Like a blind man reading Braille, Canning paged through the passport. “Where did you get this stuff? Any chance The Committee will learn about old Ted Otley?”
“In the last few months I've learned a few things. I know that only three intelligence agencies in the world have kept the CIA from planting a double agent. The Israelis run a tight outfit. So do the French. The British are the best, most efficient, most impenetrable intelligence specialists anywhere, period. I went to my opposite in Britain's SIS, what used to be called M.I.6. I asked for and was granted a favor: one full set of papers in the Otley name. There is no way The Committee can crack it.”
Canning knew that was true. “Theodore Otley it is.”
“When you get to Tokyo you will check into the Imperial Hotel, where reservations have been made.”
“The Imperial?” Canning asked, amazed. “Since when does a lowly op rate that kind of luxury?”
“Since never. That's why you're getting it. In other Tokyo hotels — the Grand Palace, Takanawa Prince, Fairmont, just about anywhere — you might run into an agent who knows you. There's not much chance of that if you stay at the Imperial.”
“What about the French jet? How do I connect with it?”
“That will be taken care of by your assistant.”
Canning blinked. “Assistant?”
“You don't speak Chinese. You'll need an interpreter.”
“General Lin speaks no English?”
“He does. But you don't want to be completely cut out of a conversation when he uses Chinese with his subordinates.”
“I don't like it,” Canning said sourly.
“The interpreter isn't an agency rep. I'm not tying you to a possible Committeeman.”
“A tenderfoot is just as bad.”
“Hardly. Once you're inside China, there won't be any guns or knives or rough stuff. A tenderfoot can handle it.”
“Who is he?”
“This is strictly a need-to-know operation, and you don't need to know the name. I'm especially concerned that no harm should come to the interpreter. They can't torture a name from you if you haven't got it.”
Resigned to it, Canning said, “How do I contact him?”
McAlister smiled, obviously amused. “He'll contact you.”
“What's so funny?”
“You'll find out.'
“What I don't need is surprises.”
“This one's pleasant. And remember: 'need-to-know.' ”
The electric power came back into service. The refrigerator rumbled to life, and the living-room lights popped on like flash bulbs. Canning got up, went to the kitchen counter, worked the light switch until the fluorescent tubes fired up. He and McAlister squinted at each other for a few seconds.
McAlister stood up and stretched. If he had been all lion when he had come through the front door, Canning thought, he was now at least ten percent tired old house cat. “That's everything. You have any questions?”
“Are you going to be working on the case from this end?”
“I've built up a rather large, youngish, go-getting legal staff since I took over at the agency. I'm going to turn those lawyers into detectives.”
“You could get them killed.”
“Not if I send them out in teams of two and three, and not if there's an armed United States marshal with each team.”
“You can swing that?”
Adjusting his cuffs, McAlister said, “The President has promised me anything I need.”
“Where will you start?”
“We'll try to find Wilson's laboratory. If we can get our hands on the files or on a scientist who worked with Wilson, we ought to be able to learn Dragonfly's identity.” He led the way into the living room and waited while Canning got his raincoat from the foyer closet. “There's another angle we'll cover. Berlinson managed to kill one of the men sent to get him. The corpse wasn't in the house in Carpinteria, but our forensic experts swear there was a fifth killing. There was a great deal of blood near the bedroom closet, and it doesn't match types with any of the Berlinsons or with the FBI agent who was killed in the kitchen. So… Somewhere there's a dead CIA operative, a dead Committeeman. I'm going to try to pin down the whereabouts of every agent who is supposed to be in Mexico or North America, any agent who might have slipped into Carpinteria, California. If one of them isn't where he's supposed to be, if his absence is unexplained, if I can't get a line on him one way or another, then we can be pretty certain that he's the one Berlinson killed. We'll find out which agency employees were most friendly with him. They'll probably be Committeemen. With luck, we might get hold of one of these fanatics before he knows what's happening.”
Canning held the hooded raincoat, waited until the other man had his arms in the sleeves, let go of the collar, and said, “Then what?”
McAlister turned around to face him. Buttoning his coat, he said, “We interrogate him.”
“Oh?”
“We learn who runs The Committee.”
“If he knows.”
“Or we see if he can tell us where Wilson had his lab. Or who Dragonfly is.”
“If he knows.”
“He'll know something.”
Putting one hand on the doorknob but making no effort to turn it, Canning said, “Like you said earlier, these are all tough boys, hard cases. They won't break unless you hit them with a combination of extreme torture and drugs.”
“That's right.”
“You aren't the kind of man who could use those techniques.”
McAlister frowned. “Maybe I could.”
“I hope you don't have to. But I hope you can if it comes to that.”
“I can. If it gets down to the wire.”
“If it gets down to the wire,” Canning said, “it's already too late.”
FIVE
At one-twenty that afternoon McAlister entrusted his Mercedes to a federal security officer and hurried toward a side entrance of the White House. The enormous old building, streaming with rain, looked like a piece of elegantly sculptured alabaster. All over the spacious grounds, the trees of many nations shared a common autumn: the leaves had begun to turn a hundred different shades of red and gold. McAlister was not aware of this beauty. His mind was on the Dragonfly crisis. He went straight to the door, exchanged hellos with the guard, and stepped into a small marbled foyer, where he left puddles of rain on the polished floor.
Beau Jackson, the sixty-year-old tuxedoed black man who was on duty at the cloakroom, gave McAlister a toothy smile. Jackson was an anachronism that never failed to intrigue McAlister. His look and his manner seemed pre-Lincolnian. “Nasty out there, Mr. McAlister?”
“Wet enough to drown ducks, Mr. Jackson.”
The black man laughed as he took McAlister's coat. Hanging it up, he said, “You just hold on a minute, and I'll wipe the rain off your attaché case.”
“Oh, I'll get it,” McAlister said, putting the briefcase on a small mahogany stand and reaching for the display handkerchief that was folded to a perfect double point in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“No, no!” Jackson said urgently. “You mustn't mess up your nice hanky, Mr. McAlister.”
“Really, I—”
“Why, you have it folded so nice…” He tilted his graying head to admire the handkerchief. “Look at them folds. Would you look at them folds? Sharp enough to cut bread.”
McAlister smiled and shook his head. “Okay. I'll use the bathroom.” He went into the visitors' lavatory, splashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, and straightened his tie. When he returned to the cloakroom, he found Jackson folding the dustcloth he had used to wipe off the attaché case. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”