by Ken Follett
"We lie more to our loved ones, because we care about them so damn much. Why do you think we tell the truth to priests and shrinks and total strangers we meet on trains? It's because we don't love them, so we don't care what they think."
She was infuriatingly plausible. But he despised such easy excuses. "That's not my philosophy of life."
"Lucky you," she said bitterly. "You come from a happy home, you've never known bereavement or rejection, you have troops of friends. You had a hard war, but you weren't crippled or tortured, and you don't have enough imagination to be a coward. Nothing bad has ever happened to you. Sure, you don't tell lies--for the same reason Mrs. Carroll doesn't steal cans of soup."
She was incredible--she had convinced herself that he was in the wrong! It was impossible to talk to someone who could fool herself so thoroughly. Disgusted, he turned to leave. "If that's how you think of me, you must be glad our relationship is over."
"No, I'm not glad." Tears ran down her face. "I love you, I've never loved another guy. I'm sorry I deceived you, but I'm not going to prostrate myself with guilt because I did a bad thing in a moment of crisis."
He did not want her to prostrate herself with guilt. He did not want her to do anything at all. He just wanted to get away from her and their friends and Admiral Carroll and this hateful house.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice told him he was throwing away the most precious thing he had ever had, and warned that this conversation would cause him a regret so bitter that it would burn in his soul for years. But he was too angry, too humiliated, and too painfully wounded to listen.
He went to the door.
"Don't leave," she pleaded.
"Go to hell," he said, and he went out.
2.30 A.M.
The new fuel and a larger fuel tank have boosted the Jupiter's thrust to a force of 83,000 pounds, and extended the burning time from 121 seconds to 155 seconds.
"Anthony was a true friend to me then," Billie said. "I was desperate. A thousand dollars! There was nowhere I could find that kind of money. He got it from his father, and he took the blame. He was a mensch. That's why it's so hard to understand what he's doing now."
"I can't believe I gave you up," Luke said. "Didn't I understand what you'd been through?"
"It wasn't all your fault," Billie said wearily. "I thought it was, at the time, but now I can see my own role in the whole mess." She looked as if the telling of the story had exhausted her.
They sat in silence for a while, hushed by regret. Luke wondered how long it would take Bern to drive here from Georgetown; then his thoughts reverted to the story Billie had told. "I don't much like what I'm learning about myself," he said after a while. "Did I really lose my two best friends, you and Bern, just by being unforgiving and pigheaded?"
Billie hesitated, then she laughed. "Why mince words? Yes, that's exactly what you did."
"And so you married Bern."
She laughed again. "You can be so egocentric!" she said amiably. "I didn't marry Bern because you left me. I married him because he's one of the best men in the world. He's smart, he's kind, and he's good in bed. It took me years to get over you, but when I did, I fell in love with Bern."
"And you and I became friends again?"
"Slowly. We always loved you, all of us, even if you could be a stiff-necked son of a gun. I wrote to you when Larry was born, and you came to see me. Then, the following year, Anthony had a huge party on his thirtieth birthday and you showed up. You were back at Harvard, getting your doctorate, and the rest of us were in Washington--Anthony and Elspeth and Peg working for the CIA, me doing research at George Washington University, and Bern writing scripts for National Public Radio--but you came to town a couple of times a year, and we would get together."
"When did I marry Elspeth?"
"Nineteen fifty-four--the year I divorced Bern."
"Do you know why I married her?"
She hesitated. The answer should have been easy, Luke thought. She should have said, "Because you loved her--of course!" But she did not. "I'm the wrong person to answer that question," she said at last.
"I'll ask Elspeth."
"I wish you would."
He looked at her. There was an edge to that last remark. Luke was figuring out how to tease out her meaning when a white Lincoln Continental pulled up outside, and Bern jumped out and came into the diner. Luke said, "I'm sorry we woke you."
"Forget it," Bern said. "Billie does not subscribe to the belief that when a man is asleep you should leave him be. If she's awake, everyone should be awake. You'd know that, if you hadn't lost your memory. Here." He tossed a thick booklet onto the table. The cover said: OFFICIAL AIRLINE GUIDE--PUBLISHED MONTHLY. Luke picked it up.
