Summit

by Richard Bowker

  The CIA business bothered Hershohn. Was it a paranoid fantasy of some sort? If so, something had to be done about it. Maybe great artists have to be a little weird, but too much weirdness can harm even a genius. The trouble was, Hershohn had no one to turn to for a second opinion: Fulton was unmarried, had few close friends, and had long ago severed connections with his parents. So it seemed to be up to his manager to decide whether he should send Fulton to Moscow, or to a shrink.

  He didn't relish the prospect of interrogating Fulton any further about this secret mission of his. So what was he supposed to do?

  He thought about it for a long time, and then he sighed, and he buzzed Marcia.

  * * *

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Marcia, I want to talk to someone in CIA headquarters. Would you see if you can find where that is and put through a call?"

  "Right away."

  Marcia shook her head. They were all going to be murdered—if not by Fulton, then by the CIA. Why wouldn't Mr. Hershohn listen to her advice?

  She didn't need to find out where the CIA was. Anyone who had ever read a spy novel knew that. She called directory assistance for Langley, Virginia, and a minute later she had made the call. She thought about staying on the line, then decided against it. If her boss was going to get them into more trouble, she didn't want to know about it.

  * * *

  "Yes, um, my name is Charles Hershohn, of Hershohn Creative Management Associates. I have a client named Daniel Fulton, whom you may have heard of. Mr. Fulton tells me that someone from—from your organization has approached him to give a piano recital in Moscow this fall in order to meet a Russian psychic...." And Hershohn tried to summarize the state of affairs for the silent public relations flunky on the other end of the line. It wasn't easy, and the silence didn't help. "...and so you see, I need to obtain some independent confirmation that this is real, and not just a figment of Mr. Fulton's imagination. Now obviously you people are not going to want to tell me, but look, I have a moral responsibility to my client. If this is some delusion of his, I need to convince him to seek psychiatric help. Can you understand that?"

  "Yes, sir. I hope you can understand, sir, that it can hardly be CIA policy to—"

  "Yes, yes. Look, I'm as patriotic as the next fellow, and I wish your, um, organization all the best, and I know you're not the right person to be talking to about this, but let me make one thing clear: If I don't get some sort of answer from you people, I'm going to do everything in my power to talk Fulton out of giving this recital. I don't need any details, I just need a yes or a no. You can follow me and tap my phone and read my mail and all that spy stuff, but you've got to give me a yes or a no. Clear?"

  Silence. Then: "Perfectly clear, sir. I'll just take your phone number and pass your request along to the appropriate personnel. I must tell you, though, that you should not be optimistic about receiving a response."

  "A yes or a no." Hershohn gave his phone number to the flunky and hung up.

  He was sweating. He needed a drink. He had just threatened the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Why was Fulton doing this to him?

  Chapter 9

  The key words "Moscow" and "psychic" meant that the transcript of the conversation was forwarded automatically to Bill Sullivan. When he saw it, he called Celia immediately. "Ten minutes," he pleaded. But he was in the red now, and she couldn't possibly fit him in before tomorrow afternoon.

  Very little work got done the rest of the day. Afterward, he drove back to his pleasant, empty ranch house in his pleasant Virginia suburb, and he tried to stay away from the beer beckoning to him from his refrigerator. His lawn needed mowing; he got out the old gas mower and did a nice job, even raking the grass up after he was done, happy for once to have the mindless chore to keep him occupied. He had told himself a hundred times to sell the place and move to some high-rise condo where he wouldn't have to worry about chores. But he could never bring himself to do it, and tonight he was grateful for his indecision.

  When he had put the mower and the rake away, he fixed himself a hamburger and tried to watch television. A basketball game was on. It was the playoffs, and the Celtics were one of the teams, but he couldn't get interested. Bunch of guys with gland problems running around in their underwear. Someone touches them and they go whining to the ref they've been fouled. How could anyone get excited about that? He turned it off after a while, stared longingly at the phone, and finally made a call.

