The First Team

21

By the time that the first snowflakes were beginning to drift down into the gorges which separated the peaks of the Rockies one from another, the grip of economic depression had closed over the whole of the United States of America. The stock market was again operating, but it was a world of illusions and shadows; the substance of business growth and development was gone. Makeshifts and substitutes once more became a forced reality; good merchandise of almost any kind was increasingly hard to find. And skilled services normally available at short notice were spoken of more and more in the past tense. The whole pattern of living underwent a substantial change in outlook: people no longer planned for the future, they planned for the day immediately ahead and hoped to live it out in peace. Following that, if all went well, they would try to prepare for the next.

The rumor of the escaped submarine spread rapidly, peaked, and then gradually died away for lack of any kind of nourishment. There had been rumors also that England, France, Germany, and the Republic of China had formed a common front to bring about the liberation of the United States with a number of other powers, great and small, offering to contribute their share. Japan was reputed to be holding to a cautiously neutral position; the Pope had called for a withdrawal of the occupying forces and offered his good offices to bring about a peaceful settlement of all remaining outstanding problems. Israel also declared for the United States, but she was so desperately overwhelmed by mass migration from the United States that all of her resources were strained to absorb the influx and meet the continuing challenge of the militant Arab states at the same time.

Throughout most of the United States the feeling was common that the severe hold that the enemy had clamped onto the country would have to be relaxed; the shock of defeat and the near terror of the early occupation were past and gone, and the time was judged ripe for the occupying forces to ease their grip and start talking about the eventual day when national sovereignty would again become a reality. But as day succeeded day there was no evidence whatever that this was to take place at any time in the visible future. The enemy if anything was even more in evidence and he intruded himself into almost every facet of American life.

As the edge of winter began to be felt and the skies grew leaden overhead, the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay touched secretly at Wain-wright, Alaska. Although the enemy was in substantial possession of the continental United States, the vastness of Alaska and its remoteness from most of the commercial and industrial activity of the nation had spared it from the same intensity of occupation and supervision. It had been possible, therefore, for two massive pro-peller-driven C-124 Globemasters to cross the vast open tundra of the Arctic on apparently routine missions and to set down at

Wainwright on the eighty-six-hundred-foot runway unchallenged. There had not been a single representative of the enemy there, or any agent to report to him what was going on, when, under cover of a thick, steady snowstorm, the multidecked airlifters had been unloaded and the cargo had been transferred to lighters. By morning the supplies that the aircraft had brought in were gone; the planes themselves departed shortly thereafter despite the continuing snowfall, heading for Point Barrow and other stops along the northern supply route. Two passengers were carried out of Wainwright, men who were indistinguishable in their heavy parkas and cold weather clothing from the crew members who had come in.

Four days later the commander of the Hunters Point Shipyard reached the sanctuary that had been prepared in advance for him in Canada. As a presumed rescuee from the Yukon Territory he attracted little notice and, despite the presence of agents in the area, there was no notice of his arrival or any intimation as to his identity.

Walter Wagner returned almost quietly to the underground headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. As soon as he had showered and changed he sat down with his colleagues and filled them in completely on the operation. For the first time full details were available; in the e*xtensive debriefing, which took some time, Wagner brought them all up to date to the moment when he had ridden back toward Wainwright in a lighter, the snow shrouding even the ice-choked sea, and the nuclear submarine already invisible behind him. When he had finished, Admiral Haymarket spoke for them all. “Walt, I don’t need to tell you what your part in all this meant, but at the same time you know as well as I do that it was a team effort — here, at Hunters Point, at Mare Island, and at all of the places where we held them up and kept their aircraft on the ground.”

“Right, sir,” Wagner answered. “One other thing: I had a good chance to observe the crew. I never saw a better bunch of pros in my life. You can depend on them all the way, no matter what happens. The boys on the Dolly were just as good. Any word from them, by the way?”

The admiral nodded. “They went into this thing knowing that they were expendable and that we couldn’t let them abandon their ship in the middle of the northern Pacific without giving too much of the show away. I’ve had a report; they’re close in to Japan now and the arrangements for their reception are in good order.”

