Summit

by Richard Bowker

  Eventually he put the report down and gazed at the picture of his son. He was an outsider looking in—at his job, at his son's life. Maybe this was all he deserved, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

  He felt a pang of envy toward Daniel Fulton. The man was a genius. He was handsome, rich, world famous. And now he was a spy—a successful one too, apparently. Well, good for him.

  This was stupid, he thought abruptly. He got up from his desk, shut off his terminal and filed his papers, and headed for the elevator. He was going home. It was only two-thirty, but what did that matter? No one would miss him. All the decisions were being made somewhere else.

  * * *

  In the old days it wouldn't have been this hard, Roderick Williams thought. If you had an operation, you carried it out. Maybe one went haywire occasionally, but not often enough to warrant the endless reviews and approvals needed to get things done today. Why not just let people do their jobs?

  Still, the excitement of being summoned to the White House was almost worth the aggravation. This was important enough to merit the attention of the president, if only for a few moments.

  Williams admired President Winn, even though Winn had passed him over for director of Central Intelligence and sent that bloodhound Poole sniffing around his operations at Langley. Winn was tough and decisive in his own way, and Williams felt confident that if he made his case well enough, Winn would go along.

  He didn't like it, though, that Poole was at the meeting in the Oval Office, along with George Loud and Benjamin Follett, the national security adviser. Winn paid a bit too much attention to Poole, who after all was just an NSC staffer with some strong opinions and little experience to back them up. If Poole opposed the operation, would Winn have the guts—and the intelligence—to approve it? Williams hoped so.

  "What's it all about, George?" Winn asked Loud, beginning the meeting in his usual no-nonsense way.

  "A Soviet psychic," Loud whispered. "Rod here has an operation in place to get her to defect. We need you to sign the finding."

  Loud handed the sheet of paper to Winn, who glanced at it and looked up at Williams. "Give me a summary, please, Rod."

  Williams gritted his teeth. Now Loud had the president calling him Rod. He hated that name. "Yes, Mr. President." And he quickly went over the Borisova case, explaining why it was so important that they snatch her while she was in London.

  The president seemed impressed enough, but then he immediately turned to Poole. "How do you view the evidence on this Borisova woman, Tom? Is she as dangerous as Rod thinks?"

  "Impossible to say, sir. The evidence isn't clear."

  "All the more reason to do it," Williams pointed out. "We've got to test her and find out what's going on."

  "I think the major issue here is not this psychic," Benjamin Follett said, "but the fate of the summit. We'd be risking a major international incident by kidnapping this woman from the steps of the Soviet embassy, or wherever."

  Williams had figured someone would use the phrase "major international incident." It hadn't taken long. "But we wouldn't be kidnapping her," he replied. "She wants to defect."

  "It doesn't matter," Follett insisted. "The Soviets will obviously say she was drugged or threatened. They'll muddy the issue of the woman's intentions, and the only issue that will remain clear is whether we're serious about this summit. They'll make it look like the operation was a plot to scuttle the summit and any hope of an arms-reduction treaty. I'm not sure we can afford that kind of bad publicity, particularly when the evidence of the woman's powers is so equivocal."

  "Is it possible that the woman's a plant, Rod?" Loud asked. "What if we get her to America, and suddenly she changes her story, claims she's here against her will? Is that likely?"

  Had Loud turned against him too? He should have expected it. The perfect opportunity to make him look bad. "I can't say it's impossible," Williams replied, "but all our information suggests otherwise. She wants to get out of there. They're slowly killing her, and we're her only hope."

  Winn glanced again at the finding. He shifted in his chair. Everyone knew that he hated long meetings. Then he asked the question that Williams dreaded. "What do you think, Tom?"

