What diflerence does it make? A perceptive question asked by an eager if not very perceptive young colleague.

  None, Harry. None at all. Not any longer.

  But on this particular night, the needles of doubt kept pricking Bray’s conscience. Not his morality; long ago morality had been replaced by the practical. If it worked, it was moral, if it did not, it wasn’t practical, and thus was immoral. What bothered him tonight had its basis in that utilitarian philosophy. Was the execution practical? Was the lesson about to be taught the best lesson, the most feasible option? Was it worth the risks and the fallout that came with the death of an old man who’d spent his adult life in space engineering?

  On the surface the answer would appear to be yes. Six years ago the Soviet engineer bad defected in Paris during international space exposition. He bad sought and been granted asylum; he had been welcomed by the space fraternity in Houston, given a job, a house, and protection.

  However, he was not considered an outstanding prize. The Russians had actually joked about his ideological deviation, implyini that his talents might be more appreciated by the less-demanding capitalistic laboratories than by theirs. He rapidly became a forgotten man.

  Until eight months ago when it was discovered that Soviet tracking stations were gridding into American satellites with alarming frequency, reducing the value of photographic checks through sophisticated ground camouflage. It was as if the Russians knew in advance the great majority of orbital trajectories.

  They did. And a trace was made; it led to the forgotten man in Houston.

  What followed was relatively simple: A technical conference that dealt exclusively with one forgotten man’s small area of expertise was called in Amsterdam; he was flown over on a government aircraft and the rest was up to a specialist in these matters. Brandon Scofield, attach6-at-large, Consular Operations.

  Scofield had long since broken KGB-Amsterdam’s codes and methods of contact. He put them in motion and was mildly surprised at the target’s reaction; it was the basis of his profound concern now. The old man showed no relief at the summons. After six years of a balancing act, the target had every right to expect termination with honors, the gratitude of his government, and the last years of his life spent in comfort.

  Expect, hell. Bray had indicated as much in their ciphered conversations.

  But the old Russian was not a happy man. And there were no overriding personal relationships evident in Houston. Scofield had requested the FourZero dossier on the target, a file so complete it detailed the projected hours of bowel movements. There was nothing in Houston; the man was a mole-apparently, in both senses of the word. And that, too, bothered Bray. A mole in espionage did not assume the characteristics of the social equivalent.

  Something was wrong. Yet the evidence was there, the proof of duplicity confirmed. The lesson had to be taught.

  A short, sharp whine came from the transmitter in his hand. It was repeated three seconds later; Scofield acknowledged receipt with the press of a button. He put the radio in his pocket and waited.

  Less than a minute passed; he saw the figure of the old man coming through the blanket of fog and rain, a street-light beyond creating an eerie silhouette. The target’s gait was hesitant but somehow painfully determined, as if he were about to keep a rendezvous both desired and loathed. It did not make sense.

  Bray glanced to his right. As he expected, there was no one in the street, no one anywhere to be seen in this deserted section of the city at this hour. He turned to his left and started up the ramp toward the midpoint of the bridge, the old Russian on the opposite side. He kept in the shadows; it was easy to do as the first three lights above the left railing had been shorted out.

  Rain pounded the ancient cobblestones. Across the bridge proper, the old man stood facing the water below, his hands on the railing. Scofield stepped off the walkway and approached from behind, the sound of the downpour obscuring his footsteps. In his left raincoat pocket, his hand now gripped a round, flatcase two inches in diameter and less than an inch thick. It was coated in waterproof plastic, the sides possessing a chemical that when immersed in liquid for thirty seconds became an instant adhesive; under such conditions it would remain where it was placed until cut free.

  In the case was the evidence: a reel of film and a reel of magnetic tape.

  Both could be studied by KGB-Amsterdam.

  “Plakhaya noch, stary p7iyatyel,” said Bray to the Russian’s back, while taking the automatic from his pocket.

