Amerika (21 page)

Kimberly gave the driver Andrei’s address. She didn’t speak—she felt too angry, too distracted—and when the car dropped her off the black man was still as much a mystery as he’d been when he first grabbed her arm.

She hurried into the apartment, propelled by her rage. Unsure of what to do, she went to the phone and dialed the number of the military command post. She identified herself and asked for Andrei. A man’s voice announced that he was out of town.

“I know he’s out of town. I know he’s in Washington. 1 need to speak with him.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the voice said.

“It isn’t impossible. You’ve done it before. Why are you doing this to me? Did Mikel tell you to? I must speak with Andrei, do you hear?”

By then she was screaming, but it didn’t matter, because the person at the other end of the line had hung up. Kimberly turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall. It was an absurd figure, disheveled, frantic, and still in her bikini. She walked toward the image, reaching up to touch the makeup on her face. It made her look like a whore. Curious and frightened by this perception of herself, she began rubbing furiously at her makeup.

The convoy pulled up to the Bradford house at dawn. The leading cycles pulled fifty yards past the house, flanking the road, ready to cut off any traffic from outside the town. The limo, preceded by a station wagon, pulled into the driveway, while the trailing cycles covered the road in the direction from which they had come. Four men wearing suits got out of the station wagon. One moved to the front of the yard, another to the rear, and two covered each side. All the lights on the vehicles went off, except for the blinking reds on the motorcycles covering the road.

Inside, Amanda’s face, partially in shadow, partially illuminated by the light from the bathroom, was tight with passion. Her head rolled to one side as she tried to catch her breath, taking little short gasps. She searched and found Peter’s mouth, then threw her head back, her arms clinging tightly to his back, then falling open. She breathed deeply. Peter was sweating, trying to catch his breath.

“Must be getting older,” he panted.

“It should happen to everyone. Maybe we should have more parades. When was the last time you woke me up like this?”

“A real workout,” he said, glancing at the bedside clock.

“Always the romantic.”

He moved to get up. She held him down. “Kiss me.”

Peter gave her his light “I’m in a hurry” kiss.

“No, a good one. A sexy one.”

He kissed her passionately.

“Mmm . . . now you can get up.”

“Thank you very much. I’m only half an hour late.” He rushed into the bathroom and climbed into the shower. Amanda leaned back, closed her eyes, enjoying the after-warmth of the lovemaking. Her reverie was interrupted as Peter returned to the bedroom and began to dress.

“I’m gonna miss you, Peter. I love you, you know.” He heard a car door slam outside. “It’s the car they’ve sent for me.” He finished dressing quickly and walked over to the bed. “I love you too, Am. I’ll call you this evening.”

After he left, Amanda sank back into the pillows, thinking of that old test—when a glass is half filled with water. She was not sure if she felt half empty, or half full.

Devin heard the roar of engines and leaped out of bed, looking for the source.

It was an SSU vehicle but it wasn’t coming for him. Devin saw Helmut Gurtman, a quarter mile away, atop the hill, overlooking the exile camp, studying it with cold intensity, like a jackal eyeing a kill.

With the sure survival instincts of the fugitive, Devin studied Gurtman’s posture and knew that trouble was coming. Almost without a conscious decision, he packed his few belongings to move on.

When Peter got off his plane in Chicago, he was surprised to find Marion Andrews waiting there. He stammered that it was a wonderful surprise, although in fact her sleek self-assurance made him nervous. “I suppose you’re my welcoming committee?” he joked. “Well, actually not,” she said. “I’m going with you.” “I thought I had arrived.”

“You have. But Andrei went to Washington last night and would like us to meet him there. Welcome to politics.”

In Milford, Ward received a call that morning from Helmut Gurtman. “This is your official notification that the United Nations Special Security Unit will be conducting maneuvers in and around the town of Milford, commencing at 0700 hours tomorrow.”

Ward didn’t know what the hell he meant. “Is there something you want me to do?” he asked. “You sure don’t need my permission.”

“You will want to issue an advisory to townspeople to stay indoors and off the streets and roads. Those who violate the order will be subject to arrest and will be in extreme danger.”

Gurtman hung up. Ward slowly put the phone down. He went to the window and looked out at the quiet streets of Milford. The town and its people were as placid and defenseless as a pen full of lambs.

Twenty guests, men in tuxedos, women in bright gowns, were gathered around the long mahogany dining-room table in Petya Samanov’s Virginia mansion. Twin chandeliers glittered above them, and servants hovered nearby with wine. Petya sat at the head of the table, beaming. Marion was opposite him, wearing the emerald necklace from the czar’s collection that he had given her. Every important leader of government was among the privileged guests except the president, and his exclusion was a calculated snub.

After coffee and brandy had been served, Samanov rose to his feet. “In Russia, where as most of you know I come from, we have a saying. Actually we have a great many sayings, most of them untranslatable. But the one I have in mind is something like this. Make your adversary a friend and together you will plant a field. Make him a slave and you cannot bury him enough times.”

His guests smiled politely, not quite sure what the point was.

“Unfortunately, we do not always follow our old sayings,” Petya quipped, and everyone laughed.

Everyone, that is, but Peter Bradford. He did not understand how a trip to Chicago that morning had somehow led to this lavish dinner in a mansion outside Washington.

“As you all know,” Petya continued, “it is our wish to hasten the day when we return to our own homeland and leave the rebuilding of America to our American friends. Tonight we have an honored guest who will help us reach that goal more quickly. Kindly join me in a toast to the first governor-general—the Governor-General of the Central Administrative Area, or Heartland, Mr. Peter Bradford!”

Samanov lifted his glass. Everyone at the table stood and did the same. Peter, unsure what he should do, got to his feet. He saw Andrei and Marion smiling at him. Andrei seemed genuinely pleased; Marion’s smile was more calculating. All around him the most important men and women in America were studying him, toasting him, repeating his name. It might have been a politician’s dream come true.

