There was a pradavyet at the embassy, a diplomatic assistant whose left foot bad been blown off during a counterinsurgency operation in Riga a number of years ago. He was a KGB veteran and he and Taleniekov had once been friends. It perhaps was not the moment to test that former friendship, but Vasili had no choice. He knew the number of the embassy; it had not changed in years. He reinserted the coin and dialed.

  “It’s been a long time since that terrible night in Riga, old friend,” said Taleniekov after having been connected to the pradavyet’s office.

  “Would you remain on the line, please,” was the reply. “I have another call.” Vasili stared at the telephone. If the wait was more than thirty seconds, he’d have his answer; the former friendship would not serve. There were ways for even the Soviets to trace a call in the national capital of the United States. He turned his wrist and kept his eyes on the thin, jumping hand of his watch.

  Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one… thirty-two. He reached up to break the connection when he heard the voice.

  “Taleniekov? It is you?” Vasili recognized the echoing sound of an activated jamming device placed over the mouthpiece of a telephone. It operated on the principle of electronic spillage; any intercepts would be clogged with static. “Yes, old friend. I nearly hung up on you.” “Riga was not that long ago. What happened? The stories we get are crazy.” “I’m no traitor.” “No one over here thinks you are. We assume you stepped on some large Muscovite feet. But can you retum?” “Someday, yes.” “I can’t believe the charges. Yet you’re herel” “Because I must be. For Russia’s sake, for all our sakes. Trust me. I need information, quickly. If anyone at the embassy has it, you would.” “What is it?” “I’ve just seen a man from Prague, someone the Americans used for his more violent talents. We kept an extensive file on him; I assume we still keep it. Do you know anything—P “Beowulf Agate,” interrupted the diplomat quietly. “It’s Scofield, isn’t it? That’s what drives you still.” “Tell me what you knowl” “Leave it alone, Taleniekov. Leave him alone. Leave him to his own people; he’s finished.” “My God, I’m right,” said Vasili, his eyes on the coffee shop across Nebraska Avenue.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re right about, but I know three cables were intercepted. To Prague, Marseilles and Amsterdam.” “They’ve sent a team,” broke in Taleniekov.

  “Stay away. You have your revenge, the sweetest imaginable. After a lifetime, he’s taken by his own.” “It can’t happen! There are things you don’t know.” “It can happen regardless of what I know. We can’t stop it.” Suddenly, Vasili’s attention was drawn to a pedestrian about to cross the intersection not ten yards from the telephone booth. There was something about the man, the set expression of his face, the eyes that darted from side to side behind the lightly tinted glasses-bewildered, perhaps, but not lost, studying his surroundings. And the man’s clothes, loose-fitting, inexpensive tweeds, thick and made to last… they were French. The glasses were French, the man’s face itself Gallic. He looked across the street toward the marquee of the hotel, and hastened his step.

  Marseilles had arrived.

  “Come in to us.” The diplomat was speaking. “Whatever happened cannot be irreparable in light of your extraordinary contributions.” The former comrade from Riga was being persuasive. Too persuasive. It was not in character between professionals. “The fact that you came in voluntarily will be in your favor. Heaven knows, you’ll have our support. We’ll ascribe your flight to a temporary aberration, a highly emotional state. After all, Scofield killed your brother.” “I killed his wife.” “A wife is not blood. These things are understandable. Do the right thing.

  Come in, Taleniekov.” The excessive persuasion was now illogical. One did not voluntarily turn himself in until the evidence of exoneration was more concrete. Not with an order for summary execution on one’s. head. Perhaps, after all, the former friendship could n6t stand the strain. “You’ll protect me?” he asked the pradavyet.

  “Of course.” A lie. No such protection could be promised. Something was wrong.

  Across the street, the man wearing tinted glasses approached the coffee shop. He slowed his pace, then stopped and went up to the window as if studying a menu affixed to the glass. He lit a cigarette. From inside, barely seen in the sunlight, there was a flicker of a match. The Frenchman went inside. Prague and Marseilles had made contact.

