Father Graham, who had been the Fitzgeralds’ family priest for over thirty years, raised his arms in the air.
‘My friends,’ he began. ‘Priests are often called upon to sing the praises of parishioners who have passed away, with whom they were barely acquainted and whose achievements were not always apparent. But this cannot be said of Connor Fitzgerald. As a student, he will be remembered as one of the finest quarterbacks the University of Notre Dame has ever produced. As a soldier, no feeble words of mine could possibly match the citation written by Captain Christopher Jackson, his platoon commander: “A fearless officer in the face of danger, who always placed his men’s lives before his own.” As a professional he gave almost three decades’ service to his country; you only have to look around to see the high regard in which he was held by his peers. But most of all, as a husband to Maggie and a father to Tara, we will remember him. Our hearts go out to both of them.’
Father Graham lowered his voice. ‘I was lucky enough to count myself among his friends. I had been looking forward to playing bridge with him again over the Christmas holiday — in fact, I was rather hoping to win back the $10 I lost to him in a rubber just before he went away on his last assignment. Dear God, I would happily give everything I possess just to be able once again to lose a game of bridge to him.
‘Sportsman, soldier, professional, lover, father, friend, and for me — although I would never have had the courage to mention it in his presence, simply because he would have laughed at me — hero.
‘Buried not far from you, Connor, is another American hero.’ The elderly priest raised his head. ‘If I were John Fitzgerald Kennedy, I would be proud to be buried in the same cemetery as Connor Fitzgerald.’
The pallbearers stepped forward and lowered the coffin into the grave. Father Graham made the sign of the cross, bent down, picked up a handful of earth and scattered it on the coffin.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest as a lone Marine bugler played Taps. The honour guard folded the flag from the coffin until it ended as a neat triangle in the hands of the youngest cadet, a boy of eighteen who, like Connor, had been born in Chicago. Normally he would have presented it to the widow with the words, ‘Ma’am, on behalf of the President of the United States.’ But not today. Today he marched in a different direction. Seven Marines raised their rifles in the air and fired a twenty-one-gun salute as the young cadet stood to attention in front of the President of the United States, and surrendered the flag.
Tom Lawrence received it, walked slowly around to the other side of the grave and stood before the widow. Maggie raised her head and tried to smile as the President presented her with the standard of the nation.
‘On behalf of a grateful country, I pass to you the flag of the Republic. You are surrounded by friends who knew your husband well. I only wish I’d had that privilege.’ The President bowed his head and returned to the other side of the grave. As the Marine band struck up the national anthem, he placed his right hand over his heart.
No one moved until Maggie had been escorted by Stuart and Tara to the entrance of the cemetery. She stood there for almost an hour, shaking hands with every mourner who had attended the ceremony.
Two men who had remained on the top of the hill throughout the service had flown in from Russia the previous day. They had not come to mourn. They would return to St Petersburg on the evening flight, and report that their services were no longer required.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Air force one was surrounded by tanks when the President of the United States landed at Moscow airport.
President Zerimski left us in no doubt that he had little interest in giving Tom Lawrence a photo opportunity for the folks back home. Nor were there the usual ‘Welcome to Russia’ speeches delivered from a podium on the runway.
As a grim-faced Lawrence descended the aircraft’s steps, he was greeted by the sight of Marshal Borodin standing in the turret of a tank.
When the two Presidents eventually met at the Kremlin later this morning, the first item on the agenda was President Zerimski’s demand that the NATO forces which patrol Russia’s western borders be immediately withdrawn. Following the heavy defeat of his Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Conventional Arms Reduction Bill in the Senate, and the Ukraine’s voluntary return to the Soviet Union, President Lawrence knows that he is not in a position to give an inch on NATO’s role in Europe, especially since the newly elected Senator Helen Dexter keeps describing him as ‘the red stooge’.
Since Senator Dexter’s resignation as Director of the CIA last year, in order to ‘more openly oppose the President’s misguided foreign policy’, there is already talk on the Hill of her becoming the first woman President.
At this morning’s preliminary talks in the Kremlin, President Zerimski made no pretence of...
Stuart looked up from the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald as Maggie walked into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a sweater. They had been living in the same house for over six months, and he had never seen her with a hair out of place.
‘Good morning, Stuart,’ she said. ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’
‘Zerimski’s still flexing his muscles at the slightest opportunity,’ Stuart replied. ‘And your President is having to put a brave face on it. At least, that’s the view of the Russian correspondent of the Herald.’
‘Zerimski would drop a nuclear bomb on the White House if he thought he could get away with it,’ said Maggie. ‘Isn’t there any brighter news to tell me on a Saturday morning?’
‘The Prime Minister has announced the date for the election of our first President.’
‘You’re so slow in this country,’ said Maggie, filling a bowl with cornflakes. ‘We got rid of the British over two hundred years ago.’
‘It won’t take us much longer,’ said Stuart with a laugh as his wife strolled into the room in her dressing gown.
‘Good morning,’ she said sleepily. Maggie slid off her stool and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘You sit there and have these cornflakes while I make you an omelette. You really mustn’t...’
‘Mother, I’m pregnant, not dying of consumption,’ said Tara. ‘I’ll be just fine with a bowl of cornflakes.’
‘I know, it’s just that...’
‘...you’ll never stop worrying,’ said Tara, putting her arms around her mother’s shoulders. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. There is no medical evidence that miscarriages are hereditary; only fussing mothers. What’s the big story this morning?’ she asked, looking across at Stuart.
‘My case in the criminal court has made the headlines — on page sixteen,’ he said, pointing to three short paragraphs tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner.
Tara read the report through twice before saying, ‘But they don’t even mention your name.’
‘No. They seem to be more interested in my client at the moment,’ admitted Stuart. ‘But if I get him off, that could change.’
‘I hope you don’t get him off,’ said Maggie as she broke a second egg. ‘I think your client is a little creep, and ought to spend the rest of his life in jail.’
‘For stealing $73?’ said Stuart in disbelief.
‘From a defenceless old woman.’