And then his concentration broke. The ability to maintain a razor edge in the face of every desperate emergency had saved him time and again, but he suddenly could not stand the sight of death. He turned to face the men who held him at gunpoint and knew that his own weakness was in his eyes. For fear was beginning to build inside him, sickening, debilitating fear he could not control.
Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his lips began to move. He had killed so many times himself he knew every aspect of men facing sudden violent death and he found them all within himself. His brain, his expertly trained reflexes, betrayed him, fear took command of him.
“And now you.” He heard the words and he opened his mouth to protest. But it was dry and his tongue would not move. In one last, frenzied effort to regain control of himself he snapped his arm inside his coat to get his own weapon, but he was too late. He felt the bullets as they tattooed his abdomen, but the pain was nothing beside the fear that seized him, and in the grip of that fear he died.
23
Colonel Gregor Rostovitch received the news with a cold and tight-lipped understanding. The death of the man Carlo he had expected for some time; the rest of those who had been killed were of no special importance. What did matter was that he had been challenged on a face-to-face basis, that was the message and there was no mistaking it. It was also, remotely, a threat to his own person, and he understood that too. The world was full of people who wanted to see him dead and he did not care. But he had been challenged and that he knew would be to a finish. The high diver, and those who were associated with him, had asked for what they were about to receive.
His mind was clear as he planned his response. The people against him had tried terror, knowing that he was probably the greatest expert in the use of terror anywhere on the international scene. And behind him he had awesome military power. Against him he had a so far unseen foe, which made the game more interesting. Also against him he had the clock and the calendar. The conquest of America had been perhaps one of the greatest coups in history, but it had unexpectedly also proven to be one of the most costly. The government he had left behind him was growing increasingly unstable and uncertain; unless he could return home as the new premier within a fairly short time, there could be very serious consequences. The Actor had about run his course and, wily as he was, his performance was beginning to pale. Gregor Rostovitch knew that he badly needed a personal triumph of his own to build his stature up to an apex. Now he had been presented with the opportunity to achieve one, which accounted for the fact that he was not enraged in the least. Instead he began to lay his plans with the gfim satisfaction of a gladiator who knows that no man living can stand up to him and that another contest for him will mean another sure kill.
Not long after the first light of the morning had thrown its blushes into the sky, a light aircraft sat down on the concealed landing strip that served the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. The pilot paused just long enough to allow three people to deplane, then he was off again at very low altitude, skimming over the hills on what could have been a hunting reconnaissance or a rancher looking for strays from his herd.
Some twenty minutes after that Senator Solomon Fitzhugh was escorted into the reception foyer, such as it was, of the Thomas Jefferson headquarters. The facility had not been designed to receive many visitors, and minimum attention had been given to the usual amenities. Nevertheless Fitzhugh looked about him and took it all in.
Mrs. Smith came out to receive him. “Good morning, senator,” she greeted. “I’m very sorry that it was necessary for you to get up so early.”
“That’s quite all right,” he answered her gravely. “I am by nature an early riser.”
She sat down and faced him informally. “Senator, I believe that it has been made clear to you that this facility, and everything that goes on here, is supersecret in the strictest sense of the term.”
The senator nodded. “It has.”
“And as an American patriot you have agreed that under no circumstances will you reveal anything whatever about its existence until such time as you have been given specific clearance, from this headquarters, to do so.”
Again Fitzhugh nodded. “I have assumed that obligation, and I am grateful that at last someone describes me as a patriot.”
“Very well, senator, then I have something to show you before anything else. We are not much given to ceremonials here, we are too heavily engaged in other matters, but we do have something. Please come with me.” She opened a door and passed through.
Senator Fitzhugh rose and fell in behind his guide. When he had passed through the doorway he found himself in a simple room with no furniture whatsoever except for a single American flag standing in one corner. On the wall there were some pictures. Some fifty people, men and women, looked back at him from their portraits, each with a name posted underneath. He stopped when he saw the face of his son and read the name gary fitzhugh followed by the dates of his short life.
“The man who directs our whole operation ordered this,” Mrs. Smith said. “We all come in here every little while to look and to remember. The President knows of it too; when this is all over a suitable memorial is going to be built in Washington.”
Despite himself Fitzhugh felt a growing lump in his throat. He looked long at the features of his dead son and then at the picture of the slender, quiet-appearing brunette which was hung next. He read the name and then looked at his guide. “She was your daughter, I believe you said.”
Mrs. Smith nodded. “Yes, senator, my only child. I cannot have anymore.”
The senator bowed his head. “I am very sorry,” he said.
“And I also, senator. But they did not die in vain. You will learn more about that very shortly.”
“I understand that I may be here quite some time.”
“Yes, but perhaps not as long as you might expect. Things are rapidly coming to a head.”
She opened another door and, indicating that he should follow, led him down a lengthy corridor which penetrated deep into the underground complex. Then she paused and looked into the conference room. “This is where the First Team meets,” she told him. “It is equipped with very advanced and highly protected communications facilities and many other features. It is much superior to both NORAD and the underground SAC headquarters. One major difference is that there are no press tours.”
“I can well understand that.”
“Good. Please sit down and you will be served some breakfast.” The tribute to his son, along with the others, had moved Solomon Fitzhzugh, and he had something to say. “Mrs. Smith, I am very keenly aware that all of this was built without the knowledge or consent of the Congress, but I can see why it had to be kept very secret.”
He drew an encouraging response to that. “Senator, I don’t question the integrity of anyone in Congress, but your colleagues in the Senate and the House represent a great many different shades of opinion; there are many of them who we would not trust to be here now.”
A door at the end of the room opened and Admiral Haymarket came in.
For a second or two Fitzhugh did not react; then he began to stare in almost stricken amazement. The admiral came toward him. “Good morning, senator,” he said. “I regard this as a much happier occasion than our last meeting.”
Fitzhugh took hold of the back of a chair and tried to clear his head of disbelief. “But I thought you dead and buried!”