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Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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because of Gordon Belgrave’s confession, but because of Shoju’s zoo articles. Not because the newspaperman might recognize you on the plane, but because he wouldn’t recognize you! When that coffin was opened at Customs and you identified yourself as Dr. Nobea, Shoju would have been there to call you a liar.”
“The first attempt on Shoju was made at his office,” Taz objected. “How would they know that soon whether he would be on the same flight?”
“Shoju wrote in his Belgrave story that he’d be returning to Moscow this week, and there’s only one flight from Tokyo to Moscow each week. Yota knew he’d be on that plane, and so he had to die. When they failed to kill him earlier, they had to do it before the plane landed. I had a tip when Yota admitted using a false name early in the flight. There was no reason for it—except to keep her assumed identity a secret from Shoju till he was dead.”
There was a sound behind them, and Rand saw Dr. Hardan in the doorway. He was wearing a black raincoat and he held a Llama automatic in his hand. A spare in his baggage, of course. All experienced assassins carry two.
Yota screamed something in Chinese and leaped to the side of the crocodile pond. Taz turned, his reactions just a bit too slow, and saw the assassin’s gun trained on him. Rand had only a second to consider the alternatives. Then he fired through the pocket of his jacket and caught Hardan in the chest.
“You were armed,” Taz muttered, recovering himself enough to get a firm grip on the woman.
“No one searched me,” Rand replied with a smile. “I always visit Russians with a gun in my pocket.” He walked over and nudged the body on the concrete floor. “This is Dr. Hardan, or if you prefer, Sivas, late Turkish assassin. Funny, Lanning said he even looked like one. The CIA can’t be all bad.”
“What is in the bottom of the coffin?” Taz asked.
“Something Chinese agents were anxious to smuggle into Moscow. You take it from there.”
“I will, my friend,” Taz said.
The following morning a Russian military transport was waiting at Moscow airport. Rand and Taz watched while Mrs. Belgrave led her husband to the plane, and then Rand said, “Thanks for the transportation. It saves us a wait.”
“Thank you , Mr. Rand.” The Russian seemed in good spirits.
“The coffin?”
“It’s not my department, but I understand it’s very critical. Pieces of metal, and much wiring. The more melodramatic of our people suspect they may be components of a small Chinese atomic bomb.”
Rand whistled. “You’d better watch out for the rest of it.”
“We will.” Taz paused. “And Rand, if you ever decide to accept my offer—”
“Don’t count on it. In this business we all end up poor. There’s no beating the system, Taz.” He remembered Lanning’s complaint about his low pay, and saw the CIA man walking toward them. “I’d better go now.”
The Russian nodded and waved as they parted. Then Rand fell into step with Lanning and they walked to the waiting jet. “You did a good job, Rand,” the American observed. “We just heard from Tokyo that they’ve located the real Dr. Nobea. She was drugged but unharmed.”
“It was a good job,” Rand agreed. “I helped Taz and I freed Belgrave. Sorry you couldn’t get the plan for the SUM missile while we were at it.”
Lanning started up the steps of the plane, then turned back toward Rand with a little smile. “What makes you think we didn’t get it?” he whispered.
The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins
H E WAS NOT AN old man, but the years had not dealt kindly with Comrade Taz. As he walked across the field toward the lights of the distant farmhouse, he could feel the ache in his right leg coming back again. It was a war injury from his youth, 30 years ago, when he’d shown a fleeting moment of courage in front of a German tank on the outskirts of Berlin.
During all those years in Moscow, heading up Section Six of the KGB,
“The first attempt on Shoju was made at his office,” Taz objected. “How would they know that soon whether he would be on the same flight?”
“Shoju wrote in his Belgrave story that he’d be returning to Moscow this week, and there’s only one flight from Tokyo to Moscow each week. Yota knew he’d be on that plane, and so he had to die. When they failed to kill him earlier, they had to do it before the plane landed. I had a tip when Yota admitted using a false name early in the flight. There was no reason for it—except to keep her assumed identity a secret from Shoju till he was dead.”
There was a sound behind them, and Rand saw Dr. Hardan in the doorway. He was wearing a black raincoat and he held a Llama automatic in his hand. A spare in his baggage, of course. All experienced assassins carry two.
Yota screamed something in Chinese and leaped to the side of the crocodile pond. Taz turned, his reactions just a bit too slow, and saw the assassin’s gun trained on him. Rand had only a second to consider the alternatives. Then he fired through the pocket of his jacket and caught Hardan in the chest.
“You were armed,” Taz muttered, recovering himself enough to get a firm grip on the woman.
“No one searched me,” Rand replied with a smile. “I always visit Russians with a gun in my pocket.” He walked over and nudged the body on the concrete floor. “This is Dr. Hardan, or if you prefer, Sivas, late Turkish assassin. Funny, Lanning said he even looked like one. The CIA can’t be all bad.”
“What is in the bottom of the coffin?” Taz asked.
“Something Chinese agents were anxious to smuggle into Moscow. You take it from there.”
“I will, my friend,” Taz said.
The following morning a Russian military transport was waiting at Moscow airport. Rand and Taz watched while Mrs. Belgrave led her husband to the plane, and then Rand said, “Thanks for the transportation. It saves us a wait.”
“Thank you , Mr. Rand.” The Russian seemed in good spirits.
“The coffin?”
“It’s not my department, but I understand it’s very critical. Pieces of metal, and much wiring. The more melodramatic of our people suspect they may be components of a small Chinese atomic bomb.”
Rand whistled. “You’d better watch out for the rest of it.”
“We will.” Taz paused. “And Rand, if you ever decide to accept my offer—”
“Don’t count on it. In this business we all end up poor. There’s no beating the system, Taz.” He remembered Lanning’s complaint about his low pay, and saw the CIA man walking toward them. “I’d better go now.”
The Russian nodded and waved as they parted. Then Rand fell into step with Lanning and they walked to the waiting jet. “You did a good job, Rand,” the American observed. “We just heard from Tokyo that they’ve located the real Dr. Nobea. She was drugged but unharmed.”
“It was a good job,” Rand agreed. “I helped Taz and I freed Belgrave. Sorry you couldn’t get the plan for the SUM missile while we were at it.”
Lanning started up the steps of the plane, then turned back toward Rand with a little smile. “What makes you think we didn’t get it?” he whispered.
The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins
H E WAS NOT AN old man, but the years had not dealt kindly with Comrade Taz. As he walked across the field toward the lights of the distant farmhouse, he could feel the ache in his right leg coming back again. It was a war injury from his youth, 30 years ago, when he’d shown a fleeting moment of courage in front of a German tank on the outskirts of Berlin.
During all those years in Moscow, heading up Section Six of the KGB,
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