Summit

by Richard Bowker

  He tried to remember something from the lessons he had always failed so miserably. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done, with gunshots roaring through the garage and his arm throbbing and people dying all around him.

  Put the key in the ignition.

  It didn't fit, goddamn it!

  Try it the other way.

  Okay.

  Turn.

  The engine roared to life, and immediately made an unfamiliar screeching noise. He let go of the key, and the screeching stopped. He tried to move the automatic shift lever next to him, but it wouldn't go. There was a button on the lever; he pushed it in. Success. He moved the lever to "D". That was right, wasn't it?

  The car started to move.

  Which pedal was the brake?

  The other one.

  He looked up and saw Lawrence Hill running toward him. Oh shit. He moved his foot to the accelerator, and the car jumped forward. He turned the steering wheel; the car turned too much and banged into the side of the ramp. He turned the wheel the other way, and the car banged into the other side of the ramp.

  Why hadn't he paid attention during the goddamn lessons?

  The guy who had waved to Sullivan from the booth was running toward the car from the other direction. He was right in Fulton's path. Fulton wasn't stopping now. At the last second the guy figured that out and leaped aside.

  And then Fulton realized there was going to be a problem.

  The garage door was shut tight. He looked over at Valentina. "Hold on," he said, and he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  He raised a hand to shield his face as the car hit the door. There was a terrible noise of breaking glass and twisting steel. The car's engine whined in protest. Fulton looked over his shoulder. There were bullet holes in his rear window. They'd been shooting at him, apparently, and he hadn't noticed. Hill had jumped into a car and was preparing to follow him. Oh shit. The door gave way, and Fulton was out in the street—free!—and then he was on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, scattering people and protest signs. Shit! He turned the wheel frantically and got the car back under control. A policeman was running at him. Hill was coming out of the garage. A horn blared; someone shouted obscenities. Fulton accelerated.

  Luckily he had the light crossing Lexington. How did people keep track of lights and one-way signs and street names while they drove? He was not so lucky at Park, but he kept going anyway, to the astonishment and rage of about a thousand cab drivers, who swerved and screeched and ran into each other but miraculously missed him. He prayed that they wouldn't miss Hill. He kept going across Madison, and then his luck ran out at Fifth Avenue, where a limousine a block long sideswiped them. He totally lost control of the car, and it ended up on top of a hydrant, which started gushing water fifteen feet into the air.

  Fulton looked at Valentina. "You okay?"

  She managed to nod.

  He climbed down from the car, went around to the other side, and helped her out, getting soaked in the process. He looked around for Hill, but couldn't see him in the mess of traffic he had created. He did, however, see a lot of angry people headed for them. "Let's go," he said.

  They disappeared into Central Park.

  He tried to think as he dragged Valentina along, but his brain wouldn't function. His arm hurt; he was shivering in his wet clothes; for all he knew, Hill was waiting for them just around the next curve in the path. And Valentina looked like she was about to collapse. "I—can't—" she gasped, clinging to him, and he realized that he couldn't either.

  "All right," he said. "Just let me—" They stopped, and his mind whirled dizzily. What now? But nothing came. Had to get away from Hill. Had to let Valentina rest. And then he looked up at the buildings surrounding the park, their lights twinkling in the cold night air, and suddenly he had the answer. "Just a little farther," he murmured to her.

  "Will we be safe?"

  "Yes. We'll be safe."

  She smiled weakly at him, and he kissed her forehead. Then he put his arm around her, and together they stumbled through the park to safety.

  Chapter 46

  The doorman did not like the looks of the couple who came staggering in off the street. The man was unshaven and soaking wet; the woman was wearing a nightgown and could barely stand up. Drugs, he thought. "Yes?" he demanded.

  "Dmitri Khorashev," the man said.

  "Mr. Khorashev did not leave word he was expecting anyone," the doorman replied. "It is much too late to—"

  "It is much too late to argue," the man said, and he produced a gun that he aimed at the doorman's chest. "Tell Khorashev that Daniel Fulton wants to see him."

