“You’re a soft touch,” Forrestal said, throwing up his hands as he stood. “Maybe I should’ve hit you.”
Hillenkoetter just smiled as he stood, and extended his hand. “That’s how I got this pretty, getting punched in the face. Good to see you, Jim.”
“You’re coddling them. This isn’t over,” Forrestal said as he stormed off. Despite Forrestal’s threat, Hillenkoetter couldn’t help but feel good. He enjoyed having a one-up on someone, and on Forrestal in particular. He figured Truman would back him up, anyway — the President had a short temper when it came to Forrestal’s antics. Besides, whatever the Variants were talking about, the reel-to-reel recorder in the conference room would tell him soon enough.
22
That’s contact,” Frank muttered as he watched the dignitaries file onto the dais overlooking the long, narrow Wenceslas Square in the center of Prague. Tall old buildings lined the sides in baroque splendor, with flags — a blue triangle with two fat stripes of red and white — hanging from nearly every window. The crowd had a kind of muted excitement, as if they were sort of happy to be there, if only because they didn’t have to be at work. Up on the stage, there were plenty of Czechs and Slovaks in suits and ties, a couple women as well, and a number of foreign dignitaries — many of whom looked very, very Russian. The Red Army uniforms were, of course, a dead giveaway.
One of them was Yushchenko.
Frank looked around the square, trying to gather intelligence from what he saw — or rather, what the woman inside his head was picking up. Last night, Frank had visited an elderly washerwoman on her deathbed, Mathilde Cizek, who’d pushed a cart around the Old Town of Prague for nearly a half century. She knew everything about everyone, it seemed, and her family assured Danny that she knew the city as well as her own children.
Frank later learned she’d had ten kids and, at last count, twenty-three grandchildren. A lot of children to know. And as he looked around, Mathilde… fed him information about the streets and boulevards, alleys and service doors, what the various buildings housed — all mixed in with anecdotes about her family. A lot of it seemed useless, but Frank did his best to remember it all, just in case.
Finally, Klement Gottwald took the stage, his freshly scrubbed and beaming family trailing behind him. There were more spirited cheers from the crowd, though Frank knew the armed security in the square had been “encouraging” people to get into the spirit of things. Orders to “Be happy. Cheer loudly,” followed by a hard look and a tighter grip on their SKS carbines, and everybody seemed to take it pretty seriously. Of course, the Soviets had engineered Gottwald’s ascendancy, which is why Yushchenko could reasonably deduce he’d be in Prague for the festivities.
Frank didn’t need Maggie’s Enhancement to tell Yushchenko was nervous and haggard. He wondered why. The event was pure theater, the Czechs and Slovaks weren’t making noise about their new overlords, things seemed nice and pacified. But INSIGHT looked pretty bad. Maybe it was just a hard night of vodka and Czech girls. Maggie would be able to gather more information, as she was posted closer to the stage.
So, Frank turned to more pressing matters — like how to get close to Yushchenko while he was out in the open, so he could pass him a note.
“You’re not going to get to him here,” came Mathilde’s voice, unbidden. “They have the entrances blocked. Even the service ones I used. When they do things here, it is impossible to get anywhere without having your papers checked every ten feet.”
Frank sighed and brought his Ansco Speedex camera up to his eye to squeeze off a roll of film. Every face on that stage needed a good sharp photo — a favor to the overworked Prague station chief. Least he could do, given he probably wouldn’t get anywhere close to Yushchenko anyway.
“Well, it’s sure nice to see you again, Mr. Kyranov. Next time, I’m gonna be sure to pack a bottle of Jack Daniels for you!” Ellis said, gripping the Russian’s hand firmly in the middle of Vladislav Hall in Prague Castle, where the new president was celebrating a peaceful, if not entirely aboveboard, transition of power.
“And I you, Mr. Davis. I shall bring you Stolichnaya from Moscow. It is our finest vodka, and we shall compare which of our nations produces the better liquor!” Kyranov exclaimed, his broad face sweaty from the packed room and the large tumbler he’d just consumed. “And you must tell me more stories of your charming Alabama.”
Ellis put a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled. “Oh, I got plenty of stories, tovarishch. Can’t wait to share ’em!” And with that, Ellis nodded and extricated himself from the gregarious Russian so he could sidle up to Maggie over by the bar, a rickety-looking thing, given the vaulted arches and flowery stonework of the hall.
“Renewing old friendships?” Maggie asked with a slight grin. She had on a red number that, Ellis had to admit, worked pretty well for her. Gowns seemed hard — so many ways they could cut and fit. Tuxedos, in Ellis’s estimation, were both easier and more elegant. Any man looked better automatically by putting on a tux — even Cal, who was wandering the party in full formal wear, play-acting as the deputy ambassador of some African country or another.
“Kyranov is a drunk and a talker. Shame is, he doesn’t say anything worth listening to,” Ellis said as he flagged the bartender for another glass of champagne — a taste he was quickly acquiring.
“Read the files next time,” Maggie said quietly after sipping her own drink. “He’s a deputy commissar in their agriculture department. His uncle helped whack dissidents when Stalin took over, after Lenin died. He’s useless.”
Ellis frowned. “You stick to your tactics, and I’ll stick to mine. I see you haven’t spotted our friend yet.”
“No INSIGHT,” she confirmed, looking out over the crowd. Ellis followed her gaze to where Cal was standing — of course, he stood out like a sore thumb in a tux. But he also seemed relaxed — Ellis had serious reservations about trying to put Cal in the middle of a fancy ball as anything other than a flunky, but so far, so good. Of course, Frank was with him, acting as his “translator,” meaning that Cal didn’t have to really say or do anything important. Ellis had to admit that Cal had been useful to the team, but still couldn’t shake his feeling that it was just plain wrong to have him around. It’s not like there were any other Negroes in attendance. Maybe that was the point, a bit of misdirection so the Czechs would be busy looking at Cal while the rest of the team did their jobs. But still… it was hard to stomach sometimes. Some things, Ellis believed, shouldn’t be done….
Maggie cleared her throat slightly. “Simmer down, Ellis. Cal’s doing just fine.”
“Stay out of my head, woman,” Ellis hissed.
“I don’t read minds. Your emotions come off you like a bad stink. So, rein it in.” Maggie put her empty champagne glass firmly on the bar and strode into the large crowd, looking left and right as subtly as she could, on the prowl for Yushchenko.
Ellis sighed and took a big swig of bubbly. It was going to be a long trip.
“The ambassador sends his regards and humblest apologies, President Gottwald, and the deputy ambassador hopes our two nations may enjoy new prosperity together in socialist brotherhood,” Frank said with a bright smile as Cal stood next to him stoically, hands clasped in front of him, feeling just uncomfortable enough to be believable… he hoped.