  Poole paused before responding. "I think we must go ahead with Roderick's plan, sir," he said finally. "We can't take the risk that her powers are real, because then she's too dangerous to ignore. If the Soviets make a stink about the defection afterward, that's their problem. If they really want a summit, they'll still show up at the UN, no matter what we do about this woman. If they don't want a summit and they use this as an excuse to pull out, we can still show up, and we're the ones who get the good publicity. And if all of this puts an arms-reduction treaty in jeopardy—well, maybe the treaty isn't such a good idea in the first place."

  Winn considered for a brief moment, then nodded, took out his pen, and signed the piece of paper. "Here's your finding, Roderick. Let's hope this works out."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sure it will." Williams glanced over at Colonel Poole, who was already standing up, aware that the meeting was over. He could grow to like that man.

  * * *

  "Hello, Marcia, you're looking quite lovely today. Is that a new hairdo?"

  Marcia stared at him suspiciously. "Well, um, no, Mr. Fulton. Maybe a slightly different, um, shade this time."

  "Whatever it is, it's very attractive. Would Mr. Hershohn be in, by any chance?"

  "I'll let him know you're here."

  Marcia was relieved when Hershohn brought him into his office. Flattery? No disguise? What was he up to now?

  * * *

  "I think you scared Marcia," Hershohn said.

  "What do I have to do to please that woman?"

  "I don't know, but you haven't figured it out yet. Sit down, Daniel. Sit down." Fulton sat. He looked a little tense, but nowhere near as bad as he had for most of the past three years. And the lack of a disguise suggested a normality that made Hershohn want to sing the Ode to Joy. "So what brings you to town, Daniel?"

  "I was bored. Looking for something to do."

  Hershohn smiled. "Happy to oblige." He pushed a folder across his desk to Fulton. "Name the city. Name the hall. Name the orchestra, if you want to do a concerto. We should arrange a tour and announce it as soon as possible, while you're still fresh in the public's mind."

  Fulton picked up the folder and glanced through it. "I don't know," he murmured.

  Hershohn stifled an urge to scream. What was it that the damn pianist didn't know? "Didn't it work out well in Moscow?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  "Well then, why not get back in business? Look, you know and I know that your retirement was not a success. Whatever it was you were trying to accomplish, you didn't accomplish it. You were born to play the piano, Daniel. Don't deny your gift."

  Fulton squirmed a little in his chair. "I don't know," he repeated. "It's just too soon. I can't think about this now. I've got other things to think about."

  Hershohn decided that he didn't want to know what other things Fulton had to think about. This just never got any easier. "All right," he said. "I'll be patient. I'll even buy you lunch. What do you say?"

  "Sure. How about the Russian Tea Room?"

  "Okay."

  "And Charles?"

  "Yes?"

  "Let's bring Marcia."

  * * *

  Silence.

  It was autumn now, and the birds were starting to head south. It seemed appropriate. Fulton stood in front of the sliding glass doors and watched a leaf falling like a dying chord past the feeder.

  He had enjoyed lunch with Hershohn and Marcia.

  He was lonely.

  And nervous. Happiness seemed to be within reach now, but there was nothing he could do to grasp it. Instead, he had to rely on the Central Intelligence Agency. Lawrence Hill had come by once, but without any news. A plan was ready, but anything could happen.

  Hill had seemed intrigued by the depth of Fulton's interest.
"She made quite an impression on you, Daniel," he said.

  "I feel responsible for her."

  Hill smiled, as if Fulton had used some sort of code words that only he knew how to interpret. "We can be responsible for her now," he said.

  "That's not the point, Lawrence. If it weren't for me..."

  "I understand. Please try not to worry. We'll get her. And once she's here, she'll be fine."

  But she wasn't here yet. And once she was, he was still not convinced they would leave her alone.

  He turned away from the glass doors. He thought about calling his parents. Why not?

  He didn't know. Maybe later, after all this had been settled.

  Instead he sat down at the piano. He had the energy now, he had the desire; the fire burned inside him. But he couldn't concentrate on another performance until Valentina was safe. Hershohn and his tour, like his parents, would have to wait.

