After a long, heavy silence, Sobroskin replied, "Russia had a tradition of tyranny through to the early years of this century. Ever since it threw off the yoke of Mongol subjugation in the fifteenth century, it was obsessed with preserving its security to the point that the security of other nations became a threat that could not be tolerated. It expanded its borders by conquest and held on to its acquired territories by oppression, intimidation, and terror. But the new lands in turn had borders, and there was no end to the process. Communism changed nothing. It was merely a banner of convenience for rallying gullible idealists and rationalizing sacrifice. Apart from a few brief months in 1917, Russia was no more Communist than the Church of the Middle Ages was Christian."
He paused to fold his handkerchief and return it to his pocket. Pacey waited without speaking for him to continue. "We thought that all that began to change in the early decades of this century with the end of the threat of thermonuclear war and a more enlightened view of internationalism. And superficially it did. Many like myself dedicated themselves to creating a new climate of understanding and common progress with the West as it emerged from its own style of tyranny." Sobroskin sighed and shook his head sadly. "But the Thurien affair has revealed that the forces that plunged Russia into its own Dark Age did not go away, and their purpose has not changed." He looked at Pacey sharply. "And the forces that brought religious terror and economic exploitation to the West have not gone away, either. On both sides they have merely modified their stance to avert what would have guaranteed their destruction along with everything else. There is a web across this whole planet that connects many Sverenssens with many Verikoffs. They pose behind banners and slogans that call for liberation, but the liberation they seek is their own, not that of the people who follow them."
"Yes, I know," Pacey said. "We’ve uncovered some of it too. What’s the answer?"
Sobroskin raised an arm and gestured at the far side of the lake. "For all we know, those children might have grown up to see other worlds under other suns. But the price of that would have been knowledge, and knowledge is the enemy of tyranny in any disguise. It has freed more people from poverty and oppression than all of the ideologies and creeds in history put together. Every form of serfdom follows from serfdom of the mind."
"I’m not sure what you’re saying," Pacey said. "Are you saying you want to come over to us or something?"
The Russian shook his head. "The war that matters has nothing to do with flags. It is between those who would set the minds of children free, and those who would deny them Thurien. The latest battle has been lost, but the war will continue. Perhaps one day we will talk to Thurien again. But in the meantime another battle is looming in Moscow for control of the Kremlin, and that is where I must be." He reached behind him for a package that he had placed on the bench behind him and passed it to Pacey. "We have a tradition of ruthlessness in handling our internal affairs that you do not share. It is possible that many people will not survive the next few months, and I could be one of them. If so, I would like to think that my work has not been for nothing." He released the package and withdrew his arm. "That contains a complete record of all that I know. It would not be safe with my colleagues in Moscow since their future, like my own, is full of uncertainties. But I know that you will use the information wisely, for you understand as well as I do that in the war that really matters we are on the same side." With that he stood up. "I am glad that we met, Norman Pacey. It is reassuring to see that on both sides, bonds exist that are deeper than the colors on maps. I hope that we meet again, but in case that is not to be. . ." He let the words hang and extended a hand.
Pacey stood up and grasped it firmly. "We will. And things will be better," he said.
"I hope so." Sobroskin released his grip, turned, and began walking away along the side of the lake.
Pacey’s fingers tightened around the package as he stood watching the short, stocky figure marching jerkily off to keep its appointment with fate, possibly to die so that children might laugh. He couldn’t let him, he realized. He couldn’t let him walk away without knowing. "Mikolai!" he called.
Sobroskin stopped and looked back. Pacey waited. The Russian retraced his steps.
"The battle was not lost," Pacey said. "There’s another channel to Thurien operating right now . . . in the United States. It doesn’t need the relay. We’ve been talking to Thurien for weeks. That was why Karen Heller returned to Earth. It’s okay. All the Sverenssens in the world can’t stop it now."
Sobroskin stared at him for a long time before the words seemed to register. At last he moved his head in a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes expressionless and distant, and murmured quietly, "Thank you." Then he turned away and began walking again, this time slowly, as if in a trance. When he had covered twenty yards or so he stopped, stared back again, and raised his arm in a silent salutation. Then he turned away and began walking once more, and after a few steps his pace lightened and quickened.
Even at that distance Pacey had seen the exultation in his expression. Pacey watched until Sobroskin had vanished among the people walking by the boathouses farther along the shoreline, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction, toward the Serpentine bridge.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Niels Sverenssen’s million-dollar home was situated in Connecticut, forty miles from New York City, on the shore side of a two-hundred-acre estate of parkland and trees that overlooked Long Island Sound. The house framed two sides of a large, clover-leaf pool set among terraced banks of shrubs. A tennis court on one side and outbuildings on the other completed the pool’s encirclement. The house was fashionably contemporary, spacious, light, and airy, with sections of roof sweeping in clean, unbroken planes from crest almost to ground level in some places to give the complete structure the lines and composition of an abstract sculpture, and drawing back in others to reveal vertical faces and slanted panels of polished brownstone, tiled mosaic, or glass. The imposing central structure rose two levels and contained the larger rooms and Sverenssen’s private quarters. One wing fell to single level and comprised six extra bedrooms and additional living space to accommodate the guests of his frequent weekend parties and other functions. The other was two-storied, though not as high as the central portion; it contained offices for Sverenssen and a secretary, a library, and other rooms dedicated to his work.
There was something odd about the history of Sverenssen’s house.
Lyn had flown up to New York accompanied by one of Clifford Benson’s agents, who had introduced her to a local office of the CIA to examine their records for additional information on Sverenssen. It turned out that his house had been built for him ten years previously by the construction division of Weismand Industries, Inc., a large, diversified corporation. The company was a builder of industrial premises, not private dwellings, which was no doubt why they had called in several outside architects and designers as consultants. What made the project even stranger was that Weismand was based in California; why would Sverenssen have used them when any number of qualified firms existed in the area?
Further checks revealed that Weismand Industries stock was held mainly by a Canadian insurance consortium that was closely linked to the same British banking fraternity that, along with its French and Swiss connections, had launched Sverenssen’s spectacular career upon his sudden return from obscurity. Had Sverenssen simply been repaying a favor, or were there other reasons why he felt it necessary to build his house using a company with which he had close, and presumably confidential, connections?