Summit (33 page)

He was still thinking when two men came down the stairs and saw him. "Vladimir Ivanovich Osipov?" one of them demanded.

He nodded, unable to speak.

The man flashed some sort of red identity card at him. Volodya couldn't read it. He didn't have to read it.

"We would like you to come with us, if you please."

I didn't expect them to be so polite
was all Volodya could think. The two men searched him, then each took an arm and led him out to the Volga. He noticed that both of them had rolled-up copies of
Playboy
sticking out of the pockets of their trench coats. Oh Lord.

No one spoke in the car. One of the men had onions on his breath. The driver was wearing a Swiss watch. The Volga had a very smooth ride.

He might never ride in a car again.

Life is so wonderful and so short. Women. Vodka. Jazz. The circus.

They drove through the streets of Moscow, and Volodya tried to memorize everything he saw. It didn't take long before they turned into Dzerzhinsky Square, and Volodya saw the bland, mustard-colored facade of the Lubyanka. Oh Lord.

Skating in Gorky Park. Sunlight on the cupolas of Saint Basil's.

He remembered what he was supposed to do in situations like this.

He scratched his crotch, then casually reached into the funny extra little pocket in his jeans. The man with the bad breath stared at him for a moment but didn't do anything.

Mushroom picking in the woods. A football match at Lenin Stadium.

He pretended to cough and slipped the small capsule into his mouth. He bit down on it. The taste was bitter, but he could stand it. He swallowed.

Bronze gates opened, and the car pulled into a courtyard. "Out," one of the men said.

Volodya got out. It was a beautiful day. The sun. The sky. The breeze. Life is much too short. He smiled at the man with onions on his breath.

And that was all.

* * *

Doctor Chukova returned with her suitcase a few minutes before four. She was terrified. Being late would only make things worse, so she went directly to Rylev's office and knocked. "Come in," he called out.

She entered. A bald, smiling man was sitting next to Rylev. Rylev motioned to a chair. She sat down. "This won't take long," Rylev said, and he left.

Doctor Chukova looked at the bald man, her heart pounding.

"My, but you have beautiful eyes, dollink," the bald man said.

And his slim, elegant fingers moved toward her face.

Chapter 30

Daniel Fulton was playing the piano when the doorbell rang. For once he was glad to be interrupted, and he ran to answer it. Lawrence Hill was standing there, smiling.

"We have her," he said, moving past Fulton into the house.

Fulton shut the door. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Everything went off without a hitch."

Fulton said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the God he finally believed in. "Can she stay with me?" he asked.

Hill shook his head. "That wouldn't be a good idea. The Russians are going to be looking for her, and I expect that this is one of the places where they'll look. We'll hold on to her, find out what she knows, then eventually we'll give her a new identity and she'll be free to go. It's standard procedure."

"I've got to see her. Can't I at least visit her? I'm sure she'll be more willing to cooperate if I'm there."

"Actually, I was going to suggest that myself, Daniel. In fact, you can stay with her, if you like. We spies aren't inhuman."

Fulton grinned. "I'd like very much to stay with her," he said.

"If you do come, you won't be able to communicate with the outside world for a few days, you understand. Security reasons."

"That's fine. There's no one I want to talk to."

Hill looked at his watch and considered. "Well then, I guess there's no problem. I can bring you right over, if you like."

"Where is she?"

"In a house we own in Greenwich Village. But of course you shouldn't mention the location to anyone. I'll call the people there while you pack and let them know we're coming."

"Thanks, Lawrence."

"Don't mention it."

Hill went off to use the kitchen phone while Fulton went upstairs to pack. He couldn't think what to bring, but it didn't matter. Valentina was safe. He was going to see her again. He threw some clothes into a suitcase and returned downstairs. Hill was waiting for him, and they left immediately.

"You said before that you felt responsible for Valentina," Hill said as they drove into the city. "Are you sure it isn't something more than that?"

Fulton considered. "Maybe it is."

"Love at first sight, perhaps?"

Hardly that. But it would take too long to explain, so he didn't try. He merely nodded. "I guess you could say so," he murmured.

Was he in love? It seemed so trite. Everyone fell in love. But why should he be any different? He had his dreams like everyone else, and lately they had been about no one but Valentina.

