The reception line was thinning. She forced herself to walk through the crowd and join the end of the line. She stared down at the single long-stem rose she clutched in her hands. She would do it. She would.
* * *
A flash of red to the left of him, in the line. She was coming. Fulton forced himself to say something to an important person whose name he had forgotten. Another handshake. How he hated handshakes!
And then she was standing in front of him. Eyes wide and afraid. Too much makeup. She held out a rose to him. He took it, then took her hand. "Mr. Fulton," she began with an abrupt attempt at a sexy smile.
"Eleven tomorrow morning," he murmured, interrupting. "You know where."
He stared into her wide eyes for a moment and felt the pressure of her hand. Her hand was cold. She looked as if she might faint. That would not be good, but there was nothing he could do about it. He disengaged his hand and turned to the next person in line, heard once again what a genius he was, how much he was doing for the cause of world peace....
When there were no more hands to shake, he turned to Hershohn. "Let's get out of here," he said.
"Fine with me," Hershohn replied. They quickly made their farewells to their hosts, and headed for the waiting limousine.
Fulton was still holding Valentina's rose. He did not look to see if she was still in the hall.
* * *
Secretary Grigoriev leaned his head back against the seat. "What is your opinion of Daniel Fulton, Tanya?" he asked his wife as the Zil sped them to their apartment on Kutuzov Prospekt.
"A charming, talented man. And so handsome."
"Do you really think so?"
Tanya smiled. "Are you jealous, Pavel?"
"Not at all. I'm just trying to understand his attraction."
She patted his hand. "If you have to ask, you can't understand. Forget about Daniel Fulton. He has served his purpose, hasn't he?"
"Yes, indeed," Grigoriev said. He closed his eyes and tried to forget about everything.
* * *
Valentina sat alone in her apartment, still wearing her red dress, still trying to understand. But she couldn't understand, she could only remember....
Stepping out of the darkness, holding the rose in front of her... "I was at your recital. I—I have never heard anything so beautiful in my life."...Endless tears in gray dawnlight...
But maybe someday.
No, it made no sense. Perhaps tomorrow she would understand.
And she was grateful that at least there would be a tomorrow.
Chapter 20
Colonel Thomas Poole was well aware of how the rest of the National Security Council staffers thought of him. He was the president's fair-haired boy: Mr. Clean, Captain Marvel. In a world where people regularly worked twelve hours a day, Poole worked sixteen. Everyone else counted on drugs and booze to keep them going, to keep the pressure at bay; Poole went jogging through the streets of Washington after work. Everyone else dreamed of getting the president to read their memos, to spend a moment of his precious time considering their ideas; lately Winn had taken to inviting Poole to the Oval Office for chats.
This pervading jealousy was nothing new to Poole; he had lived with it all through his career. It didn't bother him as long as no one tried to stab him in the back. And people weren't likely to do that because he made sure he was such an awfully nice fellow. People might grumble that it was all an act when he greeted them in the hall and asked after their wives and kids and dogs by name; but if it was an act, it was such a good act that they were impressed even if they weren't convinced, and it just didn't seem right to undercut someone who tried so hard.
At least, that's what Poole hoped they thought. Ultimately, he just wanted to be able to do his job, a job that required every ounce of strength and intelligence and cunning he possessed—a job, he knew, that would probably kill him, but a job that only he could do, and a job that had to be done.
He spent most of the day at Langley. There was no progress on coming up with an antidote for the endorphin drug, and Doctor Coyne's condition remained unchanged. In the other major project Poole was keeping track of, Operation Cadenza was proceeding as planned, and Fulton was now in Moscow. He knew he was annoying Roderick Williams by keeping such a close watch on him, but that was all right; he had a direct order from the president. Williams, of course, was being secretive and obstructionist, but that was to be expected. Poole put on as much pressure as he thought prudent, and made sure Director Loud was informed when there were difficulties. He didn't want to push too hard—in particular because President Winn seemed to have lost interest in the issue, now that Doctor Coyne's wife had been mollified and there was no scandal in the offing. But he did push; he had been given an assignment, and he was going to carry it out to the best of his ability.
And in the early evening, as he worked in his cramped cubicle in the old Executive Office Building, he got what he coveted most: a summons next door to the White House. The president had finished dinner and wanted someone to talk to. Poole was happy to oblige.
As usual, Winn sat in a recliner in the Oval Office, smoking his favorite pipe. He was wearing a cardigan over a white dress shirt. The sound system played chamber music. As usual, he offered Poole a brandy, which Poole as usual declined.
"We've got to get you a vice, Colonel," Winn said.
"I neglect my family," Poole pointed out. He sat in a wing chair opposite the president and tried to look as if he were having an everyday conversation with a friend.
"Yes, the curse of public service," Winn said, without suggesting that Poole give up the vice. He puffed on his pipe. "Have you been following the Peace Festival?"
"Yes, sir. Of course."
"The bastard Grigoriev agreed to our demand for a reduction in Warsaw Pact forces."
"So I noticed."
"The Times and the Post both ran editorials today saying that the last remaining obstacle to an arms-reduction treaty had been removed."
