The First Team

24

There was not a resident of Washington who did not know that he was sitting on top of a time bomb. The enemy operated from Washington and his presence there was in constant, inflexible evidence. The challenge to his power, and his authority, could be met with submission, but the people of Washington did not expect that. They had seen too much, and had heard too much more, to believe in any such utopia. The enemy would answer, they knew that, and the only question that held them in suspense was made up of three parts: how, when, and where.

Colonel Rostovitch did not leave them long in doubt. He had anticipated, very closely, what his opposition would do, and when the message did come, his response was planned and ready. The operational orders had been given out; his people had been alerted. All of them had been carefully chosen for their work and down to the last man none of them wanted in any way to cross, or even displease the fearsome man who was now effectively in charge of the country.

All during the following day announcements were made over every radio and TV station broadcasting to the general public that the answer to the Thomas Jefferson ultimatum would be given that evening at seven. Throughout the country some few dared to hope, but none in Washington. At a little after ten in the morning a squad of men sped through the streets toward Senator Fitzhugh’s home. With speed and expert technique they set it afire and burned it to the ground; before midafternoon the brick walls that had remained standing after the blaze had been knocked down. His office, too, was systematically gutted and the woman who had served as his secretary for some fourteen years was seized together with her husband. More enemy personnel than had ever been seen before patrolled the streets; people stayed in their homes. Those who had gone to work slipped away and came home early. The time bomb that was Washington ticked on toward its inexorable deadline.

In the hospital Feodor Zalinsky continued to receive the careful medical attention that his condition merited. Several times messengers came to his room, but he summoned none and required only that the television set with which he had been provided be kept continuously on. He was still in considerable pain and his recuperation was progressing more slowly than had been expected.

The White House staff kept as far from the Oval Office as possible and, when they had to go anywhere, they walked as quietly as they were able. Not everyone in the city knew the name of Colonel Gregor Rostovitch, but those who did trembled. With agonizing deliberation the hands of clocks throughout the capital marked the slow passage of time and measured off the hours and minutes remaining before the answer would be given.

When the time at last came near, in every home, apartment, and place of business the TV sets were on and glowing, the radios were set to hear what would be said. Regular TV programming was suspended, only test patterns appeared on the screens with, in many cases, the faces of a clock cut in at one comer. The tension mounted, minute by minute, as people stopped talking and waited. What Fitzhugh had said had been told and retold until it was already threadbare; what the enemy would say became all paramount, and nothing else, no matter what it might be, appeared to matter.

At precisely the time that had been set, the face of the enemy came on the screen of the TV sets. It was a specific face that few Americans had ever seen before. They did not know who he was, but they understood that he was a spokesman, nothing less and nothing more. His English was stilted and forced, but painfully accurate and precise. He enunciated clearly and not a word that he spoke could be misunderstood in any way.

“It is not necessary that much time be consumed by this matter,” he said. “I speak on behalf of the greatest military power that the world has ever seen, a military power which is intact and of which the people of the United States have seen and experienced only the smallest fraction. It is a power which could utterly destroy, to the last tiny hamlet, this entire former nation in a matter of minutes. In such an attack no one would survive, no single structure would be left standing. The area that was once the United States would become a barren, radioactive, desert wasteland — and it would remain so as a lesson to the rest of the world until such time as we chose to make use of it.

“Yesterday a misguided, senile, totally incompetent former member of the humiliated American government dared to make a statement at the command of his masters. He will be dealt with. He dared also to lay down certain conditions to which we were supposed to yield. Those conditions will be met, but not as this utter fool proposed to us.

“He told you about a submarine which was supposed to be in the hands of a nonexistent navy. If you believed him, do not do so any longer. I told you of the power of our military forces; for us it was a simple exercise to find this submarine long before she reached even close to the range of our homeland. She was sunk many days ago and the bodies of some of those who attempted to take her to sea have been recovered and examined. Their names will be published.

“You have no submarine at sea, you have nothing but memories of an imperialistic, fascist, decadent government which was destroyed by the vengeful people from without and within. From now on the people will rule and we are the people.