Billie said, "Look for Capital Airlines--they fly to the South."
Luke found the right pages. "There's a plane that leaves at six-fifty-five--that's only four hours from now." He looked more closely. "But, shit, it stops at every small town in Dixie, and gets to Huntsville at two-twenty-three this afternoon, local time."
Bern put on a pair of spectacles and read over his shoulder. "The next plane doesn't leave until nine o'clock, but it has fewer stops, and it's a Viscount, so it gets you to Huntsville earlier, a few minutes before noon."
"I'd get the later plane, but I don't relish hanging around Washington any longer than I have to," Luke said.
Bern said, "You have two more problems. Number one, I think Anthony will have men at the airport."
Luke frowned. "Maybe I could leave here by car and pick up a plane somewhere down the line." He looked at the timetable. "The early flight's first stop is a place called Newport News. Where the hell is that?"
"Near Norfolk, Virginia," Billie said.
"It lands there at two minutes past eight. Can I get there in time?"
"It's two hundred miles," Billie said. "Say four hours. You can make it with an hour to spare."
Bern said, "More, if you take my car. It has a top speed of a hundred and fifteen."
"You'd lend me your car?"
Bern smiled. "We've both saved each other's lives. A car is nothing."
Luke nodded. "Thanks."
"But you have a second problem," Bern said.
"What's that?"
"I was followed here."
3 A.M.
The fuel tanks contain baffles to prevent sloshing. Without the baffles, the movement of the liquid is so violent that it caused a test missile, Jupiter 1B, to disintegrate after 93 seconds of flight.
Anthony sat at the wheel of his yellow Cadillac a block from the diner. He had parked tight up against the rear of a truck so that his distinctive automobile was mostly shielded from view, but he could clearly see the diner and the stretch of sidewalk brightened by the light spilling from its windows. It appeared to be a cop hangout: there were two patrol cars parked outside, along with Billie's red Thunderbird and Bern's white Continental.
Ackie Horwitz had been stationed outside Bern Rothsten's apartment, with instructions to stay there unless Luke showed up--but, when Bern left in the middle of the night, Ackie had had the good sense to disobey orders and follow on his motorcycle. As soon as Bern arrived at the diner, Ackie had called Q Building and alerted Anthony.
Now Ackie came out of the diner in his motorcycle leathers, carrying a container of coffee in one hand and a candy bar in the other. He came to Anthony's window. "Lucas is in there," he said.
"I knew it," Anthony said with malevolent satisfaction.
"But he's changed his clothes. He has a black coat and a black hat now."
"He lost his other hat at the Carlton."
"Rothsten is with him, and the girl."
"Who else is in there?"
"Four cops telling dirty jokes, an insomniac reading the early edition of tomorrow's Washington Post, and the cook."
Anthony nodded. He could not do anything to Luke with the cops present. "We wait here until Luke comes out, then we both follow him. This time, we're not
going to lose him."
"Gotcha." Ackie went to his motorcycle, behind Anthony's car, and sat in the saddle to drink his coffee.
Anthony planned ahead. They would catch up with Luke in a quiet street, overpower him, and take him to a CIA safe house in Chinatown. At that point Anthony would get rid of Ackie. Then he would kill Luke.
He felt coldly determined. He had suffered a moment of emotional weakness at the Carlton earlier, but afterwards he had hardened his heart, resolving not to think about friendship and betrayal until this was all over. He knew he was doing the right thing. He would deal with regrets after he had done his duty.
The door of the diner opened.
Billie came out first. The bright lights were behind her, so Anthony could not see her face, but he recognized her small figure and the characteristic sway of her walk. Next came a man in a black coat and black hat: Luke. They went to the red Thunderbird. The figure in the trenchcoat bringing up the rear got into the white Lincoln.
Anthony started his engine.
The T-bird moved away, followed by the Lincoln. Anthony waited a few seconds, then pulled out. Ackie tucked in behind on his motorcycle.
