Alternities

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Knowing how the wheels turn at the Pentagon, you could probably have ten weeks,” the CIA director said with contempt. “No, ten days is fine. But, Wally, let’s consider that little trick the upper limit, all right? Give me a package that includes some ideas that won’t raise the hair on everybody’s neck.”

  The Secretary of State sat in his padded swivel chair and stared up at the huge Mercator projection of the world on the wall of the conference room. So hard to think boldly. The many years of being painfully cautious stunted the imagination. Where are the opportunities? Where can we push? How hard? How openly? Where is there ferment? Where are there friends?

  North America was the fortress, and it was sound. From the Arctic Circle to the Isthmus of Panama, from the Alaskan Territory to the island states of Cuba and Caribbea, all were friends and allies. All save French Canada, which was an exception of no consequence.

  Yes, the department could be satisfied with its work close to home. Greater Canada and Mexico saw their destinies were one with the United States’. Honduras and Guatemala were happy enough in their phantom independence, standing under the American umbrella while proclaiming they were unafraid of the rain. More enlightened governments in the Pacific Coast nations worked hand in glove with Washington.

  Panama, its vulnerability more acutely obvious than some, had begun a consideration of the merits of territorial status. And statehood for the islands had been a coup.

  No, all the trouble areas lay outside the Monroe Line. And there were few enough of them. It was a quiet world, the silence of the enslaved. There was little fighting, and less revolutionary fervor. Counting the hot spots did not take long. South Africa. India. Malaya. France.

  It was too late for France, had become too late the moment Prime Minister Somerset spelled out the conditions under which the Weasels could remain in England. There was a bloc in Congress ignorantly bleating for aid to Paris; they would never know that France’s fall to communism would do more for the democratic cause.

  State’s hands were tied in Africa until the FN achieved working control of at least part of South-West Africa, or Namibia as they chose to call it. There had to be something resembling a government to recognize.

  There was little to choose between in the ten-year-old Indian civil war, as demonstrated by the fact that neither Russia nor China had elected to favor one side over the other in all that time. The fabric of that many-faced society was in tatters, and it seemed unlikely that there would be peace there until the last Hindu slaughtered the last Muslim, or vice versa.

  But Malaya was another story. Malaya was the cork in the bottle protecting Indonesia and Australia from the ambitions of the Chinese Communists for an empire of their own. There had been fierce fighting in the jungle forests of the Kra Peninsula for nearly a year.

  Troops from the Chinese client-states in Burma and Thailand were supporting the native Chinese minority in a reprise of the post war struggles between the Malayan Communist Party and the British-backed Malay majority. And the MCP had had a disquieting degree of success. Twice Chief Minister Tan Siew Rahman’s government had been forced to flee the capital for Singapore when guerrilla advances began to threaten the graceful Moorish buildings of Kuala Lumpur.

  Here alone was a place where American involvement could make a difference. Economic aid for Rahman’s government, inducements for Australia to increase its aid, a treaty that would open the American armory to both nations, perhaps even the symbolic reappearance of American warships in the South China Sea—all were worth considering.

  Pulling a tablet onto his lap, the Secretary of State began to make notes in the pidgin shorthand he had developed as a corporate lawyer in Chicago two decades ago. Malaya was the place. It did not matter that their opponent there was Beijing and not Moscow. Moscow would get the message, all the same.

  Moscow, The Home Alternity

  The room was far too large to be an office. Though poorly lit and dominated by muted colors, the room suggested courtly excess, evoked the great hall of a czar. The footsteps of visitors echoed off the walls and high arched ceiling as they approached the desk.

  Spotlit by sunlight from the rank of tall windows at the south end of the room, the desk occupied an island of carpeting in an ocean of hardwood floor. It was the one warm spot in a cool cavern of a room. In the mind of the desk’s owner, the “office” ended at the perimeter of the dark-hued carpet. All that lay beyond was superfluous, immaterial.

  General Secretary Aleksandr Kondratyev had always liked the sun. Summers at his grandmother’s in Rybakovka, near Odessa on the Black Sea, had sealed his fondness. Those pre-war summers of swimming and riding and playing on the postage-stamp shell beaches with cousins from Char’kov and Doneck were the strongest memories of a childhood abbreviated by Hitler’s armies.

  His Chief of Military Intelligence did not like the sun, but then it was hard to envision Voenushkin as a playful boy. Dough-faced and dour, the head of the GRU was painfully earnest and eternally humorless. He squinted and squirmed in his seat as though the pale October rays were the blinding eye of God Himself.

  “Secretary Kondratyev, I thank you for this chance to speak with you directly,” Voenushkin began. “Your generosity—”

  “Please, Geidar,” Kondratyev interrupted, “endeavor to use your time more wisely than in thanking me for doing my job.”

  “Yes, Secretary. I asked to see you because one of our assets in America has produced an intelligence intercept which I felt should be called to your attention.”

  “You may proceed to do so.”

  Voenushkin rose half out of his seat to pass a single sheet of brownish—white paper across the desk. The color of the paper announced that it was several hours old, well along toward self-destruction. “This is a transcript of a conversation last Sunday between President Robinson and his spymaster Albert Tackett—”

  “I see only Tackett’s words.”

