"A snap. I watched him twice, and I still didn't get it."
"Mmm. Interesting." George went back to work on the "puzzle."
Just before they landed on the roof of the UN annex, Lansberg handed
the impressor back to Karnes. It had obviously failed to do what
either of them had hoped it would.
"It's your baby," Lansberg said, shaking his head. "All I have to say
is it's a hell of a way to earn ten bucks."
Karnes grinned and dropped the thing back in his coat pocket.
By the time that evening had rolled around, Karnes was beginning to
get just a little bored. He and Lansberg had been in and out of the
New York office in record time. Then they had spent a few hours with
New York's Finest and the District Attorney, lining up a net to pick
up all the little rats involved.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait.
Karnes slept a couple of hours to catch up, read two magazines from
cover to cover, and played eight games of solitaire. He was getting
itchy.
His brain kept crackling. _What's the matter with me? I ought to be
thinking about this Brittain fellow instead of--_
But, after all, what did Brittain matter? According to the records, he
was born Alex Bretinov, in Marseilles, France, in nineteen
sixty-eight. His father, a dyed-in-the-wool Old Guard Communist, had
been born in Minsk in nineteen forty.
_Or had he been wound up, and his clockwork started in January of
nineteen fifty-three?_
The radio popped. "Eighteen. Alert. Brittain just left his place on
foot. Carson, Reymann following. Over."
Lansberg dropped his magazine. "He seems to be heading for the Big
Boy--I hope."
The ground car followed him to a subway, and two men on foot followed
him in from Flatbush Avenue.
* * * * *
Some hours later, after much devious turning, dodging, and switching,
Brittain climbed into a taxi on the corner of Park Avenue and
Forty-seventh Street, evidently feeling he had ditched any tails he
might have had.
Karnes and Lansberg were right behind him in a radio car.
The cab headed due south on Park Avenue, following it until it became
Fourth, swung right at Tenth Street, past Grace Church, across
Broadway. At Sixth, it angled left toward Greenwich Village.
"Somewhere in the Village, nickels to knotholes," Lansberg guessed as
he turned to follow.
Karnes, at the radio, was giving rapid-fire directions over the
scrambler-equipped transceiver. By this time, several carloads of
agents and police were converging on the cab from every direction.
From high above, could be heard the faint hum of 'copters.
Lansberg was exultant. "We've got them for once! And the goods on
every essobee in the place."
The cars hummed smoothly through the broad streets, past the
shabby-genteel apartment neighborhood. Back in the early sixties, some
of these buildings had been high-priced hotels, but the Village had
gone to pot since the seventies.
A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of an imposing looking
building of slightly tarnished aluminum paneling. Brittain got out,
paid his fare, and went inside.
As the cab pulled away, Karnes gave orders for it to be picked up a
few blocks away, just in case.
The rest of the vehicles began to surround the building.
Karnes, meanwhile, followed Brittain into the foyer of the apartment
hotel. It was almost a mistake. Brittain hadn't gone in. Evidently
attracted by the footsteps following him, he turned and looked back
out. Karnes wasn't more than ten feet away.
_Just pretend you live here_, thought Karnes, _and bully-boy will
never know the difference_.
He walked right on up to the doorway, pretending not to notice
Brittain. Evidently, the saboteur was a little flustered, not quite
knowing who Karnes was. He, too, pretended that he had no suspicions.
He pressed a buzzer on the panel to announce himself to a guest.
Karnes noticed it was 523; a fifth floor button.
The front door, inside the foyer, was one of those gadgets with an
electric lock that doesn't open unless you either have a key to the
building or can get a friend who lives there to let you in.
When Karnes saw Brittain press the buzzer, he waited a second and took
a chance.
"Here," he said, fishing in his pocket, "I'll let you in." _That ought
to give him the impression I live here._