The Remembering

was coming from every district in the city. The Soviets had returned, invading Budapest in full force, including air strikes and artillery.

I looked at Sailor. “What should we do?”

“Stay out of the way as best we can,” Sailor answered, but it was too late. At that moment, three Soviet T-54 tanks turned the corner and headed right for us. The lead tank was firing indiscriminately at buildings and civilians. One blast took out a corner of the building next to us, sending a shower of broken glass, bricks, and concrete into the street. I heard screaming and people started running in every direction.

One block away, Jack and Piroska were scrambling door to door, trying to make their way through the smoke and debris to Sailor and me. Jack shouted something, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the tanks. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I glanced at the entrance to the laboratory building. Valery was standing outside watching the carnage, and the moment I saw him, he saw me. Jack and Piroska were only fifty yards away and it looked like they were going to make it through the chaos. Just then, the lead tank came to a halt. The turret with its long cannon began to swivel and take aim directly at a small group of people that included Jack and Piroska.

Sailor did not hesitate. He walked calmly into the street and raised his arm, pointing his hand with palm out and fingers spread toward the tank. He mumbled something in Meq and closed his eyes, as if in a trance. Using his mind and his “ability” of telekinesis, in a split second he lifted the huge T-54 tank a foot off the ground and spun it in the air, just as the cannon fired. Sailor opened his eyes and smiled. The blast destroyed the tank directly behind it, and Jack and Piroska scrambled the last fifty yards to safety.

Jack grabbed Sailor by the shoulders and said, “I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but thank God you did it, Sailor.” Jack took hold of Piroska’s hand and turned to me. “Let’s get out of here, Z, and I mean out of here.”

I looked across the street and found Valery’s eyes. They were wide with awe and wonder. He took a step or two toward me. He had seen everything. We began to run and he yelled after us, “Itxoin! Itxoin!” Jack and Piroska kept running, but Sailor and I stopped dead in our tracks.

“Who is that?” Sailor asked.

“That is Valery,” I told him.

Valery had spoken in Basque and begged us to “Wait! Wait!” How, why, and what it meant would have to be answered later. We had to get off the streets and out of Hungary. Sailor and I caught up with Jack and within twenty minutes we were back at Piroska’s apartment. As spontaneously as the revolution had begun, in three days it was cruelly and systematically crushed and stamped out. On November 10 we sneaked quietly out of the city and joined some refugees making their way to Austria. Jack tried to talk Piroska into leaving with us. She declined and stayed in Budapest, saying her work, her friends, her life was in Hungary, not Austria or anywhere else. Jack understood, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes.

We boarded a train in Gussing, then changed trains in Graz and took the longer, scenic route through the Alps on our way back to Montreux and the “ecole dans l’ombre.” While Jack slept, Sailor and I stared out at the mountains and talked at length about what had happened in Budapest and what the consequences might be. I told Sailor I was surprised he had acted so quickly and with no fear of being exposed to the Giza. Sailor said, “There was no choice, Zianno, or more precisely, there was only one choice.” As for the consequences, neither of us had an answer, but one thing was clear. The Soviet agent Valery seemed to know much more about us than we knew about him. And I still had not seen the sphere. I had to see the sphere again. In my heart and mind, I was becoming obsessed with reading the sphere. As we approached Montreux and the shores of Lake Geneva, which was shimmering in ten shades of blue, I was thinking only of the sphere and the mystery carved into its stone.

We had telephoned Opari and Sheela from Graz and they met us at the station in Montreux. Opari could see the distraction and frustration in my face and she mentioned it. I told her I would work it out, but I didn’t. Over the next few months, we heard nothing from any of Cardinal’s resources. Valery (and the Beekeeper) had vanished once again.

