Time to Hunt (67 page)

“I knew Peter. He was so harmless. I only met Trig once … twice, actually.”

“Hmmmm. Can you think of a specific circumstance that united the four of you? Marine, peace demonstrators, 1971?”

“We were all involved in one of the last big demonstrations, May Day of that year. The three of us as demonstrators, Donny as a Marine.”

“Julie,” said Bonson, “we’re thinking less of an ideological unification here and more of a specific, geographic one. A time, a place, not an idea. And a private place, too.”

“The farm,” she finally said.

There was no sound.

Finally, Bonson prompted her.

“The farm,” he said.

“Donny was distraught over an assignment he’d been asked to do.”

Bob looked at Bonson and saw nothing, just the face of a smooth, professional actor in the role of concerned intelligence executive. No flicker of emotion, grief, doubt, regrets: nothing. Bonson didn’t even blink, and Julie, remembering nothing of him and his role in what had happened, went on.

“He believed this Trig, of whom he thought so highly, might have some idea what he should do with his ethical dilemma. We went to Trig’s house in DC but he wasn’t
there. Donny remembered that he was going out to a farm near Germantown. I think Peter may have followed us. Peter thought he was in love with me.”

“What did you see on that farm?” asked the young analyst.

She laughed.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. What can have been so important about it?”

“We’d like to know.”

“There was a man. An Irishman named Fitzpatrick. He and Trig were loading fertilizer into a van. It was very late at night.”

“How clearly did you see him?”

“Very. I was just out of the light, maybe fifteen, twenty-five feet away. I don’t think he ever saw me. Donny, for some reason, wanted me to stay back. So he and Trig and this Fitzpatrick talked for a few minutes. Then Fitzpatrick left. Then Donny and Trig talked some more and finally hugged. Then we left. There was some kind of agent in the hills. He got our picture—Donny’s and mine—as we drove away. Donny’s mostly. I was ducking. And that’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Do you remember Fitzpatrick?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you think you’d be able to describe—”

“No,” said Bonson. “Go straight to the pictures.”

“Mrs. Swagger, we’d like to have you look at some pictures. They’re pictures of a variety of politicians, espionage agents, lawyers, scientists, military, mostly in the old Eastern Bloc, but some are genuinely Irish, some English, some French. They’re all in their forties or fifties, so you’ll have to imagine them as they’d have been in 1971.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Just take your time.”

One of the kids walked across the room and handed her a sheaf of photographs. She flipped through them slowly, stopping now and then to sip on her Coke can.

“Could I have another Coke?” she asked at one time.

Somebody raced out.

Bob watched as the gray, firm faces slid by, men possibly his own age or older, most of them dynamic in appearance, with square, ruddy faces, lots of hair, the unmistakable imprint of success.

They were hunting for a mole, he realized. They thought that somehow—was this Bonson’s madness?—this Fitzpatrick had implanted someone in the fabric of the West, prosperous and powerful, but that his heart still belonged to the East, or what remained of it. If they could solve the mystery of Fitzpatrick, they could solve the mystery of the mole.

Bob felt an odd twist of bitterness.
That
war, the cold one, it really had nothing to do with the little hot dirty one that had consumed so many men he had known and so wantonly destroyed his generation. Who’ll stop the rain? It wasn’t even about the rain.

“No,” she said. “He’s not here, I’m sorry.”

“Okay, let’s go to the citizens.”

Another file of photos was provided.

“Take your time,” said one of the debriefers. “Remember, he’ll be heavier, balder, he may have facial hair, he—”

“Mel, I think Julie understands that,” said Bonson.

Julie was quiet. She flipped through the pictures, now and then pausing. But another pile disappeared without a moment of recognition. Another pile was brought, this time designated “security nationals.”

She had a possible, but paused, and then it too went to the discards, though into a separate category of “almosts.”

But then, finally, there were no more pictures.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The disappointment in the room was palpable.

“Okay,” Bonson finally said. “Let’s knock off for a while. Julie, why don’t you take a break? Maybe a walk, stretch your legs. We’ll have to do it the hard way.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. “Drugs? Torture?”

