The Minotaur

29

Vice Admiral Henry’s funeral was on Wednesday in Arlington National Cemetery, held outdoors on the grass at the request of his eldest daughter. Everyone who was anyone in the Department of Defense was on hand, so Jake Graf- ton ended up seated among the rank and file. The politicians who ruled the armed forces sat on the right-hand side of the aisle, while on the left were the admirals and generals, who had been carefully seated in order of seniority as protocol demanded. A band played funeral airs and Royce Caplinger, George Ludlow, and CNO deliv- ered short eutogies.

From where he sat Jake could see the backs of the heads of some of the heavyweights. Off to his left were the rows and rows of white monuments, marching across the green rolling terrain with fault- less precision.

To his right was the low bulk of the Pentagon, only the top of it visible between the heads of the people and the uniformed ushers at parade rest.

Tyler Henry had spent his adult life in uniform, and Jake had no doubt that interment at this cemetery, with all those who had also served, would have met with Henry’s approval. After all. Henry had died in combat, fighting for something he believed in.

Half listening to the speeches, Jake Grafton once again consid- ered all he knew about X affair. It was precious little, yet it seemed to him he could see the underlying structure. Per- haps, he mused, even that was an illusion.

The funeral was real enough. Henry was truly dead. The people involved were real, the information passed to the Soviets was real, Smoke Judy’s attempt to steal the Athena file was real. And yet …

When he got back to the office, he made another trip to the copy machine for paper. This time he wrote: “I KNOW YOU ARE THE MINOTAUR.”

He addressed the envelope as before and deposited it in the plaza mailbox when he went down to catch the shuttle to the Pentagon for another round of meetings.

On Thursday the announcement was made that the various com- mittees of congress had authorized the navy to purchase the TRX plane as the A-12. Although the buy schedule was lower than planned, which would raise the cost of each plane by five million dollars, a general celebration was in order. That afternoon Jake and Admiral Dunedin treated everyone in the office to a beer bash at Gus’s Place, a beanery on the lower floor of Jefferson Plaza 1.

“If you had any class, Grafton,” Rob Knight told him, “you’d have taken us to Amelia’s in the Underground.”

“No class. You got that right.”

‘Two more hearings to go,” Rob said. “Without an appropria- tion of money, all we have is a piece of paper to frame.”

Dunedin was in a cheerful mood. He laughed and joked with the troops, seemingly glad to once again, if only for a little while, be just one of the guys. He never could be, of course. The officers he had spent his career with were all retired, except for those precious few who were also vice admirals. All the others were playing golf in Phoenix and Oriando, selling insurance in Virginia Beach or boats in San Diego, or were working for defense contractors.

At one point Dunedin ended up at Jake’s table. When they were temporarily alone, he said, “Really a shame about Tyler Henry. He was going to retire in three months, you know.”

No, Jake didn’t know.

“Had a little cottage up in Maine, right near the beach. Owned it for years. Was going to spend the rest of his life there, he told me, and if he never heard the sound of freedom again he thought he could live with that.” “The sound of freedom” was a public rela- tions euphemism for jet noise.

“I guess you burn out after a while,” Jake said.

“I guess. You win some, lose some, hope for the best. Even the politicians, they try to do that.”

Jake remembered that comment the following week after he watched Royce Caplinger sweat in front of a Senate Appropria- tions subcommittee. They kept him going over numbers for most of the day. Although he was subpoenaed, Jake never took the stand. He was delighted.

Caplinger stayed afterwards for private conversations with the senators. Jake left with Toad Tarkington, who had accompanied him. As they were leaving, Caplinger and Senator Duquesne were shaking hands. It was then that Jake remembered Dunedin’s com- ment

A week later the House Appropriations Committee held their closed-door hearing. Caplinger spent three hours on the stand, Ludlow two hours. After lunch came Jake’s turn on the hot seat. Three hours later Congresswoman Samantha Strader cleared her throat.