“Hear this now carefully; there does exist an underground which, over a period of several months, has managed through desperation to kill a half dozen of our people. They, the people who comprise this conspiracy, will now surrender. They will do so at once. If they have not done so by this exact time tomorrow, and have not handed over the place where they are living, we will shoot one thousand hostages who have already been chosen. We will begin to collect them very shortly. For each day that the surrender is delayed, an additional one thousand will be shot. Their bodies will be left to rot and it will be forbidden to touch them until they decay.”

Suddenly the speaker’s face flamed into a fanatical intensity. “When ten thousand have died this way, if the total surrender of the imperialistic underground is not complete to the last man, we shall resume our nuclear testing and your cities will serve as our practice areas. This now lies ten days away. We will listen to no rebuttal, no counterproposals; we will speak no more of this matter until the surrender has been completed. If it is not completed by tomorrow night the first thousand hostages will die. You will now submit, totally and absolutely, to our will, or you will not survive. That is all.”

Admiral Barney Haymarket listened, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. When it was over he turned to the assembled men around the table and asked, “Any comments?”

After a few seconds Walter Wagner responded. “I see two possibilities. One: get to their top people and hit them individually with everything we’ve got. That’s the long shot — it might work but I have serious doubts. The other is obvious.”

“Carl?” the admiral asked.

General Gifford was still thinking. “It was about what I expected. I can contribute one thing: they aren’t bluffing. They couldn’t be because they have set too close a deadline, they’d have to call their own hand in less than twenty-four hours from now. If we pull a desperation operation and release their hostages, they will simply seize more and shoot them at random.”

The admiral was in deep thought. “No one man has the authority to fire a nuclear weapon from a silo, an FBM, or any other place other than the President,” he said. “I want to tell you all this now: I have been talking to the President based on what I expected to hear and he has authorized me to order Magsaysay to fire when and as I see fit. I’m not ducking responsibility — I’ve never done that in my life — but I believe any such order, if it is given, should come from us all.”

Ed Higbee answered that. “Barney, you know that all of us will back you up in anything you think necessary. You’ve got the military experience to weigh the factors involved, and that’s what we need here because this is a military crisis.”

“Tell me this,” Haymarket said. “If I do order Magsaysay to fire one missile, targeted as we have previously approved, do you think that it will influence the Actor to overrule Rostovitch? What will the public reaction be?”

Higbee thought. “J^et’s say that ten nuclear warheads hit on the other side, or assume that they shoot down four and the other six get through.”

“Six, then.”

“It will answer all claims that Magsaysay has been sunk. It will put us back into the poker game.”

“You’re forgetting something: the enemy knows perfectly well whether or not we have a ship at sea. We don’t know, but they do.”

The discussion stopped for a moment and there was a full five seconds of silence. It was broken by the unhurried voice of Major Pappas. “Gentlemen, we have an offer. I have been talking with Hewlitt, the White House interpreter whom we brought in here. He forecast quite accurately what we have just heard.”

“That wasn’t too hard,” General Gifford said, “but what did he offer?”

“That if something of this nature was proposed, and we can get him back to Washington in time, he will talk to Zalinsky in the hospital.”

Again there was a brief silence. Then Walter Wagner spoke. “That makes him a pretty gutsy guy. We could get him back all right, and get him into the hospital, but the guarantee stops there.” “Do you think he meant it, Ted?” the admiral asked.

“Yes, sir, I do, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Let’s get him in here.”

“Now?”

“Right now. I’d like to see how he conducts himself.”

Major Pappas got up and left the room. When he came back very shortly with Hewlitt, he made minimum introductions. “Mr. Hewlitt, this is the group that is generally known as the First Team. Admiral Haymarket is the commander.”

Hewlitt looked at the well-known face and addressed himself to him. “I’m very happy to see, sir, that the reports of your death were grossly exaggerated.”

“Thank you. Mr. Hewlitt, Major Pappas has just told us that prior to the broadcast you offered to return to Washington to talk with Mr. Zalinsky. You heard the speech?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does your offer still stand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Hewlitt, you had one good look at Colonel Rostovitch, which is more than I can say myself. What do you think of him?” “Are you asking me, sir, if I think that he will carry out his threats?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Then I think that he will. He’s as mad as Hitler.”

“And as dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“And anti-Semitic?”

“Violently so, I understand.”

“How about Mr. Zalinsky?”

“I am a little more confident of my appraisal of him, sir, since I know him quite well. He is tough, extremely so in fact, but he is also a human being. And he has a first-class brain.”

