The Day Before Midnight

such a fate could occur as a direct consequence of his own actions, was entirely beyond him.

It’s not my fault, he told himself. What was I supposed to do, let them kill my kids? Sure, tell me my kids are less important than the world in general: that’s easy for anyone except a dad to say.

He did know it called for an extraordinary man.

And I’m an ordinary one, he concluded. Bomb or no bomb, war or no war, those are my kids!

He looked back to the flame, in its hunger licking its way toward midnight.

“I told you,” Megan told the Three Dumb Men. “How many times do I have to tell you? They claimed they were Israelis. I swear to you I thought they were Israelis. Jews. Just Jews. Are any of you Jewish?”

The Three Dumb Men shook their heads.

“The FBI doesn’t have Jews?” she asked, incredulous. “In this day and age the FBI doesn’t have Jews?”

“You’re changing the subject, Mrs. Thiokol,” said the harshest of them. “We’re under an enormous time constraint here. Please, could we return? You’ve told us of your recruitment, you’ve told us of your mental state, you’ve detailed the information you gave him, you’ve described Ari Gottlieb and this mysterious intelligence officer in the Israeli consulate.”

“That’s all I know. I’ve told you everything I know. Please, I’d tell you anything. But I’ve told you everything.”

It was dark by now, and through the windows she could see lights on in the neighborhood.

“Would anybody like any coffee?” she said.

There was no answer.

“Could I fix myself some coffee?”

“Of course.”

She went to a cabinet where she had a Mr. Coffee machine stored, got it out, fiddled with filters, coffee grounds, water, and finally got the thing to working. She watched the light come on as the coffee began to drip into the pot.

One of the agents went to talk on the phone, then came back.

“Mrs. Thiokol, I’ve directed our counterespionage division to bring our photos by. We’ve also got some photos from the Pentagon for you to look at. We’d like you to try to find the face of the man who recruited you and the face of the man you saw in the consulate, is that all right?”

“I’m horrible at faces,” she said.

“We wish you’d try very hard,” said the man. “As I said, time is very important.”

“What’s going on?”

“It would be difficult to explain at this time, Mrs. Thiokol.”

“It’s something out there, isn’t it? Something because of what I told these people, that’s what’s going on, isn’t it? It involves South Mountain, doesn’t it?”

There was a pause. The Three Dumb Men looked at one another, and finally the eldest of them said, “Yes, it does.”

“Has anyone been killed?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Megan stared at the Mr. Coffee. You ought to be feeling something, she thought. You’ve got blood on your hands, so feel it, all right? But she felt only tired. She just felt exhausted.

“It’s Peter,” she said. “He’s out there, isn’t he? You’d want him out there, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh, yes, I believe Dr. Thiokol is on-site.”

“On-site? Is that your word for it? He’s where the shooting is. He’s an awful coward, you know. He won’t be any good around guns at all. He’s best in some kind of room full of books. That’s what he loves, just to read and think and study and be left alone. He’s so neurotic. They won’t put him near the guns and the danger, will they?”

“Well, Mrs. Thiokol, we really don’t know. Some other people are handling that operation. I don’t know if he’ll be up near the shooting or back where it’s safe. If it comes to it, I suppose he might have to be where there’s firing. And I’m sure, given what’s involved, he won’t be a coward.”

“Maybe that’s what I wanted. Maybe what I really wanted was to get him killed.”

“You’d have to talk to your psychiatrist about that, Mrs. Thiokol. Fred, call counterintel again, those damned books ought to be here by now.”

“I just called them, Leo.”

“Well, call them again, or something, don’t just sit there.”

“All right.”

“The coffee’s ready,” Megan said. “Are you sure you don’t want any coffee?”

“Yes,” one of the Dumb Men said, “I’d like some, please.”

She poured it.

“Mrs. Thiokol, let’s talk about this. How did you contact your friend and how were the materials picked up. Was it through Ari?”

“Only once, just a few weeks ago. He sent me specially. But more commonly we had it set up in New York so that — do you really want to hear this? I mean, it’s just details, you know, the little silly business that seemed so ridiculous to me and—”

“Please, tell us.”

She took a sip of coffee.

“Well, it was so stupid and complicated. They explained it to me very carefully. I checked the Sunday Post. I picked an ad with the name of a chain bookstore in it. Then I dropped a personal ad off for the Post classifieds. Cash, they said, always pay cash. Through a code, I identified the store. Then I rented a car. Oh, and I had to remember to get something plaid. Then I went to the store on the appointed day — it was usually in a mall someplace around the Beltway — and I wrote a number on a scrap of paper, and I put it at page 300 of Gone with the Wind, which I loved when I was a girl and which they always have. And then …”

“Who serviced the drop? Do you know?”

“Well, I was so curious I once stayed to check. A fat nervous-looking middle-aged man. He looked like a slob. He was no—”

The door opened, and several agents, laden with material, began to troop in. The photo books had arrived.

Arbatov drove aimlessly through the traffic, down Route 1 to the Beltway. He almost turned down it, but decided at the last moment not to and was glad of that decision, for when he passed over it, he saw a ribbon of light, signifying a terrible traffic backup, all the car lights frozen solid on the big road.

The Americans, he laughed drunkenly. They build more cars than anybody in the world, and take them out and dump them in terrible traffic jams. The only thing crazier than the Americans were the Russians, who never had traffic jams because they didn’t have cars.

He thought he ought to try Molly again. Pulling off the road, he went into a crummy little place in College Park. He stepped into the same thing he’d left behind at Jake’s — his life wasn’t getting any better! — which was another crowded, seedy bar full of smoke and lonely drinkers, except that by this time a new, ludicrous note had been added, a go-go dancer, a fat one of the sort Gregor specialized in. She looked like a truck driver’s woman. She undulated to dreadful rock music up on a little stand, a bland, dull look on her bovine face. She looked a little like Molly Shroyer, that was the terrible thing.

Gregor found a pay phone, and dialed. He heard the phone buzz once, twice, three times, four times, damn! Where was she? She could not possibly still be at her office! What was going on?

He saw his great coup slipping away. Suppose Molly had not been able to find anything else out? The thought made him extremely nervous, so instead he instantly conjured up his most comforting illusion, seeking solace and serenity in the scenario.

Molly found him some wonderful stuff, absolute top of the line, and tomorrow he’d walk into little monkey Klimov, throw the documents down on the desk and say, “There, there, you little piglet, look at what Gregor