“Doing what he's been programmed to do,” Webster said happily.
Canning stood in front of the desk, impotent, his hands fisted at his sides. He wanted to reach out and grab Webster by the lapels of his dressing gown and shake the hell out of him. But that was pointless.
Holding up his glass, Webster said, “Would either of you like a drink?”
Lee Ann came over from the doorway and stood beside Canning. “You'll die in the plague just like the rest of us.”
“Oh, no, Miss Tanaka. I've been vaccinated.”
“It doesn't matter,” she said. “You'll end up in prison.”
“By the time I go home,” Webster said, “my people will be in charge of the country — and the prisons.” He gave them another infuriating smile.
Canning said, “What do you—”
The telephone rang, startling them.
Webster looked at it for a moment, waited until it rang again, and picked it up. “Yes?” He listened for a moment, and tension came into his broad face. His brows beetled. He glanced up at Canning, licked his lips, looked quickly down at the blotter. “No. Don't send him up. Well, I don't care what—”
Sensing the sudden panic in the ambassador's voice, Canning leaned forward and jerked the receiver out of his hand. He said, “Who is this?”
“James Obin,” the voice at the other end of the line said. “Who are you?”
“Canning. You brought me in from the airport this afternoon. What's the matter? Why did you call Webster?”
“Well,” Obin said, “a young Chinese man just came to the door asking for political asylum. It's never happened before. I haven't the slightest idea what to do about it. And he seems to be somewhat important, not just your ordinary citizen.”
“Important?” Canning asked. He kept one eye on Webster and saw that the man looked confused and nervous.
On the phone Obin said: “He speaks passable English. Tells me his father is in charge of the Central Office of Publications here in Peking. Father's name is something like…wait… I have it all written down here… have trouble pronouncing these names, so this might not be exactly right… Chai Chen-tse.”
Astounded, Canning said, “You mean you've got Chai Po-han down there with you?”
It was Obin's turn to be astounded. “You know him?”
Canning said, “Put him on the line.”
A moment later a somewhat shy male voice said, “Yes?”
“Chai Po-han?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father is Chai Chen-tse?”
“That is correct.”
“Mr. Chai, do you know a man named Lin Shenyang? General Lin Shen-yang?”
“He is well known. A hero of the Republic.”
“Have you seen him this evening?”
“General Lin?” Chai asked, perplexed.
“Yes.”
“No. I have not seen him.”
Canning shivered with relief. “You wait right there, Mr. Chai. A young lady will be down to meet you and bring you upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Canning hung up and turned to Lee Ann. “Dragonfly is downstairs right this minute. He's here to ask for political asylum. He doesn't seem to know what he is, and I don't think he's been triggered.”
Without a word she left the room and ran down the fourth-floor hall toward the stairs.
Behind the desk, Alexander Webster seemed to have aged twenty years in two minutes. His muscular body had shrunk in on itself. He said, “I guess you'll call this a miracle when you look back on it years from now.”
“No,” Canning said. “I don't believe in miracles. I don't even believe in coincidence. Somehow, his coming here tonight is tied directly to what you people did to him. I can't guess how, but I'd bet on it.”
Shortly, Lee Ann returned with Chai. He was a slender, wiry, rather good-looking young man. He smiled at everyone.
The night bell rang only in James Chin's bedroom. It shrilled again just as he was sliding between the sheets
“What in the hell is going on here?” he grumbled. He pushed back the covers, got up, stepped into his slippers, and picked up his robe.
The night bell rang again.
“Coming, coming, for God's sake.”
When he was at the head of the stairs, he heard the bell ring again, behind him in his room.
“Must be a night for mass defections,” Obin mumbled to himself. The heels of his slippers slapped noisily on the steps. “Twenty million Chinese have suddenly decided to move to Chicago.” When he reached the first-floor hall he heard pounding at the front door. “You're really not going to like Chicago,” he told the defectors on the other side of the door. “Wait until you learn about smog and traffic jams.” He twisted the lock and opened the door and said, “Oh. General Lin.”
Without being invited, the general stepped inside, squeezing past Obin. He said, “A young man named Chai Po-han has come here seeking political asylum.”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Obin said. “But—”
“I must see him.”
Obin realized that there was something odd about the general. The man was too stiff, too tense — and yet, had that look about the eyes of someone who had been smoking grass or popping pills.
“I must see Chai,” General Lin repeated.
“I'm afraid that might not be possible. He
“Where is Chai?” the general demanded.
“He's upstairs in Mr. Webster's office. And—”
The general turned away from him and went toward the stairs.
Running after him and grabbing him by the arm, Obin said, “You can't just barge—”
During his programming in Seoul, the general had been told to get to Chai Po-han at any cost once Webster had triggered him. He could perform, now, in none but a brutal fashion. He struck Obin across the face and knocked him backward into the first-floor hall. Then he turned and ran up the steps.
They were all listening to Chai Po-han as he explained about the Ssunan Commune. Webster was still behind his desk. Chai was in one of the armchairs, and Lee Ann was in the other. Fortunately, Canning was on his feet, standing beside Lee Ann, facing Chai, the open office door on his left.
Suddenly, heavy running footsteps echoed in the corridor, interrupting Chai's story. An instant later General Lin Shen-yang burst into the room. His face was a reflection of his tortured mind: wild-eyed, loose-lipped, nostrils flared. He saw Chai and lunged toward him. As he moved he said, “Dragonfly must spread his wings.”
Canning brought out his silenced pistol — and was knocked off his feet as a bullet tore through his right shoulder.
Lee Ann screamed.
Rolling, Canning came up onto his kness and saw that Webster had taken a gun from the center desk drawer. The ambassador seemed surprised that Canning was still alive. Before he could get over his surprise, Canning shot him in the face.
An unsilenced gunshot boomed behind him.
He twisted around in time to see Lee Ann fall in a heap, and he felt something snap inside of him. He raised his eyes and saw the general staring stupidly at the smoking revolver in his own hand. The man did not appear to remember that he had drawn and fired it. Indeed, he had probably been following his program and nothing more — an automaton, victim of drugs and subliminal suggestions and modern technology. Nevertheless, Canning put one