“You recall how he shot Major Landers.”

“I’m not likely to forget it, sir; I was present when it happened. I would have killed him at the time with my bare hands if I had had the opportunity. Later I learned that Rostovitch wanted to get hold of Bob, and Zalinsky at least spared him that.”

“How much authority do you think Zalinsky has right now?” Hewlitt took his time before he attempted to answer that one. “I can’t honestly say, sir, but I can offer one thought. I personally don’t trust him for a moment, but I believe that he will see reason a lot faster than Rostovitch. And, despite his illness, don’t count him out.”

“In your opinion,” Ed Higbee asked, “do you think that he can handle Rostovitch?”

“That’s a very tall order, sir, but I would guess that in a showdown he could give him one hell of a fight. If he couldn’t stop him, he could at least slow him up considerably.”

“That may be the key,” the admiral said. “We’ll look into that. Thank you very much for joining us.”

Hewlitt took his dismissal with good grace. As he left the room he wondered how many other Americans had stood before this same board. Not very many, he judged, and he had seen their faces. He knew Pappas by name and the secret that Admiral Hay-market was alive and the active commander. That, he decided, was more than enough fpr one day.

It was an hour later when Major Pappas came to see him once more. “Mr. Hewlitt,” the major said. “We may take a very long chance on you; if we do, you may have to take an equally long one on us.”

“Can you clarify that?”

“I intend to. As of this moment you know more than we dare to let the enemy find out. Principally, you know the location of this facility, something that we must keep secret at all costs. We trust you, you must know that by now; but if you were to be captured, you could be made to talk. You understand how I mean that.”

“Entirely,” Hewlitt responded. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines myself. If I were to return to the Washington area, I would represent a considerable risk.”

Pappas sat down on the arm of a chair. “I’m glad that you see it so clearly. Since you do, here is the proposition. We propose to position you back close to the Washington area. If things develop so that we feel we need you to talk to Zalinsky, we will pick you up and smuggle you into the hospital where he is. After you have talked to him we will do everything humanly possible to get you out again. We expect to be successful in that, but we can’t guarantee it.”

Hewlitt saw the rest and understood. “If you can’t, you won’t permit me to be captured, is that it?”

Pappas nodded. “That’s it.”

Hewlitt thought. “Actually it would probably be the better way.” “That’s how we saw it too. Rostovitch would never let you get away from him alive, and you might have a rough time of it along the way.”

“How about your people?”

“For the most part they don’t know certain of the vital facts that you do now.”

“It would be quick, I take it.”

“Instantaneous, and only as an absolute last resort.”

Hewlitt considered the matter one more time. “It seems fair enough to me,” he said.

Pappas got back onto his feet. “Then we’ll ship you out pretty fast, but you’ll have time for a good meal first if you don’t linger over it. Personally I think you’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, major. I’ll try not to let all of you down.”

“You won’t do that. Come on, Walt is going to join us for dinner. You’ll find him quite an interesting person.”

The collecting of hostages began very early the following morning. As the intelligence reports of what was going on began to come in in increasing numbers, it became apparent that it was not an impromptu operation; people were not simply picked up off the streets or taken from their homes. A master list had been prepared and it was being put to use.

Among those taken as hostages were a certain Reverend Mr. Jones, his wife, Doris, and their son, Greg; their ministrations to Jews departing the country had been duly noted and their names had been entered as among those most suitable to be shot.

In the Oval Office of the White House Colonel Rostovitch watched the reports that were flowing across his desk and was satisfied. He had before him a list of the men who would be the executioners; each name that appeared was fully qualified for the task. He knew all of them either personally or by reputation; deliberately he deferred giving himself the pleasure of making the final choices from the list. He did not want to have too many of them; it would be better if the show could be prolonged on the nation’s television screens so that the impact would be cumulative. In simple numbers one thousand persons was a statistic; seeing that many die, six or seven at a time, would serve to impress on every viewer the absolute authority and uncompromising ruthlessness of the program. For one thing was totally clear in Gregor Rostovitch’s mind; that the side that was the harder and more unyielding always won. It had been that way when the French had been defeated, after eight years, in Indo-China. They had defeated themselves because their enemy would not yield. The Communist forces inspired by Ho Chi Minh had been inflexible, had followed the doctrine of talk, talk, fight, fight, and had eventually won the day. Every single one of the one thousand would die, publicly, and the executions would not stop unless the surrender message was received from Thomas Jefferson. And there would be an additional thousand the next day, and one thousand more the next.…

When he received word that a deeply distraught father had offered to die in place of his son, he brushed it aside. He issued a terse order that there would be no substitutes; in addition if any guard permitted a detainee to commit suicide, he would take that person’s place.

