Stephen Coonts
The Red Horseman
And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given to him a great sword.
The Cold War is over; the Soviet Union is no more…. In the past, we dealt with the nuclear threat from the Soviet Union through a combination of deterrence and arms control, but the new possessors of nuclear weapons may not be deterrable.
1
Toad Tarkington first noticed her during the intermission after the first act. His wife, Rita Moravia, had gone to the ladies’ and he was stretching his legs, casually inspecting the audience, when he saw her. Three rows back, four seats in from the other aisle.
She was seated, talking to her male companion, gesturing lightly, now listening to what her friend had to say. Now she glanced at the program, then raised her gaze and spoke casually.
Toad Tarkington stared. In a few seconds he caught himself and turned his back.
How long had it been? Four years? No, five. But it couldn’t be her, not here. Not in Washington, D.C. Could it?
He half-turned and casually glanced at her again.
The hairstyle was different, but it’s her. He would swear to it. Great figure, eyes set wide apart above prominent cheekbones, with a voice and a touch that would excite a mummy — no man ever forgets a woman like that.
He sat and stared at the program in his hand without seeing it. He had last seen her five years ago, in Tel Aviv. And now she’s here.
Judith Farrell. No, that was only an alias. Her real name is Hannah something. Mermelstein. Hannah Mermelstein. Here!
Good God!
Suddenly he felt hot. He tugged at the knot in his tie and unfastened his collar button.
“What’s the matter? Are you catching a cold?” Rita slipped into her seat and gave him one of those looks that wives reserve for husbands whose social skills are showing signs of slackness. Before Toad could answer the house lights dimmed and the curtain opened for act two.
He couldn’t help himself. When the spotlight hit the actors, he looked left, trying to see her in the dim glow. Too many people in the way. Hannah Mermelstein, but he had promised to never tell anyone her real name. And he hadn’t.
“Is something wrong?” Rita whispered.
“Uh-uh.”
“Then why are you rubbing your leg?”
“Ah, it’s aching a little.”
That leg had two steel pins in it, and just now it seemed to Toad that he could feel both of them. The Israeli doctors inserted the pins just a day or two before he saw Judith/Hannah for the last time. She came to see him in the hospital.
Toad Tarkington didn’t want to remember. He folded his hands on his lap and tried to concentrate on the actors on the stage. Yet it came back as if it had just happened yesterday, raw and powerful — the night he made love to her, that Naples hotel lobby as the man with her gunned down a man in the elevator, the assault on the United States, the stench of the ship burning in the darkness…that F-14 flight with Jake Grafton. He found himself gripping the arms of the seat as all the emotions came flooding back.
What is she doing here?
Who has she come to kill?
“Come on,” he whispered to Rita. “I want to go home.”
“Now?” She was incredulous.
“Yes. Now.” He stood.
Rita collected her purse and rose, then preceded him toward the aisle, muttering excuses as she clambered past knees and feet. In the aisle he took her elbow as she walked toward the lobby. He glanced toward where Judith Farrell was sitting, but couldn’t spot her.
“Are you feeling okay?” Rita asked.
“I’ll explain later.”
The lobby was empty. He led Rita to the cloakroom and fished in his shirt pocket for the claim check. The girl went to fetch the umbrella. He extracted two dollars from his wallet and dropped them into the tip jar, then wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his hand. The girl returned with the umbrella and handed it across the Dutch door counter.
“Thanks.”
When he turned, Judith Farrell was standing there facing him.
“Hello, Robert.”
He tried to think of something to say. She stood looking at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. Her male companion was against the far wall, facing them.
“Rita,” she said, “I’m Elizabeth Thorn. May I speak to your husband for a few minutes?”
Rita looked at Toad with her eyebrows up. So Judith Farrell knew about his wife. It figured.
“Where?” Toad asked. His voice was hoarse.
“Your car.”
Toad cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”
“Robert, I came tonight to talk to you. I think you should hear what I have to say.”
“The CIA is open eight to five,” Toad Tarkington said, “Monday through Friday. They’re in the phone book.”
“This is important,” Judith Farrell said.
Toad cleared his throat again and considered. Rita’s face was deadpan.
“Okay.” Toad took his wife’s arm and turned toward the door. The man against the wall watched the three of them go and made no move to follow.
They walked in silence across the parking lot. The rain had stopped but there were still puddles. Toad unlocked the car doors and told Farrell, “You sit up front. Rita, hop in the backseat, please.”
Once in the car he started the engine and turned on the defroster as the women seated themselves. Then he reached over and grabbed Judith Farrell’s purse. Farrell didn’t react, but Rita started. Still, she remained silent.
No gun in the purse. That was his main concern. There was a wallet, so he opened it. Maryland driver’s license for Elizabeth Thorn, born April 17, 1960. The address was in Silver Spring. Several credit cards, some cash, and nothing else. He put the wallet back into the purse and stirred through the contents. The usual female beauty paraphernalia, a box of tissues, a tube of lipstick. He examined the lipstick tube, took the cap off, ran the colored stick in and out, then replaced the cap and dropped the tube back into the purse. He put the purse back on Farrell’s lap.
“Okay, Ms. Thorn. You have your audience.”
“I want you to give Jake Grafton a message.”
“Call the Defense Intelligence Agency and make an appointment.”
“Obviously I don’t want anyone to know that I talked to him, Robert. So I came to you. I want you to pass the message along, to him and no one else.”
Toad Tarkington looked that over and accepted it, reluctantly. Rear Admiral Grafton was the deputy director at the DIA and Toad was his aide. Both facts were widely known, public knowledge. At the office every call was logged, every visitor positively identified. Admiral Grafton lived in general officers’ quarters at the Washington Navy Yard and was guarded by the federal protective service. While it would be easy enough for a professional to slip through the protective cordon, doing so would require the admiral either to report the conversation to his superiors or violate the security regulations. Presumably this way it would be up to the admiral to decide if this conversation had to be reported, a faint distinction that didn’t seem all that clear to Toad.
“Rita and I will know.”
“You won’t tell anyone. You’re both naval officers.” That was also true. Rita was an instructor at the navy’s Test Pilot School at NAS Patuxent River. Both of them held the rank of lieutenant commander, both had top secret clearances, both had seen reams of classified material that they couldn’t even talk about to each other.