“Yes, sir.”
When the man had gone the admiral asked one more thing. “How about Hewlitt, the interpreter? I haven’t heard about that.” Ted Pappas responded. “He was positioned, sir, a short while ago. Mark has him in tow. He reports that Hewlitt is calm and ready.”
“Good. When shall we put him in?” He looked toward Ed Higbee. The former journalist glanced at the clock. “Anytime between now and two-thirty this afternoon; after that it would be too late. Let Mark call the shot; he’s got to handle the operational end.”
“So ordered,” the admiral said.
As he moved about through the rooms and corridors of the White House Major Barlov revealed no changes in his demeanor — he remained a disciplined officer well qualified to hold a field grade assignment and to carry the responsibilities assigned to him. Many of the White House regular staff were at pains to avoid him, which suited the major perfectly; it was precisely what he most wanted them to do. The two secret service agents who had been part of the Hewlitt-Stoneham cell continued to watch his movements closely and to report their findings through fresh channels of communication which had been set up for the purpose. It was a high tribute to the major’s level of efficiency that not once, even for a single moment, did he betray himself in any way.
Although Rostovitch was, for the time being at least, sitting in the Oval Office, Barlov knew that the real center of his operations would still be in his own headquarters and that he had no intention of moving them. Zalinsky was not out of things yet and Rostovitch would keep a door open through which he could make his retreat if such a temporary expedient became necessary. Barlov was still in full charge of his own department, but when his telephone rang and he learned that a newly captured prisoner was to be brought shortly to the White House to be interviewed by Rostovitch there, he knew at once that there had been a significant change in the signals.
With cool composure he appraised the situation and tried to guess the identity of the person in custody. Within a few seconds he arrived at a conclusion and issued some orders. Then he made a phone call of his own and inquired about the nondelivery of some wanted supplies.
The first small group of demonstrators materialized outside the White House before another half hour had passed. No great stir marked their arrival, but the major sent a man to watch them nonetheless. Presently others came, so that when a car pulled up with the prisoner and his captors, the line of marchers was already of sizable proportions. Silently the major gave thanks that the Americans, who had never been too well known for their skill in such matters, were proving efficient this time.
Barlov went himself to receive the prisoner. It was not the person he had anticipated, nor the most likely alternate; this meant that the demonstration being staged outside might be futile and a trump card had been wasted. For that the major blamed himself, but at the same time he knew that the bet he had made had been right and that the odds had been with him.
But if the prisoner had been brought directly to be seen by Rostovitch himself, then despite appearances he was probably someone of consequence. Barlov wasted no more time in conjecture. “We will take him,” he announced coldly. “He will be held and produced for examination on the colonel’s order.”
The man in charge of the small detachment shook his head. “We must take him to Colonel Rostovitch ourselves.”
“That is impossible,” Barlov reported. “The rules on White House security are rigid and no exceptions are permitted for any reason whatsoever. We will take the prisoner; the colonel will be notified at once.”
The major’s rank insured his victory in the small contest; he summoned three of his men and watched approvingly as they took over with convincing authority. “When the colonel is through with him you will be notified,” Barlov said. “We will await his pleasure.” He gestured that the prisoner was to be taken away.
Outside, the leader of the demonstration knew that he and his people were taking a considerable chance. Protests against the occupying authorities were not allowed; his group had been summoned because a diversion was urgently needed and one had to be put on even at great risk. He did not know the purpose; the instructions he had been given and had passed on to his people had been explicit: their conduct was to be nonviolent and peaceful, giving the enemy the minumum excuse to arrest them. In all probability, he had been told, he and his people would be ordered to break up and clear out, but if there were no conspicuous leaders, it could possibly end there. No resistance was to be offered.
Only one thing had not been foreseen. His full group had been on the job for almost fifteen minutes, but it was still unaccountably growing. At least fifty people in the line of march were not known to him and more were joining them every minute. The placard he held himself read: we petition equal rights for jews. It was deliberately mild and in a cause that was centuries old, but it had not been conceived of as being a popular rallying point. Perhaps it was, or perhaps it was simply a case of frustrated Americans seeing a cause and wanting desperately to be part of it; but whatever the motivation, recruits were arriving in a steady stream.
By that alchemy through which people know what is going on without possessing any visible sources of information, more and more came to march silently up and down the sidewalk on Pennsylvania Avenue until their number was more than three times what had been planned.
“Let me carry the card for a while,” someone said to the leader and took the handle away from him.
“It could be dangerous,” the organizer warned.
The other man became confidential. “I don’t think so. You know about the submarine. I don’t care how much power they’ve got, they can’t take what she can dish out and you know it.”
The man in charge of the demonstration understood — Americans were finding heart and they wanted to be part of the resistance too. He only hoped, fervently, that in their eagerness they wouldn’t push things completely out of hand.
When the coded knock came on the door of the Oval Office, Rostovitch barked, “In!” and looked up for a moment. The sound had told him who it was and that his business was more than casual. “Well?” he demanded.
“Another of the underground agents has been caught,” Barlov reported. “Your orders were that all such matters were to be reported to you personally at once.”
“Correct,” Rostovitch chopped. “A man?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you have him?”
“Directly outside, in case you wish to see him. Your people delivered him to us for that purpose.”
“Good. What is that commotion going on outside?”
“A meaningless demonstration; we will take care of it. Please do not trouble yourself about it.”
Rostovitch put one hand over a telephone. “You require help?” he asked.
Barlov quickly shook his head. “We will handle it; that is our job.” His voice was unexpectedly hard; he wanted it clearly understood that he knew his business.
That pleased Rostovitch. With the next thought his eyes brightened; a captured enemy agent could be made to supply information and the time for that was never better. With a gesture of his left arm he indicated that the man was to be brought in.
Three of Barlov’s men were controlling him; they held him, one on each side, while a third kept watch with a drawn pistol. They almost literally threw the prisoner into a chair, then the man with the gun took up a steady watch directly behind him. It was efficient and ruthless, as it was meant to be.
“What’s your name?” Rostovitch demanded.
He was mildly surprised when the man answered him quite calmly, “Frank Jordan.”
“You are a spy, an underground agent.”