Summit (44 page)

The word came to Winn through the fog.
Endorphins.
Stupid name. "Yes, I am."

"I think this drug is sufficiently important that you should share its formula with our scientists in the Soviet Union."

Winn was puzzled. He had been expecting a discussion of tanks or bombers or something. Not this. "Hand over the formula to you?"

"That's right. You'll recall that President Reagan made a similar offer with regard to the Star Wars technology—before it was even developed. We believe this drug is of equal importance."

Well, that didn't seem like such a terribly big deal. He recalled that it was a potential cure for depression. Yes. What was wrong with giving them a cure for depression?

But something made him pause for a moment. He remembered the meeting where he had been briefed on that drug. That was the first time he had noticed Tom Poole. And now Poole had been murdered—by the Soviets. The KGB, Loud had speculated, not Grigoriev. Well, he would find out. He looked Grigoriev in the eye. "Pavel, did you have anything to do with the murder of a member of my National Security Council staff named Colonel Thomas Poole?"

Grigoriev's eyes widened. "I have never heard of the man, I assure you."

"So you had nothing to do with his murder—either directly or indirectly?"

"Nothing. I swear it, Ted."

Winn was satisfied. He could tell when a man was lying, and Grigoriev was not lying. "All right, then. I'll get the formula for you. Maybe we can set up a working group to figure out a timetable for handing it over as part of the treaty."

"I think it would be preferable," Grigoriev said, "if you were to give it to me by the end of the summit. Frankly, some of my advisers trust Americans less than I do. You guard the fruits of your science jealously. They would want our scientists to inspect the formula and make sure it is genuine."

That seemed a little strange, but why not? A concession was a concession. "I have no problem with that," Winn said. "I'll bring it to the session tomorrow morning, then."

"That would be wonderful."

"And then we can get down to business on a treaty."

"Nothing would please me more," Grigoriev said.

Funny. He didn't sound all that pleased.

Chapter 41

Rylev listened to the two leaders exchange pleasantries as the first day of the summit came to an end. He stood up. "Turn off the machine," he ordered Trofimov, who obeyed promptly.

Chukova rushed over to tend to Borisova, who lay white and motionless on the cot.

"How is she?" Rylev asked after the doctor had had a few moments to tend to her.

Chukova looked at him with hatred. "She's alive."

"Can she talk?" He wanted to find out exactly what had happened, what she had experienced.

"Haven't you tortured her enough for today? She can scarcely breathe, let alone talk."

Rylev shrugged. "Take care of her. We're going to need her again tomorrow."

"She can't possibly—"

"Yes, she can," he said, and he turned away.

"What do you think?" Lawrence Hill asked.

"I think," Rylev said, "that it's almost time to start celebrating. But first I've got to talk to Volnikov."

* * *

Back in Moscow, Volnikov listened with satisfaction to Rylev's report. Winn had agreed to their outrageous request for the drug's formula. When he actually handed it over, they would have the proof they needed. He had been broken. He was theirs. Grigoriev would resign, and it was obvious who his successor would have to be.

The Poole business was working out as well as could be expected. News of the murder had gotten up to the president already. He was angry about it, but not as angry as he would have been if he had found out that Poole was really the Soviet agent, instead of this insignificant CIA man.

Unfortunately, they had not yet found and disposed of this CIA man. Until they did, he could still be a problem for them.

"Be vigilant, Konstantin Konstantinovich," Volnikov said to Rylev. "We need the woman again tomorrow. She must be kept safe."

"Don't worry," Rylev replied from half a world away. "We aren't going to fail now."

* * *

"Why so glum?" Grigoriev's wife asked him as the limousine brought them back to Riverdale. "The statements you both made to the press sounded quite optimistic."

"Tanya, would you still love me if I were an inspector of mines in Siberia?"

Tanya laughed. Then she looked at him, and she stopped laughing. "It can't be that bad," she murmured. It was more a question than a statement.

Grigoriev patted her hand and smiled. "Perhaps not," he said. "Perhaps not." Perhaps not Siberia. But it would be bad enough. Once you lost your base of power, you were nothing, and your enemies could strike with impunity. And you did not become leader of the Soviet Union without making enemies. He continued to smile, but he knew his wife understood.

At least he didn't need an answer to his question. He knew she would still love him, even in Siberia.

* * *

The idea seemed more daring to Winn, now that he was away from that room, now that he was no longer talking to Grigoriev. He recalled the worries about that drug getting into the hands of the Soviets. Potential military uses. Still, the damage couldn't be all that serious. And the need to make a gesture, to get things moving in the right direction, probably outweighed all other considerations. If relations were good between the two countries, no one would have to worry about potential military uses. There were so many ways the two superpowers could help each other, and the world, if only both sides could get past their mutual suspicion and animosity.

