This time it was Isaacs who caught the narrowing of eyes that said he hit home.

'There is nothing else I can say to convince you at this point; you'll make up your own mind. But if you decide to believe me, hear this. We face a common, unknown danger. Whether I succeed or fail in my efforts, it's to your advantage to push your own investigation in any way you can. Listen to Korolev. He'll know what to do.'

Zamyatin studied Isaacs's face carefully for a long moment. Then, still holding his gaze, he gave a small motion with his right hand. The limousine immediately braked to a gentle halt.

The Russian extended his hand again. His voice was polite, but cool.

'Good-bye for now, Mr Isaacs. And good luck.' Isaacs pumped the hand once and let himself out. As he closed the door to the limousine, Vassilev pulled up behind in his Mercedes. Isaacs paused for a moment with his hand on the handle of the limousine door. Then he responded with uncharacteristic spontaneity to an inner voice. He yanked the door open again and leaned down to peer in.

'Yes?' Zamyatin was startled.

' Nagasaki. Tonight. 9:13.'

Isaacs slammed the door and strode rapidly back to his own car. Vassilev saw him in and shut the door behind him. Isaacs threw the car into gear, then pulled quickly out and around the limousine, causing Vassilev to step back out of the way. Isaacs looked about him, recognized where he was, and headed for his house a few blocks away.

The appliance store van cruised slowly across the intersection behind the limousine. It turned at the next corner, accelerated to normal speed, and headed away from the site of the rendezvous.

Chapter 10

Masaki Yoshida leaned on his taxi horn in frustration. He had free-lanced for the CIA for several years. He expected to know only a minimal amount about operations to which he was assigned, but the description he had received from his contact yesterday was the most ill-defined he had seen yet. He was supposed to cruise a several square block area of warehouses near the harbour and keep an eye out for some unspecified form of trouble.

His contact had said nothing about the jam of cars and trucks which crowded the streets and loading docks, making it nearly impossible to move. He had spent five minutes edging the last half block. Earlier he had manoeuvred his cab up onto the sidewalk only to find a truck unloading and blocking his way. It had taken him ten minutes to force a gap in the creeping traffic and return to the street. He sounded the horn again. There could be a riot a block away, and he would not know a dung about it!

Immediately ahead of the erstwhile CIA agent were two cars and then an open bed truck which blocked his view on down the street. As Yoshida leaned out the window in an attempt to see past the truck, the asphalt of the road between the truck's front wheels budded downward slightly and a small hole appeared in the centre of the depression. A hole was pierced in the bottom of the oil pan just as the third piston advanced on its exhaust stroke. Then, as if by the action of a ragged drill, a gash ripped the base of the piston rod where it joined the crank shaft. The rod cracked and the piston flew unimpeded up the cylinder.

Another series of holes appeared in the block, the head, the air filter, and finally in the thin sheet of metal of the hood, all aligned with those in the asphalt and the broken rod. The piston ruptured the engine head atop the cylinder, then punched a second, larger hole in the hood. The piston and fragments of engine arced thirty feet over the road before crashing loudly into the galvanized steel wall of a warehouse. The mortally wounded engine shuddered to a stop with the shrieking sound of twisted, grinding metal. Hot water shot through the upper hole in the block, filling the engine compartment with steam. This in turn billowed out of the seams, the hole ruptured by the piston, and in one dainty vertical stream. Beneath the motor a pea soup green mixture of oil, water, and antifreeze poured out of the hole in the oil pan, collected in the underlying dent in the pavement and then slowly drained down the hole in the middle.

With his head out the window, Yoshida clearly heard the explosion as the piston blew and saw it rifle into the warehouse wall. Forgetting his mission, he rammed the shift into neutral, let out the clutch, and hauled on the parking brake. He ran to the truck and yanked open the driver's door. The man inside sat stupefied, but apparently unhurt. Yoshida stepped up and helped the man out and over to the sidewalk. The truck driver sat on the curb and in a reaction to shock, began to jabber his innocence of any wrongdoing.

Yoshida attempted to calm him and then noticed a stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. His first reaction was to glance at the truck. Then he whirled as he heard a shouting tumult behind him. A hundred yards away drivers were pouring out of their cars, and people were running frantically in both directions from a warehouse on the other side of the street. Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths or covered their eyes.

As Yoshida had been helping the driver from the truck, a window had shattered in a skylight of the warehouse. Below, an array of large cylindrical storage vessels held chlorine gas. Almost instantly, twin punctures appeared in the top and bottom of the cylinder directly beneath the skylight.

Jets of bilious yellow-green gas shot towards the ceiling and mushroomed out onto the floor. Within seconds a heavy layer of gas blanketed the warehouse. In a small office at the rear of the warehouse an employee was roused by the sound of cascading glass. He stepped out and was immediately assailed by the billowing fumes. In a panic he charged for the front door, his way blocked save for aisles among the huge containers. He tripped and fell, the Paul of contact with the floor causing him a sharp intake of breath, a poisonous draft. He regained his feet and stumbled to the door, flinging it open and collapsing on the walk outside in a spasm of coughing. The dense gas flowed out the door and seeped around the choking figure.

Down the street, Yoshida could not identify the particular agent that assaulted his eyes and lungs, but he reacted to the shouts of gas'. He joined the fleeing crowd racing among the stalled cars and trucks towards fresh air.

Thursday morning Isaacs raced into the office. There was a cable. Something had happened in Nagasaki ! The reports were vague, fragmented. A gas leak. One person dead. He didn't know what he had expected, but not this tantalizing irrelevancy. It was the right time and place: it had to be connected. But what did a gas leak have to do with their strange signal? Was there some puncture, like the Novorossiisk? He stole some moments with Danielson, and they agreed they had to concoct some way to get more information on the specifics. What had leaked? How? He felt a rise of panic. He needed time to think, to assimilate this, to plan, but there was none.

He returned to the mass of data culled from the signal intercepts of the Russian laser and hunter-killer satellites. He was supposed to be thinking like a Russian, anticipating them, but his mind was swimming with thoughts of Nagasaki when Kathleen put through the call from the Director.

It froze him to his chair, an ice storm raging through him.

He had been found out!

They knew everything. QUAKER. Nagasaki. Somehow McMasters had got onto him.

He was to report to the Director's office at nine the following morning. His hand shook as he replaced the phone on the hook.

Isaacs fought to quell the churning in his bowels. He had 'not been so angry and frightened at one time since he'd been hauled before the principal in the third grade. He and a friend had been throwing rocks during recess, in violation of one of the strictest rules. His friend had broken the window, but he had run, leaving Isaacs to be caught with a stone in his hand. This was no schoolyard prank, however: this was the big time. He turned the knob and entered the room.