Dragonfly

toward the lower slopes of Seoul, he felt as if some creature with razored talons had torn him open and scooped out the contents of his chest.

In the house, in the bedroom, Yin-hsi felt even more miserable than her Tai-Pan. She sat on the edge of her bed, her slender brown shoulders hunched, her face in her hands. She wept and shuddered and cursed herself. She knew that she would never see him again. She wished that she had told him what awful things she had done, and she could almost hear the conversation that might have been:

— Tai-Pan, you do know that no other woman could love you as well and deeply as I love you?

— You're a good woman, Yin-hsi.

— Try not to hate me.

— Why should I hate you?

— I am a wretch. I have betrayed you to your enemies.

— What game is this?

— It is true.

— What enemies?

— They came here to see me.

— When?

— Months ago. In the winter.

— Who were they?

— A South Korean and an American. They wanted me to help them destroy you… somehow. I don't know how. I never learned how it was to be done. I refused. They said they would kill my mother and my father. They said they would rape and kill my sister, murder and mutilate my brothers. At first I didn't believe them. But they convinced me that they were the kind of men who would do anything. They raped me and hurt me badly in other ways. Very badly. They frightened me, Tai-Pan. And in the end, awful wretch that 1 am, I cooperated with them. I betrayed you.

But it was pointless to imagine a confession that had not been made. She had not spoken to him about these things, not even when she suspected that, somehow, this crisis in Peking was connected with the men who had first come to see her last winter. It was in this current crisis that Shen-yang was to be destroyed. Somehow. Some way. She was certain of it, yet she had kept her silence. Fear was stronger than affection. Terror drove out love. After he had given her so much pleasure, while his warm semen was still oozing from her, she had let him walk out the door to his fate without giving him one word of warning.

She loathed herself.

She wished that she had the courage to commit suicide. But she knew that she was too much of a coward to even prick her skin. She would collapse at the sight of blood.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her feet on the cool brick floor, and she wept.

And she prayed that however her master was to be destroyed, he would go quickly, with dignity, and without pain.

WASHINGTON: THURSDAY, MIDNIGHT

In the book-lined first-floor study of his elegant town-house in the Georgetown section of the capital city, Robert McAlister poured himself a third bourbon on the rocks and returned with it to his desk. He sat down and had time for one sip before the telephone rang. It was the call that he had been waiting for since ten o'clock. He said, “Hello, Mr. President.”

“I'm sorry to be late, Bob.”

“That's all right, sir.”

“It's this flare-up in the Mideast.”

“Certainly.”

“Ever since they discovered those new Israeli oil deposits, it's been a nightmare.”

“Yes, sir.”

The President sighed and clicked his tongue. “Any progress on your end of the Dragonfly mess?”

“Not much,” McAlister said. “It's been a bad day right from the start — thanks in part to your Mr. Rice.”

The President clicked his tongue against his teeth again. “Andy? What did Andy do?”

McAlister closed his eyes and held the glass of bourbon against his forehead. “I'm sorry, sir. It's a small thing. Inconsequential, really. I shouldn't even have mentioned it. But I'm so tensed up—”

“I want to know.” He clicked his tongue.

“Well, he was supposed to round up a dozen federal marshals—”

“He didn't?”

“He did. But he didn't call them until around ten o'clock last night. Now, some of them weren't scheduled for duty, and they'd made plans for an extra-long weekend. They went home yesterday and packed suitcases and loaded up campers… and then had to unload and unpack when Rice called them late last night. They weren't happy this morning, and the apologies were mine to make.” He lowered the glass of bourbon to the desk. “Oh, what the hell, it's really nothing. I'm just frustrated by all of this, and I'm trying to find a convenient punching bag.”

“No, you're right, Bob. There was no reason he couldn't have called the marshals before five yesterday. I'm going to mention this to Andy in the morning.” Click! went his tongue.

“Well, it really is petty of me. After everything that has happened today, the murder and all—”

“Murder?” the President asked.

“You don't know about that?”

“I've been tied up on this Mideast thing.”

McAlister swallowed some bourbon. “The best investigative lawyer I have is a man named Bernie Kirk- wood.”

“I've met him. He's done a great job for you these last six months,” the President said. He didn't click his tongue.

What was he doing instead? McAlister wondered. Boring at his ears? Drumming his fingers on the desk? Or perhaps he was picking his nose—

“Bob? Are you there?”

“Sorry, sir. Wool gathering.”

“Bernie Kirkwood.”

“Yes, sir. Early this afternoon Bernie came up with what we thought was a damned good lead. He was working on a list of names — scientists with experience in biological-weapons research. And he discovered that a man named Potter Cofield had once worked for Dr. Olin Wilson. Furthermore, Cofield had received a promotion at the Pentagon almost entirely on the recommendation of Wilson.”

“Ah,” the President said.

“Next, Bernie learned that Dr. Cofield had retired from his job at the Pentagon two years ago.”

“How old was he?”

“Fifty.”

“It's possible to retire from government service that young.”

“Yes, sir. But Cofield wasn't the kind of man to pack it up and lie in the Caribbean sun. Bernie studied his record and talked to a few of Cofield's friends. The man lived for his research.”

“I see.”

“So Bernie, two other lawyers, and the federal marshal who's protecting them, went to talk to Cofield. He was dead.”

“How?”

“Stabbed repeatedly in the chest and throat.”

“My God!”

McAlister swallowed some bourbon. He felt lousy. “His house had been torn up a bit. As if a burglar had been going through the drawers looking for cash and valuables.”

“But you don't think it was a burglar?”

“The place hadn't been torn up enough. It was a very hasty job, a cover, nothing more. Besides, Co-field still had his wallet, and there was seventy dollars in it.”

“Any clues?”