  "Hello?" a female voice answered. Distant, suspicious, familiar.

  "Hi. It's me."

  "Oh. What do you want?"

  "I'd like to speak to him. If it's okay. Nothing important." He was sweating.

  A brief silence as she decided his fate. "Hold on," she said.

  He held. He heard a muffled conversation, then the clatter of the receiver changing hands. "Hi, Dad!" a young voice called out.

  He smiled. "Hi, Danny. How's my favorite left wing?"

  "Great. I got an A on my social studies paper. It was about the Statue of Liberty."

  "Wow. Congratulations. You know, maybe when you come see me this summer we could visit the Statue of Liberty."

  "No kiddin'! That'd be awesome."

  "Well, it's just an idea. We'd have to check with your mom and all. Are you doing a lot of swimming?"

  "You bet. It's pretty hot here. I'm working on my breaststroke."

  "Breaststroke, huh? You'll have to teach me that one."

  "Sure thing."

  He kept the conversation going for a few more minutes, until Danny said his mom wanted him to go finish his homework. "Okay, kid. I love you. Let me talk to your mom."

  "Sure, Dad. Love you too."

  Then Sullivan's ex-wife was on the phone again, and his smile automatically faded. "Sorry to bother you, Maureen," he said. "I just had an urge to talk to him."

  "That's okay," she replied.

  He could picture her down there in Florida, her mouth a thin line, her eyes weary but alert, defensive. What he had destroyed in her had not yet been brought back to life; maybe it never would be. "We were talking about his social studies paper," he said. "I thought maybe I might take him to New York this summer and see the Statue of Liberty."

  "New York City's a dangerous place," she said. "I think he's too young."

  "But millions of kids go there, Maureen. He'd be safe with me." I'm a trained professional killer, he wanted to shout at her. I can protect my own son. But he didn't.

  "I don't think so," she said. "Not this year."

  No sense arguing with her any further. He knew that tone of voice. "Okay," he said. "Well, I'll talk to you later."

  "All right."

  He hung up, and then he couldn't think of any reason to hold off any longer, so he went to the refrigerator and got out the first beer, and the evening was over.

  But some things are never over. Through the boozy haze and the late-night sweat he was there again, on the ice (the ice that never cooled his sweat), bodies sprawling on top of him, the world exploding around him. And he couldn't breathe, the weight was too heavy, the fear and the shame were choking him, he was going to die, and he wanted more than anything not to die....

  But he didn't die. He awoke. The sheet was wet. The clock ticked. Two-thirty. He had to go to the bathroom.

  This is not working,, he thought as he stood over the toilet. This is as bad as it can be.

  But he didn't know how to make it better.

  * * *

  Lawrence Hill drove up the long, secluded driveway, parked his gray Toyota by the front door, and got out. He heard music coming from inside the house, gorgeous sounds floating out through the darkness like half-remembered dreams. He listened for a moment, half-remembering, and then went to do his job. He rang the front doorbell, and its harsh dissonance dispersed the dreams. There was silence, then footsteps, and then he felt an eye peering out at him through the peephole. The door opened.

  "Hello, Mr. Fulton. I wonder if I might have a word wit
h you. It won't take long."

  Fulton took a step back and let him enter.

  "I couldn't help hearing you playing from outside, Mr. Fulton. It sounded wonderful."

  "It sucked," Fulton said. He was wearing jeans and a white undershirt. As before, he hadn't shaved. Hill supposed he could see why women found Fulton sexy. There was a curious mixture of vulnerability and arrogance in his features that they must have found irresistible. Women did not find Lawrence Hill irresistible, but that was certainly beside the point.

  Hill followed Fulton inside. He was still surprised at how modest Fulton's house was. It was in a posh neighborhood, to be sure, the kind that was filled with high-priced executives who wanted to be a comfortable train ride away from Manhattan. But he had expected something more palatial as the residence of someone as famous as Daniel Fulton. It occurred to him, looking once again at the squalor of the room with the piano in it, that Fulton wasn't especially interested in his surroundings. The room was large, but it was so filled with books and music that it felt cramped, womblike. Maybe Fulton just wanted to be left alone in this womb. Unfortunately, that was no longer going to happen.

