The Last Spymaster (56 page)

In the unfortunate way of the world, today’s news quickly became toilet paper. More often than not, the lessons of the past were worse than ignored; they were forgotten. And the events of those difficult days were no exception. Ghranditti’s death and his dangerous shipment held international attention for several weeks, then evaporated. The perilousness of undermanned inspection teams at ports and the thriving underworld of death merchants continued without change.

Still, Langley reaped a flood of intel from the backdoor Kristoph had created. Within six months, Elaine led a NOC team in cooperation with the South Korean government and arrested Faisal al-Hadi outside the National Bank of Pakistan in Seoul. Al-Hadi made no attempt to fight; instead, he angrily denied his identity. At the same time around the globe, teams attempted to capture thirty-two other Majlis al-Sha’b leaders. Some of the terrorists survived and were arrested; others opened fire and died. No one escaped.

With its leadership decimated, the Majlis was out of action. Al-Qaeda had swarmed down on the group’s secret headquarters on the pirateinfested Strait of Malacca to confiscate records and technology. It made him smile to think the bastards took Kristoph’s software and were using it.

Jay stared ahead. Raina was standing on their porch in a gauzy white dress, holding two chilled drinking coconuts. The light of the setting sun illuminated her tired but happy face and the mop of dark ringlets that had
grown out, flowing down to her shoulders in a silky cloud. She seemed to shine, glow with femininity and allure.

“Hello, darling,” she called. “Denise phoned to let me know you were on your way home. We have mail?”

He dropped the sacks onto the porch and held her, inhaling the natural perfume of her body, feeling her firmness and warmth. Heat coursed through him.

“Later,” she murmured, twining one bare leg around his bare calf while balancing the two coconuts.

“Honey, believe me, you’re worth waiting for.”

Laughing, she sat on the porch swing and handed him his coconut. Their photo album was open on the table next to her.

She noticed he was gazing at it. “It does me good to see them,” she told him.

“Me, too. I’m glad to have had those children as long as we did.”

He picked up the album and turned the pages. They had put it together from pictures from her Berlin house and those he had saved in his storage space in Washington. It chronicled the short lives of Aaron, Mariette, and Kristoph, who might be dead but were still very loved. At last he closed it and laid it on the table. As he drank from his coconut, he grabbed the sack that contained the newspapers, magazines, and manila envelope he had picked up in the village.

She watched alertly as he opened it.

“It’s from Ben,” he told her unnecessarily.

Only Ben knew where they had settled. Thanks to Houri, Ben had survived, and Bobbye had cleaned up after “David Oxley” so that Ben and Zahra did not have to go into hiding. A few months later Ben and he devised a series of forwarding drops so they could stay in touch.

He took out a letter and another envelope.

“Read it, darling,” Raina said.

He nodded, put on his glasses, and read aloud:

Dear Kitty and Philip,

Things are good here. Hope they are good there, too. You’ll be glad to know
al-Hadi is finally going to trial. His damn lawyers don’t have any more delays left in their legal quivers, thank you, Allah.

Last week, I got an e-mail from Marie Ghranditti—she calls herself Emmi Ghranditti now. She and the children are still in Miami Beach and doing well. In fact, she’s getting remarried, this time to a real financier. He sounds like a good man.

As for the envelope I’ve enclosed, it’s in response to the letter you asked me to forward a few months ago. Sorry this took so long. I finally had to go to Bobbye to find out where the family was living—in Tel Aviv, as it turns out. Bobbye said Pavel Abendroth’s widow is dead now. I didn’t read your letter or this one, of course.

Stay in touch!

Ben

Raina was sitting as wary as a cat at a snake hole. “You didn’t.”

“Of course I did.” Strangely, his hands trembled as he opened the blue vellum envelope. The stationery was also blue vellum, which somehow made it all the more personal, more affecting. The words were written in a feminine, strong hand:

I won’t use your name, because I understand you still need to maintain your security, but please know I address this to you with all respect. My brothers and I always believed our father was assassinated, and we were angry about that. We loved him and needed him. But more important, he was a hero, and the world needs its heroes to live as long as possible.

