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of thought as he keyed his computer and brought the menu up onto his screen. It had
     been a slow night. There was an interesting item in the Chinese Bin; Savinkov had discovered that the FBI had staked out a
     dead letter drop of his behind the radiator in the men’s room at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. The Weeder
     weighed the information for a moment, decided not to disseminate it. The last thing in the world he wanted was for the FBI
     to call off the stakeout. Savinkov might notice the stakeout had been canceled and conclude that the FBI knew that he knew
     the dead drop had been compromised, at which point Savinkov, an old pro, would suspect his conversations were being overheard.
    The Weeder punched another code into his computer, calling up the new material in Farmer’s Almanac. There were pinpoints of
     light on the screen. Letters appeared. Words began to coalesce into phrases, sentences.
    “Who? Who? Who? … Who?”
    “Why? Why? … Why? Why?”
    “Me? Why would I do it?”
    “… any of your people … qualms, moral or operational.”
    “… not the answer.”
    “Or all of the above. Or none … Or any combination …”
    The Weeder smiled. That would be Admiral Toothacher speaking.
    “He knows the code name …”
    “He knows the date …”
    “… curiouser and curiouser.”
    There was a pause as the computer scanned. The Weeder was hardly aware of the whirring of the tapes coming from behind the
     partition. More words began to appear on the screen.
    “… target …”
    “… center at Kabir … an American five-megawatt …”
    “… ninety-three percent enriched uranium … enough for a …”
    “Laser enrichment tech …”
    “… separate weapon-grade uranium from ordinary …”
    “…or move to plutonium two thirty-nine …”
    “… Nagasaki-type bomb …”
    “… Nagasaki-type explosion …”

15

    A Puerto Rican handyman wearing a spotless white knee-length surgical smock was putting up the last lithograph in the office
     of the new Deputy Director for Intelligence as the Weeder was ushered in.
    “Higher,” ordered the DDI, whose name was Rudd. He peered at the Weeder over granny glasses that had slipped down along his
     nose and waved him toward one of the two chairs drawn up facing his desk. “That may be a shade too high,” he told his handyman.
     “What’s your opinion, Mr. Sibley?”
    “I’d move it more to the left so it’s off center. I hate things that are centered.”
    “I’m not sure I agree,” the DDI said. He flashed a lopsided smile that had more pain than pleasure in it. “Things that are
     centered are very … satisfying.” He turned to the handyman. “Lower it, Henry, if you will, about two inches. Right there.
     That’s fine.”
    The handyman marked the spot and tapped in a nail and hung the frame from it. Stepping back, he studied the placement of the
     lithograph. “I think I agree with your friend here,” he said.
    “If I decide to change things,” the DDI said crisply, “I’ll give you a buzz.”
    “Say the word,” the handyman said. He gathered up his tools in a rectangular metal basket and left, closing the door behind
     him.
    The DDI nodded toward the lithograph. “It’s a Maillol, in caseyou’re interested. Number twenty-three of fifty. In those days they kept the print run small in order to keep the value up.”
     The DDI, who was in his shirt sleeves, toyed with one of his gold cuff links as he studied his guest over the granny glasses.
     “Trip down all right?”
    “I caught a noon shuttle from LaGuardia. I sat next to a lady stockbroker who wore too much perfume. Other than that there
     was no problem.”
    “Now that they’ve banned cigarettes I suppose the next thing they ought to do is ban perfume.”
    The Weeder nodded. “They ought to put a warning on the flasks. ‘The Surgeon General has determined that perfume can be hazardous
     to your health.’ “
    “You found the car without any