  But he could play for himself. And that's what he did. He played until exhaustion overcame him, and with it a troubled sleep that allowed him to survive another lonely night.

  Chapter 26

  Konstantin Konstantinovich Rylev played many roles, but in all of them he was unaware that he was acting. And that was why he was so good at them. He simply did what he thought was proper, what he thought was expected of him by the people who had a right to expect something of him. He was an affectionate and attentive husband, a stern but loving father, a patient son with his aged and willful mother. He was pleasant with his in-laws, loyal to his friends and above all to the Party, and conscientious on the job. Who could ask for more?

  It did not occur to him that someone else might find it hard to reconcile all these roles. The man who played silly bedtime games with his sons and listened equably to his father-in-law's interminable stories about the Battle of Stalingrad should not be the hard-eyed torturer of Valentina Borisova. If Rylev did sense a conflict, he perceived it only as the trivial duality of pleasure and duty: the warm bed versus the cold ride to work; kicking a football in the park with Kolya and Misha versus the long plane flight to London, the tense days to be spent in the alien city. But such a conflict was easily resolved, because Rylev understood and accepted the priorities, and the first priority in all cases was his duty to the state. That was why he joined the KGB after the university, instead of continuing with his study of psychology; that was why he spent long hours and days away from his family, doing work he could tell them nothing about; that was why he felt no sympathy for Valentina Borisova.

  Well, perhaps he did feel a little sympathy for her—the abstract kind that one feels for members of the Politburo or top military leaders, people who are so important to the state that for them all personal considerations must be secondary. But of course these people have chosen to serve, and that was cause for admiration. Borisova was anything but willing, and that produced in Rylev a contempt that bordered on hatred. But he did his best to hide these feelings, because they weren't helpful in doing his job; and he lived his role well enough that usually he didn't realize he felt them.

  Rylev had been to London before and had not been impressed. It had the typical chaotic fascination of Western cities, but the idea of actually living in such a place filled him with horror. Too many nationalities, too many cars, too much advertising, too much pornography... too many, too much. Of course, people less well traveled than he would only feel the fascination at the excess; the horror required experience. And so Trofimov and Chukova kept their noses pressed to the windows as the embassy van drove them into the city from Heathrow. Look at the billboards! Look at the fashions! Look at how they drive on the wrong side of the road! Look, for the first time, at the home of the enemy.

  Valentina Borisova didn't look at much of anything, Rylev noted. She seemed nervous; to be expected. She kept her arms tightly folded and her legs crossed, as if to protect herself, to make a smaller target. It wouldn't help.

  "Enjoy the scenery," he said to her. "You won't have much opportunity to look at it later."

  She shrugged and turned away.

  Eventually they arrived in Kensington and drove down the pleasant, tree-lined street with guards at both ends. On one side was the Soviet embassy, along with many others, protected from the occasional tourist. Across from them all was a palace, home to some branch of the boring royal family. It struck Rylev that there was some irony there, but he didn't bother to dwell on it. Beyond the palace was a huge park where he had once spent an hour watching some youths play cricket; he had tried and failed to comprehend what the sport was all about. He thought of Kolya and Misha, their chubby little legs churning as they ran after the football, and he sighed, homesick already. This wouldn't take long, he hoped.

  Once they were all safely inside the embassy, Rylev had a bath and changed, then met with the KGB rezident and gave him his final instructions. The man was puzzled and defensive and looked like he wanted to argue; this wasn't what he had expected. But what could he say? Rylev reported directly to Volnikov. If the rezident was uncooperative, he would have been on the next Aeroflot flight back to the Soviet Union. He did what he was told.

  Rylev then went to the high-ceilinged conference room that had been appropriated for the operation. Trofimov was already busily putting his machine together. Yuri was in the corner, fiddling with the communications equipment. A large portrait of Lenin stared down at them; he didn't seem surprised at the strange things that were being done to further his cause.

