“Good morning,” he said, approaching Pomerantz, who was standing thoughtfully at one of the huge windows.
“Good morning, Philip. What beautiful flowers,” she replied as she turned, and he set them in her arms.
“It’s the least I can do,” he replied. “We’d have never gotten onto the trail of the Heron if it weren’t for you. You more than earned them.”
“You never gave me the chance,” she teased, eyeing him flirtatiously.
“I came close.”
“Well, I haven’t given up on you, Keating,” she said spiritedly. “Though, we’ll probably both be in rocking chairs by the time I pull it off.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Keating said with a grin. “I spent an entire weekend in a rocker once.”
“And?” she asked intrigued.
“Beth got pregnant, and I spent a month in traction.”
Pomerantz was laughing when the last call for her flight was announced. “That’s me, Philip.”
“We stung ’em pretty good, didn’t we?” he said as he escorted her to the gate.
“Yes, but they always come back for more.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Oh, they will — and I’ll be here.”
“So will I.”
“I have a wonderful antique rocker at home. I’ll make sure I bring it along.” She kissed his cheek, then turned and hurried down the boarding ramp.
All three network news programs opened with the story of Nikolai Tikhonov’s ascendancy. President Hilliard leaned back in his chair thinking chances for an arms control agreement before the end of his term were nonexistent now. In light of the humiliating events in Geneva, the elderly Soviet Premier, and the older oligarchies who advised him, would undoubtedly revert to cold war paranoia, and back away from disarmament. The President was in a morose mood when Boulton entered the Oval Office.
“Tikhonov — very unsteady at swearing in ceremonies,” the DCI reported. “Advanced emphysema.”
“Prognosis?” Hilliard asked in a hopeful tone.
“He’ll be gone within a year.”
“So will I,” Hilliard said glumly, referring to his term. He was thinking a quick change in regimes might give him another chance for an arms control agreement.
“NATO wanted a draw,” Boulton said encouragingly, seeing his disappointment. “You gave it to them.”
“Not the one I wanted, Jake.”
“Can’t win them all, sir.”
“I can try,” the President said firmly.
There’d be no presidential library fund-raisers, no rush to publish memoirs after his term in office, he vowed. Not until the job was done. Not until nuclear disarmament was achieved. He’d be out of the White House, but he’d still be in the thick of it. The political wags on the Hill wouldn’t have to wonder how private citizen Jim Hilliard was spending his time. Jennings would tell them on the evening news.
That afternoon, he went for a walk in Arlington. He placed some fresh flowers at the base of his wife’s headstone, and straightened them just so.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Lieutenant Jon Lowell was brought directly to CIA headquarters at Langley for further debriefing. Boulton offered him a job during the course of it, and Lowell accepted. It wasn’t a difficult decision; flying ASW would never be the same without Arnsbarger. Before leaving, Lowell requested a moment alone with the DCI. Boulton knew what was on his mind. He’d been thinking about it, too, and agreed when Lowell proposed it.
Cissy and her son were out back picking oranges when Lowell arrived. Cissy rushed right into his arms, her eyes brimming with tears. The kid kept a few steps distance, taking it all in with a forlorn sadness.
“He died in the service of his country,” Lowell said softly, hugging her.
“I never believed he didn’t,” Cissy said, her face brightening. “I miss him so much.”
“So do I, Cissy,” Lowell replied solemnly. “He gave his life to save mine. They would have killed us both if he hadn’t.”
She leaned back from Lowell and stared at him for a moment, the impact of his words registering. “He thought the world of you, Jon.”
“I’ll never have another friend like him.”
“You know,” she began, her voice cracking with emotion, “there’s something about him just being gone like that, lost at sea. It’s so much harder to accept. I mean, every time the phone rings I get this feeling that maybe, just maybe—” She paused, choking up, a steady stream of tears rolling down her face.
“I know,” Lowell said compassionately, running his hand over her hair to calm her. “We talked that night. He told me he was going to marry you,” he went on, bending the truth for her sake.
An appreciative smile brightened Cissy’s sad face. She rubbed some tears from her eyes, then looked to her son sympathetically, and put a hand on his shoulder. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, and hugged her.
Lowell mussed his hair.
“How’re you doing, tiger?”
The kid shrugged. Then, his face sort of peered out from behind Cissy’s skirt and screwed up with a question, the way children’s faces do before they ask them. “This mean he was a hero?”
“Yes,” Lowell replied softly, crouching down so that they were eye to eye. “He was a hero.”
Valery Gorodin’s membership in nomenklatura was not to be. Instead, he was assigned to Military Department 35576—the GRU’s spy school on Militia Street in Moscow. For several weeks now, he’d been teaching the Soviet Union’s best and brightest what he knew how to do better than most — screw the KGB. He and Pasha met at Lastochka for dinner once a week.
“How’s it going?” Pasha asked.
“Boring. What makes you think this week would be any better than last?”
“Well,” Pasha replied in a tantalizing tone, “a GRU courier handles many sensitive documents.”
“And?”
“Tell me, does your first name end in IE or Y?”
“Very funny. Y, you know that. Why do you ask?”
“If my memory serves me correctly, I recall seeing a document this morning mentioning that the GRU rezident at our UN Mission is being called back. It seems the poor fellow is unable to cope with his KGB counterpart.”
Gorodin leaned across the table, burning with curiosity. “You saw the official list of candidates?”
“Of course not,” Pasha replied, as if it was beneath him. Then, eyes twinkling mischievously, he added, “I saw the official recommendation.’’
Aleksei Deschin’s dream of becoming Premier ended with SLOW BURN. He took comfort in the knowledge that it was Tvardovskiy who drove Melanie to the U.S. Embassy that morning, and every time since then, whenever Deschin saw the KGB chief, he smiled, savoring the irony of it.
Tvardovskiy had no inkling as to why, and always felt a perplexing uneasiness.
A few weeks had passed when Tvardovskiy arrived at the Cultural Ministry to discuss security for an exhibition of works from the Hermitage and Pushkin museums, scheduled to tour the United States.
“Good morning, Sergei,” Deschin said with the unnerving little smile.
“Aleksei,” the KGB chief replied, checking his fly.
Deschin handed him a list of personnel who would travel with the exhibit, and required clearances.
Tvardovskiy perused it for a moment. “There don’t seem to be any problems,” he said, pausing briefly before adding, “I see you’ve decided to make the trip.”
“Yes, the Metropolitan was adamant that I supervise the installation,” Deschin replied.