“At a time like this,” Major Pappas said, “it’s nice to have friends.”

“Anytime,” Stanley Cumberland commented.

The admiral grew grimmer for a moment. “As soon as we knew that Magsaysay had it made through the Bering Strait and that the show was definitely on the road, we put the interpreter, Hewlitt, in. So far it looks as though the estimates we had on him were accurate; we got a feedback which indicates very strongly that he did deliver the goods — apparently he shook up Zalinsky quite thoroughly.”

“Since we pretty much had to choose one from one,” General Gifford said, “it looks as if we lucked out.”

“As long as Zalinsky himself stays in the saddle Hewlitt should be effective,” Colonel Prichard commented. “Against Rostovitch it would probably be a different matter.”

“Things are getting into my area now,” Higbee said, “and I’m working on that.”

“Great, Ed,” Prichard answered, “but remember that this man, no matter how willing and courageous he may be, is an amateur and he’d be up against the roughest pro in the business. Ted or Walt could handle him, but even they’d have to push to do it. Propaganda won’t erase that.”

“Propaganda wasn’t what I had in mind. He’ll need some help and I plan to see that he gets it.”

“Anyway, gentlemen,” the admiral said, “we’ve given them three weeks. By the end of that time…” He did not need to finish the sentence. Every man there knew that at that moment Magsaysay was already under the ice cap and, barring incredibly bad luck, before the ultimatum would expire she would be far to the east, close to Atlantic waters and within missile-firing range of the enemy’s homeland.

Despite a slight chill that tinged the air, Hewlitt was comfortable as he drove south from Alexandria, with Barbara close beside him. He kept the car going at an even speed; neither said anything — they were sharing a common mood.

At last Barbara spoke. “When we get back, are you going to stay at the house tonight?”

He looked at her for a moment. “I’d like to.”

She drummed her fingertips gently against the upholstery. “More and more I find that I’m thinking in terms of time. How much of it we may have left.”

Hewlitt drew breath. “I know, I feel it all around me. Every time I see Zalinsky. Sometimes he looks at me as though he was asking for something, other times he ignores the fact that I’m alive.”

Barbara looked out of the window for an interval despite the fact that there was little to see. “Hew, you know, don’t you, that he’s got some pretty deep troubles of his own?”

He glanced at her. “Internal or external?”

“External. I debated telling you this, but I think you should know — it may help in dealing with him. The Actor’s in serious trouble. More than that, their whole government is.”

He considered that as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road. “Not just another power play?” he asked.

Barbara shook her head. “No — it’s more than that. All Europe knows about the submarine of course — everybody does. But it isn’t that. When they tried to take us over they simply bit off too much. Now they’ve got China applying pressure from the east and a lot of other powers nibbling at their flanks. And they don’t have any friends to speak of.”

Hewlitt eased the car around a curve. “They’re pretty elastic. And they have a habit of landing on their feet.”

Barbara didn’t want to argue the point. “All right, maybe they will. Meanwhile there’s us.”

Hewlitt looked at the road. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Right now I’m in a pretty risky position. I can’t complain; I asked for it. This may sound funny to you, but I’ve never been particularly concerned about myself in all this; maybe I’m being fatalistic — I don’t know. The only thing that’s been on my mind recently is the thought that if I don’t come out of it, I won’t have you around anymore.”

“I’ve thought of that too,” Barbara said.

The restaurant they were headed for appeared too soon, it was there and it could not be ignored. Hewlitt pulled into the parking lot and let the topic die as he turned off the ignition. One thing had been settled anyway: he would be back with Barbara again that night and, the way things stood, he had minimum difficulty adjusting himself to the situation. She was his girl now and that was good enough for him. And it was good enough for her, too, which was the important thing. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered and warmed him with a soft smile.

As Frank drove them both to work the following morning Hewlitt once more counted off the days that remained brfore the ultimatum that the First Team had issued would expire and Zalinsky would be expected to give his answer. He could respond at any time, or he might ignore the whole thing. If he did that, then what would come next was still uncertain. One thing was clear: simply giving up was about as far from Zalinsky’s normal behavior pattern as it was possible to get. Something else would have to happen first.

