'And now its not. It's a reality.'
Gunther turned from the window. 'Bill, give him something,' he pleaded.
Gunther had raised his voice, as to give a theatrical cue, and Calvin reentered the room. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked to the desk. Gunther moved to one side.
'Have you explained?' he asked Gunther, his voice clipped and hard. The winter daylight was again cold on his face.
'I have, Mr. President.'
'Well, Bill, well?'
The director nervously and with great reluctance shook his head. Then he said: 'We have
'It won't work!'
'It has to.'
The silence was stormy, the director's temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Calvin slapped his hand on his desk, then slumped into his swivel chair. He stared out at the White House lawns, deep in snow, at the pale spike of the monument. Stared into a close and ugly future.
He announced to the window: 'I have to have irrefutable photographic evidence that these weapons exist. With that much, I can go to Geneva and denounce the Soviets — get their laser weapons included in the treaty. If I don't have it, world opinion will break me and this country.' He turned to face the director. 'OK, Bill,' he added, raising his palms outward in what might have been surrender. 'Do it. Initiate
Sunday nights he was always drunk. Just like now, but not usually here, in his own flat, because he was afraid to go out, or be seen anywhere. Filip Kedrov looked at his shaking hands, quivering in front of his face. His eyes filled with a leaky self-pity, his body was possessed by an ague of terror. Christ! He'd tried not to drink any more after he returned to the flat, because of what he knew lay ahead of him, but it had been no good. He'd had to calm himself down, or try to — he was so frightened! He'd been back an hour and he was still shaking like a leaf. He had literally fled from the officers' club they allowed people like him to use on weekends, fled because of that telemetry officer opening his big mouth in the toilet while Filip was in one of the cubicles. Christ, why had he had to listen? It was terrible, terrible.
His fear was real and deep, in every part of his body like a fever. He clutched the hand he had been inspecting beneath his arm as if he had been caned in school. He folded his arms.
He knocked over his half-filled glass. Beer foamed on the thin carpet, then soaked into it.
Sick with fear, he wandered toward the window, avoiding the low coffee table. It wasn't in a sensible position, but it disguised a threadbare patch in the carpet. He reached for the curtain, knowing he would not pull it aside because of the watchers out there.
He walked away. His eyes scanned the room as if he were making an inventory for some insurance claim. Hi-fi, bottles, a cupboard, cheap dining table and chairs. Some pieces that had belonged to his mother, but mostly standard-issue furniture appropriate to his status. His eyes flitted, unable to settle, like his body. He'd tried not to drink anymore, to keep the remains of a clear head.
Not drunk. Just terrified. Tomorrow he would have had to evade the people outside anyway, so he'd gone out to the club because he always did, so as not to show he knew they were watching him. But he shouldn't have gone. Now he knew he must leave tonight, at once. The big-mouthed officer had seen to that. They'd be looking for him, and when they discovered who he was, they'd be right over to shut his mouth — for good. God, they'd kill him for what he'd overheard.
His stomach cramped agonizingly, and he doubled up, groaning and retching dryly. Why couldn't the drunken pig have kept his big mouth shut? Why had he had to overhear what they were saying while they pissed in the urinal? Why, oh, God, why?
Slowly, the pain retreated. Filip's head cleared a little. His brow felt hot.
There were two men in a car at the front of the block of flats at that moment. A third man was in the shadows at the rear, near the garage. He could place them precisely just by closing his eyes. That's where they'd been when he went out, and to where they'd return after following him back from the club. Closing his eyes made him giddy. There were only three of them, and they still had no orders to close in.
But the army would be looking for him now, not just the KGB. It was awful just thinking about it.
He groaned aloud in desperation. He looked at his watch, then at the clock on the tiled mantelpiece. Eleven o'clock, Sunday evening. The small screen of the television set stared back at him, as blank as his own gaze. Eleven o'clock.
He'd gone to the club after sending the final signal to the Americans, his mood almost euphoric despite the car tailing him. Orlov's shop, he'd called innocently… God, he would have to go back there, or call Oriov now, to send another message. God, the look the captain had given him when he emerged from the cubicle and tried to sneak away!
Kedrov rubbed his cheeks as if scouring them. Why had he had to hear? His hands flitted from his cheeks to his ears — unwise monkey. The captain had realized he'd been overheard, almost at once. He had all but moved, almost shouted after him. He had hurried away and out of the club — but they knew.
He whirled his body in an ache of fear around the center of the room, spinning as if to create some spell of invisibility. God, Christ, Hell, God — he had to get out now!
They may not have reported him because they were the ones who'd been insecure, but they'd surely come looking once they found out who he was, where he lived. Christ, it was awful.
He stared at the large, bulkily filled haversack on the dining table. As soon as he'd gotten back, he had feverishly filled it with cans, provisions, spare clothing, aware all the time of the men outside. Especially the one at the back stamping hr feet with cold, breathing out clouds of smoky breath, rubbing his gloved hands as he watched the garages. Filip saw him every time he went into the flat's tiny kitchen.
He'd packed the haversack, ready for flight. And immediately postponed any attempt at escape. He walked stiffly, jerkily toward the dining table and gripped the shoulder straps of the canvas haversack. Then dropped them as if they were charged with a current.
He couldn't risk going to the shop again. He must call Orlov, not on the bugged telephone in the hall, but from a phone booth, and tell him to send the message:
Orlov could send the signal, then close down the transmitter; disassemble it, hide the bits. If only he could get out of the flat.
The signal was easy. The rendezvous — he'd decided that long ago, with the Americans. The salt marshes, a pinprick-size island. They had maps, satellite pictures of the exact location. He had confirmed the pickup point in his last signal. All he had to say was
If only he could move.
He gripped the shoulder straps of the haversack and did not release them. Hefted the sack, felt the flat's chill and the darkness outside and the three KGB watchers… and the captain who had been loose-tongued and was the most dangerous threat of all to his safety, rescue — survival. Hurried, opened the door, checked the empty, cabbage-smelling corridor, closed his door behind him with no sense of finality, only with haste. The lock clicked loudly.
He hurried along the corridor, up the uncarpeted concrete stairs behind the fire door toward the roof. Unlocked the roof door with fumbling hands, opened it, walked through—
— face embraced, arms held—
He struggled blindly, gasping but not crying out, flailing his arms—
— the clothesline collapsed, the shirts stiff with frost, the troupers, the underwear and the sheets, draped along the dirty, ice-pooled, gravel-covered roof. He doubled over, choking back his coughs, sick with fear and relief. Staring at a shirt lying like a spread-eagled upper torso at his feet, arms akimbo in surrender. He heaved, but
