Buell remembered he had forgotten to give the machine a limit on the number of names it could print. He voided the instructions and asked: "How many members of British Secret Service are not on KGB payroll?"
Three names popped up on the screen instantly. One was the deputy director of the Secret Service, another was the agency's seventh-ranking man in Hong Kong. The third was Pamela Thrushwell, computer analyst.
Buell sat back in surprise and stared at the name. So Thrushwell was a British agent. That explained why she had been hanging on to this Remo so persistently to try to track down Buell.
She must have been trying to track him down since he had had that lark, messing around with Britain's government computers and almost moving the government into a friendship treaty with Russia. Thrushwell must have been assigned to find out how to plug that hole in the computer system.
A spy. And he had thought of her as just a nice-looking blond with an interesting accent and wonderful breasts. That's what he got for underestimating women.
Marcia came into the room with food on a tray for him. She was wearing a long diaphanous white gown of some thin gauze. She was naked beneath it and Buell felt an unaccustomed faint stirring of desire. He reached out and cupped a hand around her right buttocks. She smiled at him, tossed her red hair, and nodded toward the television monitor.
"What's that list?" she asked.
"It wouldn't interest you," he said.
"Everything about you interests me," she said. "Really, what is it?"
"It's a list of the three British secret agents who don't work for the Russians."
Marcia smiled, her full lips pulling back to expose long pearly teeth. "Only three?" she said.
He nodded. "Those are the three who don't work for the Russians. I don't know. They might be double agents for somebody else. For Argentina, for all I know." He kneaded her buttocks with his fingers. "I think I want you," he said.
"I always want you," she said. "I am here to serve you."
"I want you to go to the bedroom and put on a T-shirt and wait for me."
"Just a T-shirt?"
"Yes. A wet one. I want it wet and transparent."
She nodded submissively and looked at the screen again.
"That name. Pamela. Isn't she the woman who's following you?"
"Yes," he said.
"Isn't that dangerous? To have her looking for you along with the Americans?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm going to get rid of all of them," he said.
"Us too," Marcia said with a smile. "You promised. Us too."
"I'll keep my promise," Buell said. "When the world goes, we go with it."
"You're so wonderful," she said.
"There's nothing left in life," he said. "I've played all the games. There's no one who can even challenge me."
Marcia nodded. "I'll go put on that wet T-shirt," she said.
"Quick. Before the mood passes," Buell said.
It was well after dark when the telephone in Smith's office rang.
"This is Buell. Have you decided?"
"Yes," Smith said. "I accede to your demand."
"That easily? No negotiations? No hard bargaining?" "Do I have anything to bargain with?"
"No. And I'm glad you realize it. That's one of the nicer qualities of you bureaucratic types," Buell said. "You never try to fight the inevitable."
Smith said nothing and the silence hung in his office like a small cloud of smoke.
Buell finally said, "There are certain things I want."
"Which are?"
"I want to see it done so I know it's not some kind of trick. After all, this Remo's been pestering me. I deserve to see him go."
"Tell me what you want," Smith said.
"There's a small town in California named Hernandez," Buell began and gave Smith directions to a clearing where he wanted Remo killed. "Tomorrow at high noon," he said.
"All right," Smith said. He suppressed a small smile, even though he felt he deserved one. Buell had made a mistake.
"How are you going to do it?" Buell asked.
"By hand," Smith said.
"I don't think you can do it," Buell said. "I've seen this guy Remo. He's hard to beat."
"I can beat him," Smith said.
"I'll believe it when I see it."
"You'll see it tomorrow at noon," Smith said.
"How will I know you? What do you look like?" Buell asked.
"I'm old. I'll be wearing an ornamental Oriental robe."
"You Oriental? With a name like Smith?"
"Yes," Smith said. "Until tomorrow." And then he hung up.