Summit

by Richard Bowker

  He sighed. The world was going to hell, and he needed a drink very badly.

  Well, he couldn't think of anything better to do. He went off in search of a bar.

  Chapter 37

  Abigail was not her real name, but her real name didn't matter anymore, not since the KGB plucked her out of the university and sent her to another, quite different school.

  It was a school to make her American, and Chuck Dennison had been one of her teachers. She was the perfect candidate for this very select school. Her looks were sufficiently un-Slavic; her progress in English at the university suggested she could eliminate every last trace of an accent; and politically she was reliable. But even so, the training had been so difficult and exhausting that she had almost given up. She was immersed day and night in American language, American culture, American history. She was given a new background and identity, and she had to live that identity. In effect, she gave up herself for her nation. There were times when it seemed as if her nation was asking too much.

  But she had persevered, and she had graduated, joining an anonymous but elite group of KGB officers. The great fear of the KGB was that students in this school would become too immersed in their new culture and new identity—that they would identify so strongly with America that they would forget why they had received their training. They need not have worried about Abigail. The more she learned about America, the more she despised it. In fact, so violent was her dislike of America that they began to have the opposite worry about her: that this hatred would make it impossible for her to do her job. She was still trying to prove to them that their worry was groundless.

  Sometimes it was difficult. Take Daniel Fulton, for example. He was beneath contempt. So many people in the Soviet Union admired him, praised his support of world peace. But she had known all along it was a sham; and she had been proved right. He changed his tune as soon as a pretty girl was thrown his way. He was rich and famous and could get away with anything. It was all a game to him.

  It was not a game to Abigail. So it was much easier for her to obey the order to break his finger than to obey the order to stop. And she positively enjoyed it when he tried to escape.

  It happened when Viktor, one of the two KGB men sent down from the UN mission, left his post by the door for a minute to answer the phone. Fulton made a run for it then, but he couldn't figure out the lock on the inner door, and he was still fumbling with it by the time she arrived from the kitchen. She rammed him up against the wall and kneed him in the groin, then watched with satisfaction as he writhed in agony on the floor.

  She did not like Daniel Fulton.

  But she recognized the danger her feelings presented, and she strove to avoid it, because only in that way could she best serve the motherland.

  Even if, in the depths of her soul, she hoped that Fulton would try to escape again.

  * * *

  Daniel Fulton stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The soulful eyes, the strong chin. He raised his left hand in front of his face and stared at it. The elegance, the power, the sensitivity.

  He was beneath contempt.

  He closed his eyes, and that fiend Abigail was on top of him, her eyes alive with hatred, her hands clutching his, eager to destroy the elegance, the power... and he was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He had felt a flood of relief when Valentina had stopped her, had agreed to submit to a far worse torture in order to save his damn fingers. Apparently he loved his fingers more than he loved her. The world was in danger, and he was worried about being able to play the final movement of the Hammerklavier. Artists were supposed to be narcissistic, but maybe that was a good reason not to be an artist.

  So he had gathered up his nerve and tried to escape. What a joke that had been. Was it better to be narcissistic or incompetent? He couldn't even work the lock on the door. He couldn't even beat a woman in a fair fight. Perhaps he should have tried to seduce her—at least he had been good at that in his time. But Abigail was clearly not the kind of woman who would succumb to his charms. And besides, there was Valentina now.

  He returned to his bedroom. Valentina. The Russians had been listening to a radio downstairs, and he had heard an announcer talking about the summit. Grigoriev and Winn were both in town, and their first meeting would occur tomorrow. And when that happened, Valentina would do what she had to do to save him, and it would kill her or drive her insane.

  He couldn't stand it. It was a cosmic joke being played on the both of them—to find each other, to have a chance to dream about happiness, and then to have it end abruptly in terror and death. Fulton stared at the bars on his window. He did not feel like laughing.

  "Excuse, please."

  Fulton whirled. It was one of the Russians—the guy who had been guarding the door before his ridiculous escape attempt. He was a big man, with a wide, pleasant face and a nose that had been broken more than once. "Yes?" Fulton said.

  "We wondered—Yevgeny and I—because we must be here together with you, if you like to play piano for us please. It will be great delight for us."

  It sounded like a speech the man had put together with an English grammar book by his side. Fulton didn't want to play, especially for Russians; he didn't want to look at a piano.

  He wanted to cry.

  "Go fly a kite," he said to the Russian, who of course looked puzzled. Let him figure it out; Fulton didn't care. He went back to studying the bars of his cell.

  Chapter 38

  The KGB rezident's voice was tinny and slightly distorted over the scrambler phone. It had to be very important for him to risk calling Volnikov directly—and at this hour. "Our friend hasn't come back from that job we sent him on," he said.

  Volnikov didn't mind the hour; he wasn't going to be sleeping much for the next few days. But he did mind the rezident's news. Poole had been succeeding all his life. How could he fail now? "Any information on his target?"

  "No. We tried to visit the target's house, but it's being watched, so we couldn't risk it. Our friend's car was parked two blocks away."

