Summit (49 page)

"I have tried, Daniel. But tigers do not change their stripes."

"He's been a Soviet spy since a few years after Stalin died," Hill explained. "They couldn't use him for much, but it was nice to know he was available. And then we needed to get you to Moscow."

Fulton recalled how mild Khorashev's objections had been when they had talked about playing in the Soviet Union. "He told you I'd be at his recital in Carnegie Hall that day," he said to Hill.

Hill nodded. "And gave us your address when you wouldn't talk to me. And then, of course, there was this morning's call. You can imagine how surprised and grateful we were. They'll probably award him the Order of Lenin in absentia."

Fulton stared at Khorashev. He still could scarcely believe it. "Dmitri," he whispered.

Khorashev abruptly reached behind him and took the
matryoshka
doll down from the shelf. "Look," he said, opening it up. "It is one thing I brought with me when I left. Inside each doll, another doll. And inside the last—soil. Russian soil. Is what keeps me alive. Russia is ruled by bastards, but it is home, and I must help make it great." Khorashev started to cry. "Don't you see, Daniel? We all have our secrets, hidden somewhere deep beneath our disguises. I am so sorry for you, but this is mine."

Fulton gazed at the tiny bag of dust in Khorashev's hands. It didn't seem worth it, to betray your friend for that. But who was he to judge a man's secrets?

"Well, I'm sure this is a brilliant insight into the human condition," Hill said, "but we've got things to do. I have people surrounding the building, and a car waiting downstairs, and Trofimov waiting with his machine at the Mission, and now we've really got to go."

Fulton looked at Valentina. She too was crying. She sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. "She can't possibly do it," he said.

"I don't see why not," Hill replied. "Nothing has changed from yesterday. Same motivation, certainly." He stood up. "Would you like a minute to think about it, Valentina? I suppose we can spare that. Sixty seconds, Valentina. And then I put a bullet in Daniel's right hand."

He raised his gun and aimed it at Fulton.

* * *

It was all her fault. Her sin had stalked her through all her joys and sorrows, and now at last it had come to claim her. There was nothing she could do.

And yet...

She thought of her dream: had it been only two nights ago?
She was imprisoned only because she let them imprison her.
They were
her
powers. They terrified her, but she needed them. Oh God, she needed them right now.

"Fifty seconds left, Valentina."

She stands in front of the building. Its door is open.

No, that couldn't be right. That happened only when—

The camera above the door blinks red, red, red. She takes a step forward, and then another. And then she is inside.

And she understood, finally. She had felt so guilty for so long that she had suppressed her powers. They did no one any good—least of all her. And Trofimov's machine did nothing but ease the guilt. It let her believe that it was all right to use the powers. Look, she could say: I have no choice. The machine is forcing me....

But now she did not need to be convinced. And with the guilt gone, anything was possible.

She races past the clock up to the second floor. Which door is it? She knows.

She has never done this before, but she is desperate now, and she doesn't have time to be scared. She opens the door and goes inside.

Hill is lying on the bed where she had left him so long ago, his face still bloody, his breathing labored. He sees her, and he smiles a crooked, bitter smile. He has been waiting, half-alive, for this moment. "Another chance?" he asks.

"Forty seconds."

She feels the hatred pulsing in the air. She breathes it in. It possesses her. "Yes," she hisses. "And this time I'm going to finish the job."

He gets up from the bed and stands in front of her. "This time," he says, "you're going to die."

They glare at each other for a moment, and then he leaps upon her.

* * *

"Thirty seconds left, Valentina."

Damn her, he was in a hurry. The session was going to start in a few minutes, and he needed her inside Trofimov's machine. She didn't have any choice, so why go through this charade? Fulton's face was white. He would be peeing in his pants before very long. Didn't she love him anymore?

"Twenty seconds."

Huh?
Suddenly he felt very—well, weak. No, not weak exactly but—

He had felt this way once before, hadn't he?

When?

Sitting in that cramped Moscow apartment, listening to the suddenly persuasive arguments, slowly losing his grip on everything he believed in, everything that motivated his existence...

It had been a mistake, hadn't it? They had stolen his mind from him. He should hate them.

No, they had shown him the truth. He should continue to serve them.

"Ten seconds."

But they had made him betray his country. Even this old Russian pianist, filled with grievances, had been unable to turn his back on his native land. Memories suddenly flooded him: reciting the Pledge of Allegiance first thing in the morning while the schoolroom's heat clanked through the ancient pipes; swatting mosquitoes while Fourth of July fireworks burst overhead; visiting Washington with his high school class and catching his first awestruck glimpse of the Capitol from the back of a Trailways bus; receiving a medal from the director of Central Intelligence—a medal that he couldn't keep, couldn't even tell anyone he had been awarded, but one that filled his soul with a quiet pride he would not have traded for any amount of fame or wealth....

