State Department. The third person in the room was younger than the other two, in his early thirties and with no lack of energy on his face, no exhaustion in his eyes. If his features were taut, it was the tautness of enthrallment; he was a young man eager for the kill.
His weapon was a fast-film motion picture camera mounted on a tripod, a telescopic lens attached. He would have preferred a different weapon.
Down in the street, a figure appeared in the tinted circles of Scofield's binoculars. The figure hesitated by the telephone booth and in that brief moment was jostled by the crowds off to the side of the pavement, in front of the flashing glass, blocking the glare with his body, a target surrounded by a halo of sunlight. It would be more comfortable for everyone concerned if the target could be zeroed where he was standing now. A high-powered rifle calibrated for seventy yards could do it; the man in the window could squeeze the trigger. He had done so
often before. But comfort was not the issue. A lesson had to be taught, another lesson learned, and such instruction depended on the confluence of vital factors. Those teaching and those being taught had to understand their respective roles. Otherwise an execution was meaningless.
The figure below was an elderly man, in his middle to late sixties. He was dressed in rumpled clothing, a thick overcoat pulled up around his neck to ward off the chill, a battered hat pulled down over his forehead. There was a stubble of a beard on his frightened face; he was a man on the run and for the American watching him through the binoculars, there was nothing so terrible, or haunting, as an old man on the run. Except, perhaps, an old woman. He had seen both. Far more often than he cared to think about.
Scofield glanced at his watch. "Go ahead," he said to the technician at the table. Then he turned to the younger man who stood beside him. "You ready?" "Yes," was the curt reply. "I've got the son of a bitch centered.
Washington was right; you proved it." "I'm not sure what I've proved yet. I wish I was. When he's in the booth, get his lips." "Right." The technician dialed the pre-arranged numbers and punched the buttons of the tape machine. He rose quickly from his chair and handed Scofield a semicircular headset with a mouthpiece and single earphone. "It's ringing," he said.
"I know. He's staring through the glass. He's not sure he wants to hear it.
That bothers me." "Move, you son of a bitch!" said the young man with the camera.
"'He will," said Scofield, the binoculars and headset held firmly in his hands. "He's frightened. Each half-second is a long time for him and I don't know why.... There be goes; he's opening the door. Everybody quiet." Scofield continued to stare through the binoculars, listened, and then spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. "Dobri dyen, priyatyel...." The conversation, spoken entirely in Russian, lasted for eighteen seconds.
"Dosvidaniya," said Scofield, adding, "zavtra nochyn.
Na moMe." He continued to hold the headset to his ear and watched the frightened man below. The target disappeared into the crowds; the camera's motor stopped, and the attach6-at-large put down the binoculars, handing the headset to the technician. "Were you able to get it all?" he asked.
"Clear enough for a voice print," said the balding operator, checking his dials.
"You?" Scofield turned to the young man by the camera.
"If I understood the language better, even I could read his lips." "Good. Others will; they'll understand it very well." Scofield reached into his pocket, took out a small leather.notebook, and began writing.
"I want you to take the tape and the film to the embassy. Get the film developed right away and have duplicates made of both. I want miniatures; here are the specifications." "Sorry, Bray," said the technician, glancing at Scofield as he wound a coil of telephone wire. "I'm not allowed within five blocks of the territory; you know that." "I'm talking to Harry," replied Scofield, angling his bead toward the younger man. He tore out the page from his notebook. "When the reductions are made, have them inserted in a single watertight flatcase. I want it coated, good enough for a week in the water." "Bray," said the young man, taking the page of paper. "I picked up about every third word you said on the phone." "You're improving," interrupted Scofield, walking back to the window