Seeing their departure, the speaker on the dais hurriedly completed his address. If anything was going to happen in the rose garden, he wanted to be there to see it. His country had a special reason to hate Khrushchev and the Soviet system.

  The public halls, too, were almost eerily silent. Thousands of irate tourists had been turned away at the gates. Security guards with guns patrolled the building and grounds. Police helicopters flew high and low over the East River.

  Mr. Khrushchev and his party crowded into two descending elevators to the first basement. There was a great deal of loud, forced laughter and nervous talking in a variety of regional accents. Nick, whose Russian was good but very much of the city, gathered that they found it hilarious to walk such a distance inside a building to find themselves outside.

  They headed through the glass doors leading into the garden. Nick forced his way through a knot of minor Russian delegates to his post at Khrushchev's shoulder.

  A few roses were still blooming valiantly, for Indian summer had been good to one of the finest gardens in New York City. Yet only a stubborn man would have insisted on parading outside to admire little more than the carefully trimmed remnants of summer and a low haze over the river.

  Nick made one more try. "Sir," he began in Russian, "won't you reconsider? Ordinarily you'd be perfectly safe, but…"

  The tubby Russian cut him off with a short, emphatic phrase and turned away from him. Zabotov, at Nick's elbow, smiled.

  "You have been too thorough, my friend. Now he thinks there is no danger. In any case, he expects you to protect him from whatever comes!"

  "I heard what he said," snapped Nick. "Now suppose you keep your eyes open as well as your ears. I don't expect you'll get a medal if something happens to him."

  The big Russian shot him a malignant look.

  The Secretary General, serene and imperturbable, joined the Russian party in the garden. Accredited reporters and photographers followed shortly afterwards. The group became a crowd.

  Nick looked around uneasily. There was no real reason, he thought, why he should feel this nagging sense of worry. Everything looked peaceful. Eagle-eyed Security men were stationed everywhere. The newsmen were not only trustworthy but unarmed. Not a single unfamiliar face was anywhere in sight. Nick, in the past week or two, had personally met every man who would have anything to do with guarding Khrushchev. He had memorized each face as though his life — in fact, his nation's future — depended on his memory.

  Four police helicopters were hovering nearby. One policed First Avenue, a second the River, a third circled over the building. The other zig-zagged back and forth over the garden. Two Secret Service agents strolled with the group. A sharpshooter's bullet from across the river? No, too far to have any force. A traitor in the Russian group? Nonsense. They had been checked out until they had protested to the State Department, which had not displeased Nick in the least. If one of them did suddenly uncover a hidden desire to dispose of Khrushchev, it would now be very difficult for the Russians to claim bribery or blackmail by an American mastermind.

  What the hell, nothing could happen.

  Still, his hand was seldom more than inches away from the butt of the powerful stripped-down Luger, Wilhelmina, which had come to him as the spoils of war.

  The portly Russian was in the center of the group with Nick and Zabotov right behind him. If anyone were to try to get at him now, they'd have to plough a path through at least three or four people on any side.

  They had passed the rose beds and were walking slowly alongside the great sweep of lawn that spread from the curving pathway to the public area. It seemed to Nick that they were walking very slowly.

  The small two-way radio he had carried with him from the start of what Hawk pleased to call "the emergency" was added insurance against the unexpected. He could get reinforcements out here in a matter of seconds, if needed.

  Guards stood firmly at their posts or walked back and forth along a prescribed path. The two Secret Service men formed the immediate rearguard of the group. Zabotov kept his eyes on the back of Khrushchev's neck. Nick's eyes were everywhere.

  One helicopter was hovering over the south end of the building. The second was heading downriver. The third had, only seconds ago, passed almost in front of them and chuffed off up the avenue. The fourth was on its crosstown zag. The fifth…

  The fifth hung like a huge bee on the far side of the river directly opposite the walking party. As Nick watched, it started moving in their direction.

  The group walked into the cold shade of the trees flanking the path.

