For the first time in a very long time, the liquor cabinet in the Oval Office was opened before noon. The American President poured his guest a Jack Daniel's, while the Frenchman filled his host's glass with Courvoisier. Then they raised their glasses in a toast to each other's native drink.
The Frenchman swished his bourbon over the ice. "You are most correct, my friend. This is an incredible story. As you say, it is the most goddamnedest thing I have ever heard."
The American took a swig and felt the cognac burn down to his stomach. "I'm pretty much at my wit's end. There's really nothing we can do until the Constellation is launched. I still have a hard time believing this is really happening, but my military people insist the Intrepid is talking to the Russians."
The Gallic President turned somber and pulled on his Jack Daniel's. "Entre nous, is this, this Graser device, I believe you called it, truly as powerful as you say?"
The American nodded. "Yeah. We've had oppressive security around the whole project, but even so, everybody knows we've had a technological breakthrough. Still, we thought the specifications on the Graser and the status of our SDI platform remained secure. We've given eyes-and-ears-only briefings to the NATO heads of state, and even then we couched a lot of the technical information in careful terms. You've only been in office for six months, and we were going to wait and see how this visit went before deciding whether or not to bring you in on the loop. I made the decision not to tell your predecessor."
The Frenchman chuckled. "Oui, I quite understand. In the Elysee bedroom he would always wake up facing east, while I tend to face west. But even with excessive security measures, there appears to have been a serious penetration of your project."
The President downed the remainder of the Courvoisier. "No argument there. I don't know how the hell they did it, but the Russians caught us with our pants down."
"Pardon? Pants down?"
"That means they penetrated our security when they shouldn't have been able to," explained the American.
The tortoiseshell glasses once again came off and the earpiece went between the teeth. After some thoughtful moments the Frenchman said, "We are not without our own information sources inside the Soviet Union. This matter has ramifications for all of Western Europe… for NATO. If you will permit me, I shall see if my DGSE can shed some light on what mischief the Russians are making."
The American perked up. "Thanks. I would appreciate it. My CIA hasn't been able to come up with squat on this whole affair."
The Frenchman drained the last of his drink and smiled. "You know, this bourbon is truly a wondrous elixir. What do you call this? Jacques Daniel's?"
MacKenzie Street had probably been a nice neighborhood— once upon a time. Big oak trees still lined the roadway, but now almost everywhere Strand looked she saw peeling paint, overgrown or dead shrubs, and grime. A few houses had broken-down cars parked in the front yard with parts strewn about. Two ragamuffin children, whom she guessed were Vietnamese, were bundled up against the chilly March air. When the cab pulled up to the curb they scurried away, leaving their broken scooter behind.
The old Kapuscinski house looked worse than the others. A fading FOR RENT sign on the front door dangled by a lone thumbtack, and there wasn't a single unbroken window in the entire house.
Strand got out, looking pert and attractive in her off-blue Air Force trench coat and beret. In the yard across the street, two leathered-up bikers leaned on their "hogs" and eyed her hungrily. They were obese and filthy.
"You want me to wait around, lady?" asked the cabbie tentatively.
Strand swallowed. "Yes, if you please."
"Okay. Just don't be too long."
"Roger," she replied.
"What?"
"I mean, I'll be back as fast as I can."
"Good." He locked the doors of his cab.
Strand didn't see any point in trying the Kapuscinski home, since it was obviously deserted, so she went to a neighboring house and marched up the cracked sidewalk. She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and knocked purposefully on the door. She waited and knocked again. The door opened slowly to a narrow slit, and Strand could barely make out a tiny, brown-skinned woman standing in the shadows on the inside.
"Si?"
Strand tried to smile. "Good day, ma'am. My name is Lydia Strand and I'm with the Air Force. I'm trying to track down some information and I wondered if I could ask you a few questions."
The woman's eyes had a wildness about them. ' 'Immigration?'' she asked apprehensively with a heavy accent.
Strand felt a dead end coming on. "Oh, you mean Immigration and Naturalization Service? INS? No, no. I am not Immigration. I'm with the Air Force."
"Por favor?"
"I guess you don't speak English, do you?" asked Strand lamely.
"No hablo ingles."
"I see, well, I'm afraid I don't speak Spanish, so I won't be taking up any more of your time. Thank''—the door slammed— "you."
Strand sighed, then beat a hasty retreat. At least she'd tried.
She walked back around the old Kapuscinski home toward the second neighbor's house, ignoring the bikers' stares. On rounding the corner of a large hedge she was greeted by a rather queer scene. A little white-haired man, wrapped in a worn black overcoat, was sitting on the concrete stoop with a steaming cup in his hand. Strand guessed it was coffee. Maybe tea. She couldn't understand why he was sitting outside on the cold, hard steps. There were still a few clumps of snow on the ground and winter wasn't over yet. She shrugged to herself, then approached him. "Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but—"
He put his finger to his lips, indicating he wanted silence. Then he pointed to the hedge and whispered, "He in there… They no leave during winter, you know.''
The accent was heavy. Strand guessed Eastern European.
The elderly man reached into his pocket, pulled out some sunflower seeds, and held them in his open palm.
Strand didn't understand what he was doing until a brilliant red cardinal appeared and perched on his thumb. The bird pecked through the offerings with his beak, then seized one seed and flew off. The white-haired man then pocketed the leavings and said, "He's a good friend."
Strand nodded. "I'm sure he is. And so are you, to come out and feed him in the cold."
He sipped from his cup. It was tea.
"Marta used to feed birds… she die.. now I feed."
"Marta… was she your wife?"
He nodded and sipped again.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Thank you," he replied softly, then looked at her carefully. "Who you?"
"Sir, my name is Major Lydia Strand and I'm with the Air Force. I'm trying to track down some information and I would appreciate it if you could help me. Can you tell me how long you've lived here?"
He returned her gaze with vacant eyes. Strand felt another dead end was in the making, for it appeared the old fella was somewhere out in the ozone.
"Long time," he said finally.
"I see. The reason I'm here is that I'm trying to find out about the family that once lived in the house next door." Strand pointed. "I can't tell you what it's about, but I would appreciate it greatly if you could answer just a few questions for me."
A shrug of the shoulders. "Okay."
"Thank you. Now, sir, over thirty years ago a family lived in the house next door. A mother, father, and small boy. The child was seven years old when they moved away. Their name was Kapuscinski and they were an immigrant family from Poland— although the boy was born in Chicago. What I'm trying to find out is—"