When he had cleared through the White House guards and had been searched as always, he settled himself at his desk to await whatever was to come. Zalinsky knew that he was a member of the underground, that was sure, but it was a minor consideration. He hadn’t done too much so far in that role; perhaps he was destined to make up for lost time.

He phoned Cedric Culp on some routine matters, went through the mail that had been sorted out for his personal attention, and checked the appointment pad. He presumed that Zalinsky was inside, as he invariably was, even though there were no stiffly written notes or directives left for him to heed and obey. He had to give Zalinsky one thing: the man worked from dawn to dusk and sometimes later than that. He was probably a good manager and administrator; his problem was that he was trying to be the President of the United States without any help or willing cooperation from the subjects of his directives. And in a strange country, and through the medium of what was to him a difficult foreign language.

If he had been born an American, Hewlitt thought, and had been raised that way, he could have been a major success in industry: president, perhaps, of some leading corporation. The vision of Bob Landers’ execution would not go away, but against it stood the certainty that Bob at least had been saved from Rostovitch and shipment back across the Atlantic to face torture and whatever else might have awaited him there.

When the summons to the Oval Office came it was not the usual minimum sound of the buzzer; the crispness was replaced by a too-long pressure on the button — a variation that put Hewlitt on his guard immediately. His first thought was that someone else was in the President’s office, but he did not wait to speculate on it; he picked up a pad and pencils and went inside.

Zalinsky was sitting as usual in the President’s chair, but his body was slumped across the desk. His arms were stretched out until they almost reached the farther edge and they were in motion, working like the oversized antennae of some probing insect. He was uttering no sounds, but his body was fighting to find some position which would bring relief from an invisible inner agony. Hewlitt dropped the things he was carrying onto the top of the desk and bending over Zalinsky spoke to him in his own language. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes.” The single word was tight and strained, forced out by a man holding himself under severe restraint. Hewlitt scooped up a phone. “Medical, quick.” Seconds later he had his connection. “This is Hewlitt in the Oval Office. Mr. Zalinsky has been taken acutely ill; send up the doctor immediately.” He hung up and turning once more to Zalinsky began to help him off with his coat.

The phone rang. He picked it up and spoke his name. “The doctor isn’t here, Mr. Hewlitt,” he was told. “The nurse is on her way.”

“That may not be enough; get an ambulance as fast as you can.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

It was a struggle to get Zalinsky out of his coat; his body was solid and surprisingly heavy. The man himself tried to help, but he was in pain and at the point where he barely had control of his body. Hewlitt managed to free him, using main strength at one point to pull the collar down from his shoulders. As he was finishing the hasty operation the door to the office swung open and two people came in; the middle-aged nurse Hewlitt had seen before and Major Barlov, the head of White House security under the new administration. Hewlitt spoke to him without ceremony. “Help me,” he ordered. “I want to lay him out on the floor.”

The major cut him with one quick suspicious glance, then he called out through the door. That done he came quickly to give Hewlitt a hand; between them they lifted Zalinsky out of his chair and stretched him on his back in the middle of the carpet. As the nurse bent over, Hewlitt loosened Zalinsky’s tie and took off his heavy shoes.

The nurse was on her knees, a tray of limited medical supplies beside her. Zalinsky, fully conscious, ignored her; he closed his arms across his abdomen and began to roll in short jerks from side to side.

“I’m not sure, but I think he could be passing a gallstone,” the nurse said. “That’s terribly painful. About the only thing we can do is to take him to the hospital or else put him into a tub of very hot water. That gives relief sometimes.”

Hewlitt wiped an arm across his forehead. “I’ve called an ambulance. Where the hell is the doctor?”

“He’s down at the clinic, Mr. Hewlitt; he’s helping out because of the doctor shortage. We haven’t needed him here for a long time, not since…”

“Well, we need him now! Did you send for him?”

“No, I didn’t know it was this bad. I brought antiacids — things like that.”