But that was not how Peter felt.

He felt trapped.

Halfway across America, Devin was having a very different kind of dinner at a tiny table in a small, cramped kitchen. At this dinner, powdered milk was drunk rather than champagne and hearth-baked yams had to stand in for prime ribs. But the company was good, a jovial young man named Clayton Kullen and a black minister, Reverend James Blackstone and his wife, Melanie.

“So there are five of us, hiding in a cave,” Clayton was saying. “And we hear shooting, I peek out and see this fellow here, running like crazy, and the railroad police are after him, guns blazing, and pretty soon I see that he’s headed straight for us, bringing the police with him. So I yell,
‘Hey you, go find your own cave!’ ”

Everyone laughed. “That’s not quite true,” Devin said quietly. “He hid me in his cave. Or else I’d probably be dead.”

“I don’t know,” Clayton said. “You looked like a pretty fast runner.”

Reverend Blackstone had been studying Devin carefully as Devin busied himself with a yam, very much aware of the scrutiny. “You say you’re headed for Chicago?” he asked.

Devin nodded.

“Chicago’s the wrong way,” the minister said. “Most folks through here are headed the other way.”

“What’s your identification number?” Clayton asked abruptly.

Devin froze; the activity at the table stopped. Clayton smiled gently.

“How long?” he asked.

“Not long,” Devin admitted.

“Family in Chicago?”

Devin kept eating. Finally he said, “My children. I’m going to . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t know how to.

“To what?” Clayton pressed. “To see them? Join them? Kidnap them?”

“Clay, leave the man alone,” Melanie said.

“It matters what kind of help he needs. What he wants to do.”

“I’ll start with seeing them,” Devin said. “Look, I’d appreciate your help. Maybe if you can just point me in the right direction.” He stood up, anxious to keep moving, uncomfortable with their curiosity.

“Sit down,” the minister said. “Finish your dinner. Some of us get real put off when people don’t finish their dinner.”

Melanie Blackstone smiled and touched Devin’s arm. He sat back down.

“You’ve climbed aboard the oldest railroad in America, mister,” the minister said. “The underground railroad. Used to help slaves, a hundred-odd years ago. Runs in all directions. All hours. More reliable than Amtrak. God works in mysterious ways.”

Devin stared at the man uncertainly.

“What he’s saying,” Clayton added, “is that we can get you to Chicago a lot faster and safer than you could on your own—if you got there at all.”

“I appreciate it,” Devin said.

“Devin Milford,” Melanie said. “It took awhile to make the connection. You’re thinner, and you didn’t used to have the beard.”

Devin shook his head guardedly. “I’m sorry. It’s a mistake some people make.”

“That’s too bad,” Reverend Blackstone said. “Because I’d sure like to shake that man’s hand someday.” Clayton smiled. “Okay, let me put it this way. I have friends in Chicago who can find out where Devin Milford’s children are. Now does that interest you?”

Devin started to smile. They all began to laugh.

* * *

Not long after Petya Samanov’s toast to Peter, the guests began to say good night.

Peter and Andrei were Samanov’s houseguests, there in the mansion, and they settled before the fire in the downstairs study with a bottle of brandy between them. Peter had taken a sip or two; Andrei was drinking heartily.

“Do you realize this brandy was put down just as Hitler was rising to power in Germany?” he said.

“If it’s older than I am, I kind of lose interest,” Peter said. He didn’t want to talk about brandy; he wanted to talk about his role, this crazy new position he had been thrust into, but Andrei wouldn’t give him the chance.

“You’re not intrigued by history—the twists and gyrations.” Andrei smiled. “A communist and a capitalist drinking spirits from the time of fascism’s greatest power. At that very time Stalin, that great fascist, was, under the guise of socialism, murdering millions and imprisoning millions more. I’m partial to this year. It was also the year my grandfather died in the Gulag.” He took a quiet sip of brandy, as if drinking a silent toast.

Peter watched, suddenly feeling sympathy for this man. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say,” he said quietly.

Andrei shrugged. “My grandfather is now a hero of the Soviet Union, an honor posthumously bestowed. Stalin is dead and discredited. My grandfather is dead and recredited. And his grandson is one of the few responsible for elevating Mother Russia at last—to its position as the only true power in the world.”

He raised his glass and drank. Peter did not.

Andrei smiled at him. “I wouldn’t drink to that either, if I were you.”

Andrei sighed and poured himself another glass of brandy. He offered one to Peter, who shook his head. “Never trust a man who won’t get drunk with you,” Andrei muttered, staring at Peter. “We learn how to survive, even become the power we hated. You will too. We both have our share of problems. Ours is that seventy-five years of communism have produced a people who wish to be led. A people who know in their bones that to make decisions is to court disaster. We control the world and we don’t have any competent people to run it.”

He stood up and warmed himself before the fire. After a moment he raised his glass again. “To my honored grandfather,” he said. “Posthumously rewarded—died—suffering—disgraced—filled with hate and hopelessness—in great pain—alone—just he and the hard frozen ground of Lyubyanka.”

Andrei lifted his glass. After a moment, Peter stood and lifted his as well. They drained the glasses, then stood in silence for a while. Peter heard a peal of laughter from upstairs. Marion ought to be laughing, he thought; she’s wearing the czarina’s emeralds.

“Andrei, I’d like to talk about politics. About me. About this new job. I feel like I’m a pawn on somebody else’s chessboard.”

Andrei grinned. “Yes, we must talk. You have the job, now what does it mean? First of all, there is one bit of news that must be broken to you.”

Peter braced himself for the worst—and got it. “Marion Andrews is to be your deputy, and intimate adviser on political matters.”