  "Making progress?" Rylev asked Trofimov.

  "Yes indeed," the scientist said. He was nervous whenever he talked to Rylev. Most people were. "I was quite worried there would be damage from the shipping, but everything seems to have arrived safely."

  "They take good care of the diplomatic freight."

  "Yes, well, of course we won't know for sure until we've actually used it, you understand. Many things can go wrong with a device as sensitive as this."

  "I understand perfectly."

  Trofimov looked relieved that he was being so reasonable. Rylev had less sympathy for him than he had for Borisova. Trofimov's unorthodox theories had almost gotten him sent to the gulag in the past. He was an exceedingly lucky man. Rylev nodded to Yuri, who neither needed nor expected sympathy; like Rylev, he was just doing his job. A pack of English cigarettes peeked out of his shirt pocket. How had he managed to get his hands on some so quickly? "Any problems?" Rylev asked.

  "Should be okay," Yuri said. "We'll test the transmission from the apartment tomorrow."

  "Fine."

  And then there was Doctor Chukova. He met her in the corridor as he was returning to his room, ready at last to relax. "Excuse me," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "Valentina is not feeling well. She's asked if she can take a walk in the fresh air. I think it would do her good!"

  "It's raining out," Rylev noted.

  "It would still be good for her. She feels trapped here—you're not even allowing her to see any of the embassy staff. What harm would a short walk do? It's not as if you don't have guards for her."

  "I'll think about it. Maybe tomorrow."

  "But why is tomorrow different from tonight?" Chukova persisted.

  "Because I say it's different." And Rylev strode off to his room, confident that Valentina Borisova would get the message.

  * * *

  "I tried, Valentina."

  Valentina nodded. She hadn't expected it to be easy. "I know you did, Olga. Thank you."

  "He didn't refuse completely. Perhaps tomorrow, he said."

  "Then I'll ask again tomorrow."

  Doctor Chukova looked at her with concern. "Would you like to talk for a while?"

  "No, it's all right, Olga. I think I'll just try to sleep."

  Doctor Chukova reached down and stroked her cheek. "If you need anything, let me know."

  "Of course I will." Valentina pressed the hand to her cheek for a moment, then let it go. Doctor Chukova gave her a quick smile and left her alone.

  Valentina w
as in a small room with rickety furniture and faded blue draperies. Through the barred window she could look out into a dark alleyway; a sliver of light from a streetlamp was visible to the left. A person standing under that streetlamp would be free. The person staring out at it was not.

  All she had to do was to get outside the embassy, and they would take care of her. That's what Daniel had told her. She was confident of it; she had to be confident of it, because the alternative was too awful to imagine.

  She turned away from the window and went to lie on her bed. The mattress sagged; the blanket smelled of mothballs. Somewhere in America, Daniel Fulton was living his life. Perhaps he was thinking of her at this moment, wishing she were with him. And the thought of him waiting for her made her prison all the more unbearable.

  After a while she drifted into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed of asking to go for a walk, and Rylev didn't answer, he just laughed and laughed, tears of merriment leaking from his eyes while her hope of freedom silently withered.

  The next day she had to pretend to work. She got inside the pyramid so that Trofimov could take his readings. She let Olga examine her. She glanced through the latest material on her target—searching, supposedly, for his weaknesses, for a way to hate him. None of it mattered.

  Her target was the usual sort of person the KGB was interested in. His name was Dexter Barnaby, and he was a higher-up in British intelligence. Fifty-two years old, wife and family, country estate, handsome and aristocratic, obsessively anti-Soviet. Why him and not someone else? Valentina didn't know and didn't care. She assumed the KGB knew what they were doing, but if they didn't, that was fine with her. She could defeat him, she supposed; certainly she could find a way to hate him, with his air of superiority and his mincing British manner. But she wasn't going to try. She would be gone before she had to meet him in the horrible world her mind created. And if she wasn't gone, she would be too distraught to accomplish anything.