Atropos (17 page)

The Congressman had told him to tell the truth if anyone asked him any questions. He also said, let them think what they want. So Joe answered simply, “Yes. I feel outraged at apartheid. And oppressive governments threaten everybody.”

The diplomat in the robes turned to the Senator with a contented smile on his face. “You see, Senator, it is as we have told you—”

“I’ll tell you something else that outrages me just as badly,” Joe said. They turned to him. “The fact that every day, hundreds and thousands of people flee from black African countries
into
South Africa. Including yours.”

The two diplomats, and the Senator, too, looked at Joe as if they had suddenly forgotten how to speak English.

“I mean, how screwed up
are
you people, that thousands of your citizens would up and leave and
choose
to live where the very law practically defines them as subhuman? What goes on in your countries that your people see an obscenity like South Africa as an
improvement?
Talk about frightening.”

Joe thought, oops, got a little carried away there. What happens now, fisticuffs? I get invited to leave the party? War?

What happened was nothing. Less than nothing. The two diplomats and Senator Van Horn turned away from him as if he had ceased to exist.

“Ah,” the Senator said. “General Dudakov.” The backs of three heads receded.

Joe got a glimpse of a short and stocky figure, an iron-gray crew cut and the gleam of medals before a crowd gathered around and cut him off from view. It was amazing how assiduously these Washington party types went after a man they’d probably never heard of until he’d gotten here three days ago.

The Congressman would never be able to fight his way through that mob. Joe supposed the old man could wait awhile. He went and got the Congressman his drink.

The girl’s name was Helen Fraser. Her father was something in the Interior Department. She was here as Mark Van Horn’s date.

So, Regina thought, he’s jealous of me, after all. Why else would he dig up a blond bombshell to come to the party with? One who asked you what sign you were five minutes after you met her. One who wanted to tell you about her channeler, the one who could let you
talk personally
with the spirit of Alexander the Great.

“It’s really opened my mind,” Helen said. She nodded solemnly.

Allan nodded back. “As soon as we started talking, I said there is someone who has made a lot of space in her mind.”

Helen said, “Exactly!” Regina suppressed a giggle.

“Of course, growing up so close to the Interior Department ...” Allan went on.

“I have a natural affinity for open spaces! My channeler says that, too!”

“Ah ... How much does this guy charge you?”

“Do you want to see him, too? He’s very select about his clientele, you know, but I bet he would see you.” She looked at him. She was so tall that when she looked Allan in the eye (as she frequently did; she’d been coming on to him, with Regina standing right there, since she’d first laid eyes on him) all Regina could see of her was the bottom of her chin.

Helen waited breathlessly (she did everything breathlessly) for Allan’s answer. Regina was pretty interested to hear what he would say, too, but she would never know because just then, Mark Van Horn and Ainley Masters joined them.

“I see you’ve already met Helen,” Mark said. Introductions were made all around. Ainley said it was so nice to see her again.

Mark pumped Allan’s hand vigorously. “Trotter. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Well, of course that always raises a question, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, good things, all good. Our little Regina is quite devoted to you. You’re a lucky man.”

Our little Regina,
Regina thought. I can’t believe it. This is a spite party, at least as far as I’m concerned. Does he really think showing up here with someone tall and blond and thin, while I am short and dark and not thin, is going to bother me? And calling me our little Regina? When I have
Allan?
The poor dope. All she felt was sorry for him. And a little disappointed. She guessed Van Horns weren’t used to not getting things, even if it was something they manifestly had never wanted.

“When’s the big day?” Mark asked.

“We haven’t set the date yet,” Regina said.

Mark smiled at Allan. “Don’t let her get away.”

No chance of that, Regina thought.

There was noise from the room with the bar in it. “That must be either the candidates or the Russians,” Trotter said.

Mark Van Horn smiled at him. He was smiling so hard it looked as if he might sprain his cheeks, but his eyes were dead, just blue holes in his head for pouring information into his brain. He stared at Allan over the top of that painful smile like a kid watching a magic act. Trotter wondered what Mark expected him to do.