"Not quite true, sir. The major obstacle still remains—the fact that we can't trust the Soviets. And no amount of speeches and concessions by Grigoriev is going to change that fact."
Winn stared at him in that appraising way of his, judging the merits of Poole's argument and, more important, of Poole himself. The president liked to think he was a good judge of character, Poole knew. If you were sure of a man's character, it was easier to judge his arguments. "Do you really think Grigoriev is lying?" Winn asked.
"I don't know. But if Grigoriev thinks the treaty is to his advantage, we better look damned hard at it to make sure it's to our advantage. I think the areas of mutual benefit are narrower than the editorial writers like to believe." Poole was continually surprised at how shallow Winn's convictions were. It seemed at times as if Winn believed mostly in competence—which was admirable, but only if the competence was in pursuit of an admirable goal. So the task of an adviser was to help Winn correctly define his goals.
"But if we don't agree to a treaty," Winn remarked, "the editorial writers—and Congress—will have our scalps. Expectations are getting pretty high for this summit."
"That's because we're losing the PR war. Grigoriev has all the media over in Moscow covering his festival, while we just sit back and do nothing but look like imperialist warmongers."
"It's difficult to come out against peace."
"But it's not difficult to come out against Soviet aggression and lies, sir."
Winn smiled. "You're a tough guy, Colonel."
"I'm just being realistic, sir. It's a tough world."
The music had stopped, and Winn's pipe had gone out. He tapped the ashes into the ashtray next to his recliner. "It certainly is," Winn said. "Go home to your family, Colonel, and relax a little."
"Yes, sir." Poole stood up. "By the way, Mr. President, I should keep you up-to-date about an operation that the CIA has started in relation to the Peace Festival."
Winn waved him silent. "Go home, Tom. I'll catch up on that stuff so
me other time."
"Yes, sir."
Poole's moments at the center of power were over for the day. He left the Oval Office and, disobeying his commander in chief, went back to work at the Executive Office Building. There was simply too much to be done. After a couple of hours of poring over the CIA material, he changed into his jogging clothes, put his digital pulse-taking watch on his left wrist, and headed out to run the worries of the day into oblivion.
Jogging through the nighttime capital was not perhaps the safest form of exercise Poole could have chosen, but he didn't worry; he was completely capable of taking care of any muggers. It was only as he raced through the dark streets that he allowed himself to think about himself, about his past and his future and the choices he had made for himself. This seemed like a weakness, because the choices, having been made, were irrevocable, and therefore the thinking was wasted. But somehow he knew that he needed to do this, or else there might be consequences that he refused to think about at all.
And when his thinking was done, he ended up in Lafayette Square, where he stopped his running and did his stretches while he stared at the floodlit White House across Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a short walk from there to his car, and then a short ride to his suburban home; he didn't bother to change.
His home, as always, was quiet and safe. His family, as usual, was asleep. The twins were both scrunched up in strange positions, caught in the furious dreams of childhood. He kissed them each on the forehead. In the next room, his wife lay on her side, breathing softly. He kissed her too, and she responded, mumbling something unintelligible and reaching out to him. He pulled himself gently away and went into the bathroom, where he took his sweaty clothes off, stepped into the shower, and washed away all his thoughts.
Chapter 21
Fulton slept fitfully and dreamed of music, surrounding him, drowning him. He was bathed in Beethoven, showered with Chopin. And through it all he saw Valentina Borisova coming toward him out of the darkness, a single rose in her hands, her gray eyes wide with hope. But she couldn't get past the music. "Come to America with me!" he shouted, but the music was too loud. He saw her hope turn to despair, and when she started to disappear, they both screamed.
And he awoke to Russian sunshine.
* * *
Irina was waiting for him in the lobby.
"I won't need you today," he said.
"Oh, but Mr. Fulton, we have a full schedule planned, and you will need an interpreter."
"I'm not doing what you've scheduled, and I don't need an interpreter. Even Grigoriev said it was okay to skip your events. Sorry."
Irina looked worried. She blinked several times behind her thick glasses, then glanced quickly around the small lobby, as if to check if anyone was there grading her performance. "But these are very wonderful events, Mr. Fulton. Meeting our young pianists at the conservatory, visiting Tchaikovsky's house in Klin—"
Fulton shook his head. "Please tell your bosses I'm exhausted and can't go. Now if you'll—"
"But Mr. Fulton, I must insist on accompanying you in any case."
She was desperate now. Fulton was unmoved. "Try it, and I'll tell the KGB you were pestering me to help you defect." Her despair turned to horror. Fulton didn't care. He glanced at his watch; it was a few minutes after eleven. He walked out of the hotel into a gaggle of waiting fans, who cheered when they saw him. He stopped to sign a few autographs, then looked past the fans to the entrance of the Marx Prospekt metro station.
Valentina was standing there, alone. He made his way through the crowd to her. She was wearing faded Calvin Klein jeans and a powder blue jersey. Her arms were folded tight on her chest. No rose this time. She looked smaller and more real than she had the night before. "Thank you for coming," he said.