Jack went back to the States and to St. Louis for an extended visit in March 1957. Sailor, Sheela, Opari, and I stayed on in Switzerland. Cardinal communicated with us regularly from Washington. We used the house at the “ecole dans l’ombre” as a base of operations, and traveled throughout Europe exploring our own means of obtaining information. At one point, in West Berlin, we did uncover a rumored address for the Beekeeper. It turned out to be just a rumor, and yet we kept returning to West Berlin when we could, thinking every time we might get lucky. Cardinal always provided one of his “chaperones” to ease our way in and out of countries with tight security. Ray and Nova came for a visit in late November and stayed through the New Year. He said Geaxi, Mowsel, and Zeru-Meq were still living in the vicinity of San Sebastian. He also said that everyone was feeling the same frustration as I. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and the Remembering loomed in the distance. Opari told me, “Do not worry, my love. I believe you were meant to read this sphere. And you will.”

There is no preparation for bad news, especially the worst kind of bad news. It knocks you over with its suddenness, its sadness, and its finality. On December 12 we received a telephone call from Jack in St. Louis. He told me that Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder, the orphan Carolina had saved, named, and raised as her own child, had been killed two days earlier in Las Villas Province in Cuba, somewhere in the Escambray Mountains. He had been fighting with Comandante Juan (“El Mejicano”) Abrahantes and his revolutionary forces against the Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista. He had also been working undercover for Cardinal and Jack. Jack said his last report contained some unexpected information that may have had something to do with his death. Biscuit had reported that he had seen Blaine Harrington twice, one time in the company of Comandante Abrahantes and another time in the company of Comandante Rolando Cubela. He said Harrington was carrying significant amounts of cash, guns, and ammunition. Biscuit also reported that “Colonel” Harrington, as he was being called, recognized him and asked him about several Latin baseball players. Biscuit reported that the conversation was innocent, but Blaine Harrington also knew that Biscuit worked for Jack. Biscuit said he was “concerned” about what “Colonel” Harrington might do with that knowledge and information. Exactly one day after Biscuit filed his report, he was found dead, shot twice in the back of the head. Jack was convinced it was no coincidence. I asked how long Blaine Harrington had been a colonel and Jack said, “Beats me, Z. The Army claims he doesn’t exist. They’ve erased him from their records.” Jack added that Carolina was deeply saddened and moved by Biscuit’s death. He was worried about her and said a visit from me might help cheer her up.

I didn’t even have to think about it. It was a good idea. I had been gone too long, and we were getting nowhere in our search for the sphere. I probably needed to see St. Louis and Carolina more than she needed to see me. I told Jack I would be there by Christmas if he could make the arrangements. He said that would not be a problem. I assumed Opari would go with me, but she decided she would stay in Europe, saying, “This visit should be yours, my love. At this time it is you Carolina needs to see, not me.” Ray, on the other hand, practically begged to go along, saying, “Damn, Z! I got to admit it, I’m just plain homesick.” Nova agreed with him and on December 14, the three of us left Switzerland for London, where we boarded a TWA Constellation and flew to New York, then changed planes and flew on to St. Louis and Lambert Field, arriving late in the day on December 18. Since the three of us were traveling on our own, the stewardess asked if we had family waiting for us. Ray spoke up. “You bet we do,” he said, “we just don’t call ’em that.” The stewardess stared at Ray for a moment, then laughed, sort of, and we walked off the plane to meet Jack.

Jack was waiting for us in the baggage claim area and he was not alone. He stood next to a man with a full white beard wearing a bright red cap, red pants, and a big red coat with white fur trim around the collar and cuffs. A white belt held the coat together and wrapped around his enormous, inflated belly. “Damn!” Ray exclaimed. It was Santa Claus, only this Santa Claus was black. As we got closer, the man smiled and said, “Ho, ho, ho, Z! Welcome back, man.”

The man was in his mid-sixties and I knew his smile and his smiling brown eyes well. He was my old friend Mitchell Ithaca Coates.

“Hello, Mitch,” I said. “You probably make the best Santa Claus I’ve ever seen.”

“Why, thank you, son. Maybe I’ll let you sit on my knee and tell me if you’ve been good or bad.”

Nova laughed out loud and the rest of us joined in, then we walked out of the terminal, causing a general stir all the way to the parking lot. We got into a long, pale yellow DeSoto sedan, and on the way to Carolina’s house