Last year when our mother was dying, she called us together and told us what really had happened and made us promise to say nothing unless we had your permission. Since you haven’t given it, we’ll keep the secret.

You might like to know that she said he admired the way you risked your life to slip into East Berlin to talk with him and that you knew what few others did—that he was dying of cancer.

Since he’d dedicated himself to stopping totalitarianism, he felt it was only right to sacrifice himself so the identity of your mole—your wife now, you say—
wouldn’t be uncovered and she could go on feeding information to the West. You were both continuing the fight he couldn’t.

It was kind of you to write with your apologies and to let us know you regret the “assassination.” But Mother said he never had any regrets. You and your wife made a great contribution and no doubt sacrificed a lot as well.

Mother liked to quote the historian John Shedd, because it reflected my father’s philosophy, too—“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

Sincerely,

 

his daughter

 

Jay silently folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He glanced at Raina and admitted, “I could never do enough to earn the right to be happy. Dr. Abendroth paid with his life so I could have you.”

She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “I know, darling.”

The swing creaked. They drank their coconuts. The sun set in a dramatic flash of hot light, and twilight settled in a violet mantle over the palms and bougainvillea.

Jay glanced at the house several times.

“Check on them, darling,” Raina said, smiling. “I know you want to.”

He nodded and padded indoors. Their one-story bungalow was glassy and usually full of light, but now soft shadows draped the simple furniture and wood floors, somehow adding a sense of enchantment.

He went into Michael’s room, crouched beside his bed, and gently brushed back his black hair, as glossy as his mother’s. Michael had just turned two, an energetic child who ran nonstop while awake and fell quickly into deep slumber at the end of the day. He was lying on his side, his chin tucked, his long black lashes shadows on his cheeks.

Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked up. “Daddy!”

Jay grinned. “Shh. Don’t tell your mother I woke you. I’ll be in trouble.”

Michael grinned back. “Our secret.” He puckered his lips.

Jay kissed him, and the boy’s eyelids drooped and shut. Jay lingered,
studying the miracle of life—that he and Raina could have created this miracle together.

At last he went into Jennifer’s room. She was two months old. After sleepless nights of taking turns to be up with her through the usual crying jags and hunger, Raina and he had privacy again, because six days ago Jennifer seemed to decide that was enough of that and slept a solid six hours every night. Now she had graduated to her own room, too. She smelled wonderful, of baby powder and moist sleep.

He dropped to his heels beside her crib, soaking in her sweet expression and milky skin and fiery red locks. He smiled, thinking about what a challenge she was going to be to raise. He pressed a finger against her tiny palm, and she curled her hand around it. Joy flowed through him.

When he returned to the porch, Raina was swinging slowly, the album again on her lap, opened to a photo of Kristoph. She glanced up guiltily. “About Kristoph—I tried to tell you a long time ago in Dubrovnik when we met after my husband died, and you found out I was pregnant with Kristoph. Then I tried to tell you several times later—”

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ve always known he was Kristoph’s biological father.”

“Jay! But why didn’t you—”

He sat beside her, feeling again his happiness in Kristoph, his love for the boy. “Because I didn’t care about any of that. Because I loved you, and Kristoph needed a father. But mostly . . .” He hesitated. “Mostly, I needed him. I desperately needed something or someone good to believe in. Kristoph and you gave me all of that—and far more.”

As a tear rolled down her cheek, he pulled her close. “They’re asleep,” he confirmed.

“I told you.” She kissed his ear and snuggled into his side. After a while she asked, “When they grow older, what will we do when they realize there’s a huge world out there? They’ll ask questions and probably grow restless. Our safe haven may not be enough for them.”

He thought about it. “Let’s let tomorrow take care of tomorrow.”