  Volnikov tried to think. Was Poole dead inside, and the CIA officer on the loose? Very bad. The CIA would go into the house eventually, and who could tell what conclusions they would draw? There had to be a way to control the situation. "How many are watching?"

  "One, maybe two. It's not a big operation."

  "Can you get into the house without signs of entering?"

  "Of course."

  "All right. Here are your instructions...."

  It might do the job. But still, Volnikov was worried. If Poole was gone, his own stature was reduced, and the summit became all the more important. He needed to break Theodore Winn, or he would never replace Grigoriev, and the ultimate power would never be his.

  * * *

  There was only one man watching Sullivan's house, and he was bored. Obviously Sullivan wasn't in there, so what was the sense of sitting out here all day and night? They should just let him break into the place and find out what he could inside. But no one had made that decision yet, so he just sat and thought about the Redskins game on Sunday.

  And when the guy in the blue Honda stopped to ask for directions, he was glad to have someone to talk to.

  Unfortunately the guy in the blue Honda was not really lost, and he was the last person the CIA man talked to in his life.

  * * *

  Houghton arrived while they were bringing the body out of the basement. Culpepper was already there, puffing nervously on a cigarette. "Poole," Culpepper said. "And one of mine."

  "That's what I heard. Sullivan was responsible?"

  "Probably for Poole, but not for mine."

  "How do you know?"

  "We found Sullivan's car in the garage at National. It's been there since last night. Poole's been dead about twenty-four hours; my man was hit early this evening."

  "My God." Houghton turned away as the EMTs carried Poole's body past him. He was a bit squeamish. "Why?"

  Culpepper handed him
a manila envelope. "This might help explain it."

  Houghton opened the envelope and took out a map and a sheet of paper with complicated instructions on it. "These are directions to a dead-drop," he said.

  Culpepper nodded. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "They were stuck inside the instruction booklet that was taped to Sullivan's gas water heater. Apparently he forgot them when he cleared out of here. He never was a very good spy."

  "Poole suspected something," Houghton suggested. "Or maybe Sullivan lured him here."

  "Probably the former. Even Sullivan wouldn't plan to bludgeon somebody to death with a hockey stick."

  Houghton thought he was going to be ill. "Poole should have left spying to the pros."

  "He's learned his lesson, I'm sure."

  "Maybe he noticed something when Sullivan went to see him. Maybe Sullivan let something slip, and Poole only realized its importance later on. He came here, confronted Sullivan, and Sullivan killed him. Then Sullivan panicked and headed for the airport. And all of this happened before you set up the surveillance."

  Culpepper nodded. "Makes sense. What about my man, though?"

  Houghton considered. "Sullivan would know enough not to go to the Soviets under the circumstances. Because if we find out he's a Soviet asset, their operation is blown. This whole thing has been disinformation, clearly. The Soviets were trying to use Sullivan to get us to cancel the summit and discredit Hill. Sullivan probably signed up with them early on, after he got transferred out of Operations. Hell, they may even have written the op plan to get Borisova to defect, just to lead us on a wild-goose chase."

  "So the Soviets would kill him if they got their hands on him, to keep us from figuring out the truth," Culpepper said, picking up on Houghton's train of thought. "And that means it was probably the KGB who killed my man. Sullivan missed a contact or something, and they got nervous. The KGB came looking for him, stumbled onto the surveillance, and had to shoot their way out."

  Houghton stared at the map. "This guy is in one hell of a mess, Bertram. Where do you think he is?"

  "We're checking the flights out of the airport now. Don't worry. Sullivan's too stupid to get very far."

  Houghton put the map back into the manila envelope and handed it to Culpepper. "Let's just make sure we get him before the Soviets do," he said. "Because I want to be the one who cuts his balls off. Unless the president wants first shot at him."

  Culpepper chuckled grimly. "Look on the bright side, Jim," he said. "At least we've flushed a traitor. And we've finally figured out what this psychic business was all about."

  Houghton nodded. "It took long enough."

  Chapter 39

  President Winn sat in the suite at the Plaza listening to advice and getting bored. There was a long wrangle over whether they should agree to the Soviet demand to do away with interpreters and note-takers. "It doesn't matter," he said finally. "We're both going to bug the meeting, I assume, so nothing is going to be lost to posterity. Let's move along, shall we?"

  Then they got into the arms-reduction proposals. His secretary of state and secretary of defense disagreed, as always, and his national security adviser waffled. They weren't really making a lot of progress here.

  So he was not displeased when the military aide interrupted them with a note. Winn read it, and felt as if he'd been punched in the face. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Tom Poole's been murdered." He glared at the military aide. "Find me somebody who knows what's going on," he ordered.

  There was an awkward silence until Winn was on the phone to George Loud. "It appears," Loud murmured, "that Colonel Poole may have uncovered a Soviet agent working for the CIA."

  "What?" Winn roared. "Speak up, goddamit. Why are you always whispering?"

  "Colonel Poole was killed by a CIA officer who was apparently working for the Soviets," Loud said in something approaching a normal tone of voice. "The CIA officer had been trying to undermine the summit with some rather farfetched story. Poole apparently confronted him and was murdered."