“I think it’s the Russians,” Mark said. He was working the smile so hard his voice was starting to strain.

Helen noticed it. “Mark, honey,” she said, “relax.” She put her hand on his arm. “I can feel beta waves all through you.”

Mark shook her off. “I’m fine,” he snapped. Then he turned to her and said more gently, “I’m fine, really.” He turned to Regina. “Come and meet the General. He’s told my father he wants to meet as many representatives of the press as possible.”

“He doesn’t want to meet me,” Regina said.

“Let’s go, Bash,” Trotter said. Using his pet name for her in public was an informal code they’d worked up—when he called her Bash she wasn’t to ask questions, just go along.

She went. She didn’t take it with a lot of grace, but that didn’t matter. Mark took Regina by the hand and took off through the crowd. He never looked around for Helen, but he made sure he knew where Trotter was every moment.

As they drew nearer the center of the knot of people, Trotter could feel some beta waves or whatever the hell they were rising in himself. He told himself to calm down, but his subconscious didn’t listen. He knew why.

This was the man behind the Cronus project. This was the sick mind that sent a hundred women to America, each assigned to become the perfect woman for a soon-to-be influential American, to win him, and to bear him children in case he ever needed hostages. This was Trotter’s other father, and Regina’s. This was the man responsible for Trotter’s own twisted life. And now he was going to see him face to face.

And he was just an old man.

You could see him on park benches anywhere in America, at family picnics, in the solaria of nursing homes. A man who had been powerful in youth; who had been rounded and melted by age. A potential mugging victim.

The Congressman twisted my life, made me a Cold-War monster, to fight
him?
Trotter brought himself up short. Appearances meant nothing. Trotter’s father was the only man in the world Trotter was afraid of; General Dmitri Borzov, whatever he wanted to call himself, was the only man the Congressman feared. He had to be treated with respect. Age had ravaged the bodies of both men (even now, the General was stifling a cough) but the minds remained deadly.

“General Dudakov,” Mark Van Horn said. Td like you to meet Regina Hudson, a very good friend of mine. Miss Hudson is publisher of the Hudson Communications Group.”

The General smiled. “I am delighted. You are young to hold such an important position.”

“I have a lot of help,” Regina said.

Dudakov/Borzov offered a chuckle. “Still, responsibility rests with the leader, does it not? It is not a burden everyone can carry. Your appearance indicates that for you, carrying this heavy load has served you merely as healthful exercise. If I may say so, you seem to be thriving.”

And how
charming
of you, you old bastard, Trotter thought. Regina was practically blushing.

“Why, thank you, Gen—”

“I knew your mother,” Borzov said.

Trotter had been trained since childhood to show no emotions except on purpose. Surprise now gave that training its toughest test ever. What the hell was going on here? What happened to the General’s strict incognito as a Kremlin functionary? Had age turned the KGB’s best brain? This was dangerous stuff. Everyone in America who could read knew that Regina’s mother had been sent by the Russians to infiltrate the American press. A lot of people knew Borzov had done the sending. A small number, including Trotter, knew or suspected that Borzov was here right now.

Maybe, Trotter told himself, he’s going to defect. He suppressed a smile. Maybe he was going to announce that a Russian-backed coup d’état had just taken control of the United States. That was about as likely as the defection would be.

“How?” Regina said. “How did you know my mother?”

“Oh, we worked in the same department for a time. Before the intelligence people got hold of her. She was very young. But even then, I could see her strength. Her beauty was apparent to anyone.”

Borzov started to smile, then went off into a coughing fit. Trotter could see he was serious about it. The skin of the Russian’s face reddened, and it looked as though he’d have trouble staying on his feet. An aide rushed forward to hold him up, but Borzov waved him away. Borzov got a handkerchief from his pocket and brought it to his mouth. Somehow, muffling that jagged, choking cough only made it sound worse.

Trotter noticed that the crowd had formed a circle around Borzov, one that got wider with every cough. They wanted to give him room to collapse.

Just when it seemed the old man’s breath was gone for good, the coughing stopped. Borzov pulled in a great breath, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds. He took the handkerchief away from his mouth, looked inside, and made a face.

