Summit (32 page)

"Intelligence is never clear-cut," Roderick Williams said. "That's why you need experienced people to interpret it."

"Uh-huh. But if the experts disagree, then what?" Loud smiled and stopped tapping. "Is there anything else?"

"One thing," the military man said.

"Yes, Tom?"

"The other so-called targets—the ones Mr. Houghton said looked clean. I trust we're not just ignoring them now. Moscow must know they're blown, and presumably it'll try to do something about that."

Sullivan suddenly realized that this must be Colonel Poole. He had heard talk in the halls about the hotshot NSC staffer who was snooping on Williams, but he hadn't paid much attention.

"We are well aware of that possibility," Houghton responded. He sounded a little peeved. "As I mentioned, Counterintelligence has been brought in, and they know how to do their job."

"Of course," Poole said.

There was a brief silence. "One other thing," Sullivan said, speaking for the first time in the meeting. His voice sounded thin and quavery to him.

Loud looked at him, "Yes, um, Bill, is it?"

"Fulton, the pianist who got her to defect. Does he know what's going on? He might make a fuss if he thought he had gone to Moscow to free her, and she's actually going to be stuck in our labs for the rest of her life."

"Don't worry about Fulton, Bill," Hill replied. "I'm leaving for New York right after this meeting to deal with him."

Approving nods. Hill had gotten Borisova to America; surely he could be trusted to clean up the leftover details. Sullivan had nothing left to say, and neither did anyone else. Loud waited a moment, and then stood up. "All right, then. Thank you, gentlemen." And he left the room.

The other people stood around chatting for a few moments, and then one by one they left too. No one had anything to say to Sullivan. Sullivan didn't know what to feel. The operation had been a success, he had been invited to an important meeting, the DCI knew his name, although just barely. But none of this made him feel very good. And he supposed he knew why.

Why did it have to be Lawrence Hill? He liked Hill; he admired him. He didn't want to make Hill part of the churning bitterness he felt toward his job, toward life. But it seemed impossible to avoid, if Hill was going to keep being the hero while Sullivan muddled along, fearful and uncertain, in the background.

He went up to Hill as he was leaving. "Congratulations, Lawrence," he said, holding out his hand.

Hill shook it. "It was a good plan, Bill. I just carried it out. No big deal."

"I know better than that."

Hill hesitated for a moment, as if trying to decide if there was anything more to be said. There wasn't. "Well," he murmured, "I've got a plane to catch. I'll see you around, Bill."

"Sure. Good luck with Fulton."

Hill shrugged. "No problem."

Hill left, and Sullivan noticed that he was alone in the conference room. He stayed there for a moment, feeling like an intruder, and then he returned to his office.

Chapter 29

Doctor Chukova reported as usual to work at the Popov Institute. With Valentina gone, there was nothing for her to do, but she knew the summons would come eventually, and she imagined things would somehow be better if it came while she was on the job.

She tried halfheartedly during the morning to put her files in order and write up some notes, but it seemed like such a waste that eventually she stopped. Her only visitor was Trofimov, who looked as nervous as she felt.

"Have they talked to you yet?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Why aren't they talking to anyone? I don't understand. It frightens me."

"You've done nothing wrong, have you?"

He looked at her scornfully. And he was right to. The truth had nothing to do with anything at this point. It was a question of who could be most conveniently blamed—in which case she was in a lot more trouble than he was. "I've decided this could be a blessing in disguise," he said.

"Why is that?"

"It will force us to approach this whole question more scientifically," he explained. "So far they have only been interested in results. Now we may be able to focus more on the scientific underpinnings of the results."

She shook her head. "They will still only be interested in results."

Trofimov gnawed a knuckle. "And what if there are none?" he whispered.

She didn't bother to answer.

The summons came shortly after lunch. She walked slowly up to the KGB office on the second floor, praying that she would meet her fate with dignity. She knocked on the frosted-glass door, and Rylev's cold voice told her to come in.

She was shocked. She had assumed he would be gone—an obvious first choice for blame. Instead he was seated behind his desk as usual, stiff and hostile. And that made her more frightened than ever. Because if he didn't receive any of the blame, that left all the more for her. "Sit down," he said.

She sat.

"You're taking a trip," he said. "Go home and pack, and be back here by four."

"A trip?" she breathed. Her heart was thumping. Was that some sort of KGB euphemism? "Where am I going?" she whispered.

"None of your business."

She thought of Siberia. But that was stupid; they don't let prisoners go home and get their heavy underwear before setting out for the gulag. "What should I pack?"

"Pack whatever you packed for London. Be back by four. And don't talk about this."

Rylev turned away. Doctor Chukova left the office in a daze, her legs barely functioning. What was happening? On the way out of the building, Trofimov accosted her again. "Are you going too?" he asked.

"We aren't supposed to talk."

"I overheard Yuri tell someone he was shipping his equipment to New York City. I bet we're going there."

Doctor Chukova speeded up. She didn't want to talk to this old fool. She didn't want to talk to anyone.

"Imagine—New York City," he babbled on. "I wonder why."