  “That is true, sir. It was a telephone conversation, and the intercept was accomplished with a device that reads the vibrations in a pane of glass. But the references are unambiguous.”

  “Very well. I will read it.” When he was finished, Kondratyev folded the sheet carefully in quarters and laid it in a large black ashtray. “How do you interpret this intercept?”

  “First, it is clear that this National Resource Center is not merely a technical research organization. A significant portion of its employees are involved in espionage. We have suspected this for some time, but without confirmation.

  “It is equally clear that the President has asked the NRC to greatly increase its espionage activity to support some unspecified initiative.”

  “Yes,” said Kondratyev. “I would agree with your conclusions. Do you have any insight into what that initiative might be, or where it might be aimed?”

  “No, sir. May I call your attention to several curious items in the transcript? At one point Tackett refers to a ‘gate,’ at another to ‘common world people’—”

  “I took those to be errors of collection or translation.”

  “They are not. Secretary. And they are what concern me.”

  “Is it not reasonable that they are idiomatic expressions? American English is a forest of idiom.”

  “We have sought such an explanation in vain.”

  “Then they are code phrases.”

  “Perhaps, Secretary Kondratyev. But my experts tell me that they are more likely slang of unknown reference. The American habit is to use code phrases which have no thread of identity with the object referenced, such as their war plans Chrome and Flying Horse. These phrases—gate, outworld, common world—seem to mean what they mean. It is the reference, not the meaning, which confuses.”

  As Voenushkin was speaking, the paper lying in the ashtray abruptly darkened to a cocoa brown, then burst into flame with a popping sound. Kondratyev used the tip of a pencil to keep the burning fragments contained in the ceramic bowl. “This discussion of Senator Endicott—how do you se
e it?” he asked.

  “It is why I wished to see you,” the GRU chief said. “It suggests to me that Senator Endicott has both knowledge we desire and a weakness which might be exploited.”

  “You wish to attempt to compromise a United States Senator? A risky undertaking, Geidar.”

  “For which I request your authority.”

  Kondratyev stood, shaking his head. “Geidar, you must have more courage in your judgment. If this is prudent and necessary, order it done. I welcome the information you have brought. I do not welcome your professional timidity. Exercise the responsibility of your position. Do not hide behind my skirts.”

  Boston, The Home Alternity

  “We have a reservation. The name is Wallace.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wallace,” the hostess said. “It’ll be just a few moments.”

  Arms linked around Wallace’s waist, Ruthann snuggled closer and rested her head against his shoulder. “We don’t mind,” she said. The hostess smiled tolerantly.

  Wallace could tell that he had surprised Ruthann, and the knowledge pleased him. It had taken a dozen phone calls to make the arrangements, calls squeezed in during the short breaks that Baker, the Blue Section supervisor, allowed them through the afternoon.

  There’d been one call to Rebecca to arrange for Katie to stay the night next door. Five calls at least to track down the delicate yellow-orange day lilies, Annie’s favorite. More calls to restaurants near the Block to scout menus and prices for something she would like and he could afford.

  And the final call to Annie, proclaiming the kitchen off-limits for her that evening and inviting her to scout her closet for a dress as beautiful as she was.

  It seemed like that was the moment they found each other again. He heard the warm smile in her voice when she consented. He noted with pleasure that she did not demand further explanation, but instead indulged his cheerful secretiveness.

  “What time?” was all she asked. And she accepted his answer of seven o’clock. Baker’s plans for him would allow for nothing earlier without quailing.

  When he had arrived home, she was resplendent in a cream-colored cotton knit dress that clung to her curves from shoulder to hips and then became a flirtatious skirt with a profusion of soft pleats. He was not sure he had seen the dress before, but was discreet enough not to ask. The kiss she gave him was familiar, the kind of sensuous, unhurried kiss that narrowed the focus of all his senses to her presence.

  It had seemed at times in recent months that he had nothing to talk to Ruthann about. His work for the Guard was so much of his life, and he was acutely conscious of what he could not tell her. So much so that sometimes avoiding conversation seemed easier than the mental gymnastics involved in fencing off public thoughts from classified ones.

  But walking to the restaurant, they rediscovered how to talk to each other. She had a storehouse of cute-Katie stories to share, he a string of extended jokes ending in painful puns. Then, the nervous cascade of time-filling first-date chatter ended, they rediscovered something more important—not to be afraid of silence. Holding hands as they walked, they let a smile or a squeeze say what needed saying.

  The hostess returned and guided them to a small table along one wall. It was away from the first-course common and the traffic it created, but it was also elbow-to-elbow with two other small tables which were already occupied. But Ruthann did not seem to mind.

  “What do you think she thought?” Ruthann said as the hostess left them.

  “Probably that we’re married, but not to each other.”

  “Really? Do you think so?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows that real married people stay home and eat beans and brown bread in front of the news. Only people with something to hide go out in public.”

  “I didn’t know that you were taking me to that kind of place,” Annie said with a mischievous smile. “We should have been adventurous and taken our rings off.”

  “We can take them off later—along with everything else.”

