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rs。 Jackson again。〃
〃Pochinkov is a dead end。〃
〃They'll e to that conclusion。 Bigelow； my boss； has no background in counterespionage； but he's a smart man。 Hell drool over Pochinkov for a day or two； toy with the idea of trapping and turning him； then eventually decide that we can't spare the manpower to watch him day and night forever。 Of course； the National Security Council could decide to try to catch him servicing a drop just so we can kick him out of the country； but you probably have a better feel for that than I。〃
A wry grin twisted Albright's lips。 The implication was that Albright knew whether or not the Soviets were going to pick up an American diplomat in Moscow anytime soon； knowledge that Camacho well knew Albright would never have。 So even here； in the safety and fort of his own den； Camacho was stroking the ego of his control。 He did it unconsciously； without even thinking。 No wonder Luis Camacho had done so well in the FBI。
〃How e you guys had a drop in that neighborhood anyway？〃
〃It was on the approved list。〃 Albright shrugged。 The paper pushers in Moscow had no appreciation of the dynamics of an American neighborhood； how fast it could evolve or erode。 The approval of drop sites was one method Soviet intelligence bureaucrats used to justify their salaries； but Albright wasn't going to explain that to Camacho。 He had learned early in his career that a wise man never plains about things he can't change； especially to an agent he needed to keep loyal and motivated。
Still； Luis Camacho wasn't like other agents。 Albright had been running him now for over ten years； but it was only in the last few years； when the source the Americans called the Minotaur had surfaced and within months Camacho had had the serendipitous good fortune to be assigned to head the Washington； D。C。； FBI counterespionage department； that Camacho had bee a Soviet treasure。
Tonight as he stared at the ballet of black men on the television screen； Albright reflected again on that chain of events。 After a high…profile black…tie affair in the ballroom of a Washington hotel； the Soviet ambassador had discovered a picture postcard in his coat pocket as his limousine returned him to the embassy。 On the front of the card was a photo of the Pentagon at night。 On the back were two words and a series of numbers and letters…a puter file name…all written in block letters。 Below that were ten words； not a message； just words。 Nothing else。 No fingerprints except the ambassador's。
It had been enough。 Using Terry Franklin； the Soviets had obtained engineering and performance data on the new U。S。 Air Force stealth fighter； the F…117A； from the Pentagon puter system。 The information appeared genuine。 So who was the source？ Unmasking the source would undoubtedly reveal why the information was passed and enable the Soviet intelligence munity to properly evaluate its authenticity。 But the official guest list for the black…tie reception ran to over three hundred names and was almost a Who's Who of official Washington。 The names of spouses and girlfriends in attendance were not on the list； nor were the names of at least a dozen officials who had been seen there。 The fists of hotel and caterer personnel were also inaccurate and inplete。
The upper echelons of the Soviet intelligence munity were stymied。 The first rule of intelligence gathering…know your source…had been violated。 Yet the information appeared genuine and revealed just how far ahead of the Soviets the Americans were with stealth technology。
Three months after the ambassador had received the postcard； an unsigned letter in a plain white envelope arrived at the Soviet embassy addressed to the ambassador。 The letter； in neat dock letters； was a mentary on the rights of minorities in the Soviet Union。 In accordance with standard procedure for unsolicited mail； the letter was sent to Moscow。 There the code was broken。 The writer had constructed a matrix using the first random word on the original postcard as the key word。 The message was three random words； the first two of which proved to be puter access words。 The third word wasn't a word at all； but a series of numbers and letters。 From the bowels of the Pentagon； Terry Franklin produced a fascinating document concerning the development of a land…based anti…satellite laser about which Soviet intelligence had known absolutely nothing。
Further letters followed； each encoded on the basis of a key word which appeared on the original postcard； the ambassador's。 The information was golden： more stealth。 Trident missile updates； SDI research breakthroughs； laser optics for artillery； satellite navigation systems。。。 the list was breathtaking。 The Soviets were seeing hard data on America's most precious defense secrets。 And they didn't know who was giving it to them。 Or why。
So Harlan Albright was told to use Mother Russia's most precious agent to find out。 And here he sat； Luis Camacho； FBI special agent in charge； Washington； D。C。； office of counterespionage。
Camacho hadn't found a sniff。
Damn； it was frustrating。 And now the Terry Franklin tool to exploit the unknown source was unraveling。
〃Do you believe in the entropy principle？〃 Camacho asked。 There was a mercial on the television。
Albright shifted his gaze and tried to dear his thoughts。 〃Entropy？〃
〃Disorder always increases in a closed system。〃
〃I suppose。〃
〃Will Franklin hold up？〃
〃I don't know。 I doubt it。 And he knows too much。〃 He felt a chut as he contemplated the wrath of his superiors if Franklin should ever list his thefts for the Americans。
〃Can you get him to the Soviet Union？〃 Albright shrugged and stood。 〃I'd better go home and get some deep。〃
〃Yeah。〃
〃Drop over tomorrow evening。〃
〃Sure。〃
Rita Moravia's worst moment came when she preceded Toad into his apartment。 〃I've only been here a month or so；〃 Toad said behind her。 Open cardboard boxes brimming with books and towels and bric…a…brac sat everywhere。 She stepped into the kitchen。 The sink was full of dishes。 Something hideous was growing in a saucepan on the stove。 The refrigerator contained half a case of beer and a six…pack of Coke…nothing else。 At least it was clean。 But how in the world had this man managed to get all these dishes dirty？ Aha； the freezer was chock…full of frozen vegetables and TV dinners。 Even some meat。
She dumped the contents of the saucepan into the sink and ran the pan full of water； then let the water from the faucet flush the putrid mixture past the trap。
Toad was fidgety。 〃I'm not much of a housekeeper；〃 he mumbled。 〃Been trying to get unpacked and all but I've been so busy。〃
Rita went into the bedroom and snapped on the lights。 The bed was a rumpled mess。 She ripped away the spread and blanket and tossed them on the floor； then began stripping the sheets。 〃Get out dean sheets。〃
〃Uh。。。 y'see； that's the only set I have。 Why waste money on extra sheets when you can only use one set at a。。。〃 He ran out of words when she glanced at him as she removed the pillows from their cases。 〃Why don't I take the sheets and pillowcases down to the basement and run them through the washer。〃 He grabbed them from the floor where Rita had throw