Morris Panov approached the intersection still bothered by the curious telephone conversation he had had ten minutes ago, still trying to recall each segment of the plan he was to follow, afraid to look at his watch to see if he had reached a specific place within a specific time span-he had been told not to look at his watch in the street ... and why couldn't they say "at approximately such and such" rather than the somewhat unnerving term "time span," as if a military invasion of Washington were imminent. Regardless, he kept walking, crossing the streets he was told to cross, hoping some unseen clock kept him relatively in tune with the goddamned "time spans" that had been determined by his striding back and forth between two pegs on some lawn behind a garden apartment in Vienna, Virginia. ... He would do anything for David Webb-good Christ, anything – but this was insane. ... Yet, of course, it wasn't. They would not ask him to do what he was doing if it were.

What was that? A face in shadows peering at him, just like the other two! This one hunched over on a curb, raising wine-soaked eyes up at him. Old men-weather-beaten, old, old men who could barely move-staring at him! Now he was allowing his imagination to run away with him-the cities were filled with the homeless, with perfectly harmless people whose psychoses or poverty drove them into the streets. As much as he would like to help them, there was nothing he could do but professionally badger an unresponsive Washington. ... There was another! In an indented space between two storefronts barricaded by iron gates-he, too, was watching him. Stop it! You're being irrational. ... Or was he? Of course, he was. Go on, keep to the schedule, that's what you're supposed to do. ... Good God! There's another. Across the street. ... Keep going!

The vast moonlit grounds of the Smithsonian dwarfed the two figures as they converged from intersecting paths, joining each other and proceeding to a bench. Conklin lowered himself with the aid of his cane while Mo Panov looked around nervously, listening, as if he expected the unexpected. It was 3:28 in the predawn morning, the only noises the subdued rattle of crickets and mild summer breezes through the trees. Guardedly Panov sat down.

"Anything happen on the way here?" asked Conklin.

"I'm not sure," replied the psychiatrist. "I'm as lost as I was in Hong Kong, except that over there we knew where we were going, whom we expected to meet. You people are crazy."

"You're contradicting yourself, Mo," said Alex, smiling. "You told me I was cured."

"Oh, that? That was merely obsessive manic-depression bordering on dementia praecox. This is nuts! It's nearly four o'clock in the morning. People who aren't nuts do not play games at four o'clock in the morning."

Alex watched Panov in the dim wash of a distant Smithsonian floodlight that illuminated the massive stone structure. "You said you weren't sure. What does that mean?"

"I'm almost embarrassed to say-I've told too many patients that they invent uncomfortable images to rationalize their panic, justify their fears."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's a form of transference-"

"Come on, Mo!" interrupted Conklin. "What bothered you? What did you see?"

"Figures ... some bent over, walking slowly, awkwardly-not like you, Alex, incapacitated not by injuries but by age. Worn out and old and staying in the darkness of storefronts and side streets. It happened four or five times between my apartment house and here. Twice I almost stopped and called out for one of your men, and then I thought to myself, My God, Doctor, you're overreacting, mistaking a few pathetic homeless people for what they're not, seeing things that aren't there."

"Right on!" Conklin whispered emphatically. "You saw exactly what was there, Mo. Because I saw the same, the same kind of old people you saw, and they were pathetic, mostly in beat up clothes and who moved slower than I move. ... What does it mean? What do they mean? Who are they?"

Footsteps. Slow, hesitant, and through the shadows of the deserted path walked two short men-old men. At first glance they, indeed, appeared to be part of the swelling army of indigent homeless, yet there was something different about them, a sense of purpose, perhaps. They stopped nearly twenty feet away from the bench, their faces in darkness. The old man on the left spoke, his voice thin, his accent strange. "It is an odd hour and an unusual place for two such well-dressed gentlemen to meet. Is it fair for you to occupy a place of rest that should be for others not so well off as you?"

"There are a number of unoccupied benches," said Alex pleasantly. "Is this one reserved?"

"There are no reserved seats here," replied the second old man, his English clear but not native to him. "But why are you here?"

"What's it to you?" asked Conklin. "This is a private meeting and none of your business."

"Business at this hour and in this place?" The first aged intruder spoke while looking around.

"I repeat," repeated Alex. "It's none of your business and I really think you should leave us alone."

"Business is business," intoned the second old man.

"What in God's name is he talking about?" whispered the bewildered Panov to Conklin.

"Ground zero," said Alex under his breath. "Be quiet." The retired field agent turned his head up to the two old men. "Okay, fellas, why don't you go on your way?"

"Business is business," again said the second tattered ancient, glancing at his colleague, both their faces still in shadows.

"You don't have any business with us-"

"You can't be sure of that," interrupted the first old man, shaking his head back and, forth. "Suppose I were to tell you that we bring you a message from Macao?"

"What?" exclaimed Panov.

"Shut up!" whispered Conklin, addressing the psychiatrist but his eyes on the messenger. "What does Macao mean to us?" he asked flatly.

"A great taipan wishes to meet with you. The greatest taipan in Hong Kong."

"Why?"

"He will pay you great sums. For your services."

"I'll say it again. Why?"

"We are to tell you that a killer has returned. He wants you to find him."

"I've heard that story before; it doesn't wash. It's also repetitious."

"That is between the great taipan and yourselves, sir. Not with us. He is waiting for you."

"Where is he?"

"At a great hotel, sir."

"Which one?"

"We are again to tell you that it has a great-sized lobby with always many people, and its name refers to this country's past."

"There's only one like that. The Mayflower." Conklin directed his words toward his left lapel, into a microphone sewn into the buttonhole.

"As you wish."

"Under what name is he registered?"

"Registered?"

"Like in reserved benches, only rooms. Who do we ask for?"

"No one, sir. The taipan's secretary will approach you in the lobby."

"Did that same secretary approach you also?"

"Sir?"

"Who hired you to follow us?"

"We are not at liberty to discuss such matters and we will not do so."

"That's it!" shouted Alexander Conklin, yelling over his shoulder as floodlights suddenly lit up the Smithsonian grounds around the deserted path, revealing the two startled old men to be Orientals. Nine personnel from the Central Intelligence Agency walked rapidly into the glare of light from all directions, their hands under their jackets. Since there was no apparent need for them, their weapons remained hidden.

Suddenly the need was there, but the realization came too late. Two high-powered rifle shots exploded from the outer darkness, the bullets ripping open the throats of the two Oriental messengers. The CIA men lunged to the ground, rolling for cover as Conklin grabbed Panov, pulling him down to the path in front of the bench for protection. The unit from Langley lurched to their feet and, like the combat veterans they were, including the former commando Director Peter Holland, they started scrambling, zigzagging one after another toward the source of the gunfire, weapons extended, shadows sought. In moments, an angry cry split the silence.