and the binoculars. "When you get to every other one, we'll recommend an upgrade." "That man wanted to meet tonight," continued Harry. "You turned him down." "That's right," said Scofield, raising the binoculars to his eyes, focusing out the window.
"Our instructions were to take him as soon as we could. The cipher plaintext was clear about that. No time lost." "Time's relative, isn't it? When that old man heard the telephone ring, every second was an agonizing minute for him. For us, an hour can be a day. In Washington, for Christ's sake, a day is normally measured by a calendar year." "That's no answer," pressed Harry, looking at the note. "We can get this stuff reduced and packed in forty-five minutes, We could make the contact tonight. Why don't we?" "The weather's rotten," said Scofield, the binoculars at his eyes.
"The weather's perfect. Not a cloud in the sky." "That's what I mean. It's rotten. A clear night means a lot of people strolling around the canals; in bad weather, they don't. Tomorrow's forecast is for rain." "That doesn't make sense. In ten seconds we block a bridge, he's over the side and dead in the water." "Tell that clown to shut up, Brayl" shouted the technician at the table.
"You heard the man," said Scofield, focusing on the spires of the buildings outside. "You just lost the upgrade. Your outrageous statement that we intend to commit bodily harm tarnishes our friends in the Company." The younger man grimaced. The rebuke was deserved. "Sorry. It still doesn't make sense. That cipher was a priority alert; we should take him tonight." Scofield lowered the binoculars and looked at Harry. "I'll tell you what does make sense," he said. "Somewhat more than those silly godamned phrases someone found on the back of a cereal box. That man down there was terrified. He hasn't slept in days. lie's strung out to the breaking point, and I want to know why." "There could be a dozen reasons," countered the younger man. "He's old.
Inexperienced. Maybe he thinks we're on to him, that he's about to be caught. What difference does it make?" "A man's life, that's all." "Come on, Bray, not from you. He's Soviet poison; a double-agent." "I want to be sure." "And I want to get out of here," broke in the technician, handing Scofield a reel of tape and picking up his machine. "Tell the clown we never met." "Thanks, Mr. No-name. I owe you." The CIA man left, nodding at Bray, avoiding any contact with his associate.
"There was no one here but us chickens, Harry," said Scofield after the door was shut. "You do understand that."
"He's a nasty bastard----" "Who could tap the White House toilets, if he hasn't already," said Bray, tossing the reel of tape to Harry. "Get our unsolicited indictments over to the embassy. Take out the film and leave the camera here." Harry would not be put off; he caught the reel of tape, but made no move toward the camera. "I'm in this, too. That cipher applied to me as well as you. I want to have answers in case I'm asked questions; in case something happens between tonight and tomorrow." "If Washington's right, nothing will happen. I told you. I want to be sure." "What more do you need? The target thinks he just made contact with KGB-Amsterdaml You engineered it. You proved it!" Scofield studied his associate for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the window. "You know something, Harry? All the training you get, all, the words you hear, all the experiences you go through, never take the place of the first rule." Bray picked up the binoculars, and focused on a faraway point above the skyline. "Feach yourself to think like the enemy thinks. Not how you'd like him to think, but how he really thinks. It's not easy; you can kid yourself because that is easy." Exasperated, the younger man spoke angrily. "For God's sake, what's that got to do with anything? We've got our proof I" "Do we? As you say, our defector's made contact with his own. He's a pigeon who's found his own particular route to Mother Russia. He's safe: he's out of the cold." "That's what he thinks, yes!" "Then why isn't he a happy man?" asked Bray Scofield, angling the binoculars down at the canal.
The mist and the rain fulfilled Amsterdam's promise of winter. The night sky was an impenetrable blanket, the edges mottled