  She averted her eyes coquettishly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll try to help you remember.”

  “Just one minute, sir. I have to check the rules. Are old married couples allowed to flirt?”

  He reached out and traced a fingertip along the soft skin of her neck. “The hostess will expect it.”

  “Oh,” she said, taking his hand in hers and kissing his knuckles. “I guess it’s all right, then.”

  Wallace had intended to tell her about the promotion over dinner. But somehow the impulse to do so evaded him. Their dinner neighbors were too close for such private matters; he was having no trouble at all eavesdropping on them. The easy flow of the evening was too rare and precious, and he did not want to risk interrupting it.

  All excuses, he knew as he paid the check. The truth was that, having discovered he did not need the good news to save the evening, he was saving the news to cap the evening.

  The air had turned cool bordering on chill, but they walked unhurriedly arm in arm. “I’d forgotten you could be like this,” she said.

  He smiled ruefully. “I’d kind of forgotten myself.”

  “I’m glad you remembered.”

  “I wanted to do something to celebrate,” he said, pulling her closer with an arm around her waist. “But I had such a good time just being with you tonight that it almost doesn’t matter.”

  “Celebrate what? Have you been keeping secrets?”

  They had reached the green corridor bordering the elevated train line. He stopped and turned her toward him. “Celebrate good news. Annie, I have something to tell you that’s going to put a premium smile on that pretty face.”

  He saw the hopeful light go on in her eyes. “Tell me.”

  “I’m going to be promoted to Grade 5. It’ll mean another two hundred a week.”

  “Oh!”

  “You’re going to be able to drive the Spirit as much as you want, and even order that couch.”

  “Oh, Rayne!” She smiled cherubically. “If you’d told me sooner I wouldn’t have passed over dessert.”

  “Want to go back?”

  “No, silly,” she said, and hugged him fiercely. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “They told me this morning. I’ve been high all day.”

  She pulled back from him without breaking the embrace and looked up at him with sober eyes. “But, Rayne, how can they pay you so much? You’re jumping over a whole grade. What are they going to want you to do? If it’s going to be dangerous—”

  “It should be less dangerous than what I’m doing now.”

  “Then I don’t understand—”

  “I’m going to have to do some traveling. That’s the only difference. I’ll be gone a few weeks at a time instead of a few days.”

  Her expression turned darker still. “How many weeks?”

  “Six weeks at the longest.”

  Her body going stiff, she squirmed out of the embrace. “Bastard—”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t do this to be nice. You did this to manipulate me.”

  “No!”

  “You knew I wouldn’t like it. You knew I’d be angry. You just wanted to soften me up with a little phony romance.”

  “No! I wasn’t manipulating you. I don’t even understand why you’re angry!”

  Their voices had risen to the point where they were playing to the full theater of their surroundings.

  “Of course not. When you’re getting what you want you always ignore my feelings.”

  “I didn’t ask for this—”

  “Then turn it down. Turn down the promotion.”

  He held his hands up in a helpless gesture. “I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “I don’t understand.” he said pleadingly, taking a step toward her. “I love you—”

  “No!” she shrieked. “Don’t you dare say that!”

  He took another step. “But I—”

  “
Don’t you pretend you love me.”

  “Pretend!”

  “When you love somebody, you want to be with them. You don’t look for reasons to stay away.”

  He tried to reach for her. “Annie—”

  With an unexpected ferocity, she slapped his hand away. “Don’t you touch me. You want to go away, go!” Her hurt began to spill over into tears. “Go! Go right now! Then you won’t have to be bothered with me.” She planted her palms on his chest and gave him a push that carried him a step backward. “You won’t have to look at me, or talk to me, or make love to me. Go away and forget me like you always do. Just stop trying to make me think you care.”

  Then she ran away into the night, under the elevated and toward the Block.

  Wallace stood, stunned, and watched her go. He felt helpless, foolish, abused. And out of his befuddlement rose up a defensive fury. How could she manage to twist something he was doing for her into something he was doing to her? Bitch. Selfish whining cold-souled bitch—

  He found himself clenching his fists, weight forward on his feet as though he were about to launch himself in pursuit. Except that he knew that if he chased after her now it would be not to talk to her but to hurt her, and he would not gratify such an impulse. He turned and purposefully walked the other way, away from the Block, away from home.

  But still the feeling was there, the screaming need to unleash the teeth-grinding jaw-clamping frustration jangling inside him. His steps turned into strides, his strides into an almost animal stalking. Thought surrendering to impulse, he passed close to one of the biker’s rests dotting the elevated corridor, spotting the bench and trash canister resting there in a halo of light.

  Seizing the half-full metal cylinder with both hands, he whirled it in a half-circle that intersected the lamp post. The canister crumpled with a metallic groan, folding in half and spitting out part of its contents. The post clanged and vibrated. He hurled the battered canister out into the darkness, and it bounced and rolled across the grass, scattering bottles and wrappers along the way.

  That was enough. The boil of his anger was lanced. He stood there for long moments, heart slowly calming, breaths short and hard. The night air seemed suddenly cold, and he wanted to go home. But home meant facing Annie again, and there was too much to risk in that.