the horror that befell his friends." "Your words are appreciated, Mr. President, but as you know, those deaths and that horror were premeditated. I'm grateful for your sympathies, but I can't help but wonder if perhaps you are not somewhat relieved that the Soviet Union has lost its foremost nuclear physicist." "I am not, sir. His brilliance transcended our borders and differences.
He was a man for all peoples." "Yet he chose to be a part of one people, did be not? I tell you frankly, my concerns do not transcend our differences. Rather, they force me to look to my flanks." "Then, if you'll forgive me, Mr. Premier, you're looking for phantoms." "Perhaps we've found them, Mr. President. We have evidence that is extremely disturbing to me. So much so that I have--' "Forgive me once again," interrupted the President of the United States.
"Your evidence has prompted my calling you, in spite of my natural reluctance to do so. The KGB has made a great error. Four errors, to be precise." "Four?" "Yes, Mr. Premier. Specifically the names Scofield, Randolph, Saltzman and Bergstrom. None was involved, Mr. Premier." "You astonish me, Mr. President." "No more than you astonished me the other week. There are fewer secrets these days, remember?" "Words are inexpensive; the evidence is strong." "Then it's been so calculated. Let me clarify. Two of the three men from Central Intelligence are no longer in sanction. Randolph and Bergstrom are currently at their desks in Washington. Mr. Saltzman was hospitalized in Tashkent; the diagnosis is cancer." The President paused.
"That leaves one name, doesn't it?" said the Premier. "Your man from the infamous Consular Operations. So bland in diplomatic circles, but infamous to us." "This is the most painful aspect of my clarification. Ifs inconceivable that Mr. Scofield could have been involved. "ere was less chance of his involvement than any of the others, frankly. I tell you this because it no longer matters." "Words cost little --- ' "I must be explicit. For the past several years a covert, in-depth dossier has been maintained on Dr. Yurievich, information added almost daily, certainly every month. In certain judgments, it was time to reach Dimitri Yurievich with viable options." "What?" "Yes, Mr. Premier. Defection. The two men who traveled to the dacha to make contact with Dr. Yurievich did so in our interests. Their source-control was Scofield. It was his operation." The Premier of Soviet Russia stared across the room at the pile of photographs on the table. He spoke softly. "Thank you for your frankness." "Look to other flanks." "I shall." "We both must."
The late afternoon sun was a fireball, its rays bouncing off the waters of the canal in blinding oscillation. The crowds walking west on Amsterdam's Kalverstraat squinted as they hurried along the pavement, grateful for the February sun and gusts of wind that came off the myriad waterways that stemmed from the Amstel River. Too often February brought the mists and rain, dampness everywhere; it was not the case today and the citizens of the North Sea's most vital port city seemed exhilarated by the clear, biting air warmed from above.
One man, however, was not exhilarated. Neither was he a citizen nor on the streets. His name was Brandon Alan Scofield, attach6-at-large, Consular Operations, United States Department of State. He stood at a window four stories above the canal and the Kalverstraat, peering through binoculars down at the crowds, specifically at the area of the pavement where a glass telephone booth reflected the harsh flashes of sunlight. The light made him squint, but there was no energy evident on Scofield's pallid face, a face whose sharp features were drawn and taut beneath a vaguely combed cover of light-brown hair, fringed at the edge with strands of gray.
He kept refocusing the binoculars, cursing the light and the swift movements below. His eyes were tired, the bollows beneath dark and stretched, the results of too little sleep for too many reasons Scofield did not care to think about. There was a job to do and he was a professional; his concentration could not waver.
There were two other men in the room. A balding technician sat at a table with a dismantled telephone, wires connecting it to a tape machine, the receiver off the hook. Somewhere under the streets in a telephone complex, arrangements had been made; they were the only cooperation that would be given by the Amsterdam police, a debt called in by the attach6-at-large from the American