Summit

by Richard Bowker

  Mrs. Sullivan put the medal away and told everyone she didn't want to talk about any of it. Life goes on. God's will be done. Sister Theresa decided God was dead, along with her father and brother, and shacked up with a Pakistani. Young Billy decided to major in Russian instead of Business, with the idea that maybe he could defend his country better than either his father or brother had managed to do.

  He hadn't been particularly successful so far. But all he asked for now was what his brother and his father had been denied: another chance. He was beginning to doubt that he would get it. "Seen enough?"

  "I guess so," Danny said. He looked a little puzzled. Perhaps the awe had worn off, and he was trying to reconcile the everydayness of the place with the mental image he had created of it. Glory waits for you in the most unlikely places.

  Sullivan tried to think of some lesson to teach his son from all this, but he couldn't come up with one.

  "Don't tell Nana we came here, okay?"

  "Okay."

  They walked slowly back to the car.

  * * *

  Mrs. Sullivan wasn't a crier. Maybe it was her Irish genes; after centuries of oppression, you take what life gives you. But her eyes were wet when her only son and only grandson prepared to leave.

  "We'll be back," Sullivan said.

  "You never know," she replied.

  He couldn't disagree.

  "You don't look good," she said while Danny waited in the car. "You should take better care of yourself. Maybe if you and Maureen—"

  "Please, Ma."

  "Well, maybe you should get out of the government," she suggested. "There's no law says you have to spend your life working for those people."

  "I'll think about it," he said. She had never known what he did in the government—had only the vaguest idea who "those people" were; he doubted that she would have approved. "You take care of yourself too."

  "It doesn't matter about me," she said. "I'm just an old lady. But you've got your life to live and your son to take care of. Remember that."

  He sighed and kissed her on the cheek. He looked around one last time, then went out to the car and headed for the airport.

  His eyes were wet too when he said good-bye to Danny. It seemed wrong that they should be taking different flights; he felt as if they were violating some law of nature. But there was nothing he could do about it. They were both going home, and they had different homes.

  He couldn't remember afterward what they had said to each other in the waiting area before Danny boarded his flight. The usual things, he supposed. All he remembered was the warm reality of his son's flesh as they hugged and, as Danny disappeared into the walkway leading to the plane, the terrifying thought that he might never see his son again.

  It was not a new thought. Sullivan stayed in the waiting area until the plane taxied out of sight, then wandered away. He had nothing to do for a while but remember. There was one last ghost to bring back from his past. It was not hard to bring it back; it was never very far away.

  Anatoly Gurenko was the GRU rezident in the Soviet embassy in Washington, a stout, hard-drinking man who developed an unaccountable lust for freedom after serving his government well for twenty years. So one day he emptied the contents of his safe into a briefcase and drove out to Langley, where he said a cheery zdrastvytye to the guard and asked to see someone in charge. Needless to say, he caused a sensation. Assuming he was on the level, his defection provided a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to obtain information about Soviet military intelligence. So to interrogate him they brought in two of the best: Lawrence Hill and Bill Sullivan.

  No one wanted Gurenko hanging around Langley in case he wasn't legitimate, so they decided to send him and his interrogators to a safe house in Pennsylvania to do their work. Sullivan was excited at the opportunity. He only wished it had come at a better time of year. Gurenko had chosen to defect on December 22—a wonderful Christmas present for his new country, but not for the people who had to be with him night and day until the interrogation was completed. Sullivan had been on leave—at home with Maureen and Danny, buying toys and putting up the tree, having the kind of holidays that people with normal jobs have. It was too good to last, and it didn't.

  Maureen tried halfheartedly to start an argument when the call came, but what was the use? Sullivan had to go, and she had to accept it. Danny cried. Sullivan felt like crying himself.

  Gurenko, on the other hand, was in a wonderful mood. His wife back in Moscow was a nag, his son was gay, all of a sudden a new life was opening in front of him, and he felt reborn. The only cloud on his horizon was the spetsnaz—the elite group of GRU officers who would be sent anywhere in the world to eliminate a traitor like him. "You must protect me at all times," he kept warning Hill and Sullivan. "I am very important. They will go to any lengths to kill me."