  “Thank you for your advice,” said Vasili into the phone. “I’ll think it over and call you back.” “It would be best if you didn’t delay,” answered the diplomat, urgency replacing sympathetic persuasion. “Your situation would not be improved by any involvement with Scofield. You should not be seen down there.” Seen down there? Taleniekov reacted to the words as though a gun had been fired in front of his face. In his old friend’s knowledge was the betrayall Seen down where? His colleague from Riga knew! The hotel on Nebraska Avenue. Scofield had not exposed the Bern depot-unwittingly or otherwise.

  KGB had! Soviet intelligence was a participant in Beowulf Agate’s execution. Why?

  The Matarese? There was no time to think, only acL… The hotel! Scofield was not sitting alone by a phone in some out-of-the-way place, waiting to hear from intermediaries. He was in the hotel. No one would have to leave the premises to report to Beowulf Agate, no bird could be followed to the target. The target had executed a brilliant maneuver: he was in the direct range of fire, but unseen, observing but unobservable.

  “You really must listen to me, Vasili.” The pradavyet’s words came faster now; he obviously sensed indecision. If his former colleague from Riga had to be killed, it could be done any number of ways within the embassy. That was infinitely preferable to a comrade’s corpse being found in an American hotel, somehow tied to the murder of an American intelligence officer by foreign agents. Which meant the KGB had revealed the location of the depot to the Americans, but had not known the precise schedule of the execution at the time.

  They knew it now. Someone in the State Department had told them, the message clear. His countrymen had to stay away from the hotel-as did the Americans. None could be involved. Vasili had to buy minutes, for minutes might be all he had left. Diversion.

  “I’m listening.” Taleniekov’s voice was choked with sincerity, an exhausted man coming to his senses. “You’re right. I’ve nothing to gain now, only everything to lose. I put myself in your hands. If I can find a taxi in this insane traffic, I’ll be at the embassy in thirty minutes. Watch for me. I need you.” Vasili broke the connection, and inserted another coin. He dialed the hotel’s number; no second could be wasted.

  “He’s here?” said the old woman incredulously, in response to Taleniekov’s statemenL “My guess would be nearby. It would explain the timing, the phone calls, his knowing when someone was in the suite. He could bear sounds through the walls, open a door when he heard someone in the corridor. Are you still in your uniform?” “Yes. I’m too tired to take it off.” “Check the surrounding rooms.” “Good heavens, do you know what you’re asking? What if he…” “I know what I’m paying; there’s more if you do it. Do it! There’s not a moment to be lostl I’ll call you back in five minutes.” “How will I know him?” “He won’t let you into the room.”

  Bray sat shirtless between the open window and the door and let the cold air send shivers through his body. He had brought the temperature of the room down to fifty degrees, the chill was necessary to keep him awake.

  A cold tired man was far more alert than a warm one.

  There was the tiny, blunt sound of metal slapping against metal, then the twisting of a knob. Outside in the hallway a door was being opened.

  Scofield went to the window and closed it, then walked quickly to another window, his minute lookout on a narrow world that soon would be the site of his reverse trap. It had to be soon; he was not sure how much longer he could go on.

  Across the way, the pleasant-looking elderly maid had come out of the suite, towels and sheets still draped over her arm. From the expression on her face, she was perplexed but resigned. Undoubtedly, from her point of view, an unheard-of sum of money had been offered by a foreigner who only wished her to remain in a grand suite of rooms and stay awake to receive a series of very strange telephone calls.

  And someone else had stayed awake to make those calls. Someone Bray owed a great deal to; he would repay her one day. But right now he concentrated on Taleniekov’s bird. She was leaving; she was not capable of staying in the air any longer.

  She had abandoned the drop. It was only a question of time now and very little time at that. The hunter would be forced to examine his trap. And be caught in it.

  Scofield walked over to his open suitcase on the luggage rack and took Gut a fresh shirt. Starched, not soft; a crisp, starched shirt was like a cold room, a benign irritant; it kept one alert.

  He put it on, and crossed to the bedside table where he had placed his gun, a Browning Magnum, Grade 4, with custom-made silencer drilled to his specifications.

  Bray spun around at an unexpected sound. There was hesitant tapping at his door. Why? He had paid for total isolation. The front desk had made it clear to those few employees who might have reason to enter room 13 that the sign on the knob was to be respected.

  Do Not Disturb.