He thought about talking it over with his advisers, but decided against it. He had a feeling they wouldn't approve, and of course their reasons would be good ones. But they hadn't been in that room; they didn't know Grigoriev the way he did. Their opinions didn't count.

The thing to do, he decided, was to get the formula and bring it to the session tomorrow morning. Then he could make the final decision on the spot.

He knew that it would be the right one.

* * *

Roderick Williams had been feeling sorry for himself. Poole was dead, Sullivan was a Soviet agent, and this whole Borisova business was apparently a Soviet trick—aimed, apparently, at his own gullibility in psychic matters. Doctor Coyne was still staring out his wonderful window at the wonderful rain, still a victim of his own drug, a drug for which they were having no luck in finding an antidote. And George Loud was still director of Central Intelligence, still letting it be known that he was dissatisfied with the way things were done around here, still correcting Williams's grammar. Some days you just want to go home and get drunk.

And then his secretary told him the president of the United States was on the line.

That was good news. Right? "Yes, Mr. President?"

"Roderick, I have a favor to ask," Winn said.

"Anything, Mr. President."

"The drug you people developed. The one that had to do with the—the—"

"Endorphins."

"Right. Bring me the formula."

"You mean, when you get back from the summit?"

"No. Tonight. In New York, at the Plaza. I've left word with my chief of staff that you're to be admitted as soon as you arrive."

Tonight? That seemed strange. Why so soon? "May I ask, sir—"

"No, you may not. Bring it."

"Of course, sir."

"And Roderick?"

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"You're not to tell anyone about this."

"Yes, Mr. President."

End of conversation, if not the end of his questions. What was going on? Why did Winn need the damn formula? And why the secrecy?

Probably using it as a bargaining chip in the summit. It was strange that he needed the actual formula, but that was beside the point. The point, Williams realized, was that he had run the project that had produced the drug. And now the president of the United States needed it. If nothing else was going right, at least Williams would get credit for that. Suddenly things were looking up.

Williams went to his personal safe, opened it, and took out the manila envelope that contained the formula and Coyne's notes. He made a copy of everything and returned the envelope to the safe. Then he put on his coat, called for a security escort, and headed straight for the airport.

The president would have the information he needed in plenty of time for the morning session of the summit.

* * *

Rylev sat on his bed and closed his eyes. The years of planning and work were almost over. And when he and Volnikov had reached their goal, there would be glory and advancement for the two of them, and victory for the motherland. Just one more day.

Fulton,
he thought. He had agreed to let Borisova see the American pianist tonight. He considered not bothering; she wasn't going to be in any condition to enjoy his company. Still, she might get nasty if Fulton didn't show up. And Rylev didn't want any problems. Not now.

He went to arrange the visit.

Chapter 42

Bill Sullivan lay on the bed in his dingy hotel room and watched Winn and Grigoriev on the evening news. There was nothing obviously wrong with Winn as he spoke to the press, Sullivan had to admit. Oh, he was more conciliatory toward the Soviets than usual, but that wasn't surprising at a joint appearance with Grigoriev. And you wouldn't expect any overt treason, if Lawrence Hill's behavior was any guide.

Sullivan did think he detected some confusion in Winn's expression, a little hesitation in his words. But maybe he was seeing only what he wanted to see. If the proof were right out there in the open, it might conceivably convince Houghton and the rest; he might not have to be in this alone.

He certainly wasn't getting very far without any help. He was in a hotel that was one step up from a flophouse, with a hangover and a dwindling supply of cash and no idea what to do next. He wasn't very good at this business; that much was clear.

A knock on the door startled him from his brooding. He sat bolt upright on the bed, his heart pounding.

"Mr. O'Reilly? It's Arnie, the night room-clerk. Um, like, we're having a problem with the heat, so I'm supposed to bring people extra blankets."
Pop.

Arnie had a thick New York accent. He sounded like he was chewing bubble gum. Sullivan picked up his gun and tiptoed over to the door. He stood beside it and waited.

"Mr. O'Reilly? You in there? It's supposed to get pretty cold later on."
Pop.

A commercial for a denture cleaner replaced Grigoriev and Winn on TV.

If there were a lot of them in the corridor, he didn't have a chance. But maybe this guy was just checking out a lead. He reached over and opened the door.

Nothing happened. Then Arnie spoke again, only without a New York accent this time. "Bill? Why don't you just come on out, Bill? There's no need for violence among friends."