Azrael (29 page)

“Don’t tell me nonsense. She does.”

Petra Hudson took a deep breath. The world didn’t hold enough air. “Well, she doesn’t now, does she? Mr. Trotter, never put yourself in a situation where there’s nothing you can do.”

“You could have done what your daughter did.”

“Come to you? I may not be much of a mother, but I’m not a fool.”

“We had to sit around letting people die, letting the Russians put enough pressure on you until you were ready to break. If you’d come to us, we could have devoted our time to catching this bastard who’s been killing children in your town.”

“She’ll never forgive me for letting those people die.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Let’s talk about how we’re going to save the Hudson Group for you.”

“Save it for you, you mean. Instead of planting articles and editorials for the KGB, I’ll be planting them for the CIA. It doesn’t matter if the strings go to Moscow or Washington, Mr. Trotter. I’m still a puppet.”

“No, I’ve got that one covered, too.”

“Oh,” she said. The sarcasm was fueled by exasperation. This young man had all the answers. “What are you going to do? Submit to brain surgery? All of you who know my secret, you’re going to have the cells that store the knowledge removed, how nice.”

“No surgery. And again, I’m not the one who’s going to do it. You are. You’re going to make it impossible for anyone, from any country, to blackmail you over this.”

“And save me from the Russians?”

“That’s right.”

“Very simply, I ask you, how?”

“It is simple. Two words.”

“Yes?”

“Go public.”

“Go
what?”

“Public. Go public. You own a big whistle. Blow it.”

“On myself?”

“On the KGB slave masters who deceived you into coming to America as a spy and who would not let the past die.”

“And go to jail for the rest of my life.”

“Aside from coming into the United States under false pretenses, have you ever committed a felony?”

She knew why he asked. Part of the training for the Cronus Project had been in various ways to dispose of rivals, ranging from gossip to murder. Murder was recommended—that way the rival would have no chances to win the man back. “No,” she said. “Fortunately, James was a bachelor.”

“Okay. Did you in fact ever do any spying for Borzov? Or anybody?”

“No. They tried to keep contact with the Cronus operatives to a minimum. I never heard from them until—until all this started. Sometimes ...” She closed her eyes. “Sometimes I could forget all about it.”

“You committed no crimes; you did no spying. You are the mother of two American citizens. Your charity work is legendary. You’re a major employer. You have tried to put the past behind you, make it up to America for deceiving her that one time, so long ago, though you had no choice at the time but to do it or be killed.”

“You sound like a press release.”

“Just trying to channel your thinking in the right direction. You are a heroine. Lots of Americans work their way up from nothing—you worked your way up from minus one thousand. You built an important business and did great American things, all the while looking over your shoulder for the KGB.

“And something else, the most important thing from my point of view. You will tell them about the Cronus Project. I’ll back you up with all the documentation we’ve got.”

“How much have you got?” Impossible. It was ridiculously impossible. But there was something about this young man that made you forget you had already reached decisions other than the ones he wanted you to make.

“A decent amount. Enough to make somebody with an open mind think. Enough to make most of the op-ed regulars at certain non-Hudson Group newspapers purple in the face trying to deny it. You’ll hold press conferences. You’ll testify before Congress. You are a very persuasive woman, and it will only help that you’ll be telling the truth. The idea is to let people know, the way you know, what we’re up against. You’ll make them look bad.”

“And what about when someone asks me about letting innocent people die because I didn’t do anything about it? How will that make me look?”

Trotter raised his eyebrows. “Look, Mrs. Hudson, I know you’ve been through a lot here, but you don’t want to lose your journalistic instincts entirely. They won’t ask you.”

“They won’t? Why not?”

“Because Borzov has outsmarted himself, him and his ace assassin.
All those deaths were accidents or suicides.
All anybody has to do is check the police reports. Sadness over the deaths, and the realization that nobody’s children were safe, even without the KGB in the picture, has given you the courage to make your confession, but implications of anything else are cruel to all concerned.”