  "You mean the Soviets are trying to scuttle the summit? But they're the ones who wanted it in the first place."

  "I think you have to keep in mind, sir, that the rulers of the Soviet Union can be as divided in their opinions as any American administration. This was clearly a KGB operation, and they have their own agenda. The KGB does not like Grigoriev."

  "So what does this CIA officer have to say for himself?"

  "Um, unfortunately, sir, he is not yet in custody."

  "What? Has he defected?"

  "We don't think so. Believe me, Mr. President, every resource of American law enforcement will be—"

  "Find him!" Winn shouted, and he slammed down the receiver. He stared at the nervous faces surrounding him. "Thank you, gentlemen," he managed to say. "Meeting's over."

  When they were gone, Winn made the obligatory phone call to the grieving widow. It was not an easy conversation. Afterwards, he poured himself a Scotch, sat back in his chair, and thought. He would miss Poole. The man was straight, and he was tough. And he had died a hero, apparently. An impressive human being.

  But now Winn had a summit to face, and difficult decisions to make. Were the Soviets serious about the summit? Should he make the concessions that would produce a comprehensive arms-reduction treaty? Poole would have told him that you can't trust the Soviets, and certainly his death seemed to prove his case. But Loud had a point: there were Soviets, and there were Soviets. And ultimately, the purpose of the summit was to take the measure of the Soviet who mattered most: Grigoriev. When you actually sit down with him, he is transformed from a photo on the eleven o'clock news or a profile in a National Intelligence Estimate to a real person, someone with a handshake that is strong or limp, eyes that meet yours or shift away, pores that sweat under pressure or stay dry—a person you can judge and understand and thereby perhaps get the better of.

  Winn had been doing that all his life, and it had certainly worked for him so far. In the Senate, he hadn't needed to study a colleague's voting record to know if he'd be with him or against him on a bill; a minute alone with the guy in the cloakroom was enough. And before that, he hadn't bothered looking at people's resumes or checking on their references when hiring them for his company; he simply gave them the once-over in a brief interview and made up his mind. He was rarely mistaken.

  So perhaps the best thing to do would be to leave the decisions for tomorrow. Once the summit began, the answers would be clear.

  Winn finished his Scotch and went into the bedroom, where his wife was already asleep. He did twenty-five sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups, and then put on his pajamas. The answers would be clear, he thought as he got into bed, and they would be right.

  You don't get to be president without having a lot of self-confidence.

  * * *

  Grigoriev listened to the opinions of his ambassadors to the United States and the United Nations with mounting impatience. It was just a courtesy, and his politeness was running out. They didn't know what was going on, so anything they had to say was useless. Finally he couldn't stand any more and dismissed them with lavish praise for their insights.

  His friend Stashinsky stayed behind. They were in a comfortable living room in the Soviets' Riverdale compound. Everything was ready for the summit. Grigoriev had lost track of what time his body thought it was. Jet lag didn't matter, however; he wouldn't sleep well in any case. "Shall we get drunk?" Stashinsky suggested.

  Grigoriev laughed. "The Russian solution to all problems. Not tonight, Seryochka."

  Stashinsky sighed. "You're going to go through with it, aren't you? Look. You could come clean with Winn in the summit. Tell him you've got problems with the KGB, and ask him for a postponement."

  "Won't work. We're bugging the summit. If I don't play my part correctly, the Politburo will know, and Volnikov will make sure they take appropriate measures."

  "Then simply don't do it. Walk out. You'll have to resign, but Volnikov won't have a chance
to carry out this crazy scheme of his."

  Grigoriev shook his head. "You don't understand. I have to go through with this. It is the will of the Party, which is the voice of the people. Where would we be if we let our personal views override that will? Are we both too young to have failed to learn anything from the Cult of Personality?"

  "So you'll do it, even if it means you bring another Stalin to power? You know he won't stop with getting a few concessions from the Americans. He'll replace the Politburo members who might oppose him, and then he'll do what he wants. He'll use this drug of his on the whole damn world, perhaps, to make everyone fall in line. He sees it as a shortcut to doing what this psychic does with such difficulty. What does it matter if it takes away their free will, as long as they obey him? We have already had one megalomaniac in our short history; I don't think we could survive another."

  "This is all just one person's opinion."

  "It would have been nice, Pavel Fyodorovich," Stashinsky said, "if some American individuality had rubbed off on you during your stay here."

  Grigoriev merely shrugged.

  Stashinsky stood up. "Perhaps I should get drunk by myself," he muttered. "Indulge my individuality."

  "Everything will be fine, Seryochka," Grigoriev said.

  "I hope to God you are right."

  Stashinsky left him alone in the room. Since when did Seryochka believe in God? Grigoriev went to find Tanya.

  She was in their bedroom, reading an American spy novel.

  "Who wins?" he asked.

  "The outcome is in doubt. It's very exciting, however."

  She didn't know about Volnikov and the psychic and all the rest; he couldn't tell her, even though he could have used her advice. Just as well, perhaps. It would only worry one more person. Of course, she was worried anyway, because she knew him and knew his moods. "Are you looking forward to meeting Mrs. Winn?" he asked.