"I don't mean to belittle your beliefs, Mr. Bergman," Erikson began, "but on today's underworld market even the sum of money you say was taken would buy few significant illicit weapons."
"Every bullet and every grenade is a threat to my people, sir, but that is not the point. You misjudge the situation, Mr. Erikson. The Palestinians will use this money as working capital to finance a more insidious operation. They will purchase drugs smuggled into your country and dispose of them right here in Harlem at a tremendous profit. It is happening every day, and I can only conclude that your government is blind to the fact or is deliberately averting its eyes from it, for whatever reasons I cannot understand. Why do you refuse to act when these facts are so plain?"
"I can understand your concern, but I'm one man with limited resources," Erikson said. I judged that his tone was intended to be placating. "And my task is primarily investigative. If the evidence warrants it, of course, I can call upon other agencies who will be happy to cooperate. In the meantime I must remind you that the U.S. government cannot willfully jeopardize delicate relationships with other major world powers who have an interest in the Middle East."
Even on the monitor screen I could see the sneer on the face of the younger man. "If you are as concerned as you say, why don't you put a stop to the recruiting of Americans by fedayeen?" The harsh question was bulleted directly at Erikson.
"Quiet, Ravish," Bergman said curtly. He made a gesture of apology to Erikson. "Like many of our young warriors who fought so well in the Six-Day War, Ravish is impetuous. I apologize for his outburst."
"You have proof of the recruiting of Americans by the fedayeen?" Erikson asked Ravish.
"We have," Ravish snapped. "There are seven documented cases in which discharged members of the United States Army, principally Green Beret officers, men qualified as instructors in infiltration and sabotage techniques, have become mercenaries for the fedayeen. All are in training camps in Syria."
"I will ask for details later," Erikson said.
"It's of small importance, actually," Bergman said mildly. "Such a meager effort in view of our own strength is like a man who throws a handful of sand at the desert. Since we pursue this line of thought, however, what about Dr. Emil Shariyk, who unaccountably is no longer at his post with the Physical Sciences Research Group at Los Alamos? It should be beneficial to both of us to verify the present whereabouts of Dr. Shariyk."
"Shariyk?" Erikson repeated.
"Let's be honest with each other, Mr. Erikson," Bergman said stiffly.
"My understanding is that Dr. Shariyk is on a sabbatical with the Atomic Science Foundation in Paris, Mr. Bergman."
"I know that is your government's official position." Icicles dripped from every syllable. "But it is not a true position. Your FBI has secretly requested Interpol assistance in locating Dr. Shariyk, whom we strongly suspect is working in a guarded laboratory in a country sympathetic to the Palestinian renegades."
"Can you substantiate your reasoning?"
"There is no need!" It was an explosive roar from the younger man, Ravish. "Your government knows it as well as we do! We waste time with this eternal fencing! I demand-"
"We ask again that your government take immediate steps to put a stop to the activities of the terrorists operating in your country," Bergman interrupted his companion. "You seem to take too lightly their battle cry 'Death to All Jews!'."
"Recognizing that I'm one man with limited prerogatives," Erikson wedged into the verbal assault, "what is it that you'd have me do?"
"Eliminate the terrorists," Ravish said quickly before Bergman could reply. "By any means. Or we will be forced to take matters into our own hands."
"We can maintain this informal liaison only as long as it promises fruitful results," Bergman added.
"Please don't think that we-" Erikson stopped speaking. Ravish reached into a jacket pocket and drew out a small leather case about the size of a cigarette pack. He thumbed a switch, silencing the tiny buzzer which had caused Erikson to fall silent.
Bergman rose to his feet. "An important telephone call," he said. "You will excuse us, please?" Erikson pushed his desk telephone toward the stocky man who smiled wryly. "You jest, my friend. We prefer to accept the call in privacy. Shalom."
The two men left Erikson's office. The fluorescent tube above my head blinked a goodbye as Ravish crossed the threshold. The red light near the monitors turned green, and Erikson opened the wall panel and looked in at me. "Come on into the office."
I followed him inside after turning off the switches on the television and tape-recorder monitors. "Wasn't that whole business a waste of time?" I asked him.
"It depends on how you look at it. By letting them sound off, I may have prevented their doing something."
"I doubt you've prevented that Ravish from doing anything he made up his mind to do. He looks like a handful."
Erikson smiled. "If it came down to guns, I'd bet on you. Let's see what sort of gun he carried."
"What the hell do you mean, what sort of gun? How do you know he was carrying one at all?"
"You noticed the flickering fluorescent light? It's not a bad tube; it's a signal. The frame of the door has an imbedded sensor wire. If there's a concentrated metal mass on an individual passing through the door, which could equate to a pistol or a knife, the sensors trigger the light tube. It's only a warning, of course, but in the split second during which a person walks through the door, other data are fed into a computer across the hall. Let me show you."
Erikson took a ring of keys from a locked drawer in his desk and led the way from his office. While crossing the hallway, he took out his wallet and extracted from it what appeared to be a white, plastic credit card. I could see that the card had only a network of thin copper wires imbedded under the surface.
"Printed-circuit code lock," Erikson said as he inserted the card into a concealed slot at the edge of the doorframe. An inner latch clicked, after which he used a normal key.
"Too fancy for a country boy like me," I commented.
"Don't ever try to pick one of these, as I've been given to understand you do occasionally with conventional locks," Erikson said with a smile. "Without the coded card release to disarm the lock, you'll set off an alarm. And if you persist in forcing it, there's a shaped explosive charge which will blow off your hands."
The room inside wasn't much larger than a janitor's closet. Erikson and I almost filled it when we entered. On a sturdy shelf extending from the far wall was a machine that looked like a teletypewriter. "Did you ever see either of those agents before?" Erikson asked as he closed the door.
"Never."
Erikson removed the cover from the machine and punched half a dozen buttons. A whirring, thumping noise followed; then a sheet of yellow paper blossomed jerkily from an aperture at the top. A dozen lines of squarish print covered the paper.
Erikson quickly decoded figures and symbols that were meaningless to me, as I leaned over his shoulder. "Well, here it is. At nine-twelve, Bergman and Ravish entered the office. The first man through the door, Bergman, was clean. The second, Ravish, was armed with a 7 mm Luger, validity factor eighty-three percent. The weapon was carried between the waist and the shoulder. Ravish is six feet, one and one quarter inches tall, weighs one hundred and eighty-six pounds, and has steel lifts in his shoes."
Erikson ripped the printed sheet from the machine and dropped it into a chrome-rimmed receptacle. Flashing knife-blades chewed the paper into tiny, pinhead-size confetti, and a rush of water through the receptacle flushed even that fragmentary evidence away.