Forrester said slowly, “It might take too much time, Top.”

“It might. But you’re a long time dead.”

“We’re just starting to get momentum. If I hole up now this Phaeton fight will lose steam and we may never get it rolling again.”

“I didn’t say it was easy. You could lose your crack at the White House too.”

“You too, Top?”

“Hell I’m all for it. You’d find a slot for me and the Indians would have access to the President’s ear for the first time since Teddy Roosevelt.”

“You’re getting off the subject.”

“I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Listen, you’ve got to decide right now—if you decide to dig a hole you can’t go back to the office from here.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And you can’t go to your hotel or the ranch and you can’t communicate with Ronnie because if Belsky’s serious about silencing us all those things may be watched.”

Forrester’s chin dipped toward his chest and he dragged a big hand down his face. Spode’s head swiveled, indicating his wary interest in a passing car. Forrester said, “There’s only one subject of interest to a Soviet agent here.”

“The missiles.”

“The missiles,” Forrester agreed. “Trumble was involved with them, you and I are involved with them. Belsky must have some interest in them. I think we have to find out.”

“And maybe blow your whole case. It could mean the Russians are scared to death of the Phaeton and right now anything that scares a Russian to death is something the public’s likely to vote for.”

“But we’ve still got to find out, haven’t we?”

“You mean you feel a duty to find out, even if it does wreck your case. You know I think maybe you’re the first honest politician I ever met? Here you’re already way out on a limb and you want to try hanging from twigs. These people are killers.”

“If I drop out of sight Belsky will know why.”

“What difference does that make? If he can’t find you he can’t hurt you.”

“I just can’t afford to have my hands tied right now, Top. The balance is too delicate. Without a leader the whole fight will disintegrate. But I’m not inclined toward heroics; you know that. I’ll take every precaution I can—I want a fair chance to survive it if Belsky comes after me.”

Spode drew a breath into his wide chest and let it out slowly. “If you won’t pull in your horns all the way at least let me check you into the Ramada under a phony name—one of those rooms in back where you can use the side entrance and not be seen going through the lobby.”

“Fair enough. But I’ve got public appearances to make starting Monday, and I’m not going to cancel them.”

“That gives us a couple of days. Maybe we’ll run him to ground before then.”

“There’s one other thing,” Forrester said. “You mentioned it yourself. They may try to reach me through Ronnie.”

“Aeah. I didn’t want to think that through out loud.”

“We’ve got to. Suppose Belsky gets to her?”

“You mean suppose he forces her to toll you into a trap. They do work that way. If he knows enough about you and her. Maybe he doesn’t—it hasn’t made the papers.”

“Don’t we have to assume he’s got good sources of information? I think we’d better arrange to get Ronnie out of the office.” Concentration made brackets and creases in his face. “Les Suffield can hold down the office for the time being. I suppose we have to expect them to tap the phones. We’ll have to make some arrangement with Les to report to me by outside phone. It had better be clean at both ends so they won’t be able to get at me through Les.”

“Easy. You prearrange it that you’ll call Les at certain times of day at a pay phone. That way he doesn’t have to know where you’re calling from and if they get to him he can’t tell them anything. But it puts Les in a tight spot.”

“We’re all going to have to rely on you to keep the heat off, Top. You’re the Judas goat—you’re the one Belsky’s going to have to find.”

“That’s all right, I’ll have plenty of cover.”

“Be sure Belsky doesn’t spot it.”

“You’re never sure of anything in this kind of business,” Spode said, and reached for the ignition key.

Chapter Fifteen

The Gaz military vehicle rolled to a quiet stop near the end of the runway and Andrei waited inside until he saw the plane’s lights describe a low turn at the far end of the strip. Then he got out and stood in the night wind wrapped in a trench coat cluttered with pockets, flaps, buttons, epaulets. The khaki belt was cleated tight against his belly and he wore a brown trilby hat with the brim turned down both back and front. The jet’s landing lights picked him up and his face had a gray tired look.

When the plane stopped Andrei walked out to meet it. The starboard jet had been left idling and it made a whistle and stench. The door near the tail swung open, hinged at the bottom, becoming stairs, and Andrei waited on the tarmac while the man in the raincoat made his way down the stairs. The man in the raincoat stood on the bottommost step and the two of them spoke in Chinese.

After fifteen minutes’ conversation the man in the raincoat climbed back into the airplane and by the time Andrei had walked to his vehicle the plane was already taxiing forward to make its takeoff run.

When it was airborne Andrei climbed into the Gaz and let in the clutch. The Gaz leaped spryly across the tarmac toward the service road.

On the way to the ring road he passed somnolent daschas nestled in stands of fir and birch. The countryside was carpeted with snow and it was temptingly easy to believe in the myth of the communal serenity of the peoples of the USSR but Andrei had memories of famines, peasants feeding roof thatch to the stock, cattle dying: Andrei was far away from his boyhood but his roots were in the land.

He played games on one of the cloverleaf intersections of the ring road until he was certain there was no one following him; drove past tall buildings under construction on the outskirts of Moscow, open steel frames festooned with cranes and scaffolds; drove into the city past a crowd of Old Believers gathered in front of a church for a midnight service; made his way along Tsvetnoy Boulevard into the Arbat and into the military garage where the dozing attendant nodded vaguely; and walked around the corner to the KGB building.

The night sentries cleared him up to the fifth floor and he sat down in his office with a bright light shining directly down on the top of his desk, the only light in the room. He picked up the phone and dialed slowly, his thick fingers hardly fitting into the holes in the dial, methodically picking out each digit—G3-92-01.

He leaned back in the chair and that was when he saw the shadowy figure in the open connecting doorway to Rykov’s office. It was Rykov, leaning on his cane. Andrei showed his surprise but not his chagrin; he gave Rykov a smile and a hand gesture and when a voice answered the telephone Andrei said into the mouthpiece, “Yes, is this G2-71-08? … Forgive me, I must have dialed improperly.” He cradled the telephone and Rykov came away from the doorway and approached one of the leather chairs near Andrei’s desk. Rykov’s limp seemed very pronounced.

Rykov settled into the chair before he spoke. “Go ahead, complete your call—I’m in no hurry.” His voice was as thick as if he had been drinking.

“I can take care of it later. A matter of no importance.”

Rykov nodded vaguely, dismissing it. “In The Brothers Karamazov Dostoyevsky has one brother say to another, ‘Sometimes it is very unwise to be a Russian.’”

Andrei smiled.

“You don’t need to humor me,” Rykov said. “I am not senile.”

“What sort of talk is this?”

“Only a fool without humility can get through hours like these without misgivings. I have set things in motion without the troika’s permission. If I fail I’ll be purged, liquidated, but that doesn’t matter. What stings is the knowledge that I’ll be charged with treason against the state when in fact I am a patriot if I am anything at all.”