  The doorman stared at the gun and decided he was going back to graduate school in Iowa. New York City was just plain crazy. He called Khorashev, who sounded delighted by the news that he had guests.

  * * *

  "You look like cat is dragging you in," Khorashev said by way of greeting. He was wearing a silk robe the color of his gray hair.

  Fulton smiled wearily. "I need help."

  "You have come to the right place. Enter, please. My home is your castle."

  Khorashev helped him bring Valentina into the guest room, where she collapsed on the bed and immediately fell asleep. Fulton stared at her for a moment, wondering what he could do for her, then kissed her and turned to Khorashev. He tried to form a coherent sentence. "I'm sorry to barge in on you this way, but—"

  Khorashev waved him silent. "You are wet," he pointed out. "And you have bloody shirt."

  Fulton looked down at his arm. It would be all right-—Sullivan had told him so. And now Sullivan must be dead. He would have to think about that later. "Doesn't matter," he said.

  "At least change your clothes," Khorashev insisted.

  "No time. You've got to listen."

  "I'll listen while you change."

  So Fulton tried to tell his story while changing out of his wet clothes into some of Khorashev's. The story didn't seem to come out very well, but Khorashev kept nodding his head in understanding, so something must have gotten through. "We've got to get some reporters over here, Dmitri," he explained finally. "Publicity is the only thing that can protect us. The Soviets can't drag off Valentina if the whole world is watching."

  "They are animals," Khorashev said. He brought Fulton a glass of brandy. Fulton swallowed some, and the warmth felt wonderful as it spread through his weary body. "I have a friend at the Times," Khorashev went on. "I will ask him exactly how to handle it."

  "I'd appreciate that," Fulton said. "I don't think I'm good for much of anything at this point."

  "Rest then, and I will take care of it. When the press arrives, I will rouse you, and you can say again what you said to me."

  Fulton smiled. "Thank you, Dmitri."

  Khorashev smiled back. "Do not mention it, Daniel. A friend in need is certainly a friend."

  Fulton finished his brandy and returned to the guest room. He lay down beside Valentina, who snuggled close to him. He held her in his arms and closed his eyes, and for the first time in months he started to relax. It had been horrible, but now it was going to be all right.

  * * *

  Khorashev made his call. Afterwards, he stood for a moment looking at the phone. Then he went and sat down at his piano. His hands moved silently, automatically over the keys, and then settled into some Chopin. Fulton and his friend would not mind, he was sure.

  And as he played, his eyes wandered over the knick-knacks on his bookshelves and the posters on his walls. He looked at everything around him but the matryoshka doll. She was staring at him, he knew, with her dark, knowing, Russian eyes, and he did not want to meet that gaze.

  He played the piano for a long time.

  * * *

  The Tristesse etude. The sounds barely reached Fulton's fading consciousness. But they brought with them an image of his recital in Moscow—and then of his parents, and the message Sullivan had given him, forgotten amid the fear and death. His mother loved him v
ery much, he thought.

  And he supposed he loved her, too.

  He was asleep before he could think anything more.

  Chapter 47

  Fulton opened his eyes.

  Daylight.

  He had survived the night, then. And Valentina was still by his side. He leaned over and kissed her. She stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled. "Shall we get up?" she asked.

  "Rest, darling. There'll be plenty of time to—"

  Daylight. Where were the reporters? He looked at his watch: eight-thirty.

  Khorashev had said he would take care of it.

  "Stay here," Fulton murmured. He got out of bed and went looking for Khorashev. "Dmitri?"

  "Here, Daniel," Khorashev called out.

  Fulton went down the corridor to the music room. The Russian was sitting at the piano. "Dmitri, why didn't you—"

  He saw why. Sitting in a corner of the room, wearing a rumpled brown suit, was Lawrence Hill. He was pointing a gun at Fulton. "Good morning, Daniel," he said. "I was just coming to wake the two of you up."