“No, we’ll get you together with a forensic artist. He’ll draft a drawing from your instructions. We’ll get our computers to run a much wider comparison on a much wider database. Mel, be sure to get the ‘almosts’ too. Have Mr. Jefferson factor those in too. That’ll get us another bunch of candidates. We’ve got food. Would you care for some lunch or a nap or something?”

“I’m fine. I think I’d like to check on my daughter.”

She and Bob walked downstairs and found Nikki—asleep. She was stretched across Sally’s lap, snoozing gently, pinning Sally with her fragile weight.

“I can’t even get up,” said Sally.

“I’ll take her.”

“No, that’s okay. These child geniuses got the cable running. The remote even works now. It didn’t. See.”

She held up the little device and punched a few buttons and the picture flicked across the channels: Lifetime, CNN, Idaho Public TV, HBO, the Discovery Channel, ESPN, CNN Headline N—

“My God,” said Julie. “Oh,
my God.”

“What?” Bob said, and from around the house, others looked in, came to check.

“That’s him,” said Julie. “My God, yes, fatter now, healthier; yes, that’s him. That’s Fitzpatrick!” She was pointing at the television, where a powerful, dynamic man was giving an impromptu news conference in a European city.

“Jesus,” said one of the kids, “that’s Evgeny Pashin, the next president of Russia.”

T
he second meeting was smaller, more informal. It was after lunch, prepared in an Air Force mess tent set up outside the house.

Surprisingly good, nourishing food, too. More to the point, someone had come up with a nice batch of Disney
videos for Nikki, that is, when she got back from a sledding diversion with three state troopers.

Now, Julie and Bob sat upstairs with a much smaller contingent, the inner circle, as it were.

“Julie,” said Bonson, “we’re going to discuss the meaning of this right here, before you and your husband. That’s because I want you on the inside now, not on the outside. I’m drawing the two of you in. You’re not civilians. I want you to feel like you’re part of the team. You will, in fact, both be paid as agency consultants; we pay well, you’ll see.”

“Fine,” she said. “We could use the money.”

“Now, I’m not even going to ask you if you’re sure. I know you’re sure. But I have to say: this guy has been on TV a lot lately. Can you explain why it’s only now that you recognize him?”

“Mr. Bonson, have you ever been a mother?”

There was some laughter.

“No,” he admitted.

“Have you ever been the wife to a somewhat melancholy yet incredibly heroic man, particularly as he’s feeling his life has been taken from him by some unnecessary publicity and we had to move from one location to another?”

“No, no, I haven’t,” said Bonson.

“Well, I was both, simultaneously. Does that suggest to you why I wasn’t watching much TV?” “Yes, it does.”

“Now, today, you take me back. You force me to think about faces. I pick several faces that are somewhat similar in structure to his. I’m working on re-creating that face in my own mind. Do you see?”

“Yes.”

“The points are all well made,” Bonson said. “Well then, let’s throw it open for general discussion. Can someone tell me what possible meaning this has?”

“Sir, I think I can explain the sequencing.”

“Go ahead,” said Bonson.

“In 1971, four people saw Pashin operating undercover in this country as this Fitzpatrick. That is, really interfaced with him in commission of his duties. Three were eliminated quickly. But they had no ID on the fourth, and as I recollect, according to official Marine Corps records, Mrs. Swagger’s first marriage to Donny Fenn was unrecorded.”

“That’s right,” said Julie. “I received no benefits. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want anything to do with the Marine Corps. Although I ended up marrying it.”

“But,” continued the analyst, “they have a bad picture of her, the one they got at the farm. They can’t ID it. It haunts them over the years. The decades pass. SovUn breaks up. Pashin is no longer GRU, he’s part of PAMYAT, the nationalist party. He begins his political career. He’s handsome, heroic, the brother of a martyred nationalist hero, has lots of mafia backing; he’s scaring the old-line commies, he’s within a few weeks of winning an election and control of twenty thousand nukes. Then, two months ago, a picture of Bob Lee Swagger appears in
The National Star
and subsequently in
Time
and
Newsweek
, who call him ‘America’s most violent man.’ If you recall: it was a picture snapped by a
Star
photographer of Bob coming out of church in Arizona, with his wife.
Her
picture appears in the national media. And it contains the information that Bob is married to his spotter’s widow. Donny’s widow, the woman who got away, who’s been haunting them all these years. The last survivor of that night on the farm. Suddenly, it becomes clear to PAMYAT and all the interests betting on Pashin that one witness from his undercover days still exists and can still put him on that farm. All right? So … from that point on, they have to take her out, and her husband’s gaudy past certainly provides a kind of pretext.”

