Summit (22 page)

Secretary Grigoriev sat with his wife in an antechamber of Saint George's Hall in the Great Kremlin Palace. He was waiting for Daniel Fulton. It didn't surprise him at all that Fulton was keeping him waiting; that was the way artists were. Still, he was not happy.

"You're not happy," his wife said.

She was a perceptive woman. He looked at her. She was also beautiful, although the years had made them both stout and gray. "Is it worth it, Tanya?" he sighed. "All the work—all the scheming and plotting and striving for advantage—all the hypocrisy?"

"We must all do our utmost for the glory of the motherland," she replied.

She was reminding him of the KGB guards standing by the door, quite possibly within earshot. This was not the place to bare one's soul. She was right, as always. But that didn't make him any happier. Everything seemed so difficult to him tonight—making deals with the rest of the Politburo and cajoling and threatening the bureaucracy and fighting off Volnikov. And now he had to make small talk with an eccentric American pianist. But he couldn't escape any of these things. They were his duty, and he had to do his duty.

The door opened, and Daniel Fulton walked in, followed by a Russian-looking woman—obviously the interpreter from Intourist—and another American. Grigoriev stood up. "Mr. Fulton, it is such an honor," he said in English, clasping Fulton's right hand in both his own. He noticed his wife gesture to the Intourist flunky to go away; she wouldn't be necessary. "You were simply brilliant this evening."

"Thanks," Fulton said. "Thank you very much." He didn't seem interested in compliments. Grigoriev introduced his wife, who gushed, and Fulton introduced his manager.

"Your English is excellent, Mr. Secretary," the manager said.

"I spent quite some time in your great nation," Grigoriev replied. "Long enough to make a start in its wonderful language." He was very proud of his English. He turned back to Fulton. "You must be exhausted from your efforts."

Fulton seemed to force himself to pay attention. "Well, you know, the adrenaline is still pumping," he managed to say. "Tomorrow, it'll be a different story."

Grigoriev nodded, although he wasn't entirely sure he had followed. "The Ministry of Culture has scheduled several appearances for you tomorrow, I understand. But of course if you are too tired—"

"I'll have to see how I feel," Fulton said. "I haven't done this in a while."

"So I've been told. I'm sure the Ministry of Culture would be disappointed, but of course there will be no difficulty if you need to rest. You have already done your part for the cause of world peace. Now, shall we go inside? There are hundreds of people waiting to congratulate you."

"That'd be great," Fulton said. He didn't look as if he meant it. He looked scared, as a matter of fact.
We all do things we don't want to do,
Grigoriev thought. He led the way into Saint George's Hall.

The people in the hall broke into applause as they entered. Smile and wave, smile and wave. Say a few words, introduce the star, and get out of the way. Saint George's Hall always thrilled Grigoriev. It was a vast place, with brilliant bronze chandeliers and countless columns, each supporting a statue of Victory crowned with laurel. Marble slabs in niches along the walls displayed the names, engraved in gold, of brave soldiers awarded the Order of Saint George. It was here that the reception was held to celebrate the nation's victory in the Great Patriotic War, and here that Yuri Gagarin was honored as the first man in space. It was a place that made you proud to be a Russian.

But like most Russians Grigoriev felt a deep insecurity underlying his patriotism. Would the foreigners here be as impressed as he thought they should be? Or would they secretly scorn the hall as needlessly grandiose, a second-rate imitation of what Europe did better and more naturally? If the Russian nation was the greatest on earth, why was it always struggling so hard to prove it? And when this insecurity was strongest, the patriotism fell prey to an equally Russian pessimism, and Grigoriev thought that, for all its greatness, his nation would always be second-best, and all his skills, all his efforts could not prevent it.

It was this insecurity and pessimism, he knew, that Volnikov fed on.
Grigoriev's way will never work. It is too complicated, too un-Russian. Follow me, and we will triumph.
Grigoriev looked around as the reception line formed. Volnikov was here, gobbling caviar, his swarthy face beaming as he joked with a couple of his cronies. Grigoriev sighed and turned away. "I'm tired," he murmured to his wife.

"Then go to sleep," she said.

He smiled. Little chance of that just yet. He stuck out his hand and greeted the ambassador from Bulgaria.

* * *

She was here. Fulton had glimpsed her off in a far corner of the huge, ugly hall. He tried to smile and say something sensible to the people greeting him. It didn't matter if he failed, though. He was eccentric; he could get away with anything.

But why didn't she come?

* * *

Igor Volnikov was smarter than he looked. One did not get to be head of the KGB simply by being ambitious, or obedient, or cruel. He was talking to a couple of Central Committee nonentities, drinking champagne and laughing at their feeble jokes. But all the while his eyes were scanning the crowd, noting who was talking to whom, who was familiar and who wasn't. He noticed Grigoriev, of course, as usual trying not to look grim and put-upon. The man had no imagination, no daring, no fire. Volnikov studied Daniel Fulton and dismissed him: a good piano player, so they said, and moderately handsome in a Western sort of way, but nothing more; hardly worth the fuss.

And he glanced once or twice at Valentina Borisova, standing by herself in her low-cut red dress, pretty enough to attract some stares, but aloof enough to keep anyone from approaching her.
Ah, Valentina,
he thought.
You are pretty, and you are ours. Why not make the best of it?
But she wasn't the type to make the best of it, poor thing. It didn't matter, of course, as long as she obeyed. And Igor Volnikov was smart enough to know how to make her obey.