The message to him from Admiral Haymarket and the First Team reached him shortly after nine-thirty.

Admiral Haymarket sat at the head of the table, where he had been sitting for the past several hours, getting up only to relieve himself and then returning at once. The First Team sat with him in continuous consultation, digesting the reports that came in, watching every move with total and intense concentration. Major Pappas kept his charts up to date before him and supplied data as they were required. When the message had gone off to the colonel he duly logged it and then posed a question to which he already had the answer. He double-checked everything as a matter of routine.

“Sir, you have final and absolute authority from the President?” “Affirmative,” Haymarket answered.

“Does Commander Nakamura fully understand that you are so empowered?”

“He does.”

“He will then definitely respect the order to fire.”

“He will. He is at sea for that purpose and he knows it.”

“And technically the firing requirements have all been met.”

“That is absolutely affirmative, Walt was there when it was checked out.”

“According to the Navy regs,” Wagner said, “I was not permitted to witness the actual check, but it was run and the captain told me without equivocation that he is fully prepared to fire and will do so upon receiving the orders from us.”

“That being the case,” Pappas said, still with no emotion in his voice, “I now recommend, sir, that you raise Magsaysay and pass the necessary first order to fire. If the enemy hears us, so much the better.”

“Will she acknowledge?” Higbee asked.

The admiral answered him carefully and exactly. “If for any reason she cannot follow the order, then she will so advise us at a precise interval of time after we contact her. If she can, then she will give no response. Her position shortly before firing is extremely critical information. At the moment only General Gifford and I know where she is, other than the members of her crew. Two of us have to know in case anything should happen to me.”

“Have you communicated with her?”

Once again the admiral was very careful with his words. “No, Ed, not recently. Two messages have been sent, but no replies have been received. I stress that none would have been given except in case of malfunction. We have a schedule for reporting such information. Our listening watch has been uninterrupted and she has not put out a thing.”

“Pardon me, Barney, but like Ted I want to hear everything that is vital at least twice. If we send a signal to her, will she receive it?”

“Nothing is ever absolutely certain, Ed, with the usual exceptions, but it is as close to one hundred per cent as our best technology can make it. I will say this: she knows what is going on, she positively will be listening, our signal strength can reach her where she is with absolute ease, and her reception equipment is redundant several times over with independent power sources and all supportive gear.”

“I then second Ted’s recommendation that you notify her of your intention to fire.”

The admiral looked around the table. “Gentlemen, you now know how Harry Truman felt when he faced the decision whether or not to release the bomb against Hiroshima. I want your individual votes: do we or don’t we back up our message to Rostovitch. Shall I order Magsaysay to fire?”

“Yes,” General Gifford said. “In your absence I would give that order.”

“Hank?”

“Go,” Colonel Prichard responded, “and may God help us.”

“Ted?”

“Yes, it’s down to the wire.”

“Ed?”

“Agreed, we go.”

“Stanley?”

“Is there any visible alternative?”

The admiral shook his head. “None of which I am aware.”

“I just wanted to ask to make absolutely sure. Fire.”

“Walt?”

“The issue is already decided, sir, and there’s no question about it. I know Rostovitch better than any man here. Our hides won’t satisfy him; he will keep this country in continuous terror and bloodshed for, at the least, months to come. That’s the real consideration.”

A message came in from Philadelphia. The units there volunteered to surrender themselves as the Thomas Jefferson personnel; they had enough supportive gear and communications equipment to make it look good. It would save the main operation. Acceptance was urged.

“As long as this country can produce men and women like that,” the admiral said, “I’m going to fight for them with everything that I’ve got.” He pressed a button before him and an aide came in. “Prepare a signal to Magsaysay,” he directed. “First order to fire. Do you know the details?”

“Yes, sir. Will you please personally review the message, sir, before it is sent.”