  Hill and Sullivan did not need to be told that. Culpepper had been clear enough back at Langley: "Protect Gurenko with your lives, boys. Fish like him don't come swimming around every day."

  Sullivan had a feeling that everyone was being rather melodramatic. The Soviets always warned their people of the dire consequences if they were to defect, but in practice little ever happened, even to defectors who weren't hidden away and protected by the CIA. Still, you do your job, and he tried to make sure the safe house remained safe.

  Everything went well until Christmas Eve. Gurenko was even more informative than anyone dared hope, and there was no evidence that he was the kind of double-agent defector the CIA dreaded, sprinkling disinformation in with a few useless facts to totally confuse the enemy. Hill in particular was suspicious at first—Gurenko seemed too happy, too free of doubts. But even Hill started to come around as the names and dates kept pouring out.

  Sullivan felt good about working with Hill again. They had trained together at The Farm—new recruits eager to learn, eager to serve; and later they were both at the Moscow embassy, running agents and filing top-secret reports, scarcely believing it was all for real now—they were spies, risking their lives for their country. Sullivan had always envied Hill; Hill had been a little faster, a little smarter, his agents produced a little more. But Hill had always been quietly friendly to him, and there was never any hint of competition. And here they both were, well along into their careers, sitting together in a nondescript house in rural Pennsylvania, interrogating the most important defector in a decade. Sullivan figured he hadn't done so badly.

  Christmas Eve was hard, as Sullivan thought about Maureen and Danny. Hill was already divorced; this kind of career took its toll. So he actually enjoyed working through the holidays—it helped him forget. But Sullivan had someplace better to be than Pennsylvania, and he was homesick.

  Gurenko was bored and restless by the end of the day—restless enough to forget about his fear. "Let's go get drunk," he urged them. "I'm tired of reciting facts and figures. I'll help you celebrate your bourgeois religious festival."

  Hill was against it. "There's plenty of vodka for you here," he pointed out.

  "Not the same! Not the same!" Gurenko grinned suddenly. "Hey, this is democracy, isn't it? Let's take a vote!"

  Hill looked at Sullivan. Sullivan shrugged. "Maybe just for dinner. Keep him in a good mood."

  Hill wasn't happy, but he let the majority rule.

  They went to a nondescript steak house just down the two-lane state highway. The night was clear and cold; it had snowed recently, and the parking lot was icy. Strings of Christmas lights blinked on and off around the restaurant's pseudo-log-cabin exterior. This is not where I want to be, Sullivan thought.

  No one else wanted to be there either; the place was almost deserted. It was closing early, and the staff rushed them through their dinner, eager to get rid of the last customers and go home. Gurenko was oblivious to the staff's wishes. He ordered a second bottle of wine and regaled Hill and Sullivan with stories of Soviet incompetence. Sullivan had a couple of glasses, although he wasn't supposed to. Hill had nothing to drink, braving Guren
ko's scorn. Finally he called for the check.

  "But we have just started the party, Lawrence! Surely you will let me drink to freedom?"

  "You can drink back at the house, Anatoly. Everybody wants to go home now."

  Gurenko sighed. "I have no home," he mourned, and he finished his glass of wine. But he let himself be led away from the table then, and the relieved busboys and waiters rushed to clean up.

  Sullivan was on Gurenko's right as they walked out into the parking lot. The Christmas lights blinked on and off. He hummed "Silent Night" as he searched for the car keys. He thought of Danny opening his presents in the morning; he hoped Maureen would remember to take pictures. It wouldn't be the same, of course. He wondered how Gurenko would feel in a year, alone and useless in an alien land.

  He saw a man move in a car twenty feet ahead of them; there was a glint of metal. He reached inside his overcoat for his gun; the metal moved.