Petra Hudson was surprised to hear herself laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Trotter demanded.

“You said it would be easier because I would be telling the truth.”

“You’ll be telling the truth about everything important. The situation you were in, the fear for your children. You’ll be telling the truth about Cronus.”

“If I go along with this—”

“Go along with this? This is Christmas morning for you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Perhaps I’m ungrateful. It is a better offer than I’ve had from Moscow, and I suspect I have as little choice in the matter. Very well,
when
I go along with this, of course I’ll tell the truth about Cronus. How I was mad to agree to it; how a man, or a woman without a child, can never know the sheer inhumanity of it. But with everything involved here, why is the exposure of Cronus in particular of so much importance to
you?”

He showed her a twisted grin. “If I ever own a newspaper, maybe I’ll go public, too.”

S
O HERE I AM
again, Regina thought. Sitting in Mother’s chair, at Mother’s desk. Where she had been when Cronus had come into her life, bringing in its wake the trip to Washington, and Mr. Allan Trotter, and the KGB, and the bottom of the Kirk River, and a killer called Azrael who left no traces.

And the truth about Mother. Almost a full day later, and Regina still couldn’t formulate a coherent thought about it. Mother wasn’t Mother—well, she was, but she was more—and what that “more” was was a lie—but she’s still the woman who tucked me in at night and taught me ...

The thoughts went round and round, going nowhere, ending only in shudders or tears.

She looked at the beige phone on the desk as though it were a reptile that could bite her. Since she touched it last time, she’d been scrambling desperately for footing on the glare-ice surface of the Cold War. With, she decided, a pronounced lack of success. She kept getting these little shoves. The death of her brother’s fiancée and Mr. Charles. The fact that her own existence was the result of a Russian plot. Falling for Allan Trotter.

Damn him, anyway. Who the hell did he think he was? She thought about that for a second and decided she didn’t care to know the answer. It was more relevant to ask, what the hell was he up to?

Because this was his doing, her being here today. He’d choreographed the whole business, though the public would never hear his name in connection with it. He’d somehow gotten Mother to put herself on display; he’d told Jimmy the news when he’d come home, speaking gently, like a big brother. Nothing like the macho professional act he’d put on for her, slapping her with words after the worst shock she’d ever gotten in her life.

Not that it had done any good. Jimmy had dissolved into instant hysterics, directed at Trotter. He hadn’t made a lot of sense, but Regina had gotten the idea that Jimmy hated Trotter for trying to get him to believe that Hannah, one of the two most wonderful women in the world, was dead because of the actions of his mother, the other one.

Regina, who had been escorted (dragged) from her room by Albright, just so she could be there for the show, envied her brother’s strategy. He latched on to one small part of what they were trying to tell him, refused to believe it, and never even let on he’d
heard
anything else. Of course, he hadn’t had the disadvantage of hearing it from Mother’s own mouth during a time she had no conceivable reason to be lying.

And that, she thought suddenly, was undoubtedly the reason he’d set. things up that way. So she’d have no
choice
but to believe it. He’d let Jimmy fool himself, the bastard, but
she
had to take it right between the eyes. She almost wished Jimmy had killed Trotter when he went for him. He had certainly wanted to, and he ran at the young man from Washington with such rage, Regina had screamed in spite of herself.

And once again, she felt like a fool. Because she should have known that her brother had as much chance against someone like Allan Trotter as he would against a flamethrower. Even less. Because Trotter ducked one fist, and took hold of Jimmy in such a way that he was as helpless as a quadriplegic. Trotter had just held him there until Jimmy had cried all the violence out of himself and collapsed. They got a doctor in for him, then put him to bed.

Jimmy was still in bed, but he was here now, in the family suite on top of Hudson Group headquarters. Mr. Trotter had decided (or had planned all along) to move everyone here for “the duration.” Safer, he said.

Regina had made the mistake of asking him for the duration of what.