The admiral nodded. “I will. That’s required and I know it — I made the rule.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the man had gone the admiral asked one more thing. “How about Hewlitt, the interpreter? I haven’t heard about that.” Ted Pappas responded. “He was positioned, sir, a short while ago. Mark has him in tow. He reports that Hewlitt is calm and ready.”

“Good. When shall we put him in?” He looked toward Ed Higbee. The former journalist glanced at the clock. “Anytime between now and two-thirty this afternoon; after that it would be too late. Let Mark call the shot; he’s got to handle the operational end.”

“So ordered,” the admiral said.

As he moved about through the rooms and corridors of the White House Major Barlov revealed no changes in his demeanor — he remained a disciplined officer well qualified to hold a field grade assignment and to carry the responsibilities assigned to him. Many of the White House regular staff were at pains to avoid him, which suited the major perfectly; it was precisely what he most wanted them to do. The two secret service agents who had been part of the Hewlitt-Stoneham cell continued to watch his movements closely and to report their findings through fresh channels of communication which had been set up for the purpose. It was a high tribute to the major’s level of efficiency that not once, even for a single moment, did he betray himself in any way.

Although Rostovitch was, for the time being at least, sitting in the Oval Office, Barlov knew that the real center of his operations would still be in his own headquarters and that he had no intention of moving them. Zalinsky was not out of things yet and Rostovitch would keep a door open through which he could make his retreat if such a temporary expedient became necessary. Barlov was still in full charge of his own department, but when his telephone rang and he learned that a newly captured prisoner was to be brought shortly to the White House to be interviewed by Rostovitch there, he knew at once that there had been a significant change in the signals.

With cool composure he appraised the situation and tried to guess the identity of the person in custody. Within a few seconds he arrived at a conclusion and issued some orders. Then he made a phone call of his own and inquired about the nondelivery of some wanted supplies.

The first small group of demonstrators materialized outside the White House before another half hour had passed. No great stir marked their arrival, but the major sent a man to watch them nonetheless. Presently others came, so that when a car pulled up with the prisoner and his captors, the line of marchers was already of sizable proportions. Silently the major gave thanks that the Americans, who had never been too well known for their skill in such matters, were proving efficient this time.

Barlov went himself to receive the prisoner. It was not the person he had anticipated, nor the most likely alternate; this meant that the demonstration being staged outside might be futile and a trump card had been wasted. For that the major blamed himself, but at the same time he knew that the bet he had made had been right and that the odds had been with him.

But if the prisoner had been brought directly to be seen by Rostovitch himself, then despite appearances he was probably someone of consequence. Barlov wasted no more time in conjecture. “We will take him,” he announced coldly. “He will be held and produced for examination on the colonel’s order.”

The man in charge of the small detachment shook his head. “We must take him to Colonel Rostovitch ourselves.”

“That is impossible,” Barlov reported. “The rules on White House security are rigid and no exceptions are permitted for any reason whatsoever. We will take the prisoner; the colonel will be notified at once.”

The major’s rank insured his victory in the small contest; he summoned three of his men and watched approvingly as they took over with convincing authority. “When the colonel is through with him you will be notified,” Barlov said. “We will await his pleasure.” He gestured that the prisoner was to be taken away.

Outside, the leader of the demonstration knew that he and his people were taking a considerable chance. Protests against the occupying authorities were not allowed; his group had been summoned because a diversion was urgently needed and one had to be put on even at great risk. He did not know the purpose; the instructions he had been given and had passed on to his people had been explicit: their conduct was to be nonviolent and peaceful, giving the enemy the minumum excuse to arrest them. In all probability, he had been told, he and his people would be ordered to break up and clear out, but if there were no conspicuous leaders, it could possibly end there. No resistance was to be offered.

Only one thing had not been foreseen. His full group had been on the job for almost fifteen minutes, but it was still unaccountably growing. At least fifty people in the line of march were not known to him and more were joining them every minute. The placard he held himself read: we petition equal rights for jews. It was deliberately mild and in a cause that was centuries old, but it had not been conceived of as being a popular rallying point. Perhaps it was, or perhaps it was simply a case of frustrated Americans seeing a cause and wanting desperately to be part of it; but whatever the motivation, recruits were arriving in a steady stream.

