Torrio’s face was covered with a light oily sheen. Belsky said, “Do that with all of them.”

“You really think you need to—”

“Be quiet,” Belsky said. “Do as you’re told.” He went through the back door and found himself on a concrete patio surrounded by screens. Evidently it had once been an open carport. It ran the width of the house, about twenty-five feet by fifteen. The furniture was bamboo and rattan with print-fabric cushions. Reptilian potted plants hung from the roof on wrought-iron chains. He said, “There’s another room I haven’t seen.”

Nicole’s reply was hostile. “You haven’t seen the kitchen or the bathroom or my office. Which one did you have in mind? Or were you thinking of another bed?”

Of course she had an office. Probably she did most of her work at home. She was a political reporter for one of the television stations, he recalled. “Don’t spar with me, I haven’t got time.”

“What’s the matter? You’re not a fag, are you?”

“You haven’t got meat on you like a good Russian woman.”

“If you like cows.” She showed her teeth. “I think you’re kinky. You get your kicks out of pushing people around. I know a couple of cops like you.”

He put his lazy stare on her and after a moment it made her step back; she waved a hand around in front of her and said in a different tone, “Look, I keep forgetting you’re not local product. The average red-blooded American loudmouth is a whining coward inside. You’re not like that but it takes some getting used to—don’t forget I’ve been out of touch for twenty years.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” he said.

Five of them arrived shortly before five o’clock. They emerged from the bedroom one by one, adjusting their clothes; they were all on edge. Ramsey Douglass was last to arrive. Belsky was displeased. At sight of Douglass, Nicole stirred and lifted her hand quickly to her hair as if to reassure herself nothing had given way. A curious and revealing reaction: Belsky watched them now as a pair.

Ramsey Douglass was handsome in a weak Byronic way; he wore his hair in sleek fingerwaves and a comma of it fell across his forehead. He had the look of one who was recovering from a fashionable illness. (Belsky’s mind made the automatic memorized connections: Ramsey Douglass = Dmitri Smolny, born Leningrad 1931, trained at Dubna, commissioned ensign in Red Air Force 1952, degrees in aeronautical engineering and physics, linguistic aptitude high, political rating adequate; married 1952, widowed 1953, son Fyodor Dmitrovich now 22 and employed by Intourist in Moscow.)

There was very little time to study the others because he had a great deal to tell them and they would have to be on their way within forty-five minutes to make room for the next batch. He made a kind of shorthand inventory compounded of what he knew from their dossiers and what he got from quick scrutiny:

Nick Conrad, Major USAF, electronics warfare AOS (Nikolai Konrad, forty-two, recruited into KGB from Red Army in 1952 and trained in languages and electronics).

Adele Conrad, Grade 9 civil servant, senior clerk-typist Eareckson Wing personnel department, DMAFB (Alla Konrada, forty-one, recruited into KGB while a modern-language student at Moscow University, met and married Nikolai Konrad at Amergrad, 1953). Three children, all of whom had been born in America—ages 19, 18, 15.

Fred Winslow, Lieutenant Colonel USAF, Deputy ICBM Wing Commander, Eareckson Wing, DMAFB (Vladimir Voz-shin, forty-four, recruited into KGB from Aeroflot pilot-training program and trained in military administration and languages).

Celia Winslow, housewife, active in community affairs—League of Women Voters, Pima County Democratic Party organization, Parent-Teacher Association (Kassia Vozshina, forty-three, recruited into KGB with her husband and trained in languages). The Winslows had a twenty-two-year-old son born in Russia and a fourteen-year-old daughter born in West Germany where Winslow had served a two-year tour of duty as a major with a ground-to-air missile squadron.

Two others were not present. Ilya Zinenev, in Washington, D.C., had been recruited out of Leningrad University and seeded into Tucson as a university mathematics instructor but as requirements had changed he had been shifted into the political sphere. Boris Dolinski, today in Scottsdale, had been assistant to a Ukrainian commissar when recruited, and had been trained in American political science by KGB at Amergrad. The absence of these two didn’t matter since the mission would be military rather than political.

The Rykov plan had allowed for the fact that the American armed forces tended to rotate their personnel from base to base. About one-fifth of the Amergrad agents were posted away from Tucson at any given time: Winslow, for example, had served tours of duty in West Germany, Alaska, South Vietnam, New Jersey and California. But Winslow’s predecessor as Deputy Wing Commander had been another Amergrad agent and his successor would be yet another. This was ensured by the placement of Amergrad personnel administrators in key Pentagon and NORAD offices so that control was maintained over transfers and reassignments. The preponderance of Amergrad agents remained in Tucson at all times but the scheme allowed for sufficient rotation to avert suspicion. By the same token local officials like Adele Conrad had been seeded into positions from which they could direct the placement of lower-echelon agents like Hathaway to units where they could exercise maximum leverage from within.

The scheme had been worked out to maintain cell-to-cell security. The system was analogous to a cargo ship’s watertight bulkheads, which were designed to seal off any compartment that leaked, to preserve the seaworthy integrity of the vessel as a whole. Of the nearly three hundred Amergrad agents, there wasn’t one who could identify more than eleven of his comrades. Most of them could identify only four or five. In the entire Western Hemisphere there was only one man alive who could name all 287 Amergrad agents: that man was Leon Belsky, and each time he thought of it his tongue twitched against the hollowed molar near the back of his lower jaw.

He sat them down and told them what they were to do. He delivered his address in a pitchless voice, without animation, as if it were a ritual incantation. While he spoke he watched them. They were filled with nervous anxiety, that much was evident—all except Ramsey Douglass who appeared bemused.

“The objective is the missiles themselves rather than the command hierarchy. You have to work out the details in terms of a one-shot coup, not a continuing operation. Moscow wants these ICBMs fired at targets of Moscow’s choice. That’s all you have to do, shoot the missiles—not take over the air base or the state of Arizona. In a way this makes it easier but remember you won’t know the precise day or hour until the last minute and when it comes you’ve got to be prepared to move instantly and simultaneously. It’ll require faultless timing.

“I’m meeting with you before the others because your cell is the key to the whole job. Winslow will execute the command to fire the missiles. Conrad has to see to it that our own code envelopes are substituted for the NORAD ones at the proper time. Douglass will draw up the details of target reprogramming. Douglass and Conrad together will have to blueprint the severing of the fail-safe communications links within the missile groups themselves so that when the group commanders double-check for confirmation they’ll receive the replies we’ll be substituting for NORAD signals.”

Ramsey Douglass showed a double row of white teeth. He spoke in a drawl. “You’d have to interdict the security system and the communications hookup at every level from Colorado Springs and Washington on down. How am I supposed to handle that?”