Billie headed west, and the little convoy followed. Anthony stayed a block and a half behind, but the streets were deserted, so they were sure to notice they were being tailed. Anthony felt fatalistic about it. There was no further point in deception: this was the showdown.
They came to Fourteenth Street and stopped for a red light, and Anthony came up behind Bern's Lincoln. When the light turned green, Billie's Thunderbird suddenly shot forward, while the Lincoln remained stationary.
Cursing, Anthony reversed a few yards, then threw the shift into drive and stamped on the gas pedal. The big car shot forward. He swung around the standing Lincoln and raced after the others.
Billie zigzagged through the neighbourhood at the back of the White House, shooting red lights, defying No Turn signs, and driving the wrong way on one-way streets. Anthony did the same, desperately trying to stay on her tail, but the Cadillac could not match the T-bird for maneuverability, and she drew away.
Ackie passed Anthony and stayed right on Billie's tail. However, as she increased her lead over Anthony, he guessed that her game plan was first to shake the Cadillac by twisting and turning, then get onto a freeway and outrun the motorcycle, which could not match the T-bird's top speed of 125. "Hell," he said.
Then luck intervened. Screeching around a corner, Billie ran into a flood. Water was gushing out of a drain at the curbside, and the entire width of the road was two or three inches under. She lost control of her car. The tail of the Thunderbird swung around in a wide arc, and the vehicle spun through a half circle. Ackie veered around her, his bike slipped from under him, and he fell off and rolled in the water but got up immediately. Anthony jammed on the brakes of the Cadillac and skidded to a halt at the intersection. The Thunderbird came to a halt slewed across the street, with its trunk an inch from a parked car. Anthony pulled across its front, blocking it in. Billie could not get away.
Ackie was already at the driver's door of the Thunderbird. Anthony ran to the passenger side. "Get out of the car!" he yelled. He drew the gun from his inside pocket.
The door opened, and the figure in the black coat and hat got out.
Anthony saw immediately that it was not Luke, but Bern.
He turned and looked back the way they had come. There was no sign of the white Lincoln.
Rage boiled up inside him. They had switched coats, and Luke had escaped in Bern's car. "You fucking idiot!" he screamed at Bern. He felt like shooting him on the spot. "You don't know what you've done!"
Bern was infuriatingly calm. "Then tell me, Anthony," he said. "What have I done?"
Anthony turned away and stuffed the gun back into his coat.
"Wait a minute," Bern said. "You've got some explaining to do. What you did to Luke is illegal."
"I don't have to explain one goddamn thing to you," Anthony spat.
"Luke's not a spy."
"How would you know a thing like that?"
"I know."
"I don't believe you."
Bern gave him a hard look. "Sure you do," he said. "You know perfectly well that Luke is not a Soviet agent. So why the hell are you pretending otherwise?"
"Go to hell," Anthony said, and he walked away.
>>><<<
Billie lived in Arlington, a leafy suburb on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. Anthony drove along her street. As he passed her house, he saw on the other side of the road a dark-colored Chevrolet sedan belonging to the CIA. He turned a corner and parked.
Billie would come home in the next couple of hours. She knew where Luke had gone. But she would not tell Anthony. He had lost her trust. She would stay loyal to Luke now--unless Anthony put her under extraordinary pressure.
So that was what he would do.
Was he crazy? A small voice in his head kept asking if the race was worth the prize. Was there any justification for what he was about to do? He pushed his doubts aside. He had chosen his destiny long ago, and he was not to be deflected from it, not even by Luke.
He opened the trunk of his car and took out a black leather case, the size of a hardcover book, and a pencil flashlight. Then he walked back to the Chevy. He slid into the passenger seat beside Pete and sat looking at the dark windows of Billie's little house. He thought, This will be the worst thing I have ever done.
He looked at Pete. "Do you trust me?" he said.
Pete's disfigured face twisted in an embarrassed grin. "What kind of question is that? Yes, I trust you."