Strader was in her early fifties, her hair penned, her eyes screwed up in a characteristic squint. One of only two Democrats in her state’s congressional delegation, she represented a district carved from the core of her state’s capital city, the only area of the state with a significant minority population. She had one of the safest Democratic seats in the country and had been elected pro forma a dozen times, yet until the last election she bad been almost unknown outside her state. Prior to that election she had publicly entertained the idea of entering the presidential primaries as the only woman in the field. Her short-lived quest came to grief on the shoals of political and financial reality, but not before her name and face had been splashed coast to coast by the media. She had jabbed and pricked the real contenders during her moment in the spotlight, had a delightful time, and squinted all the while.

Sam Strader’s avowed passion was the military. Every officer in the Pentagon knew what that meant. She hated them. With an excellent mind, a quick wit, and a tongue to match, she was a formidable opponent.

Today, at this closed hearing of the black projects subcommittee of the House Appropriations Committee, she adjusted the micro- phone in front of her and gazed at Jake Grafton as though looking through a dense smoke screen. “Captain, please justify, if you can, the acquisition of another very expensive major weapons system by the U.S. Navy when Chairman Gorbachev is cutting the Soviet military budget drastically, reducing manpower levels by ten per- cent, slashing new ship construction, cutting navy steaming tune.”

“Congresswoman,” Jake said, trying to digest the question. “I don’t think I’m qualified to address that. I’m here to testify about the merits of the prototypes evaluated by the Advanced Tactical Aircraft program for production as the A-12.”

“Didn’t Secretary Ludlow send you over here to testify?”

“Yes, ma’am. He did. And this panel questioned him for two hours this morning.”

“Now it’s your turn. Answer the question, if you can.”

“As I’ve already said, we need the A-12 because the A-6 is wearing out. The A-6 has an airframe designed in the 1950s and is already past the end of its service life. The carriers must have a viable all-weather attack capability or they are obsolete and—“

“But what about the Soviet initiative?”

“Congresswoman, he’s trying to answer your question.” The chairman of the House Appropriations Committee was a Texas Democrat. Just now he looked bored. No doubt he was faking. Rumor had it he had underestimated Sam Strader once too often in the past. That was a mistake Jake Grafton had no intention of making. He was sitting at attention, listening carefully.

Strader ignored the chairman. “Captain Grafton, I want to know when the navy is going to realize that the Soviet threat is diminishing and accordingly lower its requests for funds from this Congress.”

“The navy doesn’t make budget requests of Congress. The ad- ministration does. Be that as it may, you assume the Soviet threat is diminishing significantly. I disagree. And the Soviets are only one of our possible adversaries. They still have four million men under arms. They have a formidable, capable navy. We are buying the A-12 to provide an all-weather attack capability for our aircraft carriers for the next thirty years. We must provide a strong Sunday punch for our fleet regardless of the twists and turns of Soviet policy or the ups and downs of this or that communist politician.”

“If the threat is diminishing, can we then scrap a carrier or two and cut back the A-12 buy order?”

“Congresswoman, the Warsaw Pact still has over fifty thousand tanks, four times as much artillery, and twice as many planes as NATO can muster. The Soviet army is three times larger than ours. We are a sea power. Over fifty percent of our oil is imported- I think any reduction of our naval capability when faced with these realities would be very unwise.”

“Captain, it seems to me that both we and the Soviets have spent more money on the military than either nation can afford, and now we have a perfect opportunity to reduce that expenditure. If we deterred them with what we had before they made a ten percent reduction, we can deter them just as well in the future if we make a ten percent reduction.”

“You persist in assuming the Soviet Union is our only possible opponent in a world in which we have global commitments. In the last forty years the navy has seen action in Korea, Vietnam, Gre- nada, and Libya and Lebanon several times. We’ve had to meet those commitments and deter the Soviets too.”

“And more gadgets are going to enable the navy to continue to do that?”

“I wouldn’t characterize the A-12 as a—“

“I would! You people are gadget-happy. The attitude in the Pen- tagon seems to be that gadgets will keep us free. In the meantime our schools are atrocious and our bridges and highways are disinte- grating. We desperately need a nationwide chud-care system for working mothers and a long-term healthcare system for the el- derly. The damage that drugs are doing to the children of America is a national disgrace. We need to greatly expand our drug educa- tion and law enforcement efforts. Yet we can afford none of this because we keep borrowing money to buy grotesque gadgets to kill people with. And this at a time when the Cold War is over!”

