by the shimmering lights of the city. There were no strollers on the bridge, no boats on the canal below; pockets of fog swirled overhead--evidence that the North Sea winds traveled south unencumbered. It was three o'clock in the morning.
Scofield leaned against the iron railing at the west entrance of the ancient stone bridge. In his left hand was a small transistorized radio-not for verbal communication, only for receiving signals. His right band was in his raincoat pocket, his extended fingers touching the barrel of a. caliber automatic, not much larger than a starter's pistol, with a report nowhere near as loud. At close range it was a very feasible weapon. It fired rapidly, with an accuracy sufficient for a distance measured in inches, and could barely be heard above the noises of the night.
Two hundred yards away, Bray's young associate was concealed in a doorway on the Sarphatistraat. The target would pass him on the way to the bridge; there was no other route. When the old Russian did so, Harry would press a button on his transmitter: the signal. The execution was in progress; the victim was walking his last hundred yards-to the midpoint of the bridge, where his own personal hangman would greet him, insert a watertight packet in the victim's overcoat, and carry out the appointed task.
In a day or so that packet would find its way to KGR Amsterdam. A tape would be listened to, a film observed closely. And another lesson would be taught.
And, naturally, go unheeded, as all lessons went unheeded-as they always went unheeded. Therein lay the futility, thought Scofield. The never-ending futility that numbed the senses with each repetition.
What diflerence does it make? A perceptive question asked by an eager if not very perceptive young colleague.
None, Harry. None at all. Not any longer.
But on this particular night, the needles of doubt kept pricking Bray's conscience. Not his morality; long ago morality had been replaced by the practical. If it worked, it was moral, if it did not, it wasn't practical, and thus was immoral. What bothered him tonight had its basis in that utilitarian philosophy. Was the execution practical? Was the lesson about to be taught the best lesson, the most feasible option? Was it worth the risks and the fallout that came with the death of an old man who'd spent his adult life in space engineering?
On the surface the answer would appear to be yes. Six years ago the Soviet engineer bad defected in Paris during international space exposition. He bad sought and been granted asylum; he had been welcomed by the space fraternity in Houston, given a job, a house, and protection.
However, he was not considered an outstanding prize. The Russians had actually joked about his ideological deviation, implyini that his talents might be more appreciated by the less-demanding capitalistic laboratories than by theirs. He rapidly became a forgotten man.
Until eight months ago when it was discovered that Soviet tracking stations were gridding into American satellites with alarming frequency, reducing the value of photographic checks through sophisticated ground camouflage. It was as if the Russians knew in advance the great majority of orbital trajectories.
They did. And a trace was made; it led to the forgotten man in Houston.
What followed was relatively simple: A technical conference that dealt exclusively with one forgotten man's small area of expertise was called in Amsterdam; he was flown over on a government aircraft and the rest was up to a specialist in these matters. Brandon Scofield, attach6-at-large, Consular Operations.
Scofield had long since broken KGB-Amsterdam's codes and methods of contact. He put them in motion and was mildly surprised at the target's reaction; it was the basis of his profound concern now. The old man showed no relief at the summons. After six years of a balancing act, the target had every right to expect termination with honors, the gratitude of his government, and the last years of his life spent in comfort.
Chapter Two
Expect, hell. Bray had indicated as much in their ciphered conversations.
But the old Russian was not a happy man. And there were no overriding personal relationships evident in Houston. Scofield had requested the Four-Zero dossier on the target, a file so complete it detailed the projected hours of bowel movements. There was nothing in Houston; the man was a mole-apparently, in both senses of the word. And that, too, bothered Bray. A mole in espionage did not assume the characteristics of the social equivalent.