But Russia—any country—can offer as much. Individual memories are trivial; only the truth matters. And the truth did not change because he was who he was, or because they had done to him what they had done. Remember the glorious sense of understanding and relief as the session in the Moscow apartment finally ended? His eyes had been opened. The American dream was a dream of individual greed and selfishness, of social neglect and exploitation. Here at last he had found a dream worthy of his devotion. Here at last was a cause he could die for.

"Time's up, Valentina."

Pull the trigger.

This was awful. This was beyond bearing. It wasn't that he lacked certainty anymore, but that he now seemed to possess
both
certainties, each clear and convincing and unassailable. He could feel his mind splitting in two—becoming a bifurcated monster locked in a deadly battle with itself, a battle that it could neither win nor lose, a battle that could only drive him insane. Or worse.

Unbearable.

He looked down at the gun in his hand.

* * *

Fulton trembled. Why didn't someone do something? The minute was up. Valentina was writhing on the sofa in some sort of hysterics, and Hill was just standing there, motionless. Why didn't he shoot, while Fulton still had some courage left?

And suddenly Fulton realized that
he
could be the one to do something. The thought terrified him, but did he have a choice?

He was their hold over Valentina. He was the reason she would return to the machine—to die, probably, and to defeat his country. Without him, there was no reason to do anything.

If he loved her—if he loved his country—there was only one thing he could do.

He walked toward Hill.

"Daniel, no!" Khorashev shouted, and the old man leaped from the piano bench to intercept him.

Hill raised his gun. Fulton pushed Khorashev aside and faced him. Faced the gun.

And then the gun turned, as if pulled by some invisible force. Turned from Fulton to Hill, who stared impassively at the barrel now pointed at his mouth. He looked as if he were in the process of making some minor but interesting decision. And then his finger moved, and Fulton closed his eyes, but not before he saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

From across the room, Valentina screamed.

Chapter 48

Hill lies dead at her feet. She has killed him, and it is not a dream-death. She had to kill him, but that does not change the act's brutality, or its finality.

She has to get out of this place. She is afraid that the death has changed the rules. What if all her demons attack her now? She leaves the room. And instead of being attacked in the dark corridor, she finds herself enveloped in warmth and love.

No, it is the other reality. And it feels wonderful. She clings to it, never wanting to leave it—even as she realizes that she must.

* * *

Fulton held her tight and willed her back to him while Hill lay dead on the floor and Khorashev cowered in the corner. He knew now what had happened; he knew that somehow she had found her way back into her dream-world, and somehow she had used her powers to save him. He prayed that it was not at the cost of destroying herself.

She opened her gray eyes finally and stared at him, and he was overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. "It's over," he murmured. "You don't ever have to go back there again."

"What time is it?" she whispered.

Fulton glanced at his watch. "Almost nine. The summit's starting. Winn is safe, and so are we."

She shook her head. "I broke him yesterday—almost," she said. "I don't think he's like Hill yet, but he has changed. He is handing over the formula for some drug to Grigoriev today. I think it is important."

"All right. We'll talk to the press. We'll let the world know what's going on, and that should take care of it."

"I don't think that will work, Daniel. I think we have to stop him."

"But how?" And as soon as he said it he knew. "You can't go back there," he said.

"Yes, I can," she replied.

He knew what she meant by that.
Yes
,
I can, if you want me to.
Her wide eyes gazed at him, waiting for him to tell her what to do.

It was one thing to risk his own life, but he couldn't ask her to risk hers. Was it really that important? And did he really care about his country—or was he just confused and guilty and upset about his mother and feeling a hundred other emotions he was too tired to sort out?

I know a patriot when I see one,
Lawrence Hill had said to him once, so very long ago.

What had he seen? What had he seen?

He started to give his answer to Valentina, but it was too late; her eyes were closed. She had seen what she needed to see, and she had already gone back.

* * *

Grigoriev was furious. His worst nightmares about the scheme had come true. Everything had gone completely to hell: KGB agents found murdered in a Greenwich Village town house, gunfire and deaths in the UN Mission, innocent bystanders hurt in an automobile chase through Manhattan. It was easy enough to figure out a way to blame it all on the Americans, but Grigoriev was not interested in finding someone to blame.

And of course, the psychic was gone.

"We must stop it!" he had shouted over the phone to Moscow, but Volnikov had disagreed.

"There have been problems," the KGB chief admitted, "but everything is still under control. The psychic will be back, and she will finish the job. Winn—and the drug—are almost ours. We are too close to victory to stop now."

His voice had sounded tense, but Grigoriev could take no comfort in Volnikov's anxiety. He had talked to other members of the Politburo; they too were worried, but they still supported Volnikov.
We have started on this course,
they said,
and now we must see it through.

At least, Grigoriev thought, the odds were now somewhat better that Volnikov would be the one inspecting mines in Siberia.

* * *

She enters the building for the last time and stares at the grandfather clock in the middle of the floor. Ten past nine, the hands still say. Ten minutes from now. Is it the time, ordained from the beginning, when she will die, and the clock will cease to exist? She doesn't know; she only knows what she needs to do in those ten minutes, if only she can find the strength.