He smiled at her and worked whatever sneaky spell it was he had over her, and the next thing she knew, she was sitting at this desk.

This time, she wasn’t just watching the phone. (She looked at it again—it sat there silent and treacherous.) She was, for the next few days at least, the Publisher of
Worldwatch
magazine. The place was in a quiet frenzy—the magazine was being remade, but only a handful of people knew exactly into what. For instance, Regina had told the Art Department that her mother’s picture would be on the cover, but not why. Makeup was junking articles left and right, making a sixteen-page hole to be filled at the last minute. The special edition of the magazine went to bed tonight, hit the printing plant tomorrow afternoon. What Regina had found herself in charge of was doing almost a whole new issue in one day, an issue that would make the scrutiny she’d received as the daughter of a mere rich and powerful woman seem like indifference by comparison. Trust Allan to put her on a spot like this.

This kind of madness had happened before—disasters, assassination attempts, things like that. The difference was that at those times, everybody
knew
what the urgency was about. This time they could only guess, wondering at the same time why the place was lousy with polite and helpful, but absolutely taciturn, FBI agents.

The people at
Worldwatch
were experienced and better than competent. They were getting the job done, but there were still a million decisions the Acting Publisher had to make. The intercom
(not
the telephone, thank God) had gotten so much use, it was hot to the touch. It was only quiet now because Regina had asked for a moratorium. She had to concentrate, she said, on writing the Letter from the Publisher. And what the hell was she supposed to say? Regina thought of changing her name and running away.

And while she couldn’t formulate a comprehensible opinion about her mother, she knew for certain she didn’t envy her at this moment. Petra Hudson had spent hours past, and would spend hours more, spilling her insides for selected employees. The reporters, writers, and researchers were told to treat this like any other story; to scoop up the woman’s guts and serve them up still steaming on the pages of her own creation.

It was all happening
too fast.
She needed to talk to somebody, but when she tried to think of someone she could talk to, the only one she came up with was Allan. And to hell with him.

All she could do was lose herself in the work. God knew there was enough of it. She cranked a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. Maybe she’d take a page from Mother’s book and spill her own guts, tell the world how she was feeling.

She took a deep breath and hit the keys. What the hell, she thought as she felt a smile twist her lips. At least we’re going to sell a
lot
of magazines.

E
LIZABETH JUNE PILUSKI BEGAN
to cry when the Reverend Mr. Will Nelson poured the water on her head. Tina Bloyd shushed her gently and stroked the baby’s golden fuzz with one finger of the brown hand that supported her head. Elizabeth June stopped in mid-bleat and started to coo.

Mr. Nelson was saying prayers, and Tina was answering on the baby’s behalf, and grandparents and friends were standing around being proud.

Joe Albright was as proud as any of them. After all her doubts, Tina was terrific. She was a natural with babies. She even seemed happy. Things had been so busy, Joe had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to get away from the Hudson Group in time to keep his promise to be at Tina’s side. Ordinarily, Joe could get so wrapped up in his work, he could forget private-life promises he’d made to
anybody.
There was, for instance, a famous birthday his mother would never let him hear the end of. But something in him was extremely resistant to the idea of breaking his promise to Tina, and he was glad when Rines and Trotter had let him out of there in time.

Trotter, in fact, had done more than let him go—he had come with him. He was here now, sitting in the back of the church, though God alone knew what he was waiting for. Somehow, Joe doubted he was praying.

It might be, Joe thought, that Trotter was having woman troubles of his own. Rines had told him how Trotter had dressed Regina Hudson down last night; Joe had heard her sobs for himself while he was guarding her room.

Joe had had his suspicions about this one from the beginning. Meeting Miss Hudson yesterday had clinched it. These two were strips of Velcro—get them anywhere near each other and they’d get tangled together so tight it would take a real effort to pull them apart. That they were apart at all came from fear. She was scared shitless of him (for which Joe couldn’t entirely blame her), and he was scared to death he was losing his edge, going soft in some kind of extremely youthful old age.