  Yet someone was now disregarding that order, bypassing a guest’s request that had been re-enforced with several hundred dollars. Whoever it was was either deaf or illiterate or.

  It was the maid. Taleniekov’s bird, still in the air. Scofield peered through the tiny circle of glass that magnified the aged features of the face only inches away. The tired eyes, encased in wrinkled flesh swollen by lack of sleep, looked to the left, then the right, then dropped to the lower part of the door. The old woman had to be aware of the Do Not Disturb sign, but it had no meaning for her. Beyond the contradictory behavior, there was something odd about the face… but Bray had no time to study it further. Under these new circumstances, the negotiations had to begin quickly. He shoved the gun into his shirt, the stiff cloth keeping the bulge to a minimum.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Maid service, sir,” was the reply, spoken in an indeterminate brogue, more guttural than definable. “The management has asked that all rooms be checked for supplies, sir.” It was a poor lie, the bird too flawed to think of a better one.

  “Come in,” said Scofield, reaching for the latch.

  “There’s no answer in suite two-eleven,” said the switchboard operator, annoyed by the persistence of the caller.

  “Try it again,” replied Taleniekov, his eyes on the entrance of the coffee shop across the street. “They may have stepped out for a moment, but they‘11 be right back. I know it. Keep ringing, I’ll stay on the line.” “As you wish, sir,” snapped the operator.

  Madness! Nine minutes had passed since the old woman had begun the search, nine minutes to check four doors in the hallway, Even assuming all the rooms were occupied, and a maid had to give explanations to the occupants, nine minutes was far longer than she needed. A fourth conversation would be brief and blunt. Go away. I am not to be disturbed.

  Unless..

  A match flared in the sun4iit, its reflection sharp in the dark glass of the coffee shop window. Vasili blinked and stared; from one of the unseen tables inside there was a corresponding signal, extinguished quickly.

  Amsterdam had arrived; the execution team was complete. Taleniekov studied the figure walking toward the small restaurant. He was tall and dressed in a black overcoat, a gray silk muffler around his throat. His hat, too, was gray, and obscured his profile.

  The ringing on the telephone was now abrasive. Long sudden bursts resulting from a furious operator punching a switchboard button. There was no answer and Vasili began to think the unthinkable: Beowulf Agate had intercepted his bait. If so, the American was in greater danger than he could imagine. Three men had flown in from Europe to be his executioners, and-no less lethal-a gentle-appearing old woman whom he might try to compromise would kill him the instant she felt cornered. He would never know where the shot came from, nor that she even had a weapon.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” said the operator angrily. “There’s still no pickup in suite two-eleven. I suggest you call again.” She did not wait for a reply; the switchboard line was disconnected.

  The switchboard? The operator?

  It was a desperate tactic, one he would never condone except as a last-extremity measure; the risk of exposure was too great. But it was the last extremity and if there were alternatives he was too exhausted to think of them. Again, -he knew only that he had to act, each decision an instinctive reflex, the shaping of those instincts trusted. He reached into his pocket for his money and removed five one-hundred dollar bills.

  Then he took out his passport case, and extracted a letter he had written on an P-nglishlanguage typewriter five days ago in Moscow. The letterhead was that of a brokerage house in Bern; it identified the bearer as one of the firm’s partners. One never knew.

  He walked out of the telephone booth and entered the flow of pedestrians until he was directly opposite the entrance of the hotel. He waited for a break in the traffic, then walked rapidly across Nebraska Avenue.

  Two minutes later a solicitous day manager introduced a Monsieur Blanchard to the operator of the hotel switchboard. This same manager-as impressed with Monsieur Blanchard’s credentials as he was with the two hundred dollars the Swiss financier had casually insisted he take for his troubles-dutifully provided a relief operator while the woman talked alone with the generous Monsieur Blanchard.

  “I ask you to forgive a worried man’s rudeness over the telephone,” said Taleniekov, as he pressed three one-hundred-dollar bills into her nervous hand. “The ways of international finance can be appalling in these times.