  "Mr. Chairman," Nick rapped out in Russian. "I must ask you to take that bench beneath the trees at once and stay there. At once, please." He switched to English and spoke to the Secret Service men. "Get this group to disperse. Keep them under the trees. One of you and Zabotov stay with Khrushchev and the S.G." U Thant frowned thoughtfully. Khrushchev was scowling. Nick switched back to Russian. "There's an unauthorized aircraft in the neighborhood. It may mean nothing, but until we are sure you must do whatever the officers suggest."

  The fifth helicopter was dipping and swooping in a pattern of its own. Either it was in trouble… or it was searching.

  Nick switched on his radio and sought the other helicopters with his eyes. At the moment only one was near enough to be of any possible help.

  His hand went to Wilhelmina as he listened to the radio voices.

  "NY028 to NY1B20 — Come in and be identified! Come in and be identified! What is your authority? NY1B20! Identify yourself."

  Helicopter number four was making the demand. There was no reply.

  The fifth helicopter swooped and spluttered. It hovered low over the lawn near the trees, near the Russian visitor and his strolling companions. The engine seemed to be missing a beat. Could it be a bona fide police patrol plane with both engine and radio trouble?

  Nick decided it could not. He spoke into the tiny microphone.

  "NY1B20. NY1B20. Get out of the area at once Repeat, get out of the area at once! NY028. NY028. At tempt to head off unauthorized craft. Fire if necessary All other planes: return at once to north end U.N. garden."

  They began to converge rapidly.

  But something else happened even more rapidly.

  The unidentified helicopter veered abruptly away from approaching police craft NY028 and dropped like an elevator to a near-landing on the grass. A goggled head appeared at the open window, followed by a hand with something in it. The thing flew through the air toward Nick. As in a slow-motion dream he dropped Wilhelmina and reached for the hurtling thing. The catching action became a throwing motion as he caught the heavy object and threw it away from him. He had a split second in which to pray that it would hit the killer craft, to realize that it wouldn't, to scoop up Wilhelmina — and to see the deep crater that suddenly appeared in the lawn just beyond the murderous fifth helicopter. The tearing blast of sound enveloped him. Great sods of turf ripped skyward and slammed up at the helicopter. It rocked and shuddered, and then fell with a splintering crash.

  Nick raced toward it. Police helicopter number four made a shaky landing nearby.

  Something moved in the crashed aircraft. The something leveled a gun.

  Nick crouched low and fired twice.

  The gun dropped out of the assassin's hand and the goggles snapped away from his face. A bloody streak appeared along his temple.

  In moments, the once-smooth lawn took on the tattered appearance of a bombed airfield.

  Miraculously, the man was still alive.

  Nick and one of the guards moved him from his seat while two armed officers searched the craft.

  "Help me… help me. Pocket. Look in pocket." The man was stirring and muttering thickly.

  "Who are you working for? How many are you?" Nick spoke while searching the man's clothes.

  "Inside pocket… letter. Help wife. Not her fault. Korea… see letter." He sighed and his head fell on his chest.

  By the time the ambulance had come and gone and some semblance of order had been restored to the violated lawn, Nick had radioed a brief report to Hawk and was back at Khrushchev's elbow.

  One thing had shocked him: The would-be assassin had most certainly been an American. There would be hell to pay.

  Emergency Plan A was put into action. A sturdy closed car, waiting at the exit gate with its motor running, glided swiftly down the broad path and picked up Khrushchev and the major members of his party. They would have been a bare few yards away from the immediate danger if the explosive had landed as planned. Nick shuddered to think what could have happened. Thank God, it hadn't.

  The big sedan had made swiftly for the ramp leading into the basement garage. From there the shaken group had been taken to a private suite where all but the imperturbable U Thant had collapsed. They waited there until Nick came in.

  "So, MacArthur. Something went wrong with your ingenious arrangements."