Minutes later one of the enemy guards appeared at the door and spoke rapidly to Barlov. “Two ambulance men are here, shall we search them?”

Barlov beckoned with his arm. “No, there is not time; bring them in at once.”

Hewlitt listened, then spoke to the man on the floor. “Can you hear me, Mr. Zalinsky?”

“Yes.” The same word again, the same filter of severe pain.

“Hang on; the ambulance is here. We’ll have you at the hospital very soon.”

Zalinsky held his eyes tightly shut and said nothing. Hewlitt helped as the two medical attendants lifted Zalinsky onto their folding cart and began to wheel him out of the office. “You stay,” Barlov directed.

“No,” Hewlitt answered him. “He may need an interpreter — and I can describe his symptoms.”

“I will come too.”

“All right.”

They were in the corridor by that time. The ambulance attendants were efficient; within three minutes Zalinsky had been loaded through the back into their vehicle and transferred to the built-in bed. Hewlitt sat down on a jump seat with Barlov beside him. “Walter Reed as fast as you can,” he ordered.

The ambulance took off with the voice of the siren climbing and the red lights on top flashing their message of urgency. In the right front seat one of the attendants picked up a microphone and radioed ahead. On the narrow bed Zalinsky continued to thresh his body, twisting and turning in a strange, unreal silence as though his fierce pride would not allow him to utter a sound for fear that he might cry out. “Can you help him?” Hewlitt asked the attendant in back.

The man shook his head. “Not without a doctor’s order, unless it’s to save his life. We’ll be there pretty quick; he’ll be all right after that.”

Sixteen minutes later the ambulance turned sharply into the grounds of the Army medical facility. White-coated personnel were waiting outside despite the chill temperature; as the ambulance pulled up they rabidly removed the patient and wheeled him inside into a receiving room. There, waiting, was an obviously senior physician who had all his preparation made. “What medication has he been given?” he asked as Zalinsky was expertly transferred to the receiving table.

“Nothing,” Hewlitt answered. “I came into his office about a half hour ago and found him doubled up in pain. He hasn’t said anything, but it seems to be abdominal — the nurse guessed that he might be passing a gallstone.”

The doctor turned to his patient and began an examination. It took him less than a minute, then he picked up a syringe. “That or possibly a kidney stone,” he said as he loaded the needle. “I’m giving him some Demerol — that will give him relief.”

“I must know what it is,” Barlov said. He had come in the room unobserved.

“It’s the right thing,” Hewlitt answered him. The doctor gave him a grateful glance as he rolled Zalinsky over, pulled down the band of his trousers, and exposed the proper quadrant of his buttocks. Zalinsky winced slightly as the needle went home, but he still made no sound. When the injection had been completed and Zalinsky was once more lying on his back Hewlitt spoke to him. “This is Walter Reed Hospital,” he said. “It is one of the best medical facilities in the country. The shot you have been given will ease your pain quickly. Do you need anything?”

“Remain,” Zalinsky said.

Hewlitt did, Barlov beside him, and waited. Presently he could discern a lessening of the tension in Zalinsky’s body. Gradually, almost visibly, the pain ebbed out of him. The lines in his face relaxed and the almost fierce grip that he had been holding on himself quietly evaporated. As it did the physician unbuttoned Zalinsky’s shirt and began to probe his upper abdomen. Then he released his trousers and continued testing with his fingers. When he had finished he turned to two of the white-coated attendants who had met the ambulance on arrival. “Take him in and get him ready for surgery,” he ordered. Then he turned to Hewlitt and spoke to him, ignoring Barlov.

“I believe that your nurse was right,” he said. “We can make some quick tests, but all the indications are that he is passing a gallstone. In his general condition I believe that his gallbladder should come out, but I won’t give a final opinion until the tests are run.”

“How serious is it?” Hewlitt asked. “And do you know who he is?”

The doctor nodded. “I know. Not too serious, I’d say; we do them here every day. He’s heavily overweight, but that is a complication we’ve met before.”

Major Barlov stepped forward. “I am not doctor,” he said. “Our doctors are the best, but we have not one of our own here.”

