Brandies were brought forth on a tray. Maj. Jarvis Jones, a tall slim black man with a triangular shoulder flash--an S-shaped green snake twined around and thus joining the letters
At Burdovsky's invitation the two Americans removed their greatcoats, and all six seated themselves at the table. Madden raised his finger to the Russian captain with a pad on his knee, pen poised above it.
"There will be no official transcript of these proceedings."
He was pointing to the captain but speaking to the colonel. After a slight shrug Burdovsky nodded and waved his flabby pink hand. The captain closed the pad and placed it on the blotter.
Madden smiled inwardly. It probably made little difference. The stateroom would be wired, fust as Major Jones was wired--a microcas-sette taped underneath his armpit with a metallic-thread audio pickup woven into the green-and-gold cravat at his throat. The Russians certainly knew that Madden knew the room was bugged. They also knew that he knew that they knew that one of the Americans had a recording device concealed about his person.
The Soviets had their masters to report to, just as he had his.
"We appreciate your act of good faith," said Burdovsky, "in permitting us to see your computer predictions. They are from your facility in Colorado, yes?"
"That's right. DELFI. As we were at pains to point out, Colonel, this material has hitherto been on the Pentagon's classified list." Madden's pale blue eyes were fixed on Burdovsky's fat round moon of a face. He might have been observing an inanimate object. "The material remains highly confidential, to be divulged only to senior staff officers of our respective defense departments. I trust that is clearly understood."
Colonel Burdovsky raised his sparse eyebrows. "Of course, of course," he said jovially, though there was a harder glint in the tiny slitted eyes. "You Americans. You imagine the rest of the world is backward. We have very advanced computers also, capable of similar calculations. The information was not entirely new to us, Colonel Madden. It is not the information we appreciate, you must understand, as much as the act of releasing it."
"Is that why you decided to cancel Project Arrow?"
"Not cancel," Burdovsky amended gently, holding his hand up. "Postpone. Our policy is much like your own--I am speaking of DEPARTMENT STORE, of course. Your missiles and tankers with their bacteriological payloads are still operational, are they not?"
Madden smiled thinly. He had learned it was the best way to counter a thrust that had struck home. Also it gave him time to think. "Do you wish to review our respective defense strategies, Colonel, or shall we get closer to the ball?"
"Closer to the ball?" Burdovsky repeated with a frown. He glanced right and left at the stolid faces on either side, and then at Madden across the table. "What is that?"
"It means shall we get down to business." Madden turned his wrist to look at his watch. "We have two hours and forty-one minutes to rendezvous. I'd like to accomplish something in the time left to us."
Colonel Burdovsky said something in Russian and clicked his blunt fingers. The captain got up and brought a japanned box of Davidoff No. 1 cigars to the table. He then found four large glass ashtrays and felt mats, which he went to some pains to space equidistantly.
When Madden refused a cigar Burdovsky selected one for himself and accepted a light from the captain. He smoked the fat cigar through pursed lips, as a schoolboy might puff at his first cigarette. "Please," he waved, expansive now. "Let us get closer to the ball."
Madden said, "Major Jones is scientific liaison officer attached to ASP. He has a doctorate in climatology. I take it you have a scientific officer present."
Burdovsky gestured with the cigar to the two men on his left. "Major Ivolgin and Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin. Both are members of the Academy of Sciences. I think that between us"--he drew on the cigar and released a curling blue ball of smoke--"we shall understand whatever you have to say."
Madden leaned forward, his nicely shaped hands clasped together on the blotter. He began to speak in a flat, clipped voice, knowing precisely what he had to say and how it should be expressed. He had rehearsed until word-perfect.
