“How are we today, Miss Queenie?” the attendant said. The nickname had come from her patient’s imperious manner.
The old woman’s face had assumed a vacant expression. She muttered a few words in the odd language she spoke. To anyone else it would sound like mindless ramblings, which was exactly what she intended. The attendant was very familiar with this speech.
“Okay, you just go right on jabbering while I get your dirty clothes and clean up the bathroom. Whatever makes you happy, Miss Queenie.” The attendant glanced over at the well-thumbed newspapers and smiled. Miss Queenie wasn’t nearly as out of it as she wanted people to think.
The woman performed her duties and left. Only then did she sit up and look at the phone again. It was odd that when one grew old decisions that were made quickly when young now required extensive internal deliberation. To call or not to call?
Before she had actually made up her mind her fingers punched in the numbers.
It was answered before the first ring was even finished. He had obviously recognized the number on the caller ID.
Finn’s voice was low but clear. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?’ he asked firmly.
“No. I am fine.”
“Then why did you call?”
“I saw on the news that he left the country. The man is going on vacation. This man can take a holiday? Is this true? Tell me!”
“I’ll take care of it. Hang up, now.”
“But he must-”
“Don’t say it. Hang up. Now.”
“No one can understand what we’re saying.”
“Now!”
She clicked off and put the phone back around her neck. Harry was angry with her. She should not have called. But she could not help herself. All day and all night she sat here, in this place, in this hell, rotting, and thinking only of it. And then to see the man on the TV.
She scuttled over to the window and looked out. It was a beautiful day and it didn’t matter to her. She did not belong to this world anymore. She belonged to the past and that was nearly gone as well. Her family, her friends, her husband, all dead. Only Harry was left. And now he was angry at her. Yet he would get over it. He always got over it. He was a good son; a mother could have no better son than she did. She opened the drawer and pulled out the single remaining photo she had of her husband.
She lay back on her bed, the photo over her heart, and dreamed of the death of Roger Simpson.
Harry Finn slowly put the phone back in his pocket and returned to the kitchen, where Mandy and the children stared anxiously at him. When his phone had rung and he saw the number come up, he’d forgotten that he even had a family. He had raced from the room, certain that his mother was calling to tell him they had found her. That she was about to die.
Susie had a bit of oatmeal dangling from her mouth. Patrick had dropped his fork on the floor, where George the Labradoodle was licking the egg off it. David had stopped stuffing his backpack with schoolbooks and was staring worriedly at his dad. Mandy was standing by the stove, spatula in hand, the pancake in the pan turning black.
She said anxiously, “Harry, is everything okay?”
He tried to smile, but his mouth couldn’t manage it. “False alarm. Thought something weird was happening, my mistake.”
Susie, perhaps because of the look on her dad’s face, or the unnatural tremor in his voice, started to cry. He picked her up and pressed her face against his. “Hey, baby, it’s okay. Daddy just made a mistake. That’s all.”
She cupped his face with her soft hands and gave him the kind of penetrating stare that only little kids seemed able to muster. “You promise?” she said in a tiny voice. The undercurrents of fear in her question cut right through Finn’s soul.
He kissed her on the cheek, partly so he wouldn’t have to look into those pleading, piercing eyes. “I promise. Even daddies make mistakes.” He looked over at his wife, who had recovered a bit from her own terror. “But mommies don’t, right?” He gave Susie a tickle and with his other hand squeezed Patrick’s slender shoulder. “Right?”
“Right, Daddy,” Susie said.
“Right,” Patrick agreed.
Finn drove the kids to school and dropped them off. David was the last out of the car. He leaned back in, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces while his siblings headed into the building.
“Hey, Pop, you sure everything’s cool?”
“Absolutely, buddy, no worries.”
“You can talk to me, you know, about anything.”
Finn smiled. “I thought that was my line.”
“I’m serious, Pop. I know sometimes it’s hard to talk to Mom about stuff. Sometimes you need another guy to kick stuff around.”
Finn reached out and shook his son’s hand. “I appreciate that, Dave. More than you’ll ever know.”
“Have a good one, Pop.” David closed the door and followed Susie and Patrick inside.
Finn slowly drove off, passing the cars of other parents, who, he was reasonably certain, would never knowingly trade their lives for his.
He looked in the rearview mirror as David disappeared into the school building.
Down the hall from Finn’s mother’s room a man named Herb Daschle yawned and stretched as he sat in front of a bed where another man lay unconscious. Daschle had been here since midnight and his shift did not end for another four hours. He nodded to an attendant as she came in to check the patient. It was at that instant that the man in the bed started moaning and a few words rolled from his mouth. Daschle jumped up, grabbed the attendant by the arm and pushed her out the door, slamming it shut behind her. He bent down to the man’s face and listened intently. When he fell silent, Daschle whipped out a telephone and made a call, repeating exactly what he had said. Then he went to the door and called out. The attendant came back in, looking a little flustered. But this had happened before.
“Sorry about that,” Daschle said politely as he resumed his seat.
“You people are going to give me a heart attack,” the woman said under her breath. She didn’t dare say it out loud. No, she didn’t dare. Not with people like that.
CHAPTER 55
“I’M GRATEFUL that Gregori was so helpful,” Carter Gray said to the CIA director.
The men were sitting in the study in the bunker. Gray was actually growing quite fond of his current billet. There was something to be said for living underground. The weather was never a problem, no traffic jams, and he rarely enjoyed anyone’s company as much as his own.
The former Soviet ambassador to the U.S. during the final years of the Cold War, Gregori Tupikov, was no longer serving the Russian people; he was doing quite well serving himself. He was now a fat and happy capitalist and a recent export from his homeland. He had joined an investment group that had taken over the formerly state-controlled coal industry and then sold it to another group of fellow Russians. Gregori had been wise enough to flee the country before the government hammer came down on the country’s newly minted rich. He lived most
