"Because you had to. You knew the police would want her to identify… whoever it was in the morgue."
"Yes."
"Except I did the dirty work for her."
"As I said, Mr. Thorne, I understand your resentment — but direct it at me. In fact, it was I who insisted that she bring you to Detroit. I realized then that her original impulse had been sensible. She needed a friend, someone she could trust and rely on. I thank you for being that person — though I hardly expect you to thank me."
Was resentment what I felt now? I wasn't sure. I watched him silently as he drew a small black cheroot from the breast pocket of his shirt — a checkered lumberjack shirt, virtually identical to the one in May's picture. Now that I knew he was alive, a good many things began to make sense. But I still wasn't sure about May. To what extent had she manipulated me — despite her reluctance? Or had she too been duped by her father? It scarcely made any difference; not now. And he'd certainly duped everyone else. While we'd been chasing all over the world, he'd had his feet up, relaxing in his woodsy lair. It was even comfortable. The wood stove was primitive, but its heat would be abundant; the kitchen table was a nice piece of pine; and the Coleman pressure lamps would provide enough light for a pleasant read in the evening. There was even one engraving, beautifully framed: palms, waving gently on the beach of some Pacific isle. Perhaps Robert Gibbings…
Struggling to take everything in, I stepped to the cabin's single window and parted the curtain. It was late afternoon now, growing darker each minute; already the clearing held an opaque, silvery light, like the back of a mirror: crouched in the dark margin of the woods, Subotin would be completely invisible. If he was there… I turned back to the room. Brightman lit his cheroot; behind the cloud of black smoke it produced, his eyes regarded me impassively. It was my move, he seemed to be saying — but he was planning his too. He was not only alive, I realized, he was still very formidable. God knows what I felt about him; his existence, in itself, was still too disorienting. And yet this turn of events, however unsettling, also gave me a certain sense of satisfaction. For on some level my intuition had proved right. He'd been alive all along, and as I tracked into his past, he'd been waiting ahead of me, around the next corner. I said, "Where is May now?"
"In Toronto, I assume."
"Did she come here first, on her way?"
"I haven't seen her for weeks, Mr. Thorne." A lie, and it stole a little of his dignity. I shook my head. "We don't have time, Mr. Brightman. There's no point trying to hide things. I saw Grainger. I know all about Florence Raines. And Dimitrov. I saw Berri, and he told me the truth. Hamilton… your embassy package… Yuri Shastov… I know all that. I know May was in Harrisburg, and I know what she was doing. I know…" But then I stopped. I'd asked the question because I was trying to work out how Subotin had found him — presumably he'd been following May — but this too really didn't make very much difference. So I just added, The pickup in the clearing at the end of the track… I assume it's yours?"
Brightman looked at me, his eyes level with mine. I'd told him that I'd unraveled all the secrets of his life, but he only gave a slight nod — an acknowledgment, but hardly of defeat. "You've been very enterprising." He shrugged. "And yes, the truck is mine. I was about to walk up there. You can't drink from the stream anymore, so every other day I go into the village for water."
On the table, a length of rope was looped through the handles of three plastic milk jugs.
"I wouldn't advise it," I said. "You'll find a man waiting there. His name is Subotin, or at least that's how I know him. In any case, he's Russian, he has a gun, and he's planning to kill you — or worse."
The effect of this was immediate, though I wouldn't call it devastating: you just don't "devastate" men like Brightman. But the news hit him hard. The skin tightened over his skull; for an instant, he was very much his age. Steadying himself, he drew on the cheroot.
"You're sure, Mr. Thorne?"
"Yes."
"If you know as much 3s you say you do, you know how important this is. Tell me—"
"I saw him at the Alva, the place where May was staying. I followed him here. He's in the clearing with the truck. I went around him, following the stream, then picked up the path." I added, "I assume he followed May when she came here."
He shook his head. "May was never here."
"You must have met her."
"Yes, but in Harrisburg."
"Then he must have followed you from that meeting."
"No." He walked over to the window and looked out. "Remember, Mr. Thorne, I've been covering my tracks longer than you've been alive. No one followed me here. But you say he found Hamilton—"
"He killed Hamilton, Mr. Brightman. I suspect he also killed Grainger, and he very nearly killed Berri."
He turned to me. "Years ago, Hamilton was here. It's possible—"
"Does it make any difference?"
"Oh yes. He only wants the money — but May's got it now. If he found out about this place from Hamilton — if he doesn i know about her — then she's safe. That's the difference."
And now his eyes met mine. At once his expression changed utterly. His sophistication vanished; calculation, cunning, duplicity — even his strong sense of himself — dropped away and were replaced by a look of total frankness and vulnerability. This was his heart; this was all that he cared about; everything else was pretense. This look lasted only a moment, but it was almost frightening… Relief spread through him; but in its wake came resignation, acceptance, surrender. All at once, in retrospect, everything May had done — her fears in the beginning — seemed much more reasonable; she had understood how completely he was devoted to her. Feeling an echo of this now, I said quickly, "Don't be too sure."
I was right; even this one hint of doubt as to her safety flashed life back into his eyes.
"Yes," he said, "you can never be too sure with him. Do you know who he is, Mr. Thorne? Who he represents?"
"People in the Soviet military. With friends in high places."
"You have been thorough. He was in the GRU, military intelligence — though it's really just a subset of the KGB. His 'friends' are in the Navy."
"And they want to make the U.S.S.R. safe for the Russians?"
'They want power, Mr. Thorne, for themselves and their country — and they know that Communism merely gets in the way. They want an efficient economy, national loyalty, rational political structures… so they can have even bigger guns and more submarines. They'll try to get this power through the military and the secret police — they're going to try and bring them together, end their infighting. Once they've done that, they'll turn Russia from a Communist dictatorship into a military one."
"And you want to stop this?"
He turned away from the window, and smiled. "No, Mr. Thorne. I just want to be left alone. That's why — I was in despair — I sent the key back there. Let them'deal with it — let them deal with their own damn problems in their own damnable country."
I looked at him carefully; he was lying, or partly — but then he didn't know that I knew who Shastov really was, only that I knew his name. But maybe it wasn't entirely a lie… he'd been in despair and by returning the key to the gold to Shastov he'd been making a final, despairing gesture. But perhaps, too, he'd hoped to send everyone on a wild-goose chase through the Soviet Union while he and May sneaked away quietly — this might have been his last, despairing hope. I said, "You say May's got the money… do you truly still want it?"