He grabbed another glass of champagne and told a joke about the toilet-paper shortage. It was a funny joke, but it made his companions uneasy. One does not laugh at such jokes in the presence of the KGB. Volnikov enjoyed making them uneasy.

* * *

Valentina had rehearsed something, but she couldn't remember it now. She was scarcely able to move or speak.
She remembered standing in darkness, waiting endlessly, hopelessly, but incapable of doing anything else. And then the moment came, suddenly, miraculously, and she had to act
.... No. Memories would not help her now. As before, she had to act.

The reception line was thinning. She forced herself to walk through the crowd and join the end of the line. She stared down at the single long-stem rose she clutched in her hands. She would do it. She would.

* * *

A flash of red to the left of him, in the line. She was coming. Fulton forced himself to say something to an important person whose name he had forgotten. Another handshake. How he hated handshakes!

And then she was standing in front of him. Eyes wide and afraid. Too much makeup. She held out a rose to him. He took it, then took her hand. "Mr. Fulton," she began with an abrupt attempt at a sexy smile.

"Eleven tomorrow morning," he murmured, interrupting. "You know where."

He stared into her wide eyes for a moment and felt the pressure of her hand. Her hand was cold. She looked as if she might faint. That would not be good, but there was nothing he could do about it. He disengaged his hand and turned to the next person in line, heard once again what a genius he was, how much he was doing for the cause of world peace....

When there were no more hands to shake, he turned to Hershohn. "Let's get out of here," he said.

"Fine with me," Hershohn replied. They quickly made their farewells to their hosts, and headed for the waiting limousine.

Fulton was still holding Valentina's rose. He did not look to see if she was still in the hall.

* * *

Secretary Grigoriev leaned his head back against the seat. "What is your opinion of Daniel Fulton, Tanya?" he asked his wife as the Zil sped them to their apartment on Kutuzov Prospekt.

"A charming, talented man. And so handsome."

"Do you really think so?"

Tanya smiled. "Are you jealous, Pavel?"

"Not at all. I'm just trying to understand his attraction."

She patted his hand. "If you have to ask, you can't understand. Forget about Daniel Fulton. He has served his purpose, hasn't he?"

"Yes, indeed," Grigoriev said. He closed his eyes and tried to forget about everything.

* * *

Valentina sat alone in her apartment, still wearing her red dress, still trying to understand. But she couldn't understand, she could only remember....

Stepping out of the darkness, holding the rose in front of her... "I was at your recital. I—I have never heard anything so beautiful in my life."...Endless tears in gray dawnlight...

But maybe someday.

No, it made no sense. Perhaps tomorrow she would understand.

And she was grateful that at least there would be a tomorrow.

Chapter 20

Colonel Thomas Poole was well aware of how the rest of the National Security Council staffers thought of him. He was the president's fair-haired boy: Mr. Clean, Captain Marvel. In a world where people regularly worked twelve hours a day, Poole worked sixteen. Everyone else counted on drugs and booze to keep them going, to keep the pressure at bay; Poole went jogging through the streets of Washington after work. Everyone else dreamed of getting the president to read their memos, to spend a moment of his precious time considering their ideas; lately Winn had taken to inviting Poole to the Oval Office for chats.

This pervading jealousy was nothing new to Poole; he had lived with it all through his career. It didn't bother him as long as no one tried to stab him in the back. And people weren't likely to do that because he made sure he was such an awfully
nice
fellow. People might grumble that it was all an act when he greeted them in the hall and asked after their wives and kids and dogs by name; but if it was an act, it was such a
good
act that they were impressed even if they weren't convinced, and it just didn't seem right to undercut someone who tried so
hard.

At least, that's what Poole hoped they thought. Ultimately, he just wanted to be able to do his job, a job that required every ounce of strength and intelligence and cunning he possessed—a job, he knew, that would probably kill him, but a job that only he could do, and a job that had to be done.

He spent most of the day at Langley. There was no progress on coming up with an antidote for the endorphin drug, and Doctor Coyne's condition remained unchanged. In the other major project Poole was keeping track of, Operation Cadenza was proceeding as planned, and Fulton was now in Moscow. He knew he was annoying Roderick Williams by keeping such a close watch on him, but that was all right; he had a direct order from the president. Williams, of course, was being secretive and obstructionist, but that was to be expected. Poole put on as much pressure as he thought prudent, and made sure Director Loud was informed when there were difficulties. He didn't want to push too hard—in particular because President Winn seemed to have lost interest in the issue, now that Doctor Coyne's wife had been mollified and there was no scandal in the offing. But he did push; he had been given an assignment, and he was going to carry it out to the best of his ability.

And in the early evening, as he worked in his cramped cubicle in the old Executive Office Building, he got what he coveted most: a summons next door to the White House. The president had finished dinner and wanted someone to talk to. Poole was happy to oblige.

As usual, Winn sat in a recliner in the Oval Office, smoking his favorite pipe. He was wearing a cardigan over a white dress shirt. The sound system played chamber music. As usual, he offered Poole a brandy, which Poole as usual declined.

"We've got to get you a vice, Colonel," Winn said.

"I neglect my family," Poole pointed out. He sat in a wing chair opposite the president and tried to look as if he were having an everyday conversation with a friend.