  It is a bloodless war, a constant struggle to prevent unscrupulous men from taking advantage of honest brokers and legitimate institutions. My company has just such a problem. There’s someone in this hotel….” A minute later, Vasili was reading a master list of telephone charges, recorded by a mindless computer. He concentrated on the calls made from the second floor; there were two corridors, suites 11 and 1 opposite three double rooms in the west wing, four single rooms on the other side.

  He studied all charges billed to telephones 11 through 15. Names would mean nothing; local calls were not identified by number; long distance charges were the only items that might provide information. Beowulf Agate had to build a cover and it would not be in Washington. He had killed a man in Washington.

  The hotel was, as Taleniekov knew, an expensive one. This was further confirmed by the range of calls made by guests who thought nothing of picking up a telephone and calling London as easily as a nearby restaurant. He scanned the sheets, concentrating on the O.O.T. areas listed.

  1… London, U.K. chgs: $6.50 14… Des Moines, Ia. chgs: $4.75 14… Cedar Rapids, Ia. chgs: $6.0 13… Minneapolis, Minn. chgs: $7.10 15… New Orleans, La. chgs: $11.55 14… Denver, Col. chgs: $6.75 13… Easton, Md. chgs: $8.05 15… Atlanta, Ga. chgs: $3.15 1… Munich, Germ. chgs: $41.10 13… Easton, Md. chgs: $4.30 1… Stockholm, Swed. ‘chgs: $38.5

  Where was the pattern? Suite 1 had made frequent calls to Europe, but that was too obvious, too dangerous. Scofield would not place such traceable calls. Room 14 was centered in the Midwest, Room 15 in the south. There was something but he could not pinpoint it. Something that triggered a memory.

  Then he saw it and the memory was activated, clarified. The one room without a pattern. Room 13. Two calls to Easton, Maryland, one to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Vasili could see the words in the dossier as if he were reading them. Brandon Scofield had a sister in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  Taleniekov memorized both numbers in case it was necessary to use them, if there was time to use them, to confirm them. He turned to the operator. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve been most helpful but I don’t think there’s anything here that will help.” The switchboard operator had entered into the minor conspiracy, and was enjoying her prominence with the impressive Swiss. “If you’ll note, Monsieur Blanchard, suite two-twelve placed a number of overseas calls.” “Yes, I see that. Unfortunately, no one in those cities would have anything to do with the present crisis. Strange, though. Room two-thirteen telephoned Easton and Minneapolis. An odd coincidence, but I have friends in both places. However, nothing relevant.. Vasili let his words drift off, inviting comment.

  “Just between the two of us, Monsieur Blanchard, I don’t think the gentleman in room two-thirteen is all there, if you know what I mean.” “Oh?” The woman explained. The DND on 13 was a standing order; no one was to disturb the man’s privacy. Even room service was instructed to leave the tray tables in the hallway, and maid service was to be suspended until specifically requested. To the best of the operatoes knowledge, there had been no such request in three days. Who could live like that?

  “Of course, we get people like him all the time. Men who reserve a room so they can stay drunk for hours on end, or get away from their wives or meet other women. But three days without maid service, I think is sick.” “It’s hardly fastidious.” “You see it more and more,” said the woman confidentially. “Especially in the government; everyone’s so harried. But when you think our taxes are paying for it-I don’t mean yours, Monsieur….” “He’s in the government?” interrupted Taleniekov.

  “Oh, we think so. The night manager wasn’t supposed to say anything to anybody, but we’ve been here for years, if you know what I mean.” “Old friends, of course. What happened?” “Well, a man came by last evening-actually it was this morning, around five A.m.-and showed the manager a photograph.” “A picture of the man in two-thirteenT’ The operator glanced around briefly; the door of the office was open, but she could not be overheard. “Yes. Apparently he’s really sick. An alcoholic or something, a psychiatric case. No one’s to say anything; they don’t want to alarm him. A doctor will be coming for him sometime today.” “Sometime today? And, of course, the man who showed the photograph identified himself as someone from the government, didn’t he? I mean, that’s how you learned the guest upstairs was in the government?” “When you’ve spent as many years in Washington as we have, Monsieur Blanchard, you don’t have to ask for identification. It’s all over their faces.” “Yes, I imagine it is. Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.” Vasili left the room quickly and rushed out into the lobby. He had his confirmation. He had found Beowulf Agate.