also written a novel, _But Some Are More
Equal,_ which, for a few weeks after publication, had managed to reach
the bottom of the best-seller list.

And that was that. Malone tried to figure out whether all this
information did him any good at all, and he didn't have to think for
very long. The answer was no. He opened the next dossier.

Luba Vasilovna Garbitsch had been born in New York. Her mother had
been a woman of Irish descent named Mary O'Keefe, and had died in '68.
Her father, of course, had now been revealed as a Russian agent, and
was at present making his home, such as it probably was, in good old
Moscow.

Malone sighed. Somewhere in the dossiers, he was sure, there was a
clue, the basic clue that would tell him everything he needed to know.
His prescience had never been so strong; he knew perfectly well that
he was staring at the biggest, most startling and most complete
disclosure of all. And he couldn't see it.

He stared at the folders for a long minute. What did they tell him?
What was the clue?

And then, very slowly, the soft light of a prodigal sun illuminated
his mind.

"Mr. Malone," Malone said gently, "you are a damned fool. There are
times when it is necessary to discard the impossible after you have
seen that the obscure is the obvious."

He wasn't sure whether that meant anything, or even whether he knew
what he was saying. He was sure of only one thing: the final answer.

And it _was_ obvious. Obvious as all hell.

13

There was, of course, only one thing to do, and only one place to go.
Malone went downstairs without even stopping to wave farewell to the
agent-in-charge, and climbed into the big, specially-built FBI Lincoln
that waited for him.

"Want a driver?" one of the mechanics asked.

"No, thanks," Malone said. "This one's a solo job."

That was for sure. He drove out onto the streets and into the heavy
late afternoon traffic of Washington, D. C. The Lincoln handled
smoothly, but Malone didn't press his luck among the rushing cars. He
wasn't in any hurry. He had all the time in the world, and he knew it.
They--and, for once, Malone knew just who "they" were--would still be
waiting for him when he got there.

_If_ he got there, he thought suddenly, dodging a combination
roadblock consisting of a green Plymouth making an illegal turn, a
fourteen-year-old boy on a bicycle and a sweet young girl pushing a
baby carriage. He managed to get past and wiped his forehead with