Summit

by Richard Bowker

  "Of course," Houghton said. "And?"

  "There are two issues," Sullivan said, launching into what he had rehearsed. "What to do about the German, and the larger issue of what to do about Borisova. Obviously we have to tell the BND that their man may have been compromised. As for Borisova, I think she's become too dangerous. We should either get her to defect or, if we can't pull that off, we should blackmail this doctor into killing her. You may recall that I've made these proposals before. I can only emphasize that the damage Borisova is doing could be catastrophic. Delaying would only increase the danger."

  There, that hadn't been too bad. Houghton pressed his hands together in front of his face and swiveled a little in his leather chair to catch a glimpse of the world outside his window. Was he deep in thought, Sullivan wondered, or was this just a pose he had mastered? "As I recall," Houghton said slowly, "our evidence that Borisova is actually doing something is rather tenuous."

  "But there is evidence. And we have proof that the Soviets think she's doing something."

  "Or that they want us to think she's doing something, and meanwhile they're up to something entirely different." Houghton sighed. "And if the doctor kills her, the Soviets will certainly find out she did it, and the doctor will certainly implicate Osipov, and we will have lost an interesting asset. That has been the line of reasoning, hasn't it?"

  "I think the potential benefit is worth the risk to a minor asset like Osipov," Sullivan said. Houghton did not appear to be impressed by what he thought. "Look," Sullivan went on, "Schmidt is head of the BND's Moscow station—we can't allow the slightest chance that someone like him might be turned. And the other people we know about—there was some early evidence of success, if you recall—and there is scientific backing for the hypothesis, as I explained in one of my reports..." Sullivan petered out, realizing he had lost Houghton. There was nothing overt—Houghton was far too polite. It was just something Sullivan could sense. Maybe he was psychic. Anyway, he knew he had reached the end of his five minutes.

  Houghton swiveled back to face him. He was smiling his vaguest smile. "Write it up," he said. His ultimate dismissal. "Of course we've got to do something about Schmidt right away. As for Borisova—well, we'll send the information on to Operations and see what they think."

  Sullivan knew what the people in the Directorate of Operations would think. Osipov was real; Borisova on the other hand was—what? A phantom, a delusion. If only the issue could get up to Roderick Williams, Houghton's boss. Williams went for this sort of thing. But Houghton would not appreciate Sullivan going outside the chain of command, and Sullivan was on thin enough ice around here as it was.

  He stood up and retrieved the cable from Houghton's desk. "I'll write it up," he said.

  "Good man, Bill. And thanks for bringing this to my attention."

  "Don't mention it." Sullivan had no idea if Houghton was sincere. He walked quickly out of the office.

  * * *

  Write it up. He did little at work but write things up. Read an article, and write it up. Get some cables from the field, and write them up. Then wait for his proposals to get shot down by Houghton or Operations. It all seemed so futile, but what else could he do?

  Sullivan hadn't really expected much when the job was offered to him, but Houghton had a way of whipping up your enthusiasm when he wanted you to do something. He had obviously studied the subject a little before making his pitch. "For all we know, this could be the most important job in the intelligence community," he had said, leaning forward in his leather chair. "But that's the key—we just don't know. We estimate that the Soviets are spending between fifty and a hundred million dollars, all sources, on psychic research. And what are they getting for their money? Some people would say—nothing, and they can't possibly get anything because ESP and all that stuff simply doesn't exist. But other people, like Roderick Williams, would say the Soviets have gotten themselves a head start in the race to control the powers of the mind. And that may be the most important race in human history. You see, Bill, if you can control the powers of the mind, all the nuclear weapons in the world aren't going to defeat you."

  Houghton had paused then, hands pressed together in front of his face, studying him, and Sullivan knew the guy was laying it on thick, but he couldn't help but be intrigued.

  "Your job, Bill," Houghton went on, "—the job I want you to take—is to become our expert on what the Soviets are up to in this mind race. If they've made a breakthrough, we have to know about it. If they've given up, we want to know about that too. Will you do it for us?"

  Well, he hadn't had much choice, no matter how he felt about the job. Oh, he could've resigned from the Company, but he wasn't willing to do that. Not yet. So he had smiled and shaken Houghton's hand, and he vowed to become as good an expert as he could be.

  It only took one conversation with his predecessor, however, to realize that his initial expectations were correct. His predecessor was a prissy little man named Popper who wore bow ties and short-sleeve shirts and chewed his fingernails. What did he have to be nervous about? Mr. Popper was transferring to Economic Research, and was more than happy to give Sullivan the lowdown over a tuna sandwich in the cafeteria.

  "Houghton is full of shit, pardon my French," Popper said. "He doesn't have the slightest interest in psychic research. He just puts someone on it to keep Roderick Williams happy, but Williams doesn't have enough people sharing his enthusiasm to make things really happen."

  "What do you think about it all?" Sullivan asked. "Is there anything to it?"

  Popper gnawed at a knuckle, as if he were worried about giving the wrong answer. "See, you look at it one way and you say, 'My God, this is amazing,'" he replied. "Then you look at it another way, and it's all a crock of you-know-what. I mean, for us it's just words on a piece of paper, right? Professor Ivan So-and-so at the Bekhterev Brain Institute has proved this, Professor Pavel Such-and-such of Novosibirsk University has disproved that. How can we tell who's right?"