  And that was the moment when his life changed. All his training had prepared him to respond properly in a situation like this. Protect Gurenko with your life, boys. My only regret is that I have but one life... The proper response was, first and foremost, to get in front of the Russian and keep the bullets from reaching him. America wanted Gurenko; America had plenty of Bill Sullivans, just as it had plenty of Officer Daniel Sullivans, and PFC Daniel Sullivan, Jrs. America could survive only by demanding this kind of sacrifice from nobodies like them.

  But when the sacrifice was finally demanded, with no time for reflection or preparation, Sullivan dived onto the ice of the parking lot, leaving the Russian—and America—to fend for themselves.

  Not entirely. Lawrence Hill was still there, silent and sober, ready to do his job. Gunfire exploded in the cold night air, and bodies fell on top of Sullivan—one, two, knocking the wind out of him, pressing his face into the ice. And Sullivan knew he should do something to help, but all he could think about was the Beanpot, his moment of glory, being crushed to the ice by his delirious teammates while the crowd roared. That seemed a lifetime away now; now there were fewer bodies, but they seemed far heavier, and the ice tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  Hill had saved the day. He had pushed Gurenko down onto Sullivan, drawn his gun, and killed the two Russians in the car. Not before some damage was done, however. Gurenko was shot in the leg, Hill in the arm. And Sullivan had sprained his back. He was in the hospital longer than anyone.

  Culpepper learned everything, of course. Gurenko was incensed at Sullivan and insisted that he be shot. But this was America, and instead he was quietly transferred to the Directorate of Intelligence, where his cowardice would do no damage. Hill got a medal and a promotion.

  The Sullivans had what they wanted, then—a quiet job, Daddy home for the holidays—and inside a year Maureen and Danny were gone, unable to live with a man who was unable to live with himself. Things hadn't gotten any better since.

  Glory. Sullivan wandered through the airport, waiting for his plane. If his father had been given a chance, would he have chosen the glory? It's easy enough to be a hero when you have no choice. Dying is easy; choosing to die—that is the stuff of heroism.

  And Sullivan was no hero. He went into the lounge and had a beer. He thought about Danny flying all by himself to Florida, and he prayed that his son would arrive safely.

  Chapter 14

  After his meeting with Khorashev, Fulton spent a week deciding on his program. Then he began to get ready. He had prepared for so many recitals in his life that the procedure had become almost a ritual; and for this recital the ritual became all-important, a way of avoiding thoughts of sitting down in front of an audience once again, terror tearing at him as he prepared to bare his soul.

  He arose at six every morning and ran three miles; a recital requires endurance as well as inspiration. Then he showered, dressed, and ate a breakfast of boiled eggs, toast, and orange juice. After breakfast he did technical exercises at the piano for a couple of hours. Hanon, Czerny, Clementi—it didn't really matter what he played; he just liked the mindless feel of fingers against keyboard, just wanted to reassure himself that all his skills were still in place.

  When he wearied of that, he went over to his sofa, closed his eyes, and thought about the music. His thoughts weren't profound. At least, he didn't think they were; he didn't consider himself a brilliant analyst, or a particularly sympathetic prober of the composer's psyche. Like the technical exercises, he simply enjoyed this, enjoyed letting his mind wander through a piece—stopping to consider a measure that caught his fancy, rushing through a passage that bored him, without the effort of actually playing the notes.

  Only after lunch did he do that. He didn't have to learn the pieces he was going to play, and he had long since solved the technical issues in all of them. Now he just wanted to see how they felt. Were they any different now that he was older, now that he had stopped playing for three years? Should Les Adieux's good-bye be slower and sadder now, the return faster and more joyous? Or the reverse? He would linger for an hour over a few measures, trying them this way and that—not exactly looking for the one right interpretation, just trying to find the limits within which the right interpretation probably existed.

