little more secure. If anyone was waiting outside he would be able to meet him on equal terms. Even so, the thought wasn’t too consoling. He had never fired a gun in his life. He was an artist, not a gunfighter. That thought sobered him. He looked again at the phone on the floor. Perhaps the intruder hadn’t torn loose the cord upstairs. Perhaps this had been accidental. He was grasping at straws, anything to keep from having to go outside. Still, it was a possibility.

Quickly he started up the stairs. And he was so occupied in his new found hope that it wasn’t until he was halfway up that he became aware of the man standing at the top. The man with the crescent-shaped cheek scar dead white against his swarthy skin who had been watching him at the depot— And he had a long barreled pistol pointed down at him!

“Do not cry out, Mister Merrill.” As the man spoke, his voice heavy with accent, only the left half of his lips moved revealing dull metal teeth. The right side of his mouth seemed to be frozen, and his right eye drooped slightly.

Buddy couldn’t have yelled if he’d wanted to. It felt as if someone had hands around his throat choking away any sound. He stood frozen on the steps staring at that half paralyzed face before him, waited for the flash of the gun, to feel a slug rip through him.

“You have nothing to fear if you do as I say.” The man’s good eye seemed to be alive with inner fire; the other stared dully straight ahead. “I had hoped it would not be necessary to confront you, but as you have now surmised I was not successful in my search for the microfilm.”

The assurance that he wasn’t to be shot brought some of Buddy’s life back, but the realization that the man confronting him was probably Josef Dobrynin sent his fear balling up in the pit of his belly. He knew the Russian agent would not hesitate in killing him if he didn’t get what he wanted. The microfilm in his pocket felt as if it were burning through the cloth, and the gun strapped to his leg seemed a hundred miles away. He managed to find his voice. “What do you want?”

The left half of the man’s thin lips curled in smile. “Come now, Mister Merrill... let us not delay. It is only the microfilm I wish. If you tell me where it is you will not be harmed: I will only bind your hands and legs and leave. I am sure that by morning, when Mister Hardy discovers the phones are not in order, he will send someone to free you.”

Buddy realized that Dobrynin must have been waiting outside for him to arrive. When he turned on the lights the agent again climbed to the balcony to confront him. But he had been too careful. He had waited upstairs because he knew of the CIA agent parked on the street, and he hadn’t seen him locate the microfilm. Buddy was aware that all he had to do now was hand the film to the man and, except for an uncomfortable night, he would he free of the whole mess. He was very close to reaching for it — when he thought of Steve’s bullet-punctured body. Steve McMann, the man who hated Communists, the man who thought so much of his country that he would die a violent death to protect it.

“Come, Mister Merrill... I am waiting!”

Why the words came out the way they did Buddy didn’t know; yet he heard himself saying, “I don’t have any microfilm. If I did I’d sure as hell give it to you.” He felt the ball of sickness in his belly begin to spread as Dobyrnin’s eyelids narrowed and his thin lips stretched tight. “Believe me! I’m telling you the truth! The CIA had me at their offices tonight asking me the same thing, but there’s nothing I can tell anybody... Steve didn’t tell me a thing.” He saw the uncertainty in Dobrynin’s good eye. It was a long time before the agent finally spoke.

“Perhaps you are telling the truth, Mister Merrill. Then, perhaps you are not. Whichever is true... I must be sure. You must know that I have ways of extracting information... Some not too pleasant.”

Buddy felt numb, but he had to go ahead. He had to make an attempt. Steve would have tried no matter what the consequences. “I am telling the truth.”

“We shall see... Walk up the stairs, but walk carefully.”

“Torture won’t do you any good. I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“Be calm, Mister Merrill. Torture won’t be necessary. That is something only for spy novels... or for agents who have caused us a great deal of trouble. I’m sure even an artist such as yourself has heard of sodium pentathol. You are probably more familiar with its popular name... truth serum. The Germans used it quite effectively during the second World War. It will be sufficient to find out if you are telling me the truth. I only hope, for your sake, you are. If it proves you are not... I may not let you off so lightly.”