By that alchemy through which people know what is going on without possessing any visible sources of information, more and more came to march silently up and down the sidewalk on Pennsylvania Avenue until their number was more than three times what had been planned.

“Let me carry the card for a while,” someone said to the leader and took the handle away from him.

“It could be dangerous,” the organizer warned.

The other man became confidential. “I don’t think so. You know about the submarine. I don’t care how much power they’ve got, they can’t take what she can dish out and you know it.”

The man in charge of the demonstration understood — Americans were finding heart and they wanted to be part of the resistance too. He only hoped, fervently, that in their eagerness they wouldn’t push things completely out of hand.

When the coded knock came on the door of the Oval Office, Rostovitch barked, “In!” and looked up for a moment. The sound had told him who it was and that his business was more than casual. “Well?” he demanded.

“Another of the underground agents has been caught,” Barlov reported. “Your orders were that all such matters were to be reported to you personally at once.”

“Correct,” Rostovitch chopped. “A man?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you have him?”

“Directly outside, in case you wish to see him. Your people delivered him to us for that purpose.”

“Good. What is that commotion going on outside?”

“A meaningless demonstration; we will take care of it. Please do not trouble yourself about it.”

Rostovitch put one hand over a telephone. “You require help?” he asked.

Barlov quickly shook his head. “We will handle it; that is our job.” His voice was unexpectedly hard; he wanted it clearly understood that he knew his business.

That pleased Rostovitch. With the next thought his eyes brightened; a captured enemy agent could be made to supply information and the time for that was never better. With a gesture of his left arm he indicated that the man was to be brought in.

Three of Barlov’s men were controlling him; they held him, one on each side, while a third kept watch with a drawn pistol. They almost literally threw the prisoner into a chair, then the man with the gun took up a steady watch directly behind him. It was efficient and ruthless, as it was meant to be.

“What’s your name?” Rostovitch demanded.

He was mildly surprised when the man answered him quite calmly, “Frank Jordan.”

“You are a spy, an underground agent.”

“I’m a cabdriver.”

Rostovitch half rose out of his chair and shot out words like bullets. “You are a spy!” Then, deliberately, he relaxed and let contempt come into his voice. “And a nigger to boot.”

“Don’t call me a nigger,” Frank said.

Rostovitch, with the calculated insult, had found the first soft spot. “I say you’re a nigger!” he hurled at the man before him.

To the colonel’s real surprise Frank kept his composure. “And I say that you’re a goddamned jerk.”

Rostovitch jumped to his feet. The man standing behind the prisoner raised his weapon to strike, but Rostovitch waved him down; he was not ready to have this man killed — not just yet. First, the information.

“And,” Frank added, “you’re a frigging coward to boot.”

Rostovitch walked slowly around to the front of the desk and then leaned on it with his hands behind him. He waited a moment, then spoke with deceptive calmness. “You do not know who I am.” “You’re Zalinsky,” Frank said.

Rostovitch was amused. “Zalinsky a coward, maybe yes; he is very good at making ladies’ sweaters.” Then he hardened abruptly. “But I am not Zalinsky.”

“You’re still yellow,” Frank taunted him. “When you talk to an unarmed man sitting in a chair, you still gotta have another guy backing you up with a gun. That’s because you took one good look at me and got scared that maybe I could beat the shit out of you.” Barlov interrupted at that point. In a completely factual voice he said. “Shall I have this prisoner taken outside and shot?”

Rostovitch’s eyes narrowed, then he shook his head as he studied the man before him. A sudden new idea was shaping itself within his mind: it was born of colossal pride and the accumulated frustrations that he had had to accept ever since the blind, stupid fools in San Francisco had let the submarine get away. Here before him was a momentary way to redeem all that, and to mend the partially shattered fragments of his fearsome reputation.

At that precise moment, as though he had been reading his thoughts, Major Barlov ventured to ask another question. “Excuse me,” he said in the language he knew that Frank could not understand, “how many of my men do you require for your personal safety?”

Rostovitch glanced at him. “Explain,” he said.

Barlov remained calm. “I am about to dispatch some more men to deal with the disturbance outside. But I cannot leave you alone with this prisoner; you must be protected at all costs.”

Although it seemed obviously unintentional, that was another insult, another prod at the colonel’s wounded pride. “Major,” he said, “more than fifty men have tried, from time to time, to lay their hands on me. Are you aware of the outcome?”