“That’s sequencing,” said Bonson. “Fine, good, it makes sense. It’s a theory that fits. But still … why?”

“Ah, he was involved with a famous peace demonstrator in blowing up a building.”

“So?”

“Well…”

Bonson argued savagely, trying to compel the young man to a next leap. “It’s widely known he had an intelligence background. It’s known in some circumstances that the peace movement had some East Bloc involvement. Actually, that might
help
his candidacy in today’s Russia. I don’t understand why the same security mandates would be operational twenty-seven years later. They were protecting assets
then
. What can they be protecting now? Ideas, anybody?”

None of the senior people had any.

“Well, then, we’re sort of stuck, aren’t we?” said Bonson. “It’s very interesting, but we still don’t—”

“Should I explain it to you now, or do you want to yammer on a bit?” asked Bob.

“Y
ou ain’t got it yet, Bonson,” said Bob. “You still bought into the cover story. You still look at the cover story and you don’t see the real story. And all your smart boys, too.”

“Well, Sergeant,” said Bonson evenly, “then go ahead. You explain the real story.”

“I will. You missed the big news. There was a bomb explosion at the University of Wisconsin 9 May 1971 all right. A kid named Trig Carter blew himself up protesting the war in Vietnam. Maybe most of you are too young to remember it, but I do. He gave his life to peace. He was a rich kid, could have had anything, but he gave his life up for his ideals. They even wrote books about him. He may have been brave, too. I don’t know.

“But the one name you won’t find in that book or in any other books about the peace movement or the history of our country in 1971 is the name Ralph Goldstein. Anybody here recognize it?”

There was silence in the room.

“That’s the big story. Ralph Goldstein was the doctoral student who was killed that night in the University of
Wisconsin Math Center. Jewish boy, twenty-seven, married, from Skokie, Illinois. Went to the University of Illinois, Chicago Circle campus, not a very impressive school compared to the fancy schools where Trig Carter went. He didn’t know nobody. He just did his work and tried to get his degree and do his research. Smart as a whip, but very obscure. Never went to no demonstrations, smoked no dope, got no free love, or nothing. I did something nobody has yet done: I went and talked to his son, now himself a very bright kid. I hope nobody don’t blow him up.”

He could feel their eyes on him. He cracked a little smile. All the pointy heads, listening to
him
.

“But Ralph Goldstein had published a paper in
Duke Higher Mathematics Quarterly
, which he called ‘Certain Higher Algorhythmic Functions of Topographical Form Reading in Orbital Applications.’ Don’t mean a thing to me. But guess what? We now got about 350 satellites in orbit watching the world because Ralph Goldstein figured out the math of it. He was only a grad student, and he himself didn’t even know it, but he’d been picked to join the staff at the Satellite Committee at the Johns Hopkins Advanced Physics Lab in Maryland, where they did all the high-power number crunching that made the satellite program possible. Okay, so what his death meant practically was it took us three extra years to get terrain-recognition birds in the air. If it matters, that’s three years where the Sovs upgraded their own satellite program, and closed a gap in the Cold War. That’s three more years that kept them in the race. Which one of you geniuses or experts can tell me which part of Soviet staff was responsible for strategic warfare?”

“GRU,” came the reply.

“That’s right. And what was Pashin?”

“GRU.”

“That’s right. So guess what? His job wasn’t to stop the war in Vietnam. He didn’t give a shit about the war in Vietnam, or about Trig Carter or about nothing. It was to
kill a little Jewish guy in an office in Madison, Wisconsin, who was just about to put the Americans way ahead in the Cold War. Kill him in such a way that no one would ever, in a hundred years, think it had to do with the Russians. Kill him in such a way that no one would even think about his death but only about the death of the man who killed him. To make him an extra in his own murder. That was Pashin’s mission: it was straight GRU wet work, a murder job. Trig Carter and the peace movement were just part of the props.”