Simon reentered the main cabin as Pitt was easing the flight attendant through the door into the waiting arms of Gale's medics, who gently lowerrd her onto a stretcher.

"Hey, Doc, I've got a live one in the cockpit."

"On my way," replied Gale.

"I could use your help too," Simon said to Pitt.

Pitt nodded. "Give me a couple of minutes to carry another from the aft section."

Hala slid to her knees and leaned over and looked into the mirror. There was enough light to clearly see her reflection. The face that stared back was flat-eyed and expressionless. It was also a disaster. She looked like an over-the-hill streetwalker who had been beaten up by her pimp.

She reached out and pulled several paper towels from a rack. She dipped them in the cold water, then wiped clear the clotted blood and lipstick which had smeared around her mouth. Her mascara and eye shadow looked as if they had been applied by Jackson Pollock on a drip painting. She wiped away that mess too. Her hair was still reasonably intact so she patted the loose ends into place.

She still looked awful, she thought despairingly. She forced a smile when Pitt reappeared, hoping she looked more presentable.

. He looked at her a long moment and then screwed his face into an expression of awed curiosity. "Excuse me, gorgeous creature, but have you seen an old crone anywhere?"

Tears welled in Hala's eyes and she half-laughed, halfcried. "You're a nice man, Mr. Pitt. Thank you."

"I try, God Icnows I try," he said humorously.

Pitt had returned with several blankets and he bundled them around her.

He placed one arm under her knees and the other around her waist and lifted her without the slightest sign of strain. As he carried her up the aisle his numbed legs began to give out and he stumbled for several steps before recovering.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Nothing a shot of Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey won't cure."

"As soon as I return home I'll send you a whole case."

"Where's home?"

"At the moment, New York."

"Next time I'm in town, let's have dinner together."

"I'd consider it an honor, Mister Pitt."

"Likewise, Miss Kaniil."

Hala raised her eyebrows. "You recognized me, looking horrible like this?"

"I admit it wasn't until after you'd fixed your face a bit."

"Forgive me for putting you to all this trouble. Your legs and feet must be frozen stiff."

"A minor discomfort is a small price for freezing.I held the SecretaryGeneral of the U.N. in my arms."

Amazing, truly amazing, thought Pitt. This has to be a redbanner day.

Dating the only three women, and attractive ones at that, within two thousand miles of frigid desolation inside of minutes had to be some sort of record. The feat meant more to him than discovering the Russian submarine.

Fifteen minutes later, after Hala, Rubin and the flight attendant were comfortably settled inside the helicopter, Pitt stood in front of the cockpit and waved to Giordino, who acknowledged with a thumbs up sign.

The rotors were engaged and the craft rose in the air above a swirling cloud of snow, swung around a hundred and eighty degrees and headed for the Polar Explorer. Only when it was safely airborne and on its way did Pitt hobble over to the auxiliary heating unit.

He pulled off his waterlogged boots and soggy socks and dangled his feet over the exhaust, soaking up the heat and gratefully accepting the stabbing pain of recirculation. He became vaguely aware of Simon's approach.

Simon stopped and stood, gazing at the wrinkled sides of the aircraft.

It did not look forlorn any more. To him, the knowledge of the dead inside gave it a camel house appearance.

"United Nations delegates," Simon said distantly, "is that who they were?"

"Several were members of the General Assembly," answered Pitt. "The

. lized agencies.

According to Kamil, most of them were returning from a tour of their Field Service organizations."

"Who'd gain by murdering them?"

Pitt wrung out his socks and laid them over the heater tube. "I have no idea."

"Middle East terrorists?" Simon persisted.

"News to me they've taken up murder by poison."

"How're your feet?"

"In a state of gradual thaw. How about yours?"

"The Navy issues foul-weather boots. Mine are dry and warm as toast."

"Hooray for considerate admirals," Pitt muttered sardonically.

"I'd say one of the three survivors did the dirty work."

Pitt shook his head. "If in fact it proves to be poison, it probably was introduced into the meal at the food services kitchen before it was loaded on board the aircraft."

"The chief steward or a flight attendant could have done it in the galley."

"Too difficult to poison over fifty meals one at a time without being detected."

"What about the drinks?" Simon tested again.

"You're a persistent bastard."

"Might as well speculate until we're relieved?"

Pitt checked his socks. They were still damp. "Okay, drinks are a possibility, especially coffee and tea."

Simon seemed pleased that one of his theories had been accepted. "Okay, smartass, of the three survivors who's your candidate for most duly suspect?"

"None of the above."

"You saying the culprit knowingly took the poison and committed suicide."

"No, I'm saying it was the fourth survivor."

"I only counted three."

"After the plane crashed. Before that there were four,"

"You don't mean the little Mexican fellow in the copilot's seat?"

"I do."

Simon looked totally skeptical. "What brilliant logic brought you to that conclusion?"

"Elementary," Pitt said with a sly grin. "The killer in the best murder-mystery tradition is always the least obvious suspect.

"Who dealt this mess?"

Julius Schiller, Under Secretary for Political Affairs, grimaced good-naturedly as he studied his cards. His teeth clamped on a cold stogie, he looked up and peered over his hand, his intelligent blue eyes moving from player to player.

Four men sat across the poker table from him. None smoked, and Schiller diplomatically refrained from lighting his cigar. A small bundle of cedar logs crackled in an antique mariner's stove, taking the edge off an early fall chill. The burning cedar gave an agreeable aroma to the teak-paneled dining saloon inside Schiller's yacht. The beautifully proportioned 35-meter-motor sailer was moored in the Potomac River near South Island just opposite Alexandria, Virginia.

Soviet Deputy Chief of Mission Aleksey Korolenko, heavybodied and composed, wore a fixed jovial expression that had become his trademark in Washington's social circles.

"A pity we're not playing in Moscow," he said in a stern but mocking tone. "I know a nice spot in Siberia where we could send the dealer."

"I second the motion," said Schiller. He looked at the man wfio had dealt the cards. "Next time, Date, shuffle them up."

"If your hands are so rotten," growled Dale Nichols, Special Assistant to the President, "why don't you fold?"