Buddy became aware of the wetness of his palms, the shaking of his hands: his ruse wasn’t working. Hell, he was no match for a master spy! He’d tried. No one could blame him now for turning over the film. Dobrynin would find it anyway after he administered the truth serum; yet, something held him back from blurting out the fact as he fought against it he kept seeing Steve’s face, kept remembering how he died. And there was still a chance he might escape. Of course! there was still a chance — and he knew he would never be able to look at himself in a mirror again unless he took that chance.

He walked stiffly up the stairs trying to control the fear inside him. He could see now that the gun Dobrynin was pointing at him had a silencer, realized the man would not hesitate to shoot if he attempted anything. There was no risk of the sound being heard by the agent in the car. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Perhaps, Mister Merrill. Now, walk to the balcony. You will find it an easy climb down... And do not try anything foolish; I am an expert shot. The slightest indiscretion...”

Buddy made his way down the porch trellis through a slight rain drizzle that had permeated the mist. Wind was cold on his face. He could hear Steve’s ketch groan as it rolled against the dock fenders, the gentle slap of waves lapping rhythmically at its hull. Far out in the river channel a bell clanged restlessly in the night. Overhead a gull screamed: the shrillness of the sound set his nerves on edge.

The escape plan he had devised during his climb to the ground was soon forgotten. He had decided to make a run for it and get lost in the mist, but Dobrynin gave him no opportunity. The agent kept his gun leveled at him as he made his own descent without wavering for an instant. Buddy found he could do nothing but watch helplessly. Then it was a matter of only a few minutes before he was prodded to a car a half block away on a side street.

When he first saw the automobile he realized that inside he would have a chance to grab the gun while Dobrynin tried to drive and keep his eyes on him and the street at the same time. But this, too, proved to be a bad idea. Seated behind the wheel was a man in a dark trenchcoat, his hat pulled low on his forehead. He didn’t look like much: he was wearing square-cut steel-rimmed spectacles, and a roll of chin fat sloshed over his shirt collar. A black toothbrush moustache sprouted surrealistically below a pug nose with wide, flaring nostrils that showed hair. Even so, Buddy realized from the man’s tight disagreeable lips he was probably as dangerous as Dobrynin. The odds against escape had doubled against him.

“Do not delay, Mister Merrill. Get in.”

Buddy did as instructed. “Where are you taking me?” He was shocked at the hollowness of his voice.

“You will know soon enough.”

The feeling of the gun strapped to his calf was the only comforting thing Buddy felt during the next 15 minutes. On two occasions he had almost got the courage to make a stab for it: once when Dobrynin glanced momentarily through the side window, and another when the car was halted for 30 seconds at a stop light. But neither occasion proved long enough for him to get up enough courage to make a move. He knew he’d probably be shot before he got his pants leg raised and the weapon out of its holster.

It wasn’t long until he realized they were in Georgetown. Rows of restored 18th century homes lined the narrow streets and small lights burned bright holes in the white mist. The drizzle had developed into a steady rain and the street was black and shining wet. The car lights punched twin yellow tunnels into the night — the only sounds the tires on the wet pavement, and the swish of the windshield wiper blades.

Then they were parked on a dark side street; and a few minutes later they made their way through growing puddles to a two-story Georgian Colonial with fluted white columns, louvered shutters and Federalist gables. They walked quickly up a narrow alleyway of bricks and the chubby driver unlocked a door.

“Inside, Mister Merrill, quickly.”

Buddy moved with the prodding of Dobrynin’s gun and found himself in a darkened kitchen. A silver of light showed beneath a door on the far side, and it was in that direction that the gun kept prodding. But as Buddy started to push open the door Dobrynin grasped his arm.

“Not yet.”