"I wasn't sure you had said it, afterward," she replied. "I thought perhaps, perhaps—"
"Perhaps you had dreamed it?"
She nodded.
"It was real," he said. "This is real." He noticed a couple of fans approaching. "Let's get away from here."
"I have a car parked over on Gorky Street. I thought we might—we might go to my dacha. Unless, that is..." She closed her eyes. "I don't know what you want," she said finally.
"I want to go to your dacha, Valentina." He took her by the arm and led her away from the hotel. They walked in silence for a couple of minutes until she stopped by a little red car and unlocked it. "You've come up in the world," he remarked as they got in. "How did you manage to afford an automobile and a dacha?"
"I have a position. With the government."
"Congratulations. How far away is your dacha?"
"About an hour's drive."
"Then you're planning to take the day off. You must have an understanding boss."
Valentina started the car and pulled out into traffic. "Very understanding," she murmured.
"Ah." He wondered if they would be followed. It seemed likely, but he supposed there was nothing they could do about it. He wondered why he was acting this way toward her. Because he was nervous, he supposed—as nervous as she certainly appeared to be. He was nervous not only, and not even mostly, because of his secret mission.
He and Valentina had met before. He was certain that no one knew this. He had been worried in that meeting at CIA headquarters that somehow they had found out, that they knew everything; but they had given no hint of it, and he convinced himself later that they couldn't know. He hadn't told anyone, and he was sure that Valentina would have kept it a secret too. And back then, no one was likely to have been following either of them. The CIA simply knew about Valentina's attraction to him; they didn't have any idea about his feelings toward her.
It had been a strange meeting—as strange, in its own way, as this one. Strange enough to stay in his memory for three long years. Powerful enough to draw him back to Moscow, for a chance to finish what had been begun.
He gazed at her. Wisps of blond hair on her neck waved in the breeze as she made her way through the city streets. Her arms were tanned, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. She was an impatient, quick-tempered driver, and that only added to his nervousness. "Why do you drive so fast?" he asked.
She shrugged. "We all drive too last here. It's one way of being lawless in the midst of all the laws."
"You have never fit in well with all the laws, have you?"
Valentina shook her head. "Never," she whispered.
He continued to gaze at her. "But music has no laws, right?"
She looked over at him, and smiled.
* * *
Three long years. It had been the greatest triumph in a triumphant career. The greatest, because he had felt it as well as the audience. Unlike the performance last night, everything had flowed perfectly from the moment he had stepped onto the stage of the Great Hall. He was at one with the audience, with the music, with the universe. The audience had been a little reserved at the beginning, withholding judgment on the flashy American pianist. But the Mozart sonata removed all doubts about his musicianship, and the Appassionata swept away all doubts about his soul. And by the end of the recital they were in a frenzy that might have been frightening if he hadn't been in a frenzy himself. Where had this power come from? Why didn't playing the piano always feel this good? He wanted to play all night, but he knew enough to end it after four encores, before the power disappeared.
Afterward, he threw up as usual in the dressing room, then ate his salad and drank his milk. Then he made his way through the fans to the limousine for the short ride back to the National Hotel. The ruby stars on the Kremlin towers seemed almost magically beautiful in the clear night air. Life could not have been any better.
But life goes on. There were more fans outside the hotel. He signed a few autographs, and then went inside. The lobby was deserted; no one stayed out this late. He took the elevator upstairs, got his key from the floor-lady, and went to his empty, silent room. It didn't take him long to realize that he wasn't going to sleep that night. Other nights
there were parties and women to make the excitement last; tonight there were only his memories. He paced for an hour or so, then gave it up and left the room.
The floor-lady was not happy that he was going out. She scolded him in Russian until he finally just walked away from her. The sleepy doorman was also unwilling to let him leave, but a few rubles changed his attitude. Fulton stepped out into the Moscow night.
It was absurdly quiet—the huge square outside the hotel was almost deserted, the traffic sounds were at most a distant hiss. He thought about what it would be like in New York at the same hour; this was a different world.
And then someone stepped toward him out of the darkness, out of this different world. She had been standing by the metro entrance, so motionless that he hadn't noticed her in the darkness. She was wearing a cloth coat and a kerchief. Her features were thinner and more delicate than the average Russian he had seen; her eyes were wide and gray. Her face was pretty, but she was wearing too much makeup. His first thought was that she was a prostitute, but he had a vague idea that there was no prostitution in Russia—or at least, that's what the Soviets claimed. More important, she didn't look like a prostitute. She looked—well, lost.
And she was holding a rose.
But then almost instantaneously the lost expression disappeared, replaced by a knowing smile that seemed out of place on her face. "Mr. Fulton," she said in English. "I was hoping you might come out of your hotel."
She offered him the rose. He took it silently.
Her accent was good; the line sounded rehearsed. Was she a spy? But he was just a piano player; why spy on him? In the light he noticed that the hair peeking out from beneath the kerchief was blond.
"I was at your recital," she said when he didn't reply. "I—I have never heard anything so beautiful in my life."
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