  It was all a waste of time, he suspected. Often when he walked on stage he ended up playing a piece in a way he had never dreamed he would play it, because this hall and this audience and this moment seemed to demand a new interpretation, for some reason that he was afraid to analyze too closely. The problem was, he couldn't be sure if this new interpretation would work if he hadn't put in all the days and weeks of labor ahead of time. Maybe the labor was wasted, but maybe it was necessary to get his psyche ready for that moment when the audience quieted and his hands descended, and inspiration had to strike.

  And anyway, he enjoyed it. Or thought he did. Or, at least, had been unable to figure out a life he would enjoy more.

  Perhaps he enjoyed it because it kept him from thinking about himself.

  He stopped punctually at five-thirty. The evenings were for anything but his recital program. In the old days, he would perhaps have gone out with any of the numberless willing women who came his way. He would smile shyly and put on his air of mystery and inaccessibility, and they would fall all over him trying to discover the "real" Daniel Fulton, whoever that was. It was fun, and it was trivial, and he wasn't interested anymore. But he did feel the need for some companionship at the end of the long day. And so he began to look forward to Lawrence Hill's occasional visits.

  The two of them had nothing in common, but that was part of what made the visits pleasant. Hill was apparently neither intimidated nor intrigued by him. Hill was the professional in this situation, and Fulton just a frightened amateur, to be stroked and coddled and kept from changing his mind. Fulton liked talking to a spy.

  "Our information is that Valentina has a ticket to the reception," Hill told him one evening as they sat out by the bird feeder, swatting mosquitoes. "You should be able to talk to her for a couple of minutes there."

  "That's not much time to convince a person to defect."

  "No, but it may be enough time to make a date."

  "Will they let us go on a date?"

  "We hope so. We think so. They have to humor her, and they have no reason to be suspicious of you. They like you."

  "So I do the talking about defection on the date?"

  "If possible. One or both of you may be bugged, so you'll have to be careful. Try not to be too explicit. If you think there's a chance she'll come, let us know, and we'll take it from there."

  "How do I let you know?"

  "I'll be at the embassy. I'll arrange for a chat before you return to the States."

  Fulton thought about it. "This all sounds rather nebulous," he observed. "I mean, there's nothing very specific for me to do."

  "We'd give you a script if we could, but unfortunately life isn't that straightforward. This could be the easiest thing you've ever done, or it could all be a waste of time. We just don't kno
w until we try it."

  "Could it be dangerous?"

  Hill shrugged. "Anytime you play for high stakes, it can be dangerous. And if we're right, these could be high stakes indeed. But I doubt that there's any danger in talking to her."

  "How will you handle the defection, if she agrees to it?"

  Hill smiled. "We'll think of something."

  Fulton looked at him. He had a feeling that the man was enormously competent at what he did, even though he looked like he was about to fall asleep half the time. He bet Hill had won more than one battle because his enemy underestimated him. "What's it like being a spy?" Fulton asked.

  Hill's smile widened. He considered, rubbing his index finger along his jaw. "It's like being a pianist, I guess," he said. "I practice for a while, and then I perform. The difference is, if I perform badly, the critics will kill me. Literally."

  "Are you performing now?" Fulton asked.

  "Spies are always performing," Hill said with a laugh. "Can't you tell?"

  "Not really."

  "Then I must be doing a good job."

  "I'm sure you are. But I wouldn't have killed you, in any case."

  "Then you're not one of my critics." Hill swatted a mosquito and laughed some more.

  * * *

  And then one day Fulton called Dmitri Khorashev.

  "It must be big crisis if my friend actually uses the telephone," the Russian said.

  "You got a couple of hours to spare sometime?" Fulton asked.

  "Come right away. I can't wait. My breath is bated."

  Fulton took the train into the city. He wore only the most minimal of disguises—the standard false mustache and dark glasses—and he gave his real name to the doorman of Khorashev's building. It wasn't exactly a big crisis, but he didn't have the time or the energy to play games today.

  "This will sound nothing like real thing, I suppose," Khorashev remarked when Fulton arrived at his apartment.

  "I doubt it."

  "Then all my criticisms will be pointless."