  Fulton turned immediately to go warn Valentina, but it was too late—she was standing behind him, looking beautiful but vulnerable in her nightgown.

  "Come in, Valentina," Hill called out. "I've been letting you rest up, but now it's time to go back to work."

  Valentina clutched Fulton's arm. "How did he find us?" she asked.

  Hill looked at Khorashev. Khorashev was gazing down at his hands clasped in his lap. "You've got to understand, Daniel," he said, not looking up. "I am Russian. I cannot turn my back on the motherland."

  Fulton gestured at the Americana that surrounded them. See the USA in Your Chevrolet. Nixon's the One. Snap! Crackle! Pop! Currier and Ives; Simon and Garfunkel; Moe, Larry, and Curly. "But you've been an American for over thirty years, Dmitri."

  "I have tried, Daniel. But tigers do not change their stripes."

  "He's been a Soviet spy since a few years after Stalin died," Hill explained. "They couldn't use him for much, but it was nice to know he was available. And then we needed to get you to Moscow."

  Fulton recalled how mild Khorashev's objections had been when they had talked about playing in the Soviet Union. "He told you I'd be at his recital in Carnegie Hall that day," he said to Hill.

  Hill nodded. "And gave us your address when you wouldn't talk to me. And then, of course, there was this morning's call. You can imagine how surprised and grateful we were. They'll probably award him the Order of Lenin in absentia."

  Fulton stared at Khorashev. He still could scarcely believe it. "Dmitri," he whispered.

  Khorashev abruptly reached behind him and took the matryoshka doll down from the shelf. "Look," he said, opening it up. "It is one thing I brought with me when I left. Inside each doll, another doll. And inside the last—soil. Russian soil. Is what keeps me alive. Russia is ruled by bastards, but it is home, and I must help make it great." Khorashev started to cry. "Don't you see, Daniel? We all have our secrets, hidden somewhere deep beneath our disguises. I am so sorry for you, but this is mine."

  Fulton gazed at the tiny bag of dust in Khorashev's hands. It didn't seem worth it, to betray your friend for that. But who was he to judge a man's secrets?

  "Well, I'm sure this is a brilliant insight into the human condition," Hill said, "but we've got things to do. I have people surrounding the building, and a car waiting downstairs, and Trofimov waiting with his machine at the Mission, and now we've really got to go."

  Fulton looked at Valentina. She too was crying. She sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. "She can't possibly do it," he said.

  "I don't see why not," Hill replied. "Nothing has changed from yesterday. Same motivation, certainly." He stood up. "Would you like a minute to think about it, Valentina? I suppose we can spare that. Sixty seconds, Valentina. And then I put a bullet in Daniel's right hand."

  He raised his gun and aimed it at Fulton.

  * * *

  It was all her fault. Her sin had stalked her through all her joys and sorrows, and now at last it had come to claim her. There was nothing she could do.

  And yet...

  She thought of her dream: had it been only two nights ago? She was imprisoned only because she let them imprison her. They were her powers. They terrified her, but she needed them. Oh God, she needed them right now.

  "Fifty seconds left, Valentina."

  She stands in front of the building. Its door is open.

  No, that couldn't be right. That happened only when—

  The camera above the door blinks red, red, red. She takes a step forward, and then another. And then she is inside.

  And she understood, finally. She had felt so guilty for so long that she had suppressed her powers. They did no one any good—least of all her. And Trofimov's machine did nothing but ease the guilt. It let her believe that it was all right to use the powers. Look, she could say: I have no choice. The machine is forcing me....

  But now she did not need to be convinced. And with the guilt gone, anything was possible.

  She races past the clock up to the second floor. Which door is it? She knows.

  She has never done this before, but she is desperate now, and she doesn't have time to be scared. She opens the door and goes inside.

  Hill is lying on the bed where she had left him so long ago, his face still bloody, his breathing labored. He sees her, and he smiles a crooked, bitter smile. He has been waiting, half-alive, for this moment. "Another chance?" he asks.

