came down from the third floor. He was not at all what Canning had been expecting. By all Western standards, of course, he was somewhat on the short side, as were most of the Chinese. But he was not also slender and wiry like many Chinese men; instead, he was broad and muscular, and he had the face of a barbarian warrior. He did not move with the serenity or perfect grace of an oriental; rather, his manner was aggressive, quick, extremely energetic. The moment that they entered the room he strode toward them.
Stubbing his cigar in an ashtray, Webster got out of an easy chair and made the introductions.
The general and Lee Ann conversed in Chinese for more than a minute. From the way she was smiling, Canning could tell that Lin was flattering her.
Then the general turned to Canning and shook hands. In nearly unaccented English he said, “There are two vans waiting outside. I've got six soldiers in the one. We'll ride in the other. We have no time to waste, and I would appreciate it if you were to give me the names of your deep-cover agents in the Peking area.”
“Not quite so fast,” Canning said. “I've got a few things to explain.”
“Then explain,” the general said impatiently.
“There is a certain procedure we will follow,” Canning said. “I'll give you only one name at a time. Together we'll go and arrest that man and bring him here to the embassy.” He pointed to the polygraph that stood in its steel security case in the center of the room. “We will interrogate him here, using that machine. If he is not the trigger man for Dragonfly, he will remain here in the embassy until he can be flown back to the United States on one of our own aircraft. Then we will proceed to the second name. And then to the third. I will not turn any of these agents over to you — not even the trigger man for Dragonfly.”
Incredibly, the general nodded and said, “Perfectly understandable. I would insist upon the same terms if our roles were reversed.”
Amazed, Canning said, “That's quite reasonable of you.” His opinion of the general rose considerably.
“I do not wish to waste time in pointless arguments,” Lin said. “I will only warn you that if this Dragonfly should be used, the People's Republic would have no recourse but to declare war against your country.”
Canning nodded.
“We are not frightened of your nuclear weapons,” the general continued. “You have surely heard of the network of tunnels that honeycomb all of Peking. Because of much practice and regular drills, the entire populace can be underground in seven minutes.”
Canning had, indeed, read of this fabulous creation. It was an entire underground city: fuel depots, power plants, kitchens, stores of food and clothing, medical stations, living quarters… Every thirty or forty feet, along every major street and most of the minor ones as well, there were steps leading down into this vast undercity. Every apartment house, store, theater, restaurant, and office building had one, two, or even three entrances to the system of nuclear-proof tunnels. The concrete warrens reached out more than twenty miles beyond the city limits, into the green countryside, a perfect escape route constructed by the People's Liberation Army back in the 1960s. Although they both knew that the tunnels would not be much good when the city was attacked by chemical- biological weapons, Canning said, “I believe we understand each other, General Lin.”
Her name was Heather Nichols, and she was in bad shape. Her long hair was pinned back from her face, damp with perspiration. Her left ear was swollen and bruised. She had a long cut on her left jaw. Her lips were split, swollen into thick purple ridges. Tubes disappeared into her nostrils, which were thoroughly braced with wooden splints and bloody gauze. Her right eye was swollen completely shut. Her left eye was open, although barely; and she watched him with suspicion and perhaps hatred.
The intern said, “She can't talk at all. She lost several teeth. Her gums are badly lacerated, and her tongue's cut. Her mouth is swollen inside as well as out. I really don't think—”
“Can she write?” Kirkwood asked.
“What?”
“Can she write?”
“Well, of course she can write,” the intern said.
“Good.”
“Though not at the moment, of course.” His voice gained a note of sarcasm. “As you can see, the fingers of the poor girl's left hand have been well broken. Her right arm is taped to that board, and she's got an I.V. needle stuck in there.”
“But the fingers of her right hand are free,” Kirk-wood said.
“Yes, but we don't want to pull the needle loose,” the intern said obstinately.
“Give me your clipboard.”
Heather's one good eye darted quickly from one to the other, hating both of them.
“I think you're exciting her too much,” the intern said. “This is all highly irregular to begin with and—”
Kirkwood snatched the clipboard out of his hand, ignoring his protests. There was a pen attached to the clipboard. He put the board at Heather's side and closed her fingers around the pen.
She dropped it.
“She's been feeding intravenously for two hours now,” the intern said. “She hasn't been able to move that arm, and of course her fingers are numb.”
Kirkwood leaned close to the girl and said, “Miss Nichols, you must listen to me. I've got a photograph in this envelope. It might be of the man who did this to you. I need to find out for sure. If it is him, we'll be able to get other evidence, and we'll put him behind bars.”
She continued to glare at him.
“Do you understand me?”
She said nothing.
He put the pen in her hand.
This time she held on to it.
He fumbled with the manila envelope for a moment, extracted the eight-by-ten glossy of Andrew Rice. He held it up in front of her; his hand was shaking.
She stared at it.
“Is this the man?”
She just kept staring.
“Miss Nichols?”
The intern said, “I must object. This is all too much for her. She's isn't up to—”
“Heather,” Kirkwood said forcefully, “is this the man who beat up on you?”
Her hand moved. The pen skipped uselessly across the sheet of paper. Then she got control of it, scribbled for a moment, and at last wrote one word:
yes
McAlister and the President were sitting at opposite ends of a crushed-velvet couch in a small office off the chief executive's bedroom. The only light came from the desk lamp and one small table lamp; the room was heavy with shadows.
The President was wearing pajamas and a dressing gown. He was cracking his knuckles, one at a time, being very methodical about it. He smiled every time one of them popped with especially good volume. “Bob, if what you tell me is even half true—”
The telephone which stood in the middle of the glass-and-chrome coffee table rang twice.
“It'll be your man,” the President said.
McAlister picked up the receiver.
The White House operator said, “Mr. President?”
“Bob McAlister.”
“I have a call for you, Mr. McAlister. It's a Mr. Bernard Kirkwood.”
“Put him through, please.”
Bernie said, “Are you there?”
“Did you see her?” McAlister asked.
“Yes. She says it was Rice.”
“She's positive?”