“I believe that you can place your confidence in us,” the physician said. His voice was dry and factual, indicating that he had dealt with the enemy before.

Barlov continued with the same disregard of personal feelings that had characterized him since his arrival at the White House. “It is necessary that the one and best surgeon be assigned,” he said. “The best and the best only.”

The Army doctor spread his fingers and pressed his palms against the tabletop on which his patient lay. “A very good man will attend to your countryman,” he said. “I may even do it myself.

As for the very best, you can’t have him. Ordinarily he would be assigned without question, but he isn’t available. The best man we had here was Colonel Newman, who is a noted specialist in abdominal surgery. He can’t help you now because you forced him out of the service. Colonel Newman,” he added coldly, “is Jewish.”

Senator Solomon Fitzhugh sat alone on the glassed-in porch of the mountain cabin which had been his temporary home for the past several days. Away from the familiar environment of Washington, and separated from the things he knew and understood, he had spent much of his time in thinking. It was precisely for that purpose that Ed Higbee had arranged the sojourn for him. He had also made a very careful choice of the caretaker-cook who kept things in order and provided excellent meals. The two men had talked, of course, but Fitzhugh specifically avoided inviting any opinions. If he was going to do the thing that had been asked of him, then it would be in his own good time and out of his own personal conviction. He had no intention of allowing himself to be shoved into anything by anybody.

He was expecting “Mrs. Smith” and had prepared himself, mentally and physically, to receive her.

Despite the fact that she had been surprisingly candid with him, she still represented a considerable mystery to him. That she was a woman of rare intelligence and breeding he did not question; she was quality clear through, and no actress, no matter how gifted, could ever have portrayed such a role without possessing the same qualifications herself. He remembered Greer Garson again and thought that the comparison was apt. But for one thing, he did not even know her correct name — she had admitted at their first meeting that the “Mrs. Smith” was an alias. He was still far from satisfied that she did not intend to use him, well beyond the point which he had already agreed to.

But there was one fact that he could not deny: assuming that she had spoken the truth, her daughter had been gunned down in the same massacre that had robbed him of his son. A daughter who very probably had recruited Gary to her cause and had thus directly caused his terrible and cruel death.

He did not hear the car arriving; he was quite unaware that anyone else was within miles when the caretaker came to the door of the porch and said, “Mrs. Smith is here.”

Solomon Fitzhugh rose to his feet in time to greet his visitor.

“I do hope that you have been comfortable, senator,” she said. “Yes, quite,” he responded. “Would it be proper to inquire to whom this facility belongs?”

She caught the word “facility” and correctly diagnosed its meaning. “It is privately owned, senator; it belongs to a retired industrialist who uses it as a retreat when he wants to get away from everything and enjoy peace and quiet.”

“Am I to assume, then, that he is aware of the fact that I am using his property?”

The smile she gave him melted the stiffness that had been shaping his words. “You are his particularly invited guest; he inquired concerning your welfare this morning.”

“Is he a member, too, of your underground?”

“He is a very fine man you will hold in high regard if you have the opportunity to meet him. Senator, I have something for you.” She produced a large plain manila envelope and removed some typewritten sheets from it. “This is the text of the address we are asking you to deliver. We are fully aware that in the past you usually wrote your own and had them polished up afterwards; this one has been written for you, principally because it contains a good deal of information that you would have no way of knowing. I will ask you to accept my assurance that it is entirely true and correct — there is nothing misleading or otherwise improper.”

“I presume that I am permitted to edit and correct this as I best see fit.”

Mrs. Smith firmly shook her head. “No, senator, we request that you deliver it exactly as written. If there are any questions that you would like to ask, I will be glad to answer them for you if I am able.”

Fitzhugh took the manuscript and then laid it on a small table beside his chair without looking at it. “Mrs. Smith — I am continuing to call you that although I presume that your proper name is Mrs. Bloom — I have the distinct feeling that I am being used.” It was quiet for a few moments, then Mrs. Smith spoke again. “Senator Fitzhugh, I believe it is time you understood certain basic things: the situation our country is in, the circumstances that got us into it, and what some of us are trying to do about it. So far all this seems to have eluded you.

