Rabkrin, thought Hale with a suppressed shiver. “I do recall.” He cocked an eyebrow curiously at the bundle.

Theodora picked up his fan again and flicked it open. “Well, for five hours last month we had the…the tsar of kotiryssas in our lap.” Hale knew the term-literally it meant “house Russian,” derived from kotikissa, “house cat,” and it referred to a Soviet spy who has defected to the West.

“We actually managed,” Theodora went on, “to get a director of that oldest Russian agency to jump ship and come over to us, right here in London -a sickly, hypochondriacal old fellow called Zhlobin. His cover among his own people was as a KGB colonel, and the general-consumption cover for that was First Secretary in the Soviet Embassy. We were suspicious of him because he was posted here, right after Khrushchev knuckled under to Kennedy, apparently as a replacement for another old fellow whose main job had turned out to be flying kites on the embassy roof on moonless nights, hmm? Apostle to the Heaviside Layer. And clearly this Zhlobin was another joker in the residency deck-he had no apparent embassy duties, but he didn’t seem to be meeting any agents either; and he obviously wasn’t a cipher clerk, since he did go out into the city unescorted. Our watchers were right on him every time he stepped outside the embassy gate in Kensington Park Gardens, and even a brush-contact in a crowd would have been difficult to hide from them. He did nothing. But finally last month he went along on an official cultural outing-all aboveboard, with proper F.O. permission to go beyond the ordinary eighty-kilometer limit-on-travel for Eastern Bloc diplomats-a field trip to view the Roman ruins in Dorchester, out in Dorset. Our watchers went along, and Zhlobin got off the train by himself at Poole and took a taxi to a churchyard near Bovington, where, thinking he was unobserved, he commenced rooting around at one particular grave. Later in the day he caught the return train at Poole and went back to the embassy with his comrades, who no doubt assumed he had met some KGB-run agent.”

“And whose grave was that?” asked Hale dutifully.

“Thomas Edward Lawrence,” pronounced Theodora. “Lawrence of Arabia himself, dead since 1935.” He cocked his head at Hale. “You’d never have met him, I suppose, but do you know you look like poor old Lawrence -same thin, worried face, same flyaway sandy hair.”

“Thanks, Jimmie. Was your man Zhlobin trying to dig him up?”

“Well, he was looking for fulgurites, actually-brittle tubes of glass and sand, imbedded in the dirt, generally caused by lightning strikes. He didn’t find any, so never mind.” The old man fanned himself more rapidly.

Hale just nodded; but he remembered coming across lightning tubes, in a desolate region where huge basalt stones moved like smoke and sand dunes roared like low-flying bomber aircraft engines, south of the well at Umm al-Hadid in the Arabian Rub’al-Khali desert, in early 1948. The wail in his head was louder, and he thought he might be sick.

“But we knew what he was now, you see,” said Theodora. “So we worked to achieve definition of his motivations for defection, as recruiters say-that is, exacerbate his problems. An agent of ours in the embassy was able to tell us that Zhlobin was forever taking pills and measuring his own blood pressure and running to the embassy doctor.”

“So you-you crash-turned the doctor.”

Theodora smiled. “Did we not. We showed that poor man KGB documents we’d got from our own sources and told him how we’d claim to have got them from him, and showed him composed photographs of himself in bed with an MI5 woman-he quickly agreed to give Zhlobin a convincing diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.” Theodora shrugged. “We figured that might soften him up for a pass, you know; we could even promise a cure as a prerequisite to any questioning, miracles of modern British medicine, since he didn’t have the cancer anyway; but before we could approach him, Zhlobin went out solo, and he dived-he used every elusion trick in the book, pogo-sticking like a twenty-year-old all over Bloomsbury and Holborn, and even a quick four-car team of our watchers could scarcely keep him in sight! Well, he wasn’t hiding from us, he was hiding from his own security people. And where do you think he went?”

To a pub, thought Hale; to a whorehouse. “To St. Paul ’s.”

Theodora looked nettled. “Why did you say that? You’re almost right-he went to a Catholic church near the Old Bailey and went to Confession! The Papist sacrament of that name! Some of our fellows were all for quick-miking the confessional, but I said to back off. I braced him on his way out of the church, and he immediately broke down weeping, in that Slavic way, and agreed to everything I said. I promised him citizenship and a new identity and stacks of money and total medical care-I didn’t want to get too specific there-and we got him to one of our safe houses right off the Holborn Viaduct. For five hours he answered every question I put to him.” Theodora sighed. “Then he said he wanted a bath, and he pulled a radio into the tub with him, and that was the end of Zhlobin.”

Hale blinked. “Deliberately?”

“He had to plug the radio into a closer outlet, for the cord to reach.”

“Huh! That rather negates his confession-the one to the priest, I mean.”

“Perhaps that was the penance the priest assigned. I felt that, if anything, it enhanced his confession to us.”

For a moment neither of them spoke, and Theodora’s fan swished and rattled faintly in the warm air; then the old man stirred and said, “You’re right, the Russians have no intention of annexing eastern Turkey-but they are preparing to send a team in again to Mount Ararat, as they did in ’48 and tried to do again in ’52; if all goes as planned, you and Philby will be members of the team.”

The ankh in Hale’s pocket was twitching with his rapid heartbeat, and he had to take a deep breath to speak. “Back to Ararat,” he said, “to finally kill the-”

Theodora waited with raised eyebrows for him to finish, then laughed softly when Hale lapsed into silence. “If I had thought there was any chance of you completing that sentence, I would have shushed you. But your instincts are still good; what do I know about the microphone situation here, really, right?”

“Sure.” Hale stretched his arms out and yawned again. “Is lunch a prospect of any imminence? What on earth can you mean, Philby and I will be ‘members of the team’ when the-Russians go up Ararat again?”

With his free hand Theodora reached over to the silk bundle he had laid on the table and flipped the edges of the handkerchief aside. Lying on the fabric was a tiny hand-drill like a screwdriver, a dental pick, and a plastic cylinder no bigger than a cigarette filter with a fine antenna wire projecting two inches from one end.

Hale nearly forgot his hanging question as he stared at the kit in disbelief. The plastic cylinder was clearly a miniature microphone, an electronic bug, and the tools were for installing it.

“Well,” Theodora said smoothly, “the expedition probably can’t succeed without Philby; the-the Russian equivalent of our SOE, at least, is convinced that it can’t, and I think they’re right. Philby is in a privileged position, relative to the thing on Ararat, that the Russians know they can’t duplicate with anyone else-you’ll be told about that shortly, when you get to Kuwait. They may serve some sort of tiffin on the plane.”

The archaic word reminded Hale that Theodora had long ago served in the Indian Civil Service, the Raj-where high-handed schemes had been the standard modus operandi. “When I-get to Kuwait,” Hale said in a monotone. He gave the old man a wide-eyed questioning stare and waved his spread fingers stiffly at the kit.

Theodora frowned impatiently and snapped his fan closed to use it and both hands in a pantomime of drilling and inserting.