“I’m not testifying to that,” Jake said tartly, and felt Toad Tar- kington kick him under the table- “The choices are difficult,” he added. “I don’t envy you your responsibilities.”

“Congresswoman Strader.” the chairman rumbled. “This is a closed hearing. Your remarks will not leave this room, so I am at a loss as to why you are making a stump speech to Captain Grafton, who, unless I am mistaken, doesn’t vote in your district”

Strader shifted her squint back to Grafton. “Just when will the navy’s budget requests reflect the new geopolitical realities?”

Jake answered carefully. “The navy’s budget requests to the ad- ministration are based on the needs of the navy in light of the commitments the government has assigned the navy. As for geopo- litical realities, I think the political ferment that is occurring in the Soviet Union is the most hopeful development in that nation in this century. But who knows if Gorbachev will prevail? He may be assassinated. There may be a coup- He may just be booted out by his colleagues. We can’t sink the U.S. Navy this year and hope for the best.”

“Time will tell. Is that your testimony? We should let the real human needs of our citizens go unmet so we can continue to fund a military establishment that is a travesty in a world seeking real peace?”

“Your admiration for Chairman Gorbachev is in many ways reminiscent of Neville Chamberlain’s warm regard for Adolf Hitler.I hope you don’t have reason later on lo regret your enthu- siasm, as Chamberlain did.”

Toad’s shoe smacked on his shin again as Strader snarled, “I deeply resent that remark. Captain. I—“

The chairman cut her off. “Congresswoman Strader, this is not the time and place for a political colloquy with Captain Grafton. Please address your questions to the issue at hand. I must insist.”

Strader stared at Grafton. She was furious. “Why is the A-12 a black project?”

‘The technology involved is—“

“No! I reject that. The air force used that explanation for the B-2 bomber—$516 million each — and going higher — and the F-117A —$62 million each. They’ve acquired unproven airplanes with lim- ited capabilities, airplanes that must be operated from paved run- ways that will be the Soviets’ first nuclear targets in the event of war- No, Captain Grafton. Public debate is what the administra- tion and the Pentagon seek to avoid.” Her gaze shifted to the chairman. “Public debate is what you wish to avoid, Mr. Chair- man, so that your state can secure another bloated, outrageous defense contract for technology that may well not do what those hogs at the Pentagon—“

“Time’s up.” The chairman smacked his gavel.

Strader was just getting up steam. “… that those money-hun- gry swine at the Pentagon have carefully steered to your state so that—“

“You’re out of time, Congresswoman,” the chairman said, his voice rising, “and out of order. Thank you for your testimony, Captain Grafton. You’re excused.”

Strader kept talking. Jake packed his briefcase and handcuffed it to his wrist “… these machines are being purchased to fight wars that everyone knows will never occur. Billions of dollars down the sewer! It’s obscene,”

Jake rose and walked for the door with Tarkington at his elbow. Behind him Strader and the chairman were shouting at each other.

“You ever kick me again, Tarkington, and you’ll need a proctol- ogist to surgically remove that shoe.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door closed behind them and they were walking down the corridor, Jake said, “I really lost it in there, didn’t I?”

“Yes. sir. You did.”

“Well, if they’ll just vote the funds now, we’ve done the navy a pretty good job.”

“I suppose.”

As they went down the outside steps of the Capitol, Jake said, “I hope she’s right. I hope the wars never occur.”

“Yeah. And I hope I live forever,” Toad Tarkington said, and signaled to the transportation pool driver, who was standing beside the car a hundred yards away.

As the car pulled up. Toad climbed into the front seat, Jake into the back. They had just pulled the doors shut when the rear door opened again. Jake looked up. The man standing there had a pistol pointed at him. “Slide over, Captain.”

Jake hesitated for just a second and glanced into the front seat. The driver had a gun pointed at Toad. Jake scooted.

The man outside took a seat and pulled the door shut.

“Gentlemen, as you can see, we are both armed. You are going to be our guests for a little while. Mr. Tarkington?”

When Toad didn’t respond, the man beside Jake nudged Toad in the neck with the barrel of his gun. “Mr. Tarkington?”

“Yeah.”

“I have a gun too, and it is pointed at Captain Grafton. The gentleman behind the wheel is going to put his gun in his pocket and drive. If you twitch, if you shout, if you open your door or reach for the wheel or ignition key, I will first shoot Captain Graf- ton, then I will shoot you. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you feel heroic?”