“I should not care to try it,” Barlov replied.

That was better.

The colonel held out his hands to be inspected. They were like the ends of twin battering rams, scarred, disfigured, and lethal. “I require no protection,” he said. He did not add that he carried weapons concealed on his person, a habit he had not broken for years.

“Very well,” Barlov replied, “I will send my men to take care of the incident outside, they are needed there. But I cannot leave you alone with this man; I will remain myself.”

The colonel could not protest because Barlov was obviously doing his duty, but he was further annoyed. He looked at the prisoner and made a point for Bariev’s benefit. “If I chose to kill you with my bare hands, you might last as long as thirty seconds,” he said. “But I have no time to amuse myself in this way. You work for the agent Hewlitt!”

Frank said nothing.

Rostovitch waited just long enough to determine that no answer was coming, then he came suddenly forward and started a powerful, openhanded smash against the side of Frank’s face. As he whipped his arm down, Frank without warning kicked him violently in the shin. The impact almost knocked Rostovitch off his feet and caused his own blow to miss. Barlov leaped forward, but the colonel waved him away.

One more time Rostovitch tried to thrust down the boiling acid of frustration and recover his composure. He forced his voice into something approaching normal speech. “Why do you challenge me?” he asked.

“Because you called me a nigger, you horse’s ass, and because you ain’t nearly as good as you think you are.”

Rostovitch’s rage descended to an icy calm; he realized that he had nearly been goaded into forgetting himself, and his whole lower leg burned with pain. He was used to pain, but it had not lost its power to annoy him. Barlov remained silent and motionless, ready to do whatever he was directed. Rostovitch knew that he could have the man before him dead in another fifteen seconds, but that would not reveal any information. Worse, Barlov would not forget what he had seen and heard. “This man has been searched?” he asked, attempting to make it sound casual.

Barlov was stung. “Thoroughly. He would not have been permitted in your presence otherwise.”

There was another hidden barb in that, although the answer had been completely respectful. Rostovitch let his fingertips feel the contour of the knife that was concealed against his leg. “Leave us,” he said to Barlov in English. “Attend to your men. You will return when I call you.”

Barlov looked at him and knew that he meant exactly what he said. He allowed the slightest suspicion of a satisfied smile to touch the corners of his mouth. Rostovitch noted it and approved; it was a testimonial which told him that his image was intact.

When they were alone Rostovitch looked at Frank for several seconds. “I give you one last chance to save your life,” he lied. “If you tell me enough, fast enough, I may relent. I am not Zalinsky, he is in the hospital. I am Rostovitch!”

“Now ain’t that a great big surprise,” Frank said, and calmly stood up.

The colonel began slowly to walk around him, measuring him with his eyes. When he had finished, the slight exercise had eased the biting pain in his leg and put his mind back into proper focus once more. “You have perhaps heard of me,” he said with deceptive mildness.

Frank looked at the skull-like face and casually surveyed the total picture that the formidable colonel made. “You ain’t much,” he said.

Rostovitch struck like lightning; his left arm shot out aimed directly, with two fingers extended, at Frank’s eyes. Instinctively Frank drew back, then Rostovitch’s hammerlike right fist slammed into his unprotected abdomen.

Frank’s body knifed over from the blow, for a moment he was bent half double. With his hand held edgewise and open, Rostovitch swung down with concentrated force toward the back of

Frank’s neck. The blow landed, but on the top of the skull and well before it had gained its maximum power; despite the sudden shock of pain and loss of wind, Frank was already jerking himself upright, his right arm bent with his hand almost resting on the top of his own shoulder. Using the power of his torso and his leg muscles for a maximum effort, he smashed the top of his elbow against the underside of Rostovitch’s jaw. He felt a renewed stab of pain as the blow hit; he saw Rostovitch’s head snap back, but the jawbone had not broken. Any ordinary man would have been knocked senseless with a shot like that.

The colonel fell back one step, shook himself, and smiled with the fixed expression of a carved mask. Then he kicked.

He did not telegraph it, but he was too far back for any other attack and Frank had anticipated him. He spun sideways, letting the kick hit the side of his hip and deflect; then with his own left foot he kicked, with limited power but great speed, against the back of Rostovitch’s left knee, unlocking the joint.