  "Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hill?" Fulton asked with a smile when they were seated.

  "I just wanted to remind you that you shouldn't speak of your upcoming adventure in Moscow with anyone."

  "Of course. I haven't."

  "Well, that's not exactly true," Hill responded mildly.

  Fulton shrugged and kept smiling. "I had to tell Hershohn something," he said. "Otherwise, he wasn't going to let me accept the offer."

  Hill nodded his understanding. "If you have that kind of problem again, let us know, and we'll help you come up with a suitable story. As we said before, we can't stop you from telling people the truth, but of course we wish you'd keep it a secret. It puts a very important operation at risk—not to mention the people who will be involved in the operation."

  Fulton kicked at an empty orange-juice carton. Was it the same one that had been there the other day? "Sorry," he said. He looked up at Hill. "You're one of the people, right? Is it going to be dangerous for you?"

  Hill smiled reassuringly. "It shouldn't be dangerous for anyone, if we're all reasonably careful."

  "I understand."

  Fulton's house wasn't the only thing that surprised Hill. Fulton himself was far different from what he had expected.

  Hill had told Fulton he had been certain he'd agree to their plan, but that wasn't exactly true. In fact, Hill, along with everyone else, had been sure that Fulton would not go for it without a good deal of persuasion of one sort or another. Too eccentric, too arrogant, too suspicious of the CIA. Some people had been against the operation, afraid that Fulton would blow the whistle on it as soon as the approach was made. But they had finally decided to give it a try, and they had found someone who was perfectly reasonable and cooperative—almost as if he had been hoping they would ask. It had certainly been a pleasant surprise, and it was going to make life a lot easier. "That's really all, Mr. Fulton," Hill said. "Except to add that we appreciate what you're doing for us."

  Fulton shrugged. "Call me Daniel," he said. And he smiled a charming smile.

  * * *

  James Houghton smiled his usual professional smile as Sullivan entered his office. "Well hello, Bill, what have you got for me today?" he said. They were exactly the same words as before—his unchanging greeting. But was it Sullivan's imagination, or was the tone frostier this time. Your welcome is wearing thin, Sullivan, he imagined his boss thinking. Don't push your luck.

  "This is a transcript of a phone call one of our public-affairs reps received."

  Sullivan handed it to Houghton, who glanced at it and set it aside. "Yes?"

  "This is an op proposal I submitted last year. You may recall it." Sullivan set the document in front of Houghton, who thumbed through it without much show of interest. "In it I note Valentina Borisova's obsession with the pianist Daniel Fulton, which we learned of from Doctor Chukova, and I suggest using him as bait to get Borisova to defect. This appears to be the plan that Operations is now putting into effect."

  Houghton said nothing. It was up to Sullivan to spell it all out, then.

  "At the time I submitted this proposal," he said, "you may recall that I asked to be placed in charge of its execution if it was accepted. Apparently the operation is on, and my request was not honored."

  Houghton said nothing.

  "I would therefore like some, uh, clarification of my status, and also the status of the reports I've been producing." Sullivan struggled to recall the speech he had rehearsed. "Does this mean I'm not going to be let back into Operations? Does it also mean people actually do believe Borisova represents a threat to us? If so, why have I been led to believe you think otherwise?"

  Houghton pressed his hands together in front of his face and stared at him. He has to say something now, Sullivan thought. "Bill," he responded finally, "you've been around long enough to know that you shouldn't be asking most of these questions. Frankly, it's none of your business what people do or do not believe about Borisova, and whether operations are or are not taking place. Your job is just to get the information and analyze it for us. Just because you've been on the other side of the fence, so to speak, doesn't mean you have any special privileges in this regard."

  "But it would help my analysis if I had some idea what people thought was important."

