could concentrate fully on the problem he had to solve.
Find Klieger.
Find where he would be and when.
Find him as he had found a thousand others with no doubt, no uncertainty, just the conviction that at a certain place at a certain time he would spot his quarry.
Forget the sense that he was beaten before he could start. Forget that he was up against an abnormal talent. Forget the picture of the piece of fabric and the nodes of events. Forget everything but one man and where and when he would be.
* * * *
“The Lustrum Galleries.” Earlman nodded then grunted as the cab braked to avoid a jaywalker. “They are having a private showing this evening, invitation only. The exhibition doesn’t open until tomorrow,” He looked at Don, face even more haggard in the dim light. “Are you certain he will be there?”
“Yes.”
“But—” Earlman shrugged and broke off, killing the obvious question. “A display of Chinese art,” he read from a crumpled catalogue. “Ceramics from the Ming, Han and Manchu Dynasties. It figures. The Ming vase?”
Don nodded, then closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the seat. He felt drained, worn out yet filled with a glowing exultation. He knew! How or why he couldn’t guess but he knew! Klieger would be at the galleries. He would stake his life on it.
Their badges got them in, past a very punctilious uniformed attendant, past a fussing curator, into a long hall shining with glass cases on which in reverent array stood the exhibits.
“Tomorrow,” said the curator, “these will be within the cases but tonight, because of the selected visitors, we feel it safe to have them as they are.”
“Why?” Earlman was blunt. “What’s the point?”
“You are not a connoisseur,” said the curator. “That is obvious. If you were, you would know that there is more to ceramics than just the visual aspect. There is a feel, a tactile sense that is as much a part of the pottery as the colors. Our visitors, most of them collectors, appreciate that. And, too, the true beauty of these pieces cannot be wholly appreciated when they are seen from only one angle as they will be when sealed in the cases.”
He looked suddenly anxious.
“You haven’t mentioned your business. I trust that nothing will—”
“There will be no trouble.” Don glanced around the gallery, forehead creased in a frown. “Just operate as if we weren’t here.” He smiled at the anxious expression. “One thing I can promise you, your exhibits are in no danger.”
Satisfied, the curator bustled off about his business. Don glanced to either side then led the way towards the far end of the gallery.
“We’ll wait here. The cases will screen us and we can watch the whole gallery. When Klieger comes you will go to the stairs, Max, and cut off his escape.”
Earlman grunted then paused, a cigarette halfway to his lips.
“How come, Don? How come Klieger is going to walk right into this set-up when we know that he must know we’re waiting for him?”
“He wants to see the exhibits.”
“But—?”
“This is his only chance to actually touch and examine them. To him that’s important, don’t ask me why.” Don’s voice was sharp. “He’ll be here, I know it.”
It sounded logical. It sounded as if it could be true but Don knew that wasn’t the reason Klieger would come. He would want to see the ceramics, that was true, but would he want to handle them so much that nothing else mattered? And, if so, why? Why tonight?
Waiting between the cases, eyes on the long vista of the gallery with its shining glass and neat exhibits Don fought the question that had puzzled him all along. In a way it was a seeming paradox, but he knew that it only seemed that way to him. As the visitors began to arrive and the air vibrated to their murmured comments as they studied the exhibits the question nagged at his peace of mind.
Klieger must know he would be walking into a trap.
Yet he would come, Don was certain of it.
So, if Don wasn’t mistaken and he was certain he was not, Klieger must consider the visit to be worth certain capture.
Capture or—
Bronson moved, an automatic gesture, one hand sliding beneath his coat, and Don snarled at him with savage impatience.
“There’ll be none of that! Do you understand? You won’t be needed!”
Inwardly he cursed Penn’s cold, inhuman logic. In war it is good sense to destroy material you can’t use to prevent it falling into enemy hands, but this wasn’t war and Penn wasn’t dealing with machines or supplies.
Klieger must know the risk he ran of being shot to death.
Don started as Earlman gripped his arm. Max jerked his head, eyes bright in the haggard face as he stared down the gallery.
“There, Don,” he breathed. “Down by that big case. See him?”
Klieger!
He was—ordinary. Engrossed with the hunt Don had mentally fitted the quarry with supernatural peculiarities but now, watching him as he stood, entranced by pottery fired before the dawn of Western civilization, he seemed nothing but what he was. An ordinary man with more than an ordinary interest in things considered beautiful by a minority.
And yet he had knowledge, which made him the most dangerous man to the security of the West.
“Got him!” Earlman’s whisper was triumphant. “You did it again, Don! You called it right on the nose!”
“Get into position.” Gregson didn’t take his eyes from the slight figure he had hunted so long. “Stand by in case he makes a break for it. You know what to do.”
“I know.” Earlman hesitated. “Bronson?”
“I’ll take care of him.”
Don waited as Earlman slipped away, gliding past the cases to lean casually at the top of the far stairs. He sensed the other’s relief and understood it. They had worked together for eight years and his failure would, in part, have been shared by Earlman.
But he had not failed.
Savouring the sweet taste of success he walked forward half-conscious of Bronson at his heels. Klieger did not turn. He stood, caressing a shallow, wide-mouthed bowl in his hands, eyes intent on the still-bright colours.
“Klieger!”
Slowly he set down the vase.
“Don’t run. Don’t fight. Don’t do anything stupid.” Don’s voice was a grim whisper. “You can’t get away.”
“I know.”
“Just in case you’re wondering I’m from the C.I.A.”
“I know.”
“This is the end of the line, Klieger.”
“I know.”
The calm, emotionless tones irritated Gregson. The man should have complained, argued, anything but the flat baldness of the repeated statement. Savagely he gripped a shoulder and spun Klieger round to face him.
“Do you know everything?”
Klieger didn’t answer. Heavy lids dropped over the eyes and Don remembered how Levkin had described them. ‘Remarkable’ the owner had said, but the word was misleading. They were haunted. There was no other description, no other word. Haunted.
“What are you going to do with me?” Klieger opened his eyes and stared up into the grim face of the hunter. Don shrugged.
“Why