“Not especially.”

“That is very good. You and your captain may live through this experience if you do exactly as I say, when I say it.”

Tarkington said nothing.

“Put on your seat belts and lock your doors.”

Jake and Toad obeyed.

“Okay, if everyone understands the ground rules, we go.”

The driver put the transmission in drive and fed gas.

The gunman in the backseat was in his fifties, with short hair. He was tanned, stocky, and wore a well-fitting dark suit.

“Where is the sailor who was driving this car?” ‘T

“Captain, I warn you for the last time. You will sit absolutely quiet. One word, just one more word, and I will hurt you very badly.”

Jake Grafton looked at the gunman, then at the back of the driver’s head. Toad sat rigid, staring straight ahead.

The car went out onto Independence Avenue and crept west in stop-and-go traffic. Jake eased the briefcase on his lap and felt the gun dig into his side. He sat very still and eventually the gun went away.

Okay, so he wasn’t going to whack this guy with the briefcase and bail out of the car. That stuff only works in movies. He was going to sit very still and hope this guy didn’t blow his brains out, or Tarkington’s.

In spite of the air conditioning, Jake was perspiring profusely — He felt the moisture form rivulets on his face.

He tried to think. Here he was in the backseat of a navy Ford Fairmont sedan rolling through the streets of Washington. At the curbs buses were loading and unloading tourists, hordes of people from Nashville and Little Rock and Tokyo. People in cars with plates from the Midwest and South rubbernecked, and the drivers ignored the traffic signs, seeming to delight in suicidal lane changes and illegal turns onto one-way streets. Kids were running and shoving and demanding pop, mothers were calming squealing in- fants. and everyone was waiting in line or looking for a restroom. Yet in the middle of it all Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington had guns in their ribs.

Maybe this guy was X. Maybe he was an Ivy League political appointee who had sold out for some reason only a psychi- atrist would understand. Yet the way he handled that pistol — Jake knew competence with a weapon when he saw it.

The driver swung left on Fourteenth Street and began to acceler- ate as he jockeyed with traffic. He crossed the Potomac on the George Mason Memorial Bridge and took the ramp down onto George Washington Parkway northbound.

“You can drop us anywhere along here,” Toad said, “and we’ll walk back to the office.”

Jake winced at the sound of his voice. The gunman beside him paid no attention.

“Glad we could give you guys a—” The driver’s right hand flicked into Toad’s face with a sickening smack, which knocked his hat off. The car didn’t even swerve.

Toad sagged against the window, then slowly raised his head.

The car continued up the parkway. The river was visible be- tween the trees on the right. They passed the entrance to the CIA complex at Langley and continued on at fifty-five miles per hour, the traffic flowing around them at least ten miles over the speed limit

Traffic on the beltway was thickening as the first surge of rush hour emptied from the city. The man at the wheel kept the car in the middle lane. On and on they rolled, past the Frederick cutoff, east now across the northern edges of the city.

Jake Grafton was bitterly regretting the impulse that had made him mail two letters to when the driver finally edged into a gap in the right lane and took the ramp down to New Hampshire Avenue, where he caught the green light and turned left, northward. They passed the Naval Surface Weapons Center and turned left, into a residential area. After four or five turns down shady streets with cars parked at the curbs and in driveways, the man at the wheel slowed. From a pocket he produced a garage- door opener. He aimed it as he swung left into a driveway. The door rose obediently. The car coasted to a stop inside the garage and the driver triggered the remote-control device again. The ga- rage got very dark as the closing door shut out the light.

“Okay, gentlemen- We are here. We will sit here very quiet and still while the driver checks out the house.” The driver was already out of the car. He fiddled with the knob on the inside door, used a key or pick, and had it open in a few seconds. Before he entered he took out his pistol. In about a minute he was back. He nodded.

Toad went first, walking around the car while the driver in the doorway held a pistol on him.

Then it was Jake’s turn. From the garage he entered a kitchen. Through the sliding glass door he could see a backyard swing.

“The basement.”

Jake went down the stairs. The slanted ceiling was so low he had to tilt his head.