  The old man turned, startled. “Why did you contact me?” he asked in Russian. “Has anything happened?…” He saw the gun and stopped. Then he went on, an odd calm in his voice suddenly replacing the fear. “I see it has, and I’m no longer of value. Go ahead, comrade. You’ll do me an enormous favor.” Scofield stared at the old man; at the penetrating eyes that were no longer frightened. He had seen that look before. Bray answered in English.

  “You’ve spent an active six years. Unfortunately, you haven’t done us any favors at all. You weren’t as grateful as we thought you might be.” The Russian nodded. “American,” he said, “I wondered. A hastily called conference in Amsterdam over problems as easily analyzed in Houston. My being allowed out of the country, albeit covertly, and guarded-that protection something less than complete once here. But you had all

  the codes, you said all the right words. And your Russian is flawless, priyatyel.” “That’s my job. What was yours?” “You know the answer. It’s why you’re here-P “I want to know why.” The old man smiled grimly. “Oh, no. You’ll get nothing but what you’ve learned. You see, I meant what I said. You’ll do me a favor. You’re my listok.” “Solution to what?” “Sorry.,, Bray raised the automatic; its small barrel glistened in the rain. The Russian looked at it and breathed deeply. The fear returned to his eyes, but he did not waver or say a word. Suddenly, deliberately, Scofield thrust the gun up beneath the old man’s left eye, steel and flesh making contact.

  The Russian trembled but remained silent.

  Bray felt sick.

  What difierence does it make?

  None, Harry. Not at all. Not any longer.

  A lesson had to be taught.

  Scofield lowered the gun. “Get out of here,” he said.

  “What?…” “You heard me. Get out of here. The KGB operates out of the diamond exchange on the Tolstraat. It’s cover is a firm of Hasidim, Diamant Bruusteen. Beat it.” “I don’t understand,” said the Russian, his voice barely audible. “Is this another trick?” “Godarrin it!” yelled Bray, now trembling. “Get out of here!” Momentarily, the old man staggered, then grabbed the railing to steady himself. He backed away awkwardly, then started running through the rain.

  “Scofield!” The shout came from Harry. He was at the west entrance of the bridge, directly in the path of the Russian. “Scofield, for God’s sakel” “Let him go!” screamed Bray.

  He was either too late or his words were lost in the pounding rain; he did not know which. He heard three muted, sharp reports and watched in disgust as the old man held his head and fell against the railing.

  Harry was a professional. He supported the body, fired a last shot into the neck, and with an upward motion, edged the corpse over the railing into the canal below.

  What diflerence does it make?

  None at all. Not any longer.

  Scofield turned away and walked toward the east side of the bridge. He put the automatic in his pocket; it seemed heavy.

  He could hear racing footsteps drawing neater through the rain. He was terribly tired and did not want to hear them. Any more than he wanted to hear Harry’s abrasive voice.

  “Bray, what the hell happened back there? He nearly got away!” “But he didn’t,” said Scofield, walking faster. “You made sure of that.” “You’re damn right I did! For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” The younger man was on Bray’s left; his eyes dropped to Scofield’s hand. He could see the edge of the watertight case. “Jesus! You never planted it!” “What?” Then Bray realized what Harry was talking about. He raised his head, looked at the small round receptacle, then threw it past the younger man over the railing.

  “What are you doing?” “Go to hell,” said Scofield quietly.

  Harry stopped, Bray did not. In seconds, Harry caught up and grabbed the edge of Scofield’s raincoat. “Christ Almighty! You let him get away!” “Take your hands off me.” “No, damn it! You can’t–” It was as far as Harry got. Bray shot his right hand up, his fingers clasping the younger man’s exposed thumb, and yanked it counterclockwise.

  Harry screamed; his thumb was broken.

  “Go to hell,” repeated Scofield. He continued walking off the bridge.