Buddy held up as the man reached around him and knocked on the door four times. For a moment there was only silence; then he heard a slight movement. Shortly there was a muffled, “Enter.” But when Buddy pushed the door open before him, and his eyes quickly swept the large room, he didn’t find the man who spoke.

The room appeared to be a study. There were several over-stuffed chairs in dark man’s colors that stuck two inches into turquoise wall-to-wall carpeting, a heavy oak desk at the far side of the room in front of closed maroon velvet drapes. The wall to his left was completely covered with book-filled shelves interspaced with an artistic array of sculpture — carved women’s heads in polished ebony, teak and sandlewood. The cream-painted wall to his far right was bare except for a small red brick fireplace and two black silhouettes of periwigged Colonial gentlemen facing each other hanging above. A pair of exquisite Cinquecento candlesticks decorated the fireplace mantel. An expensive stereo hifi completed the picture, and an oversized dark leather divan — Buddy stiffened and the blood chilled inside him. Stretched out on that divan was a girl. She was on her stomach, her legs taped together and her wrists taped behind her. Maxey! The jacket to her tweed suit had been removed, and the left sleeve of her sweater pulled up.

Outrage began to swell up in him as he hurried to her. “What the hell have you done to her?”

“Calm yourself, Mister Merrill... She has not been harmed.”

Quickly Buddy knelt beside the girl, brushed her hair back and put his hands to her face. She was unconscious, in a deep sleep. There was a strange smell about her. “You’ve drugged her. You—” The words stuck in his throat. He swung around, hate growing in him.

“Do not attempt anything rash. She is quite all right. The serum has not yet had time to wear off.”

“But why her?” Buddy’s voice was sharp with anger.

“That should be fairly obvious. She was Steve McMann’s fiance. It seemed very likely he had confided in her... We felt that she might have had knowledge as to where he had hidden the microfilm. Unfortunately, she did not. But perhaps when you are injected...” He didn’t finish.

“I told you that I know nothing.” Why he was still attempting to convince Dobrynin he didn’t know: perhaps it was just fear. His only hope now was that the man would stick to his promise and let Maxey and him go without retaliation for his lying. Any thought of getting to the gun strapped to his leg before the needle punctured him he had cast aside. Dobrynin was pointing his own silencer-mounted weapon straight at him. He didn’t have a chance.

“Anistov... Prepare the syringe.”

Buddy felt the last hope draining out of him as he watched the fat man with the toothbrush mustache walk to the desk and lift a small bottle. It was at that moment that he heard something like a cigarette lighter snap into life and saw a slight movement against the velvet drapes behind the desk. It was evidently the man who had told them to enter. But why was he hiding? Buddy stared at the drapes, watched a white waft of smoke come from between the folds. A moan behind him took his attention. He turned quickly, still kneeling, and saw Maxey’s eyes flutter open. “Max... Are you all right?”

It took a few moments for her to adjust; then she sighed, “Buddy... they... he...” Her face was drawn, haggard.

“It’s all right. Take it easy I’ll have you away from here soon.”

“No. He...”

Buddy couldn’t understand the concern in her voice. And then she wasn’t looking at him: she was staring like a frightened animal over his shoulder. And it was at that moment he smelled the smoke — a little sweet as if it had been made from blended Turkish tobacco. Shocked, he turned sharply — knew who he would see. “You!”

John Reed said nothing. He smiled, displaying flawless white teeth, and he regarded Buddy in a friendly manner.

“But...”

“Yes, Merrill, it is I. And I can understand your shock.”

It still wasn’t registering on Buddy. It was all coming too fast. “But...”

“But what am I doing here? You surprise me. Even one who dabbles in the arts should be able to figure that out.” John Reed smiled again. “But then I suppose you have not had sufficient time to take into account all you have witnessed since your arrival.”

