“Shee-it,” Starr exclaimed. “He looks like a kid! Fifteen-sixteen years old!”

“His appearance is misleading,” Diamond said. “At the time this picture was taken he could have been as old as twenty-three. The youthfulness is a family trait. At this moment, Hel is somewhere between fifty and fifty-three, but I have been told that he looks like a man in his midthirties.”

The Palestinian goatherd reached for the photograph, but it was passed back to Mr. Able, who looked at it again and said, “What’s wrong with the eyes? They look odd. Artificial.”

Even in black and white, the eyes had an unnatural transparency, as though they were underexposed.

“Yes,” Diamond said, “his eyes are strange. They’re a peculiar bright green, like the color of antique bottles. It’s his most salient recognition feature.”

Mr. Able looked obliquely at Diamond. “Have you met this man personally?”

“I… I have been interested in him for years,” Diamond said evasively, as he passed along the second photograph.

Mr. Able winced as he looked at the picture. It would have been impossible to recognize this as the same man. The nose had been broken and was pushed to the left. There was a high ridge of scar tissue along the right cheek, and another diagonally across the forehead, bisecting the eyebrow. The lower lip had been thickened and split, and there was a puffy knob below the left cheekbone. The eyes were closed, and the face at rest.

Mr. Able pushed it over to the Deputy gingerly, as though he did not want to touch it.

The Palestinian held out his hand, but the picture was passed on to Starr. “Shit-o-dear! Looks like he went to Fistcity against a freight train!”

“What you see there,” Diamond explained, “is the effect of a vigorous interrogation by Army Intelligence. The picture was taken some three years after the beating, while the subject was anesthetized in preparation for plastic surgery. And here he is a week after the operation.” Diamond slid the next picture along the conference table.

The face was still a little puffy in result of recent surgery, but all signs of the disfigurement were erased, and a general tightening-up had even removed the faint lines and marks of age.

“And how old was he at this time?” Mr. Able asked.

“Between twenty-four and twenty-eight.”

“Amazing. He looks younger than in the first photograph.”

The Palestinian tried to turn his head upside down to see the picture as it passed by him.

“These are blowups of passport photos. The Costa Rican one dates from shortly after his plastic surgery, and the French one the year after that. We also believe he has an Albanian passport, but we have no copy of it.”

Mr. Able quickly shuffled through the passport photos which, true to their kind, were overlit and of poor quality. One feature caught his attention, and he turned back to the French picture. “Are you sure this is the same man?”

Diamond took the picture back and glanced at it. “Yes, this is Hel.”

“But the eyes—”

“I know what you mean. Because the peculiar color of his eyes would blow any disguise, he has several pairs of noncorrective contact lenses that are clear in the center but colored in the iris.”

“So he can have whatever color eyes he wants to have. Interesting.”

“Oh yes. Hel runs to the ingenious.”

The OPEC man smiled. “That’s the second time I have detected a hint of admiration in your voice.”

Diamond looked at him coldly. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I? I see. Are these the most recent pictures you have of the ingenious—but not admired—Mr. Hel?”

Diamond took up the remaining sheaf of photographs and tossed them onto the conference table. “Sure. We have plenty. And they’re typical examples of CIA efficiency.”

The Deputy’s eyebrows arched in martyred resignation.

Mr. Able leafed through the pictures with a puzzled frown, then pushed them toward Starr.

The Palestinian leapt up and slapped his hand down on the stack, then grinned sheepishly as everyone glared at his surprisingly rude gesture. He pulled the photographs over to him and examined them carefully.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “What is this?”

In each of the pictures, the central figure was blurred. They had been taken in a variety of settings—cafés, city streets, the seashore, the bleachers of a jai-alai match, an airport terminal—and all had the image compression characteristic of a telephoto lens; but in not one of them was it possible to recognize the man being photographed, for he had suddenly moved at the instant of the shutter click.

“This really is something I do not understand,” the goatherd confessed, as though that were remarkable. “It is something that my comprehension does not… comprehend.”

“It appears,” Diamond explained, “that Hel cannot be photographed unless he wants to be, although there’s reason to believe he’s indifferent about CIA’s efforts to keep track of him and record his actions.”

“Then why does he spoil each photograph?” Mr. Able asked.

“By accident. It has to do with this proximity sense of his. He can feel concentration being focused on him. Evidently the feeling of being tracked by a camera lens is identical with that of being sighted through the scope of a rifle, and the moment of releasing the shutter feels just like that of squeezing a trigger.”

“So he ducks at the instant the picture is being taken,” Mr. Able realized. “Amazing. Truly amazing.”

“Is that admiration I detect?” Diamond asked archly.

Mr. Able smiled and tipped his head, granting the touch. “One thing I must ask. The Major who figured in the rather brutal interrogation of Hel was named Diamond. I am aware, of course, of the penchant of your people for identifying themselves with precious stones and metals—the mercantile world is richly ornamented with Pearls and Rubys and Golds—but never-the-less the coincidence of names here makes me uncomfortable. Coincidence, after all, is Fate’s major weapon.”

Diamond tapped the edges of the photographs on his desk to align them and set them aside, saying offhandedly, “The Major Diamond in question was my brother.”

“I see,” Mr. Able said.

Darryl Starr glanced uneasily toward Diamond, his worries about personal involvement confirmed.

“Sir?” the First Assistant said. “I’m ready with the printout of Hel’s counterterrorist activities.”

“All right. Bring it up on the table. Just surface stuff. No details. I only want to give these gentlemen a feeling for what we’re facing.”

Although Diamond had requested a shallow probe of Hel’s known counterterrorist activities, the first outline to appear on the conference table was so brief that Diamond felt called upon to fill in. “Hel’s first operation was not, strictly speaking, counterterrorist. As you see, it was a hit on the leader of a Soviet Trade Commission to Peking, not long after the Chinese communists had firmed up their control over that country. The operation was so inside and covert that most of the tapes were degaussed by CIA before the Mother Company began requiring them to give dupes of everything to Fat Boy. In bold, it went like this: the American intelligence community was worried about a Soviet/Chinese coalition, despite the fact that there were many grounds for dispute between them—matters of boundaries, ideology, unequal industrial development, racial mistrust. The Think Tank boys came up with a plan to exploit their underlying differences and break up any developing union. They proposed to send an agent into Peking to kill the head of the Soviet commission and plant incriminating directives from Moscow. The Chinese would think the Russians had sacrificed one of their own to create an incident as an excuse for breaking off the negotiations. The Soviets, knowing better, would think the Chinese had made the hit for the same reason. And when the Chinese brought out the incriminating directives as evidence of Russian duplicity, the Soviets would claim that Peking had manufactured the documents to justify their cowardly attack. The Chinese, knowing perfectly well that this was not the case, would be confirmed in their belief that the whole thing was a Russian plot.