“That the plan worked is proved by the fact that Sino-Soviet relations never did take firm root and are today characterized by mistrust and hostility, and Western bloc powers are able to play one of them off against the other and prevent what would be an overwhelming alliance.

“The little stumbling block to the ingenious plot of the Think Tank boys was finding an agent who knew enough Chinese to move through that country under cover, who could pass for a Russian when the necessity arose, and who was willing to take on a job that had slight chance of success, and almost no chance for escape after the hit was made. The operative bad to be brilliant, multilingual, a trained killer, and desperate enough to accept an assignment that offered not one chance in a hundred of survival.

“CIA ran a key-way sort, and they found only one person among those under their control who fit the description…”

Japan

It was early autumn, the fourth autumn Hel had passed in his cell in Sugamo Prison. He knelt on the floor before his desk/bed, lost in an elusive problem of Basque grammar, when he felt a tingling at the roots of the hair on the nape of his neck. He lifted his head and concentrated on the projections he was intercepting. This person’s approaching aura was alien to him. There were sounds at the door, and it swung open. A smiling guard with a triangular scar on his forehead entered, one Nicholai had never seen or felt before.

The guard cleared his throat. “Come with me, please.”

Hel frowned. The Onasai form? Respect language from a guard to a prisoner? He carefully arranged his notes and closed the book before rising. He instructed himself to be calm and careful. There could be hope in this unprecedented rupture of routine… or danger. He rose and preceded the guard out of the cell.

“Mr. Hel? Delighted to make your acquaintance.” The polished young man rose to shake Hel’s hand as he entered the visitors’ room. The contrast between his close-fitting Ivy League suit and narrow tie and Hel’s crumpled gray prison uniform was no greater than that between their physiques and temperaments. The hearty CIA agent was robust and athletic, capable of the first-naming and knee-jerk congeniality that marks the American salesman. Hel, slim and wiry, was reserved and distant. The agent, who was noted for winning immediate confidences, was a creature of words and reason. Hel was a creature of meaning and undertone. It was the battering ram and the rapier.

The agent nodded permission for the guard to leave. Hel sat on the edge of his chair, having had nothing but his steel cot to sit on for three years, and having lost the facility for sitting back and relaxing. After all that time of not hearing himself addressed in social speech, he found the urbane chat of the agent not so much disturbing as irrelevant.

“I’ve asked them to bring up a little tea,” the agent said, smiling with a gruff shagginess of personality that he had always found so effective in public relations. “One thing you’ve got to hand to these Japanese, they make a good cup of tea—what my limey friends call a ‘nice cuppa.’” He laughed at his failure to produce a recognizable cockney accent.

Hel watched him without speaking, taking some pleasure in the fact that the American was caught off balance by the battered appearance of his face, at first glancing away uneasily, and subsequently forcing himself to look at it without any show of disgust.

“You’re looking pretty fit, Mr. Hel. I had expected that you would show the effects of physical inactivity. Of course, you have one advantage. You don’t overeat. Most people overeat, if you want my opinion. The old human body would do better with a lot less food than we give it. We sort of clog up the tubes with chow, don’t you agree? Ah, here we are! Here’s the tea.”

The guard entered with a tray on which there was a thick pot and two handleless Japanese cups. The agent poured clumsily, like a friendly bear, as though gracelessness were proof of virility. Hel accepted the cup, but he did not drink.

“Cheers,” the agent said, taking his first sip. He shook his head and laughed. “I guess you don’t say ‘cheers’ when you’re drinking tea. What do you say?”

Hel set his cup on the table beside him. “What do you want with me?”

Trained in courses on one-to-one persuasion and small-group management, the agent believed he could sense a cool tone in Hel’s attitude, so he followed the rules of his training and flowed with the ambience of the feedback. “I guess you’re right. It would be best to get right to the point. Look, Mr. Hel, I’ve been reviewing your case, and if you ask me, you got a raw deal. That’s my opinion anyway.”

Hel let his eyes settle on the young man’s open, frank face. Controlling impulses to reach out and break it, he lowered his eyes and said, “That is your opinion, is it?”

The agent folded up his grin and put it away. He wouldn’t beat around the bush any longer. He would tell the truth. There was an adage he had memorized during his persuasion courses: Don’t overlook the truth; properly handled, it can be an effective weapon. But bear in mind that weapons get blunted with overuse.

He leaned forward and spoke in a frank, concerned tone. “I think I can get you out of here, Mr. Hel.”

“At what cost to me?”

“Does that matter?”

Hel considered this for a moment. “Yes.”

“Okay. We need a job done. You’re capable of doing it. We’ll pay you with your freedom.”

“I have my freedom. You mean you’ll pay me with my liberty.”

“Whatever.”

“What kind of liberty are you offering?”

“What?”

“Liberty to do what?”

“I don’t think I follow you there. Liberty, man. Freedom. You can do what you want, go where you want?”

“Oh, I see. You are offering me citizenship and a considerable amount of money as well.”

“Well… no. What I mean is… Look, I’m authorized to offer you your freedom, but no one said anything about money or citizenship.”

“Let me be sure I understand you. You are offering me a chance to wander around Japan, vulnerable to arrest at any moment, a citizen of no country, and free to go anywhere and do anything that doesn’t cost money. Is that it?”

The agents discomfort pleased Hel. “Ah… I’m only saying that the matter of money and citizenship hadn’t been discussed.”

“I see.” Hel rose. “Why don’t you return when you have worked out the details of your proposal.”

“Aren’t you going to ask about the task we want you to perform?”

“No. I assume it to be maximally difficult. Very dangerous. Probably involving murder. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d call it murder, Mr. Hel. I wouldn’t use that word. It’s more like… like a soldier fighting for his country and killing one of the enemy.”

“That’s what I said: murder.”

“Have it your own way then.”

“I shall. Good afternoon.”

The agent began to have the impression that he was being handled, while all of his persuasion training had insisted that he do the handling. He fell back upon his natural defense of playing it for the hale good fellow. “Okay, Mr. Hel. I’ll have a talk with my superiors and see what I can get for you. I’m on your side in this, you know. Hey, know what? I haven’t even introduced myself. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t bother. I am not interested in who you are.”

“All right. But take my advice, Mr. Hel. Don’t let this chance get away. Opportunity doesn’t knock twice, you know.”

“Penetrating observation. Did you make up the epigram?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Very well. And ask the guard to knock on my cell door twice. I wouldn’t want to confuse him with opportunity.”

Back in CIA Far East Headquarters in the basement of the Dai Ichi Building, Hel’s demands were discussed. Citizenship was easy enough. Not American citizenship, of course. That high privilege was reserved for defecting Soviet dancers. But they could arrange citizenship of Panama or Nicaragua or Costa Rica—any of the CIA control areas. It would cost a bit in local baksheesh, but it could be done.