  It took a moment before Nick realized that the sneering voice of Zabotov was addressed to him. He felt suddenly tired — almost tired enough to forget his cover name.

  "No, General. That's what happens when one deviates from plan. And now perhaps Premier Khrushchev can be taken to his lunch engagement."

  But the rotund Russian was in no mood to fulfill social obligations. A small party of chastened Russians left the building quietly, in strict accordance with Nick's careful arrangements.

  Zabotov made no further comment as they made their way uptown to Forrest's apartment. Zabotov's expression was a strange mixture of malevolence and respect.

  Shortly after they had arrived at the luxurious residence the Premier's party started making plans for departure. Nick, fighting weariness, forced himself to concentrate on the final phase of "the emergency." Several highly placed Washington officials came and went, buzzing at the edges of his attention, but he conferred only with the radio voice of Hawk.

  At last, at the airport, Khrushchev paused on the air-stair and looked at Nick.

  "As the Premier of the Soviet Union," he said, "I am outraged. But as Nikita Khrushchev — I give you my thanks."

  Then he waddled into the Soviet jet and out of sight.

  Letter from the Lost

  "I changed my mind less than three months later, but it was already too late. They had me. At first it was just information they wanted, and I didn't have much to give them. But then they got me to sell out on a couple of my buddies. I guess I don't need to tell you how. Finally they gave me some money and let me come home. They said I could make quite a lot of money if I just did a couple of little things for them. So I did, and I made some money. I needed that money. Then it was always just one more job, and one more job. They wanted me to go to work at the plant, so I did. First it was rumors they wanted, then letters from the files, then plans and specifications. I had enough. I wanted out. I didn't want to get into anything like that. But there was Janie and the kids, and I was afraid of what might happen to them. So this time they said they had one last job for me. They told me what it was. I tried to turn it down. I tried to say I wouldn't do it. But…"

  It was a rambling, incoherent, sometimes self-pitying letter. But it made a sort of sense.

  "Not really an unusual story," said Hawk, putting the letter back in its folder. "Unfortunately. The Chinese Reds made the most of Korea. Too bad it doesn't tell us more."

  Nick nodded. They were in the briefing room in the complex of buildings off Columbus Circle.

  "At least it shows the Russians that it wasn't just some dirty American plot. Or do they think we forged it?"

  "They're not sure," said Hawk grimly. "But it rings a bell with them. They've tried this kind of blackmail so often themselves that they know it could be true. On the other hand, they're also pretty familiar with the business of manufacturing evidence. Either to get themselves off the hook or someone else on to it. So on the whole it doesn't do much more than cast a reasonable doubt on our evil intentions. The best thing in our favor is your share in this affair. I must say that I endorse what the Chief said about you." Hawk got very busy with the papers on his desk. He gave compliments the way misers give to charity. "Of course, it was your job, but it was well done. Now. To current business."

  Nick's senses tingled. His weariness had left him after one night's sleep and one memorable night with Robyn of the raven hair and deep blue eyes. He was ready for anything. He waited expectantly.

  "You remember Julia Baron?" Hawk began.

  "Of course I do," said Nick cheerfully. "Is she back with us, I hope?"

  "She is not," said Hawk sternly. "She returned to Peking after the Judas-bombing affair and resumed her duties with the O.C.I. Under a new cover, of course. There is no reason why you should be encountering her again."

  "Oh."

  Hawk relented. "In the immediate future, I mean. For now her importance to us lies in the reports she has been sending regarding Red Chinese subversive activities — not only in Asia but right here in the States."

  "In connection with our helicopter friend?" Nick fished for a cigarette.

  "So it would seem, although she has said nothing about him personally. He fits in, though, as part of a much larger scheme. Now. We have been gathering information and forming a plan which requires you to do some traveling. You need a vacation."

  "Vacation? I thought this was going to be an assignment."

