They did their work thoroughly. A pile of Lowiewski’s pocket effects was made on the table; as each item was added to it, the Pole made some sarcastic comment.
“And that pack of cigarettes: unopened,” he jeered. “I suppose I communicated the data to the manufacturers by telepathy, and they printed it on the cigarette papers in invisible ink.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you opened the pack, and then resealed it,” Kato suggested. “A heated spatula under the cellophane; like this.”
He used the point of his knife to illustrate. The cellophane came unsealed with surprising ease: so did the revenue stamp. He dumped out the contents of the pack: sixteen cigarettes, four cigarette tip-ends, four bits snapped from the other ends—and a small aluminum microfilm capsule.
Lowiewski’s face twitched. For an instant, he tried vainly to break loose from the men who held him. Then he slumped into a chair. Heym ben-Hillel gasped in shocked surprise. Suzanne Maillard gave a short, felinelike cry. Sir Neville Lawton looked at the capsule curiously and said: “Well, my sainted Aunt Agatha!”
“That’s the capsule I gave him, at noon,” Farida Khouroglu exclaimed, picking it up. She opened it and pulled out a roll of colloidex projection film. There was also a bit of cigarette paper in the capsule, upon which a notation had been made in Kyrilic characters.
Rudolf von Heldenfeld could read Russian. “ ‘Data on new development of photon-neutrino-electron interchange. 22 July, ’65. Vladmir.’ Vladmir, I suppose, is this schweinhund’s code name,” he added.
The film and the paper passed from hand to hand. The other members of the Team sat down; there was a tendency to move away from the chair occupied by Adam Lowiewski. He noticed this and sneered.
“Afraid of contamination from the moral leper?” he asked. “You were glad enough to have me correct your stupid mathematical errors.”
Kato Sugihara picked up the capsule, took a final glance at the cigarette pack, and said to MacLeod: “I’ll be back as soon as this is done.” With that, he left the room, followed by Bertie Wooster and the Greek.
Heym ben-Hillel turned to the others: his eyes had the hurt and puzzled look of a dog that has been kicked for no reason. “But why did he do this?” he asked.
“He just told you,” MacLeod replied. “He’s the great Adam Lowiewski. Checking math for a physics-research team is beneath his dignity. I suppose the Komintern offered him a professorship at Stalin University.” He was watching Lowiewski’s face keenly. “No,” he continued. “It was probably the mathematics chair of the Soviet Academy of Sciences.”
“But who was this person who could smuggle microfilm out of the reservation?” Suzanne Maillard wanted to know. “Somebody has invented teleportation, then?”
MacLeod shook his head. “It was General Nayland’s chauffeur. It had to be. General Nayland’s car is the only thing that gets out of here without being searched. The car itself is serviced at Army vehicles pool; nobody could hide anything in it for a confederate to pick up outside. Nayland is a stuffed shirt of the first stuffing, and a tinpot Hitler to boot, but he is fanatically and incorruptibly patriotic. That leaves the chauffeur. When Nayland’s in the car, nobody even sees him; he might as well be a robot steering-device. Old case of Father Brown’s Invisible Man. So, since he had to be the courier, all I did was have Ahmed Abd-el-Rahman shadow him, and at the same time tap our phones. When he contacted Lowiewski, I knew Lowiewski was our traitor.”
Sir Neville Lawton gave a strangling laugh. “Oh, my dear Aunt Fanny! And Nayland goes positively crackers on security. He gets goose pimples every time he hears somebody saying ’E = mc2,’ for fear a Komintern spy might hear him. It’s a wonder he hasn’t put the value of Planck’s Constant on the classified list. He sets up all these fantastic search rooms and barriers, and then he drives through the gate, honking his bloody horn, with his chauffeur’s pockets full of top secrets. Now I’ve seen everything!”
“Not quite everything,” MacLeod said. “Kato’s going to put that capsule in another cigarette pack, and he’ll send one of his lab girls to Oppenheimer Village with it, with a message from Lowiewski to the effect that he couldn’t get away. And when this chauffeur takes it out, he’ll run into a Counter Espionage roadblock on the way to town. They’ll shoot him, of course, and they’ll probably transfer Nayland to the Mississippi Valley Flood Control Project, where he can’t do any more damage. At least, we’ll have him out of our hair.”
“If we have any hair left,” Heym ben-Hillel gloomed. “You’ve got Nayland into trouble, but you haven’t got us out of it.”
“What do you mean?” Suzanne Maillard demanded. “He’s found the traitor and stopped the leak.”
“Yes, but we’re still responsible, as a team, for this betrayal,” the Israeli pointed out. “This Nayland is only a symptom of the enmity which politicians and militarists feel toward the Free Scientists, and of their opposition to the research-contract system. Now they have a scandal to use. Our part in stopping the leak will be ignored; the publicity will be about the treason of a Free Scientist.”
“That’s right,” Sir Neville Lawton agreed. “And that brings up another point. We simply can’t hand this fellow over to the authorities. If we do, we establish a precedent that may wreck the whole system under which we operate.”
“Yes: it would be a fine thing if governments start putting Free Scientists on trial and shooting them,” Farida Khouroglu supported him. “In a few years, none of us would be safe.”
“But,” Suzanne cried, “you are not arguing that this species of an animal be allowed to betray us unpunished?”
“Look,” Rudolf von Heldenfeld said. “Let us give him his pistol, and one cartridge, and let him remove himself like
