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this appeared to be the action of an impersonator, a false Kane Mander.”
    “But why sell you the report if he was a Chinese agent?” Taz argued.
    “Two reasons—for the money, mainly, but also to have a try at killing us both. He must have had someone on my tail all day, waiting for me to make contact with you. If we could both be killed, and it could look as if we had shot each other—”
    “He knew we were working together?”
    “He knew, or guessed. Don’t they always suspect you Russians of such things with the West?”
    “But the report was truly valuable—” Taz was still puzzled.
    “Not in the form he supplied it to me today. We received Father Howard’s fifteen-page introduction and twelve-page conclusion. The meat of the report, running to thirty-five more pages, was removed by the false Mander before he delivered it. Harry Truce only skimmed through it, and failed to realize that such a large chunk was missing. But there was a clue to it—the clue that must have sent Harry to his death.”
    “What clue?”
    “The page numbers were in a darker ink, indicating they were written at a different time from the text, and they were in Arabic numerals—I remember seeing the number 23 while Harry was photographing the pages. Would Father Howard have numbered a Latin manuscript in Arabic numerals, in other than Roman numerals? Possible, but unlikely. Either the original manuscript was unnumbered, or else the Chinese agent merely cut off the tops of the pages and renumbered them. If the manuscript pages were renumbered, the implication was that something had been removed. Harry must have thought of that, along with Mander’s mistake about the plane’s propellers, and gone back to confront him—or to search for the missing pages.”
    “And was killed.”
    Rand nodded. “And was killed. He saw the man who called himself Mander leaving in a car and tried to stop him. He was run down for his trouble. I knew the accident took place near the apartment, but I didn’t connect Mander with it till I saw him at the Tower tonight.”
    “Surely our people in Moscow and London would have discovered the missing pages of manuscript.”
    “Yes, and accused each other of stealing them. Neither of us would have been alive to say differently.”
    Taz’s voice was barely a whisper. Overhead they could hear the roar of an incoming jet. “It is my turn to play detective. How did you know there were thirty-five missing pages?”
    “I went back to Mander’s apartment tonight and found them hidden under the rug.”
    “I must have them,” said Taz.
    Rand took a thick envelope from his pocket. “They’re yours. I’ve already photographed them.”
    The Russian smiled slightly. “Thank you.” Then, “Did you really think I would have killed you tonight?”
    “For a moment I wasn’t sure,” Rand admitted. “You surely wanted more than just a spy who could read Latin. You must have people in Moscow—”
    “I wanted more.”
    “Me?”
    Taz eyed him for a moment. “But not dead. Alive—as a defector. I was to offer you a great deal of money.”
    “You didn’t mention it earlier.”
    “No. I realized from the moment I saw you that you were a different sort of man.”
    “Aren’t we both?” Rand got to his feet. “I have a plane to catch.”
    Taz nodded. “What about the girl?”
    “I’ll give her a story—something with lots of cloaks and daggers.”
    “But not the truth?”
    “There are so many truths.” Rand said. “We can share one of them with her—the one about a brave and foolish young man named Harry Truce.”
    Rand walked with Taz to the door, shook hands quickly, and hurried toward his plane. He did not look back.

The Spy Who Traveled with a Coffin
    T HE MAN IN THE black raincoat was an assassin. He was, actually, quite skilled at his job, and he was employed only by the most important governments. He liked the work, especially the frequent travel that went with it. This day he was even