  "How do you know that? Maybe you'd slant your opinions to reflect mine, or Roderick Williams's, or George Loud's. Just do your job, Bill."

  But Sullivan hated his job—hated it even more if people were playing their damn spook games with him. And most of all he hated the idea that he wasn't part of it anymore, and they weren't going to let him be part of it, ever again. "Is it worth my while talking to Culpepper about going back to Operations?" he asked.

  Houghton shrugged. "Culpepper has a long memory," he said. "Why don't you just let it lie?"

  Because it's killing me, that's why. But he couldn't say that to Houghton, or anyone. Damn them all. He stood up and retrieved the transcript and his proposal from Houghton's desk. "Should I talk to this manager of Fulton's?" he asked. "The guy looks like he could be a real stumbling block."

  Houghton smiled that infuriating smile of his. "Don't worry about him, Bill. He's somebody else's problem."

  Houghton turned away then, and there didn't seem to be anything for Sullivan to do but go back to work.

  * * *

  The CIA didn't call back; Hershohn hadn't really expected they would. But that left his decision still dangling, undecided. At home, his wife asked him what was wrong. He said, "Fulton," and that was enough; she understood. He could've asked her advice, he supposed, but unlike Marcia she adored Fulton, and would not have entertained the idea that he was crazy. Was he the only one who was actually confused by the man?

  The next morning, as usual, he took the train to Grand Central and walked up Madison Avenue toward his office, Fulton still rattling around in his mind like a bad melody.

  It was as he passed the Union Carbide building that he realized he was being followed. He had noticed the two men at the station, strangers among the familiar faces. They had got on his train and sat somewhere behind him. Now here they were, stopping when he stopped to buy a pack of gum, speeding up to cross the street just behind him. He tried jaywalking across Madison; they stayed with him. Then he stopped dead and stared at them. They loitered in a storefront and paid no attention.

  Hershohn felt terrified, then outraged, and then, finally, relieved. These guys were being much too obvious. If the CIA really wanted to follow him, he was certain he would never realize it. He was being sent a message. Yes, this is for real. And you'd better watch out.

  He didn't need to be told twice. He hurried to his office and got Fulton's folder. "Marcia," he said. "Get hold of Goskoncert. We're putting Fulton back to work."

  Marcia looked as if she would've put Fulton somewhere else, but she di
d as she was told. Hershohn still wasn't entirely sure he disagreed with her, but it was too late to worry about that. Besides, he could already feel the excitement start to build.

  Daniel Fulton was going to play the piano again.

  Chapter 10

  The Politburo of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union met every Thursday morning in an ornate room in an ancient Kremlin building. Its dozen or so members discussed an agenda carefully prepared for them by powerful secretaries of the Party's Central Committee. Theoretically, there was supposed to be discussion of the items on this agenda, but little disagreement. Internal disagreement made people nervous. A divided Politburo meant a divided nation, and a divided nation lay exposed and helpless before its enemies. If the Politburo members could not reach a consensus on an issue, it was better that the issue be ignored.

  Unfortunately, issues that are ignored do not disappear; they fester. And if they fester long enough, they become as much a threat to the state as disagreement.

  Pavel Fyodorovich Grigoriev, General Secretary of the Communist Party and head of the Soviet state, understood this problem completely. But understanding it did not mean that he was capable of solving it. To solve it required more power than he possessed—the power to eliminate opposition, to purge the Party of obstructionists and adventurists, to decree the path to be taken instead of negotiating over it. No one—least of all Grigoriev—wanted a return to the Cult of Personality, but that didn't mean Grigoriev couldn't dream about a more accommodating world.

  That was precisely what he was dreaming about as he sat at the long table with his fellow members and listened to Igor Volnikov. Volnikov was head of the Committee on State Security—the KGB—and the bane of Grigoriev's existence. "Endorphins...," Volnikov was saying, "natural opiates... a drug that permanently alters behavior without altering intelligence..."