The aide stepped forward again. Borzov handed him the handkerchief, which he took without a moment’s hesitation, as though being handed a flower from the Queen, instead of maybe a quarter of a cup of mucus. He’ll go far, Trotter thought.

It seemed safe to talk now. A chorus of “Are you all right?” rose from the crowd. Trotter thought he could make out Senator Van Horn’s voice. Borzov held up a hand and said, “Just a moment, please, it is nothing.”

The aide had gotten rid of the handkerchief.
Stuck it in his pocket?
Trotter thought. Yuck. In any case, he replaced it with a gelatin capsule and a glass of water. Borzov popped the capsule in his mouth, washed it down with the water, then smiled and turned to Regina as if he’d never missed a beat.

“And as it was with your mother, my dear,” he said, “so it is with you. The Soviet Union’s loss is America’s gain.”

“I’m quite happy with the way things turned out, General,” Regina said. Trotter almost kissed her on the spot. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Borzov spread his hands. “For a man as old as I, merely to be alive is to be ‘all right.’”

He turned to Trotter. “And you, young man. Have I understood correctly? Your are to have the good fortune of marrying this young woman?”

“I’m the one,” Trotter said. He looked in the General’s eyes. It was strange, almost frightening. There was little resemblance between the Russian and the Congressman, aside from the wrinkles of age and the gray hair, but their eyes were the eyes of twins. Worse than that; the light that glinted in the eyes of both men, the intelligence that lived behind them, was identical.

“Take good care of her, Mr. Trotter.”

“Oh, I will,” Trotter said.

“That’s very good,” the General said. “Very good. Now, perhaps, Mr. Trotter, you can be of assistance to me. There is a man whom I especially wanted to meet during my time in America. I was told he would be here this evening. A comrade of mine in the war against Hitler. I knew then that he would achieve great things. Indeed, now he serves in your Congress.”

“Oh?” Trotter said. “What’s his name?”

Borzov told him.

Trotter covered confusion with a smile. What
was
this man up to?

“I haven’t seen him,” Trotter said truthfully. “But why do you ask me where he is?”

“Oh, in some ways you remind me of him. And you seem to be a man of intelligence.” Borzov was smiling; behind his eyes, he was shouting with laughter.

“Here I am, you old pirate,” the Congressman’s voice said. “If the damned crowd will just let an old man through—thanks. Excuse me. No, he’s with me. Come on, Joe.”

The Congressman appeared, walking with just a cane. Joe Albright stood behind him with his hands open, ready to catch the Congressman if he fell. Trotter could have told him not to worry. The Congressman wasn’t about to fall. Not now. Not here.

Borzov’s face lit up with what looked like genuine delight. “Comrade!” he said, and threw his arms open.

The Congressman said “Dmitri” and did the same.

Trotter stood there watching his father embracing his oldest and toughest enemy, and decided that at last, he’d seen everything.

M
ARK LOOKED AROUND AT
Helen Fraser’s apartment. You’d think a person who’d had so many past lives as Helen claimed to would have accumulated more personality. While the exterior of the building was gingerbready Victorian brownstone, not too different from the Van Horn place, Helen’s second-floor apartment might have been carved from the inside of a scoop of vanilla ice cream. White walls and ceilings. White carpet. Glass and chrome and white leather. In the bedroom, there were a white pine bureau and a white pine vanity with a lighted mirror. Big, round, white lights. Mark currently reclined on a white pine platform bed on top of a white tufted spread. The only color in the whole apartment, Mark knew, was in the bathroom. Helen used pink soap. And pink toilet paper.

She was in there now, putting in her diaphragm—a pink one, Mark supposed. Sometimes he wondered why she bothered. True, they always wound up having intercourse, but that didn’t seem to be the main point of things for Helen. When he thought of straitlaced little Regina Hudson refusing to take delivery in the rear, and compared her with Helen, he wanted to laugh.

What he didn’t want to do was to play any of Helen’s games right now. He had too much on his mind. He had to think through what he’d seen tonight. Maybe Helen would understand.