anything, his murder seemed to have energized the Sixth Republic’s investigations. Every passing day saw new details of the old French government’s unsavory, often illegal, doings come to light. Dozens of high-and middle- ranking DGSE officials were either under arrest or in forced retirement. For the first time in decades, it appeared that France might actually gain control over its shadowy “government within a government.”
The President looked toward Alex. “As for you, Mr. Banich, I think we’d both agree that your days as a field agent are numbered.”
The CIA officer nodded slowly. He’d known that ever since Soloviev penetrated his cover, but it was still hard to accept that he’d been locked out of the covert game forever.
The President watched him carefully. “How would you like a posting as a chief of station?”
Erin’s heart sank. She knew this was a big step for Alex — one he richly deserved. But it also meant he would soon be stationed at another embassy far away from her and far too busy for close contact. Slowly, inexorably, they would drift apart over time — each consumed by his or her own work. She turned away, unwilling to influence his decision by letting him see her sadness. She didn’t really have a claim on him — not yet.
Then the President went on with just the faintest suggestion of a twinkle in his eyes. “I understand you’re a skilled linguist, Mr. Banich. That you’re fluent in Russian, Ukrainian, and several other languages?”
“Yes, sir.”
The President nodded. “Thought so. That’s why I think it’s high time you polished up your English skills.” He grinned. “Walt Quinn and I want you to take over the London Station at the end of this month. I hope you’ll accept.”
Banich grinned back. “You can count on it, Mr. President!”
Erin turned toward him, her own eyes sparkling. London was one of the CIA’s most important and prestigious posts. Better yet, it meant that they would be together, after all.
Jack Ward sighed and looked around his new office. Although his retirement was still three months away, he’d decided to rent an office as soon as he was transferred to shore duty. It had just enough paneling and thick- enough carpets to be comfortable without appearing ostentatious. Compared to the steel bulkheads of a navy warship, it was luxurious.
He sat behind the desk, studying the still-empty walls and empty in-basket. There wasn’t much to do yet, but he enjoyed the idleness. After running the biggest U.S. naval force since World War II and seeing too many men and ships die, he could appreciate a little boredom.
Many of his friends were still surprised that he’d decided to retire. If he’d stayed in the navy, he would have been a shoo-in for the next chief of naval staff, the highest-ranking job in the fleet. But the CNS slot was a thankless task, an administrator’s job with no command function at all.
Ward knew he was an “operator,” and being a wartime fleet commander was as high as he could ever want to rise. It was time to get out while he was still ahead.
There was still a lot to do. There were the obligatory memoirs. Writing those would take a year or two. There was that cabin on the Carolina shore that he’d promised Elizabeth and himself. Navy men spent far too much time away from their families, and now he was going to take some of that time back.
The phone rang, startling him a little. Just installed, few people had the number. Probably his wife.
It rang a second time. Ward picked it up, expecting to hear Elizabeth’s voice.
“Admiral, it’s Ross Huntington. Your wife said I could reach you here.”
“That’s right,” Ward answered, surprised. The admiral was still only vaguely aware of Huntington’s role during the war, except that he was very close to the President. Since the war, though, the papers had been full of stories about the London Conference and its organizer. He was delighted to hear from Huntington, and a little flattered. His friend’s voice was strong and full of energy, which also pleased Ward.
They chatted for a while, exchanging news about their families and postwar celebrations. After a few minutes of small talk, Ward congratulated Huntington on his appointment and asked how preparations were going. It was the opening the other man had been waiting for.
“It’s going well, Jack. We’re getting a lot of support from all over Europe. The French and Germans are jumping at the chance to attend. They need all the goodwill they can get. I’ve got one problem, though.”
“What’s that?” asked Ward.
“I’ve got a hole on my team, Jack. I don’t have a military advisor. Defense plays a big role in all of Europe’s economies, and if I don’t have someone who can handle that part of the equation, I’m bound for disaster. Will you take it on?”
Even as Huntington continued, thoughts whirled to the front of Ward’s mind. Dealing with dozens of European countries.
“I’d need you for at least a year.”
Trying to build up an accurate military picture of postwar Europe.
“I can’t lie to you. The workload would be awful.”
Defining a new pattern of security relationships for the postwar world.
“I’ll do it,” Ward said. Idleness be damned. His memoirs could wait. He wanted to add a few more chapters.
Glumly, Major Tadeusz Wojcik reviewed his plans for the next series of tactics lectures. It was his unenviable task to make sure they folded smoothly and logically into the regiment’s existing training plan.
He’d been transferred to the training command after the war. It was a rest, they said. He should relax, they said. You need the administrative experience, they said.
Tad missed flying. He maintained proficiency with once-a-week hops, but milk runs weren’t the same as flying with an operational squadron. Sometimes, sitting there at his desk, he could almost hear his arteries hardening.
He heard a rapping and looked up to see one of his staff knocking on the open door. “Major, there’s someone here to see you.” The corporal’s stunned expression did not match his prosaic words. The noncom looked so surprised, in fact, that Tad wondered if the air force’s inspector general had dropped by to rake him over the coals for misfiling some bureaucratic form or another.
The corporal stepped aside, replaced by a man in ill-fitting civilian clothes. He spoke in accented English, which threw Tad off for a moment. He didn’t speak English that much anymore.
The stranger reached forward and enthusiastically pumped Tad’s hand as he rose behind the desk. “Major Wojcik. I am very glad to meet you.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “I am sorry. I am glad to see you
The smile got bigger.
Tad was at a complete loss. The stranger had longish black hair and blue eyes. He was reasonably fit, and seemed just a little younger than Tad himself. They’d met before? When? Where? Who was this guy?
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid…”
The grin widened some more. “Of course.” The man suddenly snapped to attention. “I am Leutnant Dieter Kurtz of the Deutsche Luftwaffe, with Jagdgeschwader Three.”
A German? Tad’s face mirrored his puzzlement. But he’d never met…
Kurtz continued. “I was in a MiG-29 on June 8, near the German-Polish border.”
Recognition dawned on Wojcik’s face. “You tangled with two F-15s. I was in one of them.”
The German nodded. “And you shot me down.”
An image of the dogfight flashed through Tad’s memory. A night intercept that had resulted in a classic two- versus-two engagement, with the maneuvers as clean and well executed as a game between chess champions.
It had not ended quickly, though. Move had followed countermove until Tad had finally taken a chance snapshot with his cannon and scored on the German. It had been his sixth kill and it had firmly cemented his reputation as an ace with the regiment.
Tad remembered the MiG, sparkling in the darkness as his cannon shells struck, then spiraling down into the night, one wing gone and on fire.
At the time, he hadn’t even thought about the other pilot, hadn’t felt anything except a grim joy at the victory. He compared that feeling with the affable stranger standing before him.