The older of the two men, the man who had ridden in the back- seat with Jake, held out his hand toward Toad. “The handcuff key.”

Toad extracted it from his pocket and passed it across. The man used it to unlock the briefcase from Jake’s wrist and cuff him to a chair. The driver produced a set of cuffs from a trouser pocket and cuffed Tarkington to a table. ”

As the driver sat on the couch with his pistol on his lap and lit a cigarette, the older man examined the lock on the briefcase. He glanced at Jake. “The combination?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, Captain. Do you honestly think I couldn’t open the case without it? I merely wished to save myself several minutes of ef- fort.”

Jake told him the combination. The man had it open in thirty seconds, scooped out the documents, and after glancing at his watch, sat down on the couch to read them.

“Who are you?” Toad asked.

“Does it matter?” the reader asked without looking up.

“Not right now. But I’d like a name to give to the FBI.”

The man just chuckled dryly and continued reading.

After a while — Jake wasn’t sure how long, since he couldn’t see his watch — the man said, “This Athena device, a superconductive computer with multiple CPUs, do you think it can be successfully produced in three years?”

Jake said nothing- His stomach felt like he had swallowed a stone.

“Oh well, I don’t have the time to get the answers, and I doubt that you would be forthright in any event. But it certainly is an interesting technological development. You Americans! A nation of tinkerers. What will you think of next?”

He went back through the documents slowly, taking his time, studying them. His pistol lay on the table beside him, within easy reach. Twice he glanced at his watch.

Jake looked around the room. The driver kept his eyes”on him or Toad all the time. His pistol lay in his lap. Toad had both wrists cuffed together around the leg of a rather large table. Still, given a few seconds, he could lift the leg and be free of the table. Obviously that possibility did not concern the two gunmen very much. If Toad tried it. he would be shot or pistol-whipped within seconds.

Jake’s cuffs went through the arm of a chair. Beside the chair sat a floor lamp, but to reach it with his right hand, he would need to stick his left hand under this chair arm. It was temptingly close, but he would need an opportunity. And if he got it, what then?

What did those instructors always say at SERE — Survival, Eva- sion, Resistance, and Escape — school? Never give up. Stay ready. Your chance will come.

These guys were waiting for someone. That much was obvious. Who??

They had been in the basement for almost an hour when the stocky man spoke to the driver. ‘Upstairs now, I think. Be sure to unplug the garage-door opener.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver went.

“Are you X?” Toad asked.

The stocky man threw back his head and laughed. “That is good. Very good. You are a real comedian.”

“He’s not X,” Jake said.

“Ah, Captain. What makes you say that?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“A captain in the U.S. Navy knows the identity of X. Or at least knows who he is not. Interesting. Instructive. Ill bet you are a fount of interesting information. Captain. No doubt we’ll have time later this evening to elicit some of it”

He walked toward Jake with his back toward Toad. Jake tried to keep his eyes on the gunman, yet still he saw Toad bend down and grasp the table leg. It came off the floor. Even as it did the gunman whirled with his pistol at arm’s length, leveled in both hands, pointed straight at Toad’s face. “What makes you think,” he asked easily, “that I need you alive?”

Toad let the table leg go back down to the floor. “Oh,” he said lightly, trying to smile and not succeeding, “I thought you liked my witty repartee.”

“I do like you. With a mouth like yours you should be in Holly- wood in the movies, not pushing paper at the Pentagon.” The gunman lowered the gun and took the seat on the couch that the driver had vacated, a place where he could watch both men with a minimum of effort- “Now I think we will sit silently, not saying a word. Like mice.”

“You’re a cocksucker,” Toad said.

The gunman looked at him and pursed his lips slightly.

“A genuine cocksucker. A cheap dick-sucking spook with a gun, a man who thinks everybody should faint dead away when he pulls out his weapon. Is that what they do when you whip out your dick? Is that—“

The gunman was very quick. He was moving and chopping with the pistol all in one motion.

Toad Tarkington was just as quick. He came off the chair and kicked mightily with his right leg. It caught the man in the knee and he lost his balance. Toad was erect now, the table banging from his cuffs, his leg swinging again. This kick hit the gunman in the arm. The pistol went flying.

Jake leaped from the chair, dragging it. The lamp fell over- He dragged the heavy chair toward the pistol on the floor. Toad was still kicking.