It hit him then, like a hammer blow on the head. The man who had confronted him in Steve’s home, the man he had believed to be Josef Dobrynin... was not. The man the Central Intelligence Agency and the FBI were looking for was not standing before him. Buddy blurted it out before he could catch himself. “Dobrynin!”

John Reed shrugged. “A name I assumed, Merrill, when I first began working for the Russians. It has proved to be a good alias.”

Buddy was hardly hearing the man. Hate was beginning to boil in him. He stood, staring angrily at John Reed, the man’s confidence grating him even more — the way he was holding his Turkish cigarette casually before him, even the way he was dressed: expensive and well-tailored maroon smoking jacket, open-necked raw silk shirt, silver cravat, black flannel slacks and highly polished black shoes.

“You killed Steve!”

“That was unfortunate. It had all been planned... the kidnaping, but McMann proved to be more able than we had expected. He managed to draw his gun... I’m afraid it was either him or Brezhnev.” He looked momentarily at the man Buddy had believed to be Dobrynin. “Colonel Brezhnev is coordinator of Russia’s U.S. Spy Networks. McMann could hardly be expected to be a match, although with proper training he might well have been.”

Buddy again felt the anger welling through him.

“That is why it was necessary for me to send Brezhnev to search McMann’s home. I see he wasn’t successful or he would not have brought you here. That is also unfortunate.”

It was beginning to sink into Buddy. He had been a fool to believe the man he had thought to be Josef Dobrynin would let him go alive. He realized with a shudder that if he had handed over the microfilm Brezhnev would probably have killed him on the spot. The agent was forced to take him with him to administer the serum because he was not sure whether Buddy was lying. Now he would be killed when the serum revealed his secret — and so would Maxey! Why else would John Reed have revealed himself? He could not afford to let them leave alive. He glanced down at Maxey. Fear was a wild thing on her face. She was biting at her lower lip.

Buddy looked again at the fat man in the trench coat. He was holding the syringe before his thick glasses. The needle glistened in the light. The lids of his eyes looked like toad’s, flabbily sunk in stupor. Buddy knew he had to do something; and he had to do it fast. Once that needle punctured his skin he was as good as dead. For a brief second he thought of making a desperate try for the gun, realized he wouldn’t have enough time. Brezhnev had his weapon lowered, but he would have plenty of time to get it raised and fire. Then Buddy made a last mental grasp. If he could only get them off guard for a moment he and Maxey might have a chance. He knew he had to try. “You’ll let us go after you find out I know nothing?”

There was amusement in John Reed’s eyes. “I’m sure Colonel Brezhnev informed you that you will not be harmed.”

Buddy knew that Reed was convinced he was a complete idiot not capable of realizing what was in store for him even though Reed had revealed his identity. That thought, he knew, would put the spies off guard. “Okay. But I hate needles... It will work just as well in my leg, won’t it?”

John Reed considered the question. “I don’t see why that should make a difference.” He glanced at Anistav and the man nodded, layers of chin sloshing over the collar of his shirt. “All right, Merrill, if you feel the needle will hurt less there, then the leg it shall be.”

Buddy managed to feign relief. “All right, let’s get it over.” As the agent crossed between him and Brezhnev he knelt trying to keep his hands from shaking as he pulled up his trouser leg. When he got the cuff to the bottom of the holster excitement was tingling in his chest, but he managed to calmly reach up and get his hand on the revolver. “I’m ready.” And with that statement he yanked the trouser leg up and pulled out the gun.

He was hardly aware of what was happening during the next few moments. Anistav jumped up startled in front of him just as Brezhnev’s gun fired. Through the silencer it made only a light pop. Buddy heard Anistav grunt. The man threw his arms wide and began falling toward him, his mouth open as if he wanted to scream but couldn’t. Then Buddy heard his own gun explode. He had aimed it wildly at Brezhnev, and he had missed. The agent’s gun popped again and Buddy was swung around sharply. There was a sharp pain in his left shoulder.