  "But you have to make a judgment, don't you? You're the expert."

  Popper shook his head. "You make judgments, you make enemies. Push too much one way, Houghton doesn't like you; push too much the other, you're on Williams's bad side. So just aim your reports straight down the middle and forget about it."

  Thanks a bunch, Sullivan had thought. And he set to work. He wanted to do a good job, despite Popper's advice, and that was what made the job so frustrating—especially since he had found out about Borisova. If they've made a breakthrough, we have to know about it, Houghton said. Well, apparently not.

  But was it really a breakthrough? Or had his desires clouded his judgment? Sometimes, in the long, alcohol-soaked nights, he wasn't sure which he was more afraid of. Being an expert wasn't easy.

  When his report was finished, he sent it to all the right people, then walked out into the humid evening, his mind still filled with Borisova and Osipov and Dieter Schmidt and Doctor Chukova. The day had brought nothing unexpected, and the night, he knew, would be no different from all his other nights. When he started up the car, he recalled with a pang its broken air conditioning. He would have to have that fixed. But he knew he wouldn't get around to it anytime soon.

  Chapter 5

  Outside: murmuring and footsteps. A hand on hers.

  Inside: silence.

  Valentina Borisova opened her eyes.

  Doctor Chukova was staring down at her. Valentina managed a weak smile, and Chukova smiled back. "How do you feel?" the doctor asked.

  "I feel... empty." Her voice sounded far away, unfamiliar.

  Doctor Chukova laid a hand on her forehead, and then took her pulse. "Is it worse than usual?"

  She tried to think. What was "usual"? "It was bad at the end," she managed to say. "I was sure I wouldn't get out. But here I am." She closed her eyes. Doctor Chukova's hand felt warm and reassuring.

  "There doesn't appear to be any permanent damage," the doctor said. "Of course, we'll run the usual tests when you
're stronger. But for now, all you have to do is rest."

  Rest. Doctor Chukova tried to be maternal to her, and sometimes she responded; she had no mother, and there was a gap that needed filling. But just as often she resisted that feeling—because Chukova was not her mother. A mother would not let these things happen to her. Valentina had to be on her guard, even when the voice was soft, the hand warm and reassuring. The resting would end eventually, and she had to be ready for what would replace it.

  "Is there anything I can get for you?" Doctor Chukova asked.

  Nothing, Valentina wanted to say, to maintain her independence, to be free of obligation. But she felt the silence inside her, and she knew what she needed, and right now she was willing to ask for a favor. "Music," she whispered.

  "Of course, dear. Now rest." The hand patted hers, then the footsteps retreated. And after a while there was music. Schubert. It didn't make things right, but it made them tolerable, at least for now.

  It occurred to her that she hadn't asked if she had been successful, if the killing effort had been worthwhile. But it didn't really matter; she didn't really care. They were letting her sleep and listen to music. She would take what she could get.

  Chapter 6

  Outside: bird-twitter and sunshine. Inside: silence.

  Daniel Fulton sat on his sofa and tried to read a book, but his mind kept drifting off into the silence. He closed his eyes, not knowing, as usual, what to do about it. Finally he tossed the book onto the sofa, walked over to the sliding glass doors, and looked outside.

  There was a new bird in a bush next to the feeder. He found his Peterson Guide and tried to look it up. It was a brown thrasher, he decided tentatively. He listened to it. Short, staccato phrases, interspersed with whistles and chacks. The sounds were beautiful—beautiful especially because they were mindless. The bird had an urge to sing, and this was what came out. And if it needed food, the food was there, a short flight away, provided by some benevolent higher power. What a wonderful way to live.

  Fulton turned his head slightly and caught sight of his reflection in the glass door—the higher power looming above the brown thrasher. He looked at the dark, curly hair, the penetrating brown eyes, the strong, unshaven chin—and he turned again, quickly, to make the face disappear.

  Silence.

  After a while he noticed his hands were moving—mindlessly. He watched the patterns they made against his faded jeans—the thumb of the left hand silently reaching across his thigh, index finger of the right hand rapidly alternating with the middle finger. Liszt: St. Francois d'Assise: la Predication aux Oiseaux. He sighed and glanced at the Steinway across the room.

  He had taken a step toward it when a sound shattered the silence. The doorbell. He instinctively retreated, but then he forced himself to think normally. There was someone at the door. He would go to the door and open it. Some form of social interaction would take place, and life would go on. What could be easier?

  Listening to a brown thrasher.

  The bell rang again. He looked down at his bare feet, jeans, and T-shirt. Not very presentable. And he hadn't shaved. Oh well, it was probably a friend. No one but friends knew where he lived.

  But friends knew better than to come uninvited.

  He took a deep breath and padded across the wall-to-wall carpeting to the front door. He opened it without pausing.

  "Hello, Mr. Fulton. I'm terribly sorry to disturb you at home, but it's vitally important that I speak to you."