  The safe-bouse was near the Rosengracht, the meeting to take place on the second floor. The sitting room was warmed by a fire, which also served to destroy any notes that might be taken. A State Department official had flown in from Washington; he wanted to question Scofield at the scene, as it were, in the event there were circumstances that only the scene could provide. It was important to understand what had happened, especially with someone like Brandon Scofield. He was the best there was, the coldest they had; he was an extraordinary asset to the American intelligence community, a veteran of twenty-two years of the most complicated “negotiations” one could imagine. He had to be handled with care… at the source. Not ordered back on the strength of a departmental complaint filed by a subordinate. He was a specialist, and something had happened.

  Bray understood this and the arrangements amused him. Harry was taken out of Amsterdam the next morning in such a way that there was no chance of Scofield seeing him. Among the few at the embassy who had to be aware of the incident, Bray was treated as though nothing had taken place. He was told to take a few days off; a man was flying in from Washington to discuss a problem in Prague. That’s what the cipher said. Wasn’t Prague an old hunting ground of his?

  Cover, of course. And not a very good one. Scofield knew that his every move in Amsterdam was now being watched, probably by teams of Company men.

  And if he had walked to the diamond exchange on the Tolstraat, he undoubtedly would have been shot.

  He was admitted into the safe-house by a nondescript maid of indeterminate age, a servant convinced that the old house belonged to the retired couple who lived there and paid her. He said he had an appointment with the owner and his attorney. The maid nodded and showed him up the stairs to the second-floor sitting room.

  The old gentleman was there but not the man from State. When the maid closed the door, the owner spoke.

  “I’ll wait a few minutes and then go back up to my apartment. If you need anything, press the button on the telephone; it rings upstairs.” “Thanks,” said Scofield, looking at the Dutchman, reminded of another old man on a bridge. “My associate should be along shortly. We won’t need anything.” The man nodded and left. Bray wandered about the room, absently fingering the books on the shelves. It occurred to him that he wasn’t even trying to read the titles; actually he didn’t see them. And then it struck him that he didn’t feel anything, neither cold nor heat, not even anger or resignation. He didn’t feel anything. He was somewhere in a cloud of vapor, numbed, all senses dormant. He wondered what he would say to the man who had flown thirtyfive hundred miles to see him.

  He did not care.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs beyond the door. The maid had obviously been dismissed by a man who knew his way in this house. The door opened and the man from State walked in.

  Scofield knew him. He was from Planning and Development, a strategist for covert operations. He was around Bray’s age, but thinner, a bit shorter, and given to oldschool-tie exuberance which he did not feel, but which he hoped concealed his ambition. It did not.

  “Bray, how are you, old buddy?” he said in a halfshout, extending an exuberant hand for a more exuberant grip. “My God, it must be damn near two years. Have I got a couple of stories to tell you!” “Really?” “Have V’ An exuberant statement, no question implied. “I went up to Cambridge for my twentieth, and naturally ran into friends of yours right and left. Well, old buddy, I got pissed and couldn’t remember what lies I told who about you! Christ Almighty, I had you an import analyst in Malaya, a language expert in New Guinea, an undersecretary in Canberra.

  it was hysterical. I mean, I couldn’t remember I was so pissed.” “Why would anyone ask you about me, CharlieT’ “Well, they knew we were both at State; we were friends, everybody knew that.” “Cut it out. We were never friends. I suspect you dislike me almost as much as I dislike you. And I’ve never seen you drunk in my life.” The man from State stood motionless; the exuberant smile slowly disappeared from his lips. “You want to play it rough?” “I want to play it as it is.” “What happened?” “Where? When? At Harvard?” “You know what I’m talking about. The other night. What happened the other night?” “You tell me. You set it in motion, you spun the first wheels.” “We uncovered a dangerous security leak. A pattern of active espionage going back years that reduced the effectiveness of space surveillance to the point where we now know it’s been a mockery. We wanted it confirmed; you confirmed it. You knew what had to be done and you walked away.” “I walked away,” agreed Scofield.

  “And when confronted with the fact by an associate, you did bodily injury to him. To your own man!” “I certainly did. If I were you I’d get rid of him. Transfer him to Chile; you can’t fuck up a hell of a lot more down there.” “What?” “On the other hand, you won’t do that. He’s too much like you, Charlie.

