“Thorium can be converted into nuclear fuel when bombarded by neutrons,” Barshov explained. “It’s also used in the manufacture of different magnesium alloys.”

“And byzanium?”

“Very little is known about it. None has ever been 1 discovered in enough quantity to conduct constructive experiments.” Barshov tapped his pipe in an ashtray. “The French are the only ones who have shown interest in it over the years.”

Prevlov looked up. “The French?”

“They have spent millions of francs sending geological expeditions around the world looking for it. To my knowledge, none of them was successful.”

“It would seem then that they know something our scientists do not.”

Barshov shrugged. “We do not lead the world in every scientific endeavor, Captain. If we did, we, and not the Americans, would be driving autos over the moon’s surface.”

“Thank you again, Professor. I look forward to your final report.”

<<18>>

Four blocks from the Naval Department building, Lieutenant Pavel Marganin relaxed on a park bench, casually reading a book of poems. It was noontime and the grassy areas were crowded with office workers eating their lunch beneath the evenly spaced rows of trees. Every so often he looked up and cast an appraising eye on the occasional pretty girl who wandered by.

At half past twelve, a fat man in a rumpled business suit sat down on the other end of the bench and began unwrapping a small roll of black bread and a cup of potato soup. He turned to Marganin and smiled broadly.

“Will you share a bit of bread, sailor?” the stranger said jovially. He patted his paunch. “I have more than enough for two. My wife always insists on feeding me too much and keeping me fat so the young girls won’t chase after me.”

Marganin shook his head no, and went back to his reading.

The man shrugged and seemed to bite off apiece of the bread. He began chewing vigorously, but it was an act; his mouth was empty.

“What have you got for me?” he murmured between jaw movements.

Marganin stared into his book, raising it slightly to cover his lips. “Prevlov is having an affair with a woman who has black hair, shortly cropped, wears expensive, size six low-heeled shoes, and is partial to Chartreuse liqueur. She drives an American embassy car, license number USA-one-four-six.”

“Are you sure of your facts?”

“I don’t create fiction,” Marganin muttered while nonchalantly turning a page. “I suggest you act on my information immediately. It may be the wedge we have been looking for.”

“I will have her identified before sunset.” The stranger began slurping his soup noisily. “Anything else?”

“I need data on the Sicilian Project.”

“I never heard of it.”

Marganin lowered the book and rubbed his eyes, keeping a hand in front of his lips. “It’s a defense project connected somehow with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“They may prove fussy about leaks on defense projects.”