“Certainly war in any form is a terrible and completely irrational means of settling disputes between nations or any other political bodies. And unfortunately weaponry has been advanced to the point where we are in a position to exterminate ourselves if we aren’t very careful. The approximately one hundred men on board the Ramon Magsaysay have the power, self-contained within themselves, to wipe several whole nations completely off the face of the globe.”

“But dammit, woman, that’s what I’ve been saying all along!” He paused. “I’m sorry if I spoke intemperately; please excuse me.”

Mrs. Smith dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “I am fully aware of what you have been saying, senator, and I am glad that you agree with me so far. Now we come to a salient point which, among other things, accounts for the fact that we have met and that you are sitting where you are at this moment. It is this: no rational nation fortunate enough to have responsible leaders ever chooses to go to war except for one reason — because the alternative to it is even more unacceptable than the horrors of the conflict itself. After Pearl Harbor was attacked, the United States was faced with a clear choice — either engage in war or submit to the rule and dictation of the militant fanatics who were in control of Japan at that time. In short, surrender.

“Now, any party to a war action can presumably bring it to a close at any time by submitting to the will of the enemy. But can you visualize what it would have been if World War II had been won by Germany and Japan? In the case of the Japanese we were at that time a hated foreign race, and to a considerable degree we had brought that upon ourselves. Their treatment of us, had the regime then in power won their victory, is something I doubt that either of us can imagine accurately. But it would not have been pleasant.”

“Mrs. Smith, I don’t think…”

She silenced him by raising her hand. “Now you can ask yourself if nonresistance is so precious to you that you would be willing to permit our enemies to continue as they have been doing, to continue the massacre of people and to exterminate freedom as we know it from the map of our country.”

Fitzhugh leaned forward and tapped the tips of his fingers against his knee. “But, Mrs. Smith, you forget that your daughter and my son would be alive and well today if they had not engaged in underground activities! There was no need for them to be involved, but they were — and eight young people died. I’m not altogether satisfied that it wasn’t to a considerable degree your fault.”

Mrs. Smith rose to her feet. Her voice did not change and the expression on her features remained composed. “Senator, I credited you with holding your convictions honestly and believing in what you said and did. I am now forced to alter my opinion; you suffer from one of the worst faults that can beset a human being. You are pigheaded, senator, anxious only to expound your own viewpoint and unwilling to give a hearing to any other. I believe that you were once advised to cut your throat. I am impressed with the wisdom of that proposal.” Mrs. Smith rose and walked out of the room.

The senator got to his feet, his body tense with anger as she left. When he was once more alone he sat for some time in thought. Then he picked up the speech that had been left with him and began to read. He turned the pages very slowly at first, then a little more rapidly as he began to get into the text. When he had finished it all he put it down again.

He leaned back, shut his eyes, and took refuge for a moment in the remembrance of his son. It was almost as if Gary had been able to return to him once again for a few brief moments. He saw no images, he only felt the illusion of a presence. And then, when his tortured brain could think of nothing else to do, he tried to ask his son what he should do.

He received no answer, of course, but in his pain he had succeeded in conjuring up the shadow of something that once had been, and was well remembered. And he knew what Gary would have done. What he had done. It was not humanity, then, it was not the United States of America, it was not even the people of the state that had so narrowly returned him to his seat in the Senate. It was Gary, his boy, his son, his hope for posterity and thereby a measure of immortality that could not be realized now. He had blamed Mrs. Smith in what he had conceived of as a burst of righteous anger. Now, in the cold reality of what he had read, he knew that he could no longer avoid and deny the truth. In the bitter dawn of his enlightenment he knew at last that at least in small part he also had himself to blame.

When Raleigh Hewlitt arrived for work the following morning his first action was to ask Major Barlov if there was any news concerning Zalinsky.

“Yes,” the major told him in his own language. “Mr. Zalinsky underwent surgery during the night. His gallbladder was removed. The operation was successful and he is resting as comfortably as could be expected this morning.”

“Good,” Hewlitt said.

