he could tell, including the crystal, the most important component of the transmitter, without which it could not operate. Luckily, those parts had not been discovered; they had been too well hidden. Of course, they were only the miniature components of the transmitter; the rest of the device had been concealed by Roger somewhere in the pine woods of Moscow near the American embassy dacha.
Then he remembered the compact, wearable Webley pistol, which he had carefully wired into the frame of the bed. He got down on his knees, looked under the bed, and saw that the netting, which he had un tacked before concealing the pistol and then re tacked had been slashed.
The gun was gone, too.
He sat down on a chair, his heart pounding. Why had they tossed the room, conducted their search so openly, so violently? What did it mean? They the Soviet security services, presumably, though he didn't know which ones seemed to be warning him, letting him know in their unmistakable way that they were suspicious of him. They were drawing a line in the sand, telling him to go no further, to watch his step, to be always aware that they were watching.
But to make such a warning required clearance from the top, or near the top, of the security services. That was what was most unnerving. He was in a special category for some reason. Certain highly placed individuals had at least strong reason to suspect that he was not here merely as a businessman. Did that indicate a leak?
He had to contact Corky and let him know. Ordinarily he would not communicate with Corcoran unless and until he had a decision that needed to be made at Corky's level field security demanded isolation of agent from command central as long as possible. But the nature of this assault for that's what it was was evidence of a possible security breach, and of that Corky had to be notified at once. Tonight Metcalfe would be going to the American dacha outside Moscow. As soon as he had an opportunity to leave unobserved, he would traipse out into the woods, following the prearranged markings that Roger had left for him. He would find the transmitter, install the crystal and other components that had been fitted into his suitcase hardware, and attempt to contact Corky.
But he had to get out to the dacha without being followed. That was the challenge. The run-of-the-mill goons from the hotel lobby would be following him, which was not a serious concern. But so would the pale-eyed blond man, whoever he was. No one except Amos Hilliard knew he was planning to attend the party tonight, and he would not tell anyone, except perhaps the ambassador. On the other hand, if it was known to the NKVD that Lana was planning to be there tonight and surely it was known that he had met with Lana backstage at the Bolshoi the followers could fairly assume that he might try to get invited. Nevertheless, he'd have to take precautions, at least create a semblance of doubt, thereby reducing the contingent of those tailing him.
He began to devise a plan while he washed his face and shaved. There was a knock at the door. Metcalfe dried his face with the rough hotel towel, went over to the door, and opened it.
Standing there was Ted Bishop, the British journalist, looking seedier than normal. His tie was askew, his shirttails untucked, his face flushed. He was clutching a bottle of Scotch.
"Bloody dezhurnaya wouldn't give me your bleedin' room number until I told her I was your brother! Now fancy that! Tall, handsome American like you and dumpy little British troll like me brothers!" His words were slurred; he was obviously tipsy. "She must think we're adopted, we blimey!"
Bishop stared at the wreckage of Metcalfe's room. "You really can't get decent help anymore, can you? I mean, I know the maids at the Metropole are sub par but good Christ!"
Metcalfe pulled him in, closed the door. "Do they search every foreigner's room these days?" he asked. "Even businessmen who've come to try to do a deal? No wonder there's no more Soviet-American trade."
"They did that?" Bishop cried, weaving unsteadily into the room and plopping into the only chair. "Gorblimey! I'll be buggered! They get your passport, too?"
"No," Metcalfe said. "That's locked up at the front desk."
"Where they're like as not studying how to forge it they don't see all that many American passports anymore. What'd