  "Forty seconds."

  She feels the hatred pulsing in the air. She breathes it in. It possesses her. "Yes," she hisses. "And this time I'm going to finish the job."

  He gets up from the bed and stands in front of her. "This time," he says, "you're going to die."

  They glare at each other for a moment, and then he leaps upon her.

  * * *

  "Thirty seconds left, Valentina."

  Damn her, he was in a hurry. The session was going to start in a few minutes, and he needed her inside Trofimov's machine. She didn't have any choice, so why go through this charade? Fulton's face was white. He would be peeing in his pants before very long. Didn't she love him anymore?

  "Twenty seconds."

  Huh? Suddenly he felt very—well, weak. No, not weak exactly but—

  He had felt this way once before, hadn't he?

  When?

  Sitting in that cramped Moscow apartment, listening to the suddenly persuasive arguments, slowly losing his grip on everything he believed in, everything that motivated his existence...

  It had been a mistake, hadn't it? They had stolen his mind from him. He should hate them.

  No, they had shown him the truth. He should continue to serve them.

  "Ten seconds."

  But they had made him betray his country. Even this old Russian pianist, filled with grievances, had been unable to turn his back on his native land. Memories suddenly flooded him: reciting the Pledge of Allegiance first thing in the morning while the schoolroom's heat clanked through the ancient pipes; swatting mosquitoes while Fourth of July fireworks burst overhead; visiting Washington with his high school class and catching his first awestruck glimpse of the Capitol from the back of a Trailways bus; receiving a medal from the director of Central Intelligence—a medal that he couldn't keep, couldn't even tell anyone he had been awarded, but one that filled his soul with a quiet pride he would not have traded for any amount of fame or wealth....

  But Russia—any country—can offer as much. Individual memories are trivial; only the truth matters. And the truth did not change because he was who he was, or because they had done to him what they had done. Remember the glorious sense of understanding and relief as the session in the Moscow apartment finally ended? His eyes had been opened. The American dream was a dream of individual greed and selfishness, of social neglect and exploitation. Here at last he had found a dream worthy of his devotion. Here at last was a cause he could die for.

  "
Time's up, Valentina."

  Pull the trigger.

  This was awful. This was beyond bearing. It wasn't that he lacked certainty anymore, but that he now seemed to possess both certainties, each clear and convincing and unassailable. He could feel his mind splitting in two—becoming a bifurcated monster locked in a deadly battle with itself, a battle that it could neither win nor lose, a battle that could only drive him insane. Or worse.

  Unbearable.

  He looked down at the gun in his hand.

  * * *

  Fulton trembled. Why didn't someone do something? The minute was up. Valentina was writhing on the sofa in some sort of hysterics, and Hill was just standing there, motionless. Why didn't he shoot, while Fulton still had some courage left?

  And suddenly Fulton realized that he could be the one to do something. The thought terrified him, but did he have a choice?

  He was their hold over Valentina. He was the reason she would return to the machine—to die, probably, and to defeat his country. Without him, there was no reason to do anything.

  If he loved her—if he loved his country—there was only one thing he could do.

  He walked toward Hill.

  "Daniel, no!" Khorashev shouted, and the old man leaped from the piano bench to intercept him.

  Hill raised his gun. Fulton pushed Khorashev aside and faced him. Faced the gun.

  And then the gun turned, as if pulled by some invisible force. Turned from Fulton to Hill, who stared impassively at the barrel now pointed at his mouth. He looked as if he were in the process of making some minor but interesting decision. And then his finger moved, and Fulton closed his eyes, but not before he saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  From across the room, Valentina screamed.

  Chapter 48

  Hill lies dead at her feet. She has killed him, and it is not a dream-death. She had to kill him, but that does not change the act's brutality, or its finality.

  She has to get out of this place. She is afraid that the death has changed the rules. What if all her demons attack her now? She leaves the room. And instead of being attacked in the dark corridor, she finds herself enveloped in warmth and love.