Major Barlov appeared ready to say something else to him, but apparently changed his mind and walked away. Hewlitt considered it briefly and then dismissed it from his mind. The White House grapevine was still highly efficient, and whatever was going on, if anything was, he would hear of shortly.

There was one matter that occupied his mind and which he knew that he should think out to its conclusion. With Zalinsky in the hospital, and probably under the effect of sedation, the ultimatum that had baen handed down to him by the First Team could well be thrown off schedule. Through Frank he would have to get word of what had happened to Percival; the illness of the administrator might very well be something that was being kept secret for the time being. As soon as the fact was known, if it was not already, he probably would receive revised instructions. He was still turning this situation over in his own mind when, to his surprise, the buzzer which summoned him to the Oval Office sounded once briefly. He picked up a pad and pencils, opened the door, and went inside.

Seated behind the desk was a man whose hair was cropped close to his skull, revealing a white scar running above one ear. He was a considerably bigger person than Zalinsky and, although he had a substantial frame, there was no evidence of fat. He wore his clothes better than Zalinsky did, although the material and cut were of the same indifferent quality. All this Hewlitt saw, but his attention was captured and held by the man’s face. It was venomous; severe in the way that the skin was stretched across the bones, and viciously cruel. The eyes of that face burned into him and Hewlitt felt that they saw clear through into his soul.

“Good morning, Colonel Rostovitch,” he said. That was a minute victory, since the man did not have to tell him who he was.

Rostovitch looked at him for a full half minute without saying a word. Hewlitt waited until the scrutiny was half over, then he calmly sat down. He knew that the first moment he showed fear or allowed himself to be put on the defensive he would be destroyed. He was on a shaky raft, but it was afloat and he intended to keep it that way.

The voice of Rostovitch bit through the air like a living thing. “I did not tell you to sit down.”

Hewlitt fought down the temptation to yield; if he stood up again he would be a defeated man and he knew it. “I always sit down when I come in here,” he answered. “Mr. Zalinsky prefers it that way.”

Rostovitch ignored that as too trivial to notice. “You are an agent; as soon as I finish with you, you will be taken out and shot.”

Hewlitt lifted his shoulders and let them fall. He believed it, knew that it was true, but refused to give the man before him the least satisfaction. That gave him the courage he needed.

“If you do,” he said, “it will finish you. The Actor is in a rapidly weakening position — you know that, because you are going to be his successor. That is, if things stay as they are right now. But if you take me out, then you will be personally face-to-face with the man who has beaten you twice already and has the firepower to do it again.”

He saw the dangerous reddening of anger flush the face of the man behind the President’s desk, but he was on a course from which he could not deviate one moment. He kept the initiative because it was his only lifeline. “I was put in the position of being his spokesman — his and the people who surround him. I don’t know any of them or even who they are.”

“I do!” Rostovitch shot at him.

Hewlitt paid no attention. “I didn’t ask for this assignment, but now that I’ve got it I have no choice but to carry it out. I was elected because I speak your language; at the moment I’m a messenger and nothing more. If you want to do something about that submarine, you can send any messages you like through me. I’ll deliver them exactly as you give them as soon as they contact me — whenever and wherever they do.”

"You have been sleeping with Amy Thornbush.”

Amy Thornbush, that name again!

In a flash he saw a gamble, a hugh one, but if it paid off it might mean a reprieve — it could be the key to one more chance. Up to that moment he had been icy cool because in his mind was the unshaped thought that he was already a dead man: Rostovitch had promised to shoot him and there was no doubt that he would. Therefore it made little difference what he said. But Amy Thornbush might bring him back to life — if he guessed right.

“Yes,” he answered. It took him hardly a second to get that out. “And so have you.”

Rostovitch stared at him. “Maybe,” he said. Intensity burned out from him until it was like a consuming fire. “Meanwhile I give you a message; deliver it!”

“As soon as I can. What is it?”

“We have devices of which you do not dream. We have used them. Inform them that their submarine, the one named for the Filipino traitor and that has the high diver on board, was found and sunk by us early this morning!”