Hill looked at his watch again as they approached the Village. "I'm afraid I won't be able to go inside with you," he said. "I've got to catch a plane back to Washington."

Through his excitement, Fulton forced himself to think about Hill. The man had done a lot for him. And it had been just another job to Hill, one victory in a lifetime of battles. "On to your next assignment?" Fulton asked.

Hill nodded. "It won't be as satisfying as this one, I expect."

Fulton figured it wouldn't do any good to ask what the new assignment was. "I appreciate all you've done, Lawrence," he said simply.

"We did it together, Daniel," Hill replied.

A few moments later he double-parked on a little side street in the Village. There were old-fashioned streetlamps in front of the Georgian town houses; yellow and red leaves floated down from the trees; a well-dressed woman pushed a baby carriage along the sidewalk. "This is it," Hill said.

"Which one?" Fulton asked, trying to sound calm.

"Two-eighteen. One short ring, then two longs. You're expected."

"Okay."

They shook hands. Fulton took his suitcase and got out of the car. Hill waved and drove off down the street. Fulton watched him leave, then turned and walked up the steps of 218. He rang the bell as instructed, and the door was opened almost immediately by a short, black-haired woman. "Hello," he said. "My name is—"

"Yes. Of course. Come in."

He went inside, and the woman shut and bolted the door behind him. She was young and rather pretty, but seemed uninterested in doing anything about it. She didn't use any makeup, and she was wearing a shapeless plaid shirt and corduroy pants. If she was impressed by him, she gave no sign of it. "Follow me," she said.

She led him upstairs. The interior of the house looked as if it had been elegant once but hadn't been kept up. The flocked wallpaper was water-stained, the Oriental runner on the stairs was threadbare. But Fulton barely noticed these things. Valentina was somewhere close by. Had she been told he was coming? Could she feel his presence?

The black-haired woman stopped in front of a closed door on the second floor. "In there," she said.

Fulton put down his suitcase. The woman stared at him for a moment, and then walked away. He knocked on the door.

"Come in," the familiar voice said, in English.

He opened the door. Valentina was sitting in a chair; a book was open on her lap.

"Daniel!"

Then the book was on the floor, and she was in his arms, and they were both whirling in space, too happy to speak, and all his love-dreams had come true.

The two of them would never be parted again. Never.

* * *

Bill Sullivan read the report from Moscow as soon as it reached his desk. At first he couldn't make any sense out of it. But the more he stared at it, the more he thought he understood.

And what he understood terrified him.

But what in the world could he do about it?

Part 3

The Tristesse Étude

~

O ma patrie!

—Frederic Chopin

Chapter 31

It had been a long, strange dream, from which Valentina was finally starting to awaken.

The trip to America seemed to last forever. Once the fear was gone, there was only a kind of dazed grogginess that didn't let her relax. She vaguely remembered an airport terminal and a taxi and lights everywhere—more lights than she had ever seen. But none of it seemed quite real. This was America, she knew, but she didn't seem to know anything else.
Where are we?
she had asked Chuck Dennison.

New York City.

And that seemed perfect. Didn't Daniel Fulton live near New York City?

Then they were in a house.
A safe house,
Dennison said, and the name seemed perfect too. She met sullen, silent Abigail, who led her to a bedroom and told her to get some sleep. Like her room in London, this one had bars on its windows; but now, she assumed, they were to protect her rather than to imprison her.

She went into the bathroom adjoining her room. The woman staring back at her from the mirror startled her for a moment, but then they managed to smile at each other. Reluctantly Valentina removed the wig and scrubbed her face, and Andrea Dennison disappeared. There was just the same old Valentina then, only now she was standing in a bathroom in America, and that made all the difference.

But when she finally drifted off to sleep, she dreamed that Rylev had found her, and somehow she was back in Moscow, back in the machine, and she was descending once more into the horror she could never escape.

The next day everything was more real. Neither Abigail nor Dennison could—or would—tell her much about what was going on, but they fed her and gave her books to read and assured her that everything was all right.

And then Daniel arrived, and she believed them. In his arms, she felt completely happy for the first time in her life. He was real; he loved her; she was free. And then, paradoxically, she started to cry.