For the second time that evening he followed someone up a set of back stairs, then down a side corridor to the front room. Not a light showed anywhere, but enough illumination came in through the large front-facing window to allow him to pick out three more figures who were gathered silently in the darkness. One of them stepped forward and allowed what light there was to outline his features for a moment; Hewlitt recognized Percival.
“We received your message,” he said softly. “Are you absolutely sure of your information?”
“Totally,” Hewlitt answered.
“Then come over here.”
Set back from the window there was a stubby telescope on a tripod; the instrument itself appeared to have an unusually large aperture for its short length. “Take a look,” Percival invited.
When Hewlitt bent over slightly to peer into the eyepiece he was startled to find that he was apparently viewing his objective in close to broad daylight. “If you don’t know it, it’s a sniperscope,” he heard Percival saying. “It has a light amplifying system.”
“I’ve heard about them,” Hewlitt said. “They really work.”
“The Viet Cong found that out. Now, do you see the steps of the house in the lower left of the image?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the entrance to the enemy’s safe house that I told you about. We’ve been watching their people for some time and they invariably come from the direction that you’re watching. Can you see clearly?”
“Quite.”
“Then stay right where you are. Don’t touch anything else in the room. Keep your eye glued to that telescope. If you see someone coming, observe him closely. If you can make a positive identification of Scott, tell me. Don’t hesitate, but be sure. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing. If you identify Scott absolutely, and if he turns into that house, we will take action. Never mind the equipment; that will be taken care of. Your job will be to go out as you came in as quickly as you can and still be careful. Someone will be with you, follow his instructions. That’s all.”
Hewlitt did not answer; he felt no need. He fixed his eye to the scope as he had been directed.
At the end of the first half hour he began to feel cramped. He turned his neck the other way and used his left eye to maintain his vigil. During his momentary shift of position he glanced around the room and saw that the other figures were clearer now. One of them, almost motionless like himself, held the butt end of a rifle which was resting on a tripod.
For a moment he felt a strong revulsion; he did not want to give the word that would cause a man to be killed. A man with whom he had shared drinks a short time ago. Then he fixed his mind on the unforgettable picture of Bob Landers’ body lying on the South Lawn, and remembered something Scott had told him in the bar.
This wasn’t child’s play and he knew he had to face up to that fact.
“Target.”
The word came from the man with the rifle who was also looking through a telescopic finder. Hewlitt looked and saw the figure coming into his field of view: first his feet, then his trouser legs, his torso, and finally the face of Captain Philip Scott. He looked very carefully for three additional seconds, but there was no mistake; he was wearing the same clothes he had had on in the bar. “It’s Scott,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard.
“You are certain?” This from Percival.
“Certain.”
He did not want to look, but he could not escape from the eyepiece. He saw Phil Scott walk the few remaining paces to the front of the building, watched as he turned, and followed him as he started to mount the steps. Then he heard an angry, muffled spit bite the air in the room.
He saw Phil Scott appear to hesitate, raise his arm as though to shield his eyes from the absent sun, and then falter. He slumped downward, tumbling backward from where he had stood, until his body lay sprawled flat where he had paused moments before.
“Let’s go,” Percival said.
Shaken, Hewlitt went out the door, hurried along the corridor, and ran down the steps. The others were directly behind him. Once he was outside in the air his mood abruptly changed, he was the hunted one now and his mind was totally set on escape. When he reached the backyard of the opposite house he heard the single word, “Wait.”
Although his mind urged him to flee, he did as he was told. Others came behind him, carrying things he could not see even though his night vision was now effective. Then he made out the outlines of a car that was parked there; he noticed that when the doors were opened no lights went on automatically. “In the front,” he was directed.
He was barely seated when the vehicle started. It moved down the narrow space between two adjacent houses and entered the all but deserted street. No other traffic was visible for some distance either way. Hewlitt found that he was wedged between the driver and Percival.
They were off the streets again within five minutes; the driver turned into a dark, unguarded parking garage which was normally used only during the daylight hours and the very early evening. Behind the first spiral ramp other vehicles were waiting, including the cab that Hewlitt had ridden in earlier.
The three other men, all of them carrying equipment, left the car without a wasted motion and moments later were on their way separately, driving out by different exits. Percival lingered for just a moment to speak to Hewlitt. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll make out all right. My first experience, of course.”
“I know — and it isn’t easy. But he was guilty.”
Hewlitt nodded. “I know that. In the bar tonight, he made a bad slip.”
“Tell me.”
They were already alone except for the waiting driver who was not close enough to hear. Percival was obviously anxious to go, but he wanted the question answered first.
“He told me how Bob Landers was discovered. He said that he was accidentally photographed leaving a note in a drop. True or false, he couldn’t possibly know that, unless…”
“Of course not. Good work. Go home.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went quickly to the waiting cab and was relieved when he felt the vehicle moving under him. Twenty minutes later he let himself in his back door, undressed, and prepared for bed. But he had no thought of sleep; the image of what he had seen, the silent unreality of it all, keep repeating itself, over and over, in his mind. He could not banish it or forget that he had given the signal that had destroyed a man’s life.
It was hell, because he had been an intelligent man, a capable one, with fifty more years of life ahead of him.
He turned the lights as low as he could, then mixed himself a stiff drink. He sat down on the edge of his bed, glass in hand, and waited for the alcohol to release the bonds that were tied so tightly around his brain.
12
Colonel Gregor Rostovitch was in a sustained rage that not even the passage of the long hours of the night had been able to mitigate. His frustration was rekindled every time that he allowed himself to think once more of the setback that had been thrust upon him, and the added fact that he had an enemy who had not yet been totally liquidated.
Ever since his late teens he had been accustomed to giving the orders and having them obeyed. Blinding ambition had been the beacon of his life — that and his intense hatred of the Jews. He was a man of violence; both his hands were heavily scarred from having been smashed into men’s faces and his body bore the marks of two unsuccessful attempts at assassination. By the time he had reached the rank of colonel in his nation’s army he had a reputation so fearsome that he had chosen to remain known by that title.