“Fine.”
Cathy was at the stove, fixing dinner. He set Sally down and headed to his wife for a kiss. “How is it,” her husband asked, “that you’re always home first? At home you’re usually later.”
“Unions,” she replied. “Everybody clocks out on time here, and ‘on time’ is usually pretty early—not like Hopkins.” Where, she didn’t add, just about everyone on the professional staff worked late.
“Must be nice to work bankers’ hours.”
“Even dad doesn’t leave his office this early, but everybody over here does. And lunch means a full hour—half the time away from the hospital. Well, “ she allowed, “the food’s a little better that way.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti.” And Jack saw that the pot was full of her special meat sauce. He turned to see a baguette of French bread on the counter.
“Where’s the little guy?”
“Living room.”
“Okay.” Ryan headed that way. Little Jack was in his crib. He’d just mastered sitting up—it was a little early for that, but that was fine with his dad. Around him was a collection of toys, all of which found their way into his mouth. He looked up to see his father and managed a toothless smile. Of course, that merited a pickup, which Jack accomplished. His diaper felt dry and fresh. Doubtless, Miss Margaret had changed him before scooting off—as always, before Jack made it home from the shop. She was working out fairly well. Sally liked her, and that was the important part. He set his son back down, and the little guy resumed playing with a plastic rattle and watching the TV—especially the commercials. Jack went off to the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes, then back to the kitchen. Then the doorbell chimed, much to everyone’s surprise. Jack went to answer it.
“Dr. Ryan?” the voice asked in American English. It was a guy of Ryan’s height and general looks, dressed in a jacket and tie, holding a large box.
“That’s right.”
“I got your STU for you, sir. I work comms at the embassy,” the guy explained. “Mr. Murray said I should bring this right over.”
The box was a cardboard cube about two and a half feet on a side, and blank, with no printing on it. Ryan let the man into the house and led him directly to his den. It took about three minutes to extract the oversized phone from the box. It went next to Jack’s Apple IIe computer.
“You’re NSA?” Ryan asked.
“Yes, sir. Civilian. Used to be in the Army Security Agency, E-5. Got out and got a pay increase as a civilian. Been over here two years. Anyway, here’s your encryption key.” He handed over the plastic device. “You know how these things work, right?”
“Oh yeah.” Ryan nodded. “Got one on my desk downtown.”
“So you know the rules about this. If anything breaks, you call me”—he handed over his card—”and nobody but me or one of my people is allowed to look at the inside. If that happens, the system self-destructs, of course. Won’t start a fire or anything, but it does stink some, ‘cause of the plastic. Anyway, that’s it.” He broke down the box.
“You want a Coke or anything?”
“No, thanks. Gotta get home.” And with that, the communications expert walked back out the door to his car.
“What was that, Jack?” Cathy asked from the kitchen.
“My secure phone,” Jack explained, returning to his wife’s side.
“What’s that for?”
“So I can call home and talk to my boss.”
“Can’t you do that from the office?”
“There’s the time difference and, well, there are some things I can’t talk about there.”
“Secret-agent stuff,” she snorted.
“That’s right.” Just like the pistol he had in his closet. Cathy accepted the presence of his Remington shotgun with some equanimity—he used it for hunting, and she was prepared to tolerate that, since you could cook and eat the birds, and the shotgun was unloaded. But she was less comfortable with a pistol. And so, like civilized married people, they didn’t talk about it, so long as it was well out of Sally’s reach, and Sally knew that her father’s closet was off-limits. Ryan had gotten fond of his Browning Hi-Power 9mm automatic, which
So could a corkscrew. “Chianti?” Ryan asked.
Cathy turned. “Okay, I don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Cath, I’ve never understood what a glass or two of wine tonight would have to do with surgery tomorrow— it’s ten or twelve hours away.”
“Jack, you don’t mix alcohol with surgery,” she explained patiently. “Okay? You don’t drink and drive. You don’t drink and cut, either. Not ever. Not once.”
“Yes, doctor. So tomorrow you just set glasses prescriptions for people?”
“Uh-huh, simple day. How about you?”
“Nothing important. Same crap, different day.”
“I don’t know how you stand it.”
“Well, it’s interesting, secret crap, and you have to be a spook to understand it.”
“Right.” She poured the spaghetti sauce into a bowl. “Here.”
“I haven’t got the wine open yet.”
“So work faster.”
“Yes, Professor the Lady Ryan,” Jack responded, taking the bowl of sauce and setting it on the table. Then he pulled the cork out of the Chianti.
Sally was too big a girl for a high chair but still small enough for a booster seat, which she carried to the chair herself. Since the dinner was “pisgetty,” her father tucked the cloth napkin into her collar. The sauce would probably get to her pants anyway, but it would teach his little girl about napkins, and that, Cathy thought, was important. Then Ryan poured the wine. Sally didn’t ask for any. Her father had indulged her once (over his wife’s objections), and that had ended that. Sally got some Coca-Cola.
Svetlana was asleep, finally. She liked to stay up as long as she could, every night the same, or so it seemed, until she finally put her head down. She slept with a smile, her father saw, like a little angel, the sort that decorated Italian cathedrals in the travel books he used to read. The TV was on. Some World War II movie, it sounded like. They were all the same. The Germans attacked cruelly—well, occasionally there was a German character with something akin to humanity, usually a German communist, it would be revealed along the way, torn by conflicting loyalties to his class (working class, of course) and his country—and the Soviets resisted bravely, losing a lot of defiant men at first until turning the tide, usually outside Moscow in December 1941, at Stalingrad in January 1943, or the Kursk Bulge in the summer of 1943. There was always a heroic political officer, a courageous private soldier, a wise old sergeant, and a bright young junior officer. Toss in a grizzled general who wept quietly and alone for his men, then had to set his feelings aside and get the job done. There were about five different formulas, all of them variations of the same theme, and the only real difference was whether Stalin was seen as a wise, godlike ruler or simply wasn’t mentioned at all.
But Zaitzev wasn’t watching the movie now. Oleg Ivanovich sipped at his vodka, eyes focused on the TV screen, without seeing it. It had just struck him how huge a step he’d taken that afternoon on the metro. At the time, it had almost been a lark, like a child playing a prank, reaching into that American’s pocket like a sneak-thief,