Most of the young agents hero-worshipped Anthony, but Pete had an extra reason for being loyal to him. Anthony had discovered something about Pete that could get him fired--the fact that he had once been arrested for soliciting a prostitute--but he had kept it secret. Now, to remind Pete of that, he said, "If I did something that seemed wrong to you, would you still back me up?"
Pete hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. "Let me tell you something." He looked ahead, through the windscreen, at the lamplit street. "You've been like a father to me, that's all."
"I'm going to do something you won't like. I need you to trust me that it's the right thing to do."
"I'm telling you--you got it."
"I'm going in," Anthony said. "Honk if anyone arrives."
He walked softly up the driveway, circled around the garage, and went to the back door. He shone his flashlight through the kitchen window. The familiar table and chairs stood in darkness.
He had lived a life of deception and betrayal, but this, he thought with a surge of self-loathing, was the lowest he had ever sunk.
The kitchen door had an old-fashioned two-way lock with a key on the inside. Anthony could have opened it with a pencil. He put the flash in his mouth, then unzipped the leather case and took out an instrument like a dental probe. He slid it into the keyhole, pushing the key out on the far side. It fell on to the mat with no sound. He twisted the probe and unlocked the door.
Silently, he stepped into the darkened house.
He knew his way around. He checked the living room first, then Billie's bedroom. Both were empty. Next he looked in on Becky-Ma. She was fast asleep, her hearing aid on the bedside table. Last he went into Larry's room.
He shone his flash on the sleeping child, feeling sick with guilt. He sat on the edge of the bed and switched on the light. "Hey, Larry, wake up," he said. "Come on."
The boy's eyes opened. After a disoriented moment, he grinned. "Uncle Anthony!" he said, and he smiled.
"Time to get up," Anthony said.
"What time is it?"
"It's early."
"What are we going to do?"
"It's a surprise," Anthony said.
4.30 A.M.
Fuel shoots into the combustion chamber of a rocket engine at a speed of about 100 feet per second. Burning begins the instant the fluids meet. The heat of the flame soon evaporates
the liquids. Pressure rises to several hundred pounds per square inch, and the temperature soars to 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit.
Bern said to Billie, "You're in love with Luke, aren't you."
They were sitting in her car outside his building. She did not want to go in: she was impatient to get home to Larry and Becky-Ma.
"In love?" she said evasively. "Am I?" She was not sure how much she wanted to share with her ex-husband. They were friends, but not intimate.
"It's okay," he said. "I realized long ago that you should have married Luke. I don't think you ever stopped loving him. You loved me, too, but in a different way."
That was true. Her love for Bern was a gentle, calm feeling. With him she had never felt the hurricane of passion that engulfed her when she was with Luke. And when she asked herself what she felt for Harold--the easy affection or the whirlwind of excitement--the answer was depressingly obvious. Thinking about Harold gave her a pleasant but mild sense of pleasure. She had little experience of men--the only ones she had slept with were Luke and Bern--but instinct told her that with Harold she would never have the feeling Luke gave her of a sexual craving that left her weak and helpless with desire.
"Luke's married," she said. "To a beautiful woman." She thought for a moment. "Is Elspeth sexy?"
Bern frowned. "Hard to say. She could be, with the right guy. To me she seemed cold, but she never had eyes for anyone but Luke."
"Not that it matters. Luke is the faithful type. He'd stay with her if she was an iceberg, just out of a sense of duty." She paused. "There's something I have to say to you."
"Okay."
"Thank you. For not saying 'I told you so.' I sure appreciate your restraint."
Bern laughed. "You're thinking about our great quarrel."
She nodded. "You said my work would be used to brainwash people. Now your prediction has come true."
"All the same, I was wrong. Your work had to be done. We need to understand the human brain. People may use knowledge to do evil, but we can't hold up scientific progress. But, listen, do you have a theory about what Anthony is up to?"
"Best I could come up with: I imagine Luke discovered a spy down there at Cape Canaveral and came to Washington to tell the Pentagon about it. But the spy is really a double agent, working for us, so Anthony is desperate to protect the guy."