She turned the corner and left him behind. This was awful. In a way, it would be better if they would just get it over with. Then at least the worrying would be over too. Now what should she do?

Damn them. Damn Rylev. She knew what she should do.

* * *

There was so much to be accomplished so quickly that Rylev made a mistake. A certain person was no longer needed, and could therefore be removed before he did any damage. But Rylev waited a little too long to make the call, to give the order.

No operation is perfect.

* * *

Volodya lived in the attic of an ancient wooden house on a pretty side street. He wanted no part of the endless shoddily built high rises that disfigured the city. Doctor Chukova was out of breath by the time she had climbed up the stairs to his apartment. She pounded on the door, praying that he would be in.

"Who is it?" he called out.

"Olga," she whispered. She was on the verge of tears.

The door opened, and Volodya was standing there, grinning at her. "Olga, my woodchuck, what a wonderful surprise." He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a silly-looking penguin on it and some English words that she didn't understand. He stepped aside to let her in.

She had spent the night here a couple of times in the first flush of her infatuation, but the place was too filthy and, yes, frightening for her, filled with American magazines and Finnish porno videocassettes and icons and other black-market merchandise. And, of course, it was almost certainly bugged. "I can't come in," she said. "I can't stay. This is important."

He nodded and led her downstairs into the communal bathroom, where he turned on the water in the bathtub and a transistor radio, which boomed out some Tchaikovsky. She leaned close to him. "Tell them we're all being sent to New York City today," she whispered.

"New York? Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe they will. But it must be important. Tell them right away. And—and be careful, Volodya."

Volodya looked worried for a second, but then his customary good humor returned. "But I'm always careful, Olga. Now run along, and I'll take care of everything."

Someone shouted at them to turn down the radio. There was something else she should tell him now—one final secret, the most important of all. She looked at Volodya, and she realized that she couldn't do it. It would be too hard. As always, she was a coward. She hugged him, and he patted her hair. "Thank you, Volodya."

"Think nothing of it. How I wish I was going with you. Bring me back some
Penthouses
if you can."

She smiled up at him, and then left him in the bathroom with
Swan Lake
and the water roaring. Maybe she shouldn't worry; maybe Volodya would take care of everything. But as she walked out of the wooden house onto the streets of Moscow, she knew that this was just an idle dream. Volodya was no more in control of events than she was. It was much more likely that both of them were doomed.

* * *

Vladimir Ivanovich Osipov was not happy. He could have simply ignored Olga's message. Who would be harmed? He didn't know, because he didn't know what was going on. He was just along for the ride. None of it mattered to him.

But it seemed to matter to Olga. She had never really understood him, poor thing—never really believed that his affection for her was genuine, in spite of this other business they were involved in. He wasn't a spy; he was an independent entrepreneur, in a land that did not look kindly on such creatures. He was just trying to make a living.

He decided to do it for Olga. He went back upstairs to his apartment, prepared the message, and then headed out. It was a sunny day, and the sunshine improved his mood considerably.

He did not look back as he headed for the metro, and so he did not see the black Volga sedan pull up in front of his house. And the bright sunlight shining through the windshield kept the men in the Volga from seeing him. Two of them got out of the car and went into the house, the driver stayed in the car, and Osipov turned the corner.

He did what he had been told to do in situations like this. He changed trains often, and he ducked in and out of stores, and generally tried to frustrate anyone who might be following him. Eventually he ended up in front of one of the new privately owned car-repair shops that had sprung up in the outskirts of the city. A swarthy-faced Georgian in greasy overalls smoking a
papirosa
stared at him for a moment, and then decided to ignore him. Osipov went into the alley next to the shop and counted in four bricks and up seven from the second window. The brick was loose, as they had said it would be. He slid the message in, replaced the brick, and walked out to the street. In front of the shop was a green metal barrel. He took out a piece of red chalk and made a mark on the barrel. The man in the greasy overalls was nowhere to be seen. Osipov walked away, whistling a tune from
Swan Lake.

There. That hadn't been so hard. This particular business was easier than most he had been involved in, actually; there was just the extra edge of tension that made it seem difficult.

He began to think about what he should do for the rest of the day. Maybe go see Natasha, whose father worked in the Kremlin Clinic and had access to all sorts of medicines unavailable anywhere else. Poor Natasha was cross-eyed, but she was a sweet soul nonetheless. He hadn't seen her in quite a while. Yes, he really should visit Natasha.

That meant returning to his apartment and changing into a better pair of jeans. He took a much more direct route back, since he felt no need to avoid being followed. Soon he was walking up the familiar wooden steps of the lovely old house where he lived.

He knew something was wrong when he saw the old crone who lived on the first floor peering out at him through a crack in her door. She only did that when he had a woman with him. What was up? He turned to leave, and that's when he noticed the Volga parked outside, the driver staring in at him. Why hadn't he seen the damn car as soon as he turned the corner? Thinking about Natasha. That had not been smart.

He heard footsteps upstairs. The old crone had disappeared. Oh Lord. What had they told him to do in situations like this?