  It was the man from Carnegie Hall. He was still wearing a gray suit, but this time he was holding out an ID. It said that his name was Lawrence Hill, and that he worked for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Fulton studied the ID and the man holding it. He was probably somewhat older than Fulton (the reverse of the way things had appeared at Carnegie Hall), with narrow, sleepy eyes, and jowls that made him look a little like a beagle. His hair was dark, but his short sideburns were going gray. He looked—well, forgettable. "What do you want?" Fulton said.

  "To talk to you, Mr. Fulton. To ask you a favor."

  The CIA wanted a favor from him? Absurd. And how did he know this guy was from the CIA? The ID could have been forged, and Fulton wouldn't have known the difference. "How did you find out where I lived?" he demanded.

  Hill shrugged. "It's one of those things we do well. You're not hiding exactly, am I right? Just—what? Staying out of the public eye?"

  Hill continued to stand in the doorway, looking pleasant and unthreatening. So what was Fulton supposed to do? He figured it was normal to feel a little paranoid when someone from the CIA comes looking for you. And perhaps even more normal for someone like him, who had made occasional statements that probably displeased people in the CIA. All right. But it looked as if there was nothing to be done, now that he had been found for the second time. They were obviously determined to talk to him.

  So it was time to perform. Fulton opened the door wide. "Won't you come in, then."

  Hill smiled. "Thank you very much."

  "Please excuse the mess," Fulton said as he led Hill into the large living area that contained the piano. And it was a mess, he realized, seeing it with a visitor's eyes: books and magazines piled high in the corners, stacks of sheet music by the Steinway, an empty orange-juice carton next to the sofa. Well, too bad. He hadn't asked for a visitor. "Can I get you some coffee?"

  "No, thank you."

  Fulton was relieved; he made lousy coffee. Hill sat on the sofa. Fulton sat on the piano bench. "Now, what's this favor, Mr. Hill?"

  "Well, you see, Mr. Fulton, this favor is important enough that I'd like to ask you to come to CIA headquarters with me and hear about it from some of the top people in the agency."

  "You want me to go to—where? Washington?—with you? Now?"

  "We can go now if you like—I'd just have to make a couple of phone calls. We could be at headquarters in—"

  "Does this have anything to do with those disarmament petitions and so forth I used to sign?" Fulton asked. "I mean, this seems—"

  "No, no, not at all," Hill interrupted in turn. "It has nothing to do with any of that. A... situation has come up where we feel you might be able to do a great service to your country. I wish I could be more specific, but I'm afraid there is a need for absolute secrecy here."

  Fulton considered. He should have been scared, but he wasn't, at least not very. Hill's words were frightening, but his attitude was matter-of-fact and rather calming. He seemed to be simply doing his job, rather than trying to talk Fulton into something. Still, it wasn't a situation that made Fulton very comfortable. "I think I should call my lawyer," he said.

  "That's entirely understandable," Hill replied. "But I'll tell you what he'll say. He'll say: 'Don't do anything unless I'm with you.' Which is also entirely understandable. But the problem is, we're dealing with very sensitive national security information here, and we have to restrict access to it. Please hear us out first, Mr. Fulton. If you want to talk to your lawyer afterward, well, we won't be able to stop you. But we think that, if you do hear us out, you'll agree to help us."

  "What makes you think so, Mr. Hill?"

  "Come to headquarters with me, and then you'll understand."

  "And if I refuse to go?"

  Hill shrugged. He didn't seem distressed by the prospect. "It's a free country. We'll leave you alone. But we hope you'll at least listen to what we have to say."

  It would be easy enough to turn him down, Fulton realized. They might continue to badger him, but his lawyer could probably take care of that. The lawyer would protect him, the way other people protected him, and he could go back to his unread books, to the birds, to the silence.

  But suddenly he didn't feel like it. He was bored. He was lonely. And now he was intrigued. Now he was ready to take a leap into the unknown. "I'll have to go upstairs and change," he said.

  Hill didn't react for a moment; perhaps he couldn't quite believe what he had heard. Then his face lit up. "Do you mean it?"r />
  Fulton shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

  "No reason why not. No reason at all. We certainly appreciate this, Mr. Fulton."

  "It had better be worth it."

  Fulton went upstairs. He shaved and changed, and then thought for a moment. No sounds from downstairs. He closed the bedroom door and stared at the phone. He didn't like phones. He picked it up finally and punched a number.

  "Hershohn Associates," a voice answered after the second ring.

  "Let me speak to Hershohn, please. This is Fulton."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fulton, Mr. Hershohn is out of town today. Can I have him call you back?"

  Fulton cursed silently. "Is this Marcia?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir. Can I help you?"

  "Listen, Marcia. I'm going off with a man named Lawrence Hill who says he's from the CIA. He says he's taking me to their headquarters for some meeting. I don't know if he's telling the truth or not, but I figured I should tell someone what was going on in case I don't come back."

  "Um, all right, Mr. Fulton. You're being kidnapped by the CIA. I'll be sure to tell Mr. Hershohn."

  Fulton closed his eyes. Marcia had always suspected he was insane. Now he had proved it. Well, he wasn't going to worry about that. "Thank you, Marcia," he said softly.

  "You're very welcome, sir."