He was trying to lift his own gun for a second shot when Anistav toppled over on him and pinned him on top of Maxey. He was aware of her scream just as he managed to fire again. He cursed. He had missed his second shot also, but it had put Brezhnev off guard. The Russian was scurrying to his right trying to get a clean shot around his fallen comrade, but Anistav was covering Buddy.

For a brief moment Buddy got a glimpse of John Reed: he was pulling a gun from under his coat, but he disregarded the man. This time he took careful aim and fired. The slug caught Brezhnev just as he squeezed off his third shot. Buddy heard the bullet go by his left ear, but he knew by the way Brezhnev fell to the floor the Russian would never fire a gun again. He was swinging his weapon around toward John Reed when the whole room seemed to explode around him. Both the kitchen door and the front door crashed in.

The last thing he remembered before passing out was Hardy yelling at John Reed to drop his gun.

He woke with the bitter fumes of gunpowder prickling his nostrils; then he felt the sharp pain behind his eyes. It was a long time before he could properly focus on the faces looking down at him.

“Take it easy. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

Buddy realized he was on the couch, and he was staring up at Hardy’s blue eyes. There was a nagging throb in his left shoulder. “How bad is it?”

“You’ll live.” Hardy smiled.

Buddy glanced around him, found Maxey. Concern contorted her features. “You okay?”

She nodded, unable to find her voice. Her face was chalk white. She looked sick.

Buddy looked again at Hardy. “This is as bad as a Western movie. Just in the nick of time... How did you know?”

“Tried to call you when I got home and found McMann’s phone dead. That worried me. I radioed our agent in front of your place and he went in and found the mess and you missing. It wasn’t long until another agent who had been watching John Reed’s house radioed in that you had been brought here.”

“Then you knew about Reed?” Buddy was surprised.

“No; we didn’t. I had a man tailing him without his knowledge merely as a precautionary measure to protect him in case Dobrynin attempted to get at him again. It wasn’t until I found out you had been taken to his house that the puzzle fell in place and I realized that Reed was in on this thing... that he could in fact be Dobrynin himself.” Hardy glanced behind him at the two Russians lying side by side on the floor. “You saved the government a little expense by finishing off those two.”

“I only got one. The other got in the way of his own comrade’s bullet.” Buddy stared for a moment at Brezhnev, shuddered. The man’s mouth was open showing the metal teeth, his eyes staring at the ceiling. There was an ugly blue-rimmed hole over his right eye, and dried blood covered the right side of his face. Realizing he had been responsible for the man’s death sickened him until he remembered it had been Brezhnev who had killed Steve. The man had deserved to die.

“I told the agent to wait,” Hardy continued. “I didn’t want him to tackle this thing alone. He might not have succeeded... and Reed would have escaped. I didn’t know you were going to come up with a gun and start all the fireworks before we got set to bust in. We were just about ready to move when we heard the first shot... But it all came out okay except for that hole in your shoulder. Now all we have to do is find the microfilm.”

“That’s easy.” Buddy smiled as Hardy questioned with his eyes. “Just take it out of my pocket.”

For a moment Hardy was immobile; then he moved all at once. He held the film to the light and scanned it hurriedly. “But, where—”

“Now you’re the one to look surprised. When I left your office and found Steve’s place torn up I remembered something he had said to me: that one of my paintings was worth more than I thought. It was the only thing not searched completely and I put two and two together. The film was in a recess in the frame.”

Hardy’s jaw muscles tightened. “We owe him quite a bit... and you.”

Buddy remembered Steve’s body at the morgue, quickly shook off the thought. “Not me... just Steve. If it wasn’t for him you wouldn’t have Dobrynin.” He felt a sharp stab of pain in his shoulder and closed his eyes. He could feel the nausea coming on.

The last thing he heard before passing out was the shrill wailing of an ambulance siren — the last thing he felt, the reassuring hand of Maxey on his forehead.