He was almost to the gun when he heard the shot and saw a chunk fly from the carpet just in front of him.

He froze. The driver came down the stairs with the gun leveled. “Get back.” He gestured threateningly at Toad, who seemed to shrink as his muscles relaxed. Tarkington exhaled convulsively, then turned slightly to find the chair he had been sitting on. At that moment the driver hit him a vicious blow in the back of the head with the gun and he fell heavily, overturning the table.

The second man helped the stocky man to the couch. He was still holding his stomach. He had blood on the comer of his mouth. Apparently one of Toad’s kicks had taken him in the face.

“Upstairs. Get back upstairs. Get me my gun first.”

The second man obeyed, then went back up the stairs.

“Sit in the chair. Captain, right where you are. Sit! One move, just one, and I’ll kill you and the lieutenant. Understand?”

Jake made the smallest of head nods. He sat.

Time passed. Minute by minute. The gunman on the couch massaged his arm and leg. Toad had really connected. Twice the man wiped the sweat from his face with his shirttail.

Toad stirred once. The table was on end beside him. He lay amid the magazines and newspapers that had gone flying when he jerked the table off the floor. Toad seemed to be breathing easily.

Jake heard the shuffling on the floor above him. and faintly the sound of a door closing. In seconds he heard someone walking above, then steps on the stair. He turned his head. Legs descend- ing.

Luis Camacho walked into the room with the driver behind him, his gun in Camacho’s back. “Hi, Harlan. Didn’t know if I was going to see you again.”

Camacho walked over to the couch and seated himself next to Albright “Jesus, what have you idiots done to my basement?”

Albright gestured at Tarkington, who was stirring again. “That fucker thought he was a hero.”

“Looks like that table has a busted leg. My wife isn’t going to be happy.”

The driver stood near the bottom of the stairs where he could watch everyone. He kept the pistol leveled at Caroacho,

“Well, Captain,” Camacho said. “You’ve had an eventful after- noon.”

“Yeah,” Jake replied. “Who are these guys?”

“Well, the man beside me goes by the name of Harlan Albright His real name is Peter Aleksandrovich Chistyakov, And this gen- tleman with the pistol at the bottom of the stairs — though I have never before had the pleasure — is, I think. Major Arkady Yakov of the Soviet Army.”

“Okay,” Albright said, “thanks for the introductions.” He rose from the couch and turned Toad’s table upright, then pulled a chair around and sat on it, facing Camacho.

“You know why I’m here. I thought since I was going to drop by, I might as well help myself to some Athena information on the way. It was very interesting. But it is you I want.”

“How droll. I wanted to talk to you too. You should have called.”

“You’re going to give me some answers, Luis. Now. If you don’t, first we’re going to kill the lieutenant. Then the captain. Then you. I want answers.”

“What will you do with them if you get them?”

Albright’s eyes widened. He took three steps across to the tele- phone at the end of the couch, picked it up and held it to his ear. He jiggled the button on the cradle, then replaced the instrument. “Upstairs, Yakov. Check the front and back.”

The major took the stairs two at a time.

In about a minute he was back. He spoke to Albright in a foreign language, one that sounded to Jake like Russian.

“This is a setup.”

Camacho shrugged. “My people saw you drive in. I thought you might be by to see me sooner or later. Didn’t know who you brought with you, though. Sorry, Captain.”

Jake nodded.

Camacho stood and shook out his trousers. ‘Tell you what, Harlan. Let’s you and I go downtown. We can talk there. No sense keeping these fellows any longer.”

Albright took his pistol from his pocket. “Sit”

When Camacho obeyed, Albright followed suit, back at the ta- ble. He rubbed his eyes. “So.” He spoke a sentence in Russian.

Camacho waved a hand irritably. “You know I can’t handle that language anymore. English or nothing.”

“You’ve been stringing me right along, haven’t you, Luis?”

Camacho’s shoulders moved a quarter inch up, then subsided.

“That name you gave me. That was bullshit, wasn’t it?”

“No. That was the name.”

“Why?”

“You have something we want. At least we think you have it You’re going to give it to me, Harlan. Hard or easy, you’re going to give it to me.”

‘Tell me what you want and maybe I’ll give it to you now.”