  "It is. You're going to be a tourist. I'll give you a file to read through before you leave here. I want you to brash up on all you know about the two countries figuring in the report. Then you will pick up the traveling bags provided by the Documents Section and check in at a hotel. Just leave word where you'll be, because a key will be delivered to you. You will use that key to pick up further information and documentation at the usual place. That covers it, I think." From a drawer he took a stack of papers and handed it to Nick. "Read these. Give them back to Files when you're through. I'm on my way to Washington."

  Nick raised his eyebrows. "Just like that? Without telling me anything more?"

  Hawk rose. "I'll be back. You'll find plenty to keep you busy." He stopped briefly at the door. "Ask J-2 for help if you want the language tapes. He's checked out on this already, so he knows what you'll need."

  "How much time do we have on this one?" asked Nick.

  "No time at all," said Hawk. "I want you to be ready slightly sooner than is humanly possible." He nodded firmly and stalked off down the corridor.

  Nick turned his full attention to the bulging file. He skimmed everything, then concentrated on what seemed to him the most important documents.

  The first was a concise report on the local scene, beginning with the sparse data on Larry Mason and ending with the reaction in Washington.

  Mason, the G.I. defector who changed his mind too late, had died several hours after arriving at the hospital. All he could add to what he'd said in his letter was that "they" had contacted him at various bars and street-corners and public libraries and paid him in cash whenever he had completed a "job." He knew none of his contacts by name, nor where they lived. He knew they were working for the Red Chinese, but none of them looked particularly Chinese. Their descriptions followed. They certainly didn't sound Chinese, but, besides Mason, the one with the Southern accent appeared to be the only other American. That was all Mason knew. He begged that his wife and kids be taken away somewhere and looked after. Then he died.

  The report concluded with echoes of the rumblings in Washington. Relations between the U.S.S.R. and the U.S.A. were strained indeed, but the President had personally stepped in and the ominous thunder on the left had simmered down to quietly vicious sniping.

  Nick turned with relief to the report from Julia Baron. He could see her as he read: tall, supple and graceful, with banked fires glowing in her lustrous cat's eyes, her skin the color of nutty copper and the texture of pure satin, her body pliant… warm… urgent…

  Read the report, Carter.

  He grinned and read:

  "Increase in Red Chinese espionage activities, as noted in previous reports, continues so noticeably that even civilians are aware of it. It is common talk in Peking that their agents are everywhere. For some time it has been apparent that a special branch of the joint intelligence services has gone into high-gear operation. Their job is to create trouble and dissension in countries unsympathetic with current Red Chinese policies. Their methods: infiltration, sabotage, forged evidence, deliberate accidents, and so on. Since Chinese facial characteristics are rather difficult to disguise, at least over a long period of time, they have found ways to force Caucasians to work for them."

  Nick lit up a Players and wondered what he was expected to do about all this. Play double agent, perhaps. That was a nasty thought. Swift, decisive action that showed immediate results — that was more in his line of business.

  "This operative gained impression," (the report continued) "that main purpose of special branch was to create friction between United States and U.S.S.R. See attached report for supporting evidence. Am convinced that final purpose is to deliberately create incident leading to war between our countries which can only benefit Peoples' Republic of China."

  The only country in the world, Nick reflected, that could survive a nuclear holocaust. Even if only one-tenth of its population survived, that would be enough people to take over the ravaged, shriveled world that would remain.

  "I am still sure of this after meeting Soviet Agent Guren," the report read, "who persists in doubting integrity of United States."

  Soviet Agent? What the hell?

  "As detailed below, Guren is convinced that Red Chinese special branch is devoted to damaging Soviet Communism and the Soviet Union. He points to incidents in Albania, Cambodia, etc., and insists that Red Chinese are sabotaging Russian plants, factories, dams, and doing all they can to steal atomic secrets. In general Guren is unwilling to believe that Red China is responsible for anti-Soviet incidents taking place in the West, and even in the U.S.A. He claims that this position is simply U.S. cover for its own "criminal" activities. I did not argue with him."

 

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