'Oh yes. Hel runs to the ingenious.'
The OPEC man smiled. 'That's the second time I have detected a hint of admiration in your voice.'
Diamond looked at him coldly. 'You're mistaken.'
'Am I? I see. Are these the most recent pictures you have of the ingenious—but not admired—Mr. Hel?'
Diamond took up the remaining sheaf of photographs and tossed them onto the conference table. 'Sure. We have plenty. And they're typical examples of CIA efficiency.'
The Deputy's eyebrows arched in martyred resignation.
Mr. Able leafed through the pictures with a puzzled frown, then pushed them toward Starr.
The Palestinian leapt up and slapped his hand down on the stack, then grinned sheepishly as everyone glared at his surprisingly rude gesture. He pulled the photographs over to him and examined them carefully.
'I don't understand,' he admitted. 'What is this?'
In each of the pictures, the central figure was blurred. They had been taken in a variety of settings—cafes, city streets, the seashore, the bleachers of a jai-alai match, an airport terminal—and all had the image compression characteristic of a telephoto lens; but in not one of them was it possible to recognize the man being photographed, for he had suddenly moved at the instant of the shutter click.
'This really is something I do not understand,' the goatherd confessed, as though that were remarkable. 'It is something that my comprehension does not... comprehend.'
'It appears,' Diamond explained, 'that Hel cannot be photographed unless he wants to be, although there's reason to believe he's indifferent about CIA's efforts to keep track of him and record his actions.'
'Then why does he spoil each photograph?' Mr. Able asked.
'By accident. It has to do with this proximity sense of his. He can feel concentration being focused on him. Evidently the feeling of being tracked by a camera lens is identical with that of being sighted through the scope of a rifle, and the moment of releasing the shutter feels just like that of squeezing a trigger.'
'So he ducks at the instant the picture is being taken,' Mr. Able realized. 'Amazing. Truly amazing.'
'Is that admiration I detect?' Diamond asked archly.
Mr. Able smiled and tipped his head, granting the touch. 'One thing I must ask. The Major who figured in the rather brutal interrogation of Hel was named Diamond. I am aware, of course, of the penchant of your people for identifying themselves with precious stones and metals—the mercantile world is richly ornamented with Pearls and Rubys and Golds—but never-the-less the coincidence of names here makes me uncomfortable. Coincidence, after all, is Fate's major weapon.'
Diamond tapped the edges of the photographs on his desk to align them and set them aside, saying offhandedly, 'The Major Diamond in question was my brother.'
'I see,' Mr. Able said.
Darryl Starr glanced uneasily toward Diamond, his worries about personal involvement confirmed.
'Sir?' the First Assistant said. 'I'm ready with the printout of Hel's counterterrorist activities.'
'All right. Bring it up on the table. Just surface stuff. No details. I only want to give these gentlemen a feeling for what we're facing.'
Although Diamond had requested a shallow probe of Hel's known counterterrorist activities, the first outline to appear on the conference table was so brief that Diamond felt called upon to fill in. 'Hel's first operation was not, strictly speaking, counterterrorist. As you see, it was a hit on the leader of a Soviet Trade Commission to Peking, not long after the Chinese communists had firmed up their control over that country. The operation was so inside and covert that most of the tapes were degaussed by CIA before the Mother Company began requiring them to give dupes of everything to Fat Boy. In bold, it went like this: the American intelligence community was worried about a Soviet/Chinese coalition, despite the fact that there were many grounds for dispute between them—matters of boundaries, ideology, unequal industrial development, racial mistrust. The Think Tank boys came up with a plan to exploit their underlying differences and break up any developing union. They proposed to send an agent into Peking to kill the head of the Soviet commission and plant incriminating directives from Moscow. The Chinese would think the Russians had sacrificed one of their own to create an incident as an excuse for breaking off the negotiations. The Soviets, knowing better, would think the Chinese had made the hit for the same reason. And when the Chinese brought out the incriminating directives as evidence of Russian duplicity, the Soviets would claim that Peking had manufactured the documents to justify their cowardly attack. The Chinese, knowing perfectly well that this was not the case, would be confirmed in their belief that the whole thing was a Russian plot.
'That the plan worked is proved by the fact that Sino-Soviet relations never did take firm root and are today characterized by mistrust and hostility, and Western bloc powers are able to play one of them off against the other and prevent what would be an overwhelming alliance.
'The little stumbling block to the ingenious plot of the Think Tank boys was finding an agent who knew enough Chinese to move through that country under cover, who could pass for a Russian when the necessity arose, and who was willing to take on a job that had slight chance of success, and almost no chance for escape after the hit was made. The operative bad to be brilliant, multilingual, a trained killer, and desperate enough to accept an assignment that offered not one chance in a hundred of survival.
'CIA ran a key-way sort, and they found only one person among those under their control who fit the description...'
Japan
It was early autumn, the fourth autumn Hel had passed in his cell in Sugamo Prison. He knelt on the floor before his desk/bed, lost in an elusive problem of Basque grammar, when he felt a tingling at the roots of the hair on the nape of his neck. He lifted his head and concentrated on the projections he was intercepting. This person's approaching aura was alien to him. There were sounds at the door, and it swung open. A smiling guard with a triangular scar on his forehead entered, one Nicholai had never seen or felt before.
The guard cleared his throat. 'Come with me, please.'
Hel frowned. The
'Mr. Hel? Delighted to make your acquaintance.' The polished young man rose to shake Hel's hand as he entered the visitors' room. The contrast between his close-fitting Ivy League suit and narrow tie and Hel's crumpled gray prison uniform was no greater than that between their physiques and temperaments. The hearty CIA agent was robust and athletic, capable of the first-naming and knee-jerk congeniality that marks the American salesman. Hel, slim and wiry, was reserved and distant. The agent, who was noted for winning immediate confidences, was a creature of words and reason. Hel was a creature of meaning and undertone. It was the battering ram and the rapier.
The agent nodded permission for the guard to leave. Hel sat on the edge of his chair, having had nothing but his steel cot to sit on for three years, and having lost the facility for sitting back and relaxing. After all that time of not hearing himself addressed in social speech, he found the urbane chat of the agent not so much disturbing as irrelevant.
'I've asked them to bring up a little tea,' the agent said, smiling with a gruff shagginess of personality that he had always found so effective in public relations. 'One thing you've got to hand to these Japanese, they make a good cup of tea—what my limey friends call a 'nice cuppa.'' He laughed at his failure to produce a recognizable cockney accent.
Hel watched him without speaking, taking some pleasure in the fact that the American was caught off balance by the battered appearance of his face, at first glancing away uneasily, and subsequently forcing himself to look at it without any show of disgust.
'You're looking pretty fit, Mr. Hel. I had expected that you would show the effects of physical inactivity. Of course, you have one advantage. You don't overeat. Most people overeat, if you want my opinion. The old human body would do better with a lot less food than we give it. We sort of clog up the tubes with chow, don't you agree? Ah, here we are! Here's the tea.'
The guard entered with a tray on which there was a thick pot and two handleless Japanese cups. The agent poured clumsily, like a friendly bear, as though gracelessness were proof of virility. Hel accepted the cup, but he did not drink.