Camacho threw back his head and laughed. “You want to de- fect?”

Albright’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe.”

“Then shoot the major.”

“Just like that?”

“Then we’ll talk. That would be the easy way. The hard way will be more strenuous, but equally productive, I think.”

Albright glanced at the major, who was looking straight at Ca- macho. Still, Jake saw the major’s eyes flick sideways to catch Albright’s glance.

“You can’t get out of here, Harlan,” Camacho said, and stretched lazily. “The place is completely surrounded, with heli- copters and light planes overhead. Why don’t you two give me the guns and we’ll go upstairs and wave at Dreyfus. Then you and I can go downtown to the office. I’m sure the two of us can work something out.”

“I may not know the fact you want, Luis.”

“I think you do.”

“You’ve gone to an extraordinary lot of trouble for nothing if I don’t know it.”

“Life’s like that.”

“Maybe I could just give it to you here and now. If I know it.”

Camacho sat silently looking at Albright. “Three names.” he said at last.

Albright laughed, a long, loud guffaw. “All of this — for that?”.

“Yes.”

“My hat is off to you. I salute you. Never did I suspect. Not even once.” Albright shook his head and chuckled silently as he ex- amined his pistol.

Camacho sat motionless, watching Albright.

“You do know,” the FBI agent said finally, when all the laugh- ing had stopped.

“You found the bomb?”

“Yes.”

“It was a warning. I needed that name.”

“I know. Hard or easy. Your choice.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take you and Captain Grafton as hostages,” Albright said, rising from the chair. He glanced toward Yakov and jerked his head at Jake. As Yakov stepped in that direction Albright shot him.

Yakov spun, firing at Albright. The bullet hit Albright square in the chest and his pistol sagged, exploding again pointed at the floor. At almost the same instant Toad Tarkington lashed out with his feet, and Albright went sideways as a foot was kicked out from under him. Yakov’s second shot hit his shoulder and he spun from the impact as he fell.

Yakov’s third shot came as he was falling. It was aimed at Cama- cho. who was still sitting on the couch. He hadn’t moved.

Camacho doubled over as Yakov hit the floor.

Jake toppled his chair going for Yakov’s pistol. He wrestled the gun from the major’s weak grasp and crouched beside the chair, on top of the Russian major as he watched Albright

The whole sequence hadn’t taken five seconds.

Toad got to his feet. He was free of the table. He bent down shakily and retrieved the pistol that Albright had dropped. “This ‘ one’s still alive.”

“Quick,” Jake said. “Check Camacho.”

Jake held the gun on the major’s head as Toad stretched Cama- cho on the couch. “He’s hit lower down,” Toad said. “Dead center. Still alive, though.”

“Go upstairs. Get the agents.” Toad made for the stairs. “Put the gun in your pocket,” Jake called after him. “Don’t let them shoot you.”

Camacho sat up on one elbow.

“Is he dead?” be whispered hoarsely, looking at the major.

“No,” Jake said. “He’s hit in the right side, but he isn’t dead. He may make it.”

“Kill him.”

“Why?”

“He heard too much. Kill him!” Camacho coughed, a bubbly gurgle.

Jake moved toward Camacho, dragging the chair. Behind him Major Yakov began to crawl.

“Give me the gun,” Camacho said.

“No.”

“This isn’t a game, Grafton! Give me the gun!”

Jake tossed it.

The pistol landed on the couch. Camacho groped for it while Yakov struggled for the stairs.

Yakov jerked as the first shot hit him. He tried again to crawl. Taking his time, Camacho shot him four more times. A red stain spread across the back of Yakov’s shirt and he lay still.

Camacho dropped the pistol and sagged down onto the couch.

“Albright! Albright, can you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Give — me — the — names.” Camacho dragged himself along the couch so he could see the Russian’s face-

“I—” Albright’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Then he ceased to move at all.

Camacho’s head went down to rest on the couch-

“Who is X?” Jake demanded. With a heave he got the chair over to the couch and shook Camacho. ‘Tell me! Who is?”

“You don’t want— No! It’s not what you — he’s not…”

Camacho went limp. Jake turned his head so he could see his face. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at nothing.

Jake sagged down beside the bloody couch. He heard the sound of running feet upstairs.