Tom’s face was somber. “I appreciate your position, sir. And I agree that Mr.
Crane’s life mustn’t be jeopardized.”
In spite of his steady voice, Tom was inwardly blazing with anger.
“You’ve notified the police, I suppose?” he asked. “I mean-in connection with the anonymous phone call.”
Provard nodded. “And also the FBI. But naturally there’s little they can do, with the victim in
122 TRIPHIBIAN ATOMICAR
a foreign country thousands of miles away.”
“Do you suppose it’s the same enemy who’s been after your midget atomic power plant, Tom?” Bud spoke up.
The young inventor frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Could be. What do you think, Harlan?”
“Offhand, I’d say Yes,” the security chief replied. “It’s clear we’re up against a deadly and technically well-equipped foe who’ll stop at nothing. I’d guess they’re either foreign subversives, or powerful business competitors.”
“Flambo!” Bud exploded, slamming his fist down on the desk.
“Don’t forget,” Tom said, “that there are plenty of other outfits who would give plenty to get a technical or business foothold in Kabulistan.”
Provard was more upset than ever when informed about the theft of Tom’s first drone plane model and the atomic explosion.
“That’s why I preferred not to talk over the phone,” the banker explained.
“Since our enemy has agents right here in this country, I was afraid my line might be tapped.”
It was now long past noon, and the banker accepted Tom’s invitation to have lunch at Enterprises before flying back to New York. In spite of Chow’s delicious food, everyone ate in glum silence.