The cat eyes widened. "Why the Rand?"
"Because Judas is still busy. I didn't hurt him enough. Right?"
She nodded, puzzled.
"And why would Harcourt be kidnapped instead of killed outright?"
"Because... well, because maybe they thought he'd be discovered too soon. He's probably lying dead some place right now."
"Uhuh. He's not. They took more risk getting him out than leaving him there. No, Judas could've had him killed right there. He's alive, and there's just one reason for it Us. To flush us out of cover. Remember last night?"
She shuddered. "How could I forget?"
"Judas said we were the only people alive who knew what he looked like. Which means that even his hired hands couldn't describe him to anyone. Certainly not Braille. Maybe Judas deals with the chauffeur through a mail-slot — I don't know. But I do know this: he showed his face to us only because he was ready to kill us. Now he has to. But first he has to draw us out. He wants Harcourt, sure. But he wants us, too. We know his face. He's got to get us."
"I suppose he has to," said Julie, her eyes thoughtful. "But Harcourt can still be dead. If you think Judas is going to try to arrange some kind of hostage swap, don't think we're going to get a bargain."
"If I don't talk to Harcourt myself, then we don't bite. That satisfy you?"
"I guess so," she said reluctantly. "But don't you think he'll figure we'll have left the Rand?"
"Very likely. But still, he'll try us there. So we'll play at sitting ducks again."
Hours later and many miles away, Mr. Hawk sat in a well-known Washington building and looked across the desk at a man he had learned to admire, a man of intelligence and courage. A pile of dispatches, cablegrams and teletypes lay on the polished surface between them. Three messages from Carter lay among them: a TELEX from the Consulate relating the story of flight 601; a cabled message detailing the story of Judson and Judas; a shorter cable describing the physical characteristics of the man called Judas.
"All right, Hawk," said the man, "I'll change the Wednesday flight time. I won't let it be known — on one condition — that Harcourt's found before then. Otherwise I'll fly as planned and see what happens."
Hawk bristled. "Sir, for a man in your position that would be nothing short of criminal bravado." He was one of the few people in the country who could address his chief like that. McCracken of the CIA had leapt up from his corner and said "Good heavens, sir, you can't!" but the man's eyes remained on Hawk. He smiled.
"What can happen? I'll use the private plane. You know I'll be surrounded by Security men."
Hawk shook his head. "No, sir, I can't let you do that. There's no limit to this man's resources. Change your plans. Or you'll be playing right into this maniac's hands."
"Hands, Hawk? I understand the man's disabled. I can't just not be there. The whole disarmament plan will fall through by default. Find Harcourt and find Judas. I don't like to issue ultimatums, but you have until tomorrow afternoon. I hope your man can do the job."
"If anyone can, he can. He's an extraordinary agent."
"I know that. I hope our Mr. Judas finds out, too. Let me know tomorrow, Hawk."
He was dismissed.
Twenty-four hours, at best.
Hawk went back to the Georgetown brownstone that served as his Washington headquarters and drafted a cable to Max P. Cane. All it said was: PILATE WANTS HARCOURT FOUND JUDAS CRUCIFIED 2400 FAILURE MEANS PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF WEDNESDAY ACT IMMEDIATELY.
Harcourt to Judas to Cane
It was a restless Tuesday. Late in the afternoon Nick picked up the cable from Hawk at the Strand branch office. Twenty-four hours to go. Less, by now. PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF! Unthinkable!
He and Julia waited in their rooms at the Rand. And had heard nothing.
Nick called the Consulate to remind them where he was and that he was expecting a message from the States. Sorry, no message. Of course there wouldn't be.
The call came after the sun had gone down and lights were trimming the streets.
"We will not spar, Mr. Cane," said the metallic voice. It sounded even thinner, less real than before. "This is J. I have H. If you wish to see him alive, you will listen carefully."
"J. for Judas, this is C. for Cane. So you have H. for Harcourt." Nick took an almost childish pleasure in repeating the names. He waved to Julie and she picked up the extension phone. "Go ahead, Judas."
The voice sounded pained. "There is no need to broadcast all these names. If anyone is listening..."
Nick cut him short. "I'm listening. What do you have to say?"
"Do you know Piccadilly?"
"Yes."
"Good. At nine this evening, you and the lady will be standing on the northeast corner of the square. My car will pick you up."
"Indeed it won't," said Nick. "No more gas rides, thank you."
Judas chuckled without humor. "Open touring car this time, Cane. No tricks."
"Just give me the address. We'll get there by ourselves."
"You don't care to see Harcourt, then?" The voice was almost a whistle.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind seeing Harcourt," said Nick, "but naturally, I'd like to hear him first."
"You can't," the voice said flatly.
"Too bad," said Nick, and put down the phone.
It rang again.
"Mr. Cane."
"Yes?"
"If you hear Lyle Harcourt's voice, will you come to a meeting tonight?"
"Perhaps."
"I think you'd better, Mr. Cane. I have a most extraordinary proposition for you. One that will benefit all parties. I'm sure you will be interested. Suppose I send the car..."
"Suppose you let me talk to Harcourt. And don't tell me I can't. No talk, no meeting. Understand?"
The line went dead again.
This time the phone did not ring again immediately.
When it did the quality of Judas' voice had changed, as if he were speaking from a different room.
"Cane?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Harcourt wants to speak to you."
The second voice was anguished. It sounded far away. It was Harcourt's and it said: "Don't listen to him, Cane. Whatever he wants of you, don't listen to him."
There was a creaking chuckle and Judas was back.
"You see, Cane? Mr. Harcourt is not only alive but full of spirit. Now let's stop this fencing. You will get here as I say or not at ail. Nine o'clock, northeastern corner, Piccadilly. The driver has instructions to deliver you unharmed. I guarantee that. It suits me, this time, to be sure that you're alive. Understood?"
"Check."
"One more thing. One false note, one ruse from you, one phone call even — and Harcourt dies before you even enter the car. And if this call is being tapped or traced, you run a very grave risk of ruining everything. You've been warned." The phone clicked off.
Julie's eyes shone with excitement. "We've hooked him!"
"Or he's hooked us. I'm glad I decided not to have a wiretap. We'd never have gotten past Piccadilly. What did you think about Harcourt's voice — was that him?" His own expression was noncommittal.
She nodded decisively. "That was Harcourt, all right. I'm sure of it. Aren't you?"
"Yes, I am. I just wanted to get your unbiased verdict... Come on, sit down. I don't suppose I'd trigger off a bomb if I called down to Room Service, do you?"
Ice, Scotch and mixer appeared shortly.
"You don't look terribly pleased," Julie observed.
"I'm not terribly pleased. As you yourself said earlier, we're hardly likely to get a bargain. Judas isn't risking anything. He knows we'll do anything to save Harcourt, even walk into his death trap without cover."
"I'm sure there must be a way to get a message to the Police or to Security," said Julie, "short of using the phone. The waiter, elevator operator, someone like that. Surely the Security people could follow us without being obvious..."