Rogers sighed. “All right. Questions.”

A man raised his hand. “Mr. Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“How about the other end of this problem? I presume there’re teams in Europe trying to penetrate the Soviet organization that worked on him?”

“There are. But they’re only doing it because we’re supposed to cover all loose ends for the record. They’re not getting anywhere. The Soviets have a fellow named Azarin who’s their equivalent to a sector security chief. He’s good at his work. He’s a stone wall. If we get anything out past him, it’ll be pure luck. If I know him, everybody connected in any way with whatever happened is in Uzbekistan by now, and the records have been destroyed — if they were ever kept. I know one thing — we had some people I thought I’d planted over there. They’re gone. Other questions?”

“Yes, sir. How long do you think it’ll be before we can say for sure about this fellow?”

Rogers simply looked at the man.

3

Rogers was sitting alone in his office when Finchley came in. It was growing dark again outside, and the room was gloomy in spite of the lamp on Rogers’ desk. Finchley took a chair and waited while Rogers folded his reading glasses and put them back in his breast pocket.

“How’d you make out?” Rogers asked.

“I covered them all. Print, press association, and TV. He’s not going to get publicity.”

Rogers nodded. “Good. If we’d let him become a seven days’ wonder, we’d have lost our chance. It’ll be tough enough as it is. Thanks for doing all the work, Finchley. We’d never have gotten any accurate observations on him.”

“I don’t think he’d have enjoyed it, either,” Finchley said.

Rogers looked at him for a moment, and then let it pass. “So as far as anyone connected with the news media is concerned, this isn’t any higher up than FBI level?”

“That’s right. I kept the ANG out of it.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“That’s one of the things I’m here for. What did Martino do after what happened at the airport?”

“He took a cab downtown and got off at the corner of Twelfth Street and Seventh Avenue. There’s a luncheonette there. He had a hamburger and a glass of milk. Then he walked down to Greenwich Avenue, and down Greenwich to Sixth Avenue. He went down Sixth to Fourth Street. As of a few hours ago, he was walking back and forth on those streets down there.”

“He went right out in public again. Just to prove he hadn’t lost his nerve.”

“It looks that way. He stirred up a mild fuss — people turning around to look at him, and a few people pointing. That was all there was to that. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t ignore. Of course, he hasn’t looked for a place to stay yet, either. I’d say he was feeling a little lost right now. The next report’s due within the next half hour — sooner if something drastic happens. We’ll see. We’re checking out the luncheonette.”

Finchley looked up from his chair. “You know this whole business stinks, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Rogers frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“You saw him on the plane. He was dying by inches, and it never showed. He put himself up in front of those people and rubbed their faces in what he was, just to prove to himself and to us, and to them, too, that he wasn’t going to crawl into a hole. He fooled them, and he fooled us. He looks like nothing that ever walked this earth, and he proved he was as good a man as any of us.”

“We knew that all along.”

“And then, just when he’d done it, the world came up and hit him too hard. He saw himself being spread all over the whole Allied world in full-page color, and he saw himself being branded a freak for good and all. Well, who hasn’t been hit too hard to stand? It’s happened to me in my life, and I guess it’s happened to you.”

“I imagine it has.”

“But he got up from it. He put himself on the sidewalk for everybody in New York to look at, and he got away with it. He knew what being hit felt like, and he went back for more. That’s a man, Rogers — God damn it, that’s a man!”

“What man?”

“Damn it, Rogers, give them a little time and the right chance, and there isn’t an I.D. the Soviets couldn’t fake! We don’t have a man they couldn’t replace with a ringer if they really wanted to. Nobody — nobody in this whole world — can prove who he is, but we’re expecting this one man to do it.”

“We have to. You can’t do anything about it. This one man has to prove who he is.”

“He could have just been put somewhere where he’d be harmless.”

Rogers stood up and walked over to the window. His fingers played with the blind cord. “No man is harmless anywhere in this world. He may sit and do nothing, but he’s there, and every other man has to solve the problem of who he is and what he’s thinking, because until that problem’s solved, that man is dangerous.

“The ANG could have decided to put this man on a desert island, yes. And he might never have done anything. But the Soviets may have the K-Eighty-Eight. And the real Martino might still be on their side of the line. By that much, this man on his desert island might be the most dangerous man in the world. And until we get evidence, that’s exactly what he is, and equally so no matter where he is. If we’re ever going to get evidence, it’s going to be here. If we don’t get it, then we’ll stay close enough to stop him if he turns out not to be our Martino. That’s the job, Finchley, and neither you nor I can get out of it. Neither of us’ll be old enough for retirement before he dies.”

“Look, damn it, Rogers, I know all that! I’m not trying to crawl out of the job. But we’ve been watching this man ever since he came back over the line. We’ve watched him, we’ve seen what he’s going through — damn it, it’s not going to make any difference in my work, but as far as I’m concerned-”

“You think he’s Martino?”

Finchley stopped. “I don’t have any evidence for it.”

“But you can’t help thinking he’s Martino. Because he bleeds? Because he’d cry if he had tears? Because he’s afraid, and desperate, and knows he has no place to go?” Rogers’ hands jerked at the blind cord. “Don’t we all? Aren’t we all human beings?

CHAPTER EIGHT

1

Young Lucas Martino turned away from the freshly-cleaned table, holding four dirty cups and saucers in his left hand, each cup in its saucer the way Barbara had taught him, with two saucers held overlapping between his fingers and the other two sets stacked on top. He carried his wiping sponge in his right hand, ready to clean up any dirty spots on tables he passed on the way to the counter. He liked working this way — it was efficient, it wasted no time, and it made no real difference that there was plenty of time, now that the late afternoon rush was over.

He wondered what created these freak rushes, as he let the cups and saucers down in the basket under the counter, first flipping the spoons into a smaller tray. There was no overt reason why, on indeterminate days, Espresso Maggiore should suddenly become crowded at four o’clock. Logically, people ought to have been working, or looking forward to supper, or walking in the park on a beautiful day like this. But, instead, they came here — all of them at almost the same time — and for half an hour, the store was crowded. Now, at a quarter of five, it was empty again, and the chairs were once more set in order against the clean tables. But it had been a busy time — so busy, with only Barbara and himself on shift, that Carlo had waited on some tables himself.

He looked at the stacks of dirty cups in the basket. There was a strong possibility, it seemed to him, that most of the customers had ordered the same thing, as well. Not cappuccino, for a change, but plain espresso, and that was curious too, as though a majority of people in the neighborhood had felt a need for a stimulant, rather than something sweet to drink.