"I hope you're right. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid that the deviation from our set plan can only spell trouble."

    Sandecker spied Dana standing in the balcony doorway with a drink in one hand. She was searching for them. He waved and caught her eye, and she started to move toward them.

    "You're a lucky man, Seagram. Your wife is a bright and lovely gal."

    Suddenly, Mel Donner appeared, rushed past Dana, and reached them first. He excused himself to Admiral Sandecker.

    "A naval transport landed twenty minutes ago with Sid Koplin on board," Donner said softly. "He's been taken to Walter Reed."

    "Why Walter Reed?"

    "He's been shot up pretty badly."

    "Good God." Seagram groaned.

    "I've got a car waiting. We can be there in fifteen minutes."

    "Okay, give me a moment."

    He spoke quietly to Sandecker and asked the admiral to see that Dana got home and to make his regrets to the President. Then he followed Donner to the car.

7

    "I'm sorry, but he is under sedation and I cannot allow any visitors at this time." The aristocratic Virginia voice was quiet and courteous, but there was no hiding the anger that clouded the doctor's gray eyes.

    "Is he able to talk?" Donner asked.

    "For a man who regained consciousness only minutes ago, his mental faculties are remarkably alert." The cloud remained behind the eyes. "But don't let that fool you. He won't be playing any tennis for a while."

    "Just how serious is his condition?" Seagram asked.

    "His condition is just that serious. The doctor who operated on him aboard the NUMA vessel did a beautiful job. The bullet wound in his left side will heal nicely. The other wound, however, left a neat little hairline crack in the skull. Your Mr. Koplin will be having headaches for some time to come."

    "We must see him now," Seagram said firmly.

    "As I've told you, I'm sorry, but no visitors."

    Seagram took a step forward so that he was eye to eye with the doctor. "Get this into your head, Doctor. My friend and I are going into that room whether you like it or not. If you personally try to stop us, we'll put you on one of your own operating tables. If you yell for attendants, we'll shoot them. If you call the police, they will respect our credentials and do what we tell them." Seagram paused and his lips curled in a smug grin. "Now then, Doctor, the choice is yours."

    Koplin lay flat on the bed, his face as white as the pillowcase behind his head, but his eyes were surprisingly bright.

    "Before you ask," he said in a low rasp, "I feel awful. And that's true. But don't tell me I look good. Because that's a gross lie."

    Seagram pulled a chair up to the bed and smiled. "We don't have much time, Sid, so if you feel up to it, we'll jump right in."

    Koplin nodded to the tubes connected to his arm. "These drugs are fogging my mind, but I'll stay with you as long as I can."

    Donner nodded. "We came for the answer to the billion dollar question."

    "I found traces of byzanium, if that's what you mean?"

    "You actually found it! Are you certain?"

    "My field tests were by no stroke of the imagination as accurate as lab analysis might have been, but I'm ninety nine-per-cent positive it was byzanium."

    "Thank God." Seagram sighed. "Did you come up with an assay figure?" he asked.

    "I did."

    "How much . . . how many pounds of byzanium do you reckon can be extracted from Bednaya Mountain?"

    "With luck, maybe a teaspoonful."

    At first Seagram didn't get it, then it sunk in. Donner sat frozen and expressionless, his hands clenched over the armrests of the chair.

    "A teaspoonful," Seagram mumbled gloomily. "Are you certain?"

    "You keep asking me if I'm certain." Koplin's drawn face reddened with indignation. "If you don't buy my word for it, send somebody else to that asshole of creation."

    "Just a minute." Donner's hand was on Koplin's shoulder. "Novaya Zemlya was our only hope. You took more punishment than we had any right to expect. We're grateful, Sid, truly grateful."

    "All hope isn't lost yet," Koplin murmured. His eyelids drooped.

    Seagram didn't hear. He leaned over the bed. `What was that, Sid?"

    "You've not lost yet. The byzanium was there."

    Donner moved closer. "What do you mean, the byzanium was there?"

    "Gone . . . mined...."

    "You're not making sense."

    "I stumbled over the tailings on the side of the mountain." Koplin hesitated a moment. "Dug into them. . ."

    "Are you saying someone has already mined the byzanium from Bednaya Mountain?" Seagram asked incredulously.

    "Yes.

    "Dear God." Donner moaned. "The Russians are on the same track."

    "No . . . no . . ." Koplin whispered.

    Seagram placed his ear next to Koplin's lips.

    "Not the Russians-"

    Seagram and Donner exchanged confused stares.

    Koplin feebly clutched Seagram's hand. "The . . . the Coloradans. . ."

    Then his eyes closed and he drifted into unconsciousness.

    They walked through the parking lot as a siren whined in the distance. "What do you suppose he meant?" Donner asked.

    "It doesn't figure," Seagram answered vaguely. "It doesn't figure at all."

8

    "What's so important that you have to wake me on my day off!" Prevlov grunted. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved open the door and motioned Marganin into the apartment. Prevlov was wearing a silk Japanese robe. His face was drawn and tired.

    As he followed Prevlov through the living room into the kitchen, Marganin's eyes traveled professionally over the furnishings and touched each piece. To someone who lived in a tiny six-by-eight-foot barracks room, the decor, the vastness of the apartment seemed like the interior east wing of Peter the Great's summer palace. It was all there, the crystal chandeliers, the floor to ceiling tapestries, the French furniture. His eyes also noted two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Chartreuse on the fireplace mantel; and on the floor, beneath the sofa, rested a pair of women's shoes. Expensive, Western, by the look of them. He palmed a strand of hair and found himself staring at the closed bedroom door. She would have to be extremely attractive. Captain Prevlov had high standards.

    Prevlov leaned into the refrigerator and lifted out a pitcher of tomato juice. "Care for some?"

    Marganin shook his head.

    "Mix it with the right ingredients," Prevlov muttered, "as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover." He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. "Now then, what do you want?"

    "KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it."

    Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.

    "Very well." Prevlov sighed. "Continue."

    "It said, `Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project."'