Deep Cover

Douglass turned a slow circle on his heels, head down, thinking. When he looked up he said, “What about her?”

“Ro

“Oh that’s ducky,” Douglass said, but it was easy to see his thoughts: Ro

“Home,” Ro

Spode said, “You’ll just have to take your chances about that. Ro

“Dangerfield knows about them. He saw them dead.”

“What about Les Suffield, then?”

“Is he honest-to-God dead? I thought you were trying to put one over.”

“He’s dead. So’s Ro

“Now I don’t know what to believe. Anyhow Dangerfield won’t buy it.”

“He’ll have to.”

Forrester said, “He’ll have other things to think about.”

“Not him. He’s never missed a trick, that one.” Douglass ran his tongue over his lips. “Look, you’re saying you’ll pretend you never heard of me—you’re saying I can get on the plane and nobody will ever find out you busted me.”

Spode said, “You’ve got one other choice. You refuse to lead us to Belsky and you’ll stay right here till you rot. You know what happens to you then—from our side or from theirs.”

Douglass filled his chest slowly.

“You were heading for the airport,” Spode said.

“Was I? You tell me.”

“We’ll take you down there. You’ll have to walk in—tell them you had a flat tire just outside. When we let you out of the car you’ll tell us where to find Belsky.”

“What if I do? You won’t budge him, you know. He’s got his orders and that’s all he knows. He’s that kind.”

“Let us deal with him,” Forrester said. “Where is he?”

“I’ll think about that. You want to drive me to the airport? Fine. I’ll let you know when we get there.”

Six-seventeen. After Douglass had told them where to find Belsky they had sped down to the highway and now Spode said, “There’s the Olds. Douglass was telling the truth.”

“Let me have your gun, then,” Forrester said.

“Nuts. We’ll do this my way—both of you get down below the windows back there. Belsky knows this is Suffield’s car. If he sees just me driving he’ll think it’s Suffield. I’ll pull his teeth and then you can have him.”

There was a fair flow of traffic on the highway; Spode made the left turn and rolled slowly along the shoulder to ease up behind the parked Oldsmobile. Before Forrester bent down below the level of vision he had a glimpse of a man with a walkie-talkie in the driver’s seat.

Ro

Forrester whispered, “Stay down and stay quiet.” And he sat up and opened the door.

There was nothing alive in Belsky’s round face except the eyes: eyes hard as glass. They came around toward Forrester like the slowly swinging gun turrets of a battle cruiser.

Forrester walked forward slowly. His breathing was tight and shallow, his sphincter contracted, his palms damp. “My name is Alan Forrester, Belsky.”

“I know who you are.” The eyes did not flicker at the sound of his real name: the man had learned defense and survival in a hard school.

“Call them off,” Forrester said. “You can do it—with that walkie-talkie. Call them off and get them out of this country and nothing will be said about it.”

“Nothing? Surely.”

Forrester could hear the beat of his own heart. The twilight seemed to grow brighter, every tiny sound louder. Cars rushed past on the highway, spewing dust. Spode’s gun was concealed by the hang of his coat but it was visible enough to Belsky.

Forrester said, “Your cover is blown. We know who you are. If you fire the missiles now we’ll know the Russians fired them, how it was done. We’ll be forced to retaliate directly and totally.”

He saw Belsky hesitate for the fraction of a moment but then Belsky said, “It’s beyond my power to stop what has been set in motion by my superiors, Senator. I ca

“What are the targets?”

“I can tell you that, I suppose, since you seem to know the rest. The target is China.”

The design was complete in Forrester’s mind now, and as he studied Belsky’s bland middle-aged face with its gemstone eyes he realized his gamble had failed. He had lost.

In Silo Six Lieutenant Smith stood up and stretched; he had been five hours in the chair. Haas spoke to him, and the voice came over the electronic box: “We’re going to the post movie. Want to double tonight?”

“We were thinking about going bowling.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“But it’s never much sweat to talk Madge into a movie.”

It was 1827 hours.

The red telephone buzzed.

At its base the little light began to wink.

Smith stared. A long time seemed to go by. His face flooded; pressure almost burst his throat. His hands lifted involuntarily toward his face. He whispered, “Oh dear God. Oh sweet dear God.”

He reached for the receiver.

There was a piping buzz from somewhere inside Belsky’s Oldsmobile and Belsky’s face hardened with sudden urgency.

“I beg of you don’t shoot me now!” And he was wheeling, diving inside the car, opening a case on the seat—not an attaché case after all, Forrester realized; a radio. Spode was staring, transfixed, and Forrester saw Belsky remove something from the case and plug jacks into sockets and push several buttons. Belsky had a notepad and when the speaker began to utter dots and dashes Belsky jotted feverishly. Forrester heard the sucked intake of Top’s breath and involuntarily looked at his watch.

They were like that in frozen tableau for an indeterminate time and then Belsky wrenched up the walkie-talkie and pressed a button and yelled into it: “Winslow, can you hear me? From Father Christmas abort. Winslow! From Father Christmas abort! Abort!”

Belsky had the earpiece at his head and it made a brief squawking sound.

“Yes. From Father Christmas. Abort—abort—abort.”

He put it down and backed out of the car. “It may have been too late,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. His eyes swept past Forrester and settled on the desert brush to the northeast, this side of the mountains, where the missiles would erupt if the countermand hadn’t stilled them in time.

Epilogue

Smith had inserted his key; his eyes, and those of Haas, were on the countdown clock. The code envelope lay on the floor behind him and the codes lay in the tray, a perfect match for the signal he was receiving over the red telephone against his ear. The computer’s voice was metallic, without expression.

The computer said, “Execute.”

The last of the word was cut off by a new co

“Countermand. This is Colonel Winslow. Countermand has been received and acknowledged.”

Smith whipped his hand from the key as if it were white-hot. Winslow’s voice was going on in his ear: “We have received a Presidential order to stand down.… Prepare to make secure.…” Smith wasn’t listening. He covered his face with his hands and wept.