"This is most encouraging," he said. "Read between the lines and you can invent all sorts of Machiavellian schemes. According to Polevoi, the UN psychologist disappeared off the Staten Island ferry in New York and all contact was severed."

"The KGB lost several sheep from their herd at one time?" Emmett asked in mild astonishment. "That's a new twist. They must be getting sloppy."

"Polevoi's own statement." Brogan held out the transcript papers.

"See for yourself."

Emmett read the typed print and reread it. When he looked up, a trace of triumph brightened his eyes. "So the Russians are behind the abduction."

Brogan nodded in agreement. "From all appearances, but they can't be in it alone. Not if they're ignorant of Lugovoy's whereabouts.

Another source is working with them, someone here in the United States with the power to dictate the operation."

"You?" Emmett asked wolfishly.

Brogan laughed. "No, and you?"

Emmett shook his head. "If the KGB, the CIA and the FBI are all kept in the dark, then who's dealing the cards?"

"The person they refer to as the 'old bitch' and 'Chinese whore.' "

"No gentlemen these Communists."

"The code word for their operation must be Huckleberry Finn."

Emmett stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and sagged comfortably in his chair. "Huckleberry Finn," he repeated, enunciating every syllable. "Our counterpart in Moscow has a dark sense of humor. But what's important, he's unwittingly given us an eye to shove a sharp stick into."

No one pain any attention to the two men seated comfortably in a pickup truck parked in a loading zone by the NUMA building. A cheap plastic removable sign adhered to the passenger's door advertised GUS MOORE'S PLUMBING. Behind the cab in the truck's bed, several lengths of copper pipe and an assortment of tools lay in casual disorder. The men's coveralls were stained with dirt and grease, and neither had shaved in three or four days. The only odd thing about their appearance was their eyes. They never shifted from the entrance to NUMA's headquarters.

The driver tensed and made a directional movement with a nod of his head. "I think this is him coming."

The other man raised a pair of binoculars wrapped in a brown paper bag with the bottom torn out and gazed at a figure emerging from the revolving glass doors. Then he lain the glasses in his lap and examined a face in a large eleven-by-fourteen-inch glossy photograph.

"Confirmed."

The driver checked a row of numbers on a small black transmitter.

"Counting one hundred forty seconds from . . . now." He punctuated his words by pushing a toggle switch to the "on" position.

"Okay," his partner said. "Let's get the hell away."