“Now there’s a typical Prussian suggestion,” Lowiewski said.
Kato Sugihara, returning alone, looked around the table. “Did I miss something interesting?” he asked.
“Oh, very,” Lowiewski told him. “Your Junker friend thinks I should perform seppuku.”
Kato nodded quickly. “Excellent idea!” he congratulated von Heldenfeld. “If he does, he’ll save everybody a lot of trouble. Himself included.” He nodded again. “If he does that, we can protect his reputation, after he’s dead.”
“I don’t really see how,” Sir Neville objected. “When the Counter Espionage people were brought into this, the thing went out of our control.”
“Why, this chauffeur was the spy, as well as the spy-courier,” MacLeod said. “The information he transmitted was picked up piecemeal from different indiscreet lab-workers and students attached to our team. Of course, we are investigating, mumble-mumble. Naturally, no one will admit, mumble-mumble. No stone will be left unturned, mumble-mumble. Disciplinary action, mumble-mumble.”
“And I suppose he got that microfilm piecemeal, too?” Lowiewski asked.
“Oh, that?” MacLeod shrugged. “That was planted on him. One of our girls arranged an opportunity for him to steal it from her, after we began to suspect him. Of course, Kato falsified everything he put into that report. As information, it’s worthless.”
“Worthless? It’s better than that,” Kato grinned. “I’m really sorry the Komintern won’t get it. They’d try some of that stuff out with the big betatron at Smolensk, and a microsecond after they’d throw the switch, Smolensk would look worse than Hiroshima did.”
“Well, why would our esteemed colleague commit suicide, just at this time?” Karen Hilquist asked.
“Maybe plutonium poisoning.” Farida suggested. “He was doing something in the radiation-lab and got some Pu in him, and of course, shooting’s not as painful as that. So—”
“Oh, my dear!” Suzanne protested. “That but stinks! The great Adam Lowiewski, descending from his pinnacle of pure mathematics, to perform a vulgar experiment? With actual things?” The Frenchwoman gave an exaggerated shudder. “Horrors!”
“Besides, if our people began getting radioactive, somebody would be sure to claim we were endangering the safely of the whole establishment, and the national-security clause would be invoked, and some nosy person would put a geiger on the dear departed,” Sir Neville added.
“Nervous collapse.” Karen said. “According to the laity, all scientists are crazy. Crazy people kill themselves. Adam Lowiewski was a scientist. Ergo Adam Lowiewski killed himself. Besides, a nervous collapse isn’t instrumentally detectable.”
Heym ben-Hillel looked at MacLeod, his eyes troubled.
“But, Dunc; have we the right to put him to death, either by his own hand or by an Army firing squad?” he asked. “Remember he is not only a traitor; he is one of the world’s greatest mathematical minds. Have we a right to destroy that mind?”
Von Heldenfeld shouted, banging his fist on the table: “I don’t care if he’s Gauss and Riemann and Lorenz and Poincare and Minkowski and Whitehead and Einstein, all collapsed into one! The man is a stinking traitor, not only to us, but to all scientists and all sciences! If he doesn’t shoot himself, hand him over to the United States, and let them shoot him! Why do we go on arguing?”
Lowiewski was smiling, now. The panic that had seized him in the hallway below, and the desperation when the cigarette pack had been opened, had left him.
“Now I have a modest proposal, which will solve your difficulties,” he said. “I have money, papers, clothing, everything I will need, outside the reservation. Suppose you just let me leave here. Then, if there is any trouble, you can use this fiction about the indiscreet underlings, without the unnecessary embellishment of my suicide—”
Rudolf von Heldenfeld let out an inarticulate roar of fury. For an instant he was beyond words. Then he sprang to his feet.
“Look at him!” he cried. “Look at him, laughing in our faces, for the dupes and fools he thinks we are!” He thrust out his hand toward MacLeod. “Give me the pistol! He won’t shoot himself; I’ll do it for him!”
“It would work, Dunc. Really, it would,” Heym ben-Hillel urged.
“No,” Karen Hilquist contradicted. “If he left here, everybody would know what had happened, and we’d be accused of protecting him. If he kills himself, we can get things hushed up: dead traitors are good traitors. But if he remains alive, we must disassociate ourselves from him by handing him over.”
“And wreck the prestige of the Team?” Lowiewski asked.
“At least you will not live to see that!” Suzanne retorted.
Heym ben-Hillel put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. “Is there no solution to this?” he almost wailed.
“Certainly: an obvious solution,” MacLeod said, rising. “Rudolf has just stated it. Only I’m leader of this Team, and there are, of course, jobs a team-leader simply doesn’t delegate.” The safety catch of the Beretta clicked a period to his words.
“No!” The word was wrenched almost physically out of Lowiewski. He, too, was on his feet, a sudden desperate fear in his face. “No! You wouldn’t murder me!”
“The term is ‘execute,’ ” MacLeod corrected. Then his arm swung up, and he shot Adam Lowiewski through the forehead.
For an instant, the Pole remained on his feet. Then his knees buckled, and he fell forward against the table, sliding to the floor.
MacLeod went around the table, behind Kato Sugihara and Farida Khouroglu and Heym ben-Hillel, and stood looking down at the man he had killed. He dropped the automatic within a few inches of the dead renegade’s outstretched hand, then turned to face the others.
“I regret,” he addressed them, his voice and face blank of expression, “to announce that our distinguished colleague, Dr. Adam Lowiewski, has committed suicide by shooting, after a nervous collapse resulting from overwork.”
Sir Neville Lawton looked critically at the motionless figure on the floor.
“I’m afraid we’ll have trouble making that stick, Dunc,” he said. “You shot him at about five yards; there isn’t a powder mark on him.”
“Oh, sorry; I forgot.” MacLeod’s voice was