Rostovitch fell, but when Frank lunged after him he rolled backwards in a complete circle, his head sidewise against his shoulder, and came back up onto his feet again. Frank was still down; Rostovitch aimed a cool and driving kick against his left shoulder and sank it fully home.

Frank flipped onto his back, turned himself with astonishing speed, and aimed his feet toward his opponent. Then he too swung over backward, favoring his shoulder, and gained his own feet.

“A cabdriver,” Rostovitch spat out, almost under his breath. “A cabdriver! You expect me to believe that?”

“You wanna go somewhere?” Frank asked. He stood still, working the muscles of his left shoulder, loosening them and easing the strain of the hard kick he had taken.

Rostovitch attacked again; he seized Frank’s left wrist with both of his hands, lifted it up, and then almost whipped it out of its socket. As he snapped downward Frank dropped with the motion; bent over he spun halfway around to the left and grabbed one of Rostovitch’s own wrists with his free hand. Jerking upward he thrust his injured shoulder into Rostovitch’s armpit. Shooting both of his own arms out he forced the colonel to extend his own arm — the leverage was against Rostovitch then and despite his strength and all of his training, he could not help himself. He knew that he was trapped in the Judo throw Seoi-nage, but once the shouldri was in his armpit, all he could do defensively was to attempt to throw his whole weight backward and pull his opponent oil' balance.

He had only a fraction of a second in which to do that; before he could drop his body Frank straightened his legs, lifting him off the ground, then bent forward rapidly with all of the power his body could command. Despite his more than two hundred pounds of hard, muscular weight, Rostovitch was thrown over Frank’s head and slammed hard onto the floor flat on his back.

He had barely landed when Frank followed up with a driving stomp into the solar plexus, enough to force the wind from Rosto-vitch’s body and to render him momentarily helpless.

Despite the fact that there was almost no breath left in his body, Rostovitch attempted to fight back. With intense determination he managed to roll over, then attempted to thrust himself against Frank’s legs. He managed, and bit into the flesh until the blood flowed freely. Frank broke it, but only by literally tearing himself away. He was breathing heavily now, fighting dizziness as well as intense pain. But he retained his balance and when Rostovitch attempted to get up, he kicked once more and caught him with partial success in the groin.

That doubled Rostovitch up once more. Frank waited, grateful for the opportunity to gulp air and to gather his remaining resources. He was an extraordinarily powerful man, but in Rostovitch he had met an enemy of almost inhuman toughness. He looked, and saw the small, almost concealed hand gun that Rostovitch had had hidden. He leapt forward, hands outstretched, and locked them around the weapon. Then it became a test of strength and Rostovitch was like steel. They wrestled on the floor, without science or skill, until Frank felt the point of Rostovitch’s elbow thrusting into the base of his throat. That meant death and he knew it; in one supreme effort he rolled himself sideways, bending the hand backward against the gun until he felt the wrist snap. Then, his strength all but spent, he hammered his forearm across Rostovitch’s throat.

The colonel gasped and his eyes opened wide. “That’s for calling me a nigger,” Frank panted, not caring whether he was heard or not. Once more he raised his right arm, the edge of his hand hard with his fingers bent slightly backward at their base, slightly curved forward at the joints. In that rigid karate position he smashed it down, with the concentrated remnants of his strength, across the bridge of Rostovitch’s nose.

“And that,” he gasped, “is a present… from the Marines.”

He lay still after that for several seconds across the man he had felled. Gradually his wind came back and the wellsprings of his body recovered a little from the savage beating he had taken. When he had the strength to do so, he lifted himself up a little with his arms and battled to regain control of himself. His shoulder, his leg, and his chest were all racked with agony, and his vision was not entirely clear. When the focus began to come back he looked down at the man who lay underneath him. He studied the features and saw that the nose had almost disappeared from the face; the narrow bone that had given it shape had been driven back into the skull. When he saw that he knew that Rostovitch was dead.

It was a full half minute later before he managed to draw his legs up closer to the rest of his body and get unsteadily to his feet. He knew that he had only minutes more to live, if that, but he no longer cared. He saw the small hand gun lying on the carpet and considered picking it up. Then, realizing the futility of it all, he kicked it aside, fie had sold his life for a good price and he was satisfied.

When he was able to walk he made his way unsteadily to the door and knocked.