“Does he know who the CIA spy is?”
“No.”
“So we must find the leak ourselves,” Vashin said.
Yaponets listed the most likely suspects. “There is me and the Council of Brothers. No one else that I know of.”
“And Geraldine,” Vashin added.
“Kill her,” Yaponets muttered. It was an easy decision. Yaponets and the Council of Brothers were vor, the old guard criminals, and while they might conspire and plot to overthrow Vashin, they would never betray him to an outsider.
At first, Vashin said nothing. His survival depended on a precarious system of checks and balances where he compartmentalized potential threats to his life. Geraldine and Johnson served a vital purpose and protected him from his fellow vor. But when a decision had to be made, there was no choice. “Have the American bring her in,” Vashin finally said.
Tom Johnson stood in the door of Geraldine’s office. “Mikhail wants to see you.”
This is different, she thought. Why didn’t he just buzz? She arched an expressive eyebrow as her inner alarm bells went off. Any break in the routines surrounding Vashin signified trouble and, for a brief moment, panic nibbled at the edges of her self-control. She stood and followed the big American into the penthouse. He held the door for her and then left her alone with Vashin and Yaponets. The panic was back when Yaponets smiled at her. She used the only weapon at hand and lifted her chin to give him a condescending nod. But Vashin was looking out the window and didn’t see it.
Panic ripped at her when the doors to the private elevator whispered open and two bodyguards stepped out. The doors closed and the guards stood there, blocking that exit. Vashin turned from the window and looked at her. She knew what was coming.
An icy contempt for these men swept over her. She threw Yaponets a contemptuous look. “Really, is this necessary?”
“Undress,” Vashin ordered.
Don’t panic! she raged to herself. Slowly, she picked at the buttons on her blouse as her mind raced, looking for a way out. She dropped her blouse casually to the floor. What will he believe? With deliberate nonchalance, she unzipped her skirt and let it fall. She pushed the straps to her slip off her shoulders and felt its silky smoothness slip away. An answer came to her. Can I do it? She willed her hands not to shake as she unhooked her bra and dropped her panties. Finally she stepped out of her shoes.
Vashin pointed at the elevator and she walked to the closed doors. One of the guards inserted a key in the control box and twisted it counterclockwise. He stepped aside as the doors opened. Geraldine turned away from the dark chasm in front of her. She raised her head and looked at Vashin. She was regal, the queen going to her execution. “Why?” Her tone of voice, her bearing, demanded an answer.
“You told the CIA about my dreams,” Vashin said tonelessly.
The irony of it was overwhelming. How utterly stupid, she thought. It was enough to steel her nerve. She lifted her chin and stared him down. “CIA? Please, Mikhail, I am British.” She turned to the open door. “I told Johnson, no one else.” Ask why? she prayed.
Vashin held up his hand, stopping the thug from pushing her into the darkness. The pause lasted an eternity. “Why?”
She didn’t turn around as the cold updraft from the elevator well washed over her. Don’t shake! No signs of weakness. “He’s your chief of security. He had to know.” ASK WHY! she raged to herself.
He did and she closed her eyes in relief. “Who knows how the gods work. What if someone else had the same dream?”
The thug looked at Vashin, waiting for his signal. Vashin hesitated. She hadn’t begged for mercy or gone into a long, hysterical explanation. She had simply been Geraldine. His jaw worked and his facial muscles twitched. Was she telling him the truth? The thug moved toward her and raised his hand. Vashin shook his head and motioned him back. “Give her a lie detector test,” he ordered.
Geraldine turned and walked slowly away. She stepped over her clothes and disappeared into her office, still the queen.
The technician administering the polygraph had worked for the KGB for more than twenty years before he found himself unemployed. During that time, he had given thousands of tests to all types of prisoners before, during, and after interrogations. More often than not, the subject was stripped naked as part of the degradation the KGB favored. But he had never given a polygraph to a woman like this one. They could strip her clothes away but never her dignity. His fingers dabbed the gel lightly on her skin and his hands trembled when he applied the sensor pads. He wanted this one to live. He looked at Vashin and began with the standard control questions. Finally, he started the real questioning.
“Is your name Geraldine Blake?”
“No.”
“What is your true name?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Do you work for the CIA?”
“Of course not.”
The technician made a mark on the readout. “She’s telling the truth.”
Vashin leaned forward, unable to remain silent. “Who told the CIA?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Johnson.”
Vashin picked up a phone. “Arrest the American.” He listened for a moment and hung up, his face frozen. “Johnson has disappeared.”
The bleachers were packed with teenage girls for the Saturday morning parade and they all stood when the regiment passed in review. The girls conducted their own inspection of the cadets, using a far different system of gigs and demerits than were found in NMMI’s Blue Book. The commander of D Troop called “Eyes right” before reaching the reviewing stand so his two platoons could inspect back. But a little cry of “Aren’t they cute!” from the stands caused a ripple of laughter among the boys in the crowd who were there on their own reconnaissance mission.
It was the old love-hate relationship between the townies and the cadets. But if the truth were known, it was based more on gender than anything else.
“Did you see the buns on that tall guy,” the cadet marching next to Zeth said. “He was really checking us out.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Zeth replied.
The Corps marched off the field and into the Box, the quadrangle inside Hagerman Barracks. The squadrons took their respective places and waited for the results of the morning’s inspections and parade. The winners were announced over the loudspeaker and the honors were split among three troops, all from different squadrons. The cadets from each squadron roared their approval until the windows shook. They were “Rocking the Box.” Then the names of cadets newly promoted in rank were read off as the cheering died away. That was the good part. At NMMI, cadets learned early that life is tough and the formation ended as the names of cadets demoted in rank were announced.
The last name was Zeth Trogger.
“This place sucks,” Brian muttered when he and Matt were back in their room. He quickly stripped off his white web belt and hung up his coat, careful to brush it down first and button it up. “They busted her because they thought she was cheating.”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I talked to Zeth’s chem teacher and told him I was tutoring her. I answered all his questions.”
“Yeah,” Brian muttered. “But what about the Dean? Did he believe you?”
“I never talked to the dean. He used to teach chemistry and I heard he called her in and gave her an oral quiz.”
“Which means,” Brian said, “he flunked her. She studied hard. Talk about unfair. Let’s go talk to her.”