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about except that it’s injected at the base of the skull—that voids the programming. Something to do with neutralizing the lobus occipitalis, whatever the hell that is. From here on we can make a determination.”
    “Such an admission astonishes me.”
    “Why should it? Maybe I’m fust saving our respective directors a lot of aggravation; that could be my objective. Or maybe none of it’s true; maybe there is no serum, no protection, and I’m making it all up. That’s also a possibility.”
    The Russian smiled.
“Khvatit!
You
are
out! You amuse us both with logic that could serve you. You’re on your way to that farm in your own Grasnov.”
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Am I worth the risk?”
    “Let’s find out.” Suddenly the Russian flipped his automatic, barrel up; he slapped it back in the palm of his hand and threw it to Havelock on the bed. Michael caught the weapon in midair.
    “What am I supposed to do with this?”
    “What do you want to do with it?”
    “Nothing. Assuming the first three shells are rubber capsules filled with dye, I’d only soil your clothes.” Havelock pressed the magazine release; the clip dropped to the bed. “It’s not a very good test, anyway. Say the firing pin works and this thing makes any noise at all, twenty
khruschei
could break in here and blow me out of the park.”
    “The firing pin works and there’s no one outside in the hallway. The Arethusa Delphi is very much in Washington’s camp; it’s watched and I’m not so foolish as to parade our personnel. I think you know that. It’s why you’re here.”
    “What are you trying to prove?”
    The Russian smiled again and shrugged. “I’m not really sure. A brief something in the eyes, perhaps. When a man’s under a hostile gun and that gun is suddenly his, there is an instant compulsion to eliminate the prior threat—assuming the hostility is returned. It’s in the eyes; no amount of control can disguise it—if the enmity is active.”
    “What was in my eyes?”
    “Absolute indifference. Weariness, if you will.”
    “I’m not sure you’re right, but I admire your courage. It’s more than I’ve got. The firing pin really works?”
    “Yes.”
    “No capsules?”
    The Russian shook his head, his expression conveying quiet amusement. “No bullets. That is to say, no powder in the shells.” Rostov raised his left hand and, with his right, pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat. Strapped to the flat of his wrist, extending up toward his elbow, was a thin barrel, the trigger mechanism apparently activated by the bending of his arm.
“Snotvornoye,”
he said, touching the taut, springlike wires. “What you call narcotic darts. You would have slept peacefully for the better part of tomorrow while a doctor insisted that your odd fever be stutdied at the hospital. We’d have gotten you out, flown you up to Salonika and over the Dardanelles into Sevastopol.” The Russian unsnapped a strap above his wrist and removed the weapon.
    Havelock studied the KGB man, not a little perplexed. “You really could have taken me.”
    “Until the attempt is made, one never knows. I might have missed the first shot, and you’re younger, stronger than I; you could have attacked, broken my neck. But the odds were on my side.”
    “I’d say completely. Why didn’t you play them?”
    “Because you’re right. We
don’t
want you. The risks
are
too great—not those you spoke of, but others. I simply had to know the truth and I’m now convinced. You are no longer in the service of your government.”
    “What risks?”
    “They’re unknown to us, but they are there. Anything you can’t understand in this business is a risk, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
    “Tell me
something
. I just got a pardon; I’d like to know why.”
    “Very well.” The Soviet intelligence officer hesitated; he walked aimlessly toward the double doors that led to the miniature balcony and opened one several