  He’ll never learn. Watch out. He’ll take your job one day.” “Are you drunk?” “No, I’m sorry to say. I thought about it, but I’ve got a little acidity in my stomach. Of course, if I’d known they were sending you, I might have fought the good fight and tried. For old time’s sake, naturally.” “If you’re not drunk, you’re off your trolley.” “The track veered; those wheels you spun couldn’t take the curve.” “Cut the horseshit!” “What a dated phrase, Charlie. These days we say bullshit, although I prefer lizardshit-” “That’s enough! Your action-or should I say inaction -compromised a vital aspect of counterespionage.” “Now, you cut the horseshit!” roared Bray, taking an ominous step toward the man from State. “I’ve heard all I want to hear from you! I didn’t compromise anything. You did! You and the rest of those bastards back there. You found an ersatz leak in your godarnned sieve and so you had to plug it up with a corpse. Then you could go to the Forty Committee and tell those bastards how efficient you were!” “What are you talking about?” “The old man was a defector. He was reached, but he was a defector.” “What do you mean ‘reached’?” “I’m not sure; I wish I did. Somewhere in that FourZero dossier something was left out. Maybe a wife that never died, but was in hiding. Or grandchildren no one bothered to list. I don’t know, but it’s there.

  Hostages, Charliel That’s why he did what he did. And I was his listok.” “What’s that mean?” “For Christ’s sake, learn the language. You’re supposed to be an expert.” “Don’t pull that language crap on me, I am an expert. There’s no evidence to support an extortion theory, no family reported or referred to by the target at any time. He was a dedicated agent for Soviet intelligence.” ‘Evidence? Oh, come on, Charlie, even you know better than that. If he was good enough to pull off a defection, he was smart enough to bury what had to be buried. My guess is that the key was timing, and the timing blew up. His secret-or secrets-were found out. He was reached; it’s all through his dossier. He lived abnormally, even for an abnormal existence.” “We rejected that approach,” said Charlie emphatically. “He was an eccentric.” Scofield stopped and stared “You rejected? An eccentric? Godamn you, you did know. You could have used that, fed him anything you liked. But no, you wanted a quick solution so the men upstairs would see how good you were. You could have used him, not killed him! But you didn’t know how, so you kept quiet and called out the hangmen.” “That’s preposterous. There’s no way you could prove he’d been reached.” “Prove it? I don’t have to prove it, I know it.” “How?” “I saw it in his eyes, you son of a bitch.” The man from State paused, then spoke softly. “You’re tired, Bray. You need a rest.” “With a pension,” asked Scofield, “or with a casket?”

  Taleniekov walked out of the restaurant into a cold blast of wind that disturbed the snow, swirling it up from the sidewalk with such force that it became a momentary haze, diffusing the light of the streetlamp above. It was going to be another freezing night. The weather report on Radio Moscow had the temperature dropping to minus eight Celsius Yet it bad stopped snowing early that morning; the runways at Sheremetyevo Airport were cleared and that was all that concerned Vasili Taleniekov at the moment. Air France, Flight 85, had left for Paris ten minutes ago. Aboard that plane was a Jew who was meant to leave two hours later on Aeroflot for Athens.

  He would not have left for Athens if he had shown up at the Aeroflot terminal. Instead, he would have been asked to step into a room. Greeting him would have been a team from the Vodennaya Kontra Rozvedka, and the absurdity would have begun.

  It was stupid, thought Taleniekov, as he turned right, pulling the lapels of his overcoat up around his neck and the brim of his addyel lower on his head. Stupid in the sense that the VKR would have accomplished nothing but provide a wealth of embarrassment. It would have fooled no one, least of all those it was trying to impress.

  A dissident recanting his dissidency! What comic literature did the young fanatics in the VKR read? Where were the older and wiser heads when fools came up with such schemes?

  When Vasili had heard of the plan, he had laughed, actually laughed. The objective was to mount a brief but strong campaign against Zionist accusations, to show people in the West that not all Jews thought alike in Soviet Russia.