Dragonfly

of thunder followed an instant later — and there was an electric power failure. The refrigerator stopped humming and rattling. The fluorescent tubes above the kitchen counter blinked out.

The meager, penumbral light of the early-afternoon storm sky, further filtered by the misted window, left them dressed in shadows.

“Do you have any candles?” McAlister asked.

“Let's give them a few minutes to fix it. You were explaining why you think these Committeemen would go to any lengths to kill me. It has something to do with Berlinson…”

McAlister sighed. “Once he had whetted my appetite by telling me a bit about Dragonfly, I promised Roger Berlinson three things in return for the rest of his information: exemption from criminal prosecution for anything he did as a CIA operative; a rather large cash payment; and last of all, a new name and a whole new life for him and his family. So… After he told me what he knew, I went to Ryder, the new FBI director, and I asked him for the use of an FBI safe house. I told him I needed it for a man whose name and circumstances I could not divulge. I explained that Ryder himself was the only man in the Bureau who could know the safe house was harboring someone I wanted to protect. Ryder was great: no questions, complete cooperation. The Berlinsons were spirited out of Washington and, by devious route, ended up in Carpinteria, California. So far as the FBI agents knew, Berlinson was a Mafia figure who had ratted on his bosses. Meanwhile, I went to various non- agency sources to obtain new birth certificates, passports, credit cards, and other documents for Roger, his wife, and his son. But I was wasting my time.”

“They killed Berlinson.”

His voice leaden, McAlister said, “The house in Carpinteria was protected by an infrared alarm system. It seemed as safe as a Swiss bank. What I didn't know, what the FBI didn't know, was that the Army has recently perfected a 'thermal isolation' suit that is one hundred percent effective in containing heat. It can be used by commandos to slip past infrared equipment. Two of these suits were stolen from an Army-CIA experimental lab in MacLean, Virginia.” He stopped for a moment as thunder rattled the windowpanes. It was convenient thunder, Canning thought, for McAlister needed to compose himself and clear his phlegm-filled throat. Then: “You can spend only twenty minutes inside the suit, because your body heat builds and builds in there until it can roast you alive. But twenty minutes is sufficient. We believe two men, wearing these suits, entered the Carpinteria house through a living-room window. Inside, they quietly stripped down to their street clothes before they broiled in their own juices. Then they went out to the kitchen and murdered the FBI agent who was monitoring the infrared repeater screens. When he was out of the way, they went upstairs and shot Berlinson, his wife, and his son.”

The only sounds were those of the storm. The heavy dark air could not hold the words McAlister had spoken, but it did retain the anguish with which they'd been freighted.

Canning said, “Families are never hit.”

“We're dealing with fanatics.”

“But what did they have to gain by killing the wife and son?”

“They probably wanted to set an example for anyone else who might be thinking of informing on The Committee.”

Recalling Duncan, Tyler, and Bixby, Canning decided that such a thing was not only possible but likely. “Lunatics!”

“The point is, if they would do a thing like this, then they wouldn't hesitate to blow up a government aircraft, passengers and crew, just to get you. We must keep your involvement a secret until you're safely inside China. If they kill you, I've got no one else I can send. I'll have to go myself. And they'll kill me.”

“But why don't they just trigger Dragonfly? Why don't they get it over with before we can stop them?”

“That's the one thing that doesn't make sense,” McAlister said. “I just don't know the answer.”

It was a paranoid nightmare.

Yet Canning believed every word of it.

Orange-red numerals suddenly glowed in the shadows. McAlister checked his electronic read-out watch and said, “We don't have much time left.”

“If we're taking all these precautions,” Canning said, “then I assume I'll be traveling under another identity.”

Reaching into an inside pocket of his suit coat, McAlister produced a passport, birth certificate, and other identification. He passed the lot to Canning, who didn't bother to try to examine it in the poor light. “Your name's Theodore Otley. You're a diplomatic courier for the State Department.”

Canning was surprised. “Wouldn't it be better for me to go as an ordinary citizen? Less conspicuous that way.”

“Probably,” McAlister agreed. “But an ordinary citizen has to pass through anti-hijacking X-ray machines and later through customs. He can't carry a gun. A diplomatic courier, however, is exempt from all inspections. And this one time you don't want to be without a gun.”

Like a blind man reading Braille, Canning paged through the passport. “Where did you get this stuff? Any chance The Committee will learn about old Ted Otley?”

“In the last few months I've learned a few things. I know that only three intelligence agencies in the world have kept the CIA from planting a double agent. The Israelis run a tight outfit. So do the French. The British are the best, most efficient, most impenetrable intelligence specialists anywhere, period. I went to my opposite in Britain's SIS, what used to be called M.I.6. I asked for and was granted a favor: one full set of papers in the Otley name. There is no way The Committee can crack it.”

Canning knew that was true. “Theodore Otley it is.”

“When you get to Tokyo you will check into the Imperial Hotel, where reservations have been made.”

“The Imperial?” Canning asked, amazed. “Since when does a lowly op rate that kind of luxury?”

“Since never. That's why you're getting it. In other Tokyo hotels — the Grand Palace, Takanawa Prince, Fairmont, just about anywhere — you might run into an agent who knows you. There's not much chance of that if you stay at the Imperial.”

“What about the French jet? How do I connect with it?”

“That will be taken care of by your assistant.”

Canning blinked. “Assistant?”

“You don't speak Chinese. You'll need an interpreter.”

“General Lin speaks no English?”

“He does. But you don't want to be completely cut out of a conversation when he uses Chinese with his subordinates.”

“I don't like it,” Canning said sourly.

“The interpreter isn't an agency rep. I'm not tying you to a possible Committeeman.”

“A tenderfoot is just as bad.”

“Hardly. Once you're inside China, there won't be any guns or knives or rough stuff. A tenderfoot can handle it.”

“Who is he?”

“This is strictly a need-to-know operation, and you don't need to know the name. I'm especially concerned that no harm should come to the interpreter. They can't torture a name from you if you haven't got it.”

Resigned to it, Canning said, “How do I contact him?”

McAlister smiled, obviously amused. “He'll contact you.”

“What's so funny?”

“You'll find out.'

“What I don't need is surprises.”

“This one's pleasant. And remember: 'need-to-know.' ”

The electric power came back into service. The refrigerator rumbled to life, and the living-room lights popped on like flash bulbs. Canning got up, went to the kitchen counter, worked the light switch until the fluorescent tubes fired up. He and McAlister squinted at each other for a few seconds.

McAlister stood up and stretched. If he had been all lion when he had come through the front door, Canning thought, he was now at least ten percent tired old house